In Chains

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Though Billy is nowhere to be found—likely fondling some other submissive—Kirsten bows before the Spaniard just as her husband instructed her to do. She cuts quite a picture in her chained repose. I suspect Montero finds her as perfectly delightful as the rest of us do. We all wonder how our friend and fellow dom intends to share his wife with the company here—sharing is only a given for the Spaniard in this house. All submissives are at his beck and call, and everyone adheres to his rules.

  As Kirsten crouches before the master, Keating and I watch him run a mean tasseled riding crop along her thigh. She jerks, then settles down. She’s terribly nervous, trembling like wet leaves quake on a restless day.

  “Do you understand the rules you’ll follow while you’re with me?” he finally asks when it’s clear to me that she’ll hardly be able to speak, she’s so near tears.

  “Yes, sir,” she says haltingly.

  “Your husband instructed you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, tell me what you know.”

  “That I am to serve you, obey you and follow your will as though it was you I married three days ago.” She whispers so faintly it’s hard to hear her voice.

  “Very good.” He sighs, letting the riding crop slide over her back, and then run its way down her side where he reaches in and pokes her breast.

  She makes a small but audible protest.

  “Derek, a leash, please,” he turns to me with the request. I shuffle about a cabinet nearby, finding what I think the man needs. Giving him his wish, I settle back and allow the play to unfold before my eyes.

  As Montero latches the chain leash to Kirsten’s metal collar, he lifts her up by the hand, until she sits with her bottom on her tucked-in feet, her torso erect, and now her head as well as he stands over the sub looking down into her odd eyes with his masterly gleam.

  “You consider yourself a submissive?” he asks.

  “I do, sir.”

  He raises his dark eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  She looks up at him trying not to question. She doesn’t know whether to speak or not.

  “You claim to have these submissive desires, the need to be owned, yet your history with Billy is filled with infidelity. Do you have any excuse for that?”

  “I wasn’t sure of myself,” she says.

  “Are you sure now?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, we’ll just see if that is so,” he snarls, looking as though he despises her. “How does it feel that you’ve been married three days and haven’t yet truly consummated your marriage—now your husband gives you away? How does that feel?” She says nothing. “Tell me,” he jerks on the chain.

  “Lonely, sir. It feels lonely.”

  “Good. You don’t deserve the man.” He holds her neck high, so she struggles with the way it stretches her, the collar cutting against her flesh. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll appreciate his kindness, his willingness to forgive your nonchalance about his love, and his intent toward you.”

  Montero turns to Keating, “Put her in stocks for a while and whip her.” Throwing off the leash, he turns, leaving his alcove as though disgusted. A sub would never know—which is what is so enchanting about this man. No one ever really knows what goes on in his mind. I have seen him deal with his world with hands as gentle as a mother holding a newborn, and then crash against that world with a bite that cuts to the quick of the soul. The subs here find him unequaled. He is, perhaps, a cut above Billy in his abilities, though I’m sure if my friend were to have this kind of environment, he’d be as unpredictable and alluring.

  I am the ultimate voyeur in all this. Shameless. I watch as Keating leads my friend’s new bride by the leash, making her crawl to the closest empty stocks—these in a far corner of a punishment room that is now, nearly deserted. I can almost feel a visible sigh as she’s buckled into the headlock of this traditional apparatus of humiliation. Her head is aptly bowed, her hands locked in the braces beside it, her ass end splendidly vulnerable.

  Keating enjoys the task, making certain that his charge is well secured in the stocks, so there is no means of escape. Then he dangles the split-end strap he’ll use before her eyes. Oh, how those eyes gather with tears, just as the scene starts to gather a crowd about her. I see Billy standing off in the distance, observing, but hardly close enough to see how her flesh trembles, or how her body will jerk like a puppet once the punishment proceeds. I wonder if I don’t detect a bit of fear in his own eyes as well. Does his bride create some mixed feelings in him? Of course, he could stop it all anytime. But he doesn’t.

