

(A shortened version of this story was published in Mind Caviar in November 2001.   My thanks to jamie Joy Gatto for her help)


Her Beautiful Capture    

By Cate


Sharing a cheap apartment building with half a dozen other women,  I had long ago perfected the art of silent masturbation, but this time I almost cried out.   I was lying on my face in my own bed, my wrists tied behind me, my nipples and my bush painted with the lipstick she had specified, and with her panties clenched in my teeth.. 

 This woman came to me when I was at a low ebb, recently divorced and just beginning to realise that all the men I met now, at work or in singles bars or clubs, who were around my own age, or older, were either married or had been married and had fucked up, fucked around or fucked off.   Don't get me wrong, I would have preferred, at least at first, if it had been a man, but then maybe I would have been more wary and it would have stuck to being a telephone thing only.   But then, why should I supply telephone sex to a man? - I was hardly the type.   Educated, a good job, pretty particular really.   So why was I doing this?   Did I think it was safer with a woman?

The first night she rang I thought it was a wrong number.   She said she was just making initial contact, intriguing me, but I was not even sure if she knew me, then she rang off saying she would call again the next night at eleven.   I was waiting.   She rang while I was in bed.   
Said,  "You're wearing panties, aren't you?"
I said: "What's that got to do with you?"
She chuckled.
"There are only two types of women.   Those who wear their panties in bed and those who don't.   I know which type you are."
"Do I know you?" I asked.
"You've seen me, but you don't know me.   You've looked through me once or twice.
Please don't hang up yet and don't ask me who I am.   I can't tell you just yet."
"Can you... can you prove you know me?"
"Well, you're about forty two, five three or four, dark with a snooty expression and pale skin.   You're pretty."
"Go on."
"You keep an apple and a spare pair of pantyhose in your desk.   You've got a small eczema spot on your lower back, just above your ass."
Her voice was intriguing, deep and warm with a slight British accent, yet something else as well.   Australian?   But mostly just American.
Was she someone in the office?   Could she have seen me at the changing room at the gym?
"Have you got a hair-band, one of those elastic things?" she asked.
Three minutes later I was lying on my back with my wrists tied together behind my back underneath me.   Well, just with the elastic hairband, but she told me I couldn't release my wrists unless she gave her permission.   And I was beginning to believe her.  And she was telling me, through the phone propped against my pillow, what she would like to do to me.   She would sit high up on my chest, on my throat, make me surrender to her, and then she would make me eat her pussy.   It gave me an extraordinary feeling.  I could never have imagined a woman could make me feel like this.   And just over the phone!  

Once, way back when I was happily married, and pregnant with my second child I had got off on a powerfully submissive feeling when having sex with my husband.   We had gone back to bed one January Sunday afternoon, I was six months gone.   He made love to me, and then, an hour later he mounted and  entered me again.   He had never before managed to come twice in one session and, when I thought of my position, pregnant already and him taking possession of my body twice, I orgasmed so powerfully that I shocked myself, screamed out in the darkening bedroom so that my husband was terrified I had started to lose my baby.   Now I felt a similar feeling mounting in my loins and belly, coursing through my womb.


"I'd have my knees on your wrists," the voice went on. "And my fists gripped in your hair.   I'd wipe that supercilious look off you face, it would be deep between my legs and there's nothing you could do about it.   You would be mine, got it?  Completely mine!"
I think I groaned then.
"You're not to come...not until I tell you," she said.
I whimpered.   Said I wouldn't...I'd try not to. 
"Okay," she said. "Here's what I want you to do tomorrow...."
"Please...." I said.
"There's a scent called  Oriane des Laumes - I want you to buy some.
"Sure, okay."
"It's not easy to find.   I'll give you the name again when your hands are free.
"Okay.
"I warn you, it's very expensive."
"Please...please," I begged.
"Okay, free you wrists.  Now turn on your face.   And you can use your hands."
I thought I heard another voice then on the line, a complaining then pleading voice, but I was almost at the point of orgasm, so quickly I could hardly believe it.    
"Did you come?" she asked
I groaned.
"Me too," she said.   She gave me the name of that scent again while I scrabbled for a pen.   Then she hung up. 

