Star Slave

by Nicole Dere

  ‘I know their names,’ Felicity contradicted, blushing slightly. ‘I just don’t know who was who.’

  ‘How do you know they were our guests?’ the mocking tones continued. ‘Perhaps they were all strangers. Or the staff. Or the local football team. They could have been anybody.’

  For an instant Felicity stared at her in wide-eyed alarm, then pulled a sulky face once more. ‘You’re teasing me! You’re a beast!’

  ‘Am I?’ Magda reached out and tweaked Felicity’s nipple playfully. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. But you still love me, don’t you? But how much, I wonder?’

  Felicity stared at her, caught by the reflective seriousness in her voice. ‘How could you?’ she murmured, in genuine reproach. ‘I thought I’d proved that already. I thought I’d passed all my tests.’

  ‘Ah.’ Magda shook her head mysteriously, then the eyes held hers. ‘Are you really willing to do anything for me?’

  Felicity’ felt suddenly as though she were some kind of specimen, pegged down by that merciless question. The tide of colour flooded up from her throat, and her voice shook with emotion. ‘You know I am. You know what I did the other night. I’m not just some kinky tart looking for kicks, you know.’ The unsteadiness increased and there was the catch of tears in her words. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’

  Magda stared for what seemed an age, deep in thought. ‘What about Michael?’

  Felicity shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It’s all sort of gone wrong. Anyway, I’m going to tell him. As soon as I go back to town. It’s all over between us.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Felicity nodded firmly. ‘I’m sure.’

  But Magda’s next question made her gape in open-mouthed astonishment.

  ‘And what if I don’t want it to be?’

  Felicity blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘What if I prefer to have you wed to Michael Sinclair? He’s a decent upstanding citizen. An ideal husband, to coin a phrase. It’d be an outstanding match. Beautiful film star, financial wizard.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Felicity said uncertainly, not sure if she was joking. ‘Why would you want to get rid of me?’

  ‘You don’t have to understand,’ Magda answered. ‘You’d still be mine, wouldn’t you? Even if you married Michael Sinclair?’

  ‘How could I be? Not like now...’ she gestured at the bed and her naked body. ‘Michael wouldn’t put up with this. Look at the fuss he’s made about Stella. Anyway, I doubt he’ll have me now.’

  ‘Is he really such a straight old square?’ the deep voice drawled. ‘It’s really quite cute, in this day and age.’ She stood up quickly. ‘Never mind that for now. I’ve a job for you. Get up, have a shower, then put these on. Don’t dawdle. You’ve got to be out by eleven.’ She went over to the chair, upon which lay a bundle of clothes, and brought them over to the bed. ‘Chop chop!’ She clapped her hands, and Felicity obediently swung her legs out of the bed.

  ‘What the hell’s all this?’ Her voice squeaked in startled indignation at the ribbed and laced black corselette, with flounced frills of organdie at the high cut away legs, from which the long ribbons of suspenders dangled. There was also a pair of sheer dark stockings, and shoes with tiny bows and spiky four-inch heels. The white blouse had a high ruffled neck and long puffed sleeves, gathered in frills at the wrists. The high-waisted skirt was flared, and made of a heavy material in a dark tweed, and came almost to her ankles. ‘Is this fancy dress?’ she asked. ‘On the outside I look like a Victorian schoolmarm and underneath a saloon girl from a B-movie Western.’

  She yelped as Magda slapped her with playful force across the top of her thigh. ‘I’ve told you, baby, yours is not to reason why. Go and get ready before I tan your arse for you!’

  As she showered, then dressed in the strange outfit, all under the amused gaze of her mistress, Felicity’s mind raced in a variety of bewildering emotions. Uppermost was the anxiety, the fear that hollowed her stomach unpleasantly. What on earth had Magda planned for her? Could it be another gang-bang? She was privately astonished at how quickly both her spirits and her body had recovered from that experience.

  Never in her life had she had more than one man make love to her at a time. And certainly not six in the space of a few hours! She had thought she’d be prostrate for days afterwards, that she would hardly be able to move, let alone contemplate any sexual activity. Yet the very next night, under Magda’s passionate domination, she had proved how wrong she had been in her assumption.

