Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Is this what Kurt wanted? Attention? Focus?

  She worked the system as vigorously as she could, letting the days turn into one long hazy series of detail, concentration and surrender, until she thought of nothing but what the master demanded of her. In that containment, her lust bloomed brightly, joining that current of sexual heat that seemed to drive the entire household.

  On the eighth night, she sat with the other maids finishing a bowl of spaghetti in the kitchen. The others chattered, but she was quiet. Not because she was always quiet during free time; but because the suspense of something new was killing her conscious thought.

  It began in the morning after she was caned. She’d welcomed the six strikes on her ass, and her ‘thank-you’ had been genuine—truly genuine, which was a very strange feeling since being caned was not her favorite form of physical stimulation. It did instill that certain mindset of being a slave—which she hardly needed in this house, though the General’s point was well taken. On this eighth day of her training, however, her gratitude was honest. She liked that sharp strike against her ass, the way it flared with heat and pain as if the skin were raw and a fire had just been lit on the angry, swollen surface of the cuts. Taking them in was a matter of pride. She remembered Jenna that first night. Was this what Kurt wanted? The same sort of resigned serenity?

  After the caning, the General let his keen eyes rest on her serene face—one without tears, without expression. Her grace under duress had never been more perfect.

  “You are getting there, Miss Wheat. We’ll see if you can tolerate a little more.”

  He stopped there with his enticement and sent her on her way.

  Just as she was finishing her spaghetti, the General entered the kitchen, leveling her with an eye aimed directly at her meek and slavey insides.

  She sat up straight, though he hadn’t commanded as much.

  “In the dungeon, Miss Wheat. ‘Bout time I whipped on your ass.”

  The startling order took some moments to sink in. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Every other house slave including the training slaves had been taken to the dungeon in the last eight days. She’d wondered if she’d been lacking in some way. But perhaps not.

  She’d heard their fitful cries, their ecstatic screams; the drama from the belly of the house was music for her memories to cleave to. She would think of Kurt when the late hour of the day brought such viscously beautiful sounds of a slave’s woe to her needy heart. Desire was on the rise, each day increased as she remained the lowly, caned house slave, and no more than that. She knew this interlude in her life was meant to stoke the fires of her submissive heat, and so her longing billowed like a sail on the wind.

  The dungeon in the yellow brick house was fit fuel for a slave’s wildest fancy. The stairs creaked and the air was dank as though it were filled with dust. It was no basement she entered but the catacombs of stone that wound through the underground of the house in a maze. The old furnace room was to the right—even the large boiler made her shiver. Straight ahead, she could hardly see. But pushed forward by the General’s firm hand, she took the necessary steps until they were in an open room with a low ceiling, stone walls and a whipping post in the center.

  “Take off your clothes, Miss Wheat. You’ll do this naked.”

  She looked back at the General, suddenly quite scared; her fear had finally caught up with her conscious mind. Behind the man, several of his servants, and the Mistress McIntyre had gathered as witnesses.

  All of them were there to see her strip her clothes away, to see her body shudder as a cold draft of air hit her naked skin, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms and legs. A naked slave was not an unusual sight, but for Regan this exposure was a first, as she’d never been naked before a room full of people. The thought of it on the one hand made her want to flee; on the other, her hunger for the experience was too far along to worry about modesty.

  The warmth from the General’s large hands moved through her coldness as he cuffed her wrists in leather. Tremors of desire smacked her belly, moving quickly into spasms. Regan clenched and clenched again, but only inwardly.

  The General shoved her to the whipping post—a fat tree trunk of smoothed wood with eyebolts at various levels. He secured her as high as her arms could reach, so that she almost had to stand on tiptoe.

  While her white skin gleamed in the warm glow of the inconstant candlelight, the muscles along her back were tight, moving erotically as she breathed deeply to relax.

  “Spread your feet,” the General ordered.

  Regan’s feet went wide, which strained her even more in the awkward position; but she held fast, as she’d been trained to do—by both Jon and Kurt and her own instinct for submissive form.

