All for Her Master Read online

  Title Page

  ALL FOR HER MASTER

  by

  MICHAEL O’CONNOR

  Publisher Information

  All For Her Master published by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © Michael O’Connor

  first printed in 1998

  reprinted in 2004

  The right of Michael O’Connor to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  She whimpered and vigorously shook her head.

  He grinned. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Know what? I think I’ll take a chance and live dangerously. If your master does come back before I’m finished with you, we’ll just have to hope he understands. I’m sure you won’t object to me taking out your gag, will you?’

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  He reached for the strap at the back of her head. ‘I didn’t think so. You don’t have to worry. I won’t hurt you. Just a quick blow-job an’ I’ll be on my way. Okay?’

  Chapter 1

  Constance Brooking surveyed her reflection in the full-length wall mirror and permitted herself a slight smile. Blushing she might well be, but she looked nothing like any woman who had ever walked up a church aisle to the strains of Here Comes the Bride.

  A great deal of thought had gone into the costume for the biggest day of her life, though none of it had been hers. Up to an hour ago, she had not even known what she would be wearing. Her master had only promised it would be nothing she would have ever stocked in her boutique.

  How right he had been.

  Her wedding dress resembled some fashion designer’s S/M fantasy brought to life in gleaming chains and strong, shiny black rubber, letting the firm globes of Constance’s breasts spill over the top. They were tightly wrapped in a light silver chain, crisscrossed several times around her shoulders and held in place by a padlock attached to the back of her iron collar. A silver bullet was clamped to both nipples. Her buttocks, tightly clenched by the tightness of her dress and covered in body oil, were also bare. She teetered unsteadily on the high spike heels of her glossy black leather thigh boots. A six-inch wide chain joined them together at the ankles.

  This was the day of the slave princess and Constance had never before had such attention lavished upon her. Two bridesmaids, identically attired in transparent gowns of loosely fitting white silk that flowed to their ankles, had been assigned to her preparations. They had first bathed her, then massaged her all over with scented oils. Then, while one had brushed her hair, the other had lovingly manicured her pubis. Only then had she been allowed to see her outfit.

  ‘Right, time to tie your hands,’ said the plump blonde half of the duo.

  Constance obediently raised her arms and intertwined her fingers at the back of her neck.

  ‘The perfect bride in bondage,’ the bridesmaid said with a smile, securing her wrists in the handcuffs chained to her collar.

  ‘This is definitely not how I envisaged my wedding day,’ said Constance.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ the red-haired bridesmaid assured her. ‘I wish I had been hitched to my master in such style. Unfortunately, we had to make do with a registry office.’

  ‘We’ve already been married in a registry office,’ Constance reminded her. ‘What’s happening now is just… Well, I don’t quite know what you’d call it.’

  ‘The really significant ceremony,’ said Barbara. ‘You’ve been joined as husband and wife. Now you’re to become slave and master. This is what you really want, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted,’ Constance replied. ‘I just don’t know what to expect when I step outside that door. Can’t you at least give me a hint?’

  ‘And risk a public thrashing from our masters?’ Barbara shook her head emphatically. ‘It’s time we put on your veil and let you find out for yourself what awaits you.’

  ‘Wait – I need a cigarette,’ Constance pleaded.

  ‘Nervous?’ the second bridesmaid asked.

  ‘Terrified,’ she replied. ‘Besides, it’s the prerogative of the bride to be a few minutes late.’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind not being able to sit down for the meal.’ Barbara took a cigarette from a packet on the dressing table and placed it between Constance’s roseate glossed lips. The red-haired bridesmaid lit it and held it between her fingers, as the bride-to-be smoked gratefully.

  ‘If we keep them waiting much longer, we’ll all have our backsides reddened,’ Barbara said anxiously.

  Constance exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Would we have it any other way? Okay, I’m ready.’

  Five minutes later, the heavy oak door swung slowly open and all heads in the huge room beyond turned towards the bride. With her heavy black silk veil in place, only Constance’s blue eyes remained visible. Momentarily forgetting that her boots were chained together, she took a nervous step forward and almost collapsed in an undignified heap on the treacherously polished red rubber carpet.

  She hurriedly composed herself and began shuffling awkwardly towards the altar, which seemed to be miles away. The makeshift construction was draped in rich red velvet and laid out with a coiled whip and a small black cushion in the centre. Before it stood her husband of three days. What meant far more to them both was that he was about to become her lifelong master. Her bridesmaids remained in the doorway behind her, trying to keep their anxiety concealed. If they had overlooked even the slightest detail of her preparations, they would be severely punished by their masters.

  Constance kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the camcorder that followed her every move. Masters standing sentinel-like, in uniforms of rubber and black leather, lined her path on either side. Their female slaves knelt at their feet, as befitted their subservient role. Not for the first time, Constance found herself wondering just what manner of humiliation she was letting herself in for. As long as she managed not to trip, she told herself that she would be fine.

