Tom Markham’s Mistress
by Belisarius

Part 1

Grace and I lived a comfortable and happy life which neither of wished to change. I was the author of fifteen books of popular history and had just delivered the final lecture of a tour of seven northern cities promoting my latest book which was entitled Edwin Tudor: Paedophile?

Normally, I would have gone straight home, however, Grace was away in some oil-rich Arabian country trying to sort out the muddle Triple B Oil had gotten themselves into with the revenue service there. So, I decided to stay in my very comfortable hotel for an extra night and leave the next day. I’d just had dinner (only moderately good for the size of the bill) and was having a quiet nightcap when I was approached by a willowy blond.

“You’re Thomas Markham, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I smiled. The woman addressing me was about thirty, elegantly turned out in a black cocktail dress with her legs encased in the shiniest nylon tights I’d ever come across. I’m not over keen on women who are too thin; no one could accuse Grace of that, but, when the fates deliver a woman so slim and so beautiful, what can one do?

“I like your books, I’ve read them all, though I sometimes wonder how carefully your research is conducted.”

My smile disappeared for a moment as, like all writers, I have a thin skin, “Well, they are popular histories, you know, my intention is to write something my readers are going to enjoy, I give them a true story which reads like a novel. If they want to delve deeper into the subject they can move on to Professor Phil Wilson or Doctor Adelaide Lyons.”

“I’ve enjoyed your books, truly I have and I realise that to get people hooked on history you’ve got to tell them a story and you do that better than any other writer I can think of.”

“Have a drink?” I offered winningly.

“Vodka and tonic, please.”

“Shaken, not stirred?”

“Not a martini cocktail, just a plain v&t.”

I hailed a waiter and we made small talk, during which I found that her name was Susannah Croft and she worked for a publisher.

“Do you seriously regard Edwin Tudor as a paedophile?” she asked.

“That’s what he’d be called today. The facts are simple, are they not? He married the thirteen year old Margaret Beaufort, plucks her cherry almost immediately and makes her pregnant. She damn nearly dies, at fourteen years of age, giving birth to his son and heir.”

“Yes, but surely, we must judge him by the standards of his times, he placed the continuation of the Lancastrian line above that of the tender age of his wife…. And she was his wife.”

“Indeed she was, but there were many dynastic marriages at that time, but I can’t think of any others which were consummated with so young a bride.”

“There must have been some.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but using the continuation of his line as a defence or not, today he’d be facing a very long prison sentence, one that would be well deserved in my opinion.”

She considered for a moment before speaking, twisting her mouth in a very attractive way, “But he was doing his duty to the House of Lancaster, he probably didn’t even enjoy it, she’d have been a skinny wraith of a girl.”

“True, but in order to penetrate her he’d have to be aroused, so we’ll presume; some way or another, she turned him on.”

“He may well have had to arouse himself beforehand, ‘hand’ being the operative word ……,” she gave me a knowing look.

“What? In front of his wife?”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t do his image much good, him a rough, tough fighting man, preferring a wa….. to a female.”

“As soon as sex comes into the equation men can easily be led along by desire, whether it’s a straight fuck or something more exciting.”

I was a little surprised by her use of the ‘f’ word but tried not to show it, I nodded judiciously before speaking, “The male is without doubt the weaker vessel, we all have some quirk which turns us on….”

She giggled, “……And once a woman knows what that quirk; or should I say fetish, is, then you’re all putty in our hands.”

I laughed along with her but began to wonder where this conversation was leading, could I have her tied to my bed by midnight? I asked myself.

A silence full of meaning descended between us, “Another?” I asked, raising my empty glass.

“I wouldn’t like to lose all my inhibitions, God knows what I may do if I have another one. But, there again, who cares?”

Her words appeared to have more and more of a hidden meaning, perhaps an invitation, I thought as I called the waiter over.

“So, what dark desires do you harbour?” she asked as soon as she had taken the first sip of her fresh drink.

