A pink rubber ballgag opens my mouth wide, my teeth sinking into its soft texture. Then a blindfold settles in over my eyes taking away my ability to see. I rather like the fact that the decision to look has been taken from me. Once muted and sightless, the hands begin, Makaila’s and others, stroking, caressing, slapping, teasing hands. There are men and women at my side and kneeling on the floor—those who comb my flesh vigorously and those who give to me softly. My arousal increases as one lovely mouth captures my clit from in front, and another parts my ass cheeks, rimming the back hole with a practiced tongue.
This happens silently, in a strange vacuum where I can hear only the sound of rustling clothes, a cough, the occasional whisper, and my own voice groaning and sighing. My world feels and smells, but there is no sight and no taste but the rubber of the gag.
The sensations of climax quickly swell in me and my body responds to these, swerving, and swaying as it will, falling into the erotic pleasure as I hang here bound. When all this feeling is suddenly swept away and the hands are gone, I continue seeking satisfaction, bucking toward the empty air. Realizing that they will not touch me, my body calms.
I feel the first lash on my skin, and everything enlivens again. Reaching out to me from nowhere, snaps of searing heat scorch my skin. I struggle to cry and only a muffled groan comes from my gagged mouth. A lash, a whip, and a cane strike from every direction—on my ass, my shoulders, my calves, my thighs, belly, and breasts. Salty tears sting my face inside this mask. I twist to get away from a bite on my right side only to feel a buggy whip nip my left breast. A lash lands across my pubis and the warmth spreads. It centers in just one horrible place when another strike tears at my skin. When they pause, I wilt. When they begin again, I dance like a marionette on strings. I’m sure every inch of me is covered. And all that matters is that another strike will land, jolting me into that crude and lusty place of satisfaction. Whoever holds the cane is the most cruel—and yet, I dwell on every cut this phantom etches into my skin. In the back of my mind, I want another, and another, and another…
When the pain withdraws, I feel more hands, these at my crotch alone. A woman’s on her knees moving on my pubis. Her fingers dance over my groin as she kisses my enflamed pussy lips adoringly. She parts my labia and plants her mouth at my clitoris sucking. I feel my climax brew again, but when she presses her fingers inside my cunt, the feeling of my inner emptiness annoys me. I lunge at her as though I’m silently asking her to breach me. The more I beg with my body, the more those fingers move deep inside this wet portal. There are other hands coming from behind, toying with my anus—though it is the woman at my vagina that intrigues me most. The orifice expands as she urges it wider with her probing. She wants more, just as I do. She wants all of her hand slipping into the interior, while I beg for it prodding deeper and deeper. I widen more. I want her there. Then suddenly, there’s a deliciously painful burst in my vagina as her whole hand slides inside.
She fucks me senselessly with her fist, the fullness beyond what I know from men. I feel as though I’ll fall apart. The climax changes, the feeling of it altering from one centered in my clit, to an energy that goes beyond the boundaries of that inner sanctum. As it descends, there are fingers from behind joining the hand in my belly, as if two fists might fuck the orgasm from me. Though my mind might see that kind of finish, the end stops short of that extreme. I cum. Wrenching, crying and clenching. The jolts are bright and sharp and gone too soon. I fall exhausted in the bonds, drifting. With this lover’s hand withdrawn, I feel that much of what she gave is lost. I want it back, but know that this is all I’ll have.
When the ballgag disappears a miserable thirst replaces it. My body aches to be set free and I anticipate that anxiously. But when the blindfold vanishes, all my discomfort fades. The shock before me sends my conscious mind reeling—time’s confused, the past and present uncertain now. I stare dumbfounded at the man before me. It’s Heinrich’s eyes assaulting me and Heinrich’s face. The cane is in Heinrich’s hands and I know now who authored this scene. His gaze on me is expressionless and cold, stabbing me in the gut. He calls to the woman at his feet, a rapturously beautiful creature with mane of black hair and the look of love for Heinrich on her splendid face.
