The Saga of a Naughty Lady

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “Love her into an orgasm,” her master ordered. “Your hands, your tongue, your lips. Pleasure her.”

  Jolie moved forward to obey the command—at first frightened by the unexpected request and leery as well—she’d never pleasured a woman before. But this woman was special, one who’d loved and nurtured her into blissful orgasms, whose radiant body had been both a mystery and a thing of wonder. Jolie was amazed by its raw power, soft surfaces hiding her muscled strength and a capacity to withstand the extremes of bondage and be so close to ecstasy. Settling herself between Marise’s thighs, between the servants who held her on their shoulders, Jolie sat up on her knees and moved hands and mouth over the lovely mound of femininity, which was open, wet, and suspended before her hungry eyes. Her mouth watered in expectation, while her nostrils caught a fierce whiff of sweet and sour aromas emitted from Marise’s womanly reserve. There was just a soft tuft of dark curls covering the triangle, not enough to thwart her task. She ran her fingers through the silky hair and waited for the fragrance of the woman’s musk to discharge. Then caressing the flesh of her sinewy thighs, Jolie moved toward the apex, where she carefully parted Marise’s labia to expose the juicy portal. Her mouth moved freely on her budding clitoris with her tongue swimming about the delicate nub. She listened to the soft sounds of Marise whimpering as the aroused woman quickly reached toward another peak of pleasure.

  Thwack!

  To the surprise of both women, a jolt of wood from behind, leveled cleanly at the bound servant’s fleshy ass, jerked them from their sensuous union to another reality—which was fierce, treacherous and determined. Jolie clung to the sorry victim as their master spanked her with powerful strokes of the wooden paddle. She sought to comfort her, knowing how each strike would sting and burn and cause her grief. When their master paused, Jolie was at Marise’s nether lips again, finding them warmer and more liquid. Her mouth fastened itself, diving into the wet folds and fissures with her tongue gliding over the surface, darting inside the groaning woman’s steamy vagina. She brought her sister servant to a climax again, and again there was a jolt from the paddle against Marise’s ass.

  Thawck!!

  “Ah, sheeeessh…………….” Marise gasped long and fervently. “Ah, sir, yes!”

  Yes, she was loving even this.

  With all the jolts and shocks to both their bodies, Jolie could not keep her mouth attached to the servant’s cumming hole. Instead, her fingers worked her way into the expanding gateway, forcing their way behind the rigid muscles that would prevent the entry. Time and more pain took the woman’s conscious thought away… she was left adrift in pleasure, letting go, finding at the end that her body could accommodate both the rude way her master spanked her, and the crude entrance of the captive’s hand into the hollow cavity. The jerking, wrenching, lurching activity of Marise’s savage reply suggested that she was beyond caring now. Her head fell back, long hair dangling down behind, her breasts thrust up, arms straining, hips lunging forward. She was the image of feminine sexual satiation.

  The women holding her could hardly keep her in place the way she thrashed about, so that on coming down from her erotic high, one of Patrick’s guards was forced to seize her exhausted body until she could be set free.

  Once Marise was on her feet again and able to move, she went immediately to her master, bowed her head at the man’s feet and kissed the ground. This was her act of homage and adoration, a ritual both seemed to thrive on and expect. The exchange was, however, completely genuine in mood and earnestness. An act of love from one to another rife with beauty and intimate understanding of each other’s needs.

  “Did you experience the pleasure or the pain of my servant’s trial?” Patrick asked as he led Jolie back to her tower home.

  “I experienced both. The eroticism I could love, the pain made me panic.”

  “And which did you love the most?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Surely, you can. Be honest.”

  Jolie thought a moment. “I could feel Marise’s body come alive as she enjoyed my hands and tongue, but it was the surprise attack on her ass that made her body explode. It poured out all over me, over my face and hands and breasts and inspired me for more.”

  Patrick nodded. “Surrender to me is as easy as acknowledging the same physical truth about yourself. This is how my servants live with me—they live with pleasure, loving it in all its varied aspects.”

