Peep Show Palace: Chapter 2

Hello again dear members. I’ve written a chapter once again. It’s a work in progress, just like the last. With your encouragement I just might write enough to make a book. I’ve made one already for NUM, but that doesn’t make me an expert. I learn from you. Feel free to comment.

Howard Smith (Smitty)

The Peep Show Pull

Where have we come from

and where shall we go?

Our lives are darkness,

with no direction, no compass,

no landmarks along the way.

Only our hearts can guide us,

only they can follow the pull.

The “pull” is a simple word, simple enough. Yet therein hangs a tale.

 I should know. I’ve felt it all my life. It started simply enough. I was just a little girl playing “cowboys and cowgirls.” A length of rope was involved.

 I felt a certain unfamiliar rush of emotion when they tied me up, a certain tingling deep down inside my underpants. Later that night I stripped down my two Barbie dolls, and tied them up with little ribbons.

 I knew it was wrong. I tried to repress my feelings. I never told a soul. I forget about the Barbie dolls as I grew older.

 Not until a few years after. My best friend Brooke invited me to a sleep over. It was cold then. For some reason the furnace failed. We crawled under the covers together and cuddled. It didn’t take long. We kissed. Brooke slid a leg between mine. We scissored, our legs entwined.

Brooke’s parents came in to check on us, gave us both a scare. We giggled when they left and scissored all over again. All shame had left me. I whispered to her, “Tie me up.”

 Brooke found some scarves and tied my hand

I have never been attracted to women, not at all, but just like years before, it was the sensation of being tied, rendered helpless, and at the mercy of another, that really turned me on. It was totally spontaneous, just a little bit of schoolgirl fun.

Later when I became of age, I had my share of passing fantasies about the opposite sex, but I never acted on them. Schoolboys were nice, but boring. One very handsome young man asked me to the prom. It was an awkward moment. I brushed him off. The worst part was that I found I had no real interest in sex. I felt cursed, at best a child of a lesser god, lost, and terribly alone.

A year later I felt the pull again. Something in the alley laying near a trash can caught my eye. It was a bondage magazine artfully drawn by an artist known as Robert Bishop. I was instantly turned on.

I stuffed it in my school bag and carried it with me the entire day. It was all I could think about. I made a lame excuse to my mother, retired early; and spent the night masturbating over the pictures. Bishop became my new bedtime companion until I simply wore the magazine out and unceremoniously threw it away.

I graduated from high school, went to college, got a very nice job. I had a date or two, even got laid. The men I met were very nice, gentle, well mannered, and polite, but I remained uninterested. I never married. I had lived contentedly on.  

 Then I met a curious man named Herman Gregor. We had gone out to dinner once or twice. He was a perfectly charming true blue suited gentleman. He never so much as touched me. Then one night when I invited him in. I poured him a glass of my best ginger wine. Suddenly, and without warning, he grabbed me: grabbed me hard too. His strong arms pinned mine behind my back. I did not protest, I let him. Perhaps somehow, he had sized me up and knew I would not mind. He kissed me and kissed me hard.

I relaxed my lips and let his reshape them to fit his mouth. I relaxed my body too, almost melted in his arms. We made love not long after…if love is what you would call it. He undressed me slowly; oddly almost, as if I did not know how to undress myself. And then he tied my wrists together with his necktie.  

 I was certainly not a virgin, but “tied up,” at least tied up by Herman Gregor, was the best sex I had ever had. The necktie was simple, but it made all the difference. He paid me such loving attention. It was rather odd in fact, as if I had been treated like a lady… and treated that way for the first time in my life.

Days later, a brown manila envelope came in the mail. Inside was a letter: a real, old-fashioned pen-and-paper letter: on fine stationary too! It was from Herman Gregor…

“The great ballet, "Coppelia," sometimes subtitled, “The Girl with the Enamel Eyes,” was a comic dance whose mise-en-scène is based upon two stories. One was called “The Sandman,” about a dreamer who falls in love with a life size puppet or doll. The second was “The Doll” (“Die Puppe”). The plot was pure fantasy, of course, but never intended for children.”

“It was, rather, a well-crafted message for adults. The author challenged his audience. His message was forceful” to hold on to our dreams, and perhaps even to live them out, in spite of the realities and vagaries of human experience. It is a classic concept which presents art and life juxtaposed. It also raises a very important metaphysical question which we have all asked, “Fantasy or reality: which is more real?”

