“Back slave!” With her mind so engrossed in the activity, she didn’t respond right away. “I said back!” Jason gruffly pushed her back on her heels. “You’re making this too easy for her—and for yourself.” He moved to Sandra’s crotch, running his fingers around the base of the dildo that was lodged securely in her clenched ass. He gave it a rude twist then jerked it free.
“Sheeeeeesh,” Sandra seethed, scared and in pain as the gaping hole adjusted to the emptiness.
“Now suck her crotch,” he ordered. “Do her ass just like you were her pussy.”
Too enthralled to be daunted by the surprising order, Laney worked her face back into Sandra’s snatch, her tongue traveling deeper to the anus, which was now as tight and puckering as it would have been before the dildo opened it wide. The passions teeming through both women were of a different sort. Something base, maligned by convention, but deeply satisfying moved through their subliminal minds. Their bodies reacted on another plane, and the orgasm, which had been about to take Sandra into bliss, diminished, while another brand of pleasure took its place. The bound slave swooned, her stretched body writhing, not fitfully now, but in undulating waves. One might think she was orgasming and that this orgasm would go on for hours. The new rhythms and the gross sex act of Laney’s tongue at Sandra’s ass might have appeased them both for some time. But they were not such lucky slaves.
Once the scene became too tedious for their restless masters, the inspired Jason rummaged through their bag of tricks once more, this time withdrawing a device that had captured his imagination on his first trip through the amazing toys. Descending on Laney, he pulled her back from his fiancée’s crotch, and pressed a ball gag in the slave’s wet, worked mouth, attaching it securely around Laney’s face. Unique to this simple gag was the stiff, rubber penis jutting from the mouth opening. There was no guessing at its purpose now as Laney’s face became the cock to make the hot slave climax.
“Fuck her ass now, slave,” Jason ordered, and for a third time, Laney moved in position before her friend’s cleft. Carefully guiding the head of the rubber penis into Sandra’s ass, Laney eased it beyond the tiny rosette anus, watching the hole expand as the stalk worked its way deep into the channel. The more she pressed her face to the woman’s ass, the more the channel expanded.
“No, no, no please, “ Sandra wailed.
Laney stopped.
“Don’t give in to her!” Jason snapped. “This is what she needs and what I want. Fuck her!”
With the order clear, Laney continued. Though urging her even more was the crude lust welling in her so strongly that she had no pity for her suffering friend. Laney fucked the slave as ordered, her head bobbing in a merciless rhythm, reminiscent of her husband’s cock pummeling her own pussy. Through Sandra’s twisting contortions, through her miserable groans, through the slave’s anguished appeals for mercy she thrust the mouth dildo into Sandra’s ass.
Sandra’s cries came deep with her climax just moments away. Then with the stimulation of Jason’s fingers on her clit, her body arched with her breasts rising like clouds toward the ceiling. The brilliant flames of her orgasm seemed to shower the room with erotic/electric sparks as though a Roman Candle had been ignited in their midst.
The used whip was now in Erik hands, lapping at Laney’s crotch, the slave still on all fours at her friend’s spent snatch.
“Move away,” Erik ordered.
Nothing in Laney could argue now. Having settled into a fuzzy vacuum, everything blurred around her except the sensation in her body, and the feel of the whip that teased her. She hardly realized that Jason had removed the gag.
Starting slowly, Erik worked her with a gradually increasing intensity, although Laney had no idea how vilely he struck her pussy. With her torso slumped to the floor, she raised her ass end exceedingly high without one order given.
It was all in the snap of his wrist and the way he anticipated the mounting stimulation, and the way Laney’s body accepted pain as something more than pain. The talons bit, but there was little sting left. Even harsh snaps of the ‘dancer’ caused her to groan with pleasure. Then there was a release when everything let go. Erik was in her pussy with his cock getting off, which was all Laney needed to bring her body to a thousand edges of physical delight.
