by Sarah Fisher
As Alex turned towards the door she felt the tension in the sensitive peaks of her breasts. Glancing down she saw the malevolent glitter of the rings and lower still, her sex echoed their subtle gleam, but strangely the pain of the piercing was somehow less disturbing than the memory of the events that had followed.
She knew it had been Starn who’d taken over from Peter Tourne, though how she could be so certain was beyond her. She couldn’t remember the mask being taken off, but her mind was full of images of Starn circling her, his hands and fingers working into her most secret places with cool brutality. She could visualise his face, cruel and triumphant, as he drew his fingers over the rings that pierced her nipples - and then there was the kiss of the whip as it had exploded across her buttocks.
Tears threatened as she remembered Starn’s voice, as cold and unfeeling as the grave: ‘Peter Tourne’s gone now. You’re all mine. He’s so concerned with his ideas about educating that he forgets what you’re really here for... pleasure - my pleasure. You won’t ever deny me again, you miserable little bitch.’
The whip had curled back like a snake and hit her again. It seemed as if the beating went on without end, one blow running into another and another in a tapestry of breathtaking pain, heat, and noise. And finally, when there was calm, she’d hung on the wooden frame, exhausted, struggling to control her mind, every inch of her body raw and aching - and it was then that she felt hot breath on her thigh, followed by a tongue plunging deep inside her quim. The merest contact against the new metal studs electrified her, sending wave after wave of pleasure and pain through her exhausted body. The next touch of the unseen tongue was across her clitoris, sending a bright glittering paradox through her body as the sensations twisted and tumbled together, cutting though her thoughts like a river in full spate.
Just as she was beginning to be drawn in by the growing heat in her belly, a second pair of hands brushed the cheeks of her backside. Against the raw heat of the beating the touch felt almost icy. Her unseen tormentor pressed a finger into her quim, exploring roughly, dipping into her again and again. She felt the brush of an erect penis on the backs of her thighs, and then gasped as it struggled to ease its way into her.
Afraid that he might hurt her she had moved to try and let him have easier access, only to have the man crouching between her legs grunt furiously and grab at her thighs, holding her still. Behind her the man finally found his mark and slid his cock home. She groaned as he buried himself to the hilt with one swift lunge, his hands slithering round to cup and tease her throbbing breasts.
Alex felt the sense of panic growing and struggled to keep a tight hold of her sanity. Behind her the man - she thought it was most likely Starn - grunted like a pig and forced himself as deep as possible, while the man kneeling in front of her continued his relentless tonguing. She felt to be drowning between the two of them. There was no part of her body that seemed to be her own - every inch was alive with pain or pleasure inflicted by another.
The pulsing erection inside her was close to release she could sense it by the way it jerked and by the rasping breath against her ear. But to her horror - and what frightened her more - was that between her legs the dark fire, kindled by the man’s tongue, had taken hold, and a great shadowy flame of pleasure was growing in her belly, as raw and terrifying as a forest fire. The thick animal cries of pleasure that she could hear were her own. She screamed as her unseen lover exploded deep inside her and in the same second the flames engulfed her, driving away all reason, all consciousness, until all that was left was sensation.
Now, alone in her cell, Alex flushed crimson. Humiliation replaced her fear. Unlike Peter Tourne they had taken her coldly, used her without feeling... and yet some part of her had revelled in their abuse. Memories of the intensity of her orgasm made her tremble with pleasure. She huddled under the thin grey blanket, careful to keep the fabric away from the tender wounds, and struggled to find sleep.
The beast Peter Tourne had unleashed in her followed into her dreams, where she relived every stroke of the whip, every touch, every dark compelling sensation.
When Alex woke again it was dark. She stared into the gloom wondering what had disturbed her. A light flickered on in the corridor outside her cell, casting a jaundiced pattern through the bars in the door. Mario’s distinctive face peered in through the grating. Alex curled into the corner. The driver grinned as he struggled with the lock.
