Stephanie's Domain

by Susanna Hughes

  'I'm wet,' she said sucking at the finger as though it were coated with honey, looking him in the eye, watching him watching her.

  It was then that he lost control, totally and absolutely. After three months of constriction at the castle, three months of rigid obedience, three months of acute frustration, something inside him snapped, snapped so decisively, so finally he was surprised it wasn't audible, that the plane wasn't filled with a noise like the breaking of a string on a violin. His string had finally broken. He felt free. He didn't care anymore, didn't care what they did to him, didn't care if they sent him back to the castle for another three months. He had to have her.

  Stephanie was no more than a step away. In one fluid motion he pulled her towards him and wrapped his strong arms around her long back, forcing his mouth down on hers, his tongue probing between her lips, his penis flat up against her belly. He wasn't going to be teased again.

  Stephanie was too taken aback to struggle. The power of his embrace had literally taken her breath away. Norman was pulling her down on to the hard metal floor. Before she could recover he had forced her to her knees and then down on to her back and he was on top of her.

  But by then she had regained her senses and her breath.

  She started hammering on his back with her fists and screaming, 'Let me go, let me go.' Not that she wanted him to. She wanted him to do precisely what he was doing, to fuck her hard and crudely; but she was determined to play the game.

  'You bastard get off me.' One by one he caught her wrists in his hands and forced them down on to the metal floor on either side of her head.

  'You bitch,' he hissed, with the pent-up emotion of months of having to hold his tongue.

  'I'll have you flayed for this,' she threatened struggling and bucking her hips. It only made him harder. It only made her hotter.

  He worked his thigh down between her legs, prying them open. She could feel his erection on her belly.

  'Don't you dare put that thing in me.' She was saying the exact opposite of what she meant. Not that it mattered. He was taking no notice. He worked his other thigh between her legs, then spread his thighs to force her legs apart. His penis nudged the soft folds of her labia.

  'Please, please don't.' The words thrilled her. She could feel the vibrations of the plane's engines through the metal floor. The metal was cold, dimpled with little domes to improve friction. The domes were uncomfortable on her back and arse as his weight pressed down on her. But she was incredibly turned on.

  Norman pushed the tip of his cock forward. She struggled again trying to raise her arms off the floor, trying to sit up. He slammed her back down again. She tried to raise her legs so she could attack him with the heels of her feet but the movement only changed the angle between their bodies, making a channel for him to plunge his cock all the way into her wet, tight cunt.

  The feeling of his thrusting cock, its heat, its rabid eagerness, was too good for Stephanie to keep up the pretence. Instead, she wrapped her legs around Norman's back and levered herself deeper down on to him.

  There was no subtlety, no tenderness. He was reaming in and out of her as though he had never had a woman before; he was using her, using her to escape the frustrations of three months of naked women all around him, all untouchable, unfuckable.

  'Yes,' he said to himself as, at last, he felt a cunt wrapped around his cock. He couldn't have cared less about her. He couldn't care less whether she came or didn't come. He made no attempt to please her, to touch her breasts or clitoris, to lick or suck her. He wanted only for himself. He powered on and on and on, feeling his spunk coursing into his cock, filling it, swelling it, defining his need.

  Under him Stephanie was coming, coming as violently as he was fucking, a different kind of orgasm, sharp, almost painful, but no less intense, no less exquisitely thrilling as it broke over the head of his cock and plunged her into a blackness of sensation, her body spasming out of control.

  He felt her contractions, heard her moans, saw her tossing her head from side to side. Still holding her hands fast above her head, he raised himself on his arms and looked down between their bodies so he could see his cock thrusting in and out of her cunt, wet with her juices. That made him come. That picture. He fought to keep his eyes open but could not. All he could do was abandon himself to his orgasm as he felt the spunk lash out of him and into her. Even then he did not stop hammering into her, like some automaton, on and on, feeling the wetness of his own spunk inside the tight tunnel of her vagina.

