Her knees begin to buckle. Has he forgotten that he had trained her to orgasm this way, or is he deliberately playing with her? She lowers her head. She cannot orgasm now, not after all these years, it isn’t fair. Her mind is tricking her, that’s all.
It all comes back to her now, how he would touch her so, even in the midst of a crowd, reminding her of his power, evoking in her body its ancient memory of takings and of givings. In a restaurant, dancing, or at a party, his hand shepherding her to the door. The touch of fingers on her back, the constant reminder of her condition. The very signal that passed for them as sacred union, stronger than marriage.
Libby is no longer able to stand. She is going down, down to her knees, trembling fingers tearing at her own clothes, orgasm wracking her, unwanted, utterly inconvenient. A conditioned response, taught to her, ingrained in her all those years ago in her training, a careful chain of cause and effect, creatively and lovingly laid upon her.
It is an animal’s reflex. That of a slave, a trained girl. Even after twenty years, she is apparently still his. Though her brain and heart have moved on, her body is still his. Or is it the crisis at hand—the building of unbearable tension which leads her back to this sole addiction, as a former smoker decides to light up, just this once?
“Libby?” his voice is a fierce whisper as he pulls her to her feet, sparing her from a fevered self stripping, pulling her from the brink of total abasement. It is a question he poses, a call of recognition as much as a warning.
Her face reddens. What a slut she is. Her child is missing and she wants to get laid. “Oh, Malcolm, spank me, please, make my ass turn to fire! If you only knew how much I’ve missed you, how I needed you! All the lonely wasted years. Oh, God, how I’ve hated you, too! Spank me, now!”
Malcolm’s face is a sea of emotion. Through the years, the sea of changes, she can still read many of them. But can she push his buttons? Instinctively, fury filled, a she bear, her family threatened, she reaches out, her fingers like claws. This time he intercepts, his fingers closing on her wrist. She gasps from the feeling of capture, feels the very blood surging through his veins and down to his fingertips. Her hand is held high but she yearns to kneel. He denies her.
Their eyes parry, hers blinking, telegraphing need, his, infinitely sad, probing. She hopes there is no pity. It would be more than she could stand. Proudly, undaunted, she reaches for her halter top, tears it away to bear her breasts. “Do it, Malcolm,” she hisses, no longer certain if it spells salvation or doom. “Do it to me and then go—possess me then never speak to me again.”
Malcolm shoves her over the countertop, pulls down her shorts and beneath them her panties. She moans, her cheek pressed into the counter top as his hand finds her center, spanking her in the way only he can. Hard and efficient, upon one ass cheek and then the other. On tiptoes, she yields, taking the discipline of a man, the one she loves and hates, the one who should have been with her to raise her daughter, her missing daughter.
“Why?” she cries out, her voice directed to the sugar bowl, “Why did you do it?”
She is fighting now, she wants to hit him and punish him, too. It is his fault, both their faults. He lets her up and she is on him like a wildcat, scratching and biting. “Why? Why?” she keeps saying. He is shaking his head no, but he has no words for her. At last, as they are both on the floor, her in a furious rage, him protecting, limiting the damage, it occurs to her the magic words to finish it all, in a grand crescendo, a final journey to bring their awkwardness to crescendo, to foment another lifetime of silence.
“The barn, you bastard,” she hisses underneath him. “Take me to the barn.”
***
Malcolm did not care now who saw them. A few, the old timers, might even remember how long ago the boss’s daughter threw herself like a whore at a hired man, a young stud, good with the whip. He took her in his arms, put her in the passenger seat of his rented car. It would be shorter to drive to the barn. She never said a word, and he could not have borne it if she did. He would do this. He would whip the mother of his children and degrade her. He would enter her womb and force from her every sexual service known to man.