I blew out my cheeks, and wanted to say ‘bondage’, but couldn’t bring myself to do it so soon into a relationship. Then I decided to see which way she’d jump.

“I’m happily married, you know.”

She smiled, “Yes, I’m aware of that. You married Grace Louise Somerville in September, 1968, she’s a very successful accountant who spends much of her time in foreign parts.”

“Yes…….,” I could think of no other reply.

“However, let’s return to the original question. What are your dark desires?”

I said nothing.

She continued, “Infantilism? Are you a Transvestite? Bodily functions, perhaps? Torture…… Come on, give me a clue, there are dozens of possibilities.”

I gulped down what remained of my drink, would it be wise, I thought, to tell a complete stranger what turned me on sexually?

All the while she fixed me with her beautiful eyes and a smile of unfathomable meaning.

I coughed hard to clear my throat, “I’m not sure I like the idea of revealing the darkest of my dark secrets to so beautiful a young lady whom, I may add, I hardly know.”

She favoured me with her enigmatic smile again before saying, “I’m going to my room now” and, after swallowing the last of her vodka, “604, the door will be unlocked, but give me twenty minutes.”

I watched entranced the rhythm of her bottom, the shape of her legs and her high, high heels, in which she was able to walk so elegantly, a feat of which most women are incapable.

She’d given me a clear, unequivocal invitation. What should I do? The safe thing was to go to bed, sleep and leave early next morning. However, the thought of her lithe body fiercely restrained drove me from the path of safety. It wouldn’t hurt to visit 604, there was nothing to say that anything untoward would happen, I comforted myself.

I gave her a full hour before I came knocking at her door. It opened immediately and I could see that beneath a thin peignoir, the colour of champagne, she was naked.

“Like what you can vaguely see?” she asked brightly.

“Very much so,” I said as I entered.

“Drink?” she asked, nodding towards a selection of drinks she’d made ready on her dressing table.

I shook my head, “I think I’d better not.”

She smiled, poured herself a vodka, sat in one of the two armchairs in the room and casually crossed her legs, showing me a full acre of marble smooth thigh.

“I think we should run through the gamut of fetishes starting with the letter ‘B’, how about…… B for Bondage? Have you tried it?”

“Yes….,” I stuttered, “I’ve dabbled……,” this was moving along much faster than I was ready for.

“Good, you’ll have some ideas. Strip off, then.”

“Me strip off?” I tried to slow the process down.

“Of course, not much point me tying you up fully clothed, is there.”

“But… I thought…..”

She laughed, “Ah, I see, you want to bind me, of course you do, men nearly always want the women to be the helpless one.”

“Er…, yes.”

“So typical, we ladies are bound hand and foot, our clothing in disarray, the private parts of our body showing and ready for play. Ok then, get your ropes out.”

It was one thing after another, “I haven’t any ropes.”

“Oh, how sad. However, it so happens that I’ve several pairs of tights and a silk scarf available, do you think they’ll do?”

“Yes,” I was all eagerness now, “hand them over and we can begin… Perhaps if you were to lie on the bed with your hands behind your back….”

“You forget that the bondage gear is mine, the one who has access to the bindings does the bondage, that’s a well known rule.”

“I’ve never heard of that one…..”

“I’ve just made it up, but it seems fair, my room, my ties, my initiative……”

What could I do? I’d been on the back foot since I’d met her, so I did as I was told and stripped.

“My, I’m not having much effect, am I,” she said nodding towards my cock which was not standing to attention.

“Well, perhaps events are moving too quickly for him……,” I glanced down to my still flaccid member.

“Don’t worry, I’ll soon have you jumping to attention, my father was a Guards officer and I take after him.”

I climbed on to the bed, closed my eyes and relaxed as I felt the whispering sheaths of nylons encircle my wrists and be drawn tight. My arms were then pulled above my head and secured to the bedrail.

