Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Working where the atmosphere felt thin, at the top the house, Regan had time to think and wonder about this project and her husband’s motives. She liked thinking that there was some ulterior purpose behind the move, that he had something planned beyond just this simple business arrangement between friends. After a time, however, her mind drifted away from schemes and plots and motivations. The scaffolding was another kind of bondage, unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was expected to work four hours straight in the morning, take a short lunch break and then work another four or five hours. Tennyson made the schedule clear the first day. She would work until he came for her. If he didn’t, she’d just wouldn’t stop. Under no circumstances was she to descend through the apparatus unless he was there to help.

  This bondage was unique… and her thoughts would float as her hands worked easily without her mind engaged. Kurt had been right, and so Tennyson as well. Despite her concerns, the mural would be every bit as erotic and well-executed as anything he could have hired done.

  Her body swam in sexualness; and with each stroke of the paintbrush, her crotch dampened more. Sometimes, just because it was impossible to work otherwise, she threw all modesty aside and splayed her legs wide, exposing her naked snatch. Not that anyone could see her at this height above the main floor. She wondered that Kurt’s edict for her attire remained enforce considering the gyrations required. He refused to budge, so she went to work every day wearing one of two old cotton mini-skirts—now splattered with paint—a pair of crotchless tights and a low-cut cotton tee-shirt. Even if the day outside the house was cool, she could count on the air at the top of her high perch to be hot, sometimes stifling.

  On the fourth day she was just starting her painting, having completed the last sketch, when Tennyson called her down to lunch.

  “Maybe you need some lemonade up there to cool you down.”

  “Not a bad idea,” she agreed.

  She went with him through the library out to the patio where they sat down to lunch. Usually, she picked up their food in the kitchen, but on this occasion, she was immediately ordered to the patio.

  “Since I want to keep you working, Regan, I brought Marta from my New York house to serve me.”

  While Marta was presently absent from the room, a few minutes later the mystery of the woman became quite clear as the lovely but very naked woman soon appeared on the patio carrying a tray from the kitchen.

  She was a gracious slave, tall, almost six feet, Regan guessed, with an utterly resigned look on her face. Her body was well-formed and exercised, showing muscled shoulders, a flat belly and thick firm thighs. From what Regan could see of her smooth skin, she was not marked other than a small brand high on her right ass cheek, which bore the initials of her owner, ‘TH’: and then what appeared to be a freshly applied cut from a slicing instrument, which ripped the upper outside of her left breast. Regan winced, knowing the severity of the blow and how that blow would feel. In its own way, that cut was intensely beautiful as a sign of this slave’s obligation to her Master.

  Marta moved adroitly, setting the table with plates, flatware, and a steamy casserole dish with lots of noodles and vegetables. The aromas were sumptuous. After she served both her Master and Regan, she put her tray aside on a bench nearby, then knelt with her knees sinking into a small pillow. Clasping her hands behind her back, she then bowed forward, as she’d apparently been instructed to do, and humbly waited for her next order.

  For Regan, the meal was spent in a climate of muted arousal. Her body, still beating from her thoughts of bondage and desire created in her roost at the top of the house, flushed now more heatedly with each bit of creamy casserole that entered her mouth. Tennyson was remarkably quiet, seeming to be preoccupied in thought; and yet, every few minutes his glance would hit Regan’s and there would be a tiny flicker of amused recognition on his face.

  “Did Kurt give you special orders today?” he finally spoke.

  The question made her jump, but she remembered her husband’s early morning directive quite clearly, “Yes. He told me I was to graciously follow any instructions you gave me.”

  “Good.” He turned to his slave, giving her a shove with the toe of his shoe. “Up.”

  Marta was quick to her feet. Placing her hands behind her back, her breasts jutted out nicely beyond her trim torso. Her pubis had been smoothly shaved and looked quite innocent, although this slave had likely been well-used for the sexual pleasures of her Master.

  “On the bench,” Tennyson ordered with a firm abruptness more cold than anything Regan had experienced from the man so far. Not only did his voice quicken his attentive slave, it struck Regan’s crotch and made it throb more desirously… all in remembrance of the times she’d been so ordered to obey. It hardly helped that her fantasies had so recently centered on this curious Master. She was afraid the tease would prove dangerous, even with the pains she took to remember who her Master was and where her loyalties lay.

  Moving into position rapidly, Marta presented herself over the spanking bench, which had been at some time pulled away from the library wall so that there was plenty of room to move around the device. The piece had clearly been designed for the maximum exposure of the ass end. Padded knee-holds cradled the slave’s knees, while her legs were wide apart and tied to the forward struts so that they were completely immobilized. Slave Marta’s hips were then thrust over the end at maximum height, while her torso and head lay against the sloping board, leaving no doubt as to the purpose of the pose. Marta was secured at the neck and her chest with her two proud breasts hanging on either side of the board. It narrowed to its end, giving the supine slave just enough support to keep her steady. Marta’s hands were brought forward, each manacled; and in a move that surprised the watching Regan, they were tethered to eyehooks, which had been imbedded in the wall in front, so that her arms were suspended above her, not comfortably bound to the bench that held her.

