The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Laney showed them the inscription now: Property of the Marquis.

  The pair sat back, mouths open in astonishment.

  “If I am the Marquis’ property, then I need to find him.”

  Chapter Two

  Dozens of boats formed a forest of masts that rose high above her head. The docks were crowded and hot, the humid air sweltering, except when a breeze came in off the ocean and momentarily cooled the skin. Laney was the picture of a classy, sexual woman, dressed casually in a pair of white shorts and a yellow halter top that nicely accentuated her hourglass figure, her ample chest and her tawny skin. The hint of her nipples was visible at first glance, in style with fashion but not bold enough to assault the eye. She wore a broad-brimmed sun hat to shade her face from the intense Caribbean sun, a pair of dark tortoise-shell sunglasses, and the Marquis’ platinum bracelet, along with several silver bangles on her left arm.

  Laney shuddered with remembrance as she walked along the docks toward the boat rental hut, trying to push away thoughts of Erik. This wasn’t about Erik anymore; he hadn’t deigned to stay in her life. Sometimes she was very angry about his death. She resented his checking out so early with so many questions left unanswered. Not the least of which was the mystery of the bracelet he’d placed around her wrist in a ceremony that signaled a deeper union between them as Owner and property, Master and slave—she was still not completely sure how Erik would have described them. Now Erik didn’t matter. She belonged to the Marquis, not her dead husband.

  Sandra had Essex. Elise had her blonde boy conductor. And Laney had nothing but the bracelet. There were other options, certainly; cutting it off being one. But finding the man who owned it, who owned her seemed to be the only option she’d consider.

  For months, Laney had believed that some unknown stranger might arrive on her doorstep and announce themselves as the Marquis—or his agent. Erik’s death had been public enough; anyone who knew him, knew he’d died. Learning that Essex had been in contact with Sandra confirmed that the masters from Marquis Island still had their eyes on the three women. But still no one came to claim her…or even use her. Why? The question begged an answer and consumed her thoughts for hours on end.

  When no one appeared, she’d decided to take the matter into her own hands. This was certainly not a submissive thing to do, but what other choice did she have, with a well-spring of desire attacking her every day, and the reminder of that raw sexuality of submission physically burned into her flesh and the bracelet an even more visible reminder.

  “Sir!” she stood at the front of the rental hut, waving to the young man inside, who was eating an island rice dish and drinking Dr. Pepper. He turned around, and with eyebrows raised, set his meal aside and walked forward.

  “I need to hire a boat and driver to take me to Marquis Island.”

  “We no rent boats for island.”

  “Oh, but you do. I was there before.”

  The small brown-skinned man shook his head. “No go there. Private island.”

  “Please, it’s just a run-down old estate. I’m a photographer, she held up her high-priced digital camera. I’m scouting the place for a photo shoot.”

  “No, can do that, Lady. No one goes there.”

  “Please. I pay well…”

  He shook his head again.

  “Maybe a fisherman, or someone with a pleasure boat?” she nodded toward the maze of boats behind her. “You know someone?”

  “No, ma’am, no fishermen go there. Island bad news. Old man drown there last year. It’s all closed down now.”

  “Please!”

  He shook his head and Laney turned away, sighing miserably. To charter a plane to St. Martina only to be turned away was not what she expected, so she struck out on her own to speak with the boat owners and fishermen…certainly there was someone who could help her. She worked her way along the wharf, asking around and getting no results, until a middle-aged sailor wearing a white cap, and about to set off in his thirty foot sailboat, directed her to a fishing boat, and a fisherman at the far end of the farthest dock, closest to the bay and the ocean beyond.

  “He sometimes goes that way. He’s been looking in on the island since the old man died.”

  “The old man?” Laney wondered aloud. “Would that be Archibald Devane?”

  “Yeah, that was his name,” the friendly fellow smiled.

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate the information.”

  Laney took off down what seemed to be oldest of the docks, which was a little rickety now. She stepped carefully to avoid the broken boards. Her heart fluttered excitedly when she finally spotted a man on the boat at the end of the dock. She moved on unwaveringly until she was standing behind the fisherman. He couldn’t have seen her with his back to him as he bent over a tangle of fishing nets at the bottom of his boat.

  “Sir!” she tried to stir the fellow. “Sir! May I speak with you?” She raised her voice so it would rise above the sound of cawing gulls and a boat engine that nearly drowned out her voice.

  She waited and was about to try again, when he suddenly turned around. Laney jumped back startled, staring into a much younger face than she anticipated. He wore baggy shorts, a faded purple t-shirt and a pair of sturdy boots. He couldn’t be more than forty, and was likely more her age of thirty-two. His face sported two maybe three days growth of beard and his short hair was in need of a trim. For just an instant, Laney had the distinct impression that the face of a Wall Street banker lay underneath his scruffy visage. And the way his pale grey-blue eyes lit into her, she was momentarily shaken.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, turning back to his work, focusing his attention on the fishing nets.

  “I was told that you might be able to take me to Marquis Island.”

  “You mean Lower Gull Isle,” he came right back.

  “No, I mean Marquis Island.”

