Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “Is that the kind of slave you want, sir?” Regan asked.

  “No.” Kurt had her face in his sights, and gave her a twinkling smile. Even in the almost dark, she could see the blue in his eyes. “By the time I’ve reached this point in my fantasy, I’ve jacked off… and it’s a good thing because the scenario always breaks down here. I have a problem with clinging, mindless women… I want a submissive who has some substance. If I reduce a woman to that brand of extreme slavery, I take away my interest in her. She’s no longer the woman I was attracted to in the first place. She’s useless with no power of her own, little more than a blow-up doll. That’s the problem with fantasy, it can’t compare with real life.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Doesn’t your nunnery break down eventually?”

  “It’s too unreal to even consider.”

  “Exactly what I mean.”

  “Have you done this, kidnapped a woman the way you imagined?” she asked, expecting him to say no.

  “And what if I have? Would that change how you feel about me?”

  “I don’t know, it might.”

  “Then you should know that I had one close call, with a casual acquaintance—a woman I worked with who seemed to have her eyes on me as much as I had mine on her. I took her to my apartment, made her close her eyes, and bound her hands behind her. Just like in my fantasy, it was all playful and fun. But when I got to the point of gagging my victim I backed off. I could hear police sirens in the distance and immediately imagined that they were coming for me. Then I got scared realizing the path I was walking and where that path might lead. In another world, another place and time, it might be feasible. But not this lifetime. I don’t want the repercussions. I don’t want the karma; I don’t want to go to jail. And the truth is, I really don’t want a captured slave. It means more to me that the woman I master be there because she’s given herself to me.”

  “That’s reassuring… even if that scenario turns me on…” She bit her lip like a coy child. “You know, I think about being captive all the time. But then I remember that real fear is not a lot of fun. I like getting scared when I’m feeling safe. Like going on a rollercoaster… or a Ferris wheel. You always know you’re going to come down alive.”

  “You can do anything you want in your mind, Regan. As for reality, I will make sure you’re scared—and safe. I do that well.”

  Her coy grin had not abated. “Scare me now, sir?” she asked.

  “Now? I thought by now you’d want to sleep. You’re sure you want more?”

  “I don’t want to play, I just want to go deeper.”

  “All right then, turn on the light and go to my duffel bag. You’ll find a collar in the right hand pocket and a chain leash.”

  Regan scampered from the bed as the feeling of lust between her legs began to flash like lightning. The collar in question made her gut clench tight—and her breath became short. The thick iron was nearly three inches wide; its proportions so frightening that she shrunk back and nearly dropped the thing on the floor.

  “Come here,” Kurt ordered. “And bring the chain as well.”

  His voice reached out to jar some life back into her limbs. This was good fear.

  Pulling the chain from the bag, she then padded to his side and sat on the edge of the bed, while Kurt righted himself in order to fit the collar to her neck. As the iron closed around her throat, the desire shooting through her aroused system multiplied. With the padlock clicking ominously behind her, she could feel her crotch dampen and tears of joy moisten in her eyes.

  Attaching the hook to the ring bolted to the front of the collar, Kurt climbed from bed, drew her down to the floor, and then wrapped the leather end of the chain leash to the bottom of one bedpost. Fixing her securely in place, he threw her a pillow and an afghan from the couch.

  “Sleep tight, sweet slave,” he said with a generous smile. Turning out the light, he burrowed back under the sheets, still feeling the heat from her body warming the mattress and blankets. That heat would soon be gone, replaced by the fiery pulse of energy her body emitted as Regan lay collared, chained and on the floor.

  She was sure she wouldn’t sleep that night with her sexual desires taking such wild leaps. Only after she heard the soft sounds of Kurt’s even breath and the dark begin to surround her like a tomb could she forget about her position on the hard floor and finally drift off.

  Morning brought an uneasy dawn to the new day. Regan’s body ached, but her spirit soared and so did her sexual arousal. Though the collar around her neck seemed clumsy, she touched it marveling at how it made her feel.

  “Sir,” she addressed Kurt as he was awakening. She’d crawled to the side of the bed; as far as the chain would reach, and began gently fondling the lazy package of penis and testicles she found between his parted legs. Though a bold move, she received the expected reward, seeing his sleepy eyes open a crack and an easy smile break out on his face.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, sweet slave?” he asked.

  “My happiness,” she replied.

  “Is that so?”

  “If I could have a moment of your time?”

  The statement sounded strange, though it was hardly surprising. Regan bubbled with excitement and beyond that a hint of love.

  “I’m going no where fast this morning. Speak your mind.”

  Smiling still, she slumped down. She was on her knees, her ass resting on her heels, while her head was bowed and her hands were clasped behind her back so that her breasts were pushed out proudly.

  “Sir Kingsley, I desire for you to take my freedom. I am yours to own.”

  Though her anxious statement was expected, it was enough of a jolt to make him sit upright.

  “Have you been dwelling on this all night?” he asked.

  “Only when I was awake.”