  Despite the discomfort of the floor neither of them moved until his prick had softened and slipped from the soaking nether lips. It was only then that he rolled off her, only then he felt the soreness of his knees, and Stephanie, the numbness of her bottom. As she sat up the numbness turned to pain, the hard metal dimples having left their mark on her soft, pert arse.

  Norman too regained his sense of reality. He would be sent back to the castle, he was sure, back to obedience and frustration, weeks more of service in the cellars, of endless titillation - months probably. All because he'd lost control an hour before he was due to be free.

  But he didn't regret it. He would do it all again. If he had to spend more time at the castle at least he would have the memory, the feeling, the image in his mind of Stephanie's body as he lay on top of her fucking her for all he was worth.

  Stephanie stood up a little unsteadily. She picked up her panties from the floor, stepped into them and pulled them up over her legs to cover the wetness of her crotch.

  Norman did not look up. He sat, his knees drawn up to his chin, his face set in an expression that was a peculiar mixture of depression and despair.

  It did, of course, occur to Stephanie to be angry, at least to pretend to be angry, just as she'd pretended to be raped. It could hardly be real anger. Norman had filled her, physically and emotionally, made her come exquisitely, done what had not been done to her sexually for some time, literally sweeping her off her feet. He'd taken control. Temporarily. But she was back in control now. And she had to decide what to do. Pretend anger. Send him back to the castle. Or...

  'Get back into the body bag, Norman,' she said with no emotion.

  'I didn't mean to...'

  'Shut up and do as I say.'

  Norman scrambled back into the crate. He slipped his feet into the tough nylon tube at the bottom of the bag and then lay back, his hands pressed to his sides in the proscribed manner. He couldn't believe his luck.

  Stephanie pulled the fat zip all the way up his body, watching the nylon mould itself to all his contours, effectively binding all his limbs. He was helpless again, a tightly wrapped parcel. Hers.

  Of course, he thought suddenly, this didn't mean she was letting him off. Not necessarily. Perhaps she was sending him back without a word. He looked into her eyes searching for some clue as to her intention. There was none.

  She picked up the leather gag. He followed her with his eyes, her breasts swaying as she moved, her tight arse bisected by the little white panties. As she turned he could see the crotch of the panties were wet, sticking to her, sucked up into the slit of her sex, a long undulation in the material.

  'Open your mouth, Norman,' she ordered.

  'What are you going to do with me?' Norman said pathetically. Being physically helpless again made him emotionally vulnerable. His bravado had disappeared with his erection. He was her chattel again.

  'Gag you,' she said knowing perfectly well that was not what he had in mind.

  'Please don't send me back. I didn't mean...'

  'Why should I send you back?'

  'I just thought...'

  'Nothing happened here, Norman. Nothing. Just remember that. If I find out you've told anyone different then I will have you sent back.'

  'Oh thank you,' he said so pathetically she thought he was going to cry.

  'Now open your mouth.'

  She crammed the leather gag back into his mouth and buckled it tightly around his head. It had the effect of for
cing his mouth open like some hideous gargoyle. She zipped the body bag over his head.

  She stood up. He was exactly as she had found him. Nothing had happened.

  Taking her dress over her arm, she locked the bulkhead door again and walked back down the plane to the bathroom. Susie came from the forward cabin to see if there was anything she wanted. The dark eyes of the Malaysian woman scowled a look of disapproval at Stephanie's semi-nakedness but she knew better than to make any comment.

  'Just been checking the cargo,' Stephanie said to further annoy her. 'It appears to be in very good condition. Can you get me another martini?'

  'Right away, mam.'

  In the plane's bathroom Stephanie showered and towelled herself dry. Her knickers were too wet and uncomfortable to put on again so she went without, pulling the jersey dress down over her head and smoothing it on to her body.

  Back in the main cabin she sipped the martini that awaited her and felt good. Deep down inside her there was a residue of still delicious tangible pleasure.