It was not a matter of pleasure but of principle, a grim need to discipline himself, as well as her. And, yes, she was right; afterwards, they would never see each other again. Never speak a tender word or offer explanations to one another or seek to repair the breach. Never would he speak of the boy long gone, so full of fear and doubt who thought himself unworthy of her, and how he ran in terror from his love, thinking it bravery, thinking it wisdom. And how he was sorry, so very sorry, and how he had spent a lifetime punishing himself (not Andrea, God knows he’d given her the best) making himself suffer as he was sure he had made Libby suffer.
It is I who deserve this, he thought, even as he slammed on the brakes in front of the old barn and took Libby by the hair, forcing her from the car. The barn was abandoned, he had to kick open the door. Had she done this for sentimental reasons, he wondered, or out of spite, shutting away this place of potent memories for both of them?
He had to prop the door shut. Daylight streamed through cracks in the wall. The stalls were long since empty. There was no hay, no horses here, only ghosts, only Libby, sprawled on the floor, her head to the dirt, her fingers dug in to the tired earth.
“Strip,” he commanded, putting the toes of his boots to her face. “Take off everything and as you do, think of the whipping, how it shall feel upon your skin. Upon your soul, to be broken, treated as an animal. And after that, to be fucked, on the ground, bound and begging.”
Libby shuddered. His words hit her like a missile, robbing her of every strength. Like a pointed spear, a terrible weapon piercing her heart. She could not speak only utter groans too deep for words.
“I will be back,” he said. “When I return I demand to find you on all fours in the dirt, cunt and ass facing me. Otherwise do not be here at all.”
Libby groaned with a heaviness that reminded him of the birth pains. Her face was still to the ground and she clenched her fists and pounded the earth. He knew that the spirits of many animals warred within her and that above all she was the eagle, noble, fierce, seeking its lost young in a vision.
Minutes later he returned, having fetched a riding crop from one of the other stables, from a boy, now in his forties, with whom he used to play poker. Libby was waiting for him, as he had commanded, and this was the very stimulation he wanted for both of them.
“Very well,” he said, his voice a dark whisper from long ago, born of the magical world of their fantasies. “You are still here; the choice is made.”
Libby moaned, her body swaying. She looked good to him, damned good after all these years. She had kept herself fit, and mentally strong, and she had aged well, like a wine of rare vintage.
“When I strike you with the whip,” he said, spreading apart her kneeling legs with the toe of his boot. “You will come, at its first kiss upon your skin. Is this clear?”
She nodded her head. He could not see her face through the hair that hung, glistening and golden blonde down over her forehead and down to the ground. “Say it, then.”
“When you touch me with the whip, I will come.”
He grasped the handle, sucking in a breath of sheer power, of sheer joy. How he’d dreamed of this moment. Didn’t she understand that he’d never forgotten her even for a second? That he’d never stopped loving her? And finally that he would leave here a man already dead inside because he would never possess her again after today?
Malcolm extended his hand. He let the leather hover about her ass, then brought it down, smartly, crisply across one of her sweet cheeks, the left. Libby moved as though struck by electricity. It was a very mild blow, almost tender, and it raised only a tiny welt. But it was enough to send her into orbit.
“Still yourself, girl,” he said sternly. And again he struck, this time on the right cheek. Again Libby cried out, and though he had not commanded it, she cli
maxed for him again. Five times in all he struck her, laying the blows on her ass and back. They were well spaced, beautifully done, designed not for agony but for instruction. It was not mere pain he sought, but sexual readiness, heat and obedience.
A girl who is whipped before she is had is responsive like no other. It is the greatest aphrodisiac, at least for those touched by the spirit of the silver wolf, that rarest of legendary beasts for whom sex and pain are mixed in a heady brew drank only on the full moon.
Malcolm tossed the whip aside. “You will take my cock now.”
“Yes, yes. Oh, God, yes.” Her voice was a deep female growl, taken from somewhere inside the bowels of the earth. How his cock surged from the sound of it, how he wanted to tear off his pants and have at her! But there was one more thing to be done first.
“The bit,” he said, revealing another of the things he had brought from the other barn. “You must take it as a sign of your readiness to be used.”
