Image Nine Point Four

The deep red roller blinds, each with a crown and portcullis in gold, are lowered. It's a large, cosy room, now. Just me and ten others...

"Are we ready? In that case, Mr Singh, your witness."

Kash nods, attempting calm. "Yes, my lord." He steeples his fingers and speaks to the judges. "It was alleged that it was impossible for the models in image nine point three, and in particular in image nine point four, to have freely consented to the treatment required, on the grounds that no-one would enjoy such treatment.

"Ms Jones and her husband, and Professor Phillips, have kindly volunteered to provide a counterfactual for us, demonstrating that it is indeed possible for someone to consent, and even to enjoy, such images being made. Over to you -- Professor."

John's back is to the opposing barristers and audience. So they don't see John bouncing up, giving me a wicked grin, and mouthing, "Hell, yeah!"

I hide a laugh, but he's successfully quashed my nerves. I hold onto the knowledge that this is normal, for us.

I come to stand next to him, and John turns back to the judges. It's like so many workshops I've done. BDSM 101, only without getting the audience to try any participation. I stifle a giggle at the very idea. God, I bet that Christian Word guy has some hidden fetishes...

"Right, good afternoon, everyone. As I mentioned on Monday, I'm John Phillips, professor of Network Security, but today in my capacity as an experienced BDSMer. Here's my glamorous assistant, Jan. For those of you worried about fidelity, Jan's husband Mike is right here, approving of what we're about to do. I'm just going to do some of the implement bits, because both of them thought I'd be better at reproducing the images in question. So, image nine point three."

John waves the picture at everyone, then replaces it on the table. "We won't be doing the gag because Jan's not a fan, but if people really want to see me wearing one for half an hour, say, later, just say. Jan, stop giggling!"

I can't help it. Must be the nervous energy. For those wondering why it's funny, John normally never stops talking, so him being gagged is pretty significant! I've only seen his partner force one on him a couple times, in my quarter-century of knowing the guy. His expressive eye-rolls were hilarious.

"Yeah, thanks for that. Yes, my partner Cathy does it sometimes. In fact, if you want a version of image nine point six, I've probably got one of me..."

"Could you send it to us?" Nigel asks, after identifying image 9.6 and blinking. Was 9.6 the gagged and hooded guy being fisted while another chap pisses on him? John does go in for some extreme humiliation stuff by my standards, but that's his business. As you can tell from him happily bouncing around, it's not harmed him in the slightest.

"If you'll write me a letter indemnifying me from sending Obscene Communications," John replies. "Otherwise, no."

"We'll discuss that later. Please, proceed."

"Right. Jan, get your kit off, love."

I raise my hands to my top button, then freeze.

I'm standing in a court of law, in the Houses of Parliament, known formally as the Palace of Westminster. It's been mostly rebuilt, only a few parts surviving a fire nearly 200 years ago, but this site has been the heart of English government for a thousand years.

You have to respect that kind of history, even if there wasn't solid oak panelling on the walls, topped by red silk wallpaper, and all the furniture and fittings oozing their expensiveness. The crowned portcullis emblem everywhere, the symbol of HM Parliament, doesn't help. Just makes me fear being locked in the Tower for disrespect to His Majesty's Government...

That's daft. I pull myself together. I've been requested to do this by representatives of HM Courts Service. It's hardly treason.

Regardless, there's still three judges watching, and two top lawyers already thinking I'm basically a whore, or insane. Or both. I fumble, fruitlessly, at my top button.

Mike leaps up to save me. "It's OK, love," he murmurs in my ear. "I can do the fastenings. You're gonna be amazing. Go on, show off that great new corset! I wanna see!" Just like any date night.

I nod, and let him undo the buttons. He whips away my blouse. I'm not naked beneath, nor even in underwear. The dark green corset is intended to be seen. It shows me off beautifully. I'm no longer young, but I've got great curves, especially when shaped with steel boning. Possibly the best breasts ever to grace this room.

As ever when I reveal a corset, I'm imbued with sudden confidence.

"Nice," Kash murmurs, forgetting where he is.

"Shall I do the skirt?" Mike asks. I nod.

My grey skirt falling away, me stepping out of it, proves the great tailoring of the corset. It gives me a defined waist, then curves gently over my hips. The new black silk knickers cover me enough that I still feel dressed. Not to mention my sheer black stockings. Wearing them was a great decision, this morning.