  The captain announced that they were starting their descent into London, once again apologising for the delay. After a few minutes the plane broke through the covering of cloud and Stephanie saw the lights of London spread out before her. The orange lights gave the city a surrealist glow, almost as though it was not London at all but some strange planet of perpetual night.

  She was glad she had bought the fur with her. London was cold and damp. As she walked across the tarmac the cold seeped into her bones and she wrapped the coat around herself more firmly. After going through immigration control and customs, she was glad to see the Mercedes coupe waiting for her outside the tiny terminal building of the private airfield. She was even more pleased and surprised to see Venetia.

  'I thought you were in the States,' she said kissing her on both cheeks.

  'I had to come back to sort out some contracts. Devlin asked me to pick you up.'

  'You look great.'

  It was true. Venetia's blonde hair was pinned up. She wore a plain black suit with a very short skirt. Her legs, clad in the sheerest black nylon were long and shapely, firm thighs, slim calves, pinched ankles.

  Hurriedly Stephanie stripped off the fur, threw it into the back of the car and strapped herself into the passenger seat. The car was pleasantly warm.

  'Devlin suggested you use the London house. But if you'd prefer a hotel...'

  'What a good idea,' Stephanie said, and meant it. It would certainly be interesting to see the house. A lot had happened since her last visit there.

  Stephanie could not suppress a shiver.

  'Are you cold?' Venetia drove the car through the gates of the airfield and on to a busy main road.

  'Freezing. It's not that cold is it? Must be all that Italian sun, lowered my resistance.'

  Venetia turned the heating up full. The noise of the heater fan filled the almost silent car and a big wave of heat flooded from the dashboard vents. The chill Stephanie felt rapidly disappeared. She was surprised at herself. The cold of London had never bothered her before; it was obviously the price of her sybaritic life.

  'How's Devlin?' she asked.

  'Not a very happy man at the moment. He's used to getting his own way.'

  'At least in business.'

  'He misses you. He talks about you all the time.'

  'Does he?'

  Venetia smiled. 'He's smitten.'

  Stephanie relaxed into the big leather seat of the car. She remembered the first time she had been in it, the first time she had been driven by Venetia, Devlin's girl Friday. She turned off the fan of the heater as soon as she began to feel genuinely warm. Watching Venetia drive, her left leg resting, her right darting between accelerator and brake, its muscles tensing under their nylon veil, Stephanie could hear the rasp of nylon on nylon, just as she had that first time, when Venetia had taken her home with Devlin's invitation to come to the castle.

  She could remember that night after all. It was the first time she had been with a woman. Martin, all those months ago, had brought her a woman, of course, but that was different: she could pretend to herself that what she had done with Alice was for Martin's sake, to please Martin, to turn him on. Menage a trios. The male fantasy. But when Venetia had taken her home, when Venetia had stripped off her clothes and lain naked on her bed, when she had kissed and embraced her, there could be no such pretence. It was only for her. Her passion. Her discovery.

  Venetia was wearing her hair pinned up. Her long neck was sinewy and elegant. Under the buttoned jacket of the suit she was not wearing a blouse. Stephanie could see the delicate lace of a black bra. Venetia's breasts needed the support of a bra.

  The journey did not take long. Venetia drove the Mercedes into the gravel driveway of the house where Stephanie had spent her first time with Devlin. She hardly remembered the outside of the house at all, but she knew she would remember the inside. She would remember the bedroom. She would remember the huge oil painting that dominated it.

  Almost before the car had stopped a man appeared from the front door and came out to the car. Pulling her fur back on, Stephanie stepped out into the cold.

  'Just the small case,' she said as the man lifted the lid of the boot.

  There hadn't been any servants when she had been to the house before. Devlin must have given them the night off.

  Inside Stephanie recognised the layout, the immaculately decorated and designed interior, the modern furniture, wooden floors, concealed lighting and numerous works of mostly contemporary artists. She was surprised to find that the artist whose work was so predominantly displayed in the master bedroom was also featured downstairs, though these oils were certainly less erotic, but no less vivid in their use of colour.