  They were at the top of the tower stairs. Jolie was certain that Patrick would leave her at the door and lock it behind him—or that he would shackle her to her bed of straw again. Instead, however, he shoved her inside to the table of straps and bolts, where he pushed her over the end and began to spank her roughly with his hand. The burn rose quickly on her skin.

  Their passions had been jointly festering all evening. There had been a singularity in their purpose with Marise—her pleasure and vicariously their own. To bring that passion to its fruition needed something quick, sharp and distinct to release their fires. That was why the spanking—for it brought Jolie’s body to a crest of pleasure in mere seconds. With the needy redhead so aroused, her master rammed his fully flowered erection into her bum with the same sure swiftness he used to redden her ass. Though the force of his entry stunned her, she eased back into him more graciously than in the past. His treatment had worked, the ride was smooth and deep, and when he climaxed so did she. The pair were as delirious as Marise had been at the moment of her ending.

  Spent, they lay collapsed together over the table to repair.

  When Patrick pulled away from his servant, Jolie slumped to the floor in exhaustion—though that did not prevent her from kissing the floor at his feet and paying homage as she’d seen the others do.

  The man was moved by the genuineness of her efforts.

  Jolie was moved as well, in disbelief. There was no reason to honor the brute; she did not love him. She hardly cared for him. What were these feelings of submission about? Why did she feel surrendered? He seemed as much a madman as he did a sane one. But she was mad, too. Too many days in the tower, too much abuse, too much incomprehensible physical stimulation—it was breeding her madness and a strange and abiding regard for the man who provoked that state of frenzy.

  Chapter Nine

  It was certain that things were changing for Jolie. She could feel the substance of herself evolve. She was blending with the climate and the women who ministered to her and even thinking more fondly of the man who owned her fate. She thought of him as master now, less as Patrick, her captor. But she would not tell him so. She remained cordially aloof and distant in his presence.

  Jolie’s ass continued to be worked with enemas every day, and regular spankings from Patrick when he was there to conduct the sessions. After several weeks, she looked forward to the procedure. She’d discovered the physical joys and wanted more—even when Patrick ordered longer holding periods, and more strident spankings, and bondage she found painful.

  Late one evening, when she lay down to sleep, Lilia came to her, loosening the shackles that kept her on the bed of straw. It had been a rough day for her physically with a brutal enema and ghastly spanking. Though she was exhausted, there was a steady, unanswered pulse between her legs. It felt good to be standing and moving around, to be walking, letting life flow through her veins. When Jolie moved out of the tower door with Lilia at her side, no hobble, no restraints, she wondered at this bizarre turn of events.

  Down the stairs and through a maze of rooms, the two women worked their way into a portion of the fortress where Jolie had never been before.

  Lilia stopped before a broad door and carefully, without knocking, opened it wide.

  “Go pleasure him, Jolie,” she whispered quietly in her ear.

  She was shoved inside and Lilia disappeared with the door clicking shut behind Jolie.

  The bewildered redhead could hardly see on this moonless night; though there were stars to shed some light in the room, and a breeze coming
off the ocean. She smelled the salt as she did most days of her confinement, and this time she smelled freedom. There were no bars on the windows, nothing but pure night sky outside.

  As she stepped further into the room, she was drawn to the open portal and the world beyond. If only it were daytime, she could have seen the island, the hills and the lowlands. She longed for freedom more now than she did when she was in the tower.

  Lost in fantasy, she was suddenly awakened by the sound of Patrick stirring in his bed. Was he sleeping, she wondered? He’d been very still.

  ‘Pleasure him’ Lilia had told her.

  Stealthily approaching the side of the bed, she laid her hand on her master’s shoulder. He was expecting her. Turning over, he opened the covers and drew her to his nakedness, where she snuggled down and let his power pour into her. This was like their first night on the ship when they had made love—or at least the prospects of love were ripe in both their minds.

