by Syra Bond
I wondered how long I would have to wait, and for what? I couldn’t imagine what was going to happen. I opened my legs wider and pressed my crack against the sharp edge of the weighing scale’s heavy back. Again I felt its coolness, its hardness, its rigidity. The dial was like a massive head, the glass covered front its face, its massive chassis its muscular body. I imagined it as a strange lifeless god - the god of the dead, set on the shores of a sterile planet to guard against the infection of the living. I pictured myself before it - fearful in its presence, shaking with fear at my closeness to its daunting power.
I stared at the line Miranda’s black panties described around her hips. I imagined how tightly the narrow gusset was between the crack of her buttocks. I imagined the material stretched across her anus and pulled in between the fleshy edges of her cunt. I pictured her covered slit pressed against the leather cushion of the bench - moist, hot, waiting for ecstasy, for fulfilment, for completion. I pictured it moving against the material of her panties, the material moving against the leather. I thought of her flesh, all the time separated from the leather, anxious to get in contact with it, needing it and yet revelling in the movement and silky contact that kept it apart. I thrilled at the images of those shiny surfaces moving together against each other - the tension, the delectability, the promise.
A door was opened at the other end of the claustrophobic, low roofed building. A shaft of brightness broke in, highlighting the brick walls in its light - red, loosely mortared, dirty and damp. For a moment, I imagined I was inside a huge empty vein. Someone entered. It was not the man who had left. This man was smaller, slimmer, brightly dressed. It was a jockey.
He walked in carrying his brown leather saddle, worn to a shine by years of racing and training. He wore a helmet with a blue silk covering. His silky shirt was a matching blue with large white diamonds front and back. The shirt was pulled tightly at his neck where a white collar was clipped. His white jodhpurs ended just inside the red tops of his shiny black leather boots. He went to the rack of crops and selected one, testing its tautness and weight by slapping it against his hand and the side of his jodhpurs.
Miranda did not move at all, even though she must have heard the jockey behind her. She remained in place straddling the bench.
I pressed my cunt harder against the sharp edge of the weighing scale chassis. I stepped forward and let my foot rest on its patterned steel platform. The finger of its gauge moved slightly around the face as it detected the pressure of my foot. I no longer cared if my presence was discovered - I was too close to the metal god to fear the eyes of mortals.
The jockey did not hesitate, he did not assess the situation, he went straight up to Miranda and laid the brown leather saddle across her back. It fit perfectly into the curved dip prescribed by her spine. He pulled the front cinch strap tightly beneath the bench and secured the saddle on her back. Still she did not move, or show any response to what was happening.
I wrapped my arms around the weighing machine and pressed my foot harder on the platform. The finger moved again around the dial. I thought for a moment it was a blinking eye - that the machine had come alive, that I had roused the god from his slumber, that he was responding to my touch, encouraging me to get closer, tempting me to rub myself harder against his monolithic frame.
The jockey pulled up the cinch strap into a D ring. Miranda was pinioned onto the bench, pulled down by the tensioned strap with the pressure and weight of the saddle clasped firmly against her back.
The rear of the saddle lay above the waistband of her thong leaving her bottom exposed and unprotected by the material that was pulled in between the crack of her buttocks.
The jockey mounted her as he would his horse - jumping up athletically, lightly and with an agility born of experience and practice. He drew up his knees and inserted his feet into the high stirrups. He fixed them in place and dropped his body slightly forward. He gripped his riding crop in his right hand and rose up on the stirrups.
Still Miranda did not move. I knew she was having to tense herself to take the strain. I knew she must be struggling for breath. I knew she must feel frightened at the confinement of the binding that secured her to the bench. I knew that she must be apprehensive of what was happening and what was about to happen. But also I knew that she was carrying out her instructions, instructions issued by her master, committed to memory and now at last brought to life by their enactment. What greater pleasure could there be than to carry out her master’s orders in such a way? He was not even there to witness it! That made it perfect - a silent homage of subservience, like a prayer to a great god, a sacrifice to the one who was above her in every way.
