SILVER DILDOS AND PEACOCK FEATHERS

Elizabeth Southwater

  Copyright remains with author

A Free extract from bdsmbooks.com

DAVID AND JANET

...He was always so careful and he wasn’t clumsy or forgetful, always locked everything in his study. Locked away his secret, private self. The self that never intruded, couldn’t intrude on his successful, happily married, loving-Jan not-secret self. So when he came home at eleven o’clock one morning because he felt ill, when he immediately saw the loft ladder down and knew Jan was up there, it wasn’t so much that she had discovered him but that she had unforgivably intruded on his secret, private self. It was as if she was deliberately destroying everything they were as a loving couple, destroying everything. Deliberately. So he didn’t call out to her, he became instantly, desperately enraged and flew clumsily up the loft-ladder and into the brightly lit room like a charging predator.

She was turning towards him as he thumped, shaking, into the room. Turning towards him in her ‘at home’ shirt and jeans, with his big box open and half his special things in a heap on the floor. With his most precious, most beautiful, most vitally important treasure in her hands. She was white-faced. She shook his most precious, most beautiful, most vitally important treasure at him and in a sour, angry shout began

                “What’s all this shit ...”

That did it, that description of his things. The rage became the black, exploding fury. She was destroying everything and he leapt at her to stop it. Leapt at her with a rising growl that, in the few seconds she had, made her back away with – with his treasure to her lips in panic. He just hit her. He’d never, ever hit her. He never, ever, hit people. He hit her twice, frenziedly, hard, somewhere – thud, side of her head so that her blonde mop exploded, thud, over the brooch on her shirt so that it lacerated his knuckles. She crashed backwards over his box, rolled off it thump to the board floor. And lay there in a heap, still with his treasure in her small hand. And he jumped at her down there, took hold of her in his blind, despairing fury and shook her so that she flopped like a rag-doll, roared at her.

                “Bitch, bitch, bloody bloody bitch!” because he loved her and because she had destroyed everything now. He was calming, but into an icily suppressed version of his hysterical, violent rage. Beneath him, her face upturned to his, eyes closed, blonde hair everywhere, her lips were parted, breath moving them. ‘Shit’ she’d called his things ‘Shit’ – and she’d had the beautiful thing in her hands. It was beside her head. His things were jumbled on the floor beside his box – where she’d dropped them.

In blind, cold, even fury Jack Palmer picked up his treasure – and thrust the rubber-covered silver bit between her parted lips, between her small white teeth. Spread the nest of thick black rubber straps and, thudding her head to the floor twice in the process, pulled and dragged and buckled the head-harness through and in her hair while her eyes flickered and her arms moved and her jean-clad legs shifted on the board-floor.

                “No,” he said, unclearly. He was cooler now, more deliberate. His life was drowning because of what she’d done. Not because of what he’d done. Because of what she’d done. Opened his box. So he rolled her over, roughly, and picked up her small body in his arms, dumped her on the bed-thing he used for dreaming, hauled her arms wide and strapped her wrists to the wooden corners of the bed while she began to twist and shake and wave her legs and roll her head and explode-open her huge brown eyes and gurgle and rattle and clink in the rubber-and-silver head harness and gag. The bed shook, her hands above her strapped wrists turned white and she struggled like an animal to free herself; her head rolled, jaw working, cheeks working against the bow warm, wet rubber covered bit. He ignored her. He just fought against her, ignoring her panic and gagged hysteria. Ignored the clinking of the snaffle and silver curb-chain, ignored the harsh gurgling gasps of her breathing and the bubbles of saliva at her drawn-back mouth. She was screaming in her throat of course but his beautiful black-rubber-and-silver harness and bit were doing exactly what they were meant to do. Not gag her, not restrain her. Comfort her.

He fought her flailing legs until she suddenly seemed to give up, to lie there with her arms wide above her head and the lovely harness glinting and chinking at her mouth. Her eyes were wide as wide, staring at him, full of terror and disbelief but she merely jerked on the bed as he laboriously hauled off her jeans and her briefs. She quivered a little then, closed the great eyes, expecting him to climb onto her and rape her. But now it had become like a confident, expert surgeon operating on his sedated patient. Terror-sedated but still, just trembling a little. He had to have her jeans and briefs off of course; the first to slide the crotch-high, thick, unlined black rubber boots onto her legs. Four hundred quid’s worth of pony-boots. Getting her feet into the near-vertically moulded ballet-point toes of the boots was a real pain – one of the tiny aluminium horseshoes caught his palm and nicked it so that he sucked a bead of his own blood. When her pony-boots were on she just seemed to flop there, staring at the low ceiling, still trembling, tense but her head unmoving save for a small working at her bit. She looked beautiful, quite and absolutely beautiful, spread like that, partly harnessed, in her crotch-high moulded matt-black rubber pony-boots. Pony-girl. So beautiful that he paused, looked again, leant over her and gently kissed her forehead. He really was calm now.

