“You want this in the worst way, don’t you, my darling?” Britta said, as she dangled the cool leather against her submissive’s skin. Robin felt the sensation on her back, along her already reddened ass and down her warm thighs. Turning the flogger around, Britta pressed the thick handle against Robin’s pussy, as if she planned to force it inside. Although it wasn’t likely to fit, the way the butt end moved against Robin’s nether lips, the resulting massage made her hips shift back and forth to maximize the feeling.
Abruptly standing back, Britta observed the view critically, thinking that Robin was certainly a well-built woman with physical assets perfect for her needs. Her bottom was well-rounded, the cheeks perfectly shaped, and her cunt seemed larger than some; the cleft full, a rosy color, and beckoning to be punished, no different than the way the rest of Robin’s body cried out to be abused.
Britta landed a number of blows with the flogger against Robin’s back, nearly a dozen landing across the submissive’s shoulders, then she shifted her aim back to the firm, red buttocks.
Robin took in the soft blows, feeling the arousal in her soar. But this was not enough, not this night. She wanted to be knocked out of her thoughts, driven to a Neverneverland on the wings of this leather instrument. If it flailed her for hours, she’d be happy; she needed a long hard session.
Just as Robin hoped, Britta was only warming up. She soon changed techniques and a stream of fiery blows from the flogger cascaded across Robin’s shoulders again. The woman’s aim then lowered to Robin’s bottom for more hard abuse. The mistress made the flogger sing each time it struck, and each time she repeated the beating, Robin was driven deeper into her absent state, the welcoming pain purging her anguish. When the mistress nipped her anal cleft with the flogger’s thin thongs, Robin shrieked, almost losing her balance against the beam as she twisted to the side.
After one particularly vicious blow that almost sent her to the floor, Britta paused long enough to remove the ropes and shackles from Robin’s arms and wrists, retying her subbie’s hands to the bottom of the wooden structure, making it easier to suffer the harder punishment.
Although the repositioning would relieve Robin’s body of the intense strain, it meant a more brutal chastisement. Her desire redoubling, Britta let loose, delivering a thorough beating in the tempo of a march, with a beat as steady as feet in measured cadence.
With each blow, Robin lost a piece of herself, flinging her ego back to its source, where she didn’t have to think of anything at all. This was the bliss she was after. Nothingness, pure sweet fiery pain, then nothing at all. Like spiraling down to the bottom of everything, with nothing to get in the way of her surrender. Only her selflessness remained, rushing over her like an embracing shroud, protecting her, loving her in this sweet abuse.
The mistress paused for a time, only to have Robin sway her forgotten rear as a reminder that she wanted more. Starting in again, Britta increased the tempo and the hurt, until Robin quickly slipped back into her beloved sub-space. The stops and starts became as rhythmical as the blows. As the cruel flogger danced across her bottom, she urged her mistress on, and the hard beating did not stop until a brilliant rash of red stripes were etched deeply into Robin’s flesh. To Britta’s credit, there was not a drop of blood; she could be a prudent mistress if she so chose to be.
When Britta finally stopped, Robin’s mind was blank and free of thought, quiet and at peace.
Pressing her hand against the molten valley between Robin’s legs, Britta gently massaged the steamy flesh, while listening her subbie’s moans of pleasure. For a time the woman alternated her loving caresses with vicious slaps to the sub’s sensitive cunt lips. Then she suddenly shoved the flogger’s handle into Robin’s vagina, and ignited a hard climax. Her victim’s inner muscles tightened around the violating handle, as if she were trying to seize every feeling and hold on to it forever.
When at last Britta removed the flogger, Robin came back to life, almost choking on the smoggy incense. It burned her throat the way hash might.
Robin remained bound for some time while Britta watched the red color fade away and her backside pale. There were marks that would remain for several days, and bruises rising underneath the skin. Britta knew that Robbie would think of her mistress when she saw them.
