Trinkets

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “Goading you?” he asked.

  “That’s a good way to put it.”

  She could almost hear a chuckle issue from him. “Then my purpose is fulfilled. You can test yourself in public—something we can both look forward to.”

  “What kind of gathering did you say this was?”

  “Something casual, a new exhibit opening. Lots of notable people who like to be seen with artists, no matter how obscene we are.”

  “I heard one patron of the museum describe your nudes as filth,” Tessa said.

  “Really?” he replied, “That’s good. “I wouldn’t want to slander my reputation with anything wholesome.”

  “Then I suppose that my wearing gold, leather and silk will maintain your notoriety.”

  “I’m glad you think the way I do. I’m sure you’ll have quite a time this afternoon.”

  By the time they arrived at the luncheon, there were already at least a hundred people in the room, milling about, drinking cocktails before the sit-down luncheon. Tessa’s expectations of the event were quickly shattered, as she looked about the crowd of people chattering gaily.

  “I think I’m under dressed,” she whispered in Miles’ ear, as she peered at dozens of women in pastel business suits with long skirts and baggy slacks and high collared blouses, dripping gold, their noses high in the air, ready to look down in well-practiced amazement at any slut like her.

  “You look ravishing,” Miles whispered back, “that scarf’s worth a few hundred dollars, you’re hardly dressing down to anyone. Besides, if you looked like one of the bitches here, I wouldn’t have you.” He eyed the prudish matrons around him with contempt.

  “Then why are we here?” Tessa asked.

  “Politics, good politics.”

  “Politics?” That was a word she hadn’t expected to hear from his lips.

  “Sometimes I have to make an appearance, especially if it’s my own opening.”

  “Your own opening? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “It’s not all that important, but I do have to be here; there’s positioning in the art world, you have to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “I didn’t think that things like that would influence you,” Tessa commented. It seemed odd to her that Miles would let anyone dictate what he should or shouldn’t do.

  “I may not like this kind of event, but I do want to sell my work. If nothing else, it’s a necessity from a financial perspective.” The two were strolling about, Miles nodding to acquaintances, while he whispered to Tessa. “Besides, we’ll have some fun with this,” he added looking delightfully devilish.

  Tessa hated this kind of ostentatious show. Fully resolved that she wouldn’t put herself in this kind of milieu for any reason, after many such occasions for the museum, she was displeased to find herself in the middle of another congregation of arrogance. The only thing that didn’t displease her was the infrequent glances at her bosom. Men, mostly men, noticed the bumps about her breasts where the jewelry pierced her. The silk did little to hide the obvious. The women were especially interesting, the way they gave her sidelong glances, and whispered to each other like Siamese cats while staring at her chest.

  It didn’t take long before Tessa felt like little more than a trinket for Miles to show off—she was as much a part of the exhibit as his paintings on the wall. To her surprise, there was even one painting of her, one she wasn’t aware that Miles had done. It shocked her to see the image of her rounded buttocks, asshole included, shimmering in oils. The blond mop of hair was a dead giveaway, though there was likely not enough of her own physique to make the identity of the model obvious to anyone but Tessa and Miles. Still, she moved away from it quickly, not sure how she’d handle curious comparisons.

  Miles came and left her side several times, while the two drank iced tea laced with some liquor. It was delicious, and made her head just fuzzy enough to appreciate the finer points of sticking out so blatantly in the crowd. Usually, she did her exhibiting among friends with sentiments and tastes in clothes similar to her own. With just a little help from the potion in her hand, this exhibition was becoming most intriguing.

  It was clearly fascinating to Miles, too.

  When he went off to chat with some notable person, he’d gaze back at her, and draw the patron’s attention her way. She was greeted with appreciative smiles and waves several times. She wondered why he didn’t just put her on a pedestal for all to see, a living model. Take the clothes from her body and let everyone see what was underneath them, what lovely gold dripped from her pierced places.

  “Tessa, I want you to meet Damien,” Miles said, escorting a gentleman and lady to her side. “This is Adelle, his wife.”

