Pervertable

by Mathilde Madden

This isn't where I expected you to take me when you asked if I wanted to go shopping. I was thinking about the other side of town. About the kind of shops where the windows display leather and latex, or are even blacked out altogether. The sort of shops where the merchandise would make me blush. The sort of shops where you could take a big ball gag down from a display cabinet and try it out on me in full view of the shops staff and patrons. The sort of shops where you could be wicked, and live up to your name.

But we aren't there, we're here, in the utterly respectable town center, so I can expect no such humiliations. Or so I assume.

I realise how wrong I am as soon as you walk into the hardware shop. I pause on the pavement, my breath quickening, my face flushing. My god. Hardware. Hard. Ware.

You look over your shoulder at me. You look so big - tall and bulky - filling the shop's doorway. So dominant in your black leather jacket and black jeans, with your shaved head and slightly greying moustache. Every inch the old school master. Every perfect inch. You smile at me, a little indulgent smile that I hope means that you find me as dream-fulfilling as I do you, and then you give a little jerk of your head that makes me trot after you, as if the response is already hardwired.

And I've known you less than twenty-four hours.

Inside the hardware shop, every single item on sale - although, of course, it has a perfectly innocent purpose - seems to be designed to make me hard and wet. I'm squirming in the aisles as I follow you. In a clearly calculated move, you stop by a stand displaying six or seven huge reels of chain, each a different thickness, from the lightest, finest dancing silver, to great clumsy heavy-duty links. You reach out towards a medium weight one, pondering a section of it as you turn it over in your hands. I imagine that chain wrapped around my wrists and ankles, holding me firmly, cruelly down on the bed. Coil after coil of chain that wouldn't snap or give an inch, no matter what I did, not matter how hard I struggled. Heartless, merciless chain. Is that what you're planning for me? Is that what we're here to buy? But then, just when I feel my cheeks start to flush and my legs start to wobble, you drop the length of chain and walk away.

I follow you again. You weave silently between hoppers of screws and nails, stopping again next to a similar display featuring ropes of every possible thickness and colour. Again my mind races. I'm picturing myself tied down again, but this time with these ropes. I'm thinking of the coarse friction as the ropes bite into my ankles and wrists. The burn as I struggle. The cruel way you'd laugh as you watched me.

But before I can develop this lurid fantasy any further, you move on again.

Just by the counter you stop and look at a selection of sandpaper. I swallow as I imagine its nasty bite, harsh on my erect nipples, harsher still on my erect cock - straining now inside my jeans. I swallow, feeling a delicious sense of trepidation, but you don't take any of it, and you walk on by.

As you approach the shop's counter and speak to the assistant you wave me away, indicating that I should hang back. So I don't see what you finally do buy. All I can tell - from the size of the brown paper bag you are handed - is it's something small. You shove the bag in your top inside pocket and I follow you out of the shop.

Back out on the sunny street I find myself trotting beside you again, still none the wiser as to what this expedition is for.

Two doors down is a large chemist, part of a bright and welcoming chain. This isn't a dark, dusty place like the hardware shop; surely there is nothing sinister here. Nothing that will make me pant and wonder desperately what you might be thinking about doing to me.

But I'm wrong. In moments you've found a display of hairbrushes and you're wielding an old-fashioned one in your strong hands, cutting it through the air, as if you were letting its smooth, wide back fall on some imaginary victim. Harder and harder you whisk it, and then, with a sadistic smile, you turn it over and do the same again, giving your ghostly victim several hard strokes with the bristle side on his already smarting arse. I wince. And I squirm. I want you to buy the brush and take me home right now.

But you don't. You put the brush back.

You wander on, stopping to look at some butterfly hairclips, the sort with two rows of jagged plastic teeth that tessellate together. You pinch the clip open and shut and push an enquiring finger into its jaws, testing the bite. Then you smile, shake your head, and put it back. My head fills with questions. Was it too hard? Too gentle? I am going crazy watching you, wishing I knew what was going to happen to me. What you were going to buy. As I follow you, I pick up the clip myself and clip it onto my own finger. The bite hurts - not too much - but enough to make the blood pump that bit harder between my legs. I can't help wishing you had bought it.

You look at me over your shoulder as I put the clip back. You smile.