 “I would be honored if you would join me to see this wonderful performance next Friday night at the theatre. I must add that I have heard your words, your feelings, and your own personal story over the last few wonderful evenings. I must also say, I have been deeply touched.”

 “Perhaps, deep down inside, you are still that that same little girl you once knew and described with such great poignance. Perhaps too, you are the same kind of soul as me. You once had fairy tale hopes. You once had fairy tale dreams. You saw yourself as beautiful. You once believed maybe the world could be a beautiful place.”

 “But then, as you grew up, you discovered life is never easy. You adjusted accordingly to me its many challenges, and, in doing so, you became worldly wise. My motives here should be stated clearly and honestly. I am inviting not just to the ballet, but also to live out a dream.”

 “Perhaps, however, it’s time for both of us to embrace this idea as a new challenge. Perhaps it's time to wake up and dream! Dreaming is sure to be wonderful, but as you know, dreaming can be terrible, even sometimes almost unbearable. That's the way dreams are: always larger than life.”

 “Perhaps together we might find a new story book life and throw off dreary realities. Perhaps you may wish to make yourself over as if you were a character in a story, almost as if you were a work of art. I invite you to become like Coppelia; Die Puppe, a new living doll, not just for you but also for me.”

 “Please be so kind as to accept this invitation. I have enclosed the necessary funds to begin this new phase of our wonderful relationship. Please dress according to my dream.”

 “Yours truly,”

“Herman Gregor”

 “Enclosed was a stack of crisp stack of money along with another note, "a shopping list:

Dress “to the nines:”

Sequined dress: classy but low cut with a mid-thigh hemline.

Patent leather stiletto heels as high as they come

Thigh high nylons, seamed

Silk garter belt to hold up them up

Thong panties

Corset

All of the above in black

And also, please, slave girl style earrings. You know the ones, those with big round hoops.”

I thought to myself. “What a wonderful and mysterious man.”

 I went out shopping almost immediately, delighted to honor his request, and when I got home, I tried everything on and stared into the mirror. Gregor was right. All of a sudden, I felt like I was living a dream. I felt beautiful, truly beautiful, for the first time since when I was a little girl… And then I thought to add one more “little girl” touch just for him. I shaved my pubis.

Another look in the mirror and I couldn’t help but blush. It was a big beet-red blush too, the kind little girls blushed when their mothers had gone way and when they rushed into their closets, and dressers, and tried on mama’s big girl things.”

 I felt transformed. I had become a living a pinup doll. Yes, for all intents and purposes, I was living a dream!

 “Fabulous,” Gregor said when he picked me up. “Let me see.”

I couldn’t help myself. I turned little pirouette for him, raised my arms over my head and posed.

 “Panties?” He asked with a smile.

I hiked up my sequined dress and gave him a quick peek.

 “Garter belt?”

 Another peek.

 “Corset?”

 “All nines,” He said with a smile.

I couldn’t help but feel like a princess as I got into the back of his chartered limo. He poured me some champagne and reached down to caress my thighs. I drew a deep breath. The alcohol and the touch brought on my first big pheromone rush.

 He raised my skirt. 

“The driver!” I wanted to scream out loud, but didn’t. 

He stroked my clit ever so lightly, but didn’t stop. He picked up the pace instead. His nimble manly fingers drew circles around it. I began to breathe hard. He slid them up and down, I breather harder. The fingers moved from side to side.

“You’ve grown wet.” He observed. “Keep yourself that way tonight.”

We arrived soon after that. We walked through the lobby. I was out of breath. I couldn’t help but think I was the only woman in theatre who was turned on We found our seats and settled in. Soon after, the lights dimmed. The entr’acte began.

The auditorium remained dimly lit only by the red glow of the exit lights. There, in the semidarkness I saw that same glow reflected by thousands of sequins from other women’s dresses. I noticed hundreds of trembling crystal pendant earrings, glowing bright red too. Red lights suited the mood.

I couldn’t help but think about my ‘slave girl” ear rings, and knew, just knew, I was strangely different. I had already become nothing more than Gregor’s new play toy. No doubt most women would have been angry for being so objectified, but not me. I knew I was different. I could not help but feel proud.

