At nine o'clock on a Saturday evening David Hockney was at the door of Kitaj's room. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. Kitaj had thrown himself into their BDSM encounters so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Hockney, but had warmed most of the boys and nearly all the department girls in his favour. It was he who had managed the rope knots in every bondage session, and his voice from wherever he stood had come to be looked upon as a safe guide as to how to have fun regardless of whether his slaves could see or had been blindfolded.
So Hockney had recovered his old footing in the dominatrix's room; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an intimate friend. Kitaj's supper was on one end of the table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a book. Hockney marched straight up to him, and leant over his shoulder.
"What, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "Come; shut up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you."
Kitaj looked up with a grim smile.
"Are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, I was just reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?"
He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was reading. It was Venus In Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, and Hockney, leaning over his shoulder, read:
A Russian prince made his first appearance today on the promenade. He aroused general interest on account of his athletic figure, magnificent face, and splendid bearing. The women particularly gaped at him as though he were a wild animal, but he went his way gloomily without paying attention to any one. He was accompanied by two servants, one a negro, completely dressed in red satin, and the other a Circassian in his full gleaming uniform. Suddenly he saw Wanda, and fixed his cold piercing look upon her; he even turned his head after her, and when she had passed, he stood still and followed her with his eyes.
And she—she veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes—and did everything possible to meet him again.
The cunning coquetry with which she walked, moved, and looked at him, almost stifled me. On the way home I remarked about it. She knit her brows.
"What do you want," she said, "the prince is a man whom I might like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I can do what I please—"
"Don't you love me any longer—" I stammered, frightened.
"I love only you," she replied, "but I shall have the prince pay court to me."
"Aren't you my slave?" she said calmly. "Am I not Venus, the cruel northern Venus in Furs?"
I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words; her cold look entered my heart like a dagger.
"You will find out immediately the prince's name, residence, and circumstances," she continued. "Do you understand?"
"No argument, obey!" exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have thought possible for her, "and don't dare to enter my sight until you can answer my questions."
It was not till afternoon that I could obtain the desired information for Wanda. She let me stand before her like a servant, while she leaned back in her armchair and listened to me, smiling. Then she nodded; she seemed to be satisfied.
"Bring me my footstool," she commanded shortly.
I obeyed, and after having put it before her and having put her feet on it, I remained kneeling.
"How will this end?" I asked sadly after a short pause.
She broke into playful laughter. "Why things haven't even begun yet."
"You are more heartless than I imagined," I replied, hurt.
"Severin," Wanda began earnestly. "I haven't done anything yet, not the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization, when I shall lead a gay, free life and have a circle of admirers about me, when I shall actually fulfil your ideal, tread you underfoot and apply the lash?"
"You take my dreams too seriously."
"Too seriously? I can't stop at make-believe, when once I begin," she replied. "You know I hate all play-acting and comedy. You have wished it. Was it my idea or yours? Did I persuade you or did you inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now."
"Wanda," I replied, caressingly, "listen quietly to me. We love each other infinitely, we are very happy, will you sacrifice our entire future to a whim?"
"It is no longer a whim," she exclaimed.
"What is it?" I asked frightened.
"Something that was probably latent in me," she said quietly and thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a powerful impulse, fills my whole being, now that I enjoy it, now that I cannot and do not want to do otherwise, now you want to back out— you—are you a man?"
"Dear, sweet Wanda!" I began to caress her, kiss her.
"Don't—you are not a man—"
"And you," I flared up.
"I am stubborn," she said, "you know that. I haven't a strong imagination, and like you I am weak in execution. But when I make up my mind to do something, I carry it through, and the more certainly, the more opposition I meet. Leave me alone!"
She pushed me away, and got up.
"Wanda!" I likewise rose, and stood facing her.
"Now you know what I am," she continued. "Once more I warn you. You still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave."
"Wanda," I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes, "don't you know how I love you?"
Her lips quivered contemptuously.
"You are mistaken, you make yourself out worse than you are; you are good and noble by nature—"
"What do you know about my nature," she interrupted vehemently, "you will get to know me as I am."
"Decide, will you submit, unconditionally?"
"And if I say no."
She stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile about her lips, she was in fact the despotic woman of my dreams. Her expression seemed hard, and nothing lay in her eyes that promised kindness or mercy.
"Well—" she said at last.
"You are angry," I cried, "you will punish me."
"Oh no!" she replied, "I shall let you go. You are free. I am not holding you."
"Wanda—I, who love you so—"
"Yes, you, my dear sir, you who adore me," she exclaimed contemptuously, "but who are a coward, a liar, and a breaker of promises. Leave me instantly—"
My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began to cry.