At first I thought I might just tell her I had bought the perfume.   (The fact that she had called it "scent" was not lost on me.)  I had no particular intention at the moment of taking this any farther than it had already gone, although I adored the insinuating firmness of her voice in my ear and the sheer voluptuousness of writhing in my bonds in the warmth of my bed, waiting for her instructions, her permission for the long shuddering release of my pent-up desire.   But I decided I had better ask around, as my caller would certainly question me.    And did I really want this to stop?   She was not the sort of woman to take no for an answer or to have her requests lightly ignored..   Not if I wanted her to go on calling me, which, on balance, I definitely did.   But that's where I had a slight problem.   Nobody seemed to have heard of the perfume, and I had to endure the supercilious smiles and stares of the glossily painted young women at the beauty counters in all the stores I tried.   One girl, as glassily stupid looking as most of the others, did direct me to an older woman who was selling some half-obsolete cosmetics for "the older woman" in a somber alcove where beauty gave way to sanitary towels, depilatory cream and thrush ointment. She was a handsome, grey-haired woman in her sixties and she told me she had had about three or four requests for this scent in the course of her career. 
"I believe it is  quite sought after," she said. "By the more discerning.    And I have been intrigued by the prettiness of the women who requested it.   Just like you, you are so pretty too," she said.
"Thank you," I said, embarrassed.   This was getting me exactly nowhere, I thought, but then she said "One lady did  return and tell me she had managed to come across  this perfume."
From under the counter somewhere she  took up a well-filled black leather purse, and after a great deal of fumbling and apologetic tut-tutting, managed to produce a small piece of card, which appeared to be torn from a restaurant menu, with an address still faintly written on it in pencil.
"Take it," she said. "It is definitely a younger woman's scent."  
Flattered, I put the card in my purse and hurried back to the office.

By this time, of course, I was watching to see if anyone was studying me surreptitiously.   I couldn't connect the voice with anyone in the office, but the building must have had at least a hundred women in it on three floors and, anyway,  it could have been the girl in the sandwich bar or someone in the place where I had breakfast most mornings.  My caller had never described herself, of course, and I had gradually evolved a sort of template into which her face would fit, a vague picture of what I thought she was like.   Probably a bit like me, dark almost certainly, though probably not staggeringly pretty - if she was, would she have time or need for this sort of thing?   I sometimes looked up quickly from my work, or turned around in the corridor, to see if I could catch someone watching me.   I may have perhaps given the impression I was behaving a little strangely.   Who would know the reason?

My secretary, a pleasant little blonde girl called Julie was hardly likely to risk playing games with me, she was too young and anyway her voice with its hard country twang would be hard to disguise.   Mrs Stronge, nominally my boss, was happily married with grown up children and, though the voice might fit, was an unlikely candidate.   I did not work closely with anyone in the office as I had two major projects, which were confidential.   One was assisting a consortium of businessmen to buy a derelict property from a cancer charity which  would not have sold if  it knew the consortium was a front for a tobacco giant.  The other was a surreptitious downsizing plan I had been asked to draw up, and I was well aware that at the end of the day my name could well appear as an addendum to the names I provided.

It was a tiny clothes boutique a couple of steps down from a secluded street behind the restaurant and theatre district.   There was a fine potted bay tree outside and a  couple of elegant dresses in the window, one in deep red and the other beige with gunmetal grey stripes.    And, yes, there were a few bottles of perfume in the window, the more expensive of the well-known makes.    The young girl behind the counter, to whom I falteringly read out the name of the  fragrance, smiled and said "I shall have to ask Madame."     The bead curtains parted.    Madame had once been very beautiful and had a slight limp, but otherwise a proud erect carriage.   She assisted herself with a tall, brass capped stick,  the sort of thing an old-style Russian ballet-mistress might have used to correct a plie or a jete or to emphasise the position of a lift.   She was beautifully dressed in oiled silk and her face was heavily made up, an extraordinary porcelain finish in pink. with startling red lips and melancholy kohl-rimmed eyes.    Yes, she looked as though she must have been a former ballet-mistress or else the oldest and most hard-working prostitute in the city.   She reminded me of the ogres who sometimes inhabited expensive little stores in Paris and hated selling anything to foreigners.    She spoke in strongly Russian-accented English.
"Have you three hundred dollars?"
I had thought of bringing cash, but didn't know how much.  This shocked me, but I was hardly going to walk out now, covered in embarrassment.  Anyway, my caller knew who I was, so I might as well use my credit card.   The ballet-mistress passed my card disdainfully to her assistant, then lifted a beautifully wrapped package from a small drawer set in the counter.
"Fifteen millilitres," she said, with an icy smile.
"But that's tiny," I said.
Again the wintry smile.
"Madame will not be disappointed."