  Within sight of her eyes, the General swiped a flogger from the wall, and without preamble or further ceremony, he moved behind her to begin laying the leather hard across her shoulders and back. Within that first instant of stinging sensuousness, her mind went adrift. One sensation poured atop another with the hard and steady beat. He whipped her fast until she was just about to shriek, then he’d back off, rest his hand on the warmed skin, waiting for the fire to fade enough for him to begin again.

  He struck harder the second time, and even more so on the third round. Then, in an unexpected move, he tossed the flogger aside and picked up a thin riding crop, which he whisked back and forth across the worked flesh.

  At first, the new sensations were like a gentle wind, breaths of cool air that cooled the angry surface. Then, he moved on her harder, whacking the crop’s leather-tasseled end in a fierce flurry that buffeted the flesh and bit like the blade of a knife.

  “Ah, eeeeeeeee,” her soft cry sounded with a reproof to follow.

  Another flogger replaced the crop’s strike, stirring the nerves of her ass to attention as the General moved his focus lower. He beat her hard, turning what was beautifully pristine and white to a wild rosy hue. Her entire backside became a rash of irate color, while a few small blisters in the skin appeared atop the surface.

  She writhed in desperate movements against the post, as the edge of it cut into her crotch where she was wet, and the bud of her clitoris swelled with blood and expectation.

  “Oh! Ah! Yes!” Muffled yes, but clear to anyone who heard, those cries were filled with passion. No one watching would leave without being sexually moved.

  Drifting thoughtlessly, the pain moved wildly about as the General’s flogger made its vigorous journey.

  Then, suddenly, he stopped—as though he’d disappeared and there was nothing left but the sound of his voice behind her.

  “Close your eyes,” the General ordered.

  She snapped them tight.

  “And feel yourself.”

  Nerves, skin, wounds and heat… little more now than this montage in her wandering freedom.

  And then hands, familiar hands, and a whispered breath against her ear.

  “You’ve done well, my Regan.”

  For just a second, she was lost in confusion while her mind adjusted to this unexpected presence.

  “Thank you, sir,” she answered in the thoughtless way slave’s do to compliments.

  “You’ll make a good slave,” the voice continued, as the owner of that voice suddenly became clear to her. Yes. It was Kurt’s voice and his mellow lips in a sweet caress to her cheek

  Reaching in-between her legs, he grabbed hold of the center and shook it hard, then inserted fingers into the pulsing middle.

  “Gawd, yessssssssss.” Such a beautiful seething hiss to match the snake-like, slithering gyrations of her belly against the post. Her cunt clenched and her breathing became more erratic, as the massage went deeper still, invading every atom. Rocking on his hand, she could feel the sweep, the drive for climax bursting through her.

  “Sir,” she gasped. “Sir.” Again.

  “What slave?” he whispered as if he didn’t know what she was asking.

  “M-May I-I c-cum, sir?” she shook so
hard that it was difficult to hear her voice.

  “You want to cum?”

  “Y-yes, s-sir,” she sounded desperate, and very afraid that she’d spill over the edge of herself without permission. “P-please, s-sir, I can’t…”

  “Now, Regan.”

  “Ah! ah! ooooohh, yess….!” She let her head fall back as her body froze with tension, and then everything from head to toe shivered with a long rain of letting go. His hand became the cock to take the beating of her inner muscles, while the outer ones rippled like the undulations of a river against its shore.

  Once the spasms subsided, Regan waited for him to set her free. She fell into Kurt’s chest until he unlocked the cuffs from the eyebolt above, then she slumped to the floor at his feet.

  ***

  “So, your day with Tennyson?” Kurt asked her as soon as he walked in the door and tossed his coat on the rack in the hallway.