  “You sound sincere,” he said.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then I’ll take your request seriously,” he said as he reached out and grabbed her chin in his hand. She had not felt such profound affection in some time, and her heart was only more filled with love.

  Rising from the bed, Kurt walked toward the bath, turning in the doorway. “Would you like to take a bath with me?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I suppose I’d better get you out of the collar.”

  Returning to the bed, he pulled the key off the nightstand, and unlocked the padlock, setting her free.

  This time, she was certain he would accept her earnest request. It could be no more than a formality after the day they’d just shared.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Above her head, high in the arch of the domed ceiling, five sensuous sluts cavorted across what had once been a plain, smooth surface. Limbs, arms, crotches and faces rendered in passionate earthy colors swam together in naked abandon, in the middle of fornication and love. Regan was pleased seeing how the fresco had developed over four weeks of work into her first true masterpiece. Previously, her erotic art had been created solely for Kurt’s eyes and the few friends he might share it with. Her whole body tittered excitedly seeing her sister sluts take shape in supple form before her eyes. Every day, her journey up the scaffolding led her into their carnal world with a smile on her face. If only she could climb right in and join them for sex.

  Lying back against the wood, her eyes moved as the paintbrush effortlessly filled the fleshtones, sky and lips with color.

  It was a day so much like many others in the last few weeks. She’d become so comfortable with her work that Tennyson Hallock hardly bothered her—although, every chance he got, he made an effort to dig at her submissive nature—reminding her of her place: instructions given as orders, small assumptions only a master should make to his slave, the critical glance, the reproving comment, the occasional hand on her face, her elbow or her back. She believed his gestures were intentionally invented to catch her off guard, though she remained impervious to his schemes, keeping a proper fr
ame of mind, remaining complacent, dutiful, respectful—while refusing to let him have a foothold in her mind, where only Kurt belonged.

  Most recently, he’d been away for several days, so that his imposing presence was not there to challenge her poise or disturb her peace of mind. She basked in the contented feelings this small respite afforded her. And because there were so few interruptions in her work, the fresco moved quickly. She could easily finish the work in just a few days—just the finishing touches were needed to complete the fresco.

  If she was careful with her thoughts, she could forget the curious scene in Tennyson’s basement. Most of the time she was successful. Though there were those moments—often late at night after Kurt had gone to sleep—when she grappled with the driving eroticism she shared with this other master, and the way the man seemed to tear her loose from the anchor that kept her fears at bay. Guilt seemed to claw a little space for itself. She hadn’t felt this kind of guilt in years. Though she hoped the guilt would subside, when it surfaced again in the picture of her shameful behavior, it was difficult to look at and menacing.

  Tennyson’s first day back, the house was in disarray. He’d brought with him two of his slaves… two dutiful housemaids that he set to work immediately cleaning every square inch of his domain. The energy so changed from one of peace to bustling activity that it shook Regan’s poise. His mood with her seemed even more terse and masterful. Though he was impressed by the work she’d done on the fresco, he made her change several things he didn’t like. It had been several weeks since he played that nasty game. With the painting nearly complete, Regan resented the intrusion more than ever.

  “Get back up and get to work,” he ordered her after lunch. “You’ve got two days to finish the project or I bring in another artist.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me.”

  “Since when can one artist take over another one’s work!” Her voice rang out with a tone she rarely used—and she had little idea why she did now.

  “When I say so, slave!” Tennyson shouted back.

  “I am not your slave!” she retorted.

  “But you will act like one when you’re here, because that is what you are. Now get up that scaffolding before I get my whip.”

  She turned away in a huff and started up the ladder.

  “What do you say when a master addresses you?”

  “You are not my master.”

  “What do you say, slave?”

  As he pinned her in place with a grisly stare, Regan stood motionless, letting her anger retreat… though it was a slow retreat with so much stored fury surfacing on the edge of breaking loose. It had been years since she’d felt so filled with malice.

  “What do you say when a master addresses you?” Tennyson repeated.

  “Yes, sir,” she finally spit out—thinking she should salute. But that thought only lasted a second.

  “Now go on, wench. Get out of my sight. You’ll be lucky if I let you down at all!”

  “Yes, sir.” This was little more than a whisper, but certainly more slavelike than her previous reply.

  It was nearly five o’clock. Regan’s head was heavy and her eyes a little bleary, but she continued working.

  The house had been quiet, the vacuum cleaners were finished and the rattle of mops and buckets had ceased. There was no more click of heels on the polished foyer floor, or the muffled sounds of conversation from the rooms below. The aromas of cooking food suddenly assaulted Regan’s nostrils and her stomach turned with hunger; though she continued working, assuming she’d be summoned soon and could finally go home for the night. He’d given her two days to finish the fresco—which at the time sounded impossible. However, staring at her masterpiece, the whole of it, she realized that she could easily complete the painting in two days. There were just a few details, and if she didn’t get to them, no one would notice.

  “Regan!” A sharp voice boomed out from below. It was not the one she expected.