  “Yeah, well the old man died,” he said, as he shifted a net from one side of the boat to the other, “and the pretty resort is pretty much a ruin now.”

  “But you could take me there?”

  “Yeah, maybe. The owner doesn’t much like people poking around, but they do.”

  Laney waited for him to speak again, but he continued his work, ignoring her.

  “So, what can I pay you? It’s very important that I return there.”

  “You’ve been there before?” he briefly glanced her way.

  “Once. A few years back. I was stranded there with my husband and some friends.”

  “So, why go back?”

  She had no intention of telling him the real reason, but she was prepared for the question and had her explanation ready. “I’m a photographer. I’m scouting out places to do fashion photo shoots. Marquis Island would be perfect. There’s a breathless tropical ambience you just can’t duplicate with sets.”

  The fellow looked up again, a bit more interested now. He cocked his head and squinted, his deeply suntanned skin creasing at the corners of his eyes, He raised his hand to shade them from the sun’s glare. He probably couldn’t see her face with sun behind her.

  “Five hundred dollars. US,” he said.

  “Five hundred?” she looked shocked, but she really didn’t care. She’d pay him five thousand if that’s what it took.

  “That’s the price. Take it or leave it. We can shove off tomorrow ‘bout noon, after I’m back from my early morning rounds.”

  “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  “Cash. Small bills, please, something I can spend.”

  “You’ll have it.” She had twice as much cash in her purse. “I’m Laney Priestly,” she held out her hand.

  He shook his head and smiled, holding up his grimy ones for her to see.

  She smiled back. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  After a thorough inspection of the fisherman, she decided that there was nothing particularly unusual about him. He had an average build, muscled as you would expect from his occupation. He had a direct m
anner, and appeared honest and hard-working. She’d give him a decent tip.

  “Alex Greenwood,” he said.

  “I’ll be here at noon,” she replied.

  “I should be back by then, but don’t worry if I’m not, I won’t forget.”

  “Okay,” she smiled warmly.

  Laney’s worries settled, knowing that she had a means to get back on the island. What troubled her more was the death of Archibald Devane, something she hadn’t expected. It was in her mind to speak with him about the island, the bracelet and the Marquis. What answers to her dilemma that the island could give up on its own she wasn’t sure of, and this put her trip in a whole new light. But she also knew that regardless of her narrowed opportunities for information, she’d make the trek and hope she’d find something on the island to guide her next step.

  Chapter Three

  An empty barrel sitting on the dock beside Alex Greenwood’s boat slip became a perch to wait on. Like the day before, the midday sun beat against Laney’s skin. She wore khaki hiking shorts and a sleeveless cotton shirt and a lacy black bra. Staying cool in this heat was proving difficult. She hoped that Marquis Island would be more pleasant. Instead of her purse, she stuffed a number of items into a backpack: a change of clothes, some granola bars and beef jerky, just in case, and three bottles of water. This was intended to be a day trip, but you never knew what the weather might be like in this part of the world. She’d been stranded there once, and wanted to be prepared.

  To remain accurate to her cover story, she carried her camera on a strap that went around her neck. Taking pictures could be an excellent diversion should the conversation with her guide lag.

  At half past noon, Alex Greenwood and his boat, Princess Sea Bird, pulled into the boat slip.

  “You ready?”

  “I’m here!” she said with a sunny smile, as she let the man help her into his boat. What had once been covered with fishing nets and his equipment was now cleaned out and washed down. Two deck chairs sat where the nets had been, under a small canopy.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’ll get us started. Trip should take about two hours.”

  ***

  Alex Greenwood’s boat landed at a broken down dock about three o’clock. The fisherman tied up to a piling, and helped Laney to the shady beach. She’d noticed sometime earlier that he cleaned up rather nicely. Wearing a fresh and much newer t-shirt and baggy shorts, he could have easily been a tourist, not a fisherman taking a few hours off in the middle of a day. If he trimmed up his unkempt hair and scruffy beard, he might even be handsome.

  The hike up the beach was more strenuous than Laney remembered it. With Erik and their friends, it had taken place during a stormy night when getting undercover was of utmost importance. Now her legs felt a little weak by the time she and the fisherman made it through the rocks and the tall grasses and spotted the estate house some yards beyond. It was a welcome sight and one she remembered with a pang of grief she’d not felt since her trip to Marquis began. She remembered Erik leading his party of friends to the safety of the house the night they were stranded on the beach. She knew that the imprint of his easy dominance would linger on her psyche forever.

  Although her body ached from the lengthy trek, once they finally landed on the cool verandah that surrounded the ancient estate house, her excitement was suddenly revived. Memories of the sexual deviance she submitted to there came swarming back to her as she inspected the old place. With every turn along the porches, and as they moved into the house and surveyed the rooms, the images of Sandra, Elise, Matthew, Jason, Erik and herself playing games of sadomasochism returned to her. Raw hedonistic feelings clung to her body like the vines that covered half the house. Although the estate was practically a ruin three years before, it still seemed substantial then, hardly as fragile as it seemed now… now it was becoming part of the jungle, the roof and verandah sagging into the soft ground beneath it. Most of the windows were broken out and most of the furnishings that were durable enough to be usable before had been picked over by island scavengers, who must have slipped in and out by boat on those nights when there was no one to keep watch over the island’s only safe port.

