The conflict in me rises. I still resist what I love, but I’m sure he’ll knock out that resistance shortly.
“I don’t need him,” I answer.
“Flynn? You don’t need Flynn. Humm. Then what do you need?”
“You.” He’s going to make this tough on me. “I’ll do whatever I need to do.”
“You think it’s just that easy?” he asks.
“It never has been,” I admit. The way he holds himself from me makes my body hunger soar.
As Billy rises from his chair, I’m practically in a faint. His approach almost knocks me down. Just one smile, just one tender touch, even a kiss for the return is all I need to reassure me. But just one small thing doesn’t come my way in the package I expect.
He turns me around, bending me over his arm, and I expect him to spank me on the spot. Instead, he lifts my dress so he can look at my ass. Did he know the flesh would be as marred as it is? That the focus of the my affections the last ten days actually punished me?
“How interesting,” he says. He runs a hand across the burnished skin, roughed up in several places where Tony’s belt made the red rash.
“So, tell me about it,” he orders standing me on my feet again, his face now right on mine, so close I feel his warm breath on my cheek. “Everything.”
“Oh, don’t make me,” I plead. I don’t know what makes me whine this way, but feeling a sudden stinging impact on my cheek, I’m faced with the reality of my predicament, knowing now what a horrible breach I’ve created between us.
He’s slapped my face—not hard, but enough to shock me. His eyes drill mine.
“Just because you had your romp with your lover, doesn’t mean one thing about our agreement has changed.”
I know that. Funny, I said that very thing to Tony just before I left.
“You’re going to find the next couple of months the most excruciating boot camp of your training. And you’ll start with a confession that will be complete. If you leave anything out, I will know. No crying, no complaining, you tell it to me straight, everything thing you can remember about your lust, your brooding, your sex, your conversations, and this punishment to your ass. You will not make a mockery of our relationship by suggesting that any of it is unimportant. It is important to me.”
I sip wine for hours, sitting on the upstairs patio, letting a cooling Paris breeze tickle my skin as it moves gently through the air. The sun sinks in the sky as I begin to speak, turning the air golden, hinting that autumn is about to touch us with cold and colors meant for a winsome season of ending. The leaves will turn their shades and brighten the skies one last time before they fall away and leave the barren branches of winter in their place. The air will chill the cheeks, and we’ll put on clothes to guard against that bite. But now, it’s still summer with just the hint of change in the air. Drinking wine, I’m letting the leaves of truth fall all around me, as Billy sits beside me and I recount the entire tale of Tony Flynn while watching the sun set and the night begin.
After I speak, I wait to be chastised for all I’ve told him. I know I deserve everything he’ll mete out in reprisals. I look forward to it happening, even as I now wonder exactly in what form he’ll choose to carry out my sentence. Waiting, the silence between us is soothing. Even when he goes cold and dark, I have this peace. I sense he loves me still, even though our separation was difficult for him.
Difficult, but he understood.
When he finally speaks, Billy’s message drops like a bomb, like a bomb defacing the beauty of this day with another curt change in my life.
“We’ll be getting married in the morning, leaving Paris for Spain immediately after the ceremony.” Rising, he’s about to leave me.
He sees the shocked expression on my face, and explains, “There’s a Spaniard who will complete your training for me.”
We sleep in separate beds, Billy giving me the night to adjust to his unexpected announcement.
***
It’s seven in the morning when I find myself on hands and knees on the bathroom floor with my ass wagging at Billy. He has a razor in his hand, carefully removing every trace of hair from around my anus, my labia and the crack between my bottom cheeks. As the blade cuts close to the skin, the sensation make me prone to jolt.
“Calm yourself, there will be plenty of time for sex,” he assures me.
I had the feeling that I’d find him coldly cruel until the trial he has planned is over. Instead, he’s been nothing but loving all morning, urging me from bed with kisses as he reminds me it’s our wedding day. He nurtures me so kindly I’m lulled into an unthinking state of surrender, letting the feel of him warm my slightly muddled heart.