I moved more onto the platform of the weighing scale. I felt as if I was standing before my master - like Miranda, knowing his silent orders, about to carry them out without his knowledge or intervention. I was in the presence of perfection - carrying out the perfect deed of submission.
The jockey started riding her, his buttocks off the saddle, his knees bent, his head forward, his crop held firmly above her exposed bottom. He flexed his legs - raising and lowering himself at a pace, urging himself on, rounding the last bend, looking for the finishing straight and the final gallop to the post. His breath was fast and regular. The crop came down repeatedly. It smacked sharply and quickly on Miranda’s bottom. It was a snap, so quick it could hardly be noticed, always in movement, always punishing, always ready to punish. He rode on, his breathing quickening, his eagerness increasing, his need for speed escalating.
I reached up to the dial of the weighing machine. It looked down on me - benign and unthinking. Yes, it was my master. I opened my legs to him, exposing my fleshy cunt to the ungiving metal of his body. I held my hands up and embraced the neck of the dial. I looked into the face of my master - my true god. I didn’t need to ask instruction; I knew what I must do. How could it be otherwise?
The jockey’s pace quickened, his breathing became more rapid, the crop came down again and again. The snap of contact - leather against skin - was harsh. Miranda did not react to it; the resilience of her buttocks soaked it up. I looked at her face, to see if she was straining to stand the pressure of the jockey on her back. Her mouth was open, a slight trickle of spit was running from the corner of her lips, but there was no sign of anguish or distress, only a fixed stare that spoke of her sense of purpose and dedication to her master’s wishes. She was doing everything she could to carry out her instructions perfectly, everything she could to fulfil the wishes of her rider and the punishing ferocity of the lashing whip.
I pressed myself against the lifeless body of my master. His coldness and ignorance of me fed my delight - it was his very distance and lack of concern that drove me forward into his ungiving arms. I pulled the front of my crack against his body. There was nothing to bear against - no knob, no protrusion, no handle, nothing to slip into the notch of my flesh. My frustration was overpowering. He would not offer me anything - just obedience and effort, just my own suffering as I tried desperately to carry out his demands.
The flat folded end of the crop snapped again and again - always harder, its resonance longer lasting, the pain it inflicted never ending. The jockey’s breathing became more intense, his movements more hasty. The crop struck harder still. I could see in his mind that he had rounded the last bend, that he had seen the final straight. The cheers of the crowd were filling his head. He brought the crop down again and again in a frenzy - he was thrashing her wildly now, demanding the last effort from her, riding her to the point of destruction.
I looked at her body, still unmoving, still simply suffering, simply carrying out her instructions, every moment of her own silence bringing her increased pleasure, every second of unresponsiveness setting off delights inside her like no action ever could. I looked at her face. The trickle of spit had lengthened; it was bubbling now, frothing and leaching out over the leather cover of the bench. There
, at last, in its glistening strands, I could see the fullness of her pleasure. I could see in its trickling, bubbling stream her unreleased bliss, her imprisoned ecstasy. Her orgasm would not flow, he had not instructed her to release that - that was part of his instruction - but he had not told her that she should not anticipate it. He had told her that she should not have the joy of knowing its rapture - the fulfilment of it by its escape into the world - but he had not told her she could not imagine all that it might be, that she could not experience the delights of wanting but not having.
Suddenly, I caught her eye. She looked straight at me. She had known I was there all the time. I felt the incredible pressure of her pent up pleasure. Somehow she passed it to me and I was filled with it.
It broke over me like the waters from a bursting dam - I was drowned by it. I clung to the body of the scales - the form of my master, my god - barely able to hold on, barely able to stay conscious as I listened to the continuously smacking crop and the urgent breathing of the still frantically riding jockey.
