by Wendy Leigh
A butler I’ve never met before shows me into the dining hall.
Robert, imposing in black tie, strides toward me, and I am so mesmerized by how handsome, how dashing he looks that I don’t even have time to focus on the other people in the room.
All I know is that I want to fling myself into Robert’s arms, but as he reaches out, takes my hand in his and kisses it, and butterflies course up and down my body, I know that wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Miss Stone,” he says to the assembled company.
All the men appear to be captains of industry—older, elegant, and debonair. They all have the glittering, piercing eyes of dominants, and their persuasion is obvious to me, simply because they all exude the identical intensity, the same force field of energy as Robert.
With them, twelve women, all startlingly beautiful and sophisticated. As we sip champagne and nibble caviar canapés, they chat to the men of world affairs, of philosophy, literature. Their vocabulary is extensive, their manners exquisite, but there is something intrinsically subservient about them, in the way in which they hold themselves, and, most of all, in the adoring way in which each one gazes up at the man she is with.
Meanwhile, I say nothing, just as Robert has dictated. At the same time, I can’t help wondering what he plans to do with me after dinner, and whether his plans include anyone else currently sipping champagne with us?
Will he allow one of the other men to dominate me? Or—and this terrifies me—will he have one of the other women force me to submit to her? Or even two or three of them at once? I shudder at the thought.
Which of the women we are dining with tonight will he select to dominate me? What will he allow them to do to me? What will I have to do to them? Will they punish me? Humiliate me? Use me sexually? If so, how much? And how will I ever be able to cope? The women are all beautiful, all desirable, but the thought of being at their disposal both shames and titillates me, and I am terrified that I won’t know how to respond, that I’ll let myself down and, in the process, let down Robert, as well.
Just as I am about to whisper that I need to talk to him, he takes my hand and apologizes to our guests that we have to leave the room.
I look up at him wonderingly, but know better than to ask him why.
He pulls me close to him and whispers, “Upstairs to our suite, Miranda. Strip naked, then get on the bed, on all fours.”
I follow Robert upstairs, wondering whether the guests know what is about to happen to me, and I am scarlet with shame.
Upstairs, I strip off all my clothes and do as he asked, then wait, terrified yet aroused.
Within a few minutes he is beside me, a wooden paddle with holes drilled into it in his hand, and a gag, and I cower in fear, and hate myself that I do.
“Open,” he orders. I obey, and he fastens the gag like a horse’s bit into my mouth.
“Say something,” he orders, and I try, but only mumbo jumbo comes through my mouth, unintelligible and animalistic, and I feel so ashamed that I could die; he just laughs.
“Now, no more noise, Miranda, otherwise all our guests downstairs will know exactly what is happening to you, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
I shake my head, miserable, but still aware that I am throbbing all over with erotic excitement.
“Don’t look around, now, and don’t move,” he says, and I obey, terrified.
He locks a belt around my waist and fastens it to hooks on either side of the bed, imprisoning me on the bed, my ass up in the air, ready and presented.
And although I know exactly what is coming next, the shock of the blazing pain from the first stroke of the paddle almost takes my breath away.
And the next and the next, until I am burning and shaking and quivering and accepting and aroused, all at the same time.
“Good, that should be sufficient,” he says.
Then he fastens a collar and leash to me, and blindfolds me.
“Now, sweetheart, you are about to make your official debut in society. My society. I am going to take you downstairs, where everyone is keeping an eye on the staircase, awaiting your arrival.
“Then I will bring you, naked and leashed, into a crowd of them: twelve dominants and their slaves.
“What will they do to you? Will they stroke your body? Will they pinch it? Will they squeeze your welts? Or will they add more of their own? Will they talk about you, laugh at you, make fun of your nakedness, or will they take turns licking and pleasuring you? Will you be penetrated? If so, where? In your ass? In your cunt? Or will I remove the gag and allow all the men to fuck your mouth? Then turn you over on your back and allow all the women in turn to squat over your face and I’ll order you to lick them? What will it be, my darling?”
Behind my blindfold, my eyes are wide, my heart is thumping, my mouth is dry, and even if it weren’t dry, the gag ensures that I am unable to answer.
He places me on all fours and drags me out by the leash to the top of the staircase. The famous horseshoe staircase, one of the most glamorous and dramatic features of Hartwell Castle.
Then he removes the leash.
“Is your ass very sore?”
I nod, my eyes still moist from the pain of the paddling.
“Good. Lift up your arms.”
I obey, and feel him grip under each of my arms, so that he is supporting all my weight.
Then he lowers me down onto the top step.
I sit there, bewildered and afraid.
“Get downstairs now. I’ll be supporting you, so you are safe, so just do it,” he orders.
I don’t understand, and even though I can’t see him, from behind my blindfold I look at him pleadingly.
“Don’t be stupid, Miranda, because I know you aren’t. Go down the staircase on your ass, and make sure you bump it down on each step really hard, or else . . .”