When I got back to my apartment I undressed, showered and put on a robe.   It was only a couple of hours until my call was due.   I carefully unwrapped the box, which was decorated in an elegant cream and black checkerboard pattern with the name in a flourish of gold script on the top.  The box was a little bigger than I expected for a 15ml bottle of scent, and when I opened it I found, wrapped around the perfume flagon, a tiny pair of cream silk panties.   At first I thought it was one of those gifts beloved of cosmetics and perfume manufacturers (they could afford it at that price, but how would they know the size?)  Then I realised that these were used panties, with a faintly grubby mark in the seat and as I raised them to my nostrils, a  strong bitter-almond scent of  the urine and sexual secretions that stiffened the soft pad that went between the legs.     It was quite some time before I got around to testing the perfume.    I was no expert, but, from the little I dabbed on my throat and between my breasts, the predominant notes were patchouli, ginger, mimosa in a very deep musk.   That night, as I lay bound, face down in my bed, I was instructed that, in the morning, I must  pack  my own panties, the ones I was wearing now that I would shortly be masturbating  between my legs, into the little box and  bring them to the Russian woman in the boutique.
"Then I'll know you even in the dark," the voice said. "And you'll know me." 
I was shamefaced handing the little package to the old Russian Madame in the shop  but I summoned up the courage anyway.
"Can you tell me...?   I mean,  can you tell me who...?"
Again that wintry smile.
"Our clients are very discreet," she said.

In the month that followed I was instructed to have my hair lightened.   I didn't like myself nearly blonde, at first anyway, and I was extremely self-conscious, exciting a mixture of envy and contempt from the other women in the office.   My caller gave me the specific code number of the shade she wanted and told me the hairdresser I was to go to. She had also asked me my weight and told me to lose about five pounds, saying she preferred my figure more boyish.   Then, two weeks later, I was told an appointment had been made to get my hair cut very short.
"Please," I said, "I've always had long hair."
"Your stylist will know exactly what is required"
"Please!" I said.
"Are your hands tied?"
Quite frequently she had the habit of ignoring me.   Of not answering a question. Like when I began asking her if we could meet.   Between my legs my swollen lips.   The knowledge of her ownership growing firmer and firmer..   But there were no in-betweens with her.   It was either yes or no.
"Your appointment is for Friday," she said.
"Yes...yes...yes," I moaned, thrashing helplessly in the bed.

I stuck it for another three weeks, then I was begging her to tell me her intentions.   Were we to meet?   This was wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but I wasn't sure I could go on without some flesh and blood contact.
"No, "she said. "It's too soon."
Too soon?   I was inwardly raging.   She had made me diet, have my  hair tinted and cut, stay in to take her calls.   Stupidly I began to suggest, vaguely, how I might need social contact, a full relationship, that I wasn't getting any younger.   She  cut off.   She didn't  call again for a week.   I was frantic for her voice in my ear.   When she came back,  called me again, I was repentant, she forgiving.   I was painted and plucked and tied exactly as she wanted me.   Delirious bondage sessions followed over three nights.   Then she told me she'd agree meet me.   
"Be at your desk at nine o'clock tomorrow night.   Wear your Oriane des Laumes scent and those nice jade earrings of yours.   And remember,  there's no going back from this."