  She shook their hands graciously. Was this the Damien, of Damien’s Ball? she wondered to herself.

  “This is the girl you told me about?” Damien was a graying man, likely in his early sixties, though his robust manner suggested a virile “Cary Grant.” His charm glimmered in his eyes; and there was a genuine kindness that Tessa hadn’t seen yet that day.

  “Yes, she’s the one,” Miles said.

  “Dear, this is the girl in the movie,” Damien told his wife. The woman was a carbon copy of all the other woman at the luncheon. Her nose was so pinched, it looked as if she’d just removed a clothespin from it. Her nostrils flared slightly when she spoke, and she reminded Tessa of a cartoon character, but she could quite remember which one.

  “Really?” the woman said, her eyebrows raised in glee, as if she couldn’t wait to get on her gossipy way, telling the rest of the manicured crones, who Miles’ slut really was. “Such an interesting work of art that movie,” she said, “not my taste, Damien has such depraved inclinations, though I figure that’s his prerogative at his age.”

  “What a strange thing to say,” Tessa spoke her feelings aloud.

  The woman smiled obliquely. “You’re quite charming, my dear,” the woman continued. “But I do have to run now.”

  “I’d like to see her butt whipped,” Tessa said under her breath.

  “Please don’t mind her, my dear, she appreciates your art, she just doesn’t quite understand it,” Damien said.

  “Maybe she’s afraid of it,” Tessa said. “Seeing all these ridiculously groomed bitches here, I wonder why any of them are feasting on Miles’ porn if it weren’t for their own secret fascination with it.”

  “You have a point, but even try to get one of these woman naked, and you’ll have a fight on your hands,” Damien noted.

  Tessa shook her head. “Then why bother with them, if they’re frgid in bed, what good are they?”

  Damien didn’t reply, though he noted Tessa’s spunk with a slight smile.

  “Really Tessa, you might want to suck up to Damien,” Miles told her, “he has paid me well for the videos.”

  “I didn’t know you already sold them.”

  “Actually, they were commissioned.”

  “Commissioned?”

  “Damien has an ever increasing interest in S M.”

  “Unusual and very original S M,” the man qualified. “I’m not looking for mindless flagellation and heartless dominance. Miles manages to provide something more.”

  “I’m glad you like what we did,” Tessa replied, though she was suspicious of the man. To add to her misgivings, there was something guarded in both men’s manner, something they were not telling her. “I didn’t realize that Miles had done other films like mine.”

  “I haven’t, Tessa,” Miles answered.

  “No, not to the depths you two traversed in the last one—the one with the dark haired vamp,” Damien agreed.

  “That was hardly a week ago,” Tessa said.

  “Humph! Then your stripes have probably not faded,” Damien surmised.

  “Most have, but not all.”

  “I’d like to have her now.” Damien turned to Miles, his softness vanishing with the turn of his head, replaced by a familiar darkness that she’d seen often in her ma
ster.

  “By all means,” Miles graciously said, then he turned to his submissive saying, “Accommodate him, Tessa, whatever he asks.”

  This twist in the plot was ominous; Tessa could tell by the way she shivered at the sound of Miles words, and the way her nether jewelry suddenly felt heavier than it had felt before.

  With a sly smile on his face, Damien led Tessa through the halls of the ageing Victorian mansion turned Art Gallery, stopping just inside a round drawing room. “I hope you won’t mind,” Damien said, “you’ll likely miss the poached salmon and crepe suzettes.”

  “No, I don’t mind missing lunch,” Tessa replied warily.

  “Good, that’s very good.” He was smiling, but not as warmly as he had been when Miles introduced them. She detected something devious in the works. The man was unsettling, his eyes beguiling and changeable—hard to read—turning from sly to sweet, from sweet to chilling.

  “Take off your scarf,” he ordered her.

  Not used to taking orders from someone other than Miles, Tessa hesitated. She shouldn’t have been surprised by the request, but still the whole experience was incongruous with her expectations for the day.