And then you walk out of the shop without buying anything.

Away from the chemist, along the road a little further, down and around the corner, we walk downhill a little way. This part of the town center is a little shabbier; the shops are seedier, cheap clothes shops, charity shops, all the usual temples to bargain - priced consumer delights. I really can't imagine what we would be buying here, and I'm surprised when you walk into a large but very rundown place, that has a huge decal in the window proclaiming, "Everything £1."

I feel self-conscious in this shop, funny with my tight jeans, thin white t-shirt, shaved head and piercings. I see one or two people look at you, too, in your Old Guard gear. We're so obvious.

You wind your way around displays of out-of-date confectionary and toiletries with bizarre names to a large hopper containing packets of clothes pegs. You pull out one of the packs of wooden pegs; it contains maybe twenty of the things. My heart is beating faster. My mouth goes dry. The hair clip in the chemist was one thing, but I know that clothes pegs have a much stronger grip. A nasty, bruising bite. I also know that clothes pegs can be drilled through, threaded together, and made into one long string of pinching grippers that can be run along limbs, or torsos. I shiver. I think of you leaving this contraption in place, until the bite starts to fade away and then pulling the string, whipping off peg after peg - pop, pop, pop - in a blaze of stinging pain, leaving me writhing, gasping, glad of my bondage holding me together.

More and more frustrated now by your continual teasing, I find myself getting sulky. When you pick up two rolls of black duct tape a second later, I decide I'm not playing anymore. I just raise my eyebrows petulantly, as if to say, "Duct tape? How dull. Is that really the best you could find?"

I don't know how well you can read my mind, but you grin then, a proper big grin. You know you're getting to me now. You find it funny.

I don't know if your next move is intended to up the stakes, tease me more, or even punish me for my insolent eyebrow raise, but less than five minutes later I'm standing next to you in a greengrocers. There among the fruits and vegetables, I simply don't know whether to laugh or cry. Have I blown it? Or are you still teasing me?

Again I follow you in silent anticipation as you stop by each and every phallic item on display. I find myself panting harder, despite myself, and squirming as you look at carrots, cucumbers, even parsnips. Then you look up and our eyes meet and we both laugh. But even through my laugh I'm kind of still turned on by it. Minutes later, after we've drawn far too much attention to ourselves, you grab my hand and drag me out of the shop and the world of vegetable sex and into the street again.

Round the corner, and we're in a pet shop. The ultimate in kink. Kinkier than most shops that specialise in kinky things. This shop doesn't sell actual pets, just supplies, so it's very quiet. Full of the light scent of sawdust, which seems to be hanging all around up in the air. It's also very small. The smallest shop we have been in so far, tinier even than the greengrocer. So this time I don't trail you a round the aisles; I just stand still by the entrance and watch you as you browse, with an evil smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

"Can I help you, sir?" The shop owner approaches you, outwardly polite - but he doesn't seem too friendly. I would guess that he has seen perverts like us in his shop before, buying dog collars and leashes for nefarious practices, and he doesn't like it. Doesn't approve.

You don't seem to care about his hostility, though. You reach out and run your fingers down the dark leather of a dog collar hanging in front of you. The shop owner looks at you and then at me. I'm wearing a rather similar collar around my own neck right now.

Then you look at the shop owner. Staring him down almost carelessly. It makes me realise why I've been buzzing since last night - just being with you.

I don't know where this stupid shop keeper gets off, anyhow, giving us evils for being such obvious perverts, when this shop is so heaving with the kinky. Not just the ubiquitous collars and leads, but dog bowls you could feed me from and large cages made from thin wire that you could lock me up in. But something tells me we're not going to be buying anything from this shop, either.

You finally free the man from your stare, breaking the silence by saying, "No, I don't think so." And then you walk out, looping a finger through the D ring on my collar as you do so and dragging me along behind.

Out on the street you are still smiling when you say, "This shopping trip really isn't going to plan, somehow."

And that was how we ended up, after a fruitless shopping trip, scurrying down a tiny dark alley, around a corner, behind a creaking metal fire escape.

Out of sight of all the shoppers and their shops, you push me hard up against the wall and force your mouth onto mine. Your hard thigh pushes my legs apart and I find myself grinding down onto it, unable to help myself as my mind fills with images of duct tape, clothes peg and hair clip torture, hair brush spanking, ropes and chains and sandpaper.

