Power Over Men · Part 1

Power Over Men · Part 1 (1/2)
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Jackie's Surprise by Boundfellow

I first wrote this story almost a decade ago and it acquired something of a cult following in S&M circles for a while, particularly among women. I even heard that a back-street workshop in Manchester was making saddle-stools! Power Over Men by Nickerlas

1 Marble Holiday clothes for a fortnight, typewriter, paper, sketchbook, walking boots, half the contents of the local Library – it all went into the back of the Traveller along with the jack, spare tyre, toolkit and starting handle. I closed the rear doors with a cheerful air of achievement. The old car started reliably first go, so I jammed on a pair of sunglasses, chucked my leather jacket into the back seat and let in the clutch. The car is important to this story, so I’d better describe it. I once saw a clip of Dame Edna Everidge walking round Stratford-upon-Avon admiring the half-timbered buildings, when a Morris Traveller pulled out of a side street.

“Oh look, there’s a half-timbered car!” she chirruped. It was one of those, the ash-framed van version of the post-war Morris 1000. Mine was originally built in 1967 so was already an old lady when I bought her. Owners call them moggy or woody but I called mine Bertha and loved her dearly. There are many, many downsides to being a Maths teacher, like rotten pay, repetitive work and the constant struggle with opaque brains, but there are a few advantages. You get long summer holidays and you don’t have to spend them researching new set books for next year. I was off for a couple of weeks of total relaxation in a rented cottage in the north of England.

Well, Bertha may have been eminently loveable but she wasn’t exactly zippy. I ate my picnic lunch near Leicester and stopped for tea in a café under the walls of Richmond Castle. Children were splashing in the Swale far below. From Richmond I decided to take what on the map looked to be a more direct route on small roads over the hills that might suit Bertha better than the A1. It proved to be an auspicious choice. We climbed up the side of the dale on a narrow road past old lead workings and were soon crossing vast expanses of empty moorland purple with heather. That’s where Bertha died. The engine just stopped. Repeated use of the starter had no effect.

I rolled her downhill to where the road crossed a beck with a narrow stone bridge, pulled up on the verge and opened the bonnet. Everything looked OK, but I haven’t a clue about engines. I wiggled a few wires, checked the radiator water, shut the bonnet and tried the starter again. Not a cough. The fuel guage read three-quarters full, and I’d filled up in Leicester so I believed it. Damn. Stuck. The valley I was in gave sufficient shelter for trees to grow along the beck. I used one for a call of nature and found a farm track and a rotten, once-painted board reading ‘High Withies’. Then I went back and sat in the car to wait for a skilled motor-engineer to come by.

An hour later, and no car of any sort had come by. This was looking serious. It was nearly eight o’clock and I was deep in the Pennines of North Yorkshire with only an hour or so of daylight. And without food.

I stuck on my jacket, locked up the car and set off up the track. Tracks usually lead somewhere after all and quite soon I came to a little group of stone buildings on the hillside. Even a barn would be more comfortable to sleep in than Bertha. Another board nailed to a gate, in rather better condition, proclaimed this farmstead as High Withies, so I went through and scouted round. Sure enough there was a farmhouse there, with a cable looping towards it. Power, then, and new paint on the door, efficient-looking shutters on the downstairs windows and curtains upstairs, but it looked dark and deserted. I knocked anyway, and was answered with some noises from behind the shutters.

Someone was there, I could maybe beg food and shelter. I cheered up considerably and knocked again. The door eventually opened a few inches against a chain and a woman’s voice said ‘Yes?’ I was so relieved to have found a fellow human being that I rather babbled. The car had broken down, I needed help, could I use their phone, etc. When I stopped, there was a silence signifying thought. ‘We don’t have a phone here. You had better come in’. It wasn’t a Yorkshire accent – BBC, with perhaps a trace of Europe.

The door closed again, then opened fully to reveal a youngish, rather severe-looking woman with cropped hair, slippers, black trousers and a huge white pullover stretching almost to her knees. ‘Come into the front room where I can have a good look at you, the hallway’s too dark’. It was only when she opened the room door that I got the first inkling that this wasn’t a normal hill-farm establishment. Her trousers were skin-tight leather, polished to a shine that glittered in the bright light! In those days leather clothing was pretty uncommon and even jackets like mine were considered a bit racy in some circles. I’d never seen anyone actually wearing leather trousers! ‘Sit down and relax.