  Regan was lying on the divan with a book in her lap, which she’d let fall loose as her mind gravitated to the pictures from her past. Tennyson Hallock made her think of General McIntyre, which made her think of being whipped in his stone dungeon, which made her wonder how much of her client’s monologue of sexual slaves had been factual. She couldn’t imagine that he had slaves bound in the bowels, the attic, or the second story of his house. The large spaces of the massive gentleman’s manor felt too hollow and too empty to harbor more spirits. If there’d been live beating hearts along with Tennyson’s, she’d have felt the pulse of their human aura; even the silent whimpers and moans of delighted passion would float to her ears. Her thoughts roused her crotch, and her hand had begun its precum play, even if she had no promise of getting off.

  At the sound of Kurt’s voice, she immediately jerked her hand away.

  “Interesting,” she replied, as she looked up answering his question, craning her neck to meet his kiss.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “He has a fondness for baiting me,” she looked for some flicker in her husband’s expression. There was none. “He’s talking about flogging me … telling me that there are slaves bound all over the house.” Still no sign of concern. “He even made me serve him lunch.”

  Kurt face finally lightened with amusement. “Tenny can be a scoundrel.”

  “And you don’t find his behavior out of line?”

  “If I did, it wouldn’t matter—save his actually acting on his threats. But I know he won’t.”

  “Where are his slaves anyway?”

  Kurt shrugged. “This is not his only house. I know that his primary slave runs his business and is probably unable to get away. There are a few elsewhere.”

  “But none with him now, seems pretty strange.”

  “None that I know of, which is probably why he loves teasing you. You can take it, Regan; or have you turned into a weak-kneed, whining brat?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” He tousled her hair with his hand and pushed off the divan. “How about dinner?”

  “It’s in the microwave. I’ll get it ready.”

  “No, stay there. I can take care of it. You need to masturbate.”

  He knew she’d been playing with herself? Of course, he knew. But what about sex, real sex, body to body, thigh tingling, tummy clenching, parch-mouthed, bump and grind, cock in cunt pleasure?

  “What if I crawled to you, sir, and offered myself for whatever you desire?”

  He laughed. “You did that three years ago, slave. Now, I want you to masturbate. Lie back, put your hand in your crotch and writhe for me, Regan. My eyes need something pleasing to rest on. You’re it.” He sauntered toward the kitchen, while his slave let the message absorb inside her fantasy. Permission granted to play with herself; what more could she ask? (Except for sex itself) She could want a lot more, but this would be good enough; since it was exactly what she was trying to do when he walked through the door.

  Regan returned to the General in her thoughts… remembering that last night, and the flogging that left a rash of burns on her ass for nearly a week. Her shoulders had healed faster, though they, too, carried with them the delightful remembrance of surrender in her sexual fantasies … surrender, peace, freedom… and oddly now, Tennyson Hallock.

  That shock of blond hair falling in his face, the fire behind his haunting version of blue eyes. Unlike her husband’s acute birdlike gaze, his signaled mystery. The casual air, his whip coiled on the wall, and the playthings meant for dungeons left in plain sight… She gasped, aroused.

  Regan shifted her weight on the divan, nestling in the corner pillow, her feet drawn up to her ass, her thighs parting. Her pink robe fell away as she offered her nakedness to the room, then her right hand started in again with the moist folds of flesh she’d been toying with already. Running her hand over the skin lightly, she heard a voice in the back of her mind urgently telling her more.

  Tennyson… she moved to Kurt and back to the General; and then without her seeking any man in her thoughts to cast as Master, her mind returned to Tennyson. What if?

  What kind of dungeon did he have in his basement? What kind of chains and ropes and leather gear bound his slaves?

  Or would he even take his slave to the cellar with the rats and spiders? Or instead, climb to the top of the house and tie them to rafters in the attic? Would he whip them in tandem? Or singly? Or not at all, being content to watch them writhe?

  She saw herself… in the library, between the Boston ferns and the books and the brocade couch, bound with her hands behind her, her neck collared in leather, her feet in red spike heels (always her favorite color), her nipples pulled into taut buttons of purple flesh.

  Regan took a nipple between her fingers and pinched until it hurt, until she could feel the nerve pulse her sex at her clitoris, as though the two were connected by a tiny stream of electric current. She repeated the act with the other nipple, still keeping her one hand in her crotch and her mind on the picture of Tennyson Hallock’s library.