  The long tongue of a whip snaked through the air, the sound of its crack on tender flesh like a rifle shot breaking the silence. Constance yelped and stumbled, feeling a line of white-hot fire streak across her buttocks. A cruel smile crossed the face of the tall man who had delivered the lash.

  She regained her balance and continued her shuffle towards the altar. Casting anxious glances from left to right, she noticed whips gripped in the hands of several more men. Knowing it would be both inappropriate and pointless to beg for mercy, she braced herself for the inevitable. Though it seemed a lifetime since she had been a stranger to the sting of a master’s whip, this was one occasion when it was far from welcome.

  A few agonising yards further on, she saw a bearded master to her left
grin in anticipation. Standing opposite him was a familiar figure in black leather. Having taken a few steps past the two men, she could not resist an anxious backward glance. Two whips hissed as one, their lashes exploding across her buttocks. With a shriek that echoed off the white walls of the high-ceilinged room, Constance fell to her knees. A signal from the dark-suited man at the altar brought her bridesmaids rushing to her assistance.

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ Barbara whispered as they helped her to her feet.

  ‘Grin and bear it,’ her companion added. ‘Not every bride has the privilege of being whipped to the altar.’

  Constance sighed. ‘What a lucky lady I am.’

  As she resumed her tortuous trek in bondage, several dozen whips beat a loud bridal refrain on the rubber carpet. Whenever a lash licked her buttocks, a high-pitched cry issued from beneath her sombre veil. By the time she reached the altar, several minutes and a further humiliating tumble later, her rear cheeks were liberally streaked with the flaming signature of the whip.

  The next part of the ceremony had been carefully rehearsed beforehand, courtesy of the bridesmaids. Should Constance make any mistakes now, they would be held responsible and suitably punished.

  She lowered herself to her knees on the black satin-covered cushion at her master’s feet. As she gazed lovingly up into his eyes, a second man took up position behind her.

  ‘Is it your wish to be taken as the slave of this man before whom you kneel?’ he enquired in a loud voice, pressing the burnished ash of a cane firmly against her throbbing buttocks.

  ‘It is,’ she replied, without hesitation.

  He looked at the man towering over her. ‘And is it your wish to have this woman as your slave?’

  ‘It most certainly is,’ he answered.

  ‘Slave, recite the oath of subservience to your master,’ the other man told her.

  Constance cleared her throat, then repeated the phrase she had been studiously learning for the past several days. ‘Master, I humbly offer myself to you. I would be honoured if you would take me as your slave. I promise to love, honour and obey you, for better or worse, for pleasure or pain, in bondage and submission, till death us do part.’

  Following a momentary pause, her master spoke. ‘I accept you as my slave and do hereby declare that I will love, train and discipline you, by whip or by cane, with reason or without, however I may please, for as long as I wish.’

  The assembled congregation greeted the exchange of vows with a resounding forty-eight whip salute on the rubber carpet. Constance’s master clipped a leash to her collar, led her on her knees to the altar and directed her to rise. As she bent over the altar, she began to tremble. She knew what was coming next and dreaded it as she had never dreaded anything in her entire life. But it was much too late for second thoughts. In consenting to become her master’s wife and slave, she accepted all the pain and indignity the latter entailed.

  She rested her chin on the cushion on top of the altar. The red-haired bridesmaid stood in front of her and placed both hands firmly on her shoulders. The blonde unhooked the chain that joined her boots together, then pushed her feet wide apart. An iron manacle on a short chain, bolted to the floor, was fitted around either ankle, ensuring she would be unable to move her legs. The rubber of her wedding dress was stretched to bursting point, but it had served its purpose. With a gleaming razor blade, her master sliced it open from her backside to her ankles. Barbara drew apart the folds like a pair of curtains, leaving Constance’s recently shaven pink pubis lewdly exposed. The entire assembly of masters and slaves gathered around, all eager for a grandstand view of the highlight of the occasion. Crouched on one knee, directly behind Constance, the man with the camcorder was in prime position.

  ‘You have the ring?’ enquired her master.

  The man who was serving as vicar for the sado-ceremony produced a small red box from his jacket pocket and opened it. Inside was a slender gold ring. Having glanced at it, her master then took a slightly larger black box from his own pocket. Constance did not need to look to know what was inside. She had to bite her lower lip to suppress a whimper as he withdrew a long silver needle and held it aloft for all to see.