Would you like a drink? Tea, or something stronger? We can do whisky or G&T, I’m afraid no beer.’ I chose the scotch with a smile oozing charm and gratitude and she disappeared into an adjoining kitchen. The sofa she had indicated was wooden and heavily built, almost like a solid, domestic version of a park bench, and was smothered in cushions. I sank into it and closed my eyes. Bertha’s problems could wait. The woman reappeared with a tumbler a third full of whisky and a jug, and splashed in some water at my request. I took a fair mouthful of the golden liquid and stretched out my legs. ‘Ahh… Just what I needed.

You saved my life!’ She grinned and pulled up a stool opposite. ‘Now tell me the story again, starting with who you are, what you do and where you are going.’ Her thighs had appeared from under the jersey, looking like polished black marble. ‘Harry Carpenter. I teach maths in a secondary school in London, the East End. I was on my way north for a couple of weeks’ rest, but it seems my car wanted it more than me. Stopped dead. She’s down by the bridge, probably chuckling to herself at having gained the upper hand at last. I love your trousers.’ That kind of throwaway compliment usually produced a quick grin but what I actually got was a half-smile and a steady, rather appraising look.

She was perhaps in her late thirties, not all that much older than me, and if her legs were anything to go by there was a pretty trim body hidden away under that sweater. ‘Call me Liz,’ she said. ‘The East End sounds tough. I teach too. German. Jane does PE and sport, mostly. She’s upstairs in the bath. This is our home from home.’ ‘You own it?’ She nodded. ‘Jointly. You are into leather?’ The directness of the question embarrassed me. ‘Just the jacket, and that cost more than I could afford,’ I said, trying for a weak laugh.

She gave a broad smile which reassured me not at all and got up with a delicious creak. ‘I’ll tell Jane you’re here, don’t go away’ ‘Not likely.’ I was thinking of Bertha silent at the roadside. Again that cool look from Liz before the door shut behind her. * The room I was in was very traditional Yorkshire hill farm, with a high ceiling spanned by a heavy central oak beam studded with iron hooks and supported on the chimney breast at one end and an oak post against the wall at the other. A fairly modern stove burned efficiently within the old stone fireplace and an oak-panelled thing that looked like a wardrobe stood against one wall.

Two tough armchairs matched the sofa I was sitting on, both equally laden with cushions, and a big footstool like an upholstered low table stood nearby. It was a strange assortment. Then my attention was caught by two unusual objects in a corner, and I went over to look more closely. They were high stools, converted out of office-type ‘draughtsman’ chairs, the kind that swivels round and has a ring a foot or so off the ground to rest your feet on. The whole seat assembly had been removed and replaced with a narrow racing-type bicycle saddle! The saddles and foot-rests were both adjusted to different heights, presumably tailored for each of the girls.

I couldn’t help visualising Liz sitting on one in her tight trousers. Then I started wondering why they had done it, and what it would feel like. I tried it; not very comfortable but strangely sexy, probably even more so if one was female. The stools were drawn up against a shelf built across the deep alcove beside the chimney breast, rather like a dining shelf in a seedy burger bar. Apart from a pack of cards the shelf was empty. Did Liz and her friend Jane really while away their evenings perched on deliberately uncomfortable stools playing cards? And side by side? What card games are played side by side?

Liz was back in the room before I had time to climb off the stool so I swivelled round and tried to look as if I often sat on such things. ‘I see you are making yourself at home,’ she said, her eyes now positively twinkling. ‘This is Jane.’ Jane turned out to be a long white bathrobe with a pleasant open face showing under a towel turban. She was taller than Liz and maybe slimmer but the clothing didn’t help precise analysis. The face was grinning with a little secret smile that made me think these two had been planning something that in some way involved me. I hoped it was supper, but somehow it didn’t look that way. I was wrong, however.

Liz was suddenly back to her efficient manner. ‘We have been discussing your problem,’ she said crisply, ‘and you must obviously stay here for tonight. Have you eaten this evening?’ I said not. ‘OK then, I will make some food for us while Jane gets dressed. After supper we normally play a few games. Please join in if you wish.’ ‘Happy to,’ I said. Most card games are better with more people and I knew a few card tricks that might amuse them. Life was looking very promising just at that moment. They left, but Jane stuck her turban back through the door. ‘Squirm about a bit,’ she said with a wink.

