So tired of yielding—she would appease Patrick Dunleavy to live elsewhere in the house? She wasn’t sure what she would do—though seeing this dreadful tower in the flesh, she wondered if she hadn’t been foolish to be so proud and contentious after her beating. For five nights since her showing at the mast, she refused the man sex. Of course, he had every advantage over her, could have raped her any time he wanted and she would not have said a word. But he wanted more than that. He wanted her to welcome him. He desired her to be as willing as she’d been the first time they were together. She refused.
“How can you expect me to make love to you when you’ve completely shamed me this way?” she’d asked him after turning a cold shoulder to his affectionate gesture. She was civil, yes—she’d never be a shrew again; that was her private vow. But neither would she think kindly of the man, nor enjoy his touch, nor shiver excitedly in his presence—certainly not so he could see. “Take me if you like, but I will not love it,” she’d added sounding quite proud of herself.
“So be it,” he answered. But instead of going for the prize without her approval, he turned away from her, as cold and uninviting as she was. Jolie wasn’t sure if she were disappointed or happy that he left her alone. Her body was overwrought with need—what had happened at the mast provoked such profound feelings in her that she could not dispel them without some raucously sexual end. But denying herself that possibility, she was agitated, miserable and too stubborn to change her position. “We’ll see just how amenable you’ll be after a night in the tower,” he warned. “Though, I’d be careful letting me wait for your affections to return; by the time we get to the island, I might not care if I ever bed you again.”
“And that would be fine with me,” she nearly snapped off. “For I will never want you, Patrick Dunleavy. Though I might spend the rest of my life with you as your captive, I will never warm to your affections—ever!”
What Jolie had not counted on was witnessing the greeting Patrick received from his other servants as he entered the courtyard. His first welcome came from a young native woman—a tall, muscular and graceful dark-skinned beauty. Her long hair cascaded down her back in a sheet of ebony that shined like midnight with stars. She was dressed only in a skirt that wrapped about her waist and covered her feminine treasures below. Around her throat, fashioned as a collar, she wore beads two inches thick. Several more strands of beads swung low over her bare chest, swaying between her perfectly cone-shaped mounds of tawny-colored brown. Her chest was as exposed as Jolie’s was now.
Moving to her master, she blessed him with a warm, adoring smile, which immediately produced his gracious grin. Wrapping her arms about his neck they kissed, a long, deep-throated kiss which lasted several seconds. His hands poured over her smooth skin; then his palm massaged one breast and dropped low to reach between the folds of her skirt for something more intimate to caress.
“Welcome, sir,” she said, then she slumped to her knees and bowed at his feet.
Though she appeared flawless, the lovely lady had a curious imperfection across the top of her back—perhaps a gash, or the mark of a whip. It was difficult to tell for sure, though Jolie was quite certain that the imprint was permanent and deliberately made. Her body quickened measurably at the sight.
“Good day, Moira, and is Anna here?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman lifted her head when she spoke, but diverted her eyes after she answered her master’s question. She needn’t say more, as the woman in question suddenly appeared through the same door that opened for the servant Moira.
Anna was much different than her counterpart, light-skinned like Jolie, though her hair was sandy brown, sun-streaked and a wild mass of curls that framed her face like a lion’s mane. She had a gentle smile, eyes that captured hearts with their soft aspect, and hands that reached lovingly to her master. Their kiss was not as deep as Moira’s sexual one.
“You’ve been gone so long, sir, we wondered if you’d ever return,” she said, stepping back.
“Have I not always returned to you?” he said as he playfully tweaked the woman’s nose.
Watching the affection this tiny household shared, the newly captured Jolie felt like a rude outsider interrupting the intimacies of a family. Was it jealousy creeping into her hard-hearted soul?
“Anna, this is Jolie. She’ll be housed in the tower.”
“Sir?” she questioned.
“Yes, the tower,” he suddenly looked dreadfully grim, his eyes narrowing into two simmering points of dark light inside his black face.