Whatever second thoughts I had, and I had plenty, I was back, after a quick dinner, at my desk around eight thirty the following evening.   It was possible to work and leave the office up to eleven o'clock, but not to get in after eight without a special pass.    A middle-aged man called Joe Carey was still working at a desk on my floor, drinking whiskey out of a paper cup.   He had a failing marriage and tried never to go home.   The building opposite was completely glass-covered and I could see another office light reflected in it, on the floor above my own.    I took the elevator up and found a woman named Christine Ellis I knew slightly working in her office with the door open.   She seemed surprised to see me.    Christine was a tall, dark haired woman, quite pretty in a severe sort of way,     I knew she had a marriage behind her and her sexual status was somewhat vague.
"Hello," she said, dumping some files back in the cabinet,  "I'm just leaving - can I help you?"
"No," I said, "I'm going soon myself.   See you soon."
Back at my desk I saw the light from her office still reflected across the street.
On impulse I picked up the phone, wondering what her voice was like over the phone.   There was no answer, and, when I glanced across the street again the reflected light was no longer there.
 I expected someone, maybe Christine, to walk into my office at any moment.  The thought it could be Christine quite excited me, but I wasn't at all sure of the voice Then my phone rang.   It was my caller.   She gave me instructions.   I hesitated.   Then I said :" Okay, I'll do it."   

Was I crazy, what I had agreed to do?.   I was a timid person in some ways, but I  had an exhibitionistic streak and I was sometimes sexually daring.   When Bob and I were first married we were buying a house built along with four others on an expensive site between a golf-course and a wood.   During the first hot Summer Bob and I used to make love in the back garden, then, even more daring, in the wood.   Then one night, just as Bob had emptied himself in me, we were hit by the light of a torch from one of the houses and, a few moments later, we were on the run, stark naked, from our neighbours, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods.    Then I turned off the path and hid in the bushes, while Bob plunged noisily on.   Three men rushed past, breathing heavily, along the path,  lights from their torches dancing in the trees.   I made my way back to the house, threw on a dress and got the car out.   I drove around to the other side of the woods, just in time to pick Bob up.    As I started to drive home, old McCulla, a retired jeweller, walked into the road and flagged me down importantly with his torch.   I shouted at him we had seen the revellers too and were trying to cut them off.
"Where's Bob?" McCulla asked suspiciously.
Two other grizzled neighbours were panting up the bank.  I had Bob covered with a rug on the floor in the back.
"Bob's followed them," I shrieked, "He saw their asses in his flashlight!"
"Perverts," McCulla whooped and the three of them headed off into the woods again.
Tonight I again felt that wonderful adrenaline surge.

Of course I had known I was taking a chance when I undressed.   I could have been set up for a rape, but I  knew I wouldn't back out now.   I had only barely got my clothes off, dropping my bra and panties on top of my suit on the toilet seat, in complete darkness as I had been instructed, when I heard the outer door click and  then I was joined in the cubicle.  She had come for me at last.
 She stood naked behind me, her bare breasts pressed against my back, her thighs cupping my buttocks and I felt relief, after a brief moment of panic, that it definitely was a "she".   The faint scent of Oriane des Laumes was unmistakable.   She ran her hands up my midriff and cupped my breasts, playing gently with the nipples.   I felt the hair raise on the nape of my neck as the hands slowly moved down over my body again, cupping my navel, then caressing the fronts of my upper thighs, carefully avoiding my crotch at first, although brushing lightly against my pubic hair as they passed down.   Then I was held gently about the waist with one arm, the hand caressing my navel again, while the other hand went behind me.   I could feel the back of her hand against my ass and I knew she was fingering herself.   Then a finger was held under my nose, placed on my lips.   I could smell her, then I sucked,  tasted her juices.   A stronger aroma of the faint, exciting scent I had inhaled from her panties.  

There was no doubt whatever it was my lover.