“Return to me, Delia,” I hear his voice. As she pads to his side on hands and knees, I realize that my former husband’s new submissive lover has fisted me.
***
“You are a contemptible, miserable, fucking ass!” I blare at Bernard, as I barge into his study the next morning.
“And why’s that?” he asks.
I’m hardly awake, having slept somewhere high in Bernard’s bright monolith, finding the warm sun prying the sleep from my eyes. I bolted from bed too quickly remembering my night, and now my heart pounds so hard, my fury so rich I can hardly spit out my words. I’m also a little dizzy.
“Why was he here?” I demand from him.
“Heinrich? Because I asked him.”
He speaks calmly while I do not.
“And he knew I would be?” I ask.
“It was mentioned.”
“Mentioned how?”
“I don’t think Heinrich has stopped enjoying the way you look bound, or how you respond to the lash, or the look of you in ecstasy. He especially enjoys seeing you suffer.”
“He’s thrown it in my face—and you as well—with his new beauty at his feet, fisting me.”
“Looked to me as though you were having the time of your life,” Bernard quips.
“But I did not plan on this.”
“I told you I’d tell him about us.”
“But you didn’t warn me!” I snarl. “You didn’t give me any clue that he’d be the master running the show.”
“Oh, there were many masters taking care of your body.”
“But he was one with the cane, the one whose cuts I remember the most.”
“Isn’t that interesting?”
“How could you betray me like this?”
“You’re the one, Anna, that asked to blend my world with yours. Heinrich is part of my life. It was only a matter of time. And let’s remember, my defiant one, when you beg a master to take you, it’s not yours to decide how that will happen. Or have you forgotten the very basics of masters and slaves?”
“I can’t live with this.”
“No? Then maybe our meetings should end.”
“Maybe they should,” I agree. I should be sad, though I’m not now. I’m still burned from the inside out, my outsides still smarting from the strike of my husband’s cane. And that hurts the most.
Chapter Nine
I am proud of Delia, so beautifully passing this necessary test. There was not a hint of jealously, just the exquisite nurturing lust to give Anna what she needed. Was it revenge to assume this role? I suppose. But look what satisfaction the lusty bitch enjoyed? I know her lines so well, the curvature of her spine as she twists in bondage, the elemental expression on her face. I see her without having to see her eyes, the expression inside when she cums from pain—or the hunger she feels as a woman’s fist slips inside her wanting hole. I even knew what fire-breathing harangue she’d unleash on Bernard. She’s not said a word to me. Her eyes were filled with fire from the inside, though she seemed empty from without, like something was missing.
Delia slaves for us this morning, serving breakfast in Bernard’s conservatory. She was well-used last night after Anna was put to sleep. The party descended into a free-for-all. There was a good deal of interest in my new slave and she took care of at least four men—but I didn’t bother staying to see it all after she brought me off first.
It took some prying to get her from bed this morning, though most of the house was awakened by the sound of Anna slamming doors. With my shrewish ex-wife handled, the settling quiet is welcome. Delia serves our morning meal with an elegant grace—one that grows each day I have her in my command. She carries herself proudly, but never haughty. Those men, like me, who stare at her, rec
eive a lovingness she shares with all.
“It’s a shame we need to punish her,” Bernard tells me. We sit side by side eating; three other friends also spent the night. Delia starts, hearing the word punish used concerning her. She wears a small black skirt and high heels, and a sweater that wraps her full bodice tightly, coming to a “V” to show the depth of her cleavage. The lace of her stockings peeks out from underneath the skirt as she moves—and especially as she bends over. When she does in our direction, we see her cunt, naked and glistening as if she were just fucked—though it’s been at least six hours now. I would reach out and grab it, but we have other business to conduct here before we get back to sex.
