Cate Murray lives in Ireland. She's had many mainstream short stories published and broadcast, and has had her plays produced on radio. She later left her writing career to marry and raise a family. She's recently started writing again, and has had erotic fiction posted in Erotic Mind Control Stories and Literotica. Most of her erotic stories were first written to entertain her lover and mistress, Katie. Cate is also an artist, illustrator and cartoonist. 

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The first night she rang I thought it was a wrong number. The caller said she was making initial contact, which intrigued me, but I was not even sure if she really knew me. Then she hung up saying she would call again the next night at eleven. I was waiting. She rang while I was in bed. 

"You're wearing panties, aren't you?" 

"What's that got to do with you?" I demanded.

She chuckled. "There are only two types of women. Those who wear their panties in bed and those who don't. I know which type you are." 

"Do I know you?" I asked. 

"You've seen me, but you don't know me. You've looked through me once or twice. Please don't hang up yet, and don't ask me who I am. I can't tell you just yet." 

"Can you-- can you prove you know me?" 

"Well, you're about forty-two, around five three or four, dark-haired with a snooty expression and pale skin. You're pretty." 

"Go on." 

"You keep an apple and a spare pair of pantyhose in your desk. You've got a small eczema spot on your lower back, just above your ass." 

Her voice was compelling, deep and warm with a slight British accent, yet something else as well. Australian? Mostly just American. Was she someone in the office? Could she have seen me in the changing room at the gym? 

"Have you got a hair-band, one of those elastic things?" she asked. 

Three minutes later I was lying on my back with my wrists tied together with the elastic hair-band, hands behind my back and underneath me. She told me I couldn't release my wrists unless she gave her permission. And I was beginning to believe her. She was telling me, through the phone propped against my pillow, what she would like to do to me. She would sit high up on my chest, on my throat, make me surrender to her, and then she would make me eat her pussy. It gave me an extraordinary feeling I never would've have imagined a woman could make me feel-- especially by mere voice alone.

"I'd have my knees on your wrists," the voice went on. "And my fists gripped in your hair. I'd wipe that conceited look off your face-- which would be deep between my legs--- and there'd be nothing you could do about it. You would be mine, got it? Completely mine!" 

I groaned. 

"You're not to come– not until I tell you to."

I whimpered, "I won't. I'll try not to." 

"Okay," she said. "Here's what I want you to do tomorrow..." 

"Please," I said. 

"There's a scent called Oriane des Laumes. I want you to buy it." 

"Sure, okay." 

"It's not easy to find. I'll give you the name again when your hands are free."

"Okay." 

"I warn you, it's very expensive." 

"Please... please," I begged. 

"Okay, free your wrists. Now turn on your face. And you can use your hands." 

I thought I heard another voice, just then, on the line, a complaining-- no, a pleading– voice, but I was almost at the point of orgasm so quickly I could hardly believe it.

"Did you come?" she asked 

I groaned. 

"Me too," she said. She gave me the name of that scent again while I scrabbled for a pen. Then she hung up.

At first I thought I might just tell her I'd bought the perfume. The fact that she'd called it "scent" was not lost on me. I had no particular intention at the moment of taking this any farther than it had already gone, though I adored the insinuating firmness of her voice in my ear, and the sheer voluptuousness I felt writhing under my bonds in the warmth of my bed, waiting for her instructions, waiting for her permission to experience the shuddering release of my pent-up desires.

I decided I'd better ask around for that perfume, as my caller would certainly question me about it. I could already tell she was not the sort of woman who'd take "no" for an answer, or to have her requests lightly ignored. I wanted her to go on calling me, I did. But nobody seemed to have heard of this perfume. I had to endure the supercilious smiles of painted young women at beauty counters in every store I tried. One girl did direct me to an older woman who was selling half-obsolete cosmetics in a somber alcove. She was a handsome, grey-haired woman in her sixties who told me she'd had only had three or four requests for this scent in the course of her career. 

"I believe it is quite sought after," she said, "by the more discerning. One customer did return to tell me she had managed to come across this perfume." 