  Regan knew that the awkward position would eventually strain the slave’s arms, adding additional insult to the position. But this slave had been well trained. There was no undercurrent of protest, no whimpering expression in her eyes, no trembling lip nor pained sigh. She remained utterly, perfectly at peace with the bondage.

  While Regan considered the amazing scene, Tennyson fiddled with something in a nearby closet. When she heard the sound of rushing water, her mind took note, though she had no idea what this man was doing behind the closet doors. When he was finally ready, Tennyson emerged with a bloated enema bag, and a long hose with a fat plug attached to the end. The bag hooked at the top of a conveniently placed post, while the hose dangled almost to the floor.

  “Put this on,” he ordered Regan, handing her a latex glove.

  “Sir?”

  “You have your orders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then do as I say.”

  The latex snapped over her fingers, fitting her hand like skin. She remembered the snapping sound and the odd feel of a gloved hand on her body, but she’d never been on the giving end of any scene where gloves were required. In her heart, she rather be in Marta’s place than on the shaky ground where she now stood trembling beside this Master. She would submit, but she feared taking part in a scene that she expected would be quite severe.

  She felt Tennyson’s closeness, experienced his breath with the trace of garlic from lunch, and the aroma of coffee. Was it the sexual vibration of his body that had her so stirred, or the sight of the recumbent slave?

  “Marta’s here to be punished, Regan. She has violated the covenant she once agreed to and needs to be reminded that she serves me at my discretion.”

  Punished? Reminded? Regan couldn’t imagine that this perfectly humble and obedient woman could be anything but surrendering. Her crime? She could only guess that it was something unsuspected lacking in her spirit, some small flaw, and perhaps not a real flaw at all, but something made up, just so the Master could perform this rite.

  �
�Here, gather some on your fingers and lubricate her ass,” Tennyson said, as his own warm hand touched hers. Regan smiled nervously, realizing now that the immense sexual heat she felt on the rise had more to do with Tennyson than Marta.

  I’m doing this for Kurt, she repeated to herself a dozen times, though that fact didn’t quite grab hold.

  Regan reached toward the offered jar, realizing immediately that this was not some simple cold cream mixture designed to soften the flesh around the anus, but a homemade concoction of spices with a pungent aroma, and an equally pungent effect on raw skin.

  “Spices, Regan,” Tennyson confirmed her suspicions. “Insert them deeply into Marta’s ass.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took a dab on her fingers and started to move away, but Tennyson pulled her back.

  “More.”

  She looked up at the blue of his eyes, now seething with intention. His mastery swept around her as a cloak of darkness. Regan dug deeper in the jar, bringing out a thick wad of the peppery cream, then with a strange and sudden surge of sadistic glee, she moved to Marta’s splayed ass and swathed the cream about the opening, finally pressing her fingers beyond her sphincter.

  For the first time since this ordeal began, the young woman registered some kind of response. Not protest. Not fear. Her body simply flinched for half a second as the gooey substance entered her ass. Regan rammed her gloved fingers deeply into Marta’s interior, while thinking that at any moment the bound woman was likely to shriek.

  Instead, the humbled woman breathed carefully, softly through the rising fire and the sensation of Regan’s probing.

  When Regan finally withdrew her fingers, she settled back into her submissive self, almost feeling guilty now for having done this deed to a sister slave. She wished for the same herself, for the same fire to sting her ass, the same burning jolt to tear her insides silly with pain.

  She stood between the master and his slave, unsure what to do next. To kill the intervening seconds, she watched Marta’s ass, waiting to see her discomfort surface, appearing as a wiggle or a wrenching movement. It would seem as though there was steam rising from that plump behind, that the inner flame was beginning to build. Small twitches and tiny tremors became apparent. At first, Regan thought it was just her imagination; then the signs of the slave’s distress became more pronounced as the fire increased.

  “Here, insert this,” Tennyson said, handing her the plug end of the enema hose.

  Regan shuddered just holding the dire looking implement in her hand. Her whole mind seemed to weaken strangely. Her resolve was faltering until she thought of Kurt’s specific orders. “Assist him as he asks… and remember, you’re doing this for me.”

  I’m doing this for Kurt. Her mind tried to focus on that fact, but for the moment, she was Tennyson Hallock’s slave not Kurt Kingsley’s.

  She wanted to run, run far and fast from the climbing desire. As she thrust the enema nozzle into Marta’s ass, she felt Tennyson behind her. His body seemed to move with hers, guiding her with his overpowering presence.

  “Hold it there,” he ordered. He fiddled with the hose clamp, releasing the crimped tubing so that the prepared liquid could pour into the slave’s insides.

  Regan felt it in her insides, even though they remained empty and wanting.

  Following orders, she assisted the Master as he administered a full three quarts of water inside the slave’s bowels. She could feel Marta’s anxiety—though she hardly squirmed and she made no outward protest. When the bag was empty, Tennyson nodded for her to detach the nozzle plug from the hose. Then he gave her an insert to seal off the end, and keep the water from spilling free.

