Bertie and the Kinky Politician Read online

  ‘I’m sure you’re not. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’

  James finally managed to recover most of his composure. Across the room, Patti introduced an internationally recognized Nobel Prize-winning professor to a stunning young woman less than half his age. The two new acquaintances seemed to be getting along famously. ‘There goes Patti again. I had the dubious pleasure of meeting the pneumatically spectacular Tawny a few months ago. Now what sort of a name is that?’

  ‘A professional one, no doubt.’ Celeste had Tawny’s measure already.

  ‘Much more appealing than Mildred.’

  They watched Tawny at work, coaxing, flattering, simpering and pouting. She was good. Oh yes, she was very good. The professor began to dribble as only a long-married grandfather can dribble. She leaned in close to whisper something breathy in his ear, pressing top-quality silicone puppies against his arm, her shimmering low-cut dress barely able to corral the trembling hooters.

  ‘Surely they’re not natural,’ whispered James.

  ‘My father used to call an oversized bosom “Cabman’s Rests”, which always caused us great hilarity,’ mused Celeste.

  ‘I seem to recall “Bumpy Jumper” was my brother’s favoured euphemism.’

  ‘Well, however you care to name them, she’s certainly skilled in their deployment. Have you ever seen a man so goggle-eyed?’

  ‘I’m prepared to wager one of the Queen’s bright shiny shillings they leave together within the next fifteen minutes,’ said James.

  ‘As you were about to do yourself.’

  ‘Not any longer,’ he replied gallantly, sticking out his chin and straightening his tie with an exaggerated air.

  ‘I’m very relieved to hear it. So, back to my original question – what about Patti? You want to liven up this party in a way even Tawny would struggle to match?’

  James gave a measured sidelong glance at their hostess and smiled. ‘Suspended, you say. Bound and gagged! What a splendid idea, although such an action would lead to blackballing by the more outraged elements of London society. One wonders how the incident would be reported in the gossip columns. Dear Patti is almost a minor royal, you know.’

  Celeste already liked his dry and articulate wit. ‘Then again, word would get around and perhaps new and more interesting avenues of entertainment might open up for us.’

  ‘Lovely. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘You tell me; I’m new here. I can assure you this is a hell of a change from sunny Brazil.’

  ‘I imagine it is. Still, despite the lousy weather, London always has one thing strongly in its favour.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘You can get anything here. It’s what defines London as the leading city on the planet. Believe me, if you can’t get it in London, you can’t get it anywhere in the world.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Whatever you want. Anything. Anything you like – animal, vegetable, or mineral. Anything at all.’

  ‘So that’s anything, then?’

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it.’

  ‘Legal or illegal?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Unusual?’

  ‘Indubitably.’

  ‘Perverted?’

  ‘Ah, forever the preserve of the clergy.’

  ‘Even, perhaps, fetishistic?’

  ‘Dear me, especially that, if you know where to look.’

  ‘Excellent. That makes a pleasant change. Brazil is a tremendous country and I will always love it dearly, but despite the population’s zest for carnival there are still some disappointing inhibitions.’ Celeste had already begun to register James. She realised she was in the company of an exceptional man. It was so good to be back home. There was something wonderfully eccentric about English society, a society which would always provide fertile pickings for a woman of her unique predilections. This was the real reason for her return home – she knew she would never be able to find true love in Brazil. The Latins she’d met had been so unresponsive in that respect.

  She’d found herself at the centre of much amorous attention once her interesting bits started to ripen, primarily because of her pale skin and unique hair, a combination which proved a beguiling lure to the local boys. However, an endless string of persistent suitors displayed little interest in anything other than their own gratification. Perhaps it was in their blood, but no sooner had she managed to lure a young man into her room – always the easy bit – she discovered her own participation in the proceedings was expected to be limited to lying back passively and moaning in appreciation at the appropriate moment. All Brazilian men wanted to do, without exception, was screw her brains out. How odd! They showed absolutely no enthusiasm at all for submissive role-playing, bondage, or its traditional companion, flagellation, by then three subjects very close to her heart. Without exception they dissolved into screaming fits of panic the moment she produced the handcuffs and started cracking her whip! It really was most frustrating and despite naturally healthy urges she was, technically, sort of, more or less, just about, still a virgin!