And disappeared. * Supper turned out to be a hotpot of potatoes, mushrooms, tomato and German sausage, with fresh bread, salad and a cup of coffee to finish. It was absolutely what I needed. Jane was still wearing her wrap but had emerged from her turban and now had fair hair cut short to the neck which I thought very attractive and told her so. Again the compliment didn’t quite work as I’d expected, and I began to wonder whether these two were perhaps lesbians. I knew such people existed, but I’d never knowingly met one.

They seemed very friendly and attentive nevertheless and throughout the meal, eaten round a wooden table in the kitchen, we swapped classroom stories and assassinated colleagues in the way of teachers everywhere. A bottle of cheap red wine had been produced and by the end of the meal I felt we were all the greatest of friends. Jane disappeared upstairs ‘to finish dressing’ and Liz started moving furniture. The door opened, Jane walked in and I was struck speechless. From her neck to her high-heeled boots she could have been sprayed with gloss black paint! Leather clung to every part of her body, and what a body! That girl was fit!

High, rounded bum, flat well-muscled stomach, small but beautifully evident breasts and long, long legs to die for. ‘Wow!’ She stretched out her arms and revolved slowly, giving me the full benefit. ‘Like it?’ ‘Wow.’ ‘We got them specially made,’ she giggled girlishly. ‘Liz has one too.’ I turned then, following her gaze, and saw Liz was pulling off the sweater she’d been hiding in all evening. The effect was equally stunning! Liz had more of an hourglass figure, bigger breasts and hips and a sensational waist. I looked from one to the other in total amazement, shaking my head slowly from side to side and saying Wow at intervals.

The girls were obviously delighted with the effect they were having and I began to realise something of what they had been planning. I started wondering what kind of ‘games’ Liz had meant, but just then she bent down in front of me to put on her own pair of high-heeled boots and every thought fled from my brain. In a kind of trance I ran my hand over her bum and thighs, I honestly couldn’t resist the feel of that wonderful material! Liz snapped the last of her boot fixings and straightened up. She seemed to have ignored my hand altogether but the twinkle was back in her eye and I was pretty sure she had orchestrated the whole thing deliberately.

It was Jane, however, who spoke next. ‘Carpenter,’ she murmured thoughtfully. ‘Are you good at wood, Mr. Carpenter?’ My brain was swirling. Why was she suddenly talking about carpentry? I tried to focus on her question. ‘Reliable, mostly. Hopeless with metal or engines, I’m afraid, but wood is a much more sympathetic, friendly material. Why do you ask?’ She smiled and drifted away to hang a cushion neatly over the back of a chair. Strange woman. ‘As you see,’ Liz interrupted, ‘this is a leather evening and I’m afraid we must insist on proper dress. You must wear leather clothes only, Mr. Carpenter.’ ‘What?’ Was she drunk? Was I drunk, come to that?

This wasn’t real. ‘But I don’t have…’ ‘Leather clothes only,’ she repeated in the sort of voice that quells chalkface riots. ‘Jane, give Mr. Carpenter the clothes we chose for him’. Jane collected a bulging carrier bag from just outside the door and handed it over. ‘You can change in the kitchen.’ This was an impossible situation. I laughed rather hollowly and spread my arms. ‘No, I really don’t think, I mean, surely, I mean, you can’t really expect…..’ Liz’s big, persuasive smile was back. ‘Harry Carpenter,’ she said. ‘Are a few clothes too much to ask? We like leather. We have a thing about it. We’d really love you to join in.

Or perhaps you’d prefer to spend the evening in your car?’ she added sweetly. Well, put like that I could see it would be churlish to refuse. Besides, I had another problem which had been growing ever since Jane made her dramatic entrance and I was afraid that one or other of the girls would soon notice the bulge. To be honest, I was also rather turned on by the prospect of wearing the leather clothes. The bag seemed mainly to contain a pair of trousers with some other things folded underneath. I capitulated with good grace and a broad, easy smile. ‘OK then, but they probably won’t fit very well so don’t laugh when I come back!

And could I perhaps change in the bathroom, I could do with a quick wash or a shower?’ ‘Top of the stairs on your right.’ They were positively bubbling with excitement at having won so easily. ‘There’s a shower over the bath. Don’t be too long.’ * Upstairs in the shower I wondered how I’d got myself into this weird situation. Had we been talking at cross-purposes all the time? What prompted these two extraordinary women to buy skin-tight leather body-suits and show them off to a total stranger? What was the game?

