Thirteen Lystan Gardens

Thirteen Lystan Gardens

"I'm sorry Michael, I have to go." Catherine's tears ran with mascara as she slammed the front door with a finality that left Michael slumped in a chair, head in hands.

"Seven good years," he murmured, his tearful whispers echoing around the now empty flat. "It's Nineteen Ninety Five and I am thirty. Will I ever find a woman again, and with my, well... special interests, what girl would want me?"

The following weeks were a torture that, whilst still always painful, gradually faded from the initial agonising shock of loss that literally made every one of his nerve endings raw, to a dull ache down Michael's sternum (a broken heart?), so that he often walked around the flat carrying a hot water bottle tied to his chest with the sleeves of a cardigan. Evenings were loneliest, interspersed only with the occasional visit from his sister, and drinks with work colleagues. Michael realised all his personal friends came through Catherine. A busy advertising executive, he knew now he'd spent his entire social efforts on business.

Several weeks after Catherine left him, Michael was packing in the early morning for a holiday in Cyprus, booked long before the split. He looked at the pack of airline tickets and hotel vouchers from the travel agent, sighing at the thought of taking the flight on his own that evening.

"We've paid, might as well use it," he muttered, as he searched on book shelves for his passport, inadvertently knocking an odd looking business card to the floor in the process.

'Relationship Councelling, Results Guaranteed, M. Sternberg', it stated in embossed gold letters over a glossy black backround. Michael thumbed the card, it's texture somehow comforting, turned it, and saw a phone number and address; '13 Lystan Gardens, Golders Green, NW11'. Did Catherine want to get help, try and fix things? Nervously he dialled, hoping it wasn't to early, and was relieved when the clipped, elegant tones of a mature woman answered. Michael made an appointment for the day after his return from holiday.

Tall and handsome, with that confidence a financially successful young man often exudes, Michael was of obvious interest for single women (and some married), at the Cypriot resort hotel. Waiters would even invite him to join women for dinner in the evening restaurant, but he always declined, preferring his own company and a stack of books bought from the airport. He also found himself thinking of Catherine too many times a day, masturbating with a frequency that left his shaft raw with blisters. He said to himself he would do something to get her back on his return. "Faint heart never won fair lady," he would repeat to himself, whilst knowing deep down nothing could likely be done to save his love.

Two weeks and day later, back in London and sporting a healthy tan despite it being late October, Michael found himself at the door of an imposing Edwardian villa in Golders Green. Number Thirteen Lystan Gardens, as the odd, black gloss business card had stated. He pressed the parlophone.

"Come in."

The door buzzed and he entered, to a long, high ceilinged hall with several doors of dark panelled oak either side, and dusty portraits hanging in between, with what to Michael looked like school mistresses or governesses from different periods of history, all strict and unsmiling, all somehow similar. These are women with whom you would need to mind your P's and Q's, he smiled to himself. The second door on the left bore a brass plaque. 'M. Sternberg' Michael knocked, and the door was drawn open for him by a striking looking woman, perhaps fifty years old, with honey coloured permed hair, horn rimmed glasses hanging round her neck on a silver chain, a tight cream woollen vee neck sweater, grey cardigan and pencil skirt, tan seamed stockings, and white stillettos. Her face was lightly made up with soft cream coloured powder and mild red lipstick.

"Come in and sit down," she smiled, pointing to a couch. "Let me take your overcoat and you can relax. Coffee?" Michael shook his head, finding words difficult as he sat on the side of the couch. "Lie down if you wish." Michael complied, after which Mrs Sternberg sat in a high backed leather chair opposite, crossing her legs to reveal hint of stocking top, white suspender clip, and glimpse of creamy white thigh above. Michael flushed with embarrassment as his cock rose in his trousers, squirming a little on the couch to hide the bulge.

"Er... how long have you been practising here?" he asked, trying small talk to break the ice and immediately feeling failure.

"Oh, ever so long, ever so long," Mrs Sternberg replied wistfully, "but never mind that. Tell me why you're here, Michael?" Her eyes pierced his. Had she noticed him looking up her skirt?

Michael let go, feeling relaxation overwhelm, a sudden release, and for reasons that couldn't be rationalised, poured out his heart, telling this assertive and perspicatious woman everything. Things he could never have admitted to anyone else.