  Worse, she had thought, would be her shame at having to face those privileged men who had used her so mechanically. Even a prostitute would be hard put to deal with six such clients in one night, she thought, though she had little idea of the realities of commercial sex. It suddenly occurred to her that, if she had met anyone of those fat cats individually, on her own territory, she could have charged hundreds, if not thousands, for her favours. She really was a star now, just as Magda had said. Yet at the Hall she was nothing. A staked-out piece of meat; prime, it was true. And they had used her as such, pumping their seed anonymously into her cunt; a mere vessel for their bodily gratification. And it was that which had secretly thrilled her more than anything about the whole bizarre incident.

  She had dreaded facing them the next day, had crimsoned like a schoolgirl when she was led into the drawing room, Magda’s arm firmly around her waist. But they had all behaved with their polished gallantry, just as before. No one made any reference to how she’d been used in the Green Room, and amazingly, she herself had come to accept it as though it had happened to someone else, or had been one of her erotic dreams.

  Now, dreamlike unreality took over once more as she contemplated herself in the long mirror. The demureness of the high blouse was offset a little by the misty hint of the dark underwear beneath the fine material. The cups of the corselette thrust her breasts up. When she twirled in obedience to Magda’s command, the skirt flared out, in spite of the heavy material, and gave a glimpse of her white thighs above the stocking tops, the flesh dissected by the narrow straps of the suspenders.

  Magda went downstairs with her, and to the door near the kitchens. The car was waiting. Reeves, uniformed as always, was standing by.

  ‘What about a coat?’ Felicity asked.

  ‘You won’t need one, darling.’ Magda leaned forward and kissed her, quite chastely, on the lips.

  Felicity stared in growing trepidation. ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

  Magda laughed and shook her head. ‘No, my sweet. You’re all on your lonesome this time. Just remember- do exactly what you’re told to do at all times. And don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.’

  Felicity felt empty and lonely, like a child being sent to her first day at school. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked helplessly.

  ‘You don’t need to know, my pet,’ Magda answered, and patted her cheek. ‘Run along now.’

  Reeves smiled, held the rear door open for her and, her feeling of helplessness growing, she climbed in.

  She arranged the wide skirt decorously about her as the Mercedes pulled away round the mansion and onto the long drive. She caught Reeves’ eye in the driving mirror and smiled at him nervously. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, leaning forward a little.

  ‘That’s a good start isn’t it, miss?’ he said flatly. ‘You heard what Miss Magda said.’

  Felicity flushed a bright crimson and sat back, humbled and a little angry. She stared at the rich parkland slipping past. It was ironic how she was treated here. Even by this - this servant! Now more than ever she was a household name, as famous, perhaps, as any young woman in the land. At the pinnacle of her fame. But that was in the outside world. Here at Burnopside everyone behaved towards her with such contempt. No, it was not contempt. Far from it, she admitted. There was a tender familiarity, but it was as if she was of no more account than Debbie, or Joanne, or Marie-Angele,
or any of the other girls. And she wasn’t, she acknowledged, deeply ashamed of her brief flare of angry pride. That’s why she loved it there. Why she wanted to stay.

  The car was passing through the wide pillared gates and into the leafy lane that led to the busy road - to the outside world. With a shiver which betokened both her fear and her thrill, she realised that the special aura of Burnopside was being extended, that she was passing beyond its bounds not as Felicity Keynes the star of A Woman’s Touch, but as that other compliant persona who wanted only to love and obey.

  She leaned forward again and put her manicured hand lightly on the uniformed shoulder. ‘Please,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry, Reeves. Forgive me. Please don’t tell Miss Magda. I really am sorry.’

  He winked at her in the rearview mirror. ‘That’s all right, miss. Sit back and enjoy the ride.’

  It wasn’t until they had almost reached their destination that Felicity recognised how close they were to Heathrow. A few minutes later they were pulling in to the forecourt of one of the large airport hotels.