I didn’t know how long it went on - my head buzzed and I felt giddy as it ran through me. I jerked and shook. I think I screamed out, but I was not sure. All the time Miranda stared at me, all the time the spit ran from her mouth, all the time she made no sound and did not move, all the time she was in the ecstasy of anticipation.
In the end I fell sideways from the platform of the scales. It was like being tossed from the knees of my master as he threw me aside - unwanted, used, and now dispensable. I dropped on the floor, still shaking and jerking from the pleasure that had run through me like a scorching fire. I clasped my fingers against the flesh of my cunt. I could feel it throbbing, beating with the delight of abiding by my master’s silent wishes. I delved them deeply, feeling the wet flesh around them, lubricating them, making their passage easy, drawing them in, letting them become a part of the pulsating delight that was gripping me in uncontrollable waves.
I looked at Miranda again. Spit was still running from her mouth in a stream. The jockey unbuckled his saddle and began walking out of the room just as another came in. The second jockey went up to the rack and selected a crop, testing it as the first jockey had done by flexing it against his hand and smacking it against the side of his jodhpurs. Satisfied, he stood forward ready to take his turn with the captive who would suffer punishment until her instructions had expired and who throughout it all would not be satisfied because the instructions she followed so meticulously prohibited it. I looked at the rack of riding crops and realised that Miranda would have many more riders until her penultimate task was brought to its conclusion.
I almost crawled from the weighing room - I was completely dissipated. I made my way back to the hotel in a tram, thinking all the time of what I must do now that I knew what was happening around me. I needed to clear my mind, to decide on a course of action and to follow it without hesitation. I knew I didn’t have much time. Miranda had said that Pastor Wick would be visiting me late tonight. Yes, I knew what I must do. I needed to rescue Sparky. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I had abandoned her to the cruelty of Pastor Wick. And now I knew she was going to be exported as a slave, my mission to save her was unquestionable.
THE BOX IS OPENED
I didn’t stay in the hotel room for more than a few minutes - just long enough to grab the box and get out.
I rushed down the stairs and straight out into the street. It must have looked as if I wasn’t coming back because the girl at the reception ran after me waving a piece of paper.
‘Miss Baund! Miss Baund! You cannot check out! Miss Baund! You have not paid.’
I took no notice, swerved into the main square, and quickly lost her in the crowds.
I knew now that Pastor Wick not only wanted the box, he wanted me! And he was prepared to take me in any way that suited him. I wasn’t going to let that happen. And I wasn’t prepared to allow him to take Sparky - to sell her into slavery just to help finance his evil pursuits at Pacific Heights. I’d get her out and we would both escape and that would be the end of it - Pacific Heights and all that went with it would be forgotten at last.
Everything seemed frantic as I rushed through the streets. I felt desperate now - to get my passport, to make it up to Sparky by setting her free, to escape, to wake up from this terrible nightmare. The world around me seemed in turmoil - the sprawling chairs and tables on the pavements seemed like an infection, a virus that was spreading over the city, consuming it and burying it beneath its monstrous contagion. I tripped over the leg of a chair and the box went flying. A young woman picked it up. As I saw her carrying it towards me - as I realised it was separate from me - I was overcome with anxiety. The thought of losing it now was more than I could bear. As she got closer I became more panicky - her long strides, her fixed stare, her never ending approach all contributed to my feeling of helplessness and threat. I grabbed it from her and ran without even saying thanks.
Soon I was running down the alley towards “Club Lichvář”. It was dark now and the flashing neon light cast a multicoloured pool of light around the entrance door. I shivered as I saw it again.
Anicka stood by the door pulling on her panties. She glowered at me as she bent her right leg outwards at the knee, held the gusset in her fingers and spread it out across her cunt. I could see she had been crying. Her nipples were hard and prominent beneath her thin gold lamé top. She brushed herself down nervously and walked over.
‘I thought you were leaving. I gave you your box. Why haven’t you gone? If you go then Sparky will be my friend again.’
‘Sparky has been taken prisoner. I have come back to help her.’
‘And take her away, I suppose.’