The first act was fabulous. I watched mesmerized.

 Herman walked me over to the ladies’ room at intermission. “Don’t forget to keep yourself.” He said. “For me.”

My panties had not just stayed wet. They had, in fact, grown wetter. It was almost as if they were my own little secret: correction, OUR little secret, that had been faithfully and effortlessly kept among the well heeled and the high heeled. I felt all this, while surrounded by total strangers. No one knew and no one even thought enough to know what was really going on between Gregor and I. Coppelia’s story, the doll’s story, made perfect sense. It was a euphoric time. The story had, in fact become my own.

I had been made into a doll. I wore clothes that were purchased for me. I showed my companion every piece of intimate apparel. I had been made to get turned-on in front of the chauffer, and then told to stay that way until further notice. Doll!

 Intermission over, the lights began to fade and the music played. Herman touched me on the thigh. I looked at him, smiled, and nodded. He knew! He opened his coat and reached into his breast pocket. He showed me a pair of handcuffs. There, in the middle of the auditorium! With all those earrings glowing red! My jaw dropped. He smiled back and nodded. My skin turned ginger: another pheromone rush!

“The pull” had completely returned. It came from somewhere deep inside. I just couldn’t wait to get back in the limo. And when we did, Gregor was ready.

“Come here, doll,’ he said as he made me kneel in front of him.

“Not a word…no need to talk.”

He put my arms behind my back, cuffed my wrists and elbows together, my ankles too. I confess I felt a twinge of fear; and as I did, I felt my excitement grow.

 “Lean forward,” he ordered, and buckled a leather collar around my neck. I knew full well what he was doing, that he was making me his slave. Right then and there I knew I was owned. Owned! I felt fear again, this time by this new thing that I had become. Still, even with the driver watching, I did not protest. My desire drove me on. I blushed again.

 “All those lovely people,” Gregor said. “Rich and powerful, well connected too. They are slaves and they don’t even know it. They will work themselves to death…and what for? A six-figure salary? Status? Their women? Their vanilla wives are nothing but trophies, slaves to their men who toil every day working for others. All of them live in a silverback world. They can’t escape it. At least now, you and I know who we really are; and, in that knowing, we are free.”

 He opened his fly and tugged my earrings.

 “Throat,” he said.

 I knew just what to do and wasted no time.

 He fucked my face very hard as he pushed his cock into my mouth. It made a noise which sounded like, “guck, guck, guck.”

“James, can you play that Van Morrison song please, the one I like?”

“You can take all the tea in China

Put it in a big brown bag for me

Sail right around the seven oceans

Drop it straight into the deep blue sea

She's as sweet as tupelo honey

She's an angel of the first degree

She's as sweet as tupelo honey

Just like honey from the bee”

“You can't stop us on the road to freedom

You can't keep us 'cause our eyes can see

Men with insight, men in granite

Knights in armor bent on chivalry

She's as sweet as tupelo honey

She's an angel of the first degree

She's as sweet as tupelo honey

Just like honey from the bee”

The words sent shivers down my spine. Freedom for me was service, Freedom meant a different life, a life in which I stopped running from pain and toward pleasure. Freedom meant embracing both. It was taking the good with the bad, feeling a little worse in order to feel a lot better. I forced him down my throat all the way and held him there, choking and gagging as I did.

 “Van Morrison never says love,” he said, “It’s a tired and weary word, overused and too often abused. The song is about finding yourself instead, seeing the light, your own inner truth, the road to freedom. After all, how can you be free if you do not know yourself?”

 He was right. We hear people every day, so called well adjusted people, speaking of love as if it were a common thing, not sacred at all. No doubt many of them are the same who have narrowed its meaning, many who too often have said, "not tonight, not with the lights on,"

I felt him swell inside me. My throat began to hurt, but I spurred myself on and took him in all the way.

 “Oh, Puppi!” he moaned.

 I felt him quiver and squirt. I swallowed. I choked. It made him harder. He squirted again. I choked again, this time forcing his sperm up through my nose, over my chin, and down across my cleavage. The song played on.