In the corner of the room, Sandra was taking Jason’s cock in her mouth and nearby Elise and Matthew lay on a chaise watching. The whip that had defined their morning’s exercises in sexual aberration was now in Matthew’s hand—where an hour ago the session began. There was no need to evaluate their acts with words, or devise some justification for these indecencies. Their passion spoke loudly and could not be improved by trying to find a larger meaning for these primitive appetites.
Chapter Five
Midday, afternoon and evening following the session in the library drifted aimlessly. The half-dozen stranded on Marquis Island seemed lost to its world. Curiously, after several days of gloom, the sun broke through the clouds warming the tiny island the way the tropics should be warmed by a tropical sun. Returned to its more natural pleasantness, the island beckoned its guests outside with gentle breezes and a good-natured smile in the branches of the hovering palms. Delighted by the change of weather, the party moved happily into the fresh air.
While the three slaves remained collared and naked, it didn’t seem to matter as much with blue sky overhead and the heat to dry the dampness from their bones. Two days before, Marquis’ long stretch of white sandy beach had eluded them. Having found it now, a bit of normalcy seemed to return in their attitudes, even if their challenging attire would constantly remind both slaves and masters that they were in the middle of an ominous game of love and lust.
Revived from the languid aftermath of sexual extremes, they played Frisbee on the beach, snorkeled, swam and sunbathed as they might have on that other island paradise—where their journey should have taken them. For dinner, they ate hamburgers grilled on an outside barbecue. And when the sun became too hot, the men strung hammocks under the trees with their happy slaves serving them lemonade and cookies. (They weren’t homemade cookies though they were a taste of home in this unreal world.)
When Archibald Devane strolled unexpectedly into their midst, they were instantly stunned, like children discovered with candy on their messy faces.
“It was only a matter of time,” he assured them as he gazed contentedly about the scene.
“How so?” Jason asked, recouping quickly. “This sort of thing happen before on Marquis? Your female guests turn into sluts, the men into brutal masters?” He said this without passing judgment on the facts, since they’d accepted the state of things. It was, however, a matter of curiosity considering how swiftly they had cast off proprieties ingrained in their right-minded psyches.
“I warned you the first night of your visit that this place has uncommon properties.”
“And that sounded vague and mystical,” Jason retorted.
“I was speaking the truth. Just look at you now.” He viewed Sandra, Laney and Elise as proof of what he said. And the three, as though chagrinned and uncertain of Archibald’s purpose, were on their knees, heads bowed, waiting for some further instruction from their masters.
“Christian Barth’s little black book seemed to strike a chord with our wives,” Erik jumped in. “And, since we’re in a secluded locale, we have both the time and the inspiration to play with our fantasies. Nonetheless, we still need to get off this island, and do hope you’ve been trying your radio for some assistance.”
“Yes. That is exactly why I came to see you. I believe I have the answer to your dilemma, Mr. Priestly. There will be a first-rate boat mechanic arriving to service my skiff at the end of the week. He’ll be happy to look at your engine as well.”
Erik scowled. “I don’t need a first rate boat mechanic. We have two topnotch mechanics right here. We need parts for the damaged engine.”
“I’m sure Terry Childs will be traveling with everything you need to
make the repairs,” Devane returned.
Erik wasn’t satisfied, but he gave up forcing the issue. Perhaps the day was too mild, the air too sweet with the scent of flowers, and the mood too mellow to let his impatience take shape.
“You might find, Mr. Priestly, that there are other reasons to look forward to my friend’s arrival.”
“And what would they be?”
Devane smiled, looked at the women and spoke, “Perhaps we should discuss them in private?” He then motioned the three men to the veranda where their conversation could not be overheard.
After a brief conference with Erik, Jason and Matthew, Devane left, the slaves resumed their attentive service to their masters, and the mood turned erotic.
The shadows on the island were lengthening and the scent of night began to blow through the trees. Inspired by the sultry mood, Matthew took Elise into a thicket of shore grass and screwed her from behind with the spear of his cock driving a deep pathway in her cunt. Yards away, Jason pushed his fiancée against the striated bark of a date palm, squashing her big breasts so the already marred flesh was scratched more. In this position, he lifted her ass cock height and stung her with the head of his erection breaching her pussy’s doorway.