  Her imagination pressed a dildo to her ass, some slick, fat, ribbed prong that widened her channel as it slowly eased its way inside under the force of Tennyson’s hand.

  “Shove it in.” It was Kurt’s voice, and the sudden awareness that her present master wanted the same thing that Tennyson wanted in her fantasy. Her eyes opened only briefly and then closed again. Kurt had put a dildo to her anus and gave it a firm shove. Then, he moved away to watch his slave fuck her own ass.

  She was an easy woman when so aroused.

  He’d use the bullwhip like rope, wrap it around her body as a second binding—one that would immobilize her movements. She imagined her arms fixed behind her and to her sides, her thighs clamped tightly together—which only made it easier to keep the dildo lodged inside her backdoor.

  “Fuck yourself,” Kurt’s command was clear. She served two masters now.

  Regan grabbed the ball-shaped end of the invading phallus, and while fingering her tumescent clit in circular motions, she rammed the fat prick up her channel—shocking her insides again and again and again.

  Her head fell back against the pillow behind her as she lifted her crotch from the sofa.

  “Oh, yes! Gawd yes, yes, yes yesssssssss!”

  Tennyson Hallock was circling her body with a conductor’s thin baton in his hand, whacking her ass, her thighs and her bound breasts in any erratic rhythm that he chose.

  Regan clenched when he shoved the thin blade of the baton in her side… her pussy grabbed air and squeezed down as an imaginary whack landed on her ass. The line of pain in her mind seemed as real as real life. Driving the dildo deeper still, she hit the edge … and the edge again.

  “S-sir, please…”

  “Not yet,” she heard his voice.

  Body retreating… easing just before it burst into orgasm, she sighed, relaxed and then found herself propelled toward another sharper end… with fingers dancing in her oozing cunt, ass reamed as the thick end of the dildo opened her wider yet. It took little to have that moment of
sheer heaven on her again.

  “S-sir, S-sir, please…”

  “Again, Regan,” Kurt forced her body down.

  She backed off quickly… if not, she would have disobeyed the order and climaxed without permission. “Noooooo,” her mouth silently echoed her thoughts.

  He answered her with urgency and command. “Again, Regan. Bring it up again.”

  He was close to her now, enough to tease her, with his hands so close to her cumming cunt that her own hand had no clear shot at her clitoris… or even the steamy portal that wanted just one slim finger to slip inside.

  Fantasy fled. The pictures in her mind faded; Tennyson, his wicked library and the whip coiled about her body. This was just Regan and her rightful Master in the moment with his bothersome and cantankerous spirit working at odds with her pressing lust.

  “Now, s-sir?” Even with the obstacles in her path, she was reaching that moment of pure pleasure. “Please, s-s-sir.” She trembled uncontrollably with need.

  “Cum, now.”

  The reaction was instantaneous. “Ah, ah, ah, yess, sir, yes.” Her body went rigid, while the strain made everything in her shake even more.

  “Good girl.” She shuddered more.

  Hummmm… his hand was on her face spending its tenderness across her cheek. He could speak so softly, let her down easily, gentle her back to herself… and then like a raw north wind, turn on a dime. “You need to sleep in chains tonight. My chains.”

  It took some seconds for her to process this errant bit of news.

  Why would he think that? she wondered without asking. Was he that far inside her head to know that Tennyson Hallock was taking up space where she should only be thinking of him?

  Kurt had her pee. The last time she would until morning. Then he bound her ankles with chains, likewise her wrists. She could only lie on her side for comfort and she’d miss a turn on her tummy, but that would be impossible with the lump of steel around her wrists. Lying as she was, Regan was in position for Kurt to screw her. Before he fell asleep, he pulled in behind her and speared her with his dick. He used her. Pinched her nipples as he was banging her snatch. Then he pulled at the tiny tuft of pubic hair remaining on her pubis, which had been left there at his instructions just for the purpose of torturing her.