   The desire to turn around and into her arms, face to face, was almost ungovernable.   She was biting lightly into the place where my neck met my shoulder.   She was still playing with me, teasing me,    Then her hand took possession of my sex, and she very gently made me ride her finger, her mouth relaxed and wet on my neck, a faint, possessive growl coming from her throat.  I tried to stifle a groan.   Then her hand was removed and she  took both my wrists gently, moving my hands  back between us , and just as I thought I was being invited to touch her sex,  my wrists were crossed behind me, I felt a loop being slipped over them.

My wrists were tied behind my back and secured to one of the supports of the cubicle partition, or rather wound around it several times and tied, presumably, to another support in the next cubicle so that I couldn't reach it to try to untie the knots.   I was still in complete darkness.   I was crying and I was terrified.     Although I was a relatively anonymous employee so far as most people in the office were concerned, I would certainly have had potential enemies, but who would want to punish me as cruelly as this?    She had left, refusing to speak and I knew she had removed my clothes, because I felt the rough touch of my suit against my back as she squeezed past me.    An hour passed, my hands going more and more numb from the bindings on my wrists.   Realising what a wild chance I had taken,  I thought about that wild night in the woods with Bob when we were chased by those three old perverts and how bitterly this night had turned out by comparison.    Occasionally I heard sounds far off, muted, like in any building late at night.   Then, incredibly, I thought I heard a door bang, something rattling in the corridor.   

The door of the ladies' room was bumped open and the light went on.   Two startled looking Chinese women stood there with a large aluminium trolley carrying paper tissues, cleaning materials and towels.    They both wore white coats and white cleaners' caps and released a torrent of excited Cantonese at the sight of a naked women with her hands tied behind her, kneeling on the damp floor of the toilet stall.   I was sure they would call security and, of course, I had no means of identification.   
"Please," I begged. "Speak English?    English?"
 "What you do here?" the older one, in heavy glasses, demanded.
I realised I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to explain my situation, yet I had to do it, either to a woman who spoke hardly any English, or to someone in security.
I took the only way out I could think of and burst into bitter tears.    I knew I had very little chance of preventing this matter going much further but in a way I was relieved.   If I had to be seen naked and humiliated, it was preferable this way than being found by one of my colleagues slipping in for an early morning pee.                              
    
The older woman  then started making soothing, cooing noises and began to untie my wrists, releasing another burst of Cantonese at her companion who took off the white coat she was wearing over her sweater and jeans.   Then, after helping me on with the coat, with a final burst of instructions to her assistant the older cleaner led me up to the ground floor and out to her van in the covered carpark.    I had no keys to get into my apartment and I didn't know if I dared walk in looking the way I was with just a flimsy cotton coat, no shoes and ruined makeup.     The Chinese woman drove rapidly when we reached the quieter streets.   After about fifteen minutes we went up a ramp, then, sickeningly down again and we were in an underground carpark under an apartment block.

I was expecting a squalid room somewhere, but her apartment was small but well furnished in that rather cold  Oriental style.   She let me shower and gave me a robe and a strong dry martini.   Then she went to shower herself.     I was beginning to unwind a little, though still  cold and trembling with shock.   Then the phone beside me rang.   After it had rung about six times she called from the bedroom.
"Answer please"
I picked up the phone.
"Get on the bed." It was my lover's voice.
"Where the hell have you...?" I began
"Look in the bag on the table near the door," she said.
I reached for the cloth laundry bag the Chinese woman had brought in from the van.   In it were my underwear, my suit, pantyhose and shoes.
"I...I don't understand," I said into the phone
"Get on the bed, bitch." she said.
Then for the first time I heard her giggle.