“Have I not pleased you?” she turns around to ask me with a whimpering look on her face, her dark eyes sad, but not anxious. She’s pleading.
“Come here, darling.” She obeys. I take her hand while she stands in front of me. “You did superbly last night—which was a spontaneous surprise. But my real reason for bringing you here was to punish a few sins of your last week.”
“I was cross with you, wasn’t I?” she remembers.
“Very.”
She winces. “And reluctant for you to…” she stops, “breach my ass.”
I raise my eyebrows. She’s dead on.
“Bend over Bernard’s stool.”
Her shudder makes me quake inside. I know how that feeling is attached to her cunt, how that will ache with readiness, and then too, how much she’ll be disappointed that it won’t be her cunt that takes the brunt of this beating.
She obeys dropping to her knees on the stone, and draping herself over the leather hassock, with her hands reaching forward to steady herself. Her thighs part just slightly, the position serving to bare most of her ass. The rest Bernard uncovers with his hand, giving his guests complete access to my slave’s behind, and the portal between her cheeks.
Bernard spanks her briskly with a fat kitchen spoon, the spanking followed by three others—I’ll reserve mine for later. She takes punishment on her thighs from Malcom’s doubled belt, George’s tooled leather paddle, and Everett Duncan’s fierce right hand. The round-robin continues until Delia’s ass is cherry red and looking raw. Noting her suffering and her need, Bernard begins the rape, first prodding her unyielding hole. She eventually relaxes and takes the whole of his dark prick deep within. She shrieks, but the shrieking subsides as his tender hands work her flesh and ease her fear. Though he makes this breach a simple one, she’s welcoming the rest by the time he’s finished. Four cocks drive inside her, four spew, four pairs of rough hands add to her misery, squeezing her ass cheeks when the climax hits.
I see her expression change, her fear, her pleasure, and her remarkable willingness to surrender display itself one more time. My heart gets tangled up inside her, as though she’s pried me open. Places in me come alive, I’ve not felt since… since Anna and I were a good deal younger than we are now.
Chapter Ten
I see that your bookstore is for sale. In the event that you’re serious about leaving the city, I can recommend you to Lowell Lockhart. He lives near Welliston. The town should suit you, and considering your dilemma, I’d suggest you get in touch with him. He will be rough on you, but I think that’s what you need, sweet one. What Heinrich could never do, and I won’t, he can. Call me, Bernard.
The note arrives by private messenger, which seems like just another sign of Bernard’s scrupulous character. He scrawls the message in his bold handwriting and I finger the crisp paper for some minutes before letting it fall on my desk.
Lowell Lockhart. The name sounds forbidding. I haven’t seen Bernard since the morning after my night with Heinrich and his new lover’s delicate fist. It’s been nearly three weeks. Though everything about my body aches, I live dispassionately, hardening myself against the kind of tactics Bernard used in that last scene. I’ve refused to meet him; not that he’s actually pursued me. I turned down the one meeting he suggested, and have regretted it ever since. Would he have apologized? Promised not to bring Heinrich into another session so we could go on as we had before? I doubt that. I never get everything I want the way I want it. Why should I expect that now? And why should I expect that this Lockhart would satisfy me?
I leave the note loose on my desk so that it flutters to the floor when a gust of air through the window sends it sailing. It lands at my feet while I’m trying to stock a shelf with new arrivals. I smile, thinking it’s Bernard’s gentle way of telling me to heed his message.
***
It feels good to escape the city. The breeze through the window, the light streaming through the sunroof, the air crisp and alive, I’m almost feeling horny. Actually, I’m very horny, but scared. I wrote, rather than called, Lowell Lockhart. I needed time to think, not wanting to make this another of my many impulsive moves, which have only put me in situations I can’t easily back out of. Heinrich was an impulsive move—which alone should suggest caution.