 “You know she's alright, oh she's alright with me

You know, you know, you know she's alright, she alright with me

You know, you know, you know you know

You know she's alright, alright with me

She's alright, she's alright

She's alright with me

She's alright

She's alright with me

She's alright

She's alright with me”

We relaxed soon after. Gregor poured a glass of champagne and shared it with me. And then he pulled down on the front of my dress. He lifted my breasts out of my bra and fondled them for a while, growing hard once again. He caressed my nipples to hardness and then squeezed them.

 “Mmmph,” I groaned.

 “Suffer for me please,” he said.

 “Suffer proud.” He twisted.

“Make me hard again.” He pulled.

And so I did. He pulled my head back down on his cock, forcing it even deeper than before. James played the song again. Somehow or another my neck muscles had relaxed. I throated him even better than before.

We both came again together as the song ended.

“She's alright

She's alright with me”

There is great joy in becoming a doll,” Gregor said. “Dolls cannot do. They can only be done to. They cannot choose. They can only be chosen.”

 Gregor was right. Thanks to him I found myself that night in the back of that limo. I had found my pull, answered it even, lived the dream. I found myself totally committed to a will which was not my own. I became a slave, and never sore content to be so. I felt a new happiness in being used and used with such total freedom, that Gregor could do anything he wanted with me, anything with no limit, no restriction, no constraint. It was perfect intimacy. His freedom was mine.

I never looked back. On the contrary, I looked forward. It was as if Gregor had put me up on a shelf and posed me like a doll, a living doll, a new creation one made by an artist, a real master. Perhaps in a way he did. He had torn down all of my walls and released me to become what I had always wanted, no needed, to be.

Gregor honored my wish. He took me to private clubs and showed me other women, others who had felt the very same pull, and devoted themselves, not just to their masters, but also to the greater world.

One such place was called The Manse, a loose consortium of female slave owners. Slave: what an odd word! In ancient times the word implied nonconsent, capture, and force. These women had not been kidnapped or trafficked. They became slaves on their own accord.

 The Manse décor had something of a timeless quality, as if it had always been around, always served its patrons for at least a century, maybe two. Each room on the first floor looked like an art gallery in which women were posed and bound naked, or partly naked, like statues put on display.

 We were welcomed warmly. Servants brought us drinks. The maître d came forward and said, “This is one gallery where you can feel free to touch the art,” and mentioned, “everything here tonight is for sale.”

We had a wonderful time. I begged for more. Soon after Gregor made me a slave there. I became like the rest and put on display. I had never been so aroused, but even that merely whetted my appetite for more.

 “Do whatever you want with me,” I told Gregor, but don’t tell me you love me, and never ever set me free.”

Gregor knew my needs long before I said those words. He arranged for me to live in a dungeon along with other women who became slave sisters. I find a great solace in having slave sisters. We shared a deep bond, and in a way that reminded me of my overnight stay with Brooke. We had all felt the pull some even more  strongly this me.

And so, to make my story short, here I am tonight in the Peep Show Palace, tied with my arms spread wide, almost in total supplication, my head thrown back almost as if in total supplication to some unseen force, perhaps even to an unseen god. I hang, suspended, helpless, and on display, nearly naked, all except for those panties I wore to the ballet.

 My ten-by-ten room is lined with windows, windows full of hungry eyes, the property of predator personalities, each who have come to celebrate my suffering, jag off, and cum the great big predator cum.

I don’t care. I don’t mind. These are souls who have also felt the same pull. Gregor will not be joining me, at least not here. He’s given me to Vladimir, a retired body builder who needs the money to make rent, He’s a real showman who enjoys his work. He will not disappoint the patrons. He never does.

He comes in carrying a bamboo cane. Those predators pound the glass and cheer. Vlad has named our show. He calls it the Red Zebra Dance. He will deliver one horizontal stroke across my body, wait a moment or two, then swing the cane again striking me a couple inches higher or lower. He will continue up and down my entire body, stopping only when he’s marked me head to foot.

But not just yet… He puts his hand inside my panties. “I see you started without me,” he remarks. He pulls them down, More pounding on the glass, cat calls, whistles too.

 It isn’t hard for me, to get turned on. It’s not the eyes that watch me, nor Vlad, not even his clever hand. It’s Gregor. I’ve learned from him. I know he will be waiting for me when it’s all over. James will drive us home in the limo. And that old song by Van Morrison will be played.