My nerves vanish, erased with the confidence of knowing I'm wearing the hottest outfit in the room. It's a low bar, though Mike and John are in their best suits, minus the jackets because it's a warm day. No ties, because neither are comfortable in them and ties pretty much died out as work wear after 2020.

"Lovely, thank you Jan. Now, I'm going to put this collar round Jan's neck. A collar could be a symbol of submission, someone agreeing to obey someone else for a certain period of time, as a challenge, or because they find such role-play erotic. In this case, it's just to re-enact the photo you have, and to provide an attachment point for later. Good, love."

It's spontaneous: the collar goes on, I look at the floor. There's a crumb on one of the red squares. It's a wonderful thick carpet. It would be great for my knees, if I were asked to kneel.

A sudden fantasy hits me, of working in Parliament and being asked one evening to come to the office of one of the Lords. Or an MP? A Lord, I think -- mostly older, more gravitas. He asks me to kneel on this carpet, then he'd open the furls of his robes -- must be a judge, then, I suppose. Obviously we know what's at mouth height when I'm kneeling, the thin cloth gown draping down either side of my head...

"Right. Nine-three involves nipple clamps and labial clamps. Could you confirm these are sufficiently similar to the picture? Thank you."

"Sounds like a magic trick," Thompson says. He pokes the clamps and rattles the chains linking them.

"I assure you, we are not pulling any wool over your eyes," John retorts. "Merely trying to remove certain blinkers... Right. Mike, could you pull your lovely wife's lovely breasts free?" Mike gives me a small kiss as he steps behind me, then pulls each breast free of the top of the corset. He tightens the lacing of the corset cord further, to make up for it.

The corset still feels like a protective shell. Even with my large soft breasts hanging out over it.

"Lovely," John continues. "Mike, you can put these on as well as I can, so you do the honours."

Mike nods. He gazes into my eyes as he firmly squeezes just behind the nipple, then lets the black jaws grip there. It's firm, like his fingers, only better.

"Oh, yeah," I gasp, knowing I need to show I'm enjoying this. So far, it's easy.

Mike attaches the other clamp to my other breast. He smiles. I grin back. It's like so many nights at home, or in a club. The pinch sends happy signals shooting through my body. Straight to my pussy.

Mike blows me a kiss, and lets the heavy chain fall.

"Oh, man, yeah!" My legs slide apart a few inches, involuntarily. Can I revisit that vow not to have sex in front of everyone?

"How are you feeling?" Kash asks unnecessarily.

"Excellent," I assure him, smiling.

"Good, good," he notes.

"And the other feature of image nine-three," John remarks. "Labial clamps. As you can see, this length of chain has three similar, but smaller clamps on each end. They go on the outer lips, not the inner ones, for a similar effect. Turn to me, Jan?"

John sits on the chaise-longue. I turn to face him, away from any audience, he tugs down the black briefs. I'm mooning the onlookers.

John doesn't give me time to think about that. "Mike? I'll pass you the chain -- you do your right side. Spread your legs, Jan. Put your hands on my shoulders, if you need to."

I did need to. I was suddenly light-headed, and it wasn't just the corset making me that way. Two men, playing with my vulva, adding accessories? That was pretty damn kinky, even before adding the audience. I could predict the games of 'I've never' for the rest of my life: showed my arse off in the House of Lords? Got my tits out in front of lawyers in wigs?

One firm pinch behind my clit, on that responsive flap of skin, and I was wet as anything.

By the time my boys had applied all six, complete with fingers pressing on my clit not by accident, Mike taking advantage of his body being in the way of anyone seeing and slipping a finger inside me for a test grip, I wasn't faking my gasps and moans! So much weight pulling at my genitals, firing up every nerve in the area. It's wonderful.

The various people in the room are washed-out images, compared to the excitement between my legs when I stand up. Mike holds me safe, then just my hand, waiting for John to take the initiative again.

"Aren't you beautiful?" he tells me. "I'm going to lead you in a circle round the room, make sure everyone can see you're loving it. Then pose you for a couple photos."

Of course, it's the chain between my nipples John leads me by, reminding me of the top half of my body, too. As I walk, the chains between my legs swing, the cool metal brushing my stocking-clad legs, pulling on delicate skin in a delightful way.