Further down the beach, Erik bound Laney’s arms and legs with seaweed, and attached them to driftwood stakes he pounded into the sand. It was an uneasy binding; one Laney could rip apart with a good tug of her limbs. But it was the meaning of it that mattered. Erik wanted her immobile when he fucked her, her body focusing on complete acceptance of his power over her thoughts and substance. Giving back to him what he wanted, she yielded to the force of his cock as he finished off another climax and then led her back to the house.
As slaves, the three expected they would sleep at the foot of their master’s bed that night, just as they had before. Each settled in to the mats that had been prepared for them, slightly fearful of the rope that bound their collars tightly to the bedposts.
Laney wanted sleep. She could feel it coming to her like a friend, reaching its hand to draw her in so that her battered mind might repair overnight the little damages of the day. At the very least, her dreams might set the world aright again or give what small piece that still resisted some explanation for her behavior. She wanted sleep, but part of her continued to push it aside.
“Erik,” she whispered into the silence. How lovely that the rain and wind had finally stopped. How quiet! What tranquility! Erik heard her hushed voice clearly.
“Yes, Laney,” he answered her as quietly.
Had he forgotten to call her ‘slave’?
“How long will this last?” she ventured the tiny question hoping he wouldn’t find her disrespectful for speaking without permission.
“As long as we want it,” he answered.
“And does it please you?”
“Yes, it does. Very much.”
The room fell quiet as though Erik planned to sleep. “Come here,” he said instead.
A simple command. Laney peered over the end of the bed so Erik could see her in the shadowy darkness and remember the collar and rope at her neck.
“Untie the rope at the bedpost,” he said.
Laney moved quickly, undoing the knot and scampering like a kid to the top of the mattress.
“Tie it here,” he said, reaching to the railing of the headboard above them.
Accomplishing that quickly, she snuggled down into her husband’s arms. It had only been two days, but it felt like years since they’d been this affectionately close.
“Aren’t we breaking some rule here?” she wondered thoughtfully.
“Rules? I make up my own, Laney,” Erik replied flatly. “No book or master speaks for me.”
“Then you’re conscious of what you’re doing?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. I’m so thoughtless, like I’m not myself, out of my head, almost delirious.”
“You’re holding an intelligent conversation now,” he reminded her.
“But I also want to drift away.”
“Then do that, slave. Your days on the island are hardly over.”
Chapter Six
“Chapter Four—Bridles, Tethers and Disciplinary Devices…”
There was something about Erik Priestly’s voice and the darkness of his Eastern European heritage that gave these readings of Barth’s book their erotic feel. Almost haughty, almost tongue and cheek, almost reverent, but none of these. The discourse rode a fine thread between sanity and insane, between serious and laughable. But regardless of how his audience perceived his mood, as he spoke, the mind began to work and pictures began to form. Perhaps this was the magic; this the spell. Perhaps it was in the spoken word where the longing began; and from where it flowered.
“Bridles, tethers and other such devices are for containment. What cannot be beaten from a slave, can be squelched with bodily restraint. In this, the spirit for rebellion dies. A caged slave is soon a conquered slave. Bound, within their body alone, they become lust driven, for it is only in the physical pleasure of the body that they find satisfaction and release.
“I have often caged my initiate livestock for many weeks, knowing that when they are finally freed from their bondage, they are at peace—not listlessly so, but content. The slave who has had this ‘uncertain nothing’ wishes for little and is satisfied with small things. Simple pleasure hangs on them like stars hang in the night.
“No well-behaved and well-mannered slave learns their duties without experiencing the utter emptiness found within extreme restraint.”
Elise listened thoughtfully to Erik’s reading as her eyes gazed about the room. There was little to see but her husband restlessly moving every few minutes to calm his impatience. Jason was behind her, out of sight. Sitting in straight-back chairs, back to back to back in a tiny circle facing out, the three slaves couldn’t see each other. Erik, while reading, strolled around them making it appear he was wrapping them in the message from the book—containing them, restraining them with unseen bonds.