  Not that it bothered her much. Busy fingers keep a girl happy.

  ‘How distressing for you. It’s widely acknowledged the British plutocracy has embraced the more recondite side of life with great enthusiasm,’ offered James with the exaggerated air of a pompous university lecturer addressing his bored students.

  ‘You sound like the good professor over there,’ observed Celeste, nodding at the couple across the room. There was now a smudge of very red lipstick on his cheek, a pair of tan-sprayed arms wrapped around his neck, and a slender, sinuously voluptuous body pressed against his chest.

  ‘I don’t think our Tawny understands many words with more than one syllable. “Money” and “condom” probably top the list.’

  ‘Her tongue is skilled in other areas. No doubt she’s a native of Cockermouth!’

  ‘Now, Celeste, that’s a very naughty thing to say. It’s a lovely town.’ James chided gently. There was a pause. ‘But I do wish I’d said it,’ he added with a chortle.

  ‘Let’s get back to the interesting side of life. Are your opinions based on first-hand experience?’ she enquired.

  ‘Well that’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.’

  ‘My boredom disappeared the moment Patti introduced us.’

  ‘Now that was good fortune, wasn’t it? You could have ended up with the professor.’

  ‘And you could have had another shot at Tawny. She seems to like distinguished men.’

  ‘Heaven forbid. Even though I haven’t exactly been active recently, I wouldn’t risk involvement with such a woman. Her body may be soft but her business acumen most certainly isn’t. Allegedly!’ he added hurriedly, in response to a raised eyebrow from Celeste. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her any more. Why would I with you here?’

  ‘James, that was the correct answer I was looking for. I like a man with manners. Come now, you were about to enlighten me on the pleasures London can provide. You’ve left me intrigued so spill the beans. Don’t hold back.’

  ‘And risk the chance of being overheard? Such tales are not for the sensitive.’ He scanned the immediate area furtively and Celeste smiled at his sly expression. ‘Do you really have a pair of handcuffs?’ he wheedled, hoping his flush of excitement wasn’t too obvious. He was on home territory and determined to test her reactions. The small leather handbag hanging from her shoulder certainly looked large enough to conceal such an item.

  ‘A lady must keep the contents of her bag a strict secret.’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled roguishly. ‘Why? Does the employment of such equipment interest you?’

  James started loading fancies onto a plate for her, avoiding the blue ones. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’ It was a politician’s answer, neutral and bland, yet said with just enough emphasis to intimate he was interested. Very! His good friend, Mr John Thomas, who normally had no difficulty slumbering through Patt
i’s little gatherings, found himself stirring into a delightful perkiness and began to nose outwards against the sturdy constriction of his M&S trousers.

  ‘Because if it does, we’d best lay out the ground rules.’

  ‘Intriguing. Do go on.’ He poured two generous glasses of Patti’s most expensive champagne and passed one to Celeste. Her nails were almond-shaped and scarlet red. A covert examination of her ring finger revealed no wedding band shadow. Excellent. Now suitably provisioned, they gravitated away from the table to a quiet corner where they could observe the dynamics of the room whilst maintaining their own little bubble of privacy.

  ‘I merely point out that in this situation it might be wise to determine who would be the prisoner and who the jailer.’ Celeste nibbled on a pastry and regarded James with a calm and unwavering stare. For a second, he stood quite still. She could feel the decision coming. What a stroke of absolute good fortune – chance meetings like this were so unlikely they only ever exist as convenient plot developments employed by first-time authors.

  ‘Do you know the stories of Alexandre Dumas?’

  ‘I take it you’re referring to The Man in the Iron Mask.’

  ‘I’ve, er, always felt a certain affinity towards the poor chap. Wondered what it would be like to experience such a situation. I guess most people would consider it unfortunate to find themselves in that sort of pickle, but I’m not so sure, especially if his jailer was someone like you.’ There, he’d said it – whatever happened now was up to her.