I keep my eyes on John, to make sure I keep up with him and don't get my tits yanked too hard. When I pass Mike, I blow him a kiss. He rubs his wedding ring and blows one back. I laughed. It's a coded signal: despite my naked groin and my bare breasts and all, and John getting intimate with me, Mike still loves me. The tap on his ring is to remind me he promised he'd love and honour me, no matter what.

Forget richer and poorer, or sickness or health -- today might not even fit into better or worse. Mike never promised anything about the world going mad around me and Government legislative processes now requiring me to get my kit off, but he's standing by me no matter what.

John sees me laugh, and grins. "As you can see, Jan is quite happy with all these accessories. Spread your legs and gyrate a bit, just to prove they're in situ..."

I cooperate. A wide squat and rotating hips, all the chains swinging, not too wildly, and it's fantastic. I have a huge smile. I just wish I was being fucked at the same time. I must keep my mouth shut about that...

I make the mistake of looking up. Melons is looking on benignly, totally used to naked women in a day's work. The artist lady has her hands folded in her lap, consciously not reacting, only saving images in her mind for later. But the venom in the glare from the 'Christian' activist shocks me. So much for 'hate the sin, not the sinner'.

I rub my own wedding ring, defensively. I'd vowed to love and cherish Mike for all my days, and I'm damn well doing it. Stopping daft legislation being passed is part of supporting him, and, well, here we both are.

I take a deep breath, hold John's forearm, and risk a look at the group round the table.

The three judges are maintaining expressions of polite interest. Their wigs and gowns help them appear other-worldly, not people with opinions on my tits. Thompson and Kash, similarly. Timpson, however, can't hide her disgust.

I decide I don't care. I've looked her up; she's in the Government Legal Service, the same grade as me, only less impressive as that's where qualified lawyers start. Why should I pay her opinion any mind? I know I look pretty damn good. I feel good. So good. Mike, behind me, loves me and my body; John and others appreciate me too.

Subconsciously, I circle my bottom slightly, making the hanging chains swing. Timpson tries to look away.

"What's the matter?" I beam at her. "Can't deny that I'm enjoying this?" I hum a little tune and gyrate a little more.

John laughs. "Come on, pet. Let's get these photos done, and move to nine-four."

He has me stand in the right place; Melons produces the Polaroids.

"Don't worry, love. You bow your head, and from this angle, no-one can see your face. Do you want your hair down, too? Even better, just like the original. And look at me? One more for luck." He palms that last one onto Mike, who puts it safe in his jacket pocket.

John takes control again. "Right, nine-three enjoyment proven. Everyone happy? Jan, come over and let Mike remove those lower clamps while they wait for the prints to develop."

I stand in front of Mike, John by his side, who mentions, sotto voce, "They can't see. So rub her when you undo them. Jan, sound happy, yeah?"

"Oh!" I'm not acting, my head falling back in joy. Mike rubs my lower lips as each little pincer comes off, my pulse being squeezed between his fingers. It's all I can do to remain standing, John helping hold me up.

I feel oddly naked, now my cunt's throbbing, demanding more attention. John passes me my pants back, which helps. Back in a cabaret costume. Unusual, sure, but in a room where half the people are clad in 18th-century white horsehair wigs and black gowns sweeping to their ankles, I feel they can't really complain.

"I think we can all agree that image nine point three has been reproduced to everyone's satisfaction?" I don't know how Nigel speaks without laughing. It's probably a requirement to become a judge. "With... clear indications of enjoyment." Even Nigel's struggling to stay serious at that. "In that case, please could we move on to the re-enactment of picture nine point four, Professor?"

I predict Nigel's going to be wanking over picture nine point three and its reproduction for years. I can't complain. So will I.

John beckons me back to him. "Do you consent to Mike and I using you to replicate this picture?"

"I do." Formal as any bride.

"Excellent." He grins cheerfully at me, like it's any public scene. No blokes trying to sneak up and wank too close, so you could say that's a plus. "Let's get these cuffs on you. They're a bit new and inflexible, aren't they? Kash, you really should have planned this better so she or I could have brought our own!"

"I'll bear that in mind, next time the opposition want a display in person." Kash manages stony calm. He'll get to become a judge, at this rate.

We fasten the last cuff round my wrist. Mike says he's happy to do the spanking; John can take it from there. Mike gets distracted by sex, so has never bothered becoming a precise master of implements like a cane, but if I'm going to be harshly topped here, it'll be nice to start with him. Just like home.

