by Loris James
“Yes, mistress. I have studied it.”
She is suddenly bored with the conversation and turns her head away. I study her perfect profile and eventually summon the courage to speak.
“Have you slept with the painter, mistress?”
She turns her head and her eyes flare up suddenly and glint dangerously. “Is that any business of yours, slave?”
“I was just wondering, mistress,” I mumble.
She shrugs. “Well, if you must know, he has fucked me a few times. He is rough and uncouth and likes to pin me against the wall and do it standing up. He has not an ounce of sensuality or romanticism in him, which I find quite refreshing. He approaches sex like an animal – as though the sexual act is no more than a necessary bodily function. I almost enjoy the fact that he is so rough and unskilled.”
Her words go through me like a knife. I lower my head.
“I think he’s in love with you, mistress” I say at last. “I have seen the way he looks at you.”
She shrugs. “That does not concern me. I love no one. Not even you. Especially not you! I used to love you, but I don’t anymore. You may have gathered that by now. My heart is cold and empty and I’m glad of it. I feel as carefree as a young girl.”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “Soon, you will not love me any longer either. I will make sure of that. I will kill every emotion you have ever felt for me – except hate. Tell me when you have reached that point and I will give you your freedom.”
“I shall remain your slave until I die, mistress” I say wretchedly.
She looks at me with curious pleasure. “Think carefully about what you are saying. I have loved you yet I have treated you with cruel violence. Perhaps I shall eventually enjoy torturing you to death. Wouldn’t that be your ultimate fantasy – to be tortured to death for love? Wouldn’t that be fitting for a true martyr?”
She smiles at me coldly sending chills down my spine.
Chapter Forty-Four
The painter has established his studio in her sitting room upstairs and as the days go by I can see that he is falling completely under my mistress’s spell. When he is not with her, he mopes around the house like a lovesick teenager.
I almost feel sorry for him. Our joint misfortune is that Saskia has unerringly found the weaknesses within both of us and is able to exploit it skilfully to her advantage. It’s a natural gift that I suspect she has always possessed – the ability to use her feminine wiles to find the Achilles heel in every man who takes an interest in her and then use it against him to break him at her whim.
She seems amused to have two men vying for her attention. Two men who have been struck down by her beauty and her guile. She laughs at both of us, and how she laughs! I hear can her brazen melodious laughter in his studio as I stand outside her door, jealously listening.
And then the laughter subsides and there are other noises and I know with certainty that they are copulating. As I listen I imagine him caressing her body with his big rough hands, the paint-smeared fingers with their dirty fingernails gliding roughly over her flesh, massaging and pinching and prodding her most intimate parts. And finally he will thrust himself roughly inside her while pushing her hard up against the wall while he supports her buttocks with his big rough hands and she curls her thighs around his waist, opening her legs wide to receive him.
I feel ill to my stomach and sag weakly against the door, overcome by sheer wretchedness. At times like these I wish that I had never met her, had never clapped eyes on her, had never kissed her or touched her or even knew her name.
“Slave!” My mistress calls and I enter her bedroom. The painter stands to one side adjusting his clothes while my mistress looks at me with bright eyes. It is clear that he has just fucked her. They both have the afterglow of sex, I can almost smell it in the room.
“I have finally decided what kind of portrait is to be painted of us,” my mistress says cheerfully, clearly in a good mood.
“Us? I say dumbly.
“Yes – you and me, slave,” she says impatiently. “He will paint a complete replica of that-“ She points at the huge Rubens print on the wall, depicting the betrayal of Samson by Delilah.
She looks at the painter. “Are you able to do that, Eric?”
He nods and she seems pleased. “I have been told that you are able to copy the style of many of the old masters. My slave and I will pose in the same way as in the Rubens painting. I will sit with my breasts bared on the chaise longue and hold my whip in my hand, while my slave lies naked at my feet with his head resting on my lap, looking up adoringly into my eyes. Take off your clothes, slave, and let us pose for the artist.”
I hesitate only briefly and then strip down naked. The painter stares at my body. His eyes take in the scars from the cat-o-nine-tails on my back and buttocks and the back of my thighs, then travel over the words serve, obey, worship tattooed in ugly black letters across my chest. He stares at the big tattoo of the manacled hands with the word slave tattooed underneath. Then his eyes move to my chained and weighted nipple rings and, finally, the gleaming stainless steel chastity belt clamped around my waist, encasing my genitals.
There is a look of fascinated horror on his face.
My mistress watches him closely and smiles with satisfaction. “You are repulsed by my slave’s mutilated body? Don’t feel sorry for him, the truth is he revels in his disfigurements. They are his trophies of suffering and humiliation. Each wound is worn proudly like a badge of honor – a testament to the idiocies and irrationalities of sexual love.”
The painter is speechless and averts his eyes.
My mistress goes into the bathroom to change and returns moments later barefoot, wearing a long red satin dress with white satin sleeves and trimmings on the bodice. She reclines on the crimson chaise longue. The bodice of her dress is low-cut and, with a small adjustment from her, she pulls it down and her naked breasts are fully and seductively exposed, hanging out over the top of the bodice. The painter stares at her voluptuous breasts, mesmerized.
