by Gabi Moore
“I know.”
He scooted forward on his chair and extended his hand to stroke the curve of my midriff. My skin bristled into goosebumps, chill even under the warm sun. Pablo was built like a Roman statue, only harder and more tanned. His fingers could always send electricity through me with just the lightest touch.
“So you like it, just being his sex slave, doing whatever he wants you to?” he said softly, his voice a low growl.
I threw my arm over my face, shut my eyes and enjoyed the sun and his bare fingers on my skin. He leaned forward and grazed his lips against mine, lingering just long enough to give me a little flick of his tongue. He was a good kisser. But all I could think about was Todd.
“Mmmm …not now, Pablo” I said, my arm still draped over my eyes.
“Why not? Don’t you miss it…?”
I did. Pablo’s cock was a monument. Thick and uncut, it used to be one of my favorite ways to spend hot, quiet afternoons just like this one. I would stretch my limbs and swim laps and tan, and then he would stretch me on the inside, and we’d have a long, slow, lazy fuck, and then I’d dip back into the pool to cool off.
But Todd’s face was all I could think of. Pablo leaned in for another kiss, and I kissed back, feeling a stirring in my bikini bottoms, and my nipples gathering to a sharp point. I pulled back.
“Take off your bikini,” he said. “I’ll fuck you right here. Like we used to.”
But something strange was happening. It felt wrong. After all, it would be cheating. I couldn’t do that to him.
“Take it off,” he said, and his kisses were now travelling down my ribcage as his fingertips played at the edge of the bikini.
“No,” I said. “Only he tells me what to do.”
He looked at me, hand still poised, then pulled back and frowned. It was a surprising thing to say. He shrugged and held up his hands, then went to sit back on his deck chair again.
“Pablo, I’m sorry.” He didn’t seem offended really, just confused. I was confused, too.
“No problem, Mrs. Beckford. I understand.”
“You do? You’re not angry?”
He laughed.
“No, not angry. It’s kind of sexy. I think I understand now. Don’t worry about it,” he said, and stood up.
“Pablo, you’re crazy” I said.
“You’re crazy.”
Chapter 15 - Todd
I knew she had already read the latest entry. By now I was learning how to read her, and how her mood lifted a little just after she would discover some new message from me. She was gigglier, and sillier, and tried hard to pretend that she wasn’t either. I liked the buildup. The anticipation.
I had already bought her the perfect outfit for the evening – a tight, purple sheath with tassels on the lower edge and a weird tiny hat that the shop assistant swore blind to me was called a ‘fascinator’. When I had left her this morning, she was still sleeping (she slept so much these days!) and I left the outfit ready for her in her closet, where she’d see it.
I gymed hard for an hour at the office gym and then freshened up, changed into a suit and tie, had the driver collect me directly, then headed to the house to pick her up. When she stepped into the back seat with me, I could immediately smell the chlorine on her skin. She swam so much, my little water baby, that there always seemed to be a permanent fresh smell of pool water on her. On top of that smell was lashings of expensive perfume, and the smell of hairspray, but underneath she was my Natty, never more beautiful than when she was naked, everything other than her beautiful, silken skin just a cheap substitute.
The purple dress looked good on her. Her tight, girlish figure flowed through the lines of the dress perfectly, and I had to hand it to her, she had found a way to nestle the “fascinator” into her great towering bouffant in a way I would never have thought to do. She was beautiful. As she settled herself into the seat next to me and the driver pulled off, my hand instinctively went to her leg. I felt warm inside.
“Are you happy?” I asked her. “Do you need anything?”
In a sense, this is the only question I had ever asked of her, and the only one I had ever wanted her to answer.
“I’m good. Excited. Where are we going…?”
“You’ll see.”
I liked seeing her excited. It gave me a lump in my throat. And a lump elsewhere. I looked over her with appreciation, and she held out her hands, giggling and showing off a little.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” I said. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”
She looked at me and I could see her eyes were damp.