  Regan peered over the railing, realizing only then that Kurt was standing in the foyer—not Tennyson—though the master of the house quickly appeared, striding in through the dining room door to greet his guest.

  “Regan! Down here now!” Kurt ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” This was a first. To her knowledge, Kurt had never even seen Tennyson’s private palace, though she’d probably described every room to him in detail. He had shown no interest in Tennyson’s house beyond her decorating efforts—but even then he had not bothered to inspect her work.

  Obeying her husband’s order, Regan gingerly made her way down the maze of pipes and ladders until she reached the foyer floor. Watching her descent, both men appraised her with grueling expressions staring out at her critically.

  “Sir?” she said once hitting bottom.

  “In the living room, slave position on the floor,” Kurt ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her entire body trembled with fear—fear not as fine as the fear before a sexual scene or the fear accompanying her master’s mysterious schemes. This fear was more overt, the kind that preceded a reprimand.

  Obeying the command, Regan made her way to Tennyson’s living room. By the fireplace between two brown leather chairs, she knelt with her knees sinking into the plush carpet. Folding her body over her knees, she pressed her cheek to the floor, and out of instinct clasped her hands behind her back.

  Endless minutes of waiting ticked by, until her legs began to ache and grow numb. Her mind was a restless wasteland of tangled thoughts, though she could figure no reason for this sudden censure, save the incident in the dungeon—which seemed to her only an innocent attack of lust. Even with the accompanying guilt, it was no more than a minor misstep. Three weeks later? It hardly seemed reasonable to bring up the matter now.

  Minutes of waiting turned into a full half-hour. Her entire body was in revolt by the time Kurt, Tennyson Hallock and two other men moved into the living room. She recognized both men as good friends of her husband. Clayton Lawrence and Matthew Hardy were masters themselves, each married to their slaves, and both frequent guests at private slave parties.

  Clayton, the older of the two, was a greying, paunchy fellow with a robust laugh, a bawdy sense of humor, and a devilishly funny slave, Berta. Their attendance at one of the parties was always met with a smile from Regan. Matthew Hardy was also one of her favorites of Kurt’s friends. He was much more reserved than Clayton; tall, lanky—with a cowboy sort of look to him in jeans, boots and a flannel shirt—hardly a typical looking master. His devoted slave, Anna, was one of her best friends; and Regan thought of Matt as one of the more genuine masters she had met. He exuded a quiet, domineering confidence, while underneath his reserve was an exceptionally kind man.

  The presence of both men should have been comforting, but seeing that their expressions were as serious as Tennyson’s and Kurt’s, she only shivered more. It was one thing to be reprimanded (if this were a reprimand) in front of strangers, but before friends, the humiliation could be brutal.

  Kurt and Clayton took their seats in the two leather chairs on either side of Regan, while Matt sat at one end of the brocade sofa and Tennyson remained on his feet—strategically standing between Kurt’s chair to her left and Matt on the sofa, closing the small circle of five.

  The carpet in front of her was bare of furniture. Where there was normally a coffee table, there was now only empty space.

  Reaching to his side, Kurt grabbed a handful of Regan’s hair and pulled her around in front of his chair. “Sit up,” he ordered.

  She looked a mess—though a sensuous mess. Her hair was mussed from her day-long scramble on the scaffolding, while her paint-stained tee shirt and skirt clashed with the formal appearance of Tennyson’s living room and its guests—all but the more causal Matt. Regan was, however, beautifully submissive. The afternoon light cast her hair in gold, which made her face seem sweetly magical. Though her nerves were frazzled with fear, she assumed a look of humble innocence w
hile staring into her husband’s eyes. In return, his guise was stern, like the other masters in the room, and at the same time appealing and sexual. She could sense his arousal… a gentle undercurrent of energy that signaled his expectancy and total interest in this game now afoot. But was it a game, or something more serious than a scene? For several seconds, while the room remained hushed, she held her breath, listening to her throbbing heart, and the swoosh of blood at her temples, and the gentle beat of desire flooding her entire body.

  “Regan,” her husband spoke.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Talk to me about slavery.”

  “Sir?” What was this about?

  “Talk to me about slavery, what it means you.”

  Though the question seemed strange, she attempted an answer. “It is my life, sir. You know that.”

  “Yes, and I want to hear you say that.”

  “Do you consider yourself a good slave?” Tennyson jumped in.

  She turned her head to him. “Yes, sir, I do,” she answered confidently.

  “Tell me about that,” he went on. “Tell us all.” For once, the man bore no mockery in his voice—he spoke straight as an arrow, the way Kurt always did, without the circuitous ridicule that so peppered their previous exchanges.

  “I am dutiful to my master. I honor his command. I serve and obey him, following the provisions of the contract that I signed with him.” She turned back to Kurt. “You are my master, Sir. I remain unquestioningly obedient.”

  “What else, Regan?” Kurt asked. “Tell me what makes you a slave—different from other women in the world.”

  “I have given you my freedom.”