Elise’s thoughts were no longer independent of the group of six. Some symbiotic relationship united their beating hearts. This gave her reason to wonder as Barth wrote of weeks in bondage, and days of cruel punishments, if she and her two best friends weren’t on the fast-track to submission and sexual servitude—better than Barths’ slaves that they could zoom through the requirements to become surrendering and dutiful with so little training.
Finishing his last sentence, Erik stopped in front of her and stared over the top of the book into her eyes, as if he’d caught her mind wandering and needed to bring it back. His look was sensuously frightening.
“There are numerous devices that will suffice to arrest the freedom of the slave. Bondage can be accomplished easily with rope—rope having an earthy quality unsurpassed in bringing a slave to their metaphorical knees. Dozens of positions are useful. Hog-tied and displayed like a museum artifact, a slave will learn to draw within herself even if there are a hundred people milling about them, humiliating them with their eyes. Hog-tied and thrust in a closet, a slave will understand their worthlessness to the master as he goes about his business with no concern for the discarded chattel.”
Erik made his rounds, passing by Sandra, her lush eyes bereft inside the blue. He could guess what frame of mind was behind the vacuous expression. While he stared, Sandra imagined herself in the closet, on her knees, or posed in some uncomfortable position with her hands tied behind her, the collar attached to some bar above. To be there felt as though she were walking in the middle of nothing. Would these masters be bold enough to give her that kind of freedom? All her life, she thought of other people before she thought of herself. Being a slave was like a natural step in her character… but this was something different, as though she could forget everyone, and no one mattered. That would feel intensely free.
“While days could be spent discussing the varied intricacies of bondage, I prefer to move on to my favorit
e means of restraint—bridles, bits, leather and cages. Tight corsets, breasts constrained with leather, and crotches fettered in brutish chastity harnesses force the slave body to feel restrictions with every move they make, every quiver of muscle, every bat of an eyelash.
“Once the initial physical nakedness is no longer a matter of concern and is easily accepted by the slave, I recommend restrictive gear specifically designed for the subject, which will not only suit the individual slave’s character, but provide some ritual the initiate can submerge themselves within.
“There is room here for the imagination to work freely. Being in tune with one’s slave—and at this juncture that should be the case—a skilled master will devise the appropriate torturing garments to move the process of enslavement to its next step. One final note at this point: it is wise not to forget suitable headgear. The restraint of the mouth can be a vital addition to this kind of bondage. It is from the mouth and throat where self-expression has its home. To deny the slave a means of self-expression drives to the core the truth of their meager status.”
There were closets and trunks in the old house filled with flouncy materials: silk, satin, lace, leather and a large variety of contraptions that had been used as bridles and facial harnesses. The three slaves waited as their masters went on a scavenger hunt to find the appropriate attire. They sat in their circle of three, feeling their breath in the quiet, sensing even the slightest movement to their left and right.
When the masters returned, the six moved together into the empty downstairs music room, where behind the drapery, hanging on walls, there were mirrors, a half dozen facing inward so there was no direction for a slave to turn without seeing their reflection. Attending their slaves, the three men began to dress them in the garments they’d scrounged from the trunks and wardrobes.
Sandra stood before one mirror peering at her nakedness while Jason encircled her torso in an ivory leather corset. Hooked from the front, laced in the back, the rigid stays pinched her waist; and as Jason tightened the laces from behind, the form of her hourglass figure exaggerated with each tug. Appearing as two fragrant melons of white flesh, Sandra’s great breasts billowed from the scalloped lace-edged top, looking softy alluring as they rippled in the mellow candlelight. Even the marks remaining from the whip the day before stood out beautifully as tiny pink badges of pleasure. Below, her hips and thighs burgeoned like those seen in Old World paintings. Coming to a delicate point at the bottom, the corset drew the eye to the silky hair of her rosy pubis.
The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis Page 7