“What’s wrong? Is there something wrong?”
She shook her head and smiled.
“Everything’s perfect.”
We drove on and the car pulled up a long driveway and then curled round a circular entrance way, dropping us at the foot of an immense staircase winding up into a stately home, all marble balconets and ivy and gargoyles.
“Here we are,” I said, and jumped out of my side of the car. I went round to open her side, and extended my hand to escort her out and into the beautiful courtyard.
“What a gentleman!” she said and laughed. Oh, I was a gentleman. Instantly I saw the image of her beautiful face, twisted in pleasure, her shapely, delicate form pounded hard by other men as I watched on, encouraging them. And when they had had their fill of her, when everyone who wanted her had stuck their cocks in her, and she was exhausted, I would hold her and cradle her against my chest and soothe her and kiss the top of her beautiful head. My Natty.
“Yes, and what a lady,” I said, smiling mischievously and closing the door behind her. The driver slowly pulled off and we stood and surveyed the entranceway. These are the mansions and villas that no ordinary person ever gets to see. They’re the private pleasure resorts of the ultra-wealthy. The palatial playgrounds of the people even the celebrities envy. What’s sexy about an event like this is not the sex …it’s the exclusivity.
Far from prying eyes, the bankers and entrepreneurs and big names of this world gather here and pay tribute to all things carnal. It’s hard work orchestrating the vast economic and political mechanisms the rest of the species is forced to live inside, but when such a person wants to relax, they do it with the same zeal and attention to luxury that every other area of their life receives. Lesser minds have called this, “work hard, play hard.”
The massive home was lit from within and glowed golden out into the darkness of the courtyard. A few other people, all in pairs, made their way up the stairs, as we did. I offered her my arm and she took it. I was never more proud of her than I was at that moment. When I married her, I swore that whatever she needed, I was there to give it to her. I make money because it’s just what I know how to do. But she was my why. She’s what the money was for.
I am in control of so much, and I know how to earn, and to command and inspire and lead. But all the suits were for her. All the money, all the cars and jewelry, all the meals and wine and diamonds and vacations. They existed for only one reason: her happiness. I looked over at her and again admired her tight, high ass and her beautiful round breasts. She was the queen of my heart, and looked like it.
And we were here for her, too. She wanted to cheat? Let her cheat. In fact, I would help her. I had given her the best of everything. Let her take it all. What was my heart for, except to give it away to her so she could use it as she saw fit?
She was chattering excitedly as we scaled the steps, and I swear I felt her heart beating through her moist little palm and she squeezed my hand.
“Oh look! They have peacocks! How do you think they get them to stay put? Do you know what a peacock even eats? Oh my god is that whatsisname? This is amazing. Oh you can see, there’s a big central hall in the middle… are our names on a list? Will they know it’s us? Look at those peacocks, they’re sitting on the statues!”
And on and on. I smiled. Her chatter warmed me somewhere deep and long forgotten insid
e. The other women walking into the glorious house were as well dressed, and yes, as beautiful, but none of them had what she had: that light, shining through her. That joy. My Natty, as she was when I met her all those years ago.
At the entrance our coats were taken from us and we were ushered into a hall of unimaginable glamor. High ceilings, glittering chandeliers and a crowd equally plush and glittered mingling inside, drinks in hand. The theme was dark and velveted, and the Persians on the floor were the most remarkable I’d ever seen: instead of geometrics and flowers, the rugs were woven with intricate friezes of mythical bodies, wrapped in poses of pleasure and abandon, Gods and mythical beings, knotted like a kind of wooly Kama Sutra underfoot.
With amusement, I noticed the furniture had similar touches of the carnal: the corners and legs of the tables were carved with phalluses and tiny dancing nymphs. The mirrors were ringed with the unmistakable shapes of gilded vaginas linked in a wreath. Natasha laughed and chattered on about them, pointing as she moved excitedly around the room.
