Torture Botique by Bill Ward

Excerpt: Torture Botique

RICHMOND, a quaint little town in the county of Middlesex, England, borders the banks of the Thames, not far from Runnymede where the Magna Carta, the basis of all English and American law, was signed. How ironic, then, that in the little town’s environs exists a small botique; innocuous on the exterior, yet within its medieval stone walls things are happening every day that would make the bygone executioners in the Tower of London blanch in horror.

The proprietress of the little shop is Marie Du Barry, a direct descendant of Madame Du Barry, the wanton mistress of Louis the Fourteenth of France.

One might get an inkling of the bizarre nature of the little botique from the unusually extreme garments displayed in its window. Mid thigh-high kid boots with heels so high that casual passersby pause to wonder how one could possibly walk in them. Elegant black kid corsets with multi-boned support panels in front; the wasp waists far too narrow for the bulkier waists of the modern woman. From a long bull whip that is stretched across the upper portion of the window hangs a varied assortment of long kid gloves; exquisitely made and far more expensive than any of the local townspeople could afford.

The shop keepers in the little alley that leads down to the Thames talk about the little botique in hushed tones. How could it be that a shop with such bizarre, unfashionable garments on display could have such a steady stream of fashionably dressed customers going in and out?

• • • • •

Marie Du Barry grimaced with delicious pain as she sat at her dressing table brushing her long raven tresses into lustrous, shining highlights. A sleek pair of armpit length black kid gloves that flared into dramatic points over her shoulders were the cause. Agonizingly tight, she reveled in the tight feeling of imprisonment they gave to her soft arms. It wasn’t that they didn’t fit, as far as she was concerned, the tighter the glove the better.

Although it always took her at least fifteen minutes to get them on to her satisfaction, she loved every minute of it. First that delightfully feminine task of working each finger into its clinging embrace of exquisite kid. Then tugging the kid upwards, inch by agonizing inch till the glove was tucked taut under the armpit. After meticulously working each tiny pearl button into the button holes at the wrist, she would proceed to smooth out the wrinkles that had the audacity to appear in the luxurious surfaces.

The tingling little pleasure-pain was created as she bent her arm to brush her hair, the tissue-thin but non-stretchable kid, cutting deeply into the flesh in the crook of her arm. She was wearing a skin-tight leather garment of black kid that had an opening in front, permitting her enormous, buoyant teats to jut out from her ribcage like twin projectiles, their enormity emphasized by a wide leather belt that cinched her waist in to an incredible degree. Her skirt could scarcely be called a skirt at all; flaring down diagonally across her soft thighs from the belt’s double buckle, covering less than half of the deep cleavage between her delectable rump in the rear. Pencil-thin black garter straps emerged from under the skirt and coursed deliciously downward over her alabaster thighs to anchor themselves to her gossamer midnight black hose. Black patent leather pumps with six-inch stiletto heels completed her attire.

Excerpt From: Bill Ward. “Torture Botique.”