“Yes, sir, I’ll take her there now.”
“Be sure you do.” There was meaning behind the comment that Jolie did not understand.
Before Anna attended to her duty, she bowed before the master just as Moira had; though it was just a quick gesture this time. She was on her feet again in seconds leading the bewildered Jolie by the leash.
As the newcomer stared about the grounds of Patrick Dunleavy’s fortress, the beauty of her new home amazed her. Never—not even in her imagination—had she seen anything as lovely and unusual as this wondrous place. The trees were resplendent with green—great broad leaves, and strange looking bark on their trunks. At the edges of the courtyard where they’d been greeted, a blanket of wild ferns grew with long fronds looking like gentle spears. She had seen drawings in books of these curiosities, but she never believed she’d see such unusual sights. There was so much to gaze on that her eyes were confused and mesmerized by the wonders. And now, being taken to the tower she would not have time to feast on any of it.
Expecting to be lead through the house, she was surprised when the gracious Anna pulled her to one side of the fortress structure, to the far side of the rounded turret. She unlocked a simple wooden door, and led the captive inside a dank, musty-smelling corridor. Traveling a maze of twisted hallways, they finally reached the tower stairs, which were little more than a series of rough stones leading upwards. Anna was silent on this expedition. And though she could melt before her master’s eye, she resumed a firmer posture and attitude on this trek—perhaps due to the nature of her task. Jolie would wonder.
By the time the women reached the top of the stairs and stood before another simple door, Jolie’s thighs ached and there was sweat on both women’s brows. The door opened into the tower room—a dreary, humid square box made of stone and mortar. The exterior of the tower was the color of the house, but inside, it retained its dreary grey appearance, the color of weariness and melancholy. The window sills in the tower room were shoulder height on the small captive, which meant looking out on the island landscape could only be accomplished by standing on tiptoe. Something she would not be trying with the diligent Anna in the room.
The sparsely furnished tower contained a table in the center—which was itself a curious thing as there were peculiar leather straps hanging at all four corners, pegs driven into the sides, and even bolts at the base that had a curious purpose. Jolie focused on this unusual piece for several seconds trying to understand its purpose. Then as Anna moved into the room, Jolie’s eyes swept the whole of it and its notable furnishings: a small cabinet, a straw mattress, two chairs and a variety of chains, ropes and other gear which were attached to the walls and hanging from a crude oaken candelabrum suspended over the table.
“I don’t know why our master has ordered you here,” Anna said, “but it is clear that you have offended him. He is a kind man to those who serve him with obedience and honor. It is too bad that you could not have understood this truth before you failed him. I’m afraid your life here will not be pleasant until you make amends.”
“My life has not been pleasant for some time,” Jolie replied.
“Perhaps not.” For a woman of such sensuous beauty, she looked terribly grim now. “Up on the table,” she ordered.
Jolie gazed at her perplexed, wondering now how she should greet this command.
“And if I do not climb up on the table?” she asked, feeling the first sign of defiance b
egin to brew inside her tummy.
“Then I’ll inform our master of your feelings.”
“And that is all?”
“It’s not for me to determine or predict what he will do, but I would suggest that you decide to obey.”
For one long anxious minute, Jolie considered her options. She could fight her, abscond with the keys and attempt a flight that might set her free of this miserable tower and her captor. She had no stomach for more torture, for suffering more indignities. She’d had enough of being bound, of masts and ropes and naked unveilings.
“No!” she turned to the woman. Her green eyes danced with anger.
“You cannot refuse,” Anna returned determinedly.
“You said you’d tell Patrick.”
“I will indeed, but that will not prevent me from obeying our master’s command.”
“You’ll have to fight me, then.” Jolie was prepared to go to war with the woman. Her fists were clenched, her jaw as rigid as the mettle in her stubborn character. She would have charged the passive woman, who seemed entirely unconcerned with the revolt brewing before her.
