Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Her body jerked just slightly with that word. He was at her back again, with his breath on her neck and his hoarse voice just above a whisper.

  “A bullwhip wrapping at an ankle, a wrist, your waist. You jerk because you’re sure at any second the cracker end is going to snap against your skin, and send your body into the stinging heat of pain. You wait, wanting that, wanting the cruel sharpness of leather etching your flesh with wounds. You imagine them—battle scars you’ll relish when the session is through, that you’ll look in the mirror to see them a dozen times a day—and even get off on them with your fingers on that hot snatch as you bring the painful memories back to you…” he paused, moving from her back to her side. She could still feel his hot breath, now at her cheek and chin. “You want that pain, the wounds. You want those sadistic bastards to take you deep—to in ever increasing sessions with whip, flogger and paddle, make your crotch and body soar. You feel the smack of their hands, the taunts and jibes. They deride you, call you slut… worthless and weak-kneed. They deride your slavery… call you shallow and your behavior unacceptable… but you accept their ridicule and contempt, because it breeds your passionate desire to be humiliated. Feel it, Regan Kingsley.”

  She did. Every word. Her body was drenched with wet heat, snapping undiscernibly with seizures and small contortions. She was only cognizant of reality enough to keep her movements reasonably muted. This was supposed to be a demonstration of the mood he wanted for his dungeon—a mood she believed he’d already created. What more did he need? Especially when a submissive’s eyes were blindfolded and all they needed were a few physical clues to keep the fantasy alive. What could this hope to produce in her but more desire and more guilt…that ugly feeling she’d tried to annihilate years ago.

  “I understand,” she finally whispered back to him.

  “Of course, you do, you’re a slave. But keep those eyes closed, Regan Kingsley, and listen to me. Listen here, with your gut.” He pressed his hand to her belly and she didn’t revolt. Though her eyes shot open wide.

  He smiled for her. “Ah, Regan, I’m not molesting you… I want you to understand the mood I want here.”

  “I think I do,” her voice was almost breathless. “But please…”

  He removed his hand from her belly, but not his body from its position in front of her.

  “Please what?”

  “I-I…”

  “I’m not done, Regan, close your eyes again.”

  “I understand your need… but don’t you think you’ve already demonstrated your capacity to create the mood with words. What more do you need?”

  “I’m not finished, Regan,” he jumped right in. “And don’t interrupt.” He stepped back, ordering her one more time to “Close your eyes.”

  Regan’s defenses were crumbling. Just closing her eyes again she could feel the same surge of sexual desire rising as if it had never diminished.

  “Yes, there are dungeons of stone and leather,” Tennyson began his monologue again. “I’ve played in them for years. I have a spectacular one in my New York house… basement’s made of stone, old, gritty, smut-caked stone. It’s dark and gloomy… little cubicles wind from one place to the next; like a maze—you can get lost inside the weird thing. You like dungeons like that Regan?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Imagine it then. Imagine every detail of those miserable depths… the place where slaves are housed, where they are chained and whipped and trained to serve. Imagine it, Regan, in such rich detail that you can taste the air and hear the screams and touch the fear.”

  It took no effort to see the pictures clearly—like they’d been implanted in the bedrock of her soul. It did take effort, though, to arrest the clamoring desire that was building toward a spasmodic end.

  “Do you see it clearly?” the master asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  His hands weren’t on her pubic mound—he stood too far away now for him to reach it—but they were there in her imagination, or perhaps psychically massaging the climax from her. She could feel their pressure, the fingers searching for entry and finding the wetness. She must be drenched by now, as her physical desire flooded downward.

  “Imagine the whip… smell the leather, know the pain is coming… understand its source.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her chest was heaving as her breathing became labored. Her crotch beat on in its incessant rhythm. She needed to cum…

  “Imagine your master’s hand upon your neck, his fingers tightening around your throat as he pushes you forward to the cold stone…”

  Yes, every fiber in her body could imagine that, but it was not her master’s hand at her throat but Tennyson’s clawing into the skin as he roughly shoved her forward.