The next few hours were spent in a kind of dreamy daze. The other guests were charming, the food was elegant, and everywhere was a tightening sense of anticipation, like the air was being pulled taut. I watched on fondly as Natasha grew a little tipsy. Why had I always been so hard on her? Who cared if she didn’t always follow the protocols properly – wasn’t that why I loved her? In any case, if there was one place in the world were her gloriously irreverent childishness could run free, it was here and now.
Wait staff threaded swiftly between the guests, taking away empty plates and bringing more alcohol, and slowly the night wore on and the drapes were closed and the many candelabras lit. Most people ambled off into separate rooms. There was no question of all the things that would happen that evening, but nevertheless people took their time, flirting and laughing together.
Natasha was enjoying herself. She always had a knack for telling stories, like she was doing when I slinked up behind her and listened in on a tall tale she was telling a small crowd of people. She was so expressive, so adorably goofy and truly funny, that she had the small group of five eating out of her hand, laughing at all the right places and hanging on to every word. I’d forgotten how good she was at socializing.
I linked my arms round her waist and she touched my hands, and carried on with the story.
“And then the nurses – both of them, right at the same time – looked at him and said, who said anything about chickens?”
The crowd burst into laughter. She beamed.
“Beckford, where have you been hiding your wife all this time? Shame on you for never bringing her out to these little gatherings” said a tall, husky looking man in his mid-thirties. Arnold Pitt, a man from old European money, he made his living on all the fluffy offshoots of the various royal family trees he belonged to. We were briefly acquainted but during the last week or so, I had become more keenly aware of another side of him – he and several of his other well-heeled friends threw extravagant parties like this several times a year, where an invite was non-negotiable and those who violated the unspoken laws of secrecy were reprimanded swiftly and permanently.
He took as much pride in arranging these evenings as a classical composer, with a keen eye for hitting just the right key: lavish luxury balanced with a delightful coarseness. Or so it was explained to me. I had discussed with him several potential ways the evening could unfold, but all of that was just the pulleys and levers off stage: I wanted Natasha to see and know about none of it. I wanted to watch the wonder and surprise on her face. I wanted to see her shock. And yes, maybe a little discomfort. Or a lot, depending on how things played out.
“Mr. Beckford tells us that you’re a very adventurous girl,” said a woman in the group, taking a suggestive sip of her champagne. Natasha thought for a moment, and then answered sweetly, “Oh, I’m willing to do whatever Todd thinks I’d enjoy…” and the group murmured.
“Natasha has a very free spirit, when it comes to matters of the flesh,” I said, being deliberately dramatic. “Sometimes I need to reign her in, as she often finds herself in trouble.”
The group laughed.
“Trouble?” Pitt said. “Well, in that case, I think I have a suggestion for you.” The group watched him as he handed his empty champagne glass to a passing waiter and rubbed his hands together.
“There are some brand new items, new from France and some I’ve commissioned locally, that you might be interested in Mrs. Beckford…” he said, and as he did, some of the bow-tied waiters appeared and unlocked a large, grand door and opened it to reveal another vast room on the other side. The guests oohed and aahed – through the candlelight we all beheld a room kitted out in the most fanciful frames, dangling chairs, suspended chains, cages and cuffs that I had ever seen. A dungeon.
The ceiling was draped with heavy brocade gathered in the center, giving the feeling of being inside a giant, heavy tent, and everyone slowly trickled into the room. People spread out and examined the gleaming black tools of torture and pleasure. A woman laughed and found a whip, and playfully cracked it at the hind of her partner, who nearly spilled his champagne jumping out the way.
Natasha went quiet but her eyes were wide, and her hand clasped mine tightly as we walked around leisurely, and she examined the objects, trying to imagine what each was for.
“What do you think Mrs. Beckford? Any of these capture your interest?” said Pitt.