When he finishes with my ass, he wipes all the stray hair with a towel, then inspects the smooth skin.
“Oh, my, you can keep that up …” I whimper softly, taking it all in erotically.
“You’ll be much more comfortable with this taken care of,” he says, making me wonder what he means. Of course, it doesn’t take long for me to find out.
As I sit on his bed, I watch Billy draw the satchel of bondage equipment from the closet—the same one that came with us while we traveled to Europe. I’ve only seen it a few times since we arrived in Paris, but I can speculate on his plans.
When he draws the chains from inside, my entire body tightens. This is what I’ll wear on my wedding day?
There is first a metal collar, shiny, like platinum, and padded with velvet inside. The broad two inches tighten around my neck and I’m immediately immersed in a physical pleasure I know will only become more intense as he continues. To rings embedded in the collar, he attaches other chains. They start in the center and pull around either side of my breasts. Others run down the back and attach to the front. When they’re all in place, I’m in a harness of metal, with cool cutting loops surrounding my breasts, drawn around my waist and threaded through my cunt and up my back. Chains part my labia on either side of my clit, leaving my clitoris exposed, a purplish vermilion sticking out throbbing, vulnerable to anything that grazes against it. I now know now why he shaved me cleanly. I feel like a trussed up bird By the look on Billy’s face, I see he’s pleased.
“You are beautiful,” he says. “But then, you can hardly get married looking like this, can you?”
That’s a relief, I think to myself. As my mind tends to do, I imagine myself walking down some church aisle on his arm in nothing but these chains.
Turning back to the closet, Billy pulls a dress from inside. As he lifts the garment bag, my eyes feast on the creamy white gown. It’s made of a heavy silk in an elegant style. As I glide my hand over the smooth surface, I shudder. Then as he draws the gown over my head and down my body, I feel its weight, as I do the weight of all that it represents on this special day.
As Billy zips me up the back and I stare into the mirror, I see no hint of what I wear underneath. At the top of the sheath is a stiff ruffled collar that frames my face and hides the metal. While the armholes are cut deep both front and back, the chains drop down from my neck so nothing shows. And though the dress fits sleekly on my body, conforming closely to my natural curves, the thickness of the fabric makes it impossible to see any trace of my secret. The skirt reaches mid-calf with a slit running up the back, stopping just below my ass. Though I’m hardly the picture of blushing bridal innocence I look innocent enough for marriage. The stunning metaphor of my attire does not escape me. I find it hard to think of anything more beautiful than what I’m wearing, chains and all.
“I’m glad it fits so well,” he says. “And I’m sorry you couldn’t choose this yourself, I know that brides like to make that decision.”
“It’s lovely, Billy.”
He kisses me tenderly on the cheek. “I’m glad you like it.”
Billy doesn’t mention a word about the harness or how it will define every move I make this day. I assume he already knows that—this is his reminder that our wedding is more than just an ordinary wedding. If
I had any romantic notions that it was otherwise, they are certainly changed now.
Billy wears his black tux today—the look of him crisply formal, enough to make me want to drop to my knees at his feet and serve his cock right now. Should he maintain this level of erotic authority, I’m sure I’ll turn into a puddle of voracious lust long before the day is over.
I leave the apartment on his arm, and he hails a taxi to take us to the chapel. It’s not yet nine o’clock.
There is a heavy importance to this day—wonder, love, joy, expectation and yes, a little fear. I wonder what Spain means, and being trained by the Spaniard? I wonder, but I’ll never ask.
As we reach the church, I feel the cool breeze on my skin raising goosebumps. I’m not sure if this is nervousness or just the chill in the air. Everything seems to float before me. I’m so sexually aroused that I can think of nothing but the pleasure, and pain, that surely awaits me.
We’re joined in the chapel by Derek and Hope who have just arrived from Germany—on their way to Spain as well. I greet them with warm embraces. Knowing that they feel the chains underneath the dress, I feel a bit embarrassed, and blush. Hope steps back silently in awe. Derek doesn’t hide his feelings. “It’s time Billy had you properly shackled,” he smiles.