  'Were these always here?' Stephanie asked.

  'As long as I've been coming here, yes,' Venetia replied.

  'I've put your case in the master bedroom, madam,' the man said, who from his manner, as well as his jacket and striped trousers, appeared to have the rank of a butler.

  'Good. That's what I wanted.'

  'Will you want to have dinner, madam?'

  'No.' She thought for a moment. 'No, we'll go out, won't we?'

  'Anything you want,' Venetia said.

  After eating at the castle Stephanie felt like going to a busy crowded London restaurant by way of contrast.

  She went upstairs to change. The butler had left the case on the large double bed, its counterpane folded back already. Her memory had not exaggerated the drama of the oil painting that dominated the room: the tangle of limbs, two women and a man, somehow centred on the crimson vulva of one of the women. The crimson seemed to throb, to be alive. Stephanie found it difficult to tear her eyes away.

  They attracted a lot of attention, Stephanie and Venetia, two beautiful women alone together. But Stephanie was not in the mood for another liaison. She wanted an early night. She had never been on the Concorde before and was determined to be well rested for the experience. They ate and talked. They ignored the rather obvious approaches from at least two groups of men.

  Back at the house they sat in the living room in front of the black iron fireplace of a futuristic design, watching the beech logs burn and sipping brandy which Stephanie thought would help her sleep.

  Venetia sat at Stephanie's feet, on a rug with a modern geometric design. They talked more, of the castle, of their lives. They laughed about Gianni, replaying together his final downfall when they had left him, helpless, in the Excelsior hotel in Rome.

  Then it was time for bed.

  'I want to sleep alone tonight,' Stephanie said bluntly, knowing that Venetia would be expecting them to sleep together.

  'Oh.'

  'I have to get up early.'

  Venetia looked disappointed. Not that it mattered. Venetia was a slave like all the others, Stephanie reminded herself, a thief caught embezzling. She had been useful to Devlin; he trusted her now, but in the end - though she roamed the world as Devlin's assistant she was s
till as much a part of the castle, and the cellars, as Norman had been.

  Stephanie got up and helped Venetia to her feet. She kissed her briefly on the cheek.

  She had no need to say anything, explain anything but she found herself saying, 'When I get back from New York.'

  'You always make me feel so...'

  'So what?'

  Venetia tried to think of the right word. 'Liquid,' she said finally.

  Stephanie looked into her eyes and for half a second thought about changing her mind, thought of how that magnificent body would feel pressed against her own, how Venetia's expert mouth would...

  'Goodnight,' she said firmly walking away.

  Upstairs she showered quickly in the en suite bathroom, an interior designer's invention of black slate and white marble with elaborate chrome taps. Back in the bedroom, wrapped in a bath towel, she lay on the bed without getting between the sheets. She stared at the oil painting, remembering with a shiver of pleasure, how Devlin had fucked her for the first time, how his monstrous cock had filled every corner of her sex.

  The painting seemed to be alive. It was impossible to look at it without looking at the crimson vulva. The vulva seemed to fluoresce, as though it were full of feeling, as though it had experienced what Stephanie had experienced so many times since that first night with Devlin - that peculiar soreness, a mixture of pain and pleasure, that comes only after prolonged sexual encounters, of multiple orgasms. It was as near as a painting would ever get to describing an orgasm.

  In the central heating Stephanie's body had dried rapidly. She stripped off the towel and got into bed. Unfortunately for her plan to have an early night, she was not feeling particularly sleepy. She looked around the room for something to read and noticed some books supported by granite bookends on a chest of drawers. She hadn't noticed the chest of drawers before. It was, like most of the furniture in the house, of a modern design, beautifully constructed in yew, with inlays of satinwood around the outside of the drawers. But the drawers were very small, not bigger than the size of a paperback book. Too small for clothes. Stephanie counted seventy drawers, seven stacks up and ten across.