Among men there are some, well-endowed or less-so, who still manage when naked to look commanding and powerful, undiminished in sauna, Turkish bath or shower. Sadia’s Member of Parliament is not one of these.

If Sadia knew anything of naturists, which she does not, limiting her undressing to normal domestic necessity and to when, in fact, there is money in it, she might know that they consider one of the disadvantages of ‘going textile’, or wearing clothes, is that it enables people to power-dress. Without clothing, many believe, much of what is awful in the world might be less so.

How could armies fight wars, they argue (forgetting that the Ancients often fought in stages of exemplary nudity), since without the uniform you could not know whose side was whose, whether the man you were fighting was enemy or friend?

How could demonstrators form their close and angry press without the vestigial super-dermis of clothing to separate them? Strangers drawn together by some common cause, could they be drawn so close together if skin touched skin, if the simulated private space of clothing was not there to block the lathe-turner’s cock from the nurse’s thigh?

And the police response? Without the blue serge and the cranial helmets, charging the demo lines with their pendant cocks swinging, helmets in every shade from pink to purple, they would lend a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘baton charge’.

Politicians, too; Winston without a hat to doff, portly and sagging, only his cigar erect, Adolf with his toothbrush ‘tache, standing and saluting an SS column passing by? Think what the goose-step would do to the pendant plonker. The sight would be ridiculous beyond any aspirations of satire.

And Sadia’s MP, her elected Member, looks no less ridiculous without his suit. A good, taut waistband and a tailored vest can hide a multitude of sins.

Poor, frustrated man. Such appetites he has, among so many others of his kind, and yet he is so much less guilty than the rest. No rent boys visit his hotel rooms, no interns kneel to moisten his cigar, and there are none of his acquaintance who take ass-kissing or brown-nosing too literally. Heaven knows the press have been so full of such things recently and that always makes him edgy. Should his own persuasion ever leak out…

It began by accident, a muscle strain in his back compelling him into a corset for the first time in his life, and on the very night he accepted the candidacy for that constituency we shall call Effingham East. That was the night that a piece of posh young totty, young Hermione Pflatt, had thrown her arms about him in her eagerness of commitment and kissed him so unexpectedly. Such is the aphrodisia of power, it seems, and that night it gave him a new appetite. His corset is leather, these days, and more besides, and Sadia is his one indulgence.

When a rather more junior MP than he is now he had been accustomed to savouring the anticipation of an encounter with Sadia by donning his special leather clothes before venturing into the House. Reaching to just below his chest and cross-fastened with lacings at the upper front and back, they fitted him like stays and significantly improved his figure. His private knowledge that the cutaway rear of the closely-embracing body exposed his bare bottom and left him provocatively commando beneath his suit trousers, lent a wonderful frisson to sitting on Her Majesty’s velvet-lined parliamentary benches. And the lower front! Taut leather there, except for a minimal aperture at the front that his cock and balls hung through, leather tense around them, softly biting.

Until recently, too, and prior to the War on Terror, it had been his habit to attend the House wearing both his special corset and his favourite ‘punishment’, a polished steel gizmo in the shape of a drooping, unaroused penis which closely enclosed his cock and testicles, leaving no room for expansion. Unhappily, however, there came a day when, forgetful of recent modifications to the House and wearing his erotic costume of choice, complete with metal cock container and D rings, he rather audibly and alarmingly aroused the newly-installed metal detector security barriers that all Members now had to pass through. Only the Member’s own status and the benign—and rather mischievous—nature of the supervising policeman had allowed him to escape without the most horrendous embarrassment.

It had thus become his routine, as now, to don his outfit in her presence, the trivial resultant delay a small sin for which he would pay a delightful penance.

Sadia, whose real name is Primrose, merely plays a D/s game. She is not a lifestyler but a provider of services to men with the money to buy them, and to some women too. Primrose and her husband regard themselves as being in the service industry, offering a particular and discreet bargain in return for additional means to fund their Surrey home, two BMWs and Tobias and Charisma-Jane, their ponies and their private schools. The customer, then—in the quaint British tradition—is, almost, always right. And it is for this reason that the rules are not always the same as one might expect and that, rather than truly dominating most of her clients, Sadia bends the rules according to their stated whim. What they have not perhaps the balls for in reality, she offers a pretence for, just as in a different room she wears a fluffy pink babydoll and calls her clients ‘daddy’.

There is nothing ‘babydoll’ about her present appearance. The expensive wig she wears is a deep dark red with flaming highlights, and the upper half of her face—a face of a kind that may be seen behind the counters of a million drug store counters—is covered by a leather eye mask, black and jewelled around its rim. Her carefully maintained skin is as bronze as sunlamps and other artifice can make it, three months after her last jaunt to the Grecian isles, and is oiled and lambent with the reflections of the shaded red lamps which her insurers require her to substitute for flaming torches.

She wears a leather peep-hole bra, also black, upon the compressed and billowing buxomness of her generous bosom, steel points projecting around the flushed and perpendicular peaks of her privately oft-tweaked nipples, together with a black leather thong. The belt of the thong is a somewhat superfluous five inches wide and studded with matching, polished steel points, whilst the rest of the garment comprises no more than a black leather lace, tight in the cleavage of her sweetly apricot-shaped ass at the rear, and no less tight between the full lips of her labia and against the swollen, shaven mound of pudendum at the fore.