Clearly there was high-charge eroticism going on, the air positively crackled with it, but like most men I had very little knowledge of female fantasies and hadn’t a clue where I fitted into the picture. Was I going to end up in bed with one or even both of them, or was I just a pawn in some secret chess-game? Did they even fancy me at all? It was like a simultaneous equation with dozens of unknowns! None of this helped my personal problem which was rock-hard and projecting far out of the shower spray. This could be exceedingly embarrassing. I tried spraying it with cold water without any noticeable effect.

I’d better get dressed, two women were waiting for me downstairs, delicious, curvy, tight, shiny.…Oh, God! I tipped the clothes out on the floor. The trousers turned out to be just legs and waistband, the front and back were missing! Desperately I searched for something to cover my immodesty, and found a thong pantie and a pair of extra-short shorts. The thong was utterly inadequate. I’m rather more heavily endowed than most men and in my present state several inches of prime dick stuck out over the leather triangle; and although the rest of my family jewels were covered (just) I could see in the full-length mirrors that everything was exposed to side view.

I kept them on anyway, they at least helped hold things more or less in place. The hotpants would have been a perfect fit if the tailoring had allowed for the sort of excess baggage I was carrying in front – every detail was clearly reproduced through the thin stretched leather! The central seam divided my balls into two distinct mounds then profiled my swollen member all the way up to its abrupt termination at the waistband. It was completely, utterly indecent. Damn those women! Then some of the alcohol I’d drunk came to my rescue and I giggled. OK, fair enough, I thought. They exposed themselves to me, I can’t really grumble if they want to see me exposed too.

Let’s hope they’re properly impressed! “Good at wood”? Could she possibly have meant….? The leather chaps must have been Jane’s, the length was fine and there was enough play in the belt to reach round my waist. Above the knee they fitted skin-tight! Just the idea that these were women’s clothes was proving quite a turn-on. Next came a waistcoat which fastened with snaps, but only one pair came anywhere near meeting over my chest and even they popped open when I took a deep breath. I left it loose. The last item was a pair of open-toed sandals which I actually managed to put on reasonably comfortably by adjusting the straps, despite their being at least two sizes too small.

They had a built-up heel, not more than an inch or so but enough to encourage smaller steps than my usual lazy stride. Perhaps I was being deliberately feminised? The mirror reassured me on that point at least – no-one could be said to be feminised with such an evident erection straining to be noticed! Actually, I thought, the overall effect complete with hairy chest and bare arms was pretty lethally macho. I grinned at my reflection.

‘Shall we join the ladies?’ 2 Jaguar ‘Ta-Daaa!’ My grand entrance was greeted by a burst of clapping and excited smiles, but as I crossed the room towards them their eyes dropped to my crotch and they both seemed to go quiet. Women with ample breasts and low necklines must have the same sort of experience entering male company.

The tip of Jane’s tongue slowly moistened her upper lip. ‘Impressive, Mr. Carpenter,’ Liz said, very quietly. Perhaps she was wondering whether the game had gone a bit far, or maybe her familiarity with full-blown erections was slight. She may even have been a bit alarmed. Whichever, I was pretty pleased to have stunned them both so effectively. Changes had happened while I’d been away. A high wooden stool had been found and squeezed between the cycle-stools. The sofa had been pulled forward and the chairs turned round to face the wall, and all had big cushions draped over backs and arms. The space in the centre of the room, under the beam, was clear.

Also the wardrobe doors were slightly ajar and the main lights turned off, leaving only corner lights and a spotlight over the card table. Liz recovered quickly, climbed up on the taller of the two cycle-stools and started sorting through the pack of cards. Her bum, stretching the leather, looked every bit as enticing as I had imagined! ‘Please sit here, Harry,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘Be quick, Jane!’ Jane was making for the door and I thought I heard her murmur ‘Reliable, mostly!’ as she disappeared. Soon she was back, following the distant sound of the toilet flush, and joined us at the table.

We must have made an odd picture sitting packed shoulder to shoulder (and thigh to thigh!) like black sardines. Somehow I seemed to have gained some initiative, and I used it to put my arm across Jane’s shoulders and whisper ‘Squirm about a bit’. She gave me a wry grin and gently removed the arm. Liz dealt out three cards each from a much-reduced pack. ‘This is a game of luck only,’ she said. ‘There is no skill. That is very important, otherwise the outcome would not be…even-handed. As a mathematician you will know about probabilities – after many games a player should win and lose equally.