From under the counter the saleswoman brought up a well-filled black leather purse, and after a great deal of fumbling and apologetic tut-tutting, managed to produce a small piece of card, which appeared to be torn from a restaurant menu, with an address still faintly written on it in pencil. 

"Take it," she said. "It is definitely a younger woman's scent."

Thanking her, I put the card in my purse and hurried back to the office. By this time I was watching to see if anyone there had been studying me surreptitiously. I couldn't connect the voice with anyone in the office, but the building must've had at least a hundred women occupying its three floors. The caller could just as well have been the girl in the sandwich bar, or someone in the place where I had breakfast most mornings. 

My caller had never described herself, of course, but I had gradually evolved a sort of template into which her face might fit, a vague picture of what I thought she was like. Probably a bit like me, dark almost certainly, though likely not staggeringly pretty. If she were, would she have time or need for this sort of thing?

My assistant, Julie was hardly likely to risk playing games with me. She was too young and anyway her voice-- with its hard, country twang-- would be hard to disguise. Mrs Stronge, nominally my boss, was happily married with grown-up children and, though the voice might fit, was an unlikely candidate.

Following the saleswoman's lead, I searched for the address written on the tiny paper. It belonged to a clothes boutique on a secluded street behind the restaurant and theater district. There was a fine, potted bay tree outside and a couple of elegant dresses displayed in the window. And, yes, there were a few bottles of perfume in the window, the more expensive of the well-known makes. The young girl behind the counter, to whom I falteringly read out the name of the perfume, smiled and said, "I shall have to ask Madame." 

Madame had once been very beautiful and had a slight limp, but otherwise had a proud, erect carriage. She assisted herself with a tall, brass-capped stick, the sort of thing an old-style ballet mistress might have used to correct a plie or a jete, or to emphasize the position of a lift. Madame was beautifully dressed in oiled silk and her face was heavily made up, an extraordinary porcelain finish in pink, with startling red lips, and melancholy kohl-rimmed eyes. She reminded me of the ogres who sometimes inhabited expensive little stores in Paris, and hated selling anything to foreigners. She spoke in strongly Russian-accented English. 

"Have you three hundred dollars?" 

I had thought of bringing cash, but I didn't know how much. The price shocked me, but I was hardly going to walk out now, covered in embarrassment. Anyway, my caller knew who I was, so I might as well use my credit card. Madame passed my card disdainfully to her assistant, then lifted an exquisitely wrapped package from a small drawer set in the counter. 

"Fifteen milliliters," she said, with an icy smile. 

"But that's tiny," I said. 

Again the wintry smile. 

"You will not be disappointed."

At home it was only a couple of hours until my call was due. I carefully unwrapped the box, which was decorated in an elegant cream and black pattern with the name inscribed with a flourish of gold script. The box was a little bigger than I expected for a 15 ml bottle of scent. When I opened it I found wrapped around the perfume flagon a tiny pair of cream silk panties. At first I thought it was one of those gifts beloved of cosmetics and perfume manufacturers. Then I realized that these were used panties, with a faintly grubby mark in the seat. As I raised them to my nostrils, I detected the strong, bitter-almond scent of the urine. Sexual secretions had stiffened the soft cotton crotch. 

I dabbed a little perfume on my wrists, at my throat and between my breasts, savoring the predominant notes of patchouli, ginger, mimosa, and deep musk awaiting my caller. That night, as I lay bound, face down in my bed, her voice instructed me, "In the morning you must pack your own panties, the ones you are wearing now. After you masturbate for me in them, you are to bring them back to the Russian woman in the boutique. Then I'll know you even in the dark," the voice said. "And you'll know me." 

I was shamefaced handing the little package to Madame in the shop, but I summoned up the courage anyway. 

"Can you tell me…? I mean, can you tell me who…?" 

Again that wintry smile. 