She was in the doorway, her white body stark naked.   Like most Chinese women her calves were almost too slender, but she had beautiful meaty thighs, a narrow waist and chubby, provocative breasts.   Without the heavy spectacles her face was handsome, though hardly beautiful and her hair hung down almost to her waist above her high and very prominent ass.   She had a beautifully rounded belly with a sweet little cup around the navel and, below, her pubic hair was coarse and luxuriant.
She pushed me down on the bed and then climbed up after me and straddled me.
Again I caught the scent of Oriane des Laumes.  
"My lovely bitch," she said. "The bitch who ignored me when I smiled at her."
"Please." I said,.
"The bitch who didn't even see me,"
There were straps and leather cuffs attached to the rails at the top of the bed and she expertly cinched both my wrists before leaning back to survey her handiwork.
"I must tell you a little about myself," she said. "Yes?"
"Please?" I said.
"Okay.   Born in Hong Kong.   I came to this country with Father who was killed in a gang war.   Married, to a much older man.  Inherited his property.   Started a cleaning business."
"You own this apartment?" I asked
"I own the building," she said. "Two others as well."
"Hell," I said, "you gave me one fright."
"Later," she said, "you will eat my pussy?   Right?"
I nodded.
"You will beg to be allowed to eat my pussy?"
I nodded again
"Say it, please"
"I... I will beg to be allowed eat your..p...pussy," I stammered.
She reached down and began to knead my breasts.
"You are mine now," she said. "Okay?"
"Yes," I said.
"Say it please!"
"I am yours...now.   I am yours," I said, feeling a sudden surge of desire in my womb and between my legs, in my breasts under her insistent kneading.
"You are my beautiful capture," she said.
I nodded dumbly.
"Your English is good," I said.
"Sorry, my English is perfect," she said. "We speak mostly English in Hong Kong."
"I know, I'm sorry," I said, wincing at the quick touch of asperity in her voice.    I was in no doubt now that my owner was a very powerful lady.

She sighed and got off me.   Then she stood beside the bed and took my left leg and raised it up, attaching it with another strap on the top right-hand  bedpost.   Then she went around and cinched my right leg to the other bedpost, so that I was jack-knifed with everything on display.   She fondled my ass for a few minutes in a proprietorial sort of way, then inserted her thumb in my pussy and at the same time seared a long fingernail into my asshole, pressing firmly until she gained entry.   I had never felt so totally at someone else's mercy in my life and she knew it.   She smiled down at me.
When she released me she went to a chest of drawers and took something out.   I thought it was a vibrator, but she inserted a needle into it.
"I forgot to tell you my name," she said. "It is Amy Wong Howe.   I am now going to tattoo my name on your ass as a symbol of my ownership."
This time she did not ask me if I agreed - it was taken for granted.
"Amy Wong Howe - That is eleven letters, so you will know how I am getting on," she said, with a tiny laugh.   She pressed a button and the needle whined into life.

It was painful, but bearable, and she talked as she carefully delineated the letters of her name with the ink-filled needle, her voice pleasant and cultivated above the insistent whine of the electric motor.
"I have a large contract, several hundred buildings," she said. "About once, maybe twice  a year I try to visit each, as an ordinary cleaner.   That way I see much that is left undone.   That is how I saw you, of course.   I decided to have you."
She was probably about ten years older than me, in her fifties somewhere and her dark eyes were extremely beautiful, probably the most exquisitely shaped eyes I had ever seen with a warm depth to their darkness.
"Now I have got you.   Right?" she said.
"Right," I said
"I am much too busy to go to singles bar, gay places," she said. "This might have seemed a lot of work to get a girl, but look at all the time I would spend chatting up people only to find we were unsuited.   All the wasted nights."
"You have a point" I said, feeling another surge of desire as I remembered our phone conversations, feeling a delicious rush of anticipation at what this woman was going to do to me.
"Instead a few minutes on the phone and, if all goes well, fifteen minutes a night until it is time to meet.   Easy?"

I knew then that she had done this before.   How many times?   I remembered when she was talking to me on the telephone I had heard, a couple of times, another voice, someone weeping.   And I knew this woman would have exactly what she wanted and   that some day I would very likely be lying beside her in bed, possibly bound and helpless, and I would hear her on the telephone, directing some other girl to get her hair dyed and cut and to wear Oriane des Laumes.   I would know they were lovers and that they were masturbating together.   I couldn't bear it and put the thought from my mind.     

She had finished putting her name, her mark on my tender ass.   She had released my ankles from their bonds on the bedposts.    She was sitting astride my throat and my nostrils were filled with her powerful odour of arousal.  I  was begging, begging... I was almost delirious with desire when she finally lowered the centre of her womanhood to my beseeching lips. 

The End.