We play only with one suit and turn our cards one at a time, like so.’ She turned up her top card and placed it towards the centre of the table. It was the eight of clubs. ‘I should say that there are no royal cards dealt, and the ace counts low,’ she added. ‘What’s the purpose of the game?’ I asked, turning up a three and placing it alongside hers. ‘The purpose, Harry, is not to lose!’ said Jane. She added a ten and took the trick. ‘What happens if you lose?’ ‘You wish you’d won. Play again, Lisbet!’ It didn’t seem much of a game to me. Liz had taken no part in this last exchange and seemed a little withdrawn. She slowly picked up her next card and placed it as before. It was a five.

Mine was a seven and Jane’s the four. Clearly my luck was in. ‘What happens if we each win a trick?’ I asked. ‘Do we count the pips, start again or play charades instead?’ It was Jane who explained. Winning that first trick seemed to have made her much more confident. ‘Normally we play just the two of us, so three cards gives a clear outcome. With three people you would probably need five cards each to guarantee a loser, but there’s only thirteen in a suit. Besides, we prefer not to use the royals as they’re too distinctive. If we get a trick each we’ll play again.

The loser,’ she added, ‘must submit to punishment.’ ‘Punishment?’ ‘Severe punishment.’ ‘How severe?’ ‘Very severe.’ That utterly silenced me. God help me, this wasn’t a simple card game – it was Russian Roulette! And I’d cheerfully joined in! Perhaps it wasn’t too late, perhaps I could escape if I just rushed upstairs and grabbed my… ‘Jane,’ I said, trying to appear calm. ‘What have you done with my clothes?’ She giggled, and ran her fingertips slowly up my thigh and over the bulge in my shorts. ‘Don’t worry, they’re safely put away,’ she cooed. ‘But I’m sure you will enjoy your evening. I shall call you Woody, I think.’ No escape, then.

I was appalled, but at the same time thrilled in a way that was quite new. Maybe I caught it off the girls. The pressure in my shorts was as fierce as before and Jane’s fingertips weren’t helping. Liz played her last card. Six of clubs. I could feel a muscle in her leg vibrating. I played the ace. Liz was still ahead. The last card had to be either the two or the nine. It lay innocently, face down on the table. Nobody moved. I tried to ease the tension by leaning back a little and stroking both girls’ tight bums, but neither seemed to notice. Then, very slowly, Jane reached forward and flipped her card over.

Nine. * Suddenly, Jane was in complete control.

‘Get the loser bag, Lisbet,’ Liz meekly eased off her stool and retrieved a black bag from the wardrobe. ‘Open it.’ She did so, carefully laying out its contents on the floor. There were four wide straps with buckles and rings, something that looked like a leather bag, and assorted ropes, chains, straps and clips. ‘Wrist and ankles today, I think.’ Liz dutifully buckled on the straps. ‘Now the hood.’ She pulled the bag thing over her head, tightened and tied strings at the back, and buckled straps round her neck. It fitted perfectly. Apart from two holes under her nose and another larger one at her mouth her head was completely covered. The short haircut made sense.

She straightened up, blind and helpless. It dawned on me that this was not just a sexy dressing-up game, it was also about power. Power and trust. And, of course, powerlessness, anticipation, adrenaline, fear and pain. ‘What happens to her now?’ I asked, surprised to find myself referring to Liz so objectively. The hood had somehow depersonalised her. ‘Whatever we feel like doing.’ ‘We?’ ‘Of course. You won the game too! Bring her over to the chair.’ Taking an arm each we led our leather victim to one of the chairs, clipped her ankles to the back legs, stretched her over a cushion on the chair back and fastened her wrists as tight as we could manage to the front legs.

She looked wonderful – wonderfully helpless and wonderfully enticing. What I felt like doing was fondling her, so taking Jane at her word I pressed my crotch hard into her bum and ran my hands slowly up her back, round under her arms and cupped her breasts. The nipples were hard. I pinched them both simultaneously and elicited a most satisfactory shudder and ‘Ach!’ noise from inside the hood. Jane watched with a small, perhaps wistful smile, then marched over to the wardrobe and threw its doors wide open. It was a treasure house of torture equipment!

The doors were hung with leather straps of all sizes, some thick, some pliable, some split into thongs, some perforated, some glittering with metal studs. There were canes of several thicknesses and multi-strand whips and riding crops. There were shelves of leather garments covered in straps or lined with spikes and shelves with steel belts, collars and fetters. I joined Jane at the cupboard and picked up one of the i

Power Over Men · Part 1 (1/2)
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