And then I remember something.

"Please, sir," I say gently as you pull your mouth away from mine to worry and tease my ear lobe instead, spitting the words out between gasps, unable to say much more as your teeth find that secret spot that turns me utterly pliable.

"What do you want, boy?" When you reply, your voice is hard in my ear, burring, low.

"Please, sir, I just wanted to ask. What did you buy in that first shop? In the hardware shop?"

One of your hands is down the front of my trousers now. I'm not wearing a belt, and although the trousers are tight, there is just enough room for you to force your way inside and find my desperate, needy erection, springing up to greet you, unhindered by underwear. I gasp under your touch, falling, liquefying.

"I know I've been a little cruel today," you say. A whisper with a tiny bit of snarl in it, just enough to keep me giddy. "Not letting you know what this was all about. You are so sweet, though. Everything on show. Your pretty reactions. Your wide eyes." And with your free hand - the one that isn't grazing a tantalising pattern over my cock - you touch my cheekbone just under the corner of my eye to emphasise your point. "Your wide, surprised little mouth." An illustrative finger then pushes its way between my lips, inviting me to suck. "Not to mention this." And, keeping your finger in my mouth, you squeeze my cock with the other hand, making me writhe. Trapped between your big hands, by your strength.

I'm panting hard now as my mind fills with just these thoughts. Your finger is still in my mouth and your other hand is making a tight fist around my eager straining cock. I want to thrust hard into your hand. I want to beg you to make me come. I want you to bend me over right now in this dirty alley and take me. I wantŠ I don't know. I just want. Now.

You pull your finger out of my mouth and reach into your inside pocket, taking out a small paper bag. I wince then as you pull your other hand out of my jeans, leaving my cock to suddenly thrust against the lonely denim.

"I was thinking about buying you a new collar too, in the pet shop. But it didn't feel like the right place. Besides, I think this one will actually do just fine." And you touch the thick leather that runs around my throat. I go hot and cold when I feel your rough fingertips there, gentle on this vulnerable part of my body, tracing the edges, where stiff leather becomes soft flesh and back again. I quiver; this seems far more intimate than when you were teasing my cock, somehow. I don't know if I can stand it. And then you bend your head a little, and press your lips against my throat, just on the little patch of bare skin above the center of the collar.

Every hair on my body stands on end.

And finally you open the bag. In fact, I had almost forgotten about the paper bag you have been holding. The one I was so keen to discover the contents of a moment ago.

You open it now to reveal a tiny metal disc. It flashes in the light as you turn it on your thick fingers, but then I make out the words engraved on it: "Property of Master Wicked." I smile. I get all sorts of tingles all over again, as you lean forward and attach the little disc to the ring on the front of my collar. I swallow hard.

"I know this might seem a little premature," you say, "but really, today alone you've shown me enough to make me certain how perfect you are. What you saw in all those things. All those innocent, ordinary things. Even after last night, I did think you might just be a tourist, just playing with the idea of being a slave boy. But now you've shown that you are utterly pervertable."

"But," I say tentatively, "you bought that tag in the very first shop we went in."

And you smile then, a little bashful almost. "Ah - yes, you've got me there, haven't you? Well, my angel, the truth is, you had me at the sandpaper."

I smile back, although my cock is still relentlessly hard inside my jeans, but you don't seem to be paying it any attention. Instead you roll your eyes at me, tutting and switch gear. "Damnit," you say, in a half-jokey sort of voice, "you know there was something else I needed to buy."

"What?"

"Boot polish," you reply in a sharp commanding tone, and we both look down at your big black boots, dusty now from spending all morning walking the streets.

I look up again. I look into your eyes, just once, and you smile. And I feel the little disc dancing at my throat as I gratefully drop to my knees.

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Mathilde Madden is an author and journalist. Her latest novel, Equal Opportunities - a ground breaking and erotic book about a relationship between a disabled man and a kinkalicious woman - will be published by Black Lace/Virgin Books in October 2006 (UK) and November 2006 (US). She is currently writing a thriller about love and anger and composting. For more, please visit www.mathildemadden.co.uk.