  White tattered curtains danced in the open windows—the breeze was still sumptuously fragrant, just as Laney remembered it. In places, the plaster had peeled away to the raw boards beneath. She moved through the dining, living room and into the library, where the infamous Marquis Book of Pleasure once resided. The library shelves were half-empty now with some of the contents ransacked, books strewn everywhere on the library floor. She shuddered, as the thought of that astounding book returned to her mind. She hoped she’d have an opportunity to hunt it down, but with the fisherman hovering close, she continued her inspection moving back into the main living room.

  Despite the chaotic state of the once grand home, Laney’s memories continued to surface undaunted. The alcoves with their bondage rings were still intact. And the fireplace where they’d warmed themselves, before which they’d sprawled out, while listening to Erik read the Marquis’ shocking book, looked as stately as ever. She saw Sandra and Elise in various states of undress, making lurid moves on the horny Matthew and Jason. The cocks, the bared crotches. The unfettered sexual debauchery. Her moist cunt itched now with the graphic images flooding back with renewed life.

  As she walked among the ruins, off to one side, Alex Greenwood observed her carefully, apparently studying her movements with interest. Laney’s crotch reported her observations, growing heavier and more sexually aroused with each memory that piled on the oppressive heap.

  “I thought this was about taking pictures,” the fisherman suddenly interrupted the silent vigil.

  Laney jerked and turned about, as a foreboding chill raced up her back.

  “Oh, it is!” she came right back. “I’m just looking for the right backdrops. Things have changed so much since I was here.”

  “If you ask me, you look like you’re walking down memory lane,” he challenged her. She chilled again. Did he know what was in her mind? Was he guessing what happened three years before? Was it possible that he knew about the sadomasochistic rites that once took place here?

  He’d called the island by another name when they met, and she had assumed that he was just a local fisherman, in no way associated with the activities that made the island so unique, but maybe she’d been wrong.

  She turned to him. “Yes, I suppose I was recalling when I was here before. But there’s also a lot to be considered in the kind of photo shoot I’m thinking of. I hope there won’t be a problem if we have a crew here, maybe ten or so?” Alex shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Just a couple models, but we have to have a make-up artist, a stylist, and, you know, the assorted people necessary to pull off this sort of project.” Of course, the fisherman wouldn’t know if what she said was true or not. Nor did Laney know much about fashion photo shoots, but she thought her performance at least sounded authentic.

  She took the opportunity to pull out her camera and moved back through the rooms she already inspected, taking pictures that seemed to have some artistic element, which might show off a line of designer beachwear. Her ruse amused her, but she had to keep up the game in order to fool her guide. What a story this would make to tell Elise and Sandra when she got back! She finally moved out to the verandah and the fisherman followed along.

  Wondering what Alex Greenwood really knew about the island made his vigilance unnerving. Could he be imagining her naked, costumed like the slut she’d become, bound as she’d been bound, abused as she’d been abused? She breezily snapped her photographs, even as her mind worried over the possibilities and became increasingly concerned. Alarm bells began to go off in her feverish brain.

  Was it possible that her guide was on the island during the days of that wild savagery, when she, Elise and Sandra became the centerpiece of the debauched bacchanalian rites? She suddenly froze under the weight of that thought, her back to the fisherman, her skin c
rawling with the prickly feeling of a spider’s legs moving slowly toward her bare neck. There was no spider, of course, just the fisherman’s eyes.

  Getting back her composure wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. She took a cleansing breath and turned around smiling. “I think I’d like to walk around the place,” she said cheerily, “I remember the overgrown gardens. I’m sure they are savage by now.” Then, as if the gods of the island were getting back at her for the continuing lie, she nonchalantly stepped off the verandah without looking where she was going and her foot came down in a pothole she didn’t see. Laney felt her ankle cruelly twist. Her body started to crash toward the ground, but just then, the fisherman lurched forward, seized her arm and pulled her upright. He held her tightly, moving her toward firm ground. She was caught in his grasp, a burst of energy making her entire body tingle.

  “Ah, geez, that hurts!” she fumed miserably.

  Although she tried to ease away from the man, he kept her close. “You okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Although any little pressure on her ankle caused another stabbing pain.

  “You know, it’s a little dangerous around here,” Alex said. “I’m not sure it’s the best place for some fancy fashion shoot.”

  “I really don’t know right now,” she said, despairingly. She was feeling stupid and very tired of this silly game. And now her ankle ached so much that she could barely walk. Although she was able to pull from the fisherman’s grasp, she winced again as she stepped down on her injured foot. “Maybe I could sit down inside for a minute. My ankle is throbbing. It will be fine…but…”

  Alex had his arm around her before she could say more and helped her back inside the house, moving into the library where there was still a place to sit. He deposited her in one of the old brocade chairs—she remembered the chair well from being in the room before. This one was still covered with a sheet, which Alex whisked away before he sat her down.