“There are other ways,” Anna said calmly, then she glanced beyond the captive toward the door.
Jolie froze. A moment later panic struck as she felt an ominous agitating presence at her shoulder. She turned around preparing to attack whatever vile beast was there. But she was immediately foiled, too stunned by what she saw to mount her assault. Instead of freeing herself from the tower, she was grabbed by the nape of her neck, lifted off her feet and thrust toward the table where she was held down by an incredible force too powerful to oppose. An enormous native dressed in loin cloth and beads lay one hand on her belly, the other on her neck.
While the scared young woman stared up at the brute in speechless wonder, Anna efficiently captured each of Jolie’s wrists and ankles using the straps at the four corners to tie her in place. Secured and unable to move, the powerful man released his hold and let the woman compete her task. The job was simple and easily accomplished with Jolie firmly bound.
Anna opened the skirt of the brown dress wider still, and made certain that the captive’s breasts were completely bared. Then, in a move that put her captive in a state of shock, she pulled from the small cabinet at the side of the room, a pot of grease and a thick rod. Slathering the rod with the gooey substance, she lifted the bound woman’s hips off the table enough to insert the thing up her ass. She did nothing to ease the immediate pain of entry—she didn’t slow the process with an initial prodding, or bother working the thing carefully until it was lodged inside. She simply gave the phallus a firm shove and ignored the whimpering wince she noted in her subject’s pained face.
While this took place, the powerful black man stood back watching, expressionless. No words were exchanged between the trio, though there was plenty of truth communicated in the seconds that followed Jolie’s bondage. She was without question, Patrick Dunleavy’s captive and would remain so until the man decided otherwise.
Once the task was done, the black man left the two women alone. And having Jolie as she wanted, Anna leaned in to deliver her final message.
“Our master will attend you as soon as he has eaten and refreshed himself. This would be a good time for you to consider your present state of mind. There is no escape from this island. You’ll need to live with that fact. In time, I’m sure you will. The sooner you give in, the sooner you’ll be able to partake of the wonderful pleasures awaiting you.”
Jolie’s heart beat hotly as she listened to Anna’s calm lecture.
How had she come to this again? Was there something in her character that required such submission? How could, after all the other horrors, she find herself trapped in a tower, helpless to change her fate? How could this be happening again?
She struggled with the bonds, feeling them tighten as she strained against the straps. The rod in her ass only slipped more deeply as her body writhed to be free.
“Please, ma’am let up!” she pleaded for herself. “I will speak with Patrick Dunleavy. Offer my apology. I cannot bear this treatment—not again.”
The woman was not moved. “It will go easier for you if you ease yourself,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I cannot be eased in this awful place!” Jolie wailed.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to be at peace, since it will be some time before you’ll be released.”
She smiled, but only briefly and then turned to leave the room. Jolie looked over her shoulder toward the door.
“Noooo,” she cried.
Anna did not respond. The door closed behind the woman which left Jolie by herself, alone, weary and frightened.
***
Jolie passed out. Unaware of the time slipping steadily by, she woke to find darkness all around her. It must have been a cloudy night as there was no light from stars or moon shining though the barred openings of the tower. She was still tied spread-eagle with the rod lodged deeply in her ass. Instinct made her tug at the bonds, but they budged no more than they did before.
How much longer would she wait? Could she sleep again? Sleep would mean some source of peace; though she was now so wide awake she was sure she’d spend the rest of the night living through the terror of bound sleeplessness.
She closed her eyes again to think—without the horror of her predicament staring back at her from the empty places of the murky tower. She listened long and hard, hearing nothing but the sound of her breathing and the way her body moved against the wood beneath her. She listened again, thinking that she heard a noise beyond the tower door—the sound of shuffling footsteps, perhaps. They seemed far away at first, then closer, then faraway again. She must be dreaming. This couldn’t be real.
