tagBDSMCall Centre Confessions Ch. 03

Call Centre Confessions Ch. 03


On Sunday morning I left the house early. I had an appointment in Whitby; a small timber yard that had formerly thrived on supplying the boat trade had a stock of mahogany that it was selling off.

I had a plan for it. One of my regular customers wanted a coffee table that could double as a flogging support, and I'd offered them a design that I thought they would like. Mahogany was needed for the surface and the legs, and the timber yard in Whitby had just the right quantity at an affordable price.

I was thinking about Andy, and trying still to work out what to do next, but I was also concentrating on not falling foul of the Sunday morning traffic, and their counterpart, Sunday morning traffic police...

Having sex with Andy the previous day hadn't solved anything. We'd talked for a little while, and held each other, but she didn't seem any happier afterwards. How selfish does sex have to be? I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and wanted more of her, and while we were having sex she seemed pretty keen on the idea as well. It was just afterwards that she seemed a little awkward....

She'd left, with a kiss on the cheek that mixed longing, sadness and lust remembered in equal parts. I went home, and, in a show of weakness that was almost adolescent, moved my mobile from room to room with me throughout the day in case she called or texted me.


Sutton Bank is a scary road in normal circumstances without getting misty eyed about someone else's life that I couldn't change for them. I went back to thinking about the coffee table, and the couple who were commissioning it. If I had a few more customers like them I'd be able to give up my job in the callcentre and become a full time cabinetmaker.

In the last few years I'd made for them a flogging stool, small, compact and easily put away, a bedroom washstand with demountable ring bolts for bindings, including pull out ankle bars to hold the legs apart, and a padded carver chair that was designed for the lucky sub to be bound over the back of.

Actually, sub was probably the wrong name for the role Pam, the wife, played in that relationship. True, they got their kicks by her husband beating her and then fucking her anyway he wanted to, but their relationship was much more about ritual and role play than about power exchange.

Pam planned every aspect of their scenes; the time, the place, the implements, the clothes she would wear... There again, as a deputy headmistress she was used to organizing things. Her husband, Steve, was a much more easy going man, a lecturer in literature who seemed more cerebrally involved in his wife's sexuality.

After I made the stool for them it was Steve who broached the idea that I should beat and fuck Pam, so that I would understand their needs more fully the next time I designed a piece for them. The experience of reading Pam's meticulous notes of how she expected the scene with me to go was what prompted the Victorian Gothic complications of the washstand, with carved decoration and an elaborate catch system that concealed the ringbolts and spreader bars.

Pam was meticulous in her note making, and her explanation of what she wanted from an encounter, but uncomplicated in her participation. She wanted to be secured, preferably to a piece of furniture, beaten a specified number of times with an implement of her choice, with no safe word or way of stopping the scene if it went beyond her limits, then fucked or buggered at the choice of her flagellant until he was satisfied. Of course her husband was always present in another room; he described his role in her scenes as curator, which made me wonder how much they came from Pam and how much from him, but a large part of her pleasure came, I'm sure, from the preparation she undertook before putting herself at someone else's disposal.

Whichever it was, the table was an innovation for them; they'd decided on something more abstract, and which could be in their lounge. I did ask if maybe that was connected too the last off their kids going away from home to university, and a sense that their sexuality could move more into the centre of their lives. I got a chilly response that suggested getting too close to the rhyme and reason off their private world was an intrusion in a way that having the use of Pamela could never be. Not that I was invited to use her often; maybe once every three months.

The specification of the table had another interesting feature; all their other items had been designed for the flogging of Pamela when she was standing but bent forward; the table's purpose was to allow her to be spanked when kneeling. I'd shown them some drawings before agreeing the design; a three legged table shaped like a slender pear, as if mimicking Pamela's body, broader at hips than shoulders, with a notch at the end where her groin would be. Underneath the top the legs had plain white rope running between them; purely decorative to the innocent eye but capable of being used to secure the table's user in place; one length of rope around her waist, one around each of her thighs. I was proud of it as a design, and with the way the rope, the asymmetrical design and the use of jointed lengths of timber suggested flotsam put to a new use.

I don't always get so involved with the people who buy my productions. I think Pam and Steve took pleasure in knowing that I didn't act like a dog with its tongue hanging out each time I met them. I didn't find it complicated; if I was invited to use Pam sexually I did; if not, then they were just friends.

That kind of split reached its peak when they invited me to New Years day dinner with them last year; their eldest daughter was there with her girlfriend, and a teaching colleague of Pam's had been invited to even the numbers up. The objective, I'm sure, was some kind of cool, we're all grown ups now kind of event; Pam and Steve's son was away skiing with his university OTC, and there was a certain loucheness about the whole event. Pam's daughter and her girlfriend were uneasy at first; just like you never want to know your parents are having sex so it can be hard to admit to your parents that you're having sex, and that, just because it's different to the choices they made, it's not a criticism of their choices.