She colored heavily and looked to me. I smiled, and nudged her to take a closer look. She trailed her fingers over the black bars.
“What’s this one for?” she asked quietly, and gestured towards a tall, black steel frame. On the floor was a large, steel X and from each of its corners rose a sturdy steel pillar. From these pillars came thick linked chains, which were suspended between the pillars and a black, leather seat that vaguely resembled a hammock. I watched as she tried to figure it out. I didn’t need to have it explained to me - it was me, after all, who had requested it in the first place.
Various links and cuffs hung down from two of the pillars, and these she held up in her hands with a quizzical expression.
“Are these to tie up your hands?” she asked, and Pitt laughed.
“Those, my dear, are for your feet,” he said.
I watched as it dawned on her: on this wicked object, a person might lay flat on their backs in the hammock seat, have their hands tied up and away from them on either of the strong chains and then have their feet locked into place on the stirrups on the other two pillars, effectively holding them in a flat spread eagle position, legs and arms wide, exposed and hovering off the floor.
She giggled, probably imagining how perfectly wide-open and exposed a person strapped into such a sling would be.
“That’s …that’s quite something!” she said. “Let’s see what else they have…”
I wrapped my fingers round her upper arm.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She threw me a questioning gaze at me.
“We didn’t just come here to look,” I said.
Her eyes fluttered nervously to the frame and back at me.
“Ok,” she said eventually. “What should I do?”
‘There’s a good girl,” I said, and slapped her ass.
The tone of the room was rapidly changing, and though the top hats and tiaras remained, out the corner of my eye I caught the sight of naked limbs. Naked bodies. These people were long time visitors to these parties. They knew exactly what to do.
“First, take those ridiculous heels off.”
She obediently stepped out of them, reaching out to grab my forearm to balance herself, and then kicked them off to the side.
“Now, take that little hat off as well.”
“It’s called a fascinator,” she said, and I wanted to laugh, but I gave her a stern look instead, and her shaking fingers went up to unpin the thing and gently place it to the side.
The dark party unfolded around us. The room was dar
kly lit, but my imagination filled in everything that was missing. Everyone was here to do one thing. And Natasha, too, was here for one reason only. A small crowd gathered around us, curious.
“Now, pull your dress up high, to your hips. Show me what you’re wearing underneath.”
She swallowed hard.
“Now? In front of …everyone?”
The gathering crowd tittered. This was perfect.
“Yes, in front of everyone. And if you talk back again I’ll make you take it all off.”
She hesitatingly pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing smooth, toned legs and a flimsy g-string underneath.
“Higher,” I barked, and she shimmied it up further.
“Good. Now, since everyone is watching, you might as well make it worth their while. Get up into the sling.”
She tiptoed over to it and steadied her hands on either of the steel chains, but I quickly grabbed her round her waist, swung her over with ease and plonked her ass down into the leather seat.
“Spread them,” I said, and pulled her legs away from her little body.
“Further” I demanded, and yanked them down more roughly, spreading them apart.
I looked out into the small crowd that had gathered and made eye contact with Pitt, who stepped up, bringing a man at his side, and they both helped me buckle her in. We stood back and admired our work. Except for the smallest bit of black fabric, her pussy was bare and exposed, facing the crowd. Once she was tied in, I leaned over and gave her a long, sweet kiss, and then unceremoniously tore the front of her dress open, releasing two pert breasts. She gasped and squirmed, but couldn’t move more than an inch from where we three had bound her.
“Going somewhere?” I laughed, and the other two laughed with me.
Men are dogs. Pack animals. They sense weakness and strike. All they need is to get the whiff of blood, to see the tiniest tear in the fabric of decency, and they attack. Tasting that hint of first violence in a fleeting moment is all the encouragement they need, and then they’ll join in on the carnage. For now, though, the men in the group were only lurking, waiting for my cue, waiting for that moment of no return. We would all gang up on her. But not just yet.