  “And imagine not the cold stone in greeting, but something soft now—scarves and silk, and a spicy fragrance caressing your nostrils, the clang of cymbals tickles your ear, and the beat of a gong and heavy drums pound through your crotch. Your hips sway as you begin to dance, to undulate, to writhe as though there’s a snake crawling up your leg and winding about your thigh. You can’t stop yourself… there’s pain, blows to your body, and then hands to stroke the pain away. You hear the auctioneer’s voice begin to sell you to the crowd of lust driven men who enjoy your dance. You try harder because you want to be purchased by the best of them. Even though you know that your new master will punish you, you give up the best of your slave self to have the bids go higher and higher. There is some strange sort of pride in being so highly regarded.

  “Think of it, Regan. You’re dancing hard, breathing faster, your cunt ignites. You’re going to cum on the spot for all their eyes to see—these lusty, horny masters. The explosion is just seconds away. You hiss, you squirm. You’re belly is full and grinding hard… beating just as you’re being beaten with a teasing flogger, yes… you know what that feels like.”

  His mocking words swirled around the room and dived right for her anxious snatch. Yes. He was a vile, wicked, evil man… and every word she loved… she was too far along to stop… she tried to break the beat… but then she heard the whip crackling like lightning through the air, breaking barriers of sound as it split molecules into pieces.

  Regan’s first spasm ripped through her groin to the sound. Her body lifted briefly to her toes and then settled down as she outwardly clenched, fists gripping so hard that her nails dug into her palms; all to prevent the man from seeing the evidence of her orgasm. The spot between her upper thighs poured with climax and abandon, drenching her flesh with juice. She could smell the familiar aroma of herself, as she fought desperately to contain her body and the succeeding spasms.

  “See the scarves, the color, Regan,” his voice had dropped to a sensuous calm, and there was not the verve and drive that had taken her to the edge. Did he know she’d climaxed? Had she been that obvious even when she tried to hide the shuddering clenches? “See the dancing, the sensuous food, slaves in costume, in their sheer clothes running like nymphs through my elegant den of iniquity… I won’t even call it a dungeon anymore… but my lair of lecherous deeds.” His voice deepened, “I want more than a place of darkness; I want a pleasure palace of lust,” then drifted away. “Open your eyes, Regan.”

  He was again in front of her, his body inches from hers, which still pulsed with the aftershocks of her cloaked pleasure.

  “This whole house is a pleasure palace of lust,” she murmured as her consciousness rebounded to the present and very real moment.

  “Yes, it is,” his eyes were gleaming. “And this will be the Masters’ playpen where the most vile of our magic finds its ends … did you see it Regan?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He nodded his head knowingly. “Yes, I do think you saw it very clearly.”

  “Something out of the Arabian Nights.”

  “Exactly… with all the elements of sadomasochistic sport here to use, but disguised in velvet, silk and rich colors, all with the same mood of mystery. You have
free will to decorate my dungeon in the image I have conjured for you. I trust your creative genius to bloom here. Just let your body lead.”

  He stared at her from head to toe as if he was looking for the visible evidence of cumming somewhere between her lips and her thighs… though he could see far more than his eyes would report. For just that moment, just as they had before, their hearts and lust had beat as one.

  ***

  “You look a little dazed, Regan,” were the first words that Kurt spoke when she came home that evening. She was purposely tardy, taking her time at the grocery store and the cleaners. She needed some distance from the rest of her day. Once she was more settled and reasoned, she drove home. After all her time away, she would have thought that she could handle anything he asked—that she was focused and clear thinking. The afternoon was just an odd fluke and nothing more, she repeated. It was a good mantra, but not good enough.

  Kurt’s unexpected observation took her by surprise.