Just as she rationalized the sounds as something out of fantasy, the tower door swung open and a glaring light blazed in to blind her eyes. Boots clicked against the stone floor and a body moved into the center of the room.
“You like my tower?” Patrick’s unmistakable voice grabbed her attention, though she couldn’t see his face. He strode to her side and peered down as he held a candle high above her head.
She looked up at him imploringly, saying “Release me, please, sir.”
“You don’t like it here?” he wondered.
“No, sir.”
“Oh, I’m surprised, I thought with all the pain and suffering you’ve endured that you might be addicted to the torture.”
“Oh, why would you think that?” she exclaimed unhappily.
“By the way you’ve acted. The way you shun me. I bring you to this beautiful island to serve me, and you turn into the shrew from hell.”
“Oh, sir, that is over, I swear.”
“Is it over? Really? Or is this just a matter of convenience because your wrists and ankles are burning, your mouth is parched and your ass is beginning to sear from the rod inside your channel?” He tapped the exposed end of the thing and she winced again.
“Sir, I cannot bear more. I’ll surely die.”
He laughed. “You are a wild woman, I must say that for you. And I imagine that eventually, you’ll be freed of my tower, but not until you’re broken in.”
“Broken in, sir?”
“Like a filly needs to be broken when they’re running wild—and after the way you’ve rebuked me, you’re lucky I bother. But, I will assume that when you denounced me on my ship, you were angry and in your mind, righteously so. I can possibly excuse that. But I will not free you until I’m assured that your proud and haughty state of mind has been banished. This place is a pleasure palace of decadent pursuits—ones you’ll surely enjoy, but I can’t risk your turning into a shrew. I will not beat the life from you because I love your spirit, but I will not risk your rebellion. The desire to rebel, to be contemptuous, petulant and angry must be driven from your bones.”
“Oh, sir. Those desires are not me! Not truly. I can be the woman you want right now!”
He laughed again. “You are a woman of conve
nience. You say what I want to hear now, but I have no way of knowing how sincere you are, or if what you say will stick beyond your next hour. Six weeks on my ship with you taught me one thing: I cannot trust you. You spit and curse and waver and cajole. Who is the real Jolie, I wonder?”
“This is the real Jolie, I swear.”
He shook his head. “Perhaps now, but what happens when the bitch Antoinette arises, or the bitter Gabrielle, or the sweet-faced Marie with the cutting tongue? What then?” He looked coolly into her tearing green eyes.
“I demand discipline on this island. I have expectations. My other servants know this; they understand my rules and follow them thoughtlessly. They take punishment graciously—you hear that—graciously? Something you have never learned to do.”
“I can learn, sir,” she looked up hopefully.
“Yes, you can and will,” he agreed. “I say that not because I believe in you now, but because I know what I can make of you. When I’m finished teaching you, you will bow for me the way you saw Moira and Anna do. You will obey unthinkingly. You will welcome punishment should there be a breach in your behavior. You hear that? Welcome punishment because you know that punishment makes you a better servant. Any breach is a breach against me—your master. Should you displease me, your heart will bleed so freely that you’ll graciously welcome the rod or lash to correct your faults.”
Jolie’s ears burned hot as she listened to the nature of his appalling schemes. Patrick Dunleavy believed every word he spoke as gospel. He had that much faith in who he was and how much the women in his company loved and cherished him that he could make this grandiose claim.
Could this possible?
By the looks of things in the courtyard it was true—Moira and Anna obviously adored him. How could any man have so much power over women that they would offer him such adulation?
For Jolie … never! She swore to herself that this would never happen—ever. She could never adore a man as Patrick Dunleavy’s servants adored him—though she’d never breathe a word of this to Patrick. There was little doubt that this master would do everything in his power to contain and train her to suit his whims. And though she might comply with her body, she would certainly resist him with her mind and soul. No man would ever own her spirit, not in this miserable life.
The Saga of a Naughty Lady Page 11