‘Get up. Mr Tourne says you join him for dinner.’
Alex stared at the driver. Dressed only in the remains of the ruined blouse she was hardly ready to eat a civilised meal, or perhaps this was yet another part of Peter Tourne’s education. Mario swung the door wide. Beside him, standing in the shadows, was the housekeeper. She looked at Alex with a hint of pity in her eyes.
‘Come with me,’ the old lady said in a tiny voice. ‘I get you ready.’
Mario unfastened Alex, and then snapped a long leather lead onto her collar. With Alex secured they walked in procession to the bathroom in the room beyond the cells. She tried hard to concentrate her attention on the gentle ministrations of the old lady rather than the dark lustful stare of Mario, who watched the preparations for her dinner invitation with interest. All the time the housekeeper worked the driver gripped the lead tightly, just in case Alex had any foolish ideas about escaping.
The old woman bathed her, washed her hair and helped her to get dry before turning her attention first to her bruises and welts and then to the new rings and studs. With knowing hands she worked cool balm into the tender pierced places. Her touch was so delicate and gentle that Alex thought she might cry.
When she was finished the old lady twisted Alex’s stunning auburn curls into a chic knot. Alex wondered fleetingly why it was she didn’t feel self-conscious of her nakedness - and then realised with a start that there wasn’t a single piece of her body that either Mario or the housekeeper hadn’t seen or touched. The old lady held out a hand and beckoned for Alex to follow her back into the main room. It was bare now. Not a sign of the day’s activities remained.
After the warmth of the bathroom Alex felt the chill of the night air on her skin. The woman looked her up and down thoughtfully, and then opened a cupboard. From inside she produced a black leather corset set with studs and chains, and held it up to Mario for his approval. The driver grunted and nodded, his gaze still lingering on Alex’s naked body.
Alex shivered as the old woman returned to the cupboard and reappeared with a pair of matching ankle boots; a thin silver chain ran between them, effectively hobbling the wearer. Alex remained still, reluctant to dress in the bizarre outfit her train of thought was broken by Mario jerking at the lead.
‘Hurry,’ he snapped. ‘You not keep Mr Tourne waiting. He get angry.’
The old woman wrapped the corset around Alex’s shapely body and then began to fasten it. It was secured by a combination of buckles and laces that nipped Alex’s skin firmly as the old woman began to adjust them. Alex gasped as the woman cinched it in over her waist. Glancing down she saw that the skilful boning and cut forced her breasts up and forward, laying them out for her master like a restoration banquet. Below her breasts the corset tightened dramatically around her waist before flaring out into shaped points over her hips. The dark leather framed her naked sex, emphasising the pallor and vulnerability of her body. The woman crouched down to help her slip on the stiletto-heeled ankle boots, before kneeling back to admire the overall effect. Once the boots were on she smiled and then nodded to Alex, as if to imply it looked right.
Alex blushed, imagining how she must look. The old woman struggled and creaked back to her feet and went over to the cupboard again; apparently the outfit was not quite complete. She returned with a pair of long black satin gloves and a mask that covered the top half of Alex’s face, the eyeholes framed with tiny silver studs. Alex shuddered; in the mask she became anonymous. Stripped of her ide
ntity she was transformed into a creature of pure pleasure. As a final touch the old woman reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a lipstick. It was blood red. With steady hands she outlined Alex’s full lips, and then stood back to admire her handiwork.
Mario sniffed and then nodded; it seemed he was satisfied with the results. He gave a sharp tug on the lead and Alex had no choice but to follow him. She found it hard to walk in the ridiculous boots; her stride was reduced to tiny steps by the chain and the heels were so high that it was difficult to keep her balance. As if this wasn’t enough, the mask restricted her field of vision and the leather corset, tight and unyielding around her cinched body, nipped her flesh making her aware of every weal and ache.
