His fingers fumbled at the strap that fastened her shoes. As he took them from her feet, she said, “Place them there on the floor.” She gestured to him to kneel beside her. As he did so she reached forward and unfastened his gag. “My shoes, with your lips, guaillou,” she said.
Guaillou — he had come to view the term almost as an endearment. He knew that she intended it as a term of contempt but still it was a recognition. He bent his head towards her shoes. As his face neared the floor she stretched out her feet close to it, so that as he attended to her shoes, pressing his lips to the toe caps of each in turn, he could see her toes, nails crimson polished, stretching and flexing only inches away.
He saw her lift her feet and felt them placed on his back. “It would be very dangerous to tread upon a real leopard,” Catherine said, gazing down at the tattoo on the crouching man’s back, “but you, I think, are not so dangerous.”
Sam said nothing, keeping his attention for her footwear.
“Have you ever been to Hong Kong?” Catherine asked him.
Surprised to be engaged in conversation, he replied. “No, miss, never.”
“My mother worked at the Hong Kong Club. Before ’97 the only women there were those that worked in the bar or the restaurants or cleaning the rooms. It was the same for all Chinese too. So Chinese and a woman, my mother felt out of place. They would not expect her to kowtow, of course. They would not be so direct, so obvious. Nothing would be said. But there were expectations. It was clear, it was not a place for us. We had to know our place. Now you have your place.”
“Yes, miss.” Sam had learned that when those he was serving embarked on this sort of talk, agreement was the best response. Catherine became silent for a moment. A pair of feet in stilt heeled boots appeared beside his head.
Sam heard Natalie’s voice. “Can I get you something?”
“Another Bloody Mary, please.”
“And is your toy all right?”
“He is very well behaved. Obedient and respectful. A credit to the club.” Sam felt quietly proud. “Tell me, is the playroom free? I might like to use it in a while.”
“I will check. I believe it is available.”
Sam returned to pay his assiduous attention to Catherine’s shoes, hoping that either the playroom would be occupied or that Catherine would change her mind. The return of Natalie’s boots to his line of sight dashed his hopes. “Yes,” she said. “The playroom is free. Shall I have your drink brought in there?”
“Please,” said Catherine getting to her feet. “Come along, guaillou,” she said to Sam as she jerked his leash. “And bring my shoes.” Sam followed her on his hands and knees, Catherine’s shoes dangling by their ankle straps from his mouth.
Sam followed Catherine into the playroom. He knew the room well. He could (and sometimes did) find his way around it blindfold. On one wall stood a rectangular steel frame. Catherine took him to it and fastened his wrist and ankle cuffs to the frame so that he was spread out like an almost naked human X. She reached around his head and clipped the back of his collar to the frame so that he could hardly move his head. “There, guaillou,” Catherine said, as she sat down on a stool beside the frame “We shall see how to play in a moment.”
She smiled as she noticed his eyes flick towards her thighs as the slit in the skit of her qipao fell open. He noticed her smile and quickly set his eyes straight ahead. Catherine laughed. “Too slow, guaillou! Your eyes betray you. Tut tut! This is not what New Order expect with the Respect Agenda.”
Sam did not answer. Embarrassed to have his glance noticed, but pleased in some way that she had recognised his desire for her, he couldn’t protest.
“Your drink, Miss,” a voice announced from the doorway Another male toy, dressed in the uniform that had been destined for Sam was standing with a tray in one hand carrying Catherine’s Bloody Mary. The uniform did nothing to create a convincing feminine look beyond the fact that he was wearing a dress and stockings but it did serve to emphasise his menial status. He wore the outfit with an air of resigned humiliation. Catherine beckoned the male maid over and took the drink.
“Do they make you dress this way sometimes, guaillou?” she asked Sam. She waived the maid away.
“Yes, Miss,” Sam responded.
“Ha, you don’t like it!” Catherine could sense his embarassment. She looked down at the cage constraining Sam’s cock. She wondered what the MAMBO data would tell her about him if the cage had been fitted with detectors. Perhaps the availability of MAMBO data to sponsors might give them an additional means of controlling their sponsored males. Some sort of subscription service? It might even help fund the programme. She would remember to mention the idea to Aileen.
Catherine sipped her drink. She shouldn’t really consume alcohol when she was playing, she knew, but she wasn’t planning anything extreme. It would amuse her to tease Sam a little, to keep him helpless and wondering what she might do next, but this time, at least, he would be spared a beating unless he did something to upset her. There was a couch opposite where Sam stood bound. Catherine lay down on it, noticing again Sam’s gaze at her legs. She enjoyed it. She thought of herself as short and not in the least elegant but, she supposed, the short, split, skirt of the qipao did make the best of her legs. Sam’s admiring look was a pleasant novelty.
“So, are you sponsored?”
Sam was surprised to be asked. The last thing that usually happened in the playroom was for the Mistress to engage in a cosy bondage-side chat. “No miss,” he answered. “The Club, they are almost my sponsors, I suppose, but not formally sponsored, no.”
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