  Jolie felt the darkness of her master’s character through his skin. A touch of her hand to his chest, she felt a current of fire move into her in an erratic wave. Her body deepened its response. Just one draught of the man’s masculine aroma and she felt her sexual insides quicken stronger still, and her thighs grow damp from female cum oozing at her center.

  He touched her face with tenderness, her lips with his lips locking on to hers. Their tongues met and circled in paths from the inside out. They seemed as one, the two gliding into a passionate loving without a seam or a ripple of distress. Even her mind was not at odds with this. There was something so lovely about him in the dark. He seemed to belong to the night and the dark perversions that prevailed in the late hours of the day. He was like Marcus Roger in that way, but much more than that master, for there was a human of great depth in this man’s soul. He knew his women well, and loved them wholly with a power and beauty that surpassed the affection of brutes. What he’d given to Marise—what she’d helped him give his sensuous servant—was far beyond the simple reaches of a good fuck.

  Jolie wanted to love him. His hands combed her body with such care, and his heart seemed to beat with hers. She wanted to love him, because she believed that he loved her.

  Climbing down her lover’s torso, she met his flowering erection with her lips. Mouth opening wide, she received him into her, sucking the muscle with the strong action of her jaw. He answered back with a natural desire to thrust, retreat, then thrust again. Oh! What devilish bliss this was! Her appetite grew wild as the thick head of his penis drove down her throat. Backing off, she ran her tongue about the rim of the head, licking the smooth surface and tasting its salty tang, while she yanked the big stalk top to bottom with one hand. With the other hand, she cupped his genitals, rolling them gently across her palm.

  He was blissful in this state. But wanting more of her, Patrick grabbed her hair and pulled her to his chest. Straddling his hips, Jolie climbed on his cock and nestled down with the fat thing pulsing inside her.

  “Ah, yes, fuck me hard, sir, it has been so long since I’ve had you inside me.”

  “Since months on the ship,” he remembered too.

  He pulled her torso down to him, breasts flattening on his chest. He kissed her more. Then as the tension between them built, they rolled on the bed locked together as one, squeezing, kissing, mauling, struggling to go deeper, or be impaled deeper, clenching tightly as though it mattered far beyond the moment—what if they were in love?

  That was impossible, love.

  They carried on rollicking freely. She milked his erection as he moved in and out of her sopping cunt. Then he turned her over and buried the randy thing harder still, until she screamed because he hit the bottom of herself. She was wide open to him with nothing held back and nothing guarded.

  They came, not simultaneously, but Jolie first, in a rhythm that lingered on, and brought him off by the sheer power and inner intensity of her clenching muscles.

  They were almost frightened by the time they finished. Too spent to talk. But then, there were no words at times like these. There was only sleep.

  A little separation was necessary, Jolie concluded. They were too far inside each other to detach otherwise.

  By morning light, the night’s frolic seemed absurd.

  Jolie couldn’t wait to leave her master’s bedroom. And because Patrick was called from bed by other servants, she was free to escape—at the very least return to the tower. She was almost relieved to be inside the solitary space again where her mind was free of him.

  She had no right to feel such consuming desires. She could not trust Patrick Dunleavy any more than she could trust her other masters. She must keep her head about her, wits intact and focus her mind on freedom.

  Chapter Ten

  After the night in Patrick’s bed, Jolie was taken from the tower room and given her own bed on the sleeping porch at the back of the fortress where all of the master’s female servants slept. This truly was heaven. The island came to her now in the sound of ocean waves and birds and wind, in the aromas of sweet things, the taste of exotic fruit, and the sight of trees and leaves and softness. Sensuous mysteries seemed bred in this atmosphere of the unfamiliar. Freedom beckoned her.

  “Jolie!” She heard Patrick’s voice behind her as she stood before the kitchen stove stirring broth for the evening meal. His body was swiftly on hers from behind, sidling up to her ass, his lips bending down to kiss her shoulder, his hot breath tickling the soft hairs on her neck. She cringed unhappily, shoulders tensing, and tried to shrug him off. “Something wrong?” he wondered.

  “Nothing, Sir.”