  ‘James, believe me, I’d not disappoint you in that respect.

  A fresh flight of skateboarding butterflies launched themselves into James’s belly, bouncing around in a most delicious way. Vital organs nearby joined in with the general merriment, somersaulting with excitement, adding to his most agreeable feeling of well-being. He struggled to return to his narrative but Mr Thomas’s wayward swelling was now threatening to burst through his fly. Little wonder he found himself momentarily distracted ‘I, ah. Um. Sorry, where was I?’

  ‘In a French prison, if I recall.’ Celeste’s gaze dropped to his groin and her lips twitched in amusement at the burgeoning bulge. She seemed extremely pleased at his reaction to her presence. ‘James, all this talk of incarceration is promising indeed. I assume your previous relationships were disappointing in that respect. Had one been in any way remotely successful then you would certainly not be here and I would be talking to myself, no doubt to the concern of our hostess.’

  ‘Quite. My instinct has always been to conceal the more exotic side of my life.’

  ‘A wise move, but, and this is important for you to understand, I like exotic. I really like exotic, as you are now most certainly going to find out.’ Celeste stared intently at James, her green eyes gleaming with what could only be described as eager expectation. ‘And so, with that thought in mind, let’s begin!’ she deliberately let a drop of creamy mayonnaise fall onto the pointed toe of her shoe and fixed James with a steady gaze. He hesitated for a moment, then setting aside his plate, knelt to wipe the sticky blob from the shiny black patent leather with a napkin. His touch lingered just long enough over her neatly laced instep to confirm his profound interest, his fingers still gently caressing the warm surfaces and towering heel long after the mess had gone. When he stood, flushed and alert, she slipped her arm through his and very gently kissed his cheek. Across the room, Patti Duke-Warrender witnessed this obvious display of affection and hugged herself with glee. Success at last.

  She might not have been so self-congratulatory had she known the utterly devastating results of her efforts …

  Two years had passed since that fateful first meeting and yet James could still clearly remember their evening at Patti’s; how they’d talked and talked, flirting outrageously. James had recounted some of his more disastrous moments at the hands of financially astute but stunningly uninterested consorts, amusing Celeste with his dry, oddball sense of humour. She teased details from him with little effort, charmed by his immediate faith and trust in her. They had freely consumed Patti’s champagne, then sneaked upstairs to find a quiet bedroom where, with hands strapped behind back with his own belt and mouth stuffed with his tie, Celeste had spanked his bottom with expert aplomb using a fish slice he’d been ordered to steal from the kitchen. She had been most gratifyingly enthusiastic!

  His descent into sexual servitude followed with blissfully indecent haste!

  ‘Kiss my hem!’

  Suddenly jolted from his wonderful reverie, James heard the sharp order through the leather helmet pulled over his ears. Celeste’s voice carried all the compulsion and force of a born dominant. There was no thought of disobeying. James was now hopelessly bonded to his beloved Mistress. He crawled forward, nose rubbing the parquet as he searched for her boots.

  The floor smelt of old-fashioned wax polish. He inhaled deeply and vacuumed up a wispy ball of fluff. Damn that cat! He tried to concentrate on maintaining his subservience, but the nasal tickle wouldn’t go away. The chains prevented him from rubbing his nose, psychologically enhancing the itch. He quivered for a moment in respiratory agony, then the inevitable happened and he sneezed with surprising violence.

  The explosive force was simply too much for the tiny breathing holes to accommodate and the helmet inflated like an air bag, lifting from his face before slowly contracting back into its original shape. A long, drawn out flatulent rattle of escaping sneeze issued from somewhere beneath his collar.

  Celeste giggled behind one hand. Such a comical thing could only happen to James. He was so endearingly sweet. However, it was still vitally important to maintain The Ambience. She recovered her composure and held herself still, allowing him to press gagged kisses all over her boots. He worked his way slowly upwards to her shins, finally reaching the supple hem of her dress, then lovingly buried his blank face into the aromatic leather.