I know better than to protest. And so I start my shameful, painful descent into the dining hall below, where the group of Masters and their slaves are waiting, and watching me in my humiliation and pain.
I hear excited murmurs and flinch.
“Hear them, Miranda? They are loving this. And I hope you are loving being their entertainment for the night . . .” he says.
How many stairs, how many stairs will I have to take, how much pain, how much humiliation? I want to run, I want to hide, but he won’t let me.
I know I must have almost reached the bottom of the stairs, my ass is in such agony. Then I hear a loud, Texan voice: “Very endowed up top, you must have plenty of fun with those, Robert . . .”
And then a woman’s voice: “Poor thing, bumping all that way, must really hurt.” I can tell that she is enjoying every second of my discomfort, my shame, my exposure. But how would I feel if she were in my position? Would I feel happy, too? Or would I feel sorry for her, just as I now feel sorry for myself?
The last step, I end up there with a bump, just as Robert commanded, and everyone in the room bursts into applause.
“Stand up and take a bow, Miranda. You’ve acquitted yourself remarkably well for your first public performance,” he says, and helps me to my feet.
And blushing all over, I do what he says, while the crowd laughs and claps more.
Then he whispers in my ears, “And now for the next stage, my darling.” And leads me to the left, to the far end of the room, where I know the long oak table stands.
I know that oak table only too well, as during my time here he has more than once ordered me to bend over the end of it and said, “Take what’s coming to you . . .” But surely not now, surely not in front of all these people? Surely he won’t go as far as to spank me here, in front of them? If he does, I’ll die of shame. I’ll die, I know I will, but at the same time, I don’t understand why I am so wet. And I’m deathly afraid that when he orders me to bend over the table and part my legs, as he
always does, he’ll find the evidence of my arousal. I don’t know how I’ll live through this, I don’t.
He clicks his fingers. “Down! And then crawl under the table,” he says.
Under the table? Not bend over it? races through my mind, but I don’t dare question his instructions.
Instead, I crawl under the table.
I feel him fasten leather cuffs to my wrists and ankles; then he attaches me by my arms and legs to long chains locked around each table leg.
Without any warning, or saying even a word to me, he strides away and leaves me under the table, and I start to panic.
The floor under the table is not carpeted and is cold and hard and uncomfortable.
Do I stay this way? Do I change position? What do I do?
The answer, I know, is nothing, because nothing is what Robert has reduced me to right now.
Meanwhile, the conversation in the room is getting louder, more animated, but I am so shocked at my position that I can’t grasp any of it.
Then Robert comes back, reaches in, and I hear the clink of two metal objects being pushed under the table and toward me.
“Water in case you get thirsty. And a bowl for when you need to relieve yourself, and you will. It’s going to be a long night,” he says, then laughs. And leaves me there.
Where I remain alone, abandoned, neglected, while—as the night goes on—all around me I hear the sounds of naked bodies lashed, men issuing commands, women moaning, sometimes in pain, sometimes in ecstasy, and I hear Robert talking in his deep, hypnotic voice to the woman he must be fucking, and then to the next, then the next, just as he always talked to me.
But he isn’t talking to me, and he isn’t fucking me. Right now, I don’t even exist for him. All I am is a discarded naked object, cowering under a table.
Now and again, during the night (and Robert was of course right, it is a long night), I fall asleep, but am awoken by the shrieks of another woman in ecstasy.
Is it Robert who has brought her to those heights of pleasure, or is it another man? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m here, under the table, and Robert has abandoned me as surely as if he had left me alone in the apartment and flown off on a trip to some far-off country.
I wish he had, that he weren’t here, just yards from me, taking his pleasure from any woman he wants, just not me, not me.
My abject position, the loneliness, the rejection overwhelms me, and if I were able to cry right now, I would. Instead, I stay there, under the table, gutted and alone.
Then I give a pitiful moan of pain through the gag. A hand, someone’s hand has reached under the table and pinched my ass hard, and then explores it further with insistent fingers. I try to pull away, but Robert has done his job too well, and secured me so tightly that I can’t. So I stay there, in place, and submit to the pain and the humiliation.
“Are you sure I can’t fuck her up the ass, Robert?” I hear the man say.
“Sorry, Chuck, rules are rules. I haven’t broken her in yet, and I’m saving that particular orifice for myself . . .” he says, with a laugh, and for a second, I wonder whether he even remembers my name.
The rejection cuts through me like a knife, but at least he isn’t going to hand me over to Chuck.
And then it’s over.
A hand reaches under the table, unties me, pulls me out, takes off my blindfold and my gag, and suddenly, in front of me, Robert envelops me in his arms and kisses me with so much passion that it eclipses even my pain and humiliation at what he has put me through.
Then he releases me, and I see that we are alone, and the room is empty.
“But Robert, where are all the people?”
He smiles his all-conquering smile.