  With all eyes now fixed on Kirsten’s gleaming behind, we await that first strike feeling a righteous surge of desire leap into our dominant hands, while the few other subs in the room jump inside their skins as they vicariously feel themselves inside Kirsten’s pose.

  The first strike snaps hard. The ones that follow continue at a brisk pace, though Keating is a careful dominant. Montero would not have it any other way. We are not a class of bullies and brutes that would cause lasting damage to any sub. The Spaniard’s estate is about meeting elemental needs in the consensual sanity that this place provides. Those that would judge our efforts would likely not see that there is as much love here as there is humiliation. There is as much respect for the initiates and slaves as there is put-on degradation. These are our lives we are dealing with. Without our slaves, we masters would become slaves to our unmet desires and find them fuel for unspeakable horror. We are a symbiotic union, participating in a dance of mutual devotion that requires unprecedented trust.

  As the master continues his relentless punishment poor Kirsten feels the heavy sting of the dual-edged strap all along her bottom, though many strikes stray to her thighs. She howls miserably, but we all know she can take much more. That more descends in a fearsome rain. She twists and turns so we see how her flesh reddens and where the most painful places are likely to be, those that burnish the skin from hitting repeatedly in the same spot. Hope tells me that is the very worst.

  This first beating is swift, ending almost too soon for many. However, as Keating finishes, Montero returns. He lays a hand on Kirsten’s hot pussy and the pained young bride squirms fitfully against it. There is no agony in her face as he torments her, inserting a thick dildo in her cunt. I can feel her body orgasm as I watch, and the beauty of release relaxes her face. She’s on a cumming high when the Spaniard steps behind her and replaces the dildo with his erection. The two jerk in an uneasy rhythm, riding a long orgasmic swell until they’re limp. Cum drips down Kirsten’s thigh, the smell of it wafting into the air.

  I watch as my relieved friend, Billy, leaves the room, satisfied that his wife has endured the worst of it. I leave as well, as do many of the others in the audience. We’re on to other things, leaving Mrs. Fitzgerald to remain confined until Montero orders her freed. I assume that she’ll be mastered by the Spaniard alone while she’s here—that would be in Billy’s character. He prefers the pure approach to mixing up a slave’s experience with a dozen different doms to handle.

  After half the afternoon has passed, I see Montero undo the stocks to free Kirsten Fitzgerald. He speaks to her in whispers, but ones not so soft, that observing, I can’t make out what transpires between them. His hand is on her cheek stroking it sweetly. I almost see a genuine smile on his lips, and certainly I see the tears in her eyes. I’m not sure she’s really cried until now.

  “Are you ready for more, Kirsten?” he asks her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have many things planned for you, many pleasures,” he says as he strokes her ass. “You’ll need to go inside yourself to the place where you enjoy these things. I will not be easy on you, your master would hate me if I were. But the more you yield, the more you lose control, the more your pleasure will flower.” He runs his hands through her sweaty, curls. I can see her soothed, and decide to not voyeur this one longer. I imagine before he has her whipped again, he’ll use her physically. Perha
ps they’ll make love in his private boudoir—those he likes the best have him there. Their giving becomes even more complete in the master’s loving hands.

  Hope

  Kirsten is given to me after a fourth session with the Spaniard. He is a brutal master… I have been under him just once, and shiver now when I see him coming, remembering how terrifying that session was. I remember the mirth that followed as well, how for days the delirious sensations gave life to my body and soul.

  He’s cunning, charismatic and ruthless. A submissive woman’s cunt gets wet staring into his eyes. Kirsten is like the rest of us. Terrorized and bewitched. She’ll survive, but right now, she needs the tender hand of a woman loving her.

  She invites me with the movement of her body, responding to me like a lily opening, reaching with petals and pistils toward any nourishing bit of sky, water or sun. She needs sustenance. I give her my gentlest caresses, massaging her face, her closed, cried-out eyes and puffy nose.