"Tears, too!" She began to laugh. Oh, this laughter was frightful. "Leave me—I don't want to see you again."
"Oh my God!" I cried, beside myself. "I will do whatever you command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you will—only don't send me away—I can't bear it—I cannot live without you." I embraced her knees, and covered her hand with kisses.
"Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash, for you are not a man," she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure, not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt most. "Now I know you, your dog-like nature, that adores where it is kicked, and the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you shall come to know me."
She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed on my knees; my head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes.
"Come here," Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman. I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me sombrely, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior of her eye. Smiling, she drew me toward her breast, and began to kiss the tears out of my eyes.
Hockney knew roughly what Kitaj was thinking so it came as no surprise when he was instructed to go out and pick up a girl and then bring her back for his master to fuck. Hockney took a cab to the other side of Hyde Park, found a prostitute and had her stepping out of the taxi in front of Kitaj’s South Kensington digs within 15 minutes. There wasn't much to the fucking Kitaj did with the girl – a few thrusts and it was all over. The real shock for Hockney came when Kitaj offered the girl – who said her name was Lara - a couple more pounds to mistreat his slave.
Back when he was an RCA student, Hockney had the slim dream body of a fashion model, and it was only partly veiled by a semi-transparent negligee Kitaj made him don. At that time Hockney wore his dark blond hair fairly short, in a well-arranged disarray, and his face was most attractive. Hockney's smile seemed to bewitch the prostitute, and his voice possessed that certain erotic something that makes girls go crazy: low volume, unobtrusive, with a deep vibrating overtone, but without seeming smoky.
Once Hockney and Lara were completely naked, the streetwalker tied the john to a standing X-cross Kitaj had in his room. This gave her he best position from which to explore his upper body. She started by stroking Hockney’s silky skin softly to discover the most ticklish spots. This produced joyful shivers, and goose bumps appeared everywhere. But only when Lara increase her fingertip pressure did Hockney start giggling and laughing. It wasn't really torturing at this stage, it was mere play.
Lara continued her game on Hockney's palms. The art student confessed that every touch there has an erotic quality for him. The girl then explained that the most ticklish parts of the body are the erogenous zones. Fingers travel downward over the forearms to the elbows. The elbow crease usually belongs to the ticklish spots, and Hockney's were no exception.
Things get even more interesting as Lara touched Hockney's freely accessible armpits. A first squealing scream escapes him. As her fingers continued to dabble there, his squeals turned into heavy guffaws. Hockney's features contorted into a tortured but still laughing expression, with some slight similarities to a climaxing one. Kitaj who was looking on surmised this was one of the main attractions for any tickle enthusiast: almost orgasmic facial expressions combined with a helplessly writhing body. The reflex to cover underarms and sides is overwhelming, but the bondage prevented Hockney from doing that. The rubber slave was forced to bear the unbearable, and by this time his only wish was that Lara would stop tickling him! But an experienced tickler knows that, and will continue to tickle unless a safety signal is given.
Lara knew from experience that a mere word for a safety signal is not sufficient when it comes to tickling. Tickle victims often laugh so heavily that they can't utter a comprehensible word. But a cough always works. This signal has got another advantage: if your ticklee swallows the wrong way during his laughter, it can be very dangerous to the breathing. But then he has to cough involuntarily, thus interrupting the tickling before the problem gets more serious.
Apart from that, Lara knew any halfway ticklish person would beg you to stop sooner or later, although like Hockney he might really be enjoying this sensuous torture. The real kick for the ticklee lies in the neural overloading. A clever safety signal allows the victim to beg and plead for mercy to his heart's delight without depriving him of this special kick. And begging is an important part in this game of power and surrender.
Therefore, Lara's fingers remained in Hockney's armpits a little longer, until real breathing troubles started. To grant him a little break, Lara tickled and caressed his nipples, which were already erect from the torture. The girl's next target was Hockney's ribs. As Hockney was still slim, his ribcage was deliciously pronounced, and Lara was able to count his ribs. Each and every touch elicited heavy guffawing. Hockney's most sensitive spots in this area turned out to be the area directly below his nipples, and the short lower ribs near the stomach. Touching the lower ribs made Hockney double over even in his bondage. The reflex point is right at the diaphragm. Anyone you care to name is almost sure to laugh at a touch there, because that's where all laughter originates, not only during a tickle session.
This area can be tickled in two different ways: Surface touch and deep kneading. Tickling the surface results in twitching and giggling, whereas the strong touch elicits a heavy guffaw coming from deep within. If you continue the latter it tortures the victim into severe breathing difficulties. This is what Lara did to Hockney, until another break was called for. The girl loved filling these interludes with other forms of erotic stimulation. Hockney's skin had become much more sensitive from the tickling, and being a skilful tickler Lara was able to thoroughly arouse her victim with constant changes between tickling and pure erotic touch.