  She stood frozen for several seconds, unable to move or speak, then finally blurted out, “Crazy drivers… you know the rain and wind.” She shuffled toward the coat rack, removing her cloak and hanging it on the hook.

  “I didn’t realize that there was much wind.”

  “I guess it comes and goes,” she replied, as she tried looking busy, putting her portfolio and purse by her drawing table in the corner of the room.

  He nodded, though he still looked at her suspiciously. “How was your day?”

  “Good. Very good. Different, though. You want dinner?” She started toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, sure. But that chili you made last night will be fine.” He put his newspaper purposely aside, as if he planned a long conversation. Meanwhile, Regan puttered in the kitchen, removing the chili from the fridge, lighting the stove and hoping to look perfectly innocent of any crime. Besides, what crime had she committed?

  “Salad, too?” she asked.

  “Fine.” He viewed her, seeing her pretty ass sway in her painting skirt. Her skin looked pale but very lovely. Or perhaps it was just the strong lighting in the kitchen that paled her. “So, Regan, what hoops did Tennyson have you jump through today?”

  She stopped in the middle of setting the table and stared his way, smiling. “He wants his dungeon redecorated,” she managed easily.

  “Oh? How so?”

  She resumed setting the table, while answering the question, “The dungeon in this house is pretty typical. Big. But nothing fancy at all. I guess he has a real torture chamber at one of his other houses… all stone… have you seen it?”

  “It’s in New York. Slaves have been know to orgasm just from the smell and look of it.” Regan laughed, wondering if her husband had any clue at all what he was saying. “So, what’s he after now?”

  “Something less dark… like out of the Arabian Nights. More sensuous, not so focused on leather and chains.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s what I thought. He had me stand in the center of this one, and close my eyes, while he had me imagine what he was thinking of. It was a pretty good technique. I could get right into it.”

  “Bet you could.”

  She laughed. “I’ll have it done a whole lot faster than his fresco.”

  “Turned on, huh?”

  “Sir, his lifestyle turns me on, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And I still say you have some ulterior motive making me work for him.”

  Kurt shrugged. “It’s good money, Regan. I prostitute your design skills a little and we’ll have that trip to France you keep hinting about.”

  She stopped instantly. “Then he is paying you?”

  “Of course he is. And you don’t come cheap.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to do a job that will make you proud.”

  “I know you will? Anything else go on today?”

  She made an effort to think, and having already decided that her behavior could not be faulted, considering the circumstances, she replied, “No, sir. You ready to eat?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After she’d been whipped with the birches, Kurt had her dress. He then covered her with a blanket to ward off any chill, and built a fire of kindling and a few decent sized logs. It might burn an hour or two… which was the amount of time he planned to take telling her a tale to match the one of Regan in her nunnery.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “Yes, very. This is nice.” She viewed the wintry landscape trying to imagine what it might look like in the spring when the grasses turned green and the sky was a deeper shade of blue. The days’ warmth would soon slip away… but a romance in the out-of-doors had a special flavor. Her ass still hurt and her shoulders felt tight from cuts… though the feeling was comforting now… a reminder of where her life with Kurt was taking her.

  “I’ve been imagining myself dominating women all my life,” he started talking as Regan leaned back against the hollow log behind her. Kurt sat beside her in the bed of grasses, fingering a dry leaf he’d picked off the ground. The fire crackled and the sun began to dip lower in the sky bringing on a chill neither one would feel until the fire finally died. “I don’t even remember when the pictures first appeared to me. But binding women became my craft when I was just a teenager. I had a girlfriend I practiced on, who would let me tie her with ropes any way I chose. She liked being bound, but only for a while. When she’d had enough, she would squirm to free herself—which was never easy and sometimes impossible.” He snickered. “I was pretty good at tying knots. I’d see her struggle… and when she couldn’t get loose, she’d beg me, looking up at me from the floor of my bedroom or hers with this whimpering look on her face. I mocked her, loving every second of her fight. I took her just far enough so we’d still be friends when I finally untied her.”