While the whole scene seems surreal. When Hope hands me a nosegay of pink-edged white roses, I finally begin to feel like a bride. Stepping inside the small chapel, the truth becomes even more real. There’s a garland of roses like the one I’m carrying draping the alter, and a priest at the front of the chancel waiting for us to approach.
This inner sanctum is cool, a revered place that reminds me the ceremony today is a holy act, the binding between Billy Fitzgerald and me eternal.
Permanent, timeless, immutable, eternal. The chapel reeks of changelessness and constancy. It’s beauty is profound, with stained glass and stone from times long past. I imagine a French king married his paramour in secret inside these walls. Although I dress in modern attire, the mood and feel of this rite is as ancient as the stones we stand on.
The priest speaks in a language that seems appropriate for centuries long buried, but befitting this aged church and the way Billy and I conceive our marriage. He speaks of obedience, loyalty, submission to my husband … of fidelity and trust.
I vow to honor, love, obey and serve him, to be subject to his will, accept his counsel and adhere to the rule of law he imposes for our mutual benefit… to accept his discipline with a cheerful heart.
I’m sure Billy has fed this priest with the proper rhetoric, yet he has no problem asking me to pledge these things. I wonder if he has any idea what his words truly mean. Certainly he has no clue that every line he speaks animates my flesh, drives my mind into its favorite places, bringing the taste of sexual pleasure to my tongue.
Billy vows to protect and honor me, to love, give counsel and provide for my needs to my life’s end.
“Do you, Kirsten Hannah Cates, vow to revere this man as your husband, your life long?”
“I do.”
“Do you, William McFarland Fitzgerald vow to respect this woman as your wife your life long?”
“I do.”
How simple. I’m pledged to him for life, having bound myself to him with my word, and as we finish, I lay my signature to the contract of marriage I’ve agreed to, affixing yet another chain to bind me body and soul. As we kneel for the blessing, and the chains cut against me in another remarkable way. I’m only beginning to realize that what we’ve done here is no game.
The wedding breakfast follows immediately, held in the courtyard patio of a friend’s villa. Again just Derek, Hope, Billy and me attending. For what I’ve pledged and have become, I can’t imagine sharing this special moment with anyone else. I’m sure there are few that would understand the momentous consequences that face me.
We sit in a garden teaming with flowering vines, with cobblestones beneath our feet, a blue sky brightening overhead as the sun rises high. I catch the hint of a late summer musk teasing my nostrils, and suddenly feel like going naked in the last of these warm breezes blowing at my face.
Our breakfast is in the elegant style of my husband, a feast of strawberries, lush to the sweets centers like tiny cunts, scones bursting with currents, flavored with orange liqueur, eggs with melting butter that slide pleasantly down my throat, and cheeses as pungent as a man’s cum that dissolve on the tongue. The champagne makes me dizzy before the food catches up to my intoxication. I’m giddy, unable to think of anything but the erotic sensations of physical pleasure. The feel of chains does not leave me. I move, they bind. I turn, they dig into flesh. I swallow feeling each morsel of food as it passes the collar at my throat. Each movement electrifies the feeling that already makes my cunt pulse. I’m aware of everything, and everything is a blur. There will be some spectacular show of me, the occasion breeds that kind of startling end.
I find my lips on Hope’s, our mouths opening. I taste strawberries, she the trace of mint from my coffee. Her hands explore, mine find her breasts. Hers move along the chains just as I once felt for Holly’s chain so very long ago.
We’re on the chaise making love before I can figure how we got there, my dress and hers disappearing, our bodies clenched, crushed fast against each other, legs scissoring, wet shaved pussies pressing, two female curvatures intertwining like the languid morning glories in the arbor above. With skin to skin, hers as bare and smooth as mine, everywhere my hand caresses, I feel the gentle satin of her flesh.