  He bruised her ass, though it’s not the worst I’ve seen. I understand he’s been bruising her feelings as much as her body. His tongue is as sharp as a razor. Though it’s said she enjoys the abuse, I tremble at its severity. I spoke to Billy about this. Really got pissed at him and I snapped. I thought Derek was going to slap my face for being out of line. But Billy was cool. “If you can’t take it, Hope, that’s too bad, Kirsten will.”

  The man has no heart that I can tell. I’m not sure I envy her anymore, as I often have. I’d rather stick with my uninspiring and tedious Derek. I’d be taking a shot at Billy’s chiseled jaw in five minutes if he owned me, and then, I’d be out on my ear just as quickly.

  This treatment does make Kirsten pliable. Skin still soft, what’s roughed-up still heat-filled. She’s pumping energy like she’d orgasm an entire hour without stopping.

  My lips begin on her thighs. I move upwards to her pubis, tongue darting between smooth lips to flick her clitoris. She arches her back. I move high, along her groin, along the line of bone thrusting out like a mountain ridge rising from a smoky valley, then along that valley to her pillowy belly. She gasps as I run my tongue around her navel tasting sweet flavor of her perfumed skin … honey and orange blossoms like her bridal feast … I meld into the aroma of this pink/white expanse.

  Then, to her breasts, squeezable mounds, fluid forms with tiny spurs as nipples to be sucked and fondled. My hands and face comb her—eyes gaze at her shuddering body while listening for the sound of her breathing.

  Turning her over I have her ass to comfort. But how beautiful it looks to me now, showing lines etched with the cane, the sear marks of paddles, the small bruises. As I touch the surface, she shimmies. I think there is still an orgasm in these wounds, and as I massage the cream into her skin, she twitches. I part the cheeks and raise her ass so I can get to her privates from behind. Licking her from cunt to anus, her bottom seems to float against my face as she presses herself into my mouth. She purrs with musical sounds, making us both rejoice. She was taken in her ass, repeatedly fucked. I know how far that drives a sub to the pit of their soul. And still, she wants more.

  Once her orgasm diminishes in intensity, she wilts against the bed and I lie beside her. We sleep, kissing when we chance to awaken, then fall back into oblivion with sighs and more slumber to heal the wounds of the day.

  I’m being summoned. Apparently Derek needs me and I’m sure I’ll get my own nasty go round. But this, this dear woman, I could stay with for days more and never tire of being pressed to her breast.

  As I leave, Billy is on his way to claim her again. I tell him, “She’s going to be all right, but when are you going to give it up?”

  “When I know she won’t forget her vows,” he answers.

  “She passed that point a long time ago.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, just like a sub to say that.”

  “I don’t lie, Billy. I know as much about her as you do.”

  He respects my opinion, I can see that in his eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Billy

  Montero has primed my wife for suspension bondage, allowing her to test the waters of that startling extreme. He is reasonable—though no submissive would ever agree with me, especially not Hope who seems to have a mortal dread of the man. I’d push Hope right in the man’s face if it were me, but then, Derek is not me. It’s hard to believe that anyone would think him kinder, but in this case, I’ve become the blackguard and he the sweet prince. The irony does not escape me.

  When Kirsten hangs in bondage, it will not be the Spaniard mastering her. This one is all mine.

  As I pull my beloved wife from sleep, she sighs. Her naked body undulates like a field of ripening grain. I’ll be glad when I have her home, where, during moments like this one, I can simply roll her over and merge my body into hers. Her thighs intrigue me, the line of them perfect, their beauty exquisite with such flawless skin. I take a few moments to run my hand along that surface and relish the satiny translucence of her feminine flesh. She purrs to me quietly as she opens her eyes.

  “Ah, Billy…” Her arms open for me, and I bring her into mine. “Am I passing your tests?” she asks.

  “These aren’t tests, just moments of pleasure.”

  “Oh, no,” she disagrees sweetly. “I know you’re pushing me.”

  “That’s because you want to be pushed.”

  “And you’re punishing me?”

  “Because you want to be punished.”

  “Does this have to make sense?”

  “No. You just need to be happy.”

  “I am.” There is little more to share.

