“Whip her buttocks raw, then bring her to me,” she said, to one of the men accompanying her. She dropped the slave’s head and walked away.
The lash was brutal, coming down on the trinket’s body with repeated blows to the tune of her soft moans and faint cries.
“Do we gag her?” one attendant questioned.
“No, let her whimper, it will be all the worse for her when we get her down,” the other one countered.
The lash resumed its journey over Trinket Four’s slave ass, cut upon cut burning into the creamy, tender skin. She was a valiant one, so the perpetrators thought. The two attendant’s played games of their own to see what might knock the chosen trinket off her pedestal. While the slave held her position with some determination, this was not a war that she could ever win.
Her valet caught her when a flurry of lashes whisked through the air from the two vile whips, and she could take no more. She fell off her pedestal to the sounds of laughter coming from the masters.
This first lashing of the night, an apt ice-breaker, was watched by scores of guests who used this trinket’s woe as a source of inspiration. In particular, Trinket Four was observed in her moment of agony, by eyes that had seen her in such positions on other occasions, by eyes belonging to the master who had initiated her into the world of punishment. He was a brooding man, who was not making sport of the night, as he had done so many times before, when he lent his hand in a whipping, or himself commanded one of Damien’s trinkets. He was content this time to explore the ballroom and its fascinating pleasures, though his mind was forever welded to just one poor trinket/slave, who now dutifully wiggled her red ass in the air as if she were asking for more.
He thought she wouldn’t see him, that it would be safe enough to observe; but one fleeting glance during one fleeting moment, when Trinket Four opened her eyes, gave him away. His face, though expressionless, renewed the slave’s courage. To this trinket’s surprise, her master had lied about being there; though she had no time or will to contemplate a relationship that was best forgotten for the rest of the night.
The first punishment complete, the trinket was led to a side room on her leash. She crawled on hands and knees across a crowded floor of people who were not inclined to notice her. When she was stepped on, she muffled a shriek—her fingers were smashed by the heel of someone’s boot. But as if her valet anticipated that squelched cry, he jerked on her leash to remind her of the required silence.
The small anteroom was like a scene from the Arabian nights, pillows covering the floor, incense giving off heavy smoke and a pungent aroma permeating the air.
The brunette Mistress who had won her prize was waiting, reclining on the pillows with a long, thin buggy-whip poised in her hand.
“Bow, slave, at my feet,” she ordered.
The slave crawled forward with her head to the floor, reaching the brunette’s feet just as the buggy whip sliced through the air and landed across her back.
As her body jerked, she issued a tiny cry, stunned by the cutting fervor of the stinging cut.
“So easily pained?” the mistress questioned. “I’d better not have claimed a cowardly trinket.” The whip made several brisk trips through the air, landing each time with an emphatic crack against the slave’s back.
This time she was quiet, not a peep from her mouth.
“That’s better,” the Mistress purred, “Come here between my legs.”
The trinket crawled between the woman’s legs, and began to lap at the juicing cunt presented her, while the Mistress leaned back—the immediate joy of her trinket’s careful work apparent in her blissful expression.
“OOoooooo my lord, what a tongue,” the woman seethed, her heavy breathing becoming heavier still, as she was quickly moved toward a smashing cum. As much as she might have wanted to wait, there was too much sexual heat about the room to fend off any orgasm for long. She bucked and churned against her trinket’s tongue, her juices spilling out all over the attentive face.
The slave backed off in silence, once the Mistress had been served. She kept her head pressed to the pillow, honoring the swift bond that had been forged between them.
“Come here slave,” the woman implored her.
Trinket Four crawled higher on the pillows, until the woman raised her chin with a nurturing hand and looked into the slave’s surrendering eyes.
“Rise up so I can see your jewelry,” she said. “I’m so fascinated by piercing, and yours is especially appealing.”
The slave pulled herself to her knees at the Mistress’s side, letting the woman’s hand stray over her nipples, toying with the studs and the rings, twisting and pulling them until she winced in pain.
“Oh, does that hurt?” the Mistress wondered aloud in a voice veiled in mockery. “Ah, but I like these best,” she said, petting the opened cunt. “This bar is so lovely. Does it hurt?”
Her slave remained silent.
“You may speak,” the Mistress informed her.
“Only when I move too quickly, or in the wrong direction,” Trinket Four replied.
“So does your Master plan to leave this here forever?” the Mistress asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“How open it makes you, how exposed.” The Mistress looked as if she’d like to use her tongue against the moistening flesh. But she had other ideas first. “Hand me that small crop,” she said to one of her male attendants. She had urges to satisfy, pain to inflict and the small crop was perfect. It was soon cracking against the exposed cunt with ruthless cuts going every which away over thighs, cunt, and labia. Small whimpers escaped the slave’s lips. And where it hit against the jewelry, she cried out with a blood-curdling scream. She could hardly stay upright.
“Now for your ass again, it’s looking too pale,” the mistress said. She pushed her slave around, her attendants shoving the slave’s head against the pillows. The crop whisked through the air again, raising fiery red stripes across the flesh of the trinket’s ass, followed by a sad, distressed cry.