  “Now!” Damien snapped. He glared at her and tugged at the scarf.

  Tessa finished the job, pushing the scarf to her waist, releasing her breasts from the binding. The flesh jiggled, almost glad for a breath of fresh air, while her double-pierced nipples glowed in the dim light.

  From out of nowhere, the man drew what looked like a conductor’s baton and prodded her tits. Raising them from underneath he viewed them with a judgmental eye, as if he were inspecting something he intended to purchase.

  “He told me they were even more exquisite with the second piercing,” Damien commented. His eyes were incredibly cold. “You know, the movies hardly do you justice, though Miles has captured you quite well in some of the sketches.”

  Tessa didn’t see any need for conversation. She let his comments go unanswered; though his careful inspection of her was arousing. “Raise your skirt,” he ordered next.

  As they stood in the midst of the elegant room, they were like two divergent views of life—Tessa looking quite out of place. She felt like the used woman, like the whore that Hector spoke of. She was fulfilling Miles’ wishes, and wouldn’t have dared deny this man whatever pleasure he wanted. It was a nasty business being a slut, allowing the whole world to see her exactly as she was. As Miles’ trinket to give away, his pleasure became hers; doing his bidding was like a soothing ride down the territory of her own desires; and she couldn’t imagine being anything but what she was.

  Unfortunately, events like the luncheon today, reminded her that the rest of the world wasn’t like her at all. Indeed the normal world judged her harshly, a fact she’d have to get used to.

  Almost as a statement of defiance to the gathering down the hall, Tessa raised her skirt. Wouldn’t it have been lovely to flaunt her naked bottom before them?

  “Open your thighs,” Damien commanded.

  Tessa obeyed as Damien eyed her carefully, seeing her pussy with its glittering jewelry. A look of pure admiration—a wave of utter satisfaction crossed his face as he saw her cunt appearing with its treasures dangling before his eyes. He reached down and pulled at the ring over her clitoris. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “When you pull it hard, yes, sir.”

  “I like to see what depths of pain women can take. I should like to whip your body until you scream—your agony would make me mad with joy.”

  The man was mad, crazy mad, Tessa thought. His face made another of its unexpected shifts, almost glaring with a evil glow. Then the chilling visage turned to loathing, a scowl walking across his brow, chin and cheeks. He changed masks in seconds. For all the mesmerizing, demonic, lusty, wicked faces that had been cast her way, never had this one appeared to her.

  She was about to panic when the baton came down against her naked breasts. On another occasion she might cried out, but she was too scared. Strangely, the punishing cut calmed her, forcing her away from her fears. She was staring at the slice against her white breast where a thin red line was rising, when Damien brought the baton down another three times across her tits. Each time the same result occurred; her breasts instantly reflected the unleashed passion with a distinct line etched into her skin.

  “Some things, my dear Tessa, I like to see for myself first hand,” he explained as he finished.

  Tessa remained silent. She liked this less than she liked the scene with Martine. But again she was foiled by her own physical response; like some brazen whore, she was juicing between her legs.

  “Miles said your passions for perversion were limitless,” Damien said, pressing his hand to her cunt. His expression was pure admiration. Tessa wondered now, if there had been any reason to be frightened of him at all—she could handle hard cocks and lust with little effort.

  Bending her over the back of a chair, Damien spread wide her legs and pushed his cock deep into her cunt. She squeezed down on him instinctively, and he groaned delighted. While snapping the baton against her naked bottom, he pummeled her cunt with sharp, quick thrusts, to which she moaned in reply—though not so loudly that their fucking could be heard outside the room. Even so, right in the middle of their screw, the door opened noisily and two women from the luncheon walked inside the room.

  “It’s Miles’ slut and Damien,” a coifed woman, announced to her escort, as the two stood stock still in the doorway ogling the scene before them with ecstatic expressions.

  “Do you see that! She’s pierced!”