  Chapter 2

  Rich, dynamic and unattached – that was Constance Brooking. But the latter she had ceased to regard as an achievement. It was not that she wanted the traditional ball-and-chain of husband and kids. Motherhood held marginally less appeal than a clitoridectomy. Constance’s ever more urgent need was for a man in the masterful mould – one who would know how to release the submissive slut straining within her. Until recently, all her energies had been devoted to making Brooking’s Boutique a resounding success. Now, it was time to expend that same energy on her love-life.

  With her combination of exceptional beauty and supreme self-confidence, Constance was too intimidating for most men. Those who did dare to get close invariably left her disappointed. She had begun to believe that all men were bland clones, when it came to the bedroom – devotees of tedious seduction routines and equally lack-lustre love-making technique. When she yearned to be treated like a whore, they treated her like a princess. Even the dominant ones became wimps before they had fully satisfied her.

  It was a pirate radio station, of all things, that finally restored her faith in the existence of real men. She found S/M-FM in the early hours of a Sunday morning as she tossed and turned in her bed, once again cursing the shortcomings of the male gender. Her increasingly desperate search for Mr Right had led her to answer a personal ad in a listings magazine. Several subsequent telephone conversations with the man who had placed the ad – a 35-year-old recently divorced ‘entrepreneur’ named Damon – had given her cause for optimism. He was friendly and talkative, his Mancunian accent displaying a refreshingly rough edge. By the time a first meeting had been arranged, Constance was already fantasising about being ravished by a burly giant with rough hands and a nice line in coital expletives.

  Her expectations rendered the reality even more disappointing. She had arrived at the appointed bar at the appointed time, casually yet eye-catchingly dressed in cowboy boots, skin-tight black denim jeans, a cleavage-hugging black satin vest and a white jacket. Her naturally blonde hair had hung loosely about her shoulders, framing a face with high cheekbones and a creamy complexion that rendered make-up redundant.

  Ten minutes later, Damon had arrived. Though they had not exchanged photographs, she had known that it was him the instant he entered the bar. He had been almost exactly as she had pictured him: craggily attractive and broad-shouldered, like a rugby player in an open-necked white shirt and bouncer’s suit. He had cast a glance in her direction and their eyes had met briefly as he made his way to the bar. Constance had remained at her corner table, sipping her drink and trying to look nonchalant. Once he had been served, she had expected him to approach. Instead, he had glanced nervously in her direction again, before gulping down half his pint of beer in the manner of a man dying of thirst.

  During the next half-hour he had consumed a further three pints, while continuing to throw frequent glances in her direction. Watching him, Constance had become ever more irritated. The masterful man she had spent all week looking forward to meeting was behaving like a teenager, tanking himself up with Dutch courage. Well, she was damned if she was going to make the first move. She had been tempted to get up and leave, but decided instead to wait and see what sufficient beer would eventually embolden him to do.

  Finally, at the end of a prolonged leer in her direction, he had spoken to the bartender, who had then approached her table and informed her that the gentleman at the bar wished to buy her a drink.

  ‘Tell him it’s no wonder so many women are lesbians,’ she had replied acidly.

  She did not wait for the response of the inebriated lonely-heart, simply leaving the bar and going home.

  Too frustrated to get to sleep that evening, Constance finall
y got out of bed. She went downstairs, poured herself a glass of wine, then returned to the bedroom. The easy-listening music from her favourite radio station was beginning to annoy rather than soothe. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she began turning the dial, more to distract herself than in the hope of finding more stimulating listening. Having skipped over a further half-dozen banal music stations, she heard a soft-accented male voice that grabbed her attention immediately.

  ‘A great many women enjoy being dominated,’ the presenter was saying. ‘That may sound sexist – Neanderthal, even – but we enlightened folk know better, don’t we? There are women listening right now – strong, confident and successful women – who nevertheless enjoy being dominated. They are sick to death of politically correct so-called new men, who are so afraid of taking the upper hand that they may as well be castrated. It’s time for a little honesty to hit the airwaves, my liberated friends. Thousands of ladies who crave the crack of a cane, or the smack of a firm hand on their bare backsides, are being denied the right to express their submissive nature by these limp-dicked wimps. That is not equality, my friends. That is not respect. What that is, is a shameful reflection on the state of nineties man.’

  Constance could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Such talk was unheard of on the national airwaves, even at two in the morning.

  ‘Ladies, don’t just listen passively,’ the presenter continued. ‘This is your forum and this show is dedicated to the joys of female submission. Demand your rights on the only liberated radio station in the UK. Share your fantasies and desires with your masters at S/M-FM, in total confidence. That is my command. Obey me now!’

  There was a sound like a whiplash, followed by a high-pitched squeal that could have been pain or pleasure, then he gave out a telephone number. As he proceeded to read a chapter from an explicit S/M book entitled Number One Slave, Constance grew convinced that she was listening to some form of weird nocturnal phone-in. After he had finished reading, the presenter took a call from a nervous-sounding woman who gave her name as ‘LC’.