Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,102
at the hotel expressed concern about his health. Collins explained it all as a bout of flu. It was going around.
The phone boxes in the West End were festooned with daily supplies of cards advertising sexual favors of any sort and including a phone number. Some were nicely illustrated. Collins passed over the spanking, schoolgirls in uniform, water sports and the usual. After three or four boxes, he selected one which read: “Stern TV Wardrobe Mistress Seeks Submissive Slaves for Training.”
After three or four days, he phoned the number.
Collins was given an address near Baker Street. Desperate by now, he presented himself at the door of the flat promptly as scheduled. He was certain that any minute his hair might be thinning and that his teeth probably were loosening in their gums. His nails seemed to be pulling away from the quick, and his digestion was not good. He had to find the painting.
A tall blonde in a tight, long velvet dress answered the bell. Her features were quite feminine, heavily made-up and very stern.
Collins almost stuttered. “Good evening. I’m Mr Collins. I believe I have an appointment.”
“Get inside.” She practically dragged him past the doorway “I am Mistress Gwen. You will always address me as Mistress Gwen. You will answer only to Miss Joan. And why are you wearing those ridiculous clothes, Miss Joan?”
Her riding crop smacked his backside. “No excuses! Show me your forty quid, and I’ll soon see that you are properly attired for a young lady.”
Collins pulled out the two photographs from his suitcoat pocket, along with his wallet. “This is what I want.”
Mistress Gwen looked at the pictures, then looked shrewdly at Collins. No, not from the police. Some twisted Yuppie out for a night’s thrills. She didn’t usually perform sex—most clients just liked to dress up and be dominated, then wank off. But.
“That’s another forty quid.”
Collins paid her and was led into a large bedroom.
Mistress Gwen smacked her riding crop. “Out of those clothes. All of them. Right now.”
Collins hesitated over his boxer briefs, but a smack from the riding crop made him drop them with the rest of his clothes.
“Good,” said Mistress Gwen. “You please me when you obey. If you’re a good little Miss Joan, perhaps I won’t have to cane you. Now, then, put on this condom. I won’t have you soiling my wardrobe.”
Mistress Gwen unzipped her dress. Beneath it she was wearing a black leather corselet with six suspenders attached to black seamed hose, and black six-inch stiletto pumps. The corselet showed some cleavage, but the bulge in her black knickers revealed that she was a he. Mistress Gwen began choosing things from her chest of drawers.
“These should fit you, Miss Joan.”
Mistress Gwen helped Miss Joan put on a black bra with foam rubber falsies, then a pair of black tap pants over a black suspender belt and black seamed hose. After that came a black corset, laced tight, and a pair of ankle-strap stiletto shoes. She made Miss Joan sit at the dressing table whilst she applied makeup to her face and lips, then fitted her with a curling black wig.
Miss Joan minced around the room, getting lessons in deportment and frequent whacks from the riding crop.
“Now it’s time for the rest of your training,” said Mistress Gwen. “Get on your knees on the bed. Now!”
Miss Joan did as she was told. Mistress Gwen had pulled down her knickers, revealing a formidable erection. She rolled on a lubricated condom, then yanked down Miss Joan’s knickers and climbed up behind her on the bed.
Miss Joan gasped for breath as Mistress Gwen’s cock pressed into her. She pushed her face and padded breasts into the bed pillows, stifling a moan as the head pierced her and the rigid length slid in behind. Mistress Gwen began to thrust quickly, lovelessly. Her hand reached around for Miss Joan’s cock and stroked it.
Mistress Gwen was deliberately brutal as she fucked her. She stroked Miss Joan’s cock as if she were trying to pull it off. Mercifully soon, Miss Joan felt Mistress Gwen’s cock pulse and strain inside her ass; then came her own orgasm.
Miss Joan passed out upon the pillows...
• • •
Collins was crouched upon a hassock. He was wearing lacy open knickers and black stockings. Oscar Wilde, clad in black stockings, his petticoat upraised, was buggering him soundly.
“Hold that!” someone called out.
Wilde paused, his cock partially withdrawn. There was a bright flash, then a plume of burned powder. Collins turned his head. The