To bring some variation to the session, Lara took two stiff feathers from a "Surprise Bag" by Kitaj’s bed. These classical tickle instruments were glided softly over Hockney's upper body. They tickled and stimulated simultaneously, as the slave confirmed.
"That's making me so hot!" Hockney cried between his moans and giggles.
Lara's feathers begin to explore Hockney's lower parts. His inner thighs and the hollows at the back of his knees proved particularly rewarding areas. The knee tickling caused Hockney to lose his balance, buckling forward in his bondage not just once but many times. However there was more: using her thumbs and middle fingers like a broad pincer, Lara squeezed Hockney's thighs just above the knees. The result was loud screaming and strong struggling; real tickle torture.
Then Lara took the feathers again to tickle Hockney's pubic area. He tried to pull his legs up as far as the straps that restrained them allowed, but it was never far enough to protect this sensitive area from the girl's touch. Hockney fell into continuous giggling, sometimes interrupted by loud laughter. His V-shaped loin creases produced the most intense sensations and he started to howl at every touch there.
Until then, Lara had carefully avoided touching Hockney's cock directly, but now she draws her feather full-length along his pork sword. As Kitaj watched the scene with curiosity, Lara grabbed Hockney's cock with her hand and started to jerk him off. Hockney squeaked and threw his body back and forth; he seemed to ride the length of the girl's hand. After continuing with this for a few strokes, Lara stopped before Hockney shot his load. She then tickled his genitals with her the tip of the feathers tip, and this produced new fits of giggling and squealing – especially when she worked the feathers around Hockney's balls.
Standing up to apply her fingers to Hockney's upper body once more, Lara saw the art student's eyes: they are "tickle-drunk", a special gleam produced by laughter and arousal. When Lara resumed the kneading on Hockney's ribs, eliciting jubilating screams, the slave repeatedly pressed his lower body against the prostitute and attempted to get his erect manhood into her creamy slit. The victim's reactions, his facial expressions, the tortured but still cathartic laughter, the severe struggling and wriggling in his bondage, they all had the effect of an aphrodisiac on the girl, and Hockney's abdominal movements added greatly to her excitement.
Not to make the game too boring, Kitaj hands Lara various gadgets from his special bag: a small, pointed paintbrush, Q-tips, and a small dildo. Lara’s put the dildo in Hockney’s mouth while promising to shove it up his arse if he behaved himself. She tickled Hockney's nipples with the paintbrush and he couldn't help laughing. The dildo fell from his mouth and clattered to the floor.
As interesting as these gadgets proved to be, the best tools for tickling Hockney were Lara's skilful fingers. She found using them a most satisfying experience. With them, she could feel the involuntary twitches beneath Hockney's silky skin, a thoroughly sensuous vibration. She particularly enjoyed it as her fingers tickled Hockney's stomach and hips.
Hockney always got breaks at the right moments, filled with soft kissing on his ears and nipples. During this, he would bend down his head to breathe his excitement into Lara's ears, renewing her arousal. As she started to tickle his armpits again, Hockney screamed for mercy. Lara desisted.
"Why do you stop? I didn't use the danger signal, did I?” Hockney spat cheekily. “I really enjoy this torture, although it gets unbearable sometimes."
Hockney got his punishment for this from the heaviest possible tickle attack. He was forced into loud, continuous guffawing, and during inhaling, a small "grunt" escaped him.
"Coughing is the danger signal, not grunting!" Lara admonished him.
This elicited a new fit of laughter, although Hockney wasn't being touched, and then he grunted again, resulting in more involuntary mirth.
Lara then took Hockney down from his upright position and tied him face down on the bed. Once he was secured she tickled his feet. The very first touch on his arches made him scream, and Lara was glad she'd tied each of the slave’s limbs to a corner of the bed. The restraints prevented her being hit as he writhed.
Hockney's laughter took on a different quality. It really sounded tortured, bordering on hysterical. His feet were incredibly ticklish, and Lara extracted the maximum of erotic stimulation from this weakness. She licked and nibbled at Hockney's toes. Her tongue between them left him a half-crazy wreck, his voice repeatedly failing. And the feathers drawn across Hockney's toe balls made him scream. The tickle slave was visibly exhausted by this point, his face and neck flushed, but still he had an aroused gleam in his eyes when Lara pulled his head back and looked into them.
“There are fifty shades of pink in my pussy!” Lara told Hockney as she untied him. “I want you to turn over so that I can sit on your face while you lick out every one of them!”
“And Hockney thinks he is gay not straight.” Kitaj laughed as his slave gave the prostitute a good tongue job. “There is no gay or straight in BDSM!”