Billy’s cock is at my mouth, then Derek’s. They’re interchangeable lovers, hands and faces, body parts finding others, polished, sleek, sinewy muscled and welcoming, these most masculine masters descend on us both. Clenched, relaxed, tensed, tightened and eased, I’m in a body skirmish with desire. Expectant satisfaction … pain, piercing bites, slaps, retorts and demands surface as I surrender to the three. A cock down my throat, another in my cunt, a mouth at my ass tugging, tugging on my chains. They rip, tighten, squelch and bind me.
Cumming, head back, my throat constricts … whimpers, cries and showers of climax pour around and through me. Cum in my face, on my hair, the curls mat against my hot skin. And as the sun above slips behind a cloud, I finally awaken alone with Billy sitting at my side, his hand placed tenderly on his new wife’s brow.
He still wears his morning tux like he was never naked—but I remember him well, my favorite nude dressed only in a deeply glowing tan. I think he’s a magician to look so put-together after all our ferocious lovemaking.
He smiles warmly while stroking my cheek as I lay naked on the chaise, at my wedding breakfast, satiated.
“Derek and Hope leave their regrets for not staying longer. They have a plane to catch. And we, my darling wife, must be on the train to Barcelona in little over an hour. Time to get ready.”
A black dress much like my white wedding gown slips over my head and fits as tightly as the other, hiding all trace of the chains that still entwine by body. This dress is shorter, and inside it, all hint of innocence ceases as I stare at myself in the mirror one last time before we leave my wedding brothel.
Chapter Nine
Derek
Submissive women, slaves and chattel enter Senor Montero’s villa through the side door. They present themselves to the patriarch of the dominant arts humbly bowing at his feet before they’re allowed to say a word, or join the rest of the guests in the Spaniard’s domain.
The countryside around his vast estate glimmers golden this time of year. It is sometimes hot on these first days of September, sometimes cool. The fields are ripening for harvest much the way the glorious cunts inside Montero’s world ripen for plucking as they make their way about this enclave of the debauched and decadent. The prurient degrading of the sexual slaves is celebrated here with a gusto I’ve found matchless anywhere else.
Kirsten Cates Fitzgerald follows the many numbers of surrendering women—and some men—that have gone before. The moment she walks through the s
lave door her dress is taken and she’s naked except for that lovely garment of chains Billy had designed for her wedding day, and as many days thereafter as he chooses. I’m honored to have seen her so beautifully attired before the crowd at Montero’s got even a glimpse of her lustrous body shining in its chains. Even more honored to have tasted the succulent fruit between her sleek thighs.
The chains are an inspiration. The ones beneath her breasts raise those fragrant balloons of flesh to perch them in delicate balance against the air. To watch them you see how they prance about the atmosphere, and how her nipples change from flat aureoles with tiny tips, to heartily scrunched knots of purple flesh when they’re erect. The change is divine to witness, as I, for one, speculate how these maverick features of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s lovely body will next perform.
Senor Montero is a tall man, rising to nearly six feet five, with a muscled build. His black hair is sleek, his mustache neatly trimmed. He gives the appearance of impeccable order—certainly he is in command of everything at the villa. I suppose it’s those nocturnal russet eyes that capture most submissive’s hearts and make them ready to give up everything for him, at least for a time. I wonder to myself if perhaps I haven’t missed something, playing the dominant game we enjoy with so much less artful posturing. It does bring him the pick of submissives.
Kirsten comes to honor the master of the house looking like a poor scared mouse as she walks into the alcove where there is just the Spaniard, myself and a young thing who I’ve just enjoyed punishing for the fun of it. We’re joined by another master, a fellow from the States, Timothy Keating, who like Billy and me, returns to the villa yearly to dabble in the pleasures our host so graciously provides for those of like mind. Here, all the submissives know their place, though they are treated with the esteem due them for the choice they make to serve us slavishly, to allow the abuse we heap on them to serve their own needs. Now, like myself, Keating watches with interest as Montero instructs the novitiate in the code of conduct she’ll live by here.
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