It had been a pleasing scene for Britta; she’d orgasmed before she let Robbie have her climax. She’d felt the rush inside her body in the middle of the last cadence of blows—the ones aimed right on the center of Robbie’s ass cheeks. Hearing her submissive scream when she brutally lit into the tender flesh set off an exhilarating climax deep inside her belly. The great spasms came in a wave that passed through her—the sensation as psychological as it was physical. Robbie had always been good for this kind of erotic experience.
The unplanned scene had been good for them both. Britta was actually glad that her evening had been interrupted by the needy sub. She’s have to punish her again for not making an appointment in advance but she wouldn’t be that nasty when she did. At the moment, however, she too exhausted to begin anything new.
“So Felicia’s dead, hum?” Britta said. “You are talking about Felicia Roman?”
Robin murmured something back.
“So sad,” she mused. “I once let her be slave to me, but she was impossible to train. Sometimes she’d give herself to me so fully, there was no way I could satisfy her need for punishment, and I’d have to back off because I couldn’t hurt her, not really, no more than I could hurt you. Then sometimes, Felicia would bark at me, the little bitch, her eyes would flash like she had demons coming from them, as if the sky had turned to flames, and then to ash. She’d die on me, act like a baby. I loved her when she was with me, but I could never do anything with her extremes.” Britta’s voice drifted sadly. “Can you imagine that? A woman too extreme for me?” She pondered the thought a moment longer, then came to her senses, noting that Robin was still tied to the whipping bar.
“You know, if you came to me more often, Robbie, I could do more for you. You would make a fine full time servant.”
Being a full time servant was something Robin would never do, so she declined to comment on her mistress veiled proposal. Meanwhile, she heard Britta shuffle behind her, and realized that remaining upside down was becoming painful. Her thighs ached and her head pounded as the blood raced against her temples. Robin wondered for a moment what it would be like to be the woman’s slave, twenty-four hours a day, every day. Once, when she needed to escape the pressure at work, she’d taken three days off and landed in Britta’s den. The woman made her crawl like a slave, then she was ignored for hours and later abused; in time, becoming so selfless that it was difficult to return to the real world. How easy it would be to give herself away to the hard pleasures of sexual service. Britta often talked about her staying, but Robin had the feeling that the arrangement would never work.
The mistress finally undid the ropes that bound Robin to the spanking bench, then she grabbed Robin’s hair and pulled her to her feet. A little dizzy, Robin sank back and rested her bottom against the leather-covered bar to keep her balance.
“Put your hands behind your head!” Britta snapped.
Although dazed, Robin managed to lace her fingers at the base of her neck behind her and open her elbows the way the mistress wanted. Her tits had almost completely popped out of the corset, and her nipples were rock hard. Robin didn’t bother to look down at the previously marked flesh. In a moment, Britta would punish them more—marks like these were Britta’s trademark, what Robin had to put up with to get the rest of what she needed. The next day she would look in the mirror at her wounded flesh and remember being so submissively degraded. She would masturbate just thinking of the harrowing savagery. She would open her blouse to revisit her wounds, and tell herself that as bad as life was on the other side, these moments with her mistress were a private indulgence that satisfied her deeply. If she only had someone to share them with. Leslie maybe? Wasn’t that a silly idea
!
Picking up the thin crop again, Britta flailed Robin’s fair flesh, making it burn and the cuts strike deep. Robin cringed with each one, hoping each was the last. When it wasn’t, she welcomed the next with a wince and tiny screech, feeling the pain rifle through her and settle deep inside her crotch. She would masturbate again soon!
With the last blow, Britta announced, dismissively, “Go now, girl. I’ve had enough of you for one night. I need my rest.”
Freed from the woman’s control, Robin hastily removed the leather bustier and returned it to the wardrobe, neatly hanging it inside while dozens of Britta’s things were still strewn about in one wild mess. Picking up her clothes, she dressed, feeling now a comforting tightness in her body. She was sore where the whip had struck; though now it was little more than a pleasant ache to carry with her. She didn’t say a word as she dressed. They never talked afterwards—an unwritten rule. In truth, she had nothing to say to the woman, her actions spoke more loudly than her words ever could.