  Reeves turned round and grinned encouragingly. ‘Room two-three-three,’ he said. ‘Up you go. I’ll be back at four. Wait in the lounge for me.’ He got out of the car and opened the rear door for her. The gold braided commissionaire was already hurrying forward importantly. ‘No luggage,’ Reeves told him, and then with a final smile at Felicity, he got back in and pulled away.

  In the busy reception area, she paused uncertainly, wondering whether to announce herself at the desk. But she noticed a stout woman muffled in a quilted jacket staring at her. She could almost hear the brain ticking over: ‘Is that the woman on the tele...?’

  Felicity fled towards the lifts and scanned the room numbers. First floor. She hurried into a waiting lift and was out again in the thickly carpeted corridor almost immediately. It was quite a hike to room two-three-three. She tottered slightly, the slender heels sinking into the thick pile. Her sick anxiety increased with every second as she neared her destination. What, or who, would she find there? What could Magda have planned to test her now?

  She took a deep breath, patted her hair, and tapped on the door. A man opened it and smiled at her.

  ‘Felicity?’ he said. ‘Of course it is. Come in.’

  He was the stuff of true romance; tall dark and handsome. Her heartbeat quickened. Another pulse, deep in her crotch, beat disconcertingly, too.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked courteously.

  She was about to refuse, then decided her nerves required one. She accepted a brandy and soda and stared around at the impersonal comfort, realising that this was in fact a suite - and a highly expensive one at that.

  The man gave her another dazzling smile, came close, and inspected her frankly. ‘Do you mind?’ He gestured, indicating she should lift the heavy skirt. And she did, blushing furiously and feeling utterly foolish. His upturned palm lifted, and she raised the skirt higher still, until the tops of her thighs and the frilled organdie of her undergarment were on view.

  ‘Splendid...’ he said quietly, as though to himself. Felicity let the skirt drop, shocked at her own thoughts as she pondered what it would be like to have sex with this good-looking fellow. Is this what Magda was about, after all? Did she simply want to turn her into a high-class prostitute? Was she, or maybe even Lord B himself, being paid a vast sum for her favours? Were he and Magda no more than pimps, operating an exclusive vice service, using her and the other girls at the Hall?

  While her giddy brain was busily trying to assimilate all this, the young man went over to an inner door and tapped respectfully. ‘Felicity’s here, sir. I’ll leave you now. Ring when you need me.’

  She was still staring in wonder when he smiled a last time and left the room. Through the netted stretch of double glazed window, planes rose and descended soundlessly.

  Felicity was stirred from her daydreaming when the inner door opened and a short figure appeared, completely bald and heavily jowled. He was wearing a singlet, and his belly thrust out like a heavily pregnant woman’s, bulging over the belt of the expensive slacks he wore. The bull neck and shoulders betokened considerable strength, though it was a strength largely gone to fat and softened by good living. He moved forward, grinning, and several gold fillings glinted in the pale afternoon light.

  His hands were stubby, too, like the rest of him, but there was this aura of power that struck her forcibly. His touch was light but firm on her arm and her waist, guiding her to a low armchair. She sank down, neatly arranging the long skirt and crossing her legs as she did so. The faint rasp of nylon on nylon was like a perceptible tremor of sex.

  ‘You’re very lovely,’ he said. His voice was thick, husky, with a moderate foreign accent. Italian, Felicity thought. Perhaps he was a big wheel in the Mafia, she wondered fancifully. ‘I just wish I had more time. Unfortunately, my plane leaves in a couple of hours. I’m glad you could make it. Would you like another drink?’

  ‘No thank you.’ She almost asked a question, then remembered Magda’s instructions. In the normal luxury of these surroundings they seemed ridiculous, yet she obeyed. Even here she was no longer Felicity Keynes, but someone altogether different. She flushed at the excitement this thought caused her.

  ‘Right,’ he announced, in a businesslike tone. He took the glass from her and put it to one side, and then casually unbuckled his belt and shuffled out of his trousers. His underpants were baggy and loose in the leg. She could see no sign of his genitals under their concealment. ‘Over here.’ He extended his hand, she took it, and he drew her over to the polished table right by the window. ‘Bend over,’ he ordered, watching her move obediently, and said with evident satisfaction, ‘That’s right... lovely.’

