Jamieson took me to this private member's club he knew. It was in a Victorian building and the décor was indicative of the elitist nature of such establishments. I nicknamed it the Diogenes Club, after Mycroft's club in Conan-Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. Jamieson laughed and we called it that from then on, which saves me from having to reveal its real name.
It was an elegant-looking place, marble and tiles, dark wood and velvet-plush or leather furnishings: chesterfields or high-back wing armchairs; open fires in large fireplaces; brass and glass and huge mirrors. You entered via an enormous green-fronted door with a huge brass knob and a small brass nameplate being the only obvious door furniture.
He wanted me to wear the slinky red dress - the midi - sans underwear. I was fairly sanguine about going bra-less. There were times in the seventies when it was practically mandatory. But I was not happy about going knicker-less. In fact, I was truly anxious and upset about the prospect. After a spanking for my disobedience, and when I had explained how uncomfortable I would be without them, he allowed me to wear some very brief silk lace ones, which, despite them being hardly there at all, was nonetheless a relief.
We were seated at the bar, chrome, tall stools and exotic drinks, facing one another and he was touching me.
He had made it clear that I was to keep looking at him and to be silent unless he spoke to me. It wasn’t unusual behaviour, and given my shyness and awkwardness in a new place, I didn’t see a problem. Of course, I didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be speaking to me, and I certainly didn’t expect what happened.
There were a number of men in the bar, not all alone but most were, so Jamieson's fingers trailing along the neckline of the frock or along the outside of my thigh, although undeniably erotic, was a little disconcerting and attracting attention. At least I thought it was.
He had a whisky - an expensive single malt – on the bar beside his left hand. I had a vodka martini placed on the mat near my hand. I was sipping it, aware that I wasn’t supposed to get drunk. He gave me that look; that smirk which I loved and which worried me in equal measure and I felt my eyebrows rise and my eyes widen. He reached out and brushed the hair from my shoulder on each side, then lightly traced the seam of my frock around the neckline. I smiled at him and the smirk got smirkier. On its return journey, the finger followed the same path, but on my flesh. My breath hitched, but obediently I kept my eyes locked on his face. But when his fingers made a third journey, this time inside of the dress, softly caressing my skin, and then remained in the hollow between my breasts, I was torn between embarrassment and arousal. I glanced around the room nervously and he coughed briefly to bring my attention back to him and when I looked, his eyebrows were raised letting me know I was doing the wrong thing.
The backs of his fingers teased me, moving over the rise of each breast before dropping back to the channel between them repeatedly. Despite my embarrassment – my cheeks were flaming – it aroused me and I could feel how sensitive my nipples had become. I could feel them harden and risking a glance down saw that they were clearly visible through the silk. He had followed my gaze and was looking at me when I raised my eyes and so knew I had looked down. He flicked one hard nipple with his finger and thumb and I suppressed a squeal. His eyes showed his satisfaction at the effect: he smirked at the expression on my face before pointing at his own eyes to remind me of where my eyes should be.
He sat up straight and took a drink of his whisky and nodded at my drink. I picked up my glass, and, hands trembling a little, sipped at the sweet alcohol.
His hand now left my chest and I felt it on my left knee. I struggled to stifle the urge to look down, and so only felt his hand pushing my skirt up, exposing my thigh. I also felt a discernible change in temperature; but I don’t think it was that which caused my shiver. His hand, huge in comparison to mine, splayed across the top of my leg, his thumb pressing into the inner thigh, each movement towards me going further along than the one before. Despite my struggle to obey, as the skirt of my dress pooled almost at my crotch, my embarrassment made me automatically push it back down to cover my legs.
The sharp slap on my thigh had me mouthing, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ to him. He hadn’t told me I was to call him ‘sir’ here, but instinct led me. His eyes softened, and he mouthed back, ‘Trust me, Beth’ and I nodded, forcing out a small smile. He motioned for me to pull my skirt back up. I obeyed. Of course I did. But it took all of my self-control when his hand moved back to my upper inner thigh. His fingers began to edge around the briefs, gently easing the elastic away, his fingertip beneath it.
Movement beside me drew my attention. I tried to keep my eyes on Jamieson, but my peripheral vision is excellent. A man had come over and placed himself slightly behind Jamieson and looked at me head to toe and back again. He was a large man although not as tall as Jamieson; he was somewhat overweight and seemed to be perspiring heavily although it wasn't that warm in the club. He was a good few years older than Jamieson and his nose bore the signs of excessive drinking. I gulped hard as his gaze dropped to where Jamieson’s hand was caressing me, thankfully still slightly covered by the hem of the dress.

He moved around to say something in Jamieson's ear after looking at my face, breasts and legs again. Jamieson continued to trail his fingers up and under my dress, keeping his eyes locked on my face as he shook his head in reply. The man walked off seemingly disappointed.  

“What did he want?" I whispered, curiosity – and more - burning me up. I swallowed after speaking. I wasn’t meant to talk. Jamieson could see my anxiety and forgave me. I think.

“To know if he could take you upstairs."