“Good,” she whispered huskily, “I thought I was going to miss out on any fun, this evening, I’m so pleased I spotted you sitting all alone and looking very serious.”

“Yes…… ggghhhhhmmmppppp,” I began just as she straddled me, hauled her lingerie around her waist and thrust her cunt on to my mouth.

I began to nip, suck and nibble and as she had begun to encourage my cock with her long, elegant fingers it too began to play its part in the evenings adventure.

“I suppose you’d like me to impale myself upon your quite wonderful erection now?”

“Ohhhhh, oh, yes, please,” my voice was well muffled by her soft, and very wet vagina.

“I don’t know that I’m ready yet…..,” she replied languidly.

I pulled my mouth from her red gash, “You’ve a waterfall tumbling out here,” I complained.

“No, I think you’re a very naughty boy who first deserves to be tortured.”

Now, I’m not one who appreciates a great deal of pain and who certainly doesn’t like to see or feel blood being spilled, “What level of torture were you thinking about?”

She giggled, “Well, at least you haven’t made any effort to free yourself, which tells me that you’ve been tortured before….. And, perhaps, quite enjoyed it?”

“Why don’t we start with me torturing you? Fair’s fair.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re the one tied to the bed. Who ever heard of the prisoner torturing the captor? Indeed……,” from somewhere she pulled out a candle, lit it and proceeded to hold it above my balls.

“This will do nicely,” she said, sitting on my thighs and watching as the drops of hot fat descended on my private parts.

I bravely didn’t wince nor attempt to avoid the droplets, for she was holding the candle too high giving the wax time to cool before impacting.

“Oh,” she cried in disappointed little girl style, “I’m afraid my poor, little wick is much too far, far away from your nice, big, thick wick.” The she lowered the thing and it began to rain down on me globules of stinging pain.

“Ow…. Owch…. That hurts……”

“Of course it does, silly boy, that’s why it’s called torture.”

This went on for several minutes and then she took further ligatures and spread my legs to the corners of the bed and tied them there.

“There, that’s you well secured,” she said as she gagged me with her panties, tying them in place with her skimpy brassiere, “I think I’ll take a shower now.”

“Grr…. Ahhhh…..,” I tried to make it plain that I wished to be released, but she ignored me and I soon heard the sound of hissing water.

She took ages to bathe and when she returned to the bedroom she was stark naked. The sight of her raised my penis to it’s full height and I hoped for some relief in payment for my suffering.

“Mmmmmm, very nice,” she said encouragingly.

However, using her long finger nails, she began to remove the hardened wax from my cock. My poor member didn’t know how to take it, ecstasy from the caress of her fingers and agony from the removal of the candle grease.

Once she’d done she stood erect, her arms went behind her head, thrusting forward her breasts, her nipples standing on end, shaped like the propeller bosses of the much loved Spitfires and Mustangs.

“GGhhhhh….. Ahhhhwwww…..,” I wanted to be free to grab her and give her a good fucking.

She yawned, “Well, it’s bed time for me now, I’m so, so tired.”

The least she could do, I felt, was suck me off, but, as you’ve probably guessed, she did no such thing.

“Time for you to go, and thank you so much, I’ve really enjoyed our little session,” she consoled as she ungagged and untied me.

“Pheeeeww,” I exhaled, “When do I get my turn? Can’t I stay the night?”

“Certainly not, what do you take me for?”

There were several answers to that, none of them repeatable.

“I’ll be this way again next month, perhaps you’d like to give me lunch?”

“I may not be around…..,” I spoke dismissively, knowing that I would be available, as I was determined to tie her up and torture her.

“As you like,” she said tossing her head as I pulled on my clothes.

“Make sure you have some rope and nipple clamps ready – Oh and a ring-gag might be nice,” she said as I reached the doorway.

“Right…. Ok……,” I muttered, crestfallen, but determined to have the upper hand next time we met.

End of Part 1

Copyright© 2012 by Belisarius. All rights reserved.