Mike settles himself down, glares at Timpson and the CW activist. He looks merrily at me and indicates his lap. I lie across it, my legs dangling across the end of the cushioned seat, toes tapping against the floor.

"Do you want any more restraint yet?" John asks.

"No, thanks. When he hands over to you -- yes."

Mike will be playful, fun. It won't be difficult to cope with. John will have to be the opposite. I do enjoy going through the whole experience of anticipation, build-up, pain, sex and aftercare, but it's a complex set of responses to each part, which fit together to create the satisfying whole. Without the sex, and having to look like I'm actually enjoying the pain part, it's going to be more difficult...

Mike rubs my bottom, raised up proud over his lap. It's like any night in bed together. Then he ceremoniously pulls down my pants, losing the black and putting my pale bum on full view for everyone.

There's always something demeaning and embarrassing about having your knickers pulled down, even in front of the most appreciative audience. Today, knowing at least two of the people watching me think I'm disgusting, a perverted slut, and/or plain mad, this is probably as humiliated as I've ever been.

It's for a purpose, I remind myself. It's Mike. My husband. His warm, familiar, comforting lap. I can, just, feel him twitching with arousal beneath me. He rolls his hand all round my arse, warming it up. Funny, really, seeing as he'll make it warmer still in a minute.

Mike starts with small fast slaps, from only a couple inches away. All over, round and round. It heats me up, and it's fun. Nice. I remember I'm here to show enjoyment.

"Mm! Oh, yeah, that's nice!"

"Enjoying yourself? Oh, you ain't felt nothing yet, woman!" Mike warns. It's the same cheesy dialogue he usually uses, only in this case, totally true.

Slap, slap. I bury my head in my arms so I don't have to look at the Government barristers. Or anyone. I know Melons is manning the video camera; I heard him confirm it was running. John moves to stand over us, arms folded as if impatient.

Mike applies more swinging force, the heel of his hand landing firm on every stroke. I'm feeling it now, his palm impacting over where I'm already tender. So far, so good, only hurting in a pleasant way, but I have to concentrate on my breathing to cope with it. In. Out.

When Mike gives me a moment's grace, I remember to moan out, "Aah... yeah..."

"Just a bit more, mate. Then I'll take her." Typical chat. John and Mike are close friends.

I love having both guys negotiate what they get to do with me. It might sound like a proposal of sex, but John's cock is off-limits, so we all know he means taking me for the corporal punishment. Play. Whatever we have to call it today.

Mike slaps round the clock of my bum, then lands a couple last spanks in the centre and on my thighs. "Ow! Ahh..." I relax. "Thank you, sweetheart."

"Sit up." He gives me a big hug as I sit down on his lap -- hardly noticeable soreness from that, yet. Then we kiss, passionately. Partly reflex, mainly because how often can you snog in Parliament?

"Ahem." John coughs. "Thanks, M...mate." He's carefully not using names, for the benefit of the video recorder. "Time to reproduce image nine point four."

John puts a couple cushions from the wooden chairs onto the low end of the chaise-longue. I know the drill. I lean over them, resting my breasts on the far side, head on my arms again. I'm standing, the corset holding me in a neat V-shape. John's looped rope around the legs of the couch, and ties it efficiently to the metal loops on my ankle cuffs.

I try kicking. I can't.

Proper bondage. My mind slides into welcome subspace, thinking only about my bare bottom and exposure. My knees are wide apart. If I squat a bit, they'll be as wide as the sofa. Probably showing off my reddened pussy, too. Thank fuck my face is hidden. It's red with blushes.

"Do you want your arms tied to the top of the sofa? Or just to your collar? Or both?"

"Both, please." There's space under the back of the chaise-longue to pass a rope. So John clips both my wrists to the sides of my neck, then rope passes round the far legs of the couch to hold my head and chest down.

I'm physically immobilised. Mentally, it's even more freeing. I don't need to worry about sliding off the couch, nor trying to squirm away from impacts and looking like I'm not enjoying it. All I have to do is accept.

I can do that. I let myself fall into a peaceful near-sleep state. Until John speaks loudly.

"To replicate the next image, nine point four, I'm going to have to add to the general red field here, using this flogger. Then I'll use a riding crop to create marks like these red dashes, including on her upper legs. Finally, as you can tell, there are cane marks cutting across the area. I'll use this flexible bamboo cane, though for the bruising on these two lines, I may use this firmer acrylic rod which does much the same thing, only with a heavier impact -- it's not as springy. Any questions?