‘You are both in danger. Don’t you realise that?’
‘Why don’t you just take the box and go! Leave me and Sparky like we were before you came.’
‘Anicka, you are both in danger!’
She looked so forlorn. I wasn’t going to convince her, I knew that. I pushed past her. She looked surprised and frightened. She called after me, her voice cracked and desperate.
‘Don’t take Sparky away from me! Please don’t take her away from me! She is all I have. The only friend I have! I don’t think I can live without Sparky! Please, please don’t take her away! Please!’
I burst into the main club room and was hit by the noise and heat. Suddenly, I realised I didn’t know where to go - what to do! I looked around; everyone was gathered around the stage. A woman was bent over the back of another on all fours. She was being beaten and the crowd were encouraging a man with a whip to strike harder, to bring it down faster, to make her suffer more. As the whipping continued, she screamed and writhed so much she had to be held in place by several other men. Every time the whip came down the crowd cheered and bayed for more.
Above the dance floor, and spanning two sides of the cavernous room, there was a raised gallery edged with chrome banisters and with open metal flooring. Different coloured flashing lights in transparent tubes hung around it in twisted loops. It looked like a spaceship, or part of a city from a distant planet. A figure leant over the banister watching the woman being beaten on the stage. Each time she screamed out he smiled - gratified by her suffering, pleased by the enthusiasm of the crowd, ennobled by his position of power over them all. It was Pastor Wick! I had found him!
I didn’t think, I just ran across the room and up the open metal stairway onto the balcony. I watched him all the time, fixing him with my eyes, afraid I might lose him. But my stare did not keep in place. By the time I reached the balcony he had disappeared through a heavy green door. I just saw it closing behind him as I reached it.
If I hesitated it was only for moment - not even long enough to make me stop. I lunged at the door, grabbed the handle and rushed straight in, not thinking of what I might find, or how I would deal with whatever it was.
As i
f I had suddenly appeared from nowhere, I found myself standing in a small room holding the box in my hand. I gasped for breath as my heart pounded wildly in my chest. As suddenly as I had appeared in the room, a tide of fear came over me. It consumed me in a massive drowning wave. I tried to inhale but it was impossible. I fought for air. I felt giddy and sick. I looked around, trying to stop the dizziness, trying to stop myself from fainting. I gulped hard. The room was cluttered with furniture - things piled up on top of others. The lights were dim and yellow. It was so hot! A spluttering gas fire was full on and tall French windows leading onto a balcony were tightly closed.
Sparky, wearing only her pink panties, was bound tightly to a chair, her head hung forward, her spiky hair adorning her like a surreal crown of thorns.
She looked up at me. A leather strap was tied across her mouth - she couldn’t speak. She widened her eyes and nodded excitedly. Blood trickled from two puncture holes in her neck. It had run down over her small breasts and stained her pink panties. I wanted to go to her and lick it up, to clean the wounds with my tongue - to taste her blood. Yes, I wanted to taste her blood! Suddenly, that was all I could think of. I wanted to suck in her blood and drink it. I wanted to feel it going down my throat, being absorbed into my body, becoming part of me.
I shook my shoulders, trying to rid myself of the images that were filling my mind. The lust for blood had taken me over so quickly. It seemed to come from nowhere. The idea of its sudden appearance frightened me. I felt so out of control. I bit my lips and held my breath - trying to force myself to think of other things. My heart was bursting! I clenched my fists and pinched my nails into the palms of my hands. The pain helped. I dug them in more. I felt the skin breaking, the blood flowing. But the sensation of my own bleeding started it again. My mind filled with images of redness, of nourishment, of drinking blood. I stamped my foot on the ground, like a child in a temper, trying to assert myself over unruly thoughts, trying to regain control. I kept telling myself why I was here - why I had compelled myself to come to this place. “I am here for my passport. I am here to help Sparky”, I repeated in my mind as I struggled to blot out the images of blood, the lust that was coursing through my veins, and my need to feed on it.