“What?" I hissed and received a warning look from Jamieson. I lowered my voice again, leaning forward to be heard. “Does he think I'm a pro?" (It was a common contraction for prostitute back then.) Jamieson laughed lightly.

“No. He hoped I had brought you here so that I could watch you have sex with other men;” he shrugged, “or let other men watch me have sex with you;” then he smirked, “or have other men join us while we are having sex. Some people like those sorts of things."

I must have looked as horrified as I felt. “Don't worry Elizabeth," he said calmly, “I have only brought you here for two reasons; first to spend the night with you in a special room, and second to show them what they are missing.”

“Bu, but…” I was horrified.

“Beth. You’re my little girl. Mine alone. I don't share." I breathed out. 'I don't share'. That was a relief or I would have had to cause a scene. Mind you, the 'show them what they are missing' was getting a little out of hand. I was getting very aroused and his hand was moving nearer and nearer to my most intimate area. I knew now why the original instruction had been no underwear at all. I became aware that we were being watched, intently, and it was disturbing me but also it was a tiny bit thrilling. I trusted Jamieson to look out for me and there was something exciting about men wishing they were him, although I had never seen myself as an exhibitionist. I think, given my lack of confidence, the idea that other men found me attractive was compelling, but as usual, I was worried about being perceived as a ‘bad’ girl, a slag.

“Keep looking at me, Elizabeth.” Jamieson said, his voice stern, and I did as I was told. My breathing was becoming erratic now. His hand was no longer on the seam of my underwear but was stroking me over the material, on my seam. I was getting so aroused I no longer consciously cared about any spectators. My legs opened a little more without real thought on my account and I could feel pressure on my clitoris. The insistent caressing through the silk and lace achieved what Jamieson wanted.

My orgasm surprised me. And upset me. To do that in public. I had clutched his hand and the bar as I bucked against his touch, but as the intensity of it lessened, the shame caused tears to spring from my eyes as I heard a collective sigh from the rest of the room.

Jamieson stood and grabbed my arms at the shoulder, then slid his hands firmly down until he had my arms clamped to my side at the elbow. Then he kissed me. It was powerful, possessive, predominant, and it affected me as his kisses always did. As his lips left mine, I saw his face, almost without expression except in his eyes, and he whispered. “Beautiful; my beautiful little girl.” He told me to get my bag – I had placed the little burgundy clutch beside me on the bar – and he grasped me by the other wrist and walked me out of the bar. I looked down, not wanting to meet the eyes of any of the men. My legs felt like jelly but I forced them forward. As we reached the foyer, merely a matter of yards from where we had been seated, he noticed I was struggling and frowned before bending and lifting me up, carrying me to the lift. As the lift doors closed, he kissed my forehead.

“I ought to have realised you would have difficulty walking.”

That was an apology, and I snuggled closer, laying my head on his shoulder. He smiled and kissed me again.

The doors opened at our floor and he held me as we progressed down the hallway. Understated elegance was the phrase that came to my mind when I looked at the décor; cream paintwork, but the doors had grey panels as well. The wallpaper was Regency striped in grey and blue and the carpet was a rich dark blue.

“I need to put you down, Beth.” Jamieson said as he did just that, and he pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked room 312. His hand went to the small of my back as he ushered me into the room but as he half-turned to close the door behind us, I came to an abrupt stop and my mouth dropped open.

There was a bed, but not like one I had ever seen before. It had four ornately carved posts, but no tester; instead, chains dipped down from where the ‘roof’ of the bed would normally be, and I could see chains positioned around the posts as well, both above and below the mattress.

I could feel the heat of Jamieson’s body behind me, feel his breath on my head. He put his hands gently on my shoulders for just a moment. Then: “This has to go.” And I felt him unzip my dress and he pushed it down, over my shoulders and waist and hips until it pooled at my feet. He took my arm and helped me step out of it. I was wearing shoes with a finer and higher heel than I customarily wore and I was unsteady on one leg.

“And these.” And he pushed the brief silk knickers down to my knees and I wriggled slightly so that they too reached my ankles. I started to remove my shoes, but he grabbed my arm and when I looked at him, he shook his head.

“Bu…” I stopped myself from telling him that the fine silk and the heels were not compatible. Firstly, I wasn’t allowed to speak, secondly, he wouldn’t care. I was still partly folded over and continued down to carefully disentangle and step out of them. He drew a breath which suggested he was happy with the view.

“The bed. Bend over the end.” His voice was hoarse. I did as he told me. The bed was of a height which meant that I folded neatly in half as I bent face-down on the – surprisingly firm - mattress. He made another noise expressing his satisfaction, but he hadn’t moved as far as I could tell. Experience suggested that he was surveying me, my compliance, and taking pleasure from it. It wasn’t very long before he came across to join me. He was still silent, but now I heard the rattle of chains. As I reached the bed, I had noticed that a set of four felt-lined leather cuffs were neatly placed in the centre of it. Each had a large hook attached. Now he strapped these cuffs around my wrists and ankles and connected them to chains, my wrists to the posts, my ankles to the legs. He had made sure that my limbs were taut.