“A dildo please,” the Mistress ordered. One was quickly placed in her hand—it seemed her attendants were as subject to their demanding mistress as the slave now bowing humbling at her side.
“Grease her,” she ordered. The smaller of the men moved forward with a jar of cream in hand and began to rub it into the slave’s rear hole.
“Yes, grease it deeply.” The Mistress watched attentively. “You’ll both be in there soon, I love to watch a good ass rape.”
Finishing, the man backed away so that his mistress could insert the dildo in its proper place. Clutching it in one hand, she shoved the huge plastic prick against the trinket’s sphincter, forcing it to give way.
“Yeaaaaahhhhhhh!”
“Hurt?” the mistress asked in a sing song voice, happily amused. She loved listening to that gasp of pain, and the tiny cries that ensued thereafter, as she rammed the huge cock in and out of her little slave. “You take this well,” she observed. “You must have had this treatment before.” Her slave began to wriggle her rear against the offending prick with a moan of pleasure escaping her lips.
“Answer me, you whore!” the woman demanded. The palm of her free hand began to slap her slave’s ass cheeks. “Tell me, does it hurt?”
“It’s unbearable,” the trinket gasped. She practically collapsed on the pillows, with force and desire butting heads together in her violated rear.
“How wonderful for all of us,” the Mistress said.
There were anguished moans into pillows below, the poor little thing hardly able to contain herself.
“In her ass!” the Domme roared at last, as she suddenly pulled the dildo from Trinket Four’s wide-open ass.
Two eager cocks waited impatiently to force their way inside the submissive rear hole. The most anxious of the two moved forward on his Mistress’ command and impaled the slave with a forceful shove.
“Oh gawd!” she cried.
The attendant smirked delighted,
pulling vigorously in and out, just as the dildo had done.
“Gawd no!” the slave cried again, the cock was not as easy to manage as the dildo. She hoped for some compassion from the man who rammed her ass, but he was too eager, getting the rare treat of real sex with a real woman. Looking out at the watching audience, he released his passion—his face twisted in anguished pleasure.
“She is so humbled,” one woman looked on in amazement.
“I find it uplifting,” another spoke.
“How can they find it in them to give themselves this way, I’ll never know,” a third remarked.
The mistress of the hour, reclining happily on her pillows and sneered lewdly at the crowd. She was a happy mistress with her two submissives and a borrowed trinket. Every whim, every urge, satisfied.
Trinket Four did not finish with the trio until she had satisfied both men in her ass, and the Mistress once more with her mouth pressed to the woman’s cunt. By the time she was returned to her pedestal, the evening’s festivities were well underway. The elegant clothes that adorned Damien’s guests were strewn in corners and closets. Soft, naked flesh-on-flesh encounters took place in every corner of the ballroom and in several side rooms, and the parlors beyond.
Trinket Four had hardly resumed her place on the pedestal before she was summoned again, and her valet led her away to another Master desiring the use of her available orifices.
She was whipped with a cat ‘o nine tails, buggy whip, and assorted leather instruments, spanked with paddles and impaled with dildos and cocks. Her backside was raw to touch, her openings stretched and sore from use. She was made to pad about the ballroom on all fours until her knees ached and she didn’t think she could move another inch.
The time passed as if in a dream. Sometimes it seemed that it dragged forever; though she was vaguely aware that day had dawned, the morning light had come and gone, and the afternoon sunlight had disappeared to give way to another night.
Crawling up on her pedestal for the last time, the valet no longer insisted that she stand tied with her arms over her head. Trinket Four remained eyes closed until she felt her valet tug at her collar again.
Her eyes popping open, she stared into his passive face.
“Again?” she whispered wearily. Her limbs could hardly move, and she no longer cared whether “submissive protocol” was breached by her faint protest.
The valet did not reply, though he didn’t scowl in response to her plea. Instead, he pulled her to her feet, not her knees, and led her from the ballroom past the sleeping bodies, and the few who lazily made love to the strains of quiet background music meant for lovers. As she made a silent journey, only a rare sensuous movement caught her eye. The feeling of exhausted satisfaction rippled through the ballroom on a listless breeze. Someone had thrown open a window, and a whiff of fresh air caught her nostrils as she and her valet returned to the attic stairway.
In the attic, the valet undressed her, removing the collar, the leather belt, and the cuffs. “You were a fine trinket,” he said. He looked weary, too, though a twinkle in his eye flashed through the fatigue. He was very kind, where all night and day he’d been just another master for her to obey. “I was once Trinket Four,” he told her.
She smiled at his admission. Strange bonds, strange times create.
Dressed, she was led back to the foyer to a chair where she was left alone. She nodded off, wanting only to sleep.
“Tessa!” She heard her name spoken sharply, hardly recognizing it. Opening her eyes, she saw Miles towering above her.
Chapter Nineteen
It was afternoon when she awoke in a room flooded with a sumptuous lazy sunshine, and a cushion of downy comforters cocooned her naked body. She ached too much to be really comfortable, but she didn’t want to move. She dozed again, not waking until daylight had vanished, and a hurricane lamp on the far side of the room was the only light to see by.