Saskia lounges back on the chaise longue with the whip in her hand. She crooks her finger, beckoning me to join her.
“I want the pose to be exactly like the Rubens painting. You can also paint in exactly the same background.”
I look at her and then at the picture on the wall. She is striking almost exactly the same pose as Delilah, with her bare feet, naked, exposed breasts, and the replica crimson full-length gown.
How long had she been planning this, I wondered?
I lie at her feet with my head in her lap, one arm casually flung over her thigh, just as in the painting. She lays one hand on my back and holds the whip in the other.
Her right hand plays with the whip. “Look at me, slave” she says, “Look up at me with your fanatical, wounded look. Let me see the pain in those beautiful blue eyes. Yes, just like that. Are you suffering? Are you suffering right at this moment?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Why? Because I have just let the painter fuck me again?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Good. I love it when you suffer. I am constantly thinking of more ways to make you suffer, slave. I will not rest until I have destroyed you completely.”
The painter has turned pale. He is witnessing an intimate scene between a mistress and her submissive slave, and he devours the scene hungrily with his eyes.
“Well, how do you like our pose?” my mistress asks him.
“Enthralling,” the painter murmurs. His words come out in a moan, like the weeping of a sick soul.
“You can paint the background in later,” my mistress says. “First I want you to paint the slave and his mistress in the foreground.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Gradually the charcoal outline of the painting takes form on the blank white canvas; and then the painter begins to paint in the heads and flesh parts and brings my mistress’s diabolically beautiful face vividly to life. Under the bold and confident strokes of his
artist’s brush life begins to glow in those cruel green eyes.
At the end of the day my mistress stands in front of the canvas and inspects it.
Beside her, the painter gazes at the painting. He has become as pale as death.
“What’s the matter with you, are you ill?” my mistress asks.
He stares with a consuming look fixed on the wanton woman in the painting. “It reminds me of the goddess of love descended from Mount Olympus to corrupt the souls of mortal man. I can imagine this beautiful and cruel goddess whipping her slave mercilessly when she grows bored with making love to him, and the more she abuses him, the more insanely he loves her. It is the most passionate thing I have ever seen. The heartless destruction of one human being by another. The cruel and resolute dismantling and destruction of love.”
My mistress laughs, well pleased. “That’s very perceptive, Eric. I shall reward you well once the painting is finished and hanging on my wall.”
The painter looks at her with his smitten, washed-out grey eyes. “Being with you is reward enough,” he mutters and suddenly grabs her hand and kisses it as though paying homage to a goddess.
Chapter Forty-Six
The days roll by slowly, inexorably and the three of us are drawn into a kind of macabre play my mistress, I her slave, and the painter her lover. My mistress is the masterful puppeteer, the painter and I her puppets. She pulls our strings and manipulates us deftly.
She is in good spirits as the artist paints his picture, pouring over the huge canvas with utmost concentration and dedication. Paints are smeared on his hands and clothes, and there are crimson smudges on his stubbled face that give the impression that he’s bleeding. As the days go by he becomes more emaciated, his eyes sunken and hollow, and he has begun to mumble unintelligibly under his breath. Each day his brush strokes become more urgent and violent. He does not pause to rest, eat or drink.
As she poses for him, my mistress absently fondles her naked breasts from time to time, sensually caressing herself, and then looks up at the painter with a coquettish expression. As he stares at her I can see the erection in his trousers and his ashen face assumes a kind of desperate, wretched look.
My mistress looks at his erection and laughs with satisfaction. “Do you want to fuck me, Eric?”
He gives her a tortuous looks. His eyes dart swiftly to me, then back to her.
She laughs. “Oh, it’s alright, don’t worry about my slave. You can fuck me in front of him. He’ll probably enjoy it.”
“Not while I’m working,” the painter growls out of the side of his mouth and turns back to his canvas.
During this morning’s sitting my mistress amuses herself by eating chocolates. She rolls the foil wrappers into little pellets and bombards the painter with them flirtatiously.
He suddenly throws down his brush in a fit of anger. “I am glad that you’re in a playful mood, but your face has lost the expression which I need for my painting!”
“You need an expression for your painting?” she repeats, smiling. “Wait a moment…”
She lashes me viciously across the back with her whip. “There, is that better. Do I look cruel enough for you?”
The painter is shocked at the sudden outburst of violence. A look of disgust mingled with admiration shadows his face.
My mistress suddenly strikes me again, and again, and her face acquires that familiar cruel and wildly savage expression I have come to know so well. A look that excites, terrifies and intoxicates me.
“Is this the expression you need for your picture?” she says, naked breasts heaving with the sudden exertion, red hair flying wildly about her flushed face.
“Yes, that’s the correct expression—” he stammers, “but I can’t paint now—”
“Why?” my mistress demands. “Do you want to be whipped too?”
“I want to be loved by you,” he says in the strangled, tortured tone. He looks like a wounded animal near death.