I came out with that gem of instant wisdom over lunch; I thought for a while I'd said the wrong thing, but by dinner time Charlotte, the daughter, and her friend (I've forgotten her name) were completely at ease and abandoning any pretence that they'd use two bedrooms during their stay. Pam and Steve were as relaxed as I've seen them, with Pam oozing cleavage and kissing Steve at every chance, and I was rapidly discovering that Alyssa, the teacher, was more attentive than I'd expected. It was odd, but I stayed the night with Alyssa in the bedroom vacated by Charlotte's girlfriend, and, in the morning, over breakfast, the noises that had emanated from each bedroom during the night hung like a shared wickedness between us all...

So why has that come to mind now? Why am I driving to Whitby remembering that one occasion out of half a dozen that Pam and Steve could bring to mind? I'm not convinced I know, but maybe my brain was trying to tell me something about honesty. We'd had breakfast the next morning, each couple not wanting to be the one to broach the subject of the night before first. Alyssa had been happy, and content, if not overwhelmed by a desire for more, and Charlotte and her friend had been relaxed, and more easily affectionate, while Pam and Steve had been just Pam and Steve. I suppose the truth was, we all knew, and knowing was enough.

The transaction in Whitby didn't take long. Hand over the cash after checking the timber, cut it down where necessary to six and a half foot lengths on the yards chop saw, then lash it to the roof bars, hang a warning triangle on the back and set off back up the road.

It was as I was heading out of Whitby onto the moors that my mobile rang. Andy; nervous, a little febrile of manner. Mind you, she had a story to tell.

"I'm glad I got hold of you" The crack in her tone of voice was enough to hold me back from innuendo.

"I wanted to talk to you, because after yesterday I came home and I couldn't face telling lies any more." You know the old cliche about your heart sinking? Something more solid and more visceral seemed to have collapsed into the bottom of my stomach, leaving that bitter flavour in the back of my throat that says fear is a reasonable way to feel.

I managed to croak out the word 'and...'; I didn't trust myself to say any more.

"We both want to meet you today to talk this through"

Now, I'm not much of one for the Jerry Springer idea that every life event must reach closure; sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to, and unfinished or messy is just another part of the chaotic state that life can be. We spend all out lives trying to impose order on the chaos, but part of being a grown up is acknowledging that sometimes it's not possible. Or that sometimes the only place we can impose order is in very specific private relations. Like sex.

I was scared. Despite the fact that I was, nominally, senior to Andy at work, a messy extra marital adventure might see me pursuing a career of BDSM cabinet making faster than I expected. That's my excuse, and that's how I ended up sat on their sofa forty five minutes later, in a semi in Washington that looked like it had been decorated and made over to within an inch of its life. Given the car load of timber I'd parked on the drive the neighbours probably thought I'd come round to quote them about a kitchen.

Andy looked more self assured than I expected. I'd rehearsed all the possible opening gambits, and hadn;t managed to pick one. None of them allowed for her being cheerful and upbeat. Her husband didn't look that troubled either. In fact there was a certain smugness about his expression that had me throwing away some of the more apocalyptic scenarios I'd imagined.

Andy took charge; forgive me being flippant but I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd produced a flipchart and accompanying powerpoint presentation. She was wearing a plain blue button through dress, and matching mules with kitten heels over bare feet. She stood in the centre of the room between her husband and myself, her back towards the door.

"I've explained to Peter what we've done the last couple of days, and how I've enjoyed it." I was watching Peter's expression; he didn't seem at all perturbed. Actually, he looked happy.

"I've explained to him that if he and I can't have a satisfactory sex life then I should be free to find one elsewhere. He agrees." It came across with all the emotion of a mission statement, but something in her slightly hoarse tone suggested she'd had to raise her voice before she and Peter had reached agreement.

In the silence that followed I waited for Peter to speak. He said nothing. So it was my turn.

"I think w're all at a bit of a disadvantge here. I don't know what drives you Peter. You don't know what drives me Andy. You know I'm a bloke who works with you who desires you. If I had a choice I'd fuck you every day." Peter flinched at the fuck word; not an unpleasant flinch though, more a tremor of acknowledgement and pleasure. Andy had a hint of a smile on her face

"But you don't know what I want Andy. I desire you, yes, and if my only choice is quick fucks grasped at when you're available I'll take that, but it's not everything I want." She looked at Peter as if she was gauging his reactions before she responded.

"So what do you want?"

I could see glimpses of her teeth behind her lips, and a cock of her hips towards me that hinted at preparedness. What for, I didn't know.

"I want two things. To fuck you here, in this house, so that I'm not just an accessory who takes you away from your marriage when it's convenient. And I want you to accept that you will dress to please me and do as you're asked."