"Our clients are very discreet," she said. In the month that followed I was instructed to have my hair lightened. I didn't like myself nearly blonde, at first anyway, and I was extremely self-conscious, exciting a mixture of envy and contempt from the other women in the office. My caller gave me the specific code number of the shade she wanted, and told me the hairdresser I was to visit. She had also asked me my weight and told me to lose about five pounds, saying she preferred my figure to be more boyish. Then, two weeks later, I was told an appointment had been made to get my hair cut very short. 

"Please," I said, "I've always had long hair." 

"Your stylist will know exactly what is required." 

"Please!" I said. 

"Are your hands tied?" 

Quite frequently she'd had the habit of ignoring me, of not answering my questions. When I began to ask her if we could meet, I was always met with silence, yet I needed her between my legs, at my swollen lips. But there were no in-betweens with her. It was either "yes" or "no" or silence. 

"Your appointment is for Friday," she said. 

"Yes… yes… yes," I moaned, thrashing helplessly in the bed.

I stuck it out for another three weeks, then soon I was begging her to tell me her intentions. "Are we ever to meet? This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but I'm not sure I can go on without some flesh and blood contact." 

"No," she said. "It's too soon." 

Too soon? I was inwardly raging. She had made me diet, had my hair tinted and cut, had forced me to stay in to take her calls. 

"You know, I might need social contact, a full relationship," I allowed my anger to leak. "I'm not getting any younger," I finally sobbed. 

Silence. The phone went dead.

I was frantic for her voice in my ear. When she called back a week later, I was repentant, she was forgiving. I was painted and plucked and tied exactly as she wanted me. Delirious bondage sessions followed over three nights. Then she told me she'd agree to meet me.

"Be at your work desk at nine o'clock tomorrow night. Wear your Oriane des Laumes scent and those nice jade earrings of yours. And remember, there's no turning back from this."

Whatever second thoughts I had, and I had plenty, I was seated at my desk around eight thirty the following evening. The building opposite was completely glass-covered and I could see another office light reflected in it, on the floor above my own. I took the elevator up and found a woman named Christine Ellis, whom I knew slightly, working in her office with the door open. She seemed surprised to see me. Christine was a tall, dark-haired woman, quite pretty in a severe sort of way, I knew she had a marriage behind her and her sexual status was somewhat vague. 

"Hello," she said, dumping some files back in the cabinet, "I'm just leaving. Can I help you?" 

"No," I said, "I'm going soon myself. See you later." 

Back at my desk I saw the light from her office still reflected across the street. On impulse I picked up the phone, wondering what her voice was like over the phone. There was no answer and when I glanced across the street again the reflected light was no longer there. 

I expected someone, maybe Christine, to walk into my office at any moment. The thought it could be Christine quite excited me, but I wasn't at all sure of the voice. Then my phone rang. It was my caller. She gave me instructions. I hesitated. Then I said, "Okay, I'll do it."

I was in the ladies room in the basement. Of course I had known I was taking a chance when I undressed. I could have been set up for a rape, but I knew I wouldn't back out now. I had only barely gotten my clothes off, dropping my bra and panties on top of my suit on the toilet seat, standing in complete darkness as I had been instructed, when I heard the outer door click and then I was joined in the cubicle. 

She had come for me at last.

She stood naked behind me, her bare breasts pressed against my back, her thighs touching my buttocks and I felt relief, after a brief moment of panic, that it definitely was a "she". The faint scent of Oriane des Laumes was unmistakable. She ran her hands up my midriff and cupped my breasts, playing gently with my nipples. I felt the hair raise on the nape of my neck as hands slowly moved down my body, probing my navel, then caressing the fronts of my upper thighs, carefully avoiding my crotch, although brushing lightly against my pubic hair. I was held gently about the waist with one arm, a hand caressed my navel again, while her other hand went behind me. I could feel the back of her hand against my ass, and I knew-- I felt– her fingering herself. Then a finger was shoved under my nose, placed on my lips. I could smell her, then I sucked, tasted her juice- having a stronger aroma of the faint scent I'd inhaled from her panties. There was no doubt whatsoever this person was my lover. 