  “Just be as yielding as you’ve been tonight.”

  “Something more?” Her curiosity is piqued.

  I stroke her face wondering if I’ll be taking too many chances. But I wouldn’t think of backing away from this last physical surrender I demand.

  ***

  The room glows with candles in the bridal chamber, as Montero calls it. Likely because it’s where masters like myself bring their brides for the final ceremony of their joining. I’m not in need of ceremony, just a reuniting of myself with my wife before we leave for home. I know this subterranean dungeon is straight out of Kirsten’s book of pleasure fantasies.

  I am waiting for her as she’s led blindfolded down the stone steps, guided by the Spaniard. She’s been put in her chains again, after spending three days without them. I’m sure this signals to her something important. Her hands are cuffed behind her, her naked chest proudly erect, nipples jutting out like two small spires. I see that her smoothly shaved pubis glistens with gathering female dew, and imagine the scent of it, as though I could breathe in the aroma of her pheromones. Her legs quiver with each step she takes, while her firm thighs exhibit both lustrous beauty and vulnerability. It’s important that she has the master behind her to maintain her balance.

  At the base of the stairs Montero whisks away the scarf and I see Kirsten squint as her eyes adjust to the flickering candlelight. She’s awed by the dozens of tapers that line the room. I think in one respect they’re comforting, while the chains dangling in the center of this chamber terrorize her. She knows what’s coming, and like all good submissives, longs for the very thing that frightens her. Such aphrodisiacs are priceless, and why I find Kirsten’s kind of woman the most exciting creation alive. For a time, she’s paralyzed by the entire scene, but then, as the Spaniard nudges her side, she steps forward, her eyes turning to me.

  I see the love in them and a bit of wonder. No, she hasn’t seen me like this. My chest is bare, and I’m wearing only a pair of loose fitting white muslin pants. It’s easier to move quickly in these—I gave up the constraints of leather for myself shortly after I first decided where my sexual attractions lay. I’d rather see leather on my lovers than feel it on myself.

  While Montero binds her, Kirsten’s eyes remain fixated on mine. There’s a tiny wince on her face, and a surge of passion I feel from her groin as each tether further entra
ps my bride. He begins with her ankles, attaching each to one end of a steel bar that will keep her legs wide apart. There is some natural struggle before she relents. Finally succumbing to the restraint on her freedom, I see the surrender in a wave of release that moves across her face and down through her body. The subtle change makes me smile. I know I have her won, her cunt beginning a relentless pulse that will not end until this scene draws to a close. She needs to be in the middle of her desires, not obsessed by fear. No blow will be too much for her to bear in this state, for each one will only add to the happy satisfaction.

  As the Spaniard releases her wrists, he sets them free only to draw each into the broad, tight cuffs that will lift her into the air. He tightens them down to minimize the strain on the wrists themselves, so her arms bear more of the weight. Once he finishes the task, he moves to the side of the room and draws on the pulley that raises her nearly off her feet. There she will remain for a while as her body takes its first abuse.

  I strut about her. Some would say I’m too casual in these circumstances, but I’ve always found it best to put my subjects at ease. After all, she is going nowhere now. I’m in control. For her best advantage she needs simply to accept her captivity and let it speak to her inner need. I am nothing but the facilitator of her most heartfelt pleasure.

  Noticing another shudder as I approach, I kiss her first, with my hand going immediately to her pussy, two fingers finding her wet at the center. She doesn’t disappoint me. Her Venus mound is a joy to hold, firm, warm with her sexual fire, and wet from the nectar that issues from her spasming vagina.

  There are clamps in my pocket that I attach to her nipples and tighten down until I see that painful wince in her eye. Two others go on either labia, weighting these plump folds of skin, causing Kirsten to wince again, then nearly smile as she feels the pain turn into a flood of pleasure through her groin. I twist them one turn tighter still, giving her the challenge of dealing with just that much more sensation. A tiny clamp goes on the shard of skin between—her clitoris—making that small shaft protrude more prominently. This too, she strains to accept, and while she does, I back off.