  “Nothing, Sir, but you treat me coldly.”

  “As you’ve treated me the last two days,” she replied.

  “What is this churlishness?” he wondered, whipping her body around so he could look her in the eye. His gaze narrowed on hers suspiciously, while his great dark body seemed to loom over her as he commanded an answer.

  “Churlishness, no. Defensiveness, perhaps,” she answered evasively.

  “You’re angry with me and I want to know why.”

  “I have no reason to be angry,” she answered in clipped words. “You’ve treated me well.”

  “Indeed I have. But you have some complaint, I can see it in your eyes.”

  “There is nothing. The day is hot…” she sighed as if weary. “And I’m…”

  “Get to the heart of the matter,” he scowled angrily, “or I’ll have your fanny bared and blistered in seconds. I don’t take kindly to such attitudes from my servants.”

  “There is nothing, sir! I swear.”

  “You lie!”

  “I do not!” Her anger was swelling, burgeoning from a deep well of dissatisfaction.

  “And I say you lie, milady.”

  “Then you’ll have to drag it from me.”

  “And I surely shall.”

  With several of the master’s servants looking on, Patrick dragged the simmering redhead into the yard behind the house, where by the fortress wall there hung an amazingly large leather strap. Jolie shrieked inside seeing the dreadful thing, even though her body was shaking with such great desire that she was feeling the growing wetness between her legs.

  Pulling the stiff leather off the wall, Patrick upended his raging servant over a railing. She struggled with him, tugging and pulling at his enclosing arms with all the verve and might she could muster in her small, compact frame. Still, she was no match for her master’s imperious muscle.

  He pressed his hand to her backside as she lay tummy down, telling her in a voice that ripped with steel, “You move an inch, Jolie, I will tie you down and flail you for hours!”

  She calmed somewhat, though the fierce fire in her belly and loins was not easily assuaged. She wanted to run full speed toward the fortress gates, climb the wall and flee—though she was smart enough to realize that a far uglier fate would be written if she took that chance.

  Patrick pulled the hem of her skirt aside and stuffed it under her torso
out of the way. Then raising the strap in his mighty arm, the leather came swiftly down to meet Jolie’s struggling ass.

  The shock was beastly, the sting less grave. Though as the leather struck repeatedly, Jolie’s ass heated to an unbearable degree, until the incredible hurt made her scream.

  “Stop!” she roared.

  “I will not!” Patrick roared back.

  The servants peeking from the kitchen doorway had never seen their master so furious, so charged with lust and passion as he was with this new girl. They understood that for reasons they were not privy to, she was special. All the master’s women were special to him, but this Jolie from the faraway country held a special place in the man’s heart none of them had known. Why else would he be punishing her with such animated zeal? This was not the straight-laced punishment he meted out for mere infractions of rules. This showing was a vendetta against someone he cared deeply for.

  “SIR, PLEASE! I CANNOT TAKE MORE!” she shrieked. Tears were streaming down her face. But the leather still struck. There was no pleasure in this, so Jolie believed. And yet, beneath the powerful hurt and sore skin, she detected a familiar hunger brewing in her belly. This couldn’t be! She tried desperately to hold back the carnal urges. It should have been easy considering the great pain on her behind. But it was not. What she felt for Patrick Dunleavy was all mixed up inside her, as if there were little demons plotting a devious scheme to make her honor the love she felt.

  Patrick seemed to be moving with some purpose with some particular end in sight. When he stopped abruptly she was stunned. The women peering through the door were stunned, too. Sensing their fixed gaze, he turned and stared at them angrily, which made them swiftly disappear inside. Turning back to his brat he pulled her to her feet by a lock of her red hair.

  “You love me and lie to me, Jolie,” he spat out. “I know the truth and so do you. You cannot hide yourself from me.” He was out of breath but still angry, his great chest heaving with restrained power. “Now go to the tower and I’ll attend to you there!” He pointed a finger at her face, his stare mean but very thorough the way it scoured her face, causing her to wilt and step back in fear.