Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,104
have this one mounted and framed.”
“I wish I could stay like this forever, if it pleases you.”
Wilde smiled. “Go on and toss yourself off. I want to see it.”
Collins began to jerk his rigid cock. He hadn’t come during his buggering, and he was close to ejaculation. “I would give my soul to remain forever young as in that photograph.”
His come spurted from him as Wilde watched thoughtfully There was another flash...
“Wake up!” Mistress Gwen slapped Miss Joan’s bottom with her crop and shook her roughly.
Miss Joan opened her eyes, trying to recognize her surroundings. Her latex knickers were sticky with come; the condom had either slipped or burst.
“Good. Do you make it a habit of passing out when you reach your orgasm?”
“Perhaps this corset is too tightly laced.”
“Well, then, let’s just unlace you. Then clean yourself and get into your clothes. And don’t forget your photographs.”
Mistress Gwen again considered telling Miss Joan to stay away, but she reckoned she might hit her for a hundred quid next session. Perhaps add some bondage, a good spanking, a gym slip instead of a corset, a pair of schoolgirl’s knickers she must wear home. Miss Joan had all the marks of a regular and profitable client.
Besides, the man was clueless.
Collins asked for a week’s holiday from the hotel. Despite short notice, it was readily granted. The staff had commented for some weeks that Mr Collins appeared to be under some stress. A holiday was well overdue.
He had previously obtained a pass to the library at the British Museum, and he spent the first days researching any material regarding the life and times of Oscar Wilde. Wildes notorious affairs were discussed with varying degrees of discretion. Nowhere was there mention of anyone named Jonathan Collins or a photographer named Jack MacVane. But then, such matters as these had been strictly clandestine in that era.
Collins phoned Victoria Starlight for an appointment. He told her that he had twice been able to channel. She told him to keep at it and hung up. He left several messages on her answering machine, but none were returned.
Collins phoned Mistress Gwen, who did pick up her phone for him. “I want to do some shopping,” he said resolutely, “and I shall need your assistance. I wish to acquire a woman’s costume of approximately 1890—original if possible.”
Mistress Gwen was already consulting her filofax. A dead Thursday until ten. “Is this for you to wear?”
“Yes. Of course, I’ll pay you for your time and expertise—and as before.”
“Won’t come cheap.” Mistress Gwen left that open-ended. I do know all the shops, and I suppose I can cancel a few sessions. Come round with a taxi as quick as you can, and we’ll shop for your wardrobe.” And mine as well, she thought as she hung up the phone. It wasn’t going to be a dull Thursday after all.
Mistress Gwen was modestly dressed in black tights and minidress, stilettos and a chained and studded motorcycle jacket when Collins came to her door. They got into the taxi, and Mistress Gwen gave an address near Portobello Road. As the day progressed, Mistress Gwen would give many addresses.
They found several petticoats, some open knickers with lots of lace, a chemise and a camisole, and two corsets—Collins insisted that Mistress Gwen must have the black one—at the vintage clothing shops. Mistress Gwen insisted upon high-buttoned shoes with five-inch heels, and a shop that catered to transvestites supplied these for them both, along with black silk stockings and ribboned garters. The dress took some doing, but after a search, a shop in Camden Passage had a lovely ball gown which Mistress Gwen judged would fit Miss Joan once she was tightly laced. She picked out a pair of twenties vintage silk camiknickers for herself and included them with the sale. Collins stopped at a florist’s and, after some doing, managed a floral garland.
Well laden, they arrived back at Mistress Gwen’s flat by midafternoon. Mistress Gwen had also had an excellent luncheon at Collins’s expense; she saw prospects of yet more knicker and was in the very best of spirits. The man must be made of money. She poured two glasses of sherry.
“Now, then, Miss Joan. Shall I help you try on your new wardrobe? You should be very pretty.”
Collins reached into his suit coat and withdrew one of the photographs. It was the one of the young man in drag, skirts thrown up, standing bent over as the other man in a black corset and stockings