                “In a little while, darling. All be done in a little while.” He wasn’t thinking about having to release her, having to fight her, having the police, her parents, everything falling on him. Didn’t have to because everything was now gone. She had destroyed his private self so there was no self left. He could do anything now until it had to stop and they came for him.

He had fumbling trouble with her shirt and had to cut it off, had to cut off her white bra. Had more trouble with the thick, heavy moulded rubber body-form, especially hauling her warm breasts through the cut-outs so that they stood as if on stalks, especially with the bloody row of silver clips underneath her back. Twenty two of them, from just above the divide of her round bottom to into the hair at the back of her neck. The body-warm rubber smell was all about him, stimulating, relaxing, expected. Oh my, oh my how beautiful she looked, how ivory-white and black and beautiful. Now when he moved on the bed the silver fittings of her harness, the body-form jingled harness-music at him. Broad flat black rubber suspenders, six of them, stretched down from the body-form to clip with silver clips to the tops of her boots, taut black against her white skin. Her legs shifted a little, apart a little because of the tension of the suspenders, the bar taut rubber and her labia, under the nest of blonde curls there, her labia parted just slightly.

He was going to finish this. Beyond that there was nothing but black. She was still Jan. Beautiful, blonde, twenty-two year old Jan, his wife, his extrovert, clever, sexy-body, sumptuous breasts wife – it had been her breasts in a red bikini on the beach that had started it – her – for him. But now she was beautiful, now she was almost, almost perfect lying there for him. Harnessed, bitted, booted, shod. The Jan-animal smell and the harness-smell and the rubber-smell. How he’d fantasised, dreamt, agonised. Jan, harnessed. And despite her terror, despite the rigid tremors of her spread body, he imagined that she was accepting, discovering, immersing in his fantasy. He knew it wasn’t true, knew he was doing something that wasn’t him, that wasn’t his to do but she looked so beautiful.

And then she was very, very still, as if she had left him – or perhaps, said the sane corner of his mind, she had fainted. She went so very still when he hauled the thick rubber crotch-strap from under her bottom and snapped – cluck – the great, soft, curved, ribbed black rubber dildo onto it. When he wet the palm of his hand and gently, so gently eased the great thick thing into her. Slowly, gently, interestedly. She was wet there but probably because something was at her slit and she was female. She absorbed all of it and was still motionless. All of it until the now slick, ribbed rubber base of it nestled in her blonde curls. Up with the strap, ease the silver-rimmed slots over the tiny silver hasps on the edge of the rubber body-form. Fiddle with the two tiny silver padlocks. There. There, done. All correct, all proper. She had her eyes closed.

He sat back on the edge of his box and looked at his Jan. He began to weep silently, hunched. Empty. It was over. After a lifetime, after twenty minutes a different, damaged, terminated David Lodge painfully rose, still with tears at his face. Summoned up whatever was left of him. Unstrapped her wrists. She was staring up at him, white faced, the silver rings of the bit hanging on her white, saliva-gleaming cheeks. She didn’t react to being freed. Shock. Terror. Her life destroyed as his was now destroyed. Very gently he gather up her rubber-booted legs, swung them together to the floor. Not really knowing how to release her from the bit, the body-form, the soft, thick thing inside her.

Lifted her, his arm round her rubber waist, stood her on the high, high, shod points of her boots. He would leave her now. Leave her to free herself and fetch whatever was necessary to end his life. The attic-phone was there. She stood there, one hand supporting her lovely self against the foot-frame of the bed. Looking at him – he said “I’m sorry Jan,” and, weeping again, shuffled to the loft-ladder, climbed down it like a man a hundred-years old. Waited like some mindless husk of a man, waited, hunched, in a corner of the living room, the familiar, finished living-room because he didn’t want to have to open the front door to whoever it was coming for him. Jan would do that. Jan in shirt and jeans and brushed hair. Have him put away. He heard her thumping slowly above him in the attic. His attic. He’d hurt her too. He heard her coming terribly slowly, terribly awkwardly down the ladder. Perhaps she hadn’t phoned them. Perhaps she was just going to walk out of the house. She could take the car. Go, forever. He closed his eyes because he couldn’t manage seeing her, not any more. But she was gong to make it worse. Of course she was. She was going to make him suffer. Die inside. She was in the living room, he could sense her. She was close to him, he could sense her and he was terribly, terribly frightened about the endless, black future she was bringing to him.