  Felicity’s heart sank. It was to be another beating. She turned her head to the side and felt the cold polished surface of the wood against her cheek. He lifted the hem of her skirt and folded it carefully over her back. She wondered how he would deal with her underwear, having to undo the three hook-and-eye fasteners under her crotch. Should she help him? Should she do it herself? But then she realised he was not going to bare her bottom at all.

  ‘The cane, I think,’ she heard him say. ‘Is that all right?’

  Speak when spoken to. She cleared her throat and stammered uncertainly, ‘Y-yes.’ Her frame tensed as she heard a short sharp whistling sound as he swiped the instrument of punishment through the still air. Her outstretched fingers clung to the far edge of the table, her buttocks clenched, and she held her breath, waiting in dread for the agony to begin.

  ‘Oh, here,’ he said, ‘better put this in. Just in case.’ He pushed a clean handkerchief into her mouth, and she bit down on it. Which was just as well, for as the first stroke cut deep into her behind, in spite of the flounced lace and satin protecting it, she jerked and screamed, the gag trapping the protests deep in her throat. ‘Only a few more!’ he warned, his voice thick and unsteady with his arousal. ‘Don’t move!’ Somehow she managed to stay down over the table, pressing herself to its hardness in a feeble attempt to escape the pain, while five more cuts bit into her poor flesh.

  The breath whistled through her flared nostrils and tears streamed down her cheeks as she chewed desperately at the sodden handkerchief to suppress her anguish. She was trembling violently, grateful through the haze of pain for the steady burn that told her the caning was over. She felt she couldn’t move, though her hands longed to caress the burning rounds.

  ‘Good girl!’ he panted, and she felt those stubby fingers fumbling with clumsy impatience at her damp crotch, dealing with the difficult fasteners until he finally succeeded and the piece of material covering her sex fell away.

  He lifted the little tail of the garment, folded it onto her back, and prodded her feet apart with the toe of his shoe. She instinctively readjusted her stance a little for him, and then felt his rampant prick probe into the valley of her abused bottom
. She felt his insistent thumbs prising her cheeks apart. She groaned into the wet hanky, expecting him to penetrate her back passage. But he didn’t. He grunted and said, ‘You’re not one of them, then? Or haven’t they done you yet?’ Then she completely forgot the cryptic words as his thick penis bludgeoned through into the receptive moistness of her sex, and buried itself deep into her pulsating sheath.

  Oddly, the pounding of his fat belly and his groin against her tortured buttocks was comforting, and then highly arousing, as her excitement spiralled to meet his at the crucial moment. She felt the powerful spurt of his coming and drove back against him frantically, the walls of her vagina spasming, the orgasm bursting upon her with all its consuming finality.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Michael stared sourly at the Mercedes in front of him in the fast lane, and crept close to the tinted rear window, gunning his motor imperiously. The silver-grey car pulled over to the middle lane, and Michael inched past. The side rear windows were tinted too, so he couldn’t see if anyone was sitting in the back, but he could see the liveried outfit of the chauffeur at the wheel, staring stolidly ahead and ignoring the malevolent glare Michael threw at him. Doubtless some loaded foreigner heading for the airport. Perhaps a wealthy sheikh with his four wives and the boot crammed with half of Harrods. He forgot about it at once, concentrating on the road instead, and on his own troubled thoughts.

  He was late for the meeting, just as he’d been late into the office, where he’d put in his first appearance since before the holiday break. And here it was the thirtieth. Sir Robert had not been too pleased, that was made blatantly clear. In his opinion holidays were for the plebs. For the first time, while Sir Robert chewed his bollocks off, Michael had thought he spied a hint of compassion in Louise’s beautifully made-up eyes, as well as the knicker-moistening lust he fancied he could read there. And his PA wasn’t the only one with the hots for him, he liked secretly to imagine. The outer office was redolent with the soft sounds of squelching labia, he liked to think, every time he walked past the girls with his best smile.