The desire to turn around and into her arms, face-to-face, was almost ungovernable. She was biting lightly into the place where my neck met my shoulder. Her hand took possession of my sex, and she gently made me ride her finger. Her mouth relaxed, wet on my neck, as a barely audible growl came from her throat. I tried to stifle a groan. Then her hand was removed, and she took both my wrists gently. Just as I thought I was being invited to touch her sex, my wrists were crossed behind me and I felt a loop being slipped over them.

My wrists were tied behind my back and secured to one of the supports of the cubicle partition, or rather wound around it several times and tied, presumably, to another support in the next cubicle so that I couldn't reach it to try to untie the knots. I was still in complete darkness, alone. I cried, sobbing, terrified. 

Although I was a relatively anonymous employee as far as most people in the office were concerned, I would certainly have had potential enemies, but who would want to punish me as cruelly as this? She had left, refusing to speak, and I knew she had removed my clothes. I had felt the rough touch of my wool suit against my back as she squeezed past me. 

An hour seemed to pass, my hands were going more and more numb from the bindings on my wrists. Occasionally I heard sounds far off, muted, as in any building late at night. Then, incredibly, I thought I heard a door bang, something rattling in the corridor.

The door of the ladies' room was bumped open and the harsh light went on. Two startled looking Chinese women stood there with a large aluminum trolley carrying paper tissues, cleaning materials and towels. They both wore white coats and white cleaners' caps and released a torrent of excited Cantonese at the sight of a naked women with her hands tied behind her, kneeling on the damp floor of the toilet stall. I was sure they would call security and, of course, I had no means of identification. 

"Please," I begged. "Do you speak English? Speak English?" 

The older woman with heavy glasses looked at me suspiciously. "What you do here?" 

I realized I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to explain my situation, yet I had to do it, either to a woman who spoke hardly any English, or to someone in security. I burst into bitter tears. If I had to be seen naked and humiliated, it was preferable this way than being found by one of my colleagues slipping in for an early morning pee.

The older woman made soothing, cooing noises and began to untie my wrists, releasing another burst of Cantonese toward her companion who took off the white coat she was wearing over her sweater and jeans. Then, after helping me on with the coat, and with a final shout of instructions to her assistant, the older lady led me up to the ground floor and out to her van in the garage. I had no keys to get into my apartment, I didn't know if I dared walk in to work looking the way I was with just a flimsy cotton coat, barefoot and with ruined makeup, so I went with her. The Chinese woman drove rapidly when we reached the quieter streets. After about fifteen minutes we went up a ramp, then, sickeningly down again and we were in an underground carpark under an apartment block.

I was expecting a shabby room somewhere, but her apartment was small yet well furnished in a rather cold, oriental style. She let me shower and gave me a robe and a strong, dry martini. Then she went to shower herself. 

I was beginning to unwind a little, although I was still in considerable shock. 

Then the phone beside me rang. After it had rung about six times she called from the bedroom. 

"Answer, please."

I picked up the phone. 

"Get on the bed." It was my lover's voice. 

"Where the hell have you... ?" I began. 

"Look in the bag on the table near the door," she said. 

I reached for the cloth laundry bag the Chinese woman had brought in from the van. In it were my underwear, my suit, pantyhose and shoes. 

"I… I don't understand," I said into the phone. 

"Get on the bed, bitch," she said. 

Then, for the first time, I heard her giggle. She was in the doorway, her white body stark naked. Like most Chinese women, her calves were almost too slender, but she had beautiful, meaty thighs, a narrow waist and chubby, provocative breasts. Without the heavy spectacles her face was handsome, though hardly beautiful, and her hair hung down almost to her waist above her thighs. She had a rounded belly with a sweet little cup around the navel; below her pubic hair was coarse and luxuriant. She pushed me down on the bed and then climbed up after me and straddled me. Again I caught the scent of Oriane des Laumes. 

"My lovely bitch," she said. "The bitch who ignored me when I smiled at her." 

I whimpered.