Peter was leaning forward in his seat now, his eyes wider than before. He didn't speak but the question was written behind his eyes, and emphasized by the flickering passage of his tongue across his lips.

"No Peter, you can't watch. You can't join in. If Andy wants to let you know what we do, or if you happen to see our foreplay, that's your good luck." Andy was still waiting, still standing, hip cocked to one side, her knee and thigh showing through the gap in her skirt.

"Well Andy?" She pulled her hair back behind her ears, looked down at Peter, and turned to me.

"You want to treat me like a sex object? It's what I wanted from him, but he couldn't. You'd better make yourself up a bed in the spare room for when he comes calling Peter." And Peter, frankly, looked like the cat that had got the cream.

I gestured to Peter to stay where he was.

"I've time to play this afternoon Andy but I won't be staying. But it would be nice to go upstairs now." Her eyes were sparkling now, and she kept looking at Peter to judge his reactions. He wasn't drooling, but not by much.

I was enjoying myself. Really enjoying myself Hard edged, stiffly erect enjoying myself. But that wasn't the only reason I pushed on. I wanted to make sure I was right about the dynamics of the situation. I didn't want to be upstairs and discover when I was otherwise engaged that Peter had changed his mind and brought the contents of the knife drawer with him to emphasize the point.

"Undress Andy. Here. Now."

It's hard to give brief orders without barking them out like a drill sergeant, but I kept my voice low and soft. Andy hesitated for a moment, then unbuttoned her dress, and let it fall about her on the floor. She started to bend to pick it up, but I stopped her.

"Leave it. Peter will tidy. He'll want to examine your underwear anyway." The smile she rewarded me with was wicked and beautiful, like a stormy sea observed through a window; you know those waves could break someone, but you're safe so it's someone else who has to try and survive the storm.

Under the dress Andy had been wearing a matching set of purple bra and thong; both were dusted with sparkles of gold thread. The bra went first to join the dress, then, less elegantly, her thong. She looked less sure of what to do once she was naked; her hands moved from in front of her to her hips, the back to her thighs. She seemed to know that I wouldn't approve of her covering herself. Peter's slack jawed expression was eloquence itself.

"I was going to get you to check if Peter's hard Andy, but we don't need to do we?" She shook her head, her hair falling freely around her shoulders.

"We'll leave him to it and go upstairs." She walked in front of me, relaxed and calm. Once we were in the hall she hesitated, but made her way upstairs as soon as I gave her bottom a push with my hand.

In the bedroom the hesitancy returned. Small wonder really. It's all very well having a fantasy but reality can be more challenging. Especially when it's being acted out in a bedroom that is ultra modern, with glass and chrome as well as more feminine touches. Especially when a man who isn't your husband is standing in your marital bedroom staring at your nakedness with undisguised lust.

I knew all this. And I had my own challenges too. I wanted to make her mine. So I had to get the tone right, the manner right. She wasn't going to leave Peter, and I didn't want her to, but I wanted her body for my own use.

"Want to pose for me Andy? Want to lie on the bed and raise your legs so I can look at you?"

No hesitation now. She was on the bed, legs raised, hands on ankles, as if the words had been a spell commanding her to move. I started to strip at the same time as I kept talking to her.

"See how good you look in the mirrors Andy? Want to check my cock and see how hard you've made me? Want to use one of your hands to stroke yourself?" One of her shoes dropped off as she adjusted her position, sliding two fingers inside herself - I took the chance to rub my cock against her thigh as I put the shoe back on her foot.

"You'll get used to being dressed and positioned for me Andy.... But today it's just about me, you and making you make as much noise as you can manage and Peter can bear." Her fingers were making thin, slippery noises, like shoes catching on a drying floor, as they pistoned in and out of her pussy. I put her ankles on my shoulders, rubbed my cock over her clit once, twice, three times, then started to fuck her.

There are so many names for sex; sympathy fucks, anger shags, love making. This was a control thing. Assertion, control and yes, a little bit of domination. And we both enjoyed it. Hard fast strokes made Andy come; the pause as she caught her breath gave me chance to get my own reactions under control. Slow deep hard strokes with my fingers pinching her clit made her come, crying out. Hard driving strokes, my pelvis pounding against her clit as my fingers stretched and pulled at her nipples, made her cry out in a keening, pleading voice.

Her chest was flushed pink, her nipples erect and still hard as I knelt astride her and rubbed my cock over her face, coming on her as her tongue licked at the underside of me. Yes, I said her name. And she said thank you, and kissed at my thighs even as I stood up from her.

I left her tucked under the duvet, semen drying on her face, dressed quickly, and went downstairs. Peter was sitting uncomfortably in the living room. Andy's clothes before him. Her thong was absent.

"Wearing it Peter? Beware where that leads." He flushed bright red and bowed his head as I let myself out.

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