The progress up through the gardens was slow, with Mario tugging impatiently at her lead, making the walk all the more difficult. She caught glimpses of her reflection in the windows as they climbed the steps to the main villa. Her appearance was startling - she looked like a wild erotic ornament; a creature of elicit pleasure. The fragmented reflections, despite everything, increased her sense of expectation, and a tiny flare of excitement formed again in her belly.
Her rational mind struggled with the notion that her ongoing predicament could excite her so intensely. How could this costume and this sense of being nothing more than a possession be so electrifying? Even Mario, her burly minder, somehow added to the growing feelings of arousal. The sea air caressed the naked plains of her body, tightening her pierced nipples into scarlet peaks. Between her legs the same breeze brushed the contours of her sex, teasing back and forth over the creamy folds. Alex shivered; she was wet, she was excited, and yet every shred of her rational mind demanded to know why.
Alex was relieved when they finally stepped into the entrance hall with its bright sparkling fountain. It seemed a lifetime since she had arrived at the villa and first met Peter Tourne. Was it possible that the naively talented artist who had arrived to paint the mural was the same woman that stood there now, dressed as a gift for her master?
The lights were low in the hallway. Candles in glass vases had been set around the poolside. The tumble of greenery around the water reflected the moisture and light, giving the room a magical quality. For some reason Alex was certain that Starn and Gena had left - whatever was to be played out tonight was for her and Peter Tourne alone. As her mind formed his name he appeared from the shadows. She wondered how long he had been standing there watching her. He held out a hand and Mario silently passed him the lead. He looked at it thoughtfully, and then at Alex.
As their eyes met she began to understand her foreign emotions; this enigmatic man had - from the first moment they’d met - instinctively recognised the kind of woman she was. He fully understood the needs and desires even she didn’t dare acknowledge existed within her. Did he know her better than she did? For a few seconds they stood facing each other, and in that breathless moment each recognised the true nature of the other: Master and slave, two halves of a complex puzzle that defied all logic and rationale.
‘I think we can dispense with the lead tonight,’ he said quietly and stepped closer. Instinctively Alex leant into his touch, like a sleek cat seeking the comfort and approval of her owner. Peter Tourne smiled and stroked her neck. She could sense his approval, and felt a disproportionate sense of pleasure. His fingers worked at the fastening on her collar, and then he dropped the lead to the floor. Without a word he turned and made his way up to the dining room. Alex stopped struggling to make sense of what was happening to her, and followed him.
Upstairs the elegant room was lit by candles and the grand table set with just a single place setting. Beside the carver chair at the head of the table was a footstool. Alex had no doubt where her place was meant to be. She would sit at his feet, doing as he willed, obeying his every command. A servant appeared from the shadows and pulled the chair out.
Like Mario, Peter Tourne’s houseboy was a local peasant, and Alex immediately sensed his interest in her arrival. His eyes - which rested on her body for no more than a few seconds - gave her a peculiar sense of self-assurance. Stripped of her identity, all she had left to offer was a pure sexuality that was as raw and alluring as a hunger. While the boy busied himself with serving the meal Tourne settled himself at the table and shook out his napkin. Alex curled gracefully onto the stool beside him without a word.
Peter Tourne smiled inwardly as he began his meal, sitting back to allow his houseboy to pour the rich red wine. He wished it was possible for Starn to be there unobserved to watch Alex’s unquestioning obedience, but knew it was impossible. Starn had always preferred overt displays of submission, whilst he relished Alex’s sweet capitulation. No amount of beating or pain could engender her reaction, unless it was already part of her nature.
He tore the bread on his side plate and offered a piece to his slave girl. She leant forward carmine lips open a fraction to feed from his hand like a tame dog. As her tongue grazed his fingers he could sense the emotion coursing through her veins.
The meal was exquisite, and from each course he saved a little for the girl who awaited his pleasure so willingly. There was a strange erotic charge to the way her lips worked around each morsel, her tongue seeking to retrieve each scrap. If his fingers brushed her cheek she would press against him lightly, her skin warm and inviting beneath his fingertips.