It was his fault, he blurted out, his relationship with Catherine deteriorating from a natural loving sex life to a denied liasion, all due to his increasing fetishes for female domination of all kinds. Such kinks were not for Catherine, and this, combined with him neglecting her for his career, resulted in the love of his life leaving him. He had no eye for any other woman, and anyway, with his proclivities, who would want him?

Throughout, Mrs Sternberg merely nodded knowingly and without judgement.

"Well Michael," she said when he had finished his miserable soliloquy. "Firstly, don't imagine you are that special. Many people have such inner thoughts. And secondly, look at you, hardly washed up, a good looking young man like you, and successful." She smiled. "Plus you booked this appointment some weeks ago, but came exactly when you said you would. That was a test by the way," she winked. "I could actually have seen you the afternoon of the day you called, but wanted to see if you would keep your word. You did, hence you're a reliable fellow, and that means you have character." Michael felt glowing pride, almost as if he had been complimented by a doting mother.

"So, I'd like you to give me some time to consider a course of treatment. After all, I am a sex therapist as well as a relationship councillor. Will you let me do that?"

"Yes, Mrs Sternberg," said Michael meekly. "Whatever you say."

"Whatever I say," she echoed, rubbing her perfectly manicured hands together with what looked to Michael like hidden glee. "Well, then I say three weeks today, same time, prompt, and in the meantime..."

"Yes, Mrs Sternberg?" Michael said softly, wondering why she needed all that time to prepare.

"...try to behave." She scribbled the date and time on a card and handing it to his trembling fingers. "Be a good boy for Mrs Sternberg."

Michael felt a thrill run through him at her strict words, and once again couldn't resist looking to her skirt, which had now ridden up further to reveal glorious brown stocking welts and the straps of her pretty white suspenders, topped by thin panties hiding the dark mound of her sex, on the covering of which Michael fancied he could see droplets of moisture forming.

Three weeks later, on the exact date and time agreed, Michael was once again walking through the hall of the atmospheric Golders Green villa.

"So, you came precisely when you were told to," Mrs Sternberg said coldly, as she opened the office door. Michael gasped at the sight of the transformed therapist, now wearing a tight black leather pencil skirt, along with a tailored satin jacket covering a low cut black top. The ensemble was finished off all in black, with gloves, velvet neck choker, jade earrings, fully fashioned seamed nylons, and stillettos that Michael imagined must be at least five inches high, so that she now stood eye to eye with him. Today, in contrast to her previous light make up, Mrs Sternberg's cheeks were adorned with thick white face powder, her lips with a cruel looking crimson rouge. To cap it all, on the crest of her honey permed locks, so stiff with laquer they might cut paper, sat a jauntily angled black pillbox hat with a thin nylon face veil that seemed to accentuate the contrast between her pale skin and heavily made up features. She pointed to the couch, and Michael obediently lay down, watching as she walked to the fireplace, opened a box on the mantlepiece, and placed a cigarette into a long silver holder.

"Light me," she said, pointing to a metal table lighter next to the box. Michael stood up, and with unsteady legs, walked to the mantlepiece, picked up the lighter, clicked the flint wheel, and proffered the flame. Mrs Sternberg dragged the cigarette into life, then pointed once again to the couch. Michael lay down again without a word, and gulped as he noticed a thin leather riding crop lying next to the cigarette box.

"Now then," Mrs Sternberg cooed, the muscles of her neck moving the velvet choker ever so slightly as she spoke, her long, tapering fingers stroking the riding crop with immaculately manicured crimson nails. "Your course of therapy with me shall involve confronting your fetishes, so that together we will discover your innermost torment." Michael could say nothing over the rapid beating of his heart, as Mrs Sternberg slowly took off her jacket, each movement deliberately teasing, to reveal her top as strapless and evening gloves of seamed black nylon that ran well up above her elbows, the tops taught against the pale skin of her full and mature upper arms.