Black, tantalisingly fish net tights and improbably long black leather boots, the latter studded down their outside seams, complete her unarguably tantalising ensemble, but the boots are folded down around the upper rims to hide the punctures caused by the rim-spikes’ precautionary removal. Too often before the application of her husband’s best pair of pliers had she sat down unguardedly and cross-legged for a cigarette and painfully punctured her thighs.

In truth, true believers might well turn up their noses, as far as they might within the constriction of their hoods, at the setting that passes for her dungeon. A large room that once stored bespoke menswear now bespeaks a falsely medieval environment. The stone cladding upon its walls but millimetres thick and warmer to the touch than ever internal stone should be, is adorned with racks of frightening utensils that might have been made from plaster for all the use they obtain. These her gopher-apprentice, Nicole, faithfully polishes daily lest dust and cobwebs betray their idleness.

Chains and handcuffs affixed to the walls, and more frequently used, have required all the DIY skills of Primrose’s stockbroker husband to securely fix them to the feeble structure behind the stone. Such fetters predominate upon the external window wall which is, at any rate, brick and stone throughout. And for authenticity, again, the window has had another—theatrically medieval—artfully superimposed upon it, a trompe l’oeil painting upon deliberately soiled glass which guarantees privacy too.

Sadia, who really rather fancies a cigarette, keeps her face sombre with some effort as the portly politician squeezes his body into the harness suit, squeezes his warming cock into its chrome metal prison and, placing himself within the punishment frame her husband made, begins to fasten himself with cuffs and chains, beginning at his ankles and working upwards. When he has only one hand free and stands spread-eagled within the rectangular construction of 4×4, she moves as menacingly as she may towards him and snaps his right wrist into its lock.

Red-faced already, in consequence of his now helpless confinement, and his member no doubt flushing and swelling in its imprisonment, his punishment must now begin. Yet she turns not to him but towards the television, mounted on its bracket in the corner.

As often as not she uses this to feed images from the various cameras positioned like anti-theft devices around the room and which allow the penitent to view his own suffering in split-screen mode, to become a voyeur of self. But not this time. This time, at his request, she switches to a terrestrial channel and to “The PM this AM”, a public service recorded broadcast of Prime Minister’s Question Time and sundry other significant speeches.

A speaker rising to the Despatch Box and the whole of the House emerging briefly in shot, Sadia forbears to smile in recognition of the many there that she knows, seeing, in the sedate shufflings upon benches, reminders of burning cheeks made sensitive by her attentions.

“Hypocritical bastard!” Her client’s venom, uttered almost as a shout and directed at the speaker who stands shuffling his notes, does not surprise her, but she snarls sharply in response: “Be silent, slave!”

Picking up her chosen instrument, a cat of nine with long, broad tails that delivers a veritable chorus of pain to the sound of its own leathern applause, she stalks behind him threateningly and directs a warning flick of the lash at his pinkly protruding cheeks.

In the chamber on-screen, Members cough, papers rustle, the speaker begins:

“Too long, Honourable Members of this House, have the traditional values of our nation been set aside in Government’s pursuit of short term popularity!”

Over the dull ‘hear, hears’ of the muted audience, her MP hisses:

“Miserable, lousy, fucking fraud!” his voice becoming a sob as the nine leaved lash curves whistling across his ass cheeks, paints mottled scarlet immediately on blush pink.

“Quiet!”

“By traditional values one means, of course,” the on-screen speaker expounds in measured tones, “the values of truth, honesty, dignity and fair dealing, and—paramount—the values of family!”

“Filthy, rotten, fucking equivocator!”

He strains under the lash now, gasping, imprisoned cock thrust forward, buttocks driving instinctively away from the inescapable pain as she whips him again.

“On the internet, the cinema screen, in fiction and photography, television and—yes—even on the shelves of the high street newsagent—a constant diet of filth exudes, undermining every treasured belief, every valued precept and institution, the very sanctity of matrimony and the family!”

“Oh you filthy, fucking, lying , despicable, rotten, lousy shit!”

A half-strangled cry, almost a yelp, now, as the cat lays its combined tracks again upon the blows already sustained. His arse is so hot it is almost steaming, and tears are running down his face.

“In plain sight everywhere, every single manifestation of perversity, homosexuality rampant, prostitution spreading faster than a Whitehall rumour, lust and rapine not only broadcast but, in my view and that of other members of my party, advocated and promulgated as a reasonable norm!”

“How could you? How can you? How…”

The chains rattle accompaniment to his bellow of pain as fresh welts burn across his searing buttocks and his body seems to fly forward to the limit of its tethers.

“Oh Nanny, release me! Please!”

“It is time to call a halt, Honourable Members; to say ‘No More’, to return to a Better Way, a Decent Way, to stem, once and for all, this noxious flood!”

‘Nanny’ his safe-word, Sadia bends, swiftly releases his flushed and aching penis and purpling balls from their silver prison and sees his cock spring to a sudden and quite awesome fullness. And when he whimpers “Help me…” she wraps her hand around the hot enormity, strokes it swiftly, and he squeals, his own ‘noxious flood’, un-stemmed, arching white at least a yard across the tiles and splattering.

Afterwards, unchained, he is contrite and humble, mutters apologies as he wipes up his own ejaculate on his knees. At the last Sadia causes him to flinch, patting him gently on his burning buttocks, smiling consolingly into his contrite face:

“Never mind, Slave. Frankly, I think that speech is one of the best you have ever given.”

© 2007 Richard V Raiment. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.