  “Was she naked when you bound her?”

  “Not usually. We were just kids, just eighteen, freshmen in college—and a little green. Just once, after we started having sex, I brought out the ropes when I had her down to her panties and bra. She got really scared, looking at me as if I were the devil. Seeing her fear, I got excited and very determined. My cock was hard, and my imagination was swirling with everything I could do to her. Even though I’d bound her a dozen times before, I thought she was going to cry when I took her wrists in my hands and started to bind them together.”

  “And you didn’t stop?”

  “No, because I knew what she wanted. And I wasn’t wrong. The more I immobilized her, the more she objected. But after every knot, I’d stroke her ass through her panties where I could feel them getting wet. She began to shudder. I kept going, binding her knees, her breasts—she had gigantic tits with broad fat nipples. When there was nothing more to tie, she was lying on her side, her legs drawn up so that she was nearly in fetal position. There was her ass covered in pink nylon. I ran a finger down the shadow of her crack, and felt her body start to shake like mad. The more I caressed her, the more she wanted. She was whispering to me, ’please, yes.’ I wasn’t about stop.

  “Grabbing a pair of scissors from her desk, I cut the panties away so I could have what I wanted. Her sex juices flooded my hand, like she had a fountain in her crotch. I didn’t realize how deep the dominant desire in me was, until I had my cock in her from behind and my fingers were working her asshole. Before I climaxed—just as she was climaxing—I had three fingers fucking her ass as hard as my cock was pounding her pussy.

  “We both screamed so loudly, I thought the dorm monitor was going to be pounding on the door.”

  “Did she?” Regan asked.

  “No. But I got some odd looks from the guys in the dorm the next day.”

  “So, you kept binding her?”

  “No. We both got scared—though I think I was more scared than she was. We drifted apart, our fears pushing us away. I don’t believe that S&M is for the young. I think you have to season yourself before you can make it mean anything… before you have the
capacity to trust. You have to trust yourself first, not to get yourself in trouble. As a dominant, you have to know yourself, know that you’re not going to let your sadistic desires lead you into real trouble—or hurt a submissive who places their faith in you. You have to maintain control and know that you can maintain control—regardless of what’s happening around you, or how much you’re physically responding. A submissive needs to know that she’s not going to risk life and limb to have a fantasy come true. They need to think, to choose carefully. You have to have more than hormones and romantic notions driving you into this life. Bondage, sadomasochism, Dominant/submissive play are not for the immature, or the silly, or the foolish.”

  Regan smiled hearing him say comforting things like this—though they were in character for the man she knew Kurt Kingsley to be.

  “When did you know it was time to start again?”

  “I thought about S&M and D/s for years, read everything my greedy hands could find about the subject. I jacked off thinking of the power to control women… and as a result, I had very few meaningful relationships. Then, I stumbled on a Dominant Master… he was a part-time professor who saw me reading some old piece of S&M erotica—might have been Marquis de Sade. I’m not sure. He asked me how interested I was in the topic. I told him ‘very interested.’ I still remember his quizzical inspection of me—for a minute, I thought I was a submissive and he was trying to search my soul. Instead, he invited me to a party given in the basement of an old warehouse, which was owned by a major S&M player and his group of local friends. Their organization went back years… these people didn’t just play around in dungeons, they lived their lives this way. The Masters—and Mistresses, few that they were—owned slaves. Since their lifestyle was very underground, they only came together once or twice a year. Many in the group were husbands and wives who’d been married for years. I was hooked right off.

  “My first night, I got an education about my lust that I will never forget. I saw scenes as dark as any you’ve seen in your dungeon play. I watched wives and husbands treated as no more than chattel by their spouses. They loved every minute of the abuse that was heaped on them. I was in heaven. I thought the only thing I lacked was some basic understanding of the tools and their use—and a submissive woman of my own.