In the dimly lit room, the scent of leather and cigarette smoke mingled with the faint aroma of Mrs. Sternberg's perfume, a heady blend that seemed to envelop Michael as he lay on the couch, his heart now racing even faster. He had come seeking guidance, a path back to the woman he loved, but found himself instead in the throes of a wholly unexpected and electrifying encounter with a woman who understood his desires better than he did himself. Her sharp, intelligent eyes pierced through him, as if she could see the deepest recesses of his soul, the very core of his needs.

Mrs. Sternberg sauntered over to him, the clack of her stiletto heels on the hardwood floor echoing through the room. She trailed the riding crop along the side of Michael's face, and his skin tingled as it grazed his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. He watched as she seductively placed a hand on her hip, her posture radiating dominance and power. The leather of her skirt creaked as she leaned over him, blowing smoke in his face as the soft fabric of her blouse revealed the slightest hint of a lacy black bra beneath. Her breasts, though not large, were firm and inviting, and the way the material clung to her frame made Michael's mouth go dry with desire.

The tip of the crop hovered over his chest, and he felt the coolness of the leather against his skin as it traced a path down his sternum and across his abdomen. His body responded instinctively, muscles tightening as he held his breath in anticipation. Without warning, she flicked the crop, and the sensation of a gentle sting shot through him. The pain was fleeting, but the pleasure that followed was intense, a jolt that made him gasp. She chuckled, a dark sound that seemed to resonate in the pit of his stomach, and the sound of it sent a thrill through his body.

Mrs. Sternberg leaned closer, her crimson lips curling into a knowing smile. "You like that, don't you?" she purred, her breath hot against his ear. Michael could feel the weight of her gaze, her eyes never leaving his as she waited for his response. He nodded, unable to form words, his eyes wide with excitement and trepidation. She stepped back and took a drag from her cigarette, the embers burning brightly before she exhaled a plume of smoke that curled around them like a lover's caress. Then, with a graceful flick of her wrist, she sent the ash into the ashtray, never breaking eye contact.

Sensing his heightened arousal, Mrs. Sternberg decided it was time to escalate the session. She strode over to the stereo in the corner, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor. She selected a CD from a collection hidden behind a velvet curtain and slid it into the player. The room was soon filled with the seductive beats of a slow, sultry jazz track. The bass line thumped in Michael's chest, setting the pace for the dance of desire that was unfolding before him.

Turning back to him, she instructed him to stand and strip down to his boxers. Michael's hands trembled as he complied, his eyes never leaving hers. She observed him with a critical eye, the crop tapping against her thigh as she circled him, her movements predatory yet elegant. "You are a handsome man," she said, her voice low and velvety. "But you have forgotten how to truly connect with a woman, to give yourself to her completely." She stepped closer, her breasts brushing against his bare chest, the heat from her body setting his skin aflame.

The music grew louder, the saxophone's wail mimicking the cries of passion that Michael felt building within him. Mrs. Sternberg's eyes bore into his, the intensity of her gaze unnerving yet exhilarating. She leaned in, her crimson lips grazing his ear as she whispered, "I'm going to teach you how to submit, to let go of your fears and inhibitions. This is your chance to explore who you really are."

Her words were like a key unlocking a cage he didn't know he was in. Michael's hands moved to the waistband of his boxers, his thumbs hooking under the elastic. As the fabric slid down his thighs, the cool air of the room caressed his skin, making him feel both vulnerable and exposed. He stepped out of the pool of fabric and stood before her, his erection bobbing slightly in the candlelit room. Mrs. Sternberg took a long, lingering look at him, her eyes devouring every inch of his body. The riding crop tapped against her palm in time with the music as she approached him, her movements deliberate and mesmerizing.

Reaching out, she traced the outline of his cock with the tip of the crop, and Michael's hips jerked in response. "Control," she murmured, her breath warm and sweet against his neck. "You must learn control." She stepped away, and the sudden loss of contact made him feel cold, his body aching for her touch. He watched as she moved to the desk, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. She picked up a velvet blindfold and sailed back to him, her eyes gleaming. "Trust me," she whispered, and he felt the soft fabric cover his eyes, the world plunging into darkness.

The music grew louder, the bass thumping through his chest as he felt her approach. Her fingers danced across his skin, light and teasing, setting him alight with sensation. He could hear the rustle of her skirt, the whisper of nylon against leather as she circled him. Then, the crop was back, the leather caressing him before delivering a series of sharp taps that had him gasping. Each touch sent a pulse of pleasure through his body, and he found himself leaning into the sensation, craving more.