  “Attend to her, Regan,” Tennyson pointed to the woman’s bowed head.

  He’d pulled a paddle off the wall and positioned himself to punish her.

  Unsure what she was to do, Regan moved as the Master ordered, and knelt at the head of the spanking bench. Her hands went to Marta’s head, offering her comfort. Perhaps this was what he’d meant ‘attend to her’—as Tennyson didn’t object to the nurturing caress. All through the vigorous punishment of this slave, she continued caressing her as if she were her lover. As a fellow slave, this was a gift that was easy for her to give; she’d been in similar positions herself, and knew what it meant to have the attention of an understanding woman at such an agonizing time.

  What surprised her was that Tennyson would allow his slave this much affection when she was being disciplined. It did not escape Regan that this, too, was a test for her. Was she passing? Was there something that this moment was meant to teach her?

  After ten minutes of grueling spanking, Tennyson had Regan untie Marta; then he ordered his slave to the washroom to release her bowels.

  Marta’s disappearance left Regan standing close to Tennyson, too close. His erotic fires were making a feast of her needy insides. But he wouldn’t budge. His eyes and their penetrating expression were inside her, climbing through the fibres of her soul. He had no right to be this close, this far within. Did Kurt know? Surely, this was wrong to demand so much of another man’s slave. And yet, it was not without her husband’s knowledge. She was only abiding by his orders to attend the scene, and she served her master proudly. Kurt would be happy that she performed so well. But… would he understand her fluttering tummy, the rush of liquid sex stirred every time she was near this man, or the way her mind was now constantly moved to think of him, when she should be keeping her thoughts on Kurt alone?

  “It’s back to the scaffolding for you, my dear,” Tennyson finally ordered, as if he were ordering her back to the bar, the bench, the cross. It didn’t matter the form, they were all forms of bondage.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, and she started toward the library door, trying to hurry herself away.

  “Regan.” She turned. Her face was flushed, her heart beating much too fast. This master certainly noticed her distress. “Thank you.” This was the last thing she expected to hear.

  “Yes, sir. You’re very welcome.” Though he was following her out the door to help her up the uneasy ladder, she was almost halfway to the top by the time he was there to steady the supports.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After her training visit with General McIntyre, after her confession of perverted nunneries and demonic sexual acts, after three months being seduced by Kurt Kingsley, Regan’s heart and body were won. But it wasn’t enough.

  So much of their time together mimicked Master/slave relationships she’d seen. They even imitated times with Jon. She was wholly submissive, Kurt was wholly dominant—not as though they were playing a game, but because it was natural for them to act this way. They were trying on the garments of relationship as they tested each other’s capabilities. That might not be something that a good slave should be aware of, but Kurt so clearly stated his aims and his purpose, that Regan didn’t have to fool herself. He let her assume that he was as much on trial as she was.

  He took the relationship seriously and refused to let them leap into the sexual fires of heavy scenes, without some intimacy behind it. He did draw her into him sexually every time they met, in little scenes to rouse her imagination and her sexual juices. But there was still no intercourse to bond them together. She was left longing—though it was a happy longing, with promise and a sweetness that appeared from behind all of Kurt Kingsley’s darker contemplations.

  “I’ve two relationships that failed because we didn’t do the research,” he told her when she sought more explanation, “we jumped too fast on hormones, and didn’t bother to know what we were getting into. The third relationship might have lasted, but she started to lie to me, hide the truth about her feelings. I don’t tolerate lies—not from myself, let alone my slave. They weren’t even big lies, but they chipped away at what I thought was solid rock, and turned that rock into little more than desert sand.”

  Nearly four months into their relationship, Kurt rented a room for them at a tiny country inn. On arrival, the day was unseasonably warm for
late February. Intrigued by the warm sunshine, they immediately changed into hiking clothes, grabbed snacks and water from the concierge, and set out on a trail that lead them about the farmland, meadows and woods surrounding the century old inn.

  Where one trail ended at an abandoned shack, they stopped to rest and to take a drink of spring water and eat raisins and chocolates, while sitting on an old log.

  They were less like Dominant/submissive lovers than they’d been since Kurt first stepped into her studio. The day was much too freeing, the air too brisk for formalities of any authorship. They were just Kurt and Regan… at least until he surprised her with the question, “Have you ever been flogged with birches?”

  Regan stopped mid-crunch, just as her teeth were sinking into three yellow M&Ms.

  “Birches?”

  “Or any similar sapling branches.”

  “No, sir.” That might have been the first she called him ‘Sir’ all day—at least so they both took note.

  “Then, I think it’s time we tested the firmness of your ass.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. Go find a few flexible branches I can use on your behind.”

  “Yes, sir.” She popped the rest of her M&Ms into her mouth and darted off toward the trees, combing through the bramble of wintry debris looking for what she thought would suit the man’s purposes. She found several branches that she pulled from a thick hedge of small trees. After cleaning off the remnants of old leaves—even the smell of dust was arousing her—she turned, standing up, finding that Kurt was right behind her.