This time, Tessa had to rise, her bodily functions demanded attention. Finding a lavish looking bathtub next to the toilet, she filled it with hot soapy bubbles, and slipped into the silky warm water to soak—she hoped forever. Her mind ran through one amazing scene after another, all images of herself almost too bizarre to believe.
When she finally pulled herself from the tub and dried her body with a thick bath towel, she felt as tired as when she first sank into the water. The bath had soothed her aches and pains away and she wanted to sleep again. It was not until she was nearly dry that she looked down to see that the bar had been removed from her cunt, her labia once again allowed to close over her womanly bud. She felt odd without it there, and wondered when it was removed and by whom; though memory cheated her of that specific instant. She was satisfied to put the puzzle from her head in favor of sleep.
It was morning when she woke again, she could tell by the songs of birds outside the open window. Only then did she realize that someone had been attending to her as she slept, opening windows, closing them, leaving food and tea by her bedside, and removing it when she was too tired to eat.
Now, she was ravenous and anxious to see Miles. She was in his house, she recognized the room, though it wasn’t the one she’d stayed in months before. She recognized the paintings on the wall. There was a picture of a woman with her cunt spread open; Tessa instantly recognized the subject as herself. Like a message painted in rough pigment on this canvas, it reminded her that he was watching over her even while she slept.
Seeing clothes laid out on a settee near the bed—a silk, cream-colored turtleneck and short brown skirt—she quickly dressed and left the room, thinking that all her impending needs would be cared for somewhere downstairs. Her mind careened backwards to months before, experiencing instantaneous déjà vu walking into the sunroom where Miles sat eating breakfast. It was all the same this time—the greatest difference between the past and now was that the table was set for two.
“Awake at last?” he asked, smiling broadly. Traces of anger, expressions of scorn, and the cold that could flash so brilliantly on his face were now replaced with his impeccable calm.
She sat down where he pulled out a chair and stared at him, wondering what to say. Forty-eight hours between them, she didn’t know where to start. “You removed the bar,” popped in her head. It was a bizarre first statement to utter after everything that had take place and even Miles was surprised by her comment.
“I never thought it permanent, Tessa—sometimes I like the look of your womanhood in its natural state,” he explained. “So, is that all you can think to ask about?” He smiled at her, charmed by her befuddlement.
Tessa blushed, a zillion thoughts cramming her brain until it pounded crazily. She said nothing.
“A muffin?” he asked, uncovering a half dozen steamy, dark bread muffins. They were filled with nuts and raisins, their scent making her mouth water.
“Oh, my god, yes!” She took one, trying not to appear too anxious, though she would look back later remembering how quickly she ate it, realizing her hunger. There was a vast emptiness needing to be filled. She was afraid she couldn’t stop eating as Miles looked at her with dispassionate interest.
“Another?” he offered.
She took the second muffin, and allowed Miles to serve her a plate with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs.
“These are wonderful,” she exclaimed taking a first bite, “What’s in them?”
“Thank you for noticing,” Miles said, still awed by her hunger and enthusiasm, “I made them myself, there’s buttermilk, a little dill and basil.”
“Humm. I love them!” She continued eating, content to let Miles eyes caress her.
Once she finally slowed down, he took her hand in his. “I have meetings all day, Tessa, so I won’t be here. Please make yourself at home, but don’t you dare leave. I’ll blister your butt if you do, I want to see you tonight.”
“You’re leaving now? But, I have so much to say,” she lamented.
“Do you really?” he asked.
Sh
e’d polished off two muffins, the plate of eggs and fruit, and two cups of coffee. She was no longer hungry. Either the natural need to eat was finally satiated, or it was simply suppressed by Miles unexpected announcement. Disappointment had hit her like a brick. “Just one thing before you go—were you there all evening?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You saw everything?” She only remembered seeing his face once during the first punishment.
“Every lash on that pretty bottom, every cut of the crop across your pussy, every forced or gentle entry.”
Tessa shuddered thinking back. “I didn’t see you,” she said.
“And you shouldn’t have, your mind should have been elsewhere.”
Tessa knew it hadn’t been. Despite the pain and constant torture, there was always a prominent corner of her mind focused on Miles. “I did see you that first time when I was on the pedestal.”
“That was a mistake,” Miles admitted, pointing a lighthearted accusing finger at her. “And you peeked.”
“There was no rule to close my eyes,” Tessa reminded him with a dash of irritation.
He observed her for some moments. “You know, you’re not likely to change, Miss Feisty.”
“What does that mean?” Tessa asked.
“You performed well for twenty-four hours, in fact, you were nearly flawless, but you don’t really want to surrender, you fight it.”
She looked crestfallen.
He chuckled darkly. “But then… staying away from your submissive desires is like staying away from chocolate candy. You can’t do it.”
“You’re unhappy with me,” Tessa said, feeling herself jolted from the halcyon bliss, to cruel reality.
“No, I’m not at all unhappy with you. My only consideration, Tessa, is not can you be the perfect trinket for Damien’s Ball, but can you satisfy me?”
“What more would I have to do?” she asked.
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