  The two didn’t bother to leave, they didn’t even bother to close the door. Instead, they watched the fucking as if it were a performance.

  “I wish he’d take her in the ass,” the woman said.

  Lost in the pleasure of his mounting climax, Damien didn’t seem to care that anyone watched. He didn’t even take notice of the audience, which had quickly expanded to a half-dozen unsuspecting guests. He fucked her hard, while Tessa was too hot and wet to worry about embarrassment. Yet, as Damien came with a truncated bellow issuing from his mouth, the door slowly closed and for some curious reason the audience retreated. Perhaps the voyeurs were too embarrassed by the intimacy of the final act and the awkwardness that would no doubt follow.

  When Damien pulled out her, he was stone, cold dominant, his sperm dripping out on Tessa’s behind and down her leg.

  “Don’t wipe it up,” he told her. “Let it dry. I’d like Miles to see it. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gift.” He brought the baton down on her ass cheeks, first the right, then the left, then in the center along the crease of her ass. She wanted to scream, just as she wanted to scream when he laid the baton across her breasts; but she remained as silent as a mouse to keep her agony from being discovered. It occurred to her, in one brief respite from the blows, that anyone from the luncheon could open the door and find her being whipped—especially if the ones who had watched her earlier and shared their discovery with the other guests. Thankfully, however, the two remained alone until he ordered her to stand.

  She was shaky at first. So much had happened so quickly she could hardly get her bearings. An empty stomach, a strange concoction of liquor, an audience, a punishment, a rabid fucking, and more punishment. She almost collapsed, her knees weak, her lungs out of breath.

  “Stand up, Tessa, and behave yourself.” The languishing submissive was surprised to hear Miles’ voice behind her. Stumbling, she turned around and caught herself on the chair.

  There were three women behind him in the doorway, watching too.

  “This is the woman in the paintings,” he told them. There she stood with the silk scarf and leather skirt both bunched around her waist, realizing that all her finest attributes were there to behold. The women stared at her in wonder. Their complementary pastel knit suits—looking so like they’d come from a designer salon of Saks—made Tessa feel smutty and torn in comparison.

  “Has she given you
any trouble?” Miles asked.

  “She’s testing well,” Damien replied.

  “Why don’t you use the baton on her pussy, that faltering shouldn’t go unpunished,” he said coldly.

  “Can we watch?” one of the women asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Miles told them turning around to usher them out, “perhaps another time.”

  Tessa was relieved, though not for long. When the door was closed again, Damien pulled out a stool and made her lie back with her legs open.

  “The cuts the bitch gave you hardly show,” he observed, looking down at her exposed pussy. He slashed her hard against her pierced labia.

  “Aaaaeessshhhhhhhhh,” she whimpered.

  The baton sizzled again, and hit her on the other side, just catching the side of her clit, where the ring appeared to protect her this time. Another cut was laid directly in the crease of her groin, on flesh so tender that she couldn’t help the biting cry that rose from her mouth.

  “Ahh, ah ah noooooooo!” she exclaimed aloud.

  Another cut found its target on the tip of her clit. This time she shrieked vociferously. Her hips bucked angrily against the stool—she wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room and Damien’s nasty baton; but she knew that would bring Miles’ wrath on her in ways far worse than this thrashing. “I’m doing this for Miles”, she repeated to herself. There was no reason she would endure this on her own—the pain and humiliation were far too cruel to engage her lust.

  The final cut from the baton landed viciously across her tits. Surprising her, she tumbled off the stool, landing clumsily on the floor. She felt like a fool, forgetting all her submissive training, and looking up at Damien wondered what reaction would ensue. He didn’t seem bothered by her deportment. Perhaps he knew how much he hurt her and that was excuse enough.

  “I’m sure Miles will want you in the dining room,” he finally said, staring at her coldly. “I’d suggest you not tarry with your primping. There’s a private bath through that door.” He pointed to the side of the room, then nodded to her as he collapsed the baton and replaced it in his suit pocket. Without so much as another glance, he left the room.