  James sighed in joy. He continued to pay homage, lost in a timeless moment of supremely erotic delight. He absolutely worshipped Celeste. She was the perfect woman for him, the ideal sexual partner, which appeared odd considering much of her body remained firmly off-limits. Even after two years he had never kissed her on the lips nor seen her in any state of undress, let alone naked,

  Two years! Two years – and in all that time he’d just about made it up to her knees! Theirs was a unique relationship thriving on an amalgam of domination in all its forms, psychological role-playing, unusual clothing and very little physical contact – and both found it divinely satisfying.

  Eventually, after a long silence broken only by his snuffling respiration, Celeste decided he’d enjoyed himself enough and released the web of chains. ‘Stand! Do not move!’ He rose unsteadily, rubbing his knees, but she wrenched his unresisting arms behind his back and shackled his wrists with her favourite pair of handcuffs, the chrome plating worn thin from much use over the years.

  ‘Enough play.’ Her voice assumed a steely edge. She knew he liked that. Celeste was a consummate Mistress, and all Mistresses were inventive and skilled actresses. ‘It’s time for you to retire. Downstairs, I think.’

  James grunted alarmingly into the gag and wrestled against his bonds.

  ‘No protests, James Timbrill,’ she said in a businesslike tone. ‘You knew this was going to happen.’ He continued his futile, albeit pleasurable, resistance. ‘You’ll be hooded, gagged and strapped in the bondage wardrobe.’ She clipped a dog leash to his collar and jerked hard. James staggered blindly, breath hissing, and knew they were heading for the cellar. Mmmm, total enclosure! He felt another tug at his neck and stumbled toward an ecstatic night of warm and cosy restraint.

  With a firm grip on his leash, Celeste led the Right Honourable James Alan George Timbrill, BA, FCA, and Member of Parliament for Gloucester North, through the salon door and away for an appointment with his own personal padded wardrobe, where he would be spending the night indisposed.

  Very indisposed indeed.

  The salon fell silent, but it was certa
inly not empty. Their departure had been noted by a creature of surprising intelligence. He sat on a perch behind the sofa and watched the conclusion of this entertaining ritual with great interest. The Kneeling Man was by far the most frequent of the few friends who visited his mummy’s home and the only one who always brought him some small tidbit to eat. He enjoyed these visits very much, even if only to see Celeste at her happiest and most relaxed. His mum exercised domination over her guest in the same way he did over Sebastian, the household Persian and source of the fluff that had caused James’s earlier respiratory problems. She always wore her most spectacular and colourful plumage when The Kneeling Man visited. Of course, despite her best efforts, she really could not hope to match him. He preened complacently for a few minutes, adjusting immaculately clean azure feathers, then stared at the closed door with a strange intensity, his large brown eyes unblinking.

  ‘James Timbrill, hooded, gagged and strapped in the bondage wardrobe,’ he announced with the clarity of a BBC newsreader.

  Bertie didn’t know what the words meant but had long associated them with The Kneeling Man. He liked the musical cadence of the sounds and repeated the oft-used phrase several times in his best authoritative voice before tucking it away in his jumbled mind to delight Celeste at a later date.

  Chapter Two

  Celeste Gordon had always delighted in the domination of men. Well, more than delighted, if truth be known. Hers was a strange and powerful addiction, evidence of which first manifested itself in her inventive childhood games. Even then she showed natural talents in manipulation and control, talents that first appeared for no apparent reason thirty years earlier.

  An angular young girl with a pale face and spectacularly bright orange hair, she lived with her parents on the outskirts of Oakham in the tiny county of Rutland. Ray, her father, was a tall and athletic man, wiry and energetic, but constantly away co-ordinating the shipping department of Pringle and Padley, purveyors of fine timbers for the joinery trade. He had an infectious grin and loved his young daughter without reserve. His own mother, both his aunts, his sister, and several female cousins were all blessed with hair in varying shades of copper, so when he fell hopelessly in love with and married Barbara Phillips, herself a striking redhead, it came as little surprise to anyone in the Gordon family that their daughter was born with a mop of truly incandescent ginger curls.