Libby opened her mouth obediently, took the cold metal between her teeth. It was not designed for a human female, but Malcolm improvised, cinching the straps with wire so it formed an adequate harness. What a sight she was, humbled and at his mercy, her magnificent body covered in sweat, broken for his pleasure. Tearing at the opening of his trousers now, Malcolm pulled forth his throbbing, needful penis and thrust it into Libby’s opening. She took him into her wetness is a single thrust, up turning her buttocks to meet his assault. He pressed his full weight, compelling her to lower herself to the ground. He had her this way from behind, her belly and breasts in the dirt and hay, her body utterly immobile.
The orgasm was unlike nothing he had ever experienced. She cried out with him as together they visited that dark world, the coldly beautiful place of the silver wolf. The curse, he thought even as he spilled his unprotected seed—what of the curse? If she should turn up pregnant again…
Malcolm stilled his thoughts as he heard her beneath him, his beloved, his slave for life, calling him, robbed of speech by the invasive bit, and yet articulate nonetheless, her voice a medley of pleasure, shattered wonder and submissive ecstasy. He turned her over, gently, put his ear to her mouth, listening till he could make out the intended words.
Whip me. Libby was asking him to whip her.
***
Andrea called her mother’s name aloud – Libby, Elizabeth, Mother. She tried them all on for size. She’d expected Libby to answer the door. On the phone, they had joked about whether Libby would remember how to do this once she’d sent the servants home. When no one came, though, Andrea let herself in. There was so much to tell her mother. About how Falcon was going to look for Ashley at some secret place of Simon Rice’s. About how strong Falcon was and how brave, and what a tremendous lover he was and how maybe, just maybe he was the man Andrea had been looking for her whole life, strong, powerful, yet surprisingly gentle, too.
In short, a man worthy of her standards. A man like Malcolm. She had so many questions to ask Libby about her father. About what he was like when he was young and in love, and what this other side of him was like, the sexually dominant part. Maybe Libby could help her make sense of it all. Lord, but her head was a blur since last night! Libby would like Falcon, Andrea was sure she would. And her father would, too, or so she hoped. His approval was so very important. It made her giddy to think how much Falcon cared about her, the way he’d loved her body and how afterwards she’d been able to convince him to go after Ashley at this secret place, even though it was dangerous.
It wasn’t that Falcon was a coward. Certainly not the way he’d taken her, over and over, ravishing her, cunt and mouth and ass. He was insatiable. She could hardly walk; she was so tired, so wonderfully spent and glowing. Not only that, but soon she’d see Ashley, too, and soon her father would be here, today perhaps, and everything would be okay. The family would be reunited. They’d all meet Falcon and love him the way she did.
Libby wasn’t in the kitchen, although there were cups out and it looked as though she’d started to make coffee. She wasn’t in the library, either. Andrea ran now from room to room, calling her mother, feeling increasingly desperate. What if Libby was in trouble? What if this Rice man had come after her, too? The kitchen. She had to check the kitchen again for some kind of clue.
There was nothing on the counter, nothing on the table. What about the floor? Andrea looked down and then she saw it. Small and silver, with ivory inlay. Her heart stopped momentarily. It couldn’t be. She picked it up, saw the initials. It was her father’s pocketknife. So he was here. With Libby. But where were they now? Andrea clenched the knife in her fist, remembering what Libby had told her once, about how she and Malcolm had consummated their forbidden love in one of the stable barns.
Andrea knew the way. There were many barns, but Libby had said it was the last one and that she’d had it closed off years ago. When she saw the car out front she knew. But knowing and seeing were not the same. The door was jammed from the inside. She had to push with her shoulder. She heard a moaning sound, clearly female and with it the whistle of leather
A moment later, something on the other side gave way and Andrea fell forward on her face. When she looked up she saw her mother, hanging naked by her wrists from a beam, her pale flesh covered in fresh welts. Behind her, whip in hand, that same wounded, tragic look on his face from last time, was her father.