There was another moment where I knew he was appraising me, and then his hand was caressing my buttocks.

“You have been disobedient, haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think what he meant; I’d already been punished for the underwear. The slap on my behind was a shock even though the hand caressing me had moved and I knew inside what was coming.

“Answer me.”

“Sir?”

“Were you supposed to be silent in the bar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“And, I asked you a question, sir.”

“And?”

“And I moved my skirt, sir?” I hazarded.

“And?”

I had no idea what else I had done wrong, and for some reason it upset me. My voice hitched as I told him I didn’t know. I had tried so hard to be obedient for him even though I had felt uncomfortable.

“You didn’t trust me.”

I felt so guilty. I had and I hadn’t, and yet he had never given me a reason not to trust him to look after me, not since our first date when he’d told me: “Trust me. I promise I won't hurt you or do anything you don't want me to." I nodded sadly, admitting my guilt.

“Don’t move.” And I heard him walk across the room.

I moved. I peeked at what he was doing. There was a dresser against one wall and it had an assortment of paddles and crops arrayed upon it. I dropped my head as he turned, but not before I witnessed the paddle he had chosen. It had holes in it, I didn’t know why. (Later, Jamieson explained that the holes allowed more force as it cuts air resistance. My response was that he really didn’t need any help. He laughed.)

“Eight, I think.” It was his favourite number.

The blows followed one another quickly and forcefully enough. I cried out and I cried. He told me not to worry about making a noise; apparently one of the special things about the rooms was that they were sound-proofed. Afterwards, though, I couldn’t stop crying and it wasn’t the pain. I was sobbing noisily and he knew from experience that it was more than normal.

“Beth?” He leaned over and pushed the hair from my face. “Darling, did I hurt you too much?”

“I, I, I’m, s-s-sorry.” I manage to snuffle out. He unhooked the chains and picked me up, wrapping his arms around me as he placed me on his lap, placing my throbbing derriere between his legs as he wanted to spare me more pain. He rocked me as I sobbed, my head on his shoulder.

“My little girl, my Beth;” he cooed, “darling, what’s wrong?”

“I do t-t-trust y-you. I d-do; I, I j-just…”

“Hush, little girl.” He stroked my hair. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I know you trust me. You were wonderful, Beth. What I put you through downstairs? I couldn’t have asked for you to be any better. Oh, my darling, don’t cry. You haven’t disappointed me.”

Jamieson knew about all of my insecurities. He knew he had accidentally tapped into one of them. I didn’t speak for a while, just tried to get myself under control. As my sobs subsided, he stood and sat me on the edge of the bed and tenderly removed the cuffs, rubbing my wrists and ankles where they had been. Then with a ‘come along’, he lifted me and placed me under the covers. I watched, the odd hitch still jerking my chest, as he removed all of his clothes and climbed in next to me.

Then he kissed me. He started with my teary eyes, then my forehead, then my cheeks, murmuring endearments the whole time. Then he softly kissed my lips before increasing the pressure and opening my mouth with his tongue. In the meantime, his hands were exploring the rest of my body, squeezing my breasts, tweaking my nipples before one hand traced down between my legs, cupping my sex before using the moisture which my arousal from the spanking had caused, to lubricate his swirling fingers.

When he moved on top of me, he continued to kiss me as he positioned himself and entered me carefully. His lovemaking was measured, gentle, tender, and I responded in kind, our movements as if choreographed; touching, kissing, feeling. Afterwards I lay in his arms, soft, boneless, content. But then I opened my eyes, and looked at the chains surrounding me, and the guilt began to seep in again. Maybe I tensed, or he just sensed it. “Relax little girl, and get some sleep.”

“I’m sorry. You planned all of this, and I’ve spoiled it.”

“Aside from you being upset, I’ve had a lovely time. How about you?”

“Yes. I have, but I’m sorry I got…” He kissed me to shut me up.

“No apologies, Beth. I made the mistake, not you. I forget how you still feel everything is your fault. I should not have implied you had hurt my feelings. You didn’t. I knew I was taking you somewhere new, both literally and figuratively. I expected your reaction. You wouldn’t be the you that I love if you had accepted what I did downstairs without demurring at all. And as for all of this.” He waved the arm that wasn’t holding me to encompass the room and the club. “Well, we can come back another time to try things out.”

“Erm, may I ask you about them?” I nodded at the cluster of five chains hanging down over the bed. He laughed.

“Four for your arms and legs, one for your body.” He explained.

“My body?”

“Yes. There’s a harness to fit around your waist. It’s so I can suspend you, face up or face down, at whatever height suits me.”

“Suits you for what?” I was conscious that my voice was a little shrill.

“What do you think? Why is the mattress so firm, Elizabeth? So I can stand on it without falling, and use whichever orifice I wish to use, however I wish to use it. Next time.” He rolled onto his side and looked at me. “But soon, you need to get some sleep. Remember, Carl is picking us up at eight-thirty, and I plan on making sure you find it hard to walk in the morning.” He trailed his fingers across my face. “But now, I plan on making sweet, tender love to you again.”

And he did.