Finally he took his coffee and a liqueur over to the window to look down at the sea below the villa. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Alex waiting for his next command. The leather corset accentuated her subtle curves and the creamy richness of her English complexion. She did not meet his eyes but instead looked down, meek and humble, his command to obey. How much Starn missed with his insensitive fumbling, he thought.
He saw Alex shiver - well aware, no doubt, that he was observing her. As she moved a fraction the candlelight reflected in the silver rings nestled under each nipple and below, between the soft shadowed folds of her thighs he could just see the studs that pierced her labia. She glanced up momentarily, and he beckoned to her. She appeared to slither across the floor, crawling on all fours as if afraid to get up from the stool. As she reached his feet she pressed her face against his thigh. He could feel her breath and smiled. This was all he could have hoped for, and more. He extended a hand and slowly she uncurled and got to her feet.
He nodded towards the table. ‘Lay down, my dear,’ he said. ‘I want to look at you.’
Without a second’s hesitation Alex crossed the room and lay down amongst the remains of his meal. He left her there, waiting until he had finished his coffee. When he finally turned to observe her he could see a light sheen of perspiration had risen in the deep valley between her breasts. Her breathing was light and excited. He understood only too well the power of anticipation. He examined her lazily, stroking her sex and running a finger over the swollen places where the studs nestled. As he touched her again she opened her legs to give him greater access and freedom.
He was amused that she should think she could control him so easily. Hadn’t he taught her the game was his, and not hers? Between her open thighs he could see the glistening juices clinging to the folds of her quim. She was offering herself up for his pleasure - a touching but unnecessary gesture.
He glanced at the glass of cognac in his free hand, and then with slow deliberation he poured the contents over the sensitive lips of her sex, and as he did so he plunged his fingers deep inside. She groaned as the alcohol seeped over her, startled by the sting and the coldness of it.
‘Oh, Alex,’ Tourne said as he nipped and pinched at the sensitised peaks of her breasts. ‘How clever you think you are. How many times must I tell you, it is I who makes the rules - not you?’ He twisted her soft flesh, making her groan again with pleasure, pain, and confusion.
Slowly he backed away, leaving her panting with uncertainty. He was delighted to see she instinctively remained on the table eyes closed, l
egs still apart, breasts rising and falling deeply. He plucked a candle from its holder, snuffed out the flame, and pressed it into her gloved hands.
‘Here we are,’ he said softly. ‘This is for you. I have no use for your body tonight.’
Alex stiffened, her fingers closing reluctantly around the thick wax shaft. She lay quietly, nibbling her soft lower lip nervously.
‘Oh, please don’t make me wait,’ Tourne whispered. ‘Show me what pleasure really can be. Amuse me.’
‘Please Mr Tourne...’
‘Do as you’re told - now!’
Slowly Alex lifted her legs until her booted feet rested on the polished table edge - opening herself as she did. He could sense her fear and humiliation as she guided the candle deep between the sensitive lips of her quim. For an instant the candle withdrew - it glistened with her juices - and then disappeared very, very, slowly as she pushed it all the way home. Her movements were self-conscious and stilted. Her cheeks flushed delightfully, and she nibbled her lip all the more urgently.
Tourne snorted derisively. ‘What kind of half-hearted nonsense is this, Alex? Don’t be so foolish it wouldn’t do to make me angry. Now, I want to see you touch yourself properly. Show me what pleasures your body can offer a man. Show me some passion.’ He paused. She was trembling, her fingers still closed tightly around the thick stem. ‘Or would you prefer it if I called Mario in to help you?’
He saw her flinch at the mention of his driver, and then suddenly, leaving the obscene wax stem embedded in her succulent sex, she moved one hand to her clitoris where her fingers rubbed vigorously and the other lifted to cup and squeeze her breasts. He hardly needed to see any more of her performance - beautifully arousing as it was; her unquestioning obedience was the goal he sought.