"The bitch who didn't even see me." 

There were straps and leather cuffs attached to the rails at the top of the bed. She expertly cinched both my wrists before leaning back to survey her handiwork. 

"I must tell you a little about myself," she said. "Yes?" 

"Please," I begged. 

"I was born in Hong Kong. I came to this country with my father who was killed in a gang war. I was married to a much older man. Inherited his property. Started a cleaning business." 

"You own this apartment?" 

"I own the building," she said. "Two others, as well." 

"Hell," I said, "you gave me one fright." 

She lowered her face very close to mine and said, "You will eat my pussy. Right?" 

I nodded. 

"You will beg to be allowed to eat my pussy." 

I nodded again 

"Say it, say please!" 

"Please, I... I will beg to be allowed eat your... p... pussy."

She reached down and began to knead my breasts. 

"You are mine now," she said. "Okay?"

"Yes," I said. 

"Say it!" 

"I am yours now. I am yours," I said, feeling a sudden surge of desire in my womb and between my legs, in my breasts under her insistent touch. 

"You are my beautiful capture," she said. 

I nodded dumbly. 

"Your English is good," I said. 

"Sorry, my English is perfect," she said. "We speak mostly English in Hong Kong." 

"I know, I'm sorry," I said, wincing at the quick touch of asperity in her voice. I was in no doubt now that my owner was a very powerful lady.

She stood beside the bed raised my left leg, attaching it with a strap on to the bedpost. Then she cinched my right leg to the other bedpost, so that I was jack-knifed with everything on display. She fondled my ass for a few minutes in a proprietorial sort of way, then inserted her thumb in my pussy and at the same time seared a long fingernail into my asshole, pressing firmly until she gained entry. I had never felt so totally at someone else's mercy in my life and she knew it. She smiled down at me. 

When she released me she went to a chest-of-drawers and took something out. I thought it was a vibrator, but then she inserted a needle into it. 

"I forgot to tell you my name," she said. "It is Amy Wong Howe, and you will never forget it. I am now going to tattoo my name on your ass as a symbol of my ownership." This time she did not ask me if I agreed. "Amy Wong Howe-- that is eleven letters, so you will know how I am getting on," she said, with a tiny laugh. She pressed a button and the needle whined to life.

It was painful, but bearable, and she talked as she carefully delineated the letters of her name with the ink-filled needle, her voice pleasant and cultivated above the insistent whine of the electric motor. 

"I have a large contract, several hundred buildings," she said. "About once a year I try to visit each, as an ordinary cleaner. That way I see much that is left undone. That is how I saw you, of course. I decided to have you." 

She was probably about ten years older than me, in her fifties somewhere. Her eyes were the most exquisitely-shaped eyes I'd seen, such a warm depth to their darkness. 

"I am much too busy to go to singles bars, gay places," she said. "This might have seemed a lot of work to get a girl, but look at all the time I would spend chatting up people only to find we were unsuited. All the wasted nights." 

"You have a point" I said, feeling another surge of desire as I remembered our phone conversations, feeling a delicious rush of anticipation at what this woman was going to do to me. 

"Instead a few minutes on the phone and, if all goes well, fifteen minutes a night until it is time to meet. Easy?" 

I knew then that she had done this before. How many times? I remembered when she was talking to me on the telephone I'd heard, a couple of times, another voice, someone weeping. And I knew Amy Wong Howe would have exactly what she wanted, and that some day I would very likely be lying beside her in bed, possibly bound and helpless, and I would hear her on the telephone, directing some other girl to get her hair dyed and cut and to wear Oriane des Laumes. I would know they were lovers and that they were masturbating together. I couldn't bear it and put the thought from my mind.

She finished putting her name, her mark on my irritated ass. She released my ankles from their bonds on the bedposts. She was sitting astride my throat and my nostrils were filled with her powerful odour of arousal. I was begging, begging… I was almost delirious with desire when she finally lowered the center of her womanhood to my beseeching lips.

Copyright © 2001 Cate Murray. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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