Lockhart lives a hundred miles north of the city, this the perfect time of year to travel with the changing colors of the trees at their peak. It’s rapturous—the scent of burning leaves hitting my nose, and the wood smoke trailing from tall chimneys. There’s the aroma of things left on vines decaying in the fields along the drive, of unpicked fruit from an abundant harvest. Little witches and goblins will be out shortly, scouring the towns and villages, dressed for parties and disasters. This is a spooky climate I’m enjoying, and my mission seems as spooky as all the rest on this October day.
I see the signpost Bernard indicated in his directions—a carved piece of wood set in a landmark of stones to signal Lockhart’s driveway. From the road I can’t see the house. There’s a forest of trees between where I start down this path and whatever is on the other side. I see no sign of any structure. Oddly, the landscape reminds me of the house in the woods that belonged to Heinrich and me. I loved that house. So much energy, so much time spent there loving what we made together. Where is all that now? Auctioned off, paying the mortgage on my bookstore, which a scant six months later I decide to sell. Nothing’s left but the better memories and the painful ending.
I’m told there’s a shop for sale in Welliston—perhaps another place to begin. I wanted to tour the town first, but I misjudged the distance, and have to hurry to Lockhart’s house if I plan to be on time.
This meeting arranged though our handwritten letters feels like some romantic story from the past: arranged over time—my note to him, his in return, and then my acceptance of his invitation to meet.
Lockhart’s driveway winds through the woods for nearly a half-mile, then breaks out into a clearing where the house sits.
I’m initially warmed seeing a ponderous old brown shingle—a house that seems more fitting for a city neighborhood. Though, except for the fact that it’s so massive, the style is like some cottages I remember at Brandywine Lake when I stayed there as a kid. This one, however, is two and half stories tall and very handsome. There’s a great front porch and a staunch turret on the right hand side of the second floor—the turret’s peak topped with an elegant spire. I get so lost in my admiration of it that I neglect to see the man sauntering down the front steps to greet me.
“Mrs. Keller,” a tall, broad-shouldered man with wire-rim glasses moves adroitly to my side to shake my hand.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say as I turn to stare at him, suddenly as awed by who he is as I am by his house.
“Come with me,” his arm goes around my waist as he leads me inside.
We sit together in his parlor. It’s a long room that stretches across the front of the house, two walls paneled in oak; the rest papered with a dark and age-stained floral print. The room is filled with furniture, bookshelves packed with scores of paperbacks and leather-bound volumes. There’s a cluttered desk, landscapes painted in oils, and so much warmth by the fireplace, I wish I could curl up with a book and snuggle in for the day.
It’s easy to forget why I’m here and simply reli
sh the surroundings. I’m immediately drawn to this place, and sure I’ll see much more of Lockhart’s house.
The man himself is handsome, but not pretty in the way that Heinrich is, or elegant like Bernard. He is quite subtle for his size, a little wistful, with grayish hair that’s a little long and slightly mussed. His face is compassionate. The way he looks at me instantly makes my crotch tingle—an enveloping sort of attitude climbs right inside my limbs. You’d think he’d been mastering me for years.
“Brandy?”
There’s a decanter beside him, and after I nod, he pours a glass in the sifter next to his.
Once he hands the brandy to me, I take a sip and settle waiting for him to speak. “Perhaps, you could tell me more clearly your reasons for needing me.”
“Certainly.” I hesitate, then jump right in though there’s an anxious quaver in my voice, “your letter was brief, Mr. Lockhart, perhaps as brief as mine. You already know I’m a submissive…” I pause, “And I need a new man… a new master in my life.”
“You’re in need of a training master,” he says quite bluntly, much more to the point than I am.
“Bernard thinks so, despite the fact that I’ve been living this lifestyle for most of my adult life.”
“And how many years has that been?”
“I’m twenty-eight now. I considered my initiation began when I was twenty-one. Though that was rather rocky.”
“Rocky how?”
He is so perfectly mild mannered, I can hardly imagine him cracking a whip, or thundering a command.
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