It was midnight in the real world. The street was hazy with fog and a harsh orange light that was uncomfortable on Robin’s eyes. Even so, her mind was clear, and her body was at peace. She’d be able to sleep, and then meet Leslie in the morning.
Chapter Three
Robin drove to The Hill as if she was going home, an all too familiar feeling she had to shake. It was a mystery to her that she could remember it so well even after ten years. But then Felicia’s face would often cross her mind, vivid and unambiguous. That had to be the impression everyone had of Miss Felicia Roman; good or bad, it was always vivid.
The house stood as a monument to Victorian bric-a-brac: turrets, front porches, and dank musty smells. Pulling out of her car, Robin looked up at the tower room imagining what Felicia had looked like lying dead in her bed. It was only appropriate that the woman die there on top of her satin covers, between the four posters of her massive antique mahogany bed, inside a room that would be infused with her distinctive aura. Even the bondage wasn’t so strange.
Robin could almost smell Felicia still, as if her Tea Rose perfume was making its way down to her on a breeze, beckoning her back inside. The two years she’d spent in this house seemed as if it was yesterday, when she was much too young to be playing around with the likes of Felicia Roman. Felicia was younger then too, though it always seemed as if she was ageless, born at a certain plateau of enlightenment, never to go beyond that point, but never to be less than she was, and never to fall into disrepair the way old ladies sometimes do. Thinking back, Robin figured that she must have been well over forty when she died.
Felicia always seemed so fully intelligent and poised on first meeting. She had a way of putting people at ease with her gentle ways, her bright eyes, and affectionate smile. But after a time, like everyone else that knew her, Robin came to believe that Felicia was either crazy or too complex to be handled with any real understanding.
Though it had been years since Robin had been up the hill, the grounds about the estate looked the same as they’d always looked. Felicia kept it sensuously wild, letting the gardens become overgrown, the vines intertwining erotically mimicking the lovers in the grand old house. The whole place was one pulsing breathing organ of vegetation, each plant dependent on the others for survival, a little like the very jungle of Felicia’s thoughts, and the intimate jungle of the world that surrounded her. It was a haven away, a lesbian enclave. In the center of a city that had treated her ruthlessly, she triumphed because Felicia spat in the face of the people who mocked her.
The remarkable woman was a capricious charmer with an innocent face; she was a dark eyed bitch with rope and whip, a 1940’s movie queen in platform shoes and satin dress, a dominatrix, a femme fatale, a withering lily, a fairy, a fox and a monster. She was a natural born blonde, but it wasn’t a pretty blonde, so she changed the color of her hair with the seasons and her mood. She changed her manner of dress as easily; and she changed her heart a dozen times a day.
That she was indescribable made her intriguing, and ultimately dangerous.
Dead now, how sad, all that charm lost forever. It was an empty wasted feeling looking at the mansion through the eyes of a survivor. Robin half expected the place to fall into the ground, swallowed up by the earth, taken back by the elements, since what gave it life had vanished.
“You been inside yet?”
Robin turned hearing Leslie’s voice. She watched her partner approach.
“No, just remembering back.” They stared up at the house together. It was the kind of house that led the eye to the top, to the turret and steep gabled roof, the widow’s walk around one side and all the intricate filigree that decorated it. Part of it was freshly painted, in other places the paint was peeling away from the wood siding.
A remarkable structure for a remarkable woman.
“Good memories?” Leslie asked.
“Bittersweet at best,” Robin replied.
Leslie gave her a friendly hug, then pulled away, though remaining close enough to keep Robin surrounded by one arm. Leslie thought she had to show some affection, some regard for her, what her partner must be feeling.
“I’m okay really, much better than last night.”
“I thought you were going to have a problem looking at those pictures of her yesterday.”