“Loved?” my mistress scoffs coldly. “Why is every man I ever meet so obsessed with this idea of love? Men do not have the slightest inkling what it means to love! To your sex love means owning a women, making her subservient to your needs, possessing her body for your pleasure, capturing her soul and molding it to your will until she has lost all sense of herself. No, you do not want me to love you!” she says malevolently, eyes flashing. “You want me to open my legs for you, you want me to let you fuck me – love has nothing to do with it!”
“Whip me then!” the painter cries suddenly, as if overcome with madness. “Beat me as you have beaten him! I need to feel the pain for your cruelty!”
She stares at him for a long while, then shrugs her pale, beautiful shoulders and says, “Very well, but be warned. I do not play games. Will you let me tie you up?” she says, smiling coldly.
I can already see the gleam of excitement in her eyes.
“Yes!” he moans. “Tie me up! Do anything you like to me!”
Saskia fetches the ropes. The sight of them are only too familiar and I’m instantly filled with a feeling of terror and dread – and sexual excitement.
“Well—are you brave enough to put yourself in the absolute power of a cruel woman?”
“Yes!” the painter replies hoarsely. His eyes are wild and his paint-stained fingers are trembling.
She looks around the room for a suitable support, then ties his wrists and loops the rope over one of the heavy beams in the ceiling above. She pulls the rope tight until his wrists are high above his head and he is suspended from the beam with his feet barely touching the floor. She ties a knot to secure the rope and then unzips his trousers and pulls them down to his ankles, exposing narrow hips and an unexpectedly large cock. He has a full erection. His cock is thick and rigid and ready.
My mistress pulls his shirt up and arranges it around his armpits, so that his naked body is exposed and ready to receive her.
I watch, mesmerized, and have become intensely sexually aroused. My penis is straining and protesting against the confines of its steel cage.
My mistress pulls the bodice of her crimson dress down to her waist so that her torso and breasts are bare. She raises the cat-o-nine-tails and brings it down on the painter’s buttocks and thighs and back with all her might. Her eyes gleam with excitement and malice. Her naked breasts heave and shudder each time she strikes him with the whip.
I am indescribably excited as I watch the scene in front of me. It is strange to be an observer and not a participant. The whip cracks and hisses through the air as blow after blow rains down on the painter’s gaunt body. My mistress looks magnificent in the full savagery of her cruelty. Her mouth is half open and her teeth flash between red lips. The painter moans and sobs under her ministrations and yet, his erection remains firm.
Finally he cannot take the pain anymore and begs her to stop. She ignores his pleas and carries on until she is completely spent – too tired to raise her arm for another single blow. She is breathing heavily, her face a white mask of brutal fury.
My excitement has reached fever pitch. I want to rip the steel belt off my loins with my bare hands. I need my penis to be full and hard. I have the most incredible urge to mount her there and then and fuck her in front of the painter. Let him watch if he wants. I have an indescribable craving to take her by force. To fuck her until she screams and begs for mercy. I will make her tremble and cry beneath me. At this moment I need to penetrate her or I will explode.
She sees the fevered look in my eyes and laughs. “Do you want to fuck me, slave?”
I am breathing hard, almost as hard as she is. “Get this thing off me! I need to fuck you! I want to fuck you so hard that you cry for mercy!”
She laughs demonically. “Cry for mercy? How typical! You want to use your cock to subdue me?” She looks at me wildly. “Well, let me show you what a woman can do!”
She jerks the bell-rope and immediately the door flies open and Osiris and Amun enter the room. They are both completely naked. The two
women close in on me, grab my wrists, and in a moment I am tied to the beam next to the painter.
“Now, let’s see who will be begging for mercy!” my mistress cries as she lashes out at me with the cat-o-nine-tails. Luckily for me she has already spent her fury and strength on the painter and her blows are weak and she soon grows bored.
She drops her whip and turns to her henchwomen. “Fuck him!” she commands, pointing at the painter.
The two women close in on the painter who is hanging limply from his restraints and moaning softly with pain. Osiris attacks his swollen penis with her mouth, expertly massaging his testicles to make his erection bigger and harder, and when he’s ready Amun mounts him. She curls her thick muscular thighs around his waist and squeezes hard to support herself. The painter gasps as though caught in the deathly grip of a female python. She pushes his big cock inside her and begins to move her hips rhythmically back and forth against him. My mistress suddenly produces the black latex dildo from her bedside cupboard and Osiris puts on the harness, slips the contraption’s second penis smoothly into her vagina, and mounts the painter from the back. She shoves the latex cock up his rectum with all the force she can muster. The painter screams like a stuck pig. The two women fuck him hard and my mistress’s eyes gleam with excitement at his screams.
I stare at my mistress. “Fuck me too,” I say hoarsely. “Take this thing off me and fuck me.”
She laughs in my face. “No, my dear, slave. That’s precisely your punishment – not to fuck you! You see, I know that to deprive you of sex is the very worst thing I can do to you.”
When the two naked women can no longer coax any response from the painter’s flaccid penis, they leave him hanging in a dazed and almost comatose stupor from his restraints.
Amun goes to my mistress’s bedside cupboard and produces a second strap-on dildo, identical to the one Osiris is wearing, and puts it on and climbs into the big four-poster bed with my mistress and immediately begins to caress her breasts and kiss her.