Mrs. Sternberg's hand slid down his back, her nails digging into his flesh just enough to make him aware of her power. She paused at the base of his spine, her fingertips tracing the line of his buttocks before sliding down to the backs of his thighs. His knees threatened to buckle, but she was there, her firm grip on his shoulders keeping him upright. The crop landed with a smack against the side of his thigh, and he jumped, a strangled moan escaping his lips. The pain was exquisite, a beautiful blend of pleasure and pain that resonated through his entire being.

Her voice was a sultry whisper in the darkness. "Spread your legs," she ordered, and he obeyed, feeling the cool air brush against his skin. He heard the sound of something sliding along the leather of the couch, and a moment later, something soft and velvety was pressed into his palm. "Use this," she instructed, and Michael realized it was a pair of handcuffs. His heart raced as he felt the cool metal against his wrist, the snick of the cuffs as she secured them around the rungs of the couch. The music washed over him, a tide of sound that seemed to carry him away from reality and into a place of pure sensation.

The crop landed again, this time across the back of his legs, sending a bolt of pleasure-pain through him that made his cock throb. He felt her breath on his neck, the heat of it making him shiver. "Good boy," she murmured, and the praise was like a shot of adrenaline to his system. His body was alive, every nerve ending singing with anticipation. He could feel the heat from her body, her breasts brushing against his back as she moved closer, her hands sliding around his chest to fondle him.

Mrs. Sternberg's fingers traced the contours of his chest, her nails scraping lightly across his nipples. Michael's breath hitched as she pinched them, rolling the sensitive flesh between her thumb and forefinger. The pain was sharp, but it only served to heighten the sensitivity of his entire body, making every touch feel more intense. Her other hand moved down, her nails following the path of the crop, leaving a trail of fire across his abdomen until she reached his cock. She wrapped her hand around it, her grip firm but gentle, and began to stroke.

The leather of the couch was rough against the backs of his thighs, the coolness of the metal handcuffs a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. Michael felt himself growing harder, his body straining against the bonds as she worked him with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her breath was hot against his ear, her voice a seductive purr that seemed to vibrate through his entire being. "You're doing so well," she said, her words a sweet caress that sent shivers down his spine. "But we're just getting started."

Just as the pleasure was reaching a crescendo, the door to the therapy room swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. The music stuttered to a stop as Michael's estranged wife, Catherine, strode into the room. She took in the scene before her, her eyes widening in shock and then narrowing with a mix of anger and something else--desire? She was dressed similarly to Mrs. Sternberg, in a tight black skirt and a low-cut blouse, her hair in a sleek bob that framed her face.

Mrs. Sternberg didn't flinch. She merely looked up from her ministrations, a smug smile playing on her lips. "Catherine," she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction. "You're right on time."

Catherine's eyes darted between Michael's bound form and the older woman's self-assured posture, her own attire mirroring the dominatrix's in a disturbing symmetry. Michael, still blindfolded, felt his heart plummet into his stomach, his erection withering as the reality of the situation crashed down upon him.

"What the hell is going on here?" Catherine's voice was a mix of fury and arousal. "You didn't tell me it would be like this."

Mrs. Sternberg stepped away from Michael, the crop still in hand. She took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled the smoke with a sultry smile.

"My dear," she said, her voice dripping with a sly amusement, "this is the little surprise we've planned for you." Catherine's eyes flashed with excitement, confirming Michael's worst fears. His mind raced, trying to piece together the twisted puzzle of this unexpected encounter. Catherine's gaze fell upon the handcuffs around his wrists and the discarded clothing scattered on the floor. A knowing smirk played upon her lips.

"I see you've already started without me," she said, her voice husky with desire. Michael's stomach twisted into knots as he struggled blindly to understand the depraved pact that had apparently been forged between these two women. Mrs. Sternberg stepped aside, allowing Catherine to approach the couch. Catherine's eyes raked over his exposed body with a hunger that made his skin crawl and his heart race. "It seems we have a lot of work to do," she murmured, reaching out to trace the lines of his chest with a gloved finger. The nylon whispered against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.