“Departed hours and hours ago,” he says, then leads me to a couch by the fire and pours me some champagne, while I try to work out the meaning of his words.
All the people—Chuck, with his cruel fingers—they were here just minutes ago, so how could they have departed hours and hours ago?
“Just a group of actors I hired to have drinks with us, and then leave straight afterward, my darling,” Robert says, and the realization starts to dawn on me.
“But after dinner . . . when I was under the table, and you were . . .” Fucking most of the women, I want to say, but stop myself.
He strides over to a console in the corner, flicks some switches, and then I hear the words: “Are you sure I can’t fuck her up the ass, Robert?”
I gaze up at him in shock.
“Taped this morning by actors. Auditioning for what might end up being one of the most racy movies my studio has ever produced. Then those few words were spliced together with all the other noises, the sighs of ecstasy, the moans of pain, everything. And all for your entertainment, all for you, for your enjoyment, and for your fantasy,” he says.
Before I can thank him with everything I’ve got, he changes the subject. “And—now that our games are over—for something more serious, much more serious,” he says, and my stomach turns to liquid with terror.
“Robert, I know I have to explain . . .” I start; then the door bursts open. One of Robert’s staff.
“Many apologies, Mr. Hartwell, but the lady on the telephone insists that she has to talk to you right now. A matter of life and death, she says,” and the room starts spinning.
Georgiana! Georgiana is on the line for Robert! It must be her! It must!
Chapter Eight
Robert, the Present
I take the call in my office, my adrenaline still pumping from the scene I just created for Miranda, and cursing the interruption, because I was finally about to interrogate her about exactly why she hid the truth from me.
But the moment I hear the voice on the phone, I’m eminently glad that I took the call: Angel.
Then again, Murray is dead.
Georgiana is in the hospital.
So what the hell does Angel want now?
Money, of course, the greedy little bitch wants money. Lots of it. For twenty-three tapes she found in the safe when she went back to Le Château.
“What kinds of tapes, Angel? And why ask me if I want to have them?” I say.
“Because each one of them has her name on them. Miranda Stone,” she says.
“Is that all they say, Angel?”
“Each one has a number, and the words ‘Interview with Georgiana Hartwell.’ ”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you, but first give me some idea of how much you gonna give me for them? A thousand each?”
I was about to offer her more, far, far more, but she’s a blackmailer, so I won’t encourage her by upping the ante.
“You’ve got a deal, Angel, and I’ll give you the money when you bring them to me. But first tell me what else is written on each tape.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
I hold my breath.
“Dates, each of them has a date on it.”
“Go get the tape marked one, Angel, tell me the date on it, and then, once you’ve brought me the tapes, you’ll get your twenty-three thousand.”
Five minutes later, Angel comes back to the phone again, tells me the date written on the first tape, and at that moment the world well and truly ends for me.
Three weeks ago. Miranda first interviewed Georgiana three weeks ago. On the second day she was imprisoned in the mausoleum.
The day before her rescue.
Before Serendipity.
Before Le Salon des Fragrances.
Before Honolulu.
Before I met her parents.
Before all of that, Miranda knew that Georgiana was still alive.
I buzz security.
“Please escort Miss Stone back to the limousine and tell the driver to take her to Hoboken at once.”
&n
bsp; Chapter Nine
Miranda, the Present
I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much in my life.
And I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the shock that the moment Robert finished enacting the intricate fantasy he had created for me, and we were on the verge of settling all our differences, he received a call, and within seconds I was escorted straight out of the castle by security and driven home, without his saying a single word to me or offering me any kind of explanation.
I am sobbing so loudly that at first I don’t hear the intercom buzz.
When I do, my first thought is Robert! He must have had a change of heart, he must have! He’s come to take me home again!
Too soon, much too soon, a warning voice tells me.
Quaking with tension, I ask the doorman who is there.
A courier.
A thousand possibilities zoom through my mind.
Flowers from Robert.
Chocolate from Robert.
A note, with an apology from Robert.
After all, he definitely owes me one.
Or at the very least, an explanation after creating such a breathtaking fantasy for me, then suddenly leaving me there standing.
The power of Georgiana, of course!
Next to that, I am no one, nothing.
The tears start to flow again.
My doorbell rings, so I dry my eyes and, clenching my fists so hard that my nails dig into the palm of my hand and really hurt me, open the door.
A courier from DHL drags in the Vuitton trunk Robert bought for me in Geneva, and my own shabby suitcase, the one I took on our first trip with a few clothes and not much else—except for my Magic Wand, which I had wrapped in one of my La Perla robes just in case.
I tip the courier, then fling myself onto the couch in floods of tears.
Then I force myself to get up and open the Vuitton trunk, hoping against hope that there’s a note in there from Robert, something, anything, but of course there isn’t. He doesn’t need to send me a message; the Vuitton trunk and my suitcase are message enough: I don’t want any part of you. Never darken my door again.