“Well I managed.”
“I suppose it was a cleaner a murder than it should have been—considering how Felicia lived her life.”
“Got her right where it mattered,” Robin agreed.
“Not some crazy person, I’d say they were in control of themselves. Likely not as much passion of the moment, as deliberate intent.”
“The ropes would tell you that, too,” Robin offered.
“You know a lot about bondage?” Leslie asked, knowing that Robin knew much more than she did about the subject.
“Some.”
“Felicia really into that scene?”
“It’s not so strange,” Robin replied. “S&M was part of Felicia’s many fetishes.”
“Like what else?” Leslie asked.
“Anything really, leather, manacles, rope, enemas, spanking, role-playing.”
“Did you ever tie her up?” Leslie asked.
“No. I’m afraid it was the other way around.”
“Oh,” Leslie replied. She’d known for years that Robin had these inclinations. They’d considered the whole S&M scene at one time; but with Leslie not interested in pursuing this kinkier sex, it became one of those touchy relationship issues that they mutually agreed not to discuss.
“I’m not unlike Betsy, if you think about it. That’s why I’m so sure she didn’t kill her.”
“You would never have killed her?”
“Not like that. Submissives work in a different way.”
“But wouldn’t that be a good way to throw someone off track?”
“I just don’t think she has it in her for this kind of murder. Poison maybe, but a knife in the chest? She’d be too squeamish. And the knots, they were perfect, everyone of them the same, as if the assailant had done them a thousand times. A submissive turning Dom for a night wouldn’t do that, unless they were very calculating. I don’t think Betsy could be that calculating, or that thorough.”
“Let’s hope you’re right for her sake,” Leslie said. “And John’s. He’s already called me this morning wanting to know when I’m going to find the real killer and get Betsy out of jail. I didn’t have much to tell him. But he’s sent a retainer, so at least we’re being paid. Unfortunately, he’s going to be one of those who thinks that we can ask a few questions and be done with it.”
“Why don’t we go inside and meet these women?” Robin suggested. “They’re a curious bunch, but pretty much what you expect to have hovering about Felicia Roman.”
“Were there lots of women around when you were with her?” Leslie asked.
“Always. She was insatiable. She had to have people to play off of.”
“Well these wome
n were pretty mum with the police. I hope we can find out more than they did.”
“We’d better,” Robin said dryly. “But then why would they want to talk once Betsy was arrested? If Betsy didn’t kill Felicia, the murderer would be perfectly happy to keep things exactly as they are.”
“Maybe there was more than one murderer,” Leslie suggested.
“Hum. You’d think the police would have waited a little longer before making their conclusion. It’s quite a delicious puzzle.”
“Thanks for recuperating your detective mentality,” Leslie said, grateful to see Robin’s classic cool and eagerness for the investigation return.
“It never goes away sweetie,” Robin said. “Just my pleasant disposition.”
The two walked side by side toward the mansion, climbing the impressive steps that led to a long front porch. The old brick walk was breaking up in places, though it showed signs of some repair currently underway.
“Quite a place, isn’t it?” Leslie exclaimed, admiring the massive posts on either side of the steps.
“Yes it is,” a voice replied unexpectedly.
They turned to see a redheaded woman sitting in a Kennedy rocker, with a glass of iced tea in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A soft haze of smoke surrounded a pleasant face.
“You the police again?” she said, peering out of wire rim glasses with thick lenses, between locks of curly hair that fell over her eyes. Her plump body rocked unconsciously in the rocking chair, keeping it going with a little push of her foot now and again.
“We’re private detectives,” Robin answered.
“Leslie Patrick and Robin Penny,” Leslie introduced them.
“Penny and Patrick, or is it Patrick and Penny?” the redhead asked.
“Patrick Penny Investigations,” Leslie replied.
The woman nodded, and smiled. “Suppose people think you’re a man with that name. Aren’t they a little surprised by two lesbian women. You are lesbians, aren’t you?”
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