“Andrea, for God’s sake, are you hurt?”
She was on her feet before he could touch her. “Why don’t you ask my mother that!” she accused, pushing him away.
“Andrea, please!” He had tears in his eyes, the first she had ever seen him shed. And he was naked, splendidly, scandalously naked.
He was still naked as he ran after her car, following the cloud of her dust. She could not stop, could not afford even to look back. By the time she reached the main road, she had made her decision. No more would she allow herself to be vulnerable, to love anyone, male or female. There was no one, no one in this world she could trust. If Malcolm had taught her anything she could still believe, in spite of everything, it was those fateful words he had spoken to her in California, the last time he had found the man terrorizing females.
Sin boldly. That was what she would do. As for family, she wanted no more of it. Of course, she would do everything in her power to find her sister, beginning with going to the police, but then she would leave them all, make a fresh start, somewhere far away. Maybe Europe or South America, somewhere where she could explore her desires in blessed anonymity.
Sin boldly. Yes, she would. And in the end she’d outdo them all even her father. When the cell phone rang, she was very tempted not to answer. Or maybe even throw it out the window. She’d seen that in a movie once, and she’d always thought that must be the most liberating feeling in the world.
“Hello?”
“Andrea, baby! It’s John. I’ve got good news. But first—whisper something sexy to me.”
Andrea bristled. It hadn’t occurred to her in her state of mind that this man would still be affectionate to her when she had nothing left for anyone, not even him. “I’m not in the mood, Falcon, just tell me what you found out about my sister.”
There was a moment of silence. Then his voice, crisp, sounding a little hurt, a little shocked. “Okay. We went to Trident. They never let us past the reception area, but as we were driving away, we got an anonymous call. Your sister is upstate. We have the location, and we’ve been told to be there tonight. Andrea, I think this is the breakthrough we’ve needed. And don’t worry; I’m going to call the cops if there’s even a hint of trouble. Isn’t this great?”
Andrea paused. “Yes,” she agreed at last. “That’s good news. You’ll keep me posted, then?”
“Of course.” He laughed, exposing his confusion. “Baby, what is up with you? This morning you—”
“This morning I was wrapping up a one night stand, as were you. Today it’s back to business. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, Andrea,
I’m sure I don’t understand.” He was starting to sound angry. “Look, tell me where you are and I’ll meet you. We’ll talk. I promise we can work it out. I feel something for you, and it’s not—”
Andrea disconnected him. It was disappointing, really, how emotional he’d become, how soft. Not so different from Tom. Weak and needy. A strong man, that’s what she needed. One man, many men, it hardly mattered, so long as they knew how to trip her trigger and then move on. No complications. Sinning boldly.
Please, Ashley, be okay. Just come home, and I’ll let you go, disappear from your life forever, and never hurt you again.
***
“It will happen tonight,” the Keeper said, continuing her slow, exacting inspection of the kneeling girl.
Ashley’s eyes were focused forward, straight ahead. She was looking, but not seeing the stone wall. Were a person in her line of sight—and only the free are considered persons—she would lower her eyes at once to the floor. Were she to do so, she would see the stone floor, and her own widely spread knees and shins pressed against it. It was no small feat to keep her balance this way, on account of the heavy chain running between her breasts, from her iron collar. And then there were her hands, which were shackled behind her back.
“I think you may fetch a reasonable price,” the Keeper continued, as she stretched the rubber gloves over her hands. “Is she sufficiently opened in the rear?” she asked the Chief Handler.
“She takes whatever we give,” the man said. “I come in her myself at least once a day.”
“I’m sure you do. Put her on the table.”
Ashley was lifted bodily to the metal table. It was too cold on her bare skin, but her comfort was not an issue. The Keeper ordered her to be positioned on it on all fours. There were manacles for her wrists and ankles. The feel of them brought back memories. The instinct to clench tight her muscles and to fight, but fighting was forbidden.
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