Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Regan could feel that last transfer of power from one master to another, as what Jon began, Kurt finished. The size was frightening but beautiful to see.

  “They will be sealed, Regan, as soon as I can be sure that your body will accept the metal.”

  What finality, she thought.

  “Now for the others.”

  Kurt escorted his slave to the piercing table, laying her back on the hard metal surface. Bending her knees, he opened her thighs wide and nodded for two attending masters to hold them firmly, while he continued with the procedure.

  “I haven’t seen how this one responds to a pierce, so keep her tight,” he warned.

  Then, as if he’d gone through the ritual a hundred times, he opened her labia, daubed the flesh with a sterilizing preparation, and grabbed a pair of forceps from the tray. “Edmund, if you’ll assist.” Securing a slip of her inner labia inside the clamps, he handed the instrument to the Steward. Then with a quick thrust he pushed a piercing needle through the sliver of flesh.

  Pain stung the slave’s unsuspecting nerves, while the masters holding her knees absorbed the tremors. With the puncture swiftly made, the sting eased off, and Kurt filled the new hole with a short stubby barbell. The weight already hurt, already tugged her crotch and stunned her mind. But it was a fresh feeling, and one easy to assimilate, one she loved. It came from her master, the man whose dreams were her dreams, whose fantasy was her fantasy, whose life was becoming her life. These marks were just the beginning of the imprint he’d make on her body—and thus her soul. She would relish this and those that followed.

  Another quick burst of pain smashed through her unexpectedly. Before she realized what was happening, he’d already captured and pierced the second inner labia and had it driven through with another stubby barbell. When these wounds were healed, she imagined something even more astounding would dangle from the piercings.

  For eight days, slave Regan trained in the sanctuary. She slept in her cell—except for those times Kurt wanted her to sleep with him. She was whipped morning and night, learned the postures of repose, submission and inspection, and otherwise served dutifully in whatever way she was instructed. Her days were long and arduous as she was forced to strain both body and mind in service to Kurt, the steward and the other masters who were assigned to her training.

  Every day the words of her commitment ceremony were repeated to her, to drill the truth of her choice deep into her psyche. She signed papers that rid her of any real worldly possessions, giving everything she once owned to Kurt. And when it was time for her to leave the sanctuary, she walked naked from the safety of this haven to the gatehouse where Tynan first received her. Then, dressed in a simple sundress and sandals, she accompanied Kurt Kingsley, her master, into his world and her new life. She would not return to the life she left behind.

  ***

  Regan could not forget her vows now, not with so many reminders of her days at the sanctuary staring her in the face. Tennyson Hallock’s home was little more than an upscale version of the haven where she pledged her life, loyalty and love to her master. The rings that Kurt had placed through her nipples were now sealed, so that the only way to remove them was to cut them off. There were rings in her labia as well, thick ones of the same gauge as the piercings in her nipples but not quite as large in circumference. She’d been fortunate to have such large inner labia to take the kind of piercing that Kurt loved. His intent was to stretch these flaps of skin larger than they naturally were; and his scheme was succeeding.

  “I haven’t forgotten my vows, sir,” Regan replied to Kurt’s query. “But perhaps I have not been completely candid with you concerning my work at this house.”

  He nodded. “Keep going.”

  “I didn’t think it was much to worry about, sir. Many things arouse me. Including Tennyson and his games—I believe I mentioned that?” she ventured tentatively—not exactly sure she’d discussed her arousal with her husband. He didn’t reply so she continued, “The scaffolding is like bondage. Dominant men in general make my body squirm—you know that. The sex play with Marta couldn’t help but turn me on, because I wished that I were in her place. And the scene in the dungeon was so filled with sexual meaning that I would have been dead if I didn’t feel the powerful urges driving through me seeing those pictures. Yes, sir… I know this is what you want me to confess… I did orgasm during Tennyson’s soliloquy. My juices dribbled down my thighs. My body brightened with heat; and while I suppressed the feeling, I did have a full-fledged climax.” She looked at them all, desperately seeking absolution. “I am sorry that I didn’t admit it sooner, though I honestly didn’t think it was of great consequence. I guess I was wrong.” She knew she was wrong and there was no way to disguise her guilt.

  Kurt stared her down. In fact, there was no master who did not drill her with judgement.

  “Your orgasms, no matter how minor, belong to me,” Kurt stated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You had no right to find, seek or allow your own pleasure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, you’ve had no guilt about this omission?”

  “Yes, sir, I have, but it seemed so minor…” Her eyes began to tear. “But, perhaps not so minor now that I see your face.”

  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.”

  “Since you remember yourself as a slave,” he agreed, “it’s surprising to me that you thought your heart could get away with this small ruse.”

  “I didn’t consider it a ruse.”

  “No?”

  “No, sir.”

  “For me it was as serious as any lie you could tell. Perhaps more so, because it was one that might have gone undetected.”

  Regan’s face screwed up unhappily, an expression she couldn’t disguise.

  “You have more to say?” Kurt asked.

  “If you would grant me just one question before you punish me,” she hesitated. “You are going to punish me?”

  “Oh, yes.” His response made her slave body quake—though not all her fear was unpleasant. “But you can speak.”

  “I don’t understand, sir, why this happened in the first place. Why you sent me to work for Tennyson Hallock. We even talked of it, how he seemed to be baiting me. I was forthcoming about that. I wonder, sir, what have I done that you would think it necessary to test me this way?”

  “It is my right to test you any way I choose,” he answered evenly.

  “Yes, it is your right to do anything you want with me.”

  “Your fall from grace, Regan, is not as serious as what is behind it. And what is behind it is not all that surprising. We live in a world that does not acknowledge our lifestyle with any kind of understanding and support. We obscure who we are behind self-created visages and masks. However, if we want to keep the edge that drives us, if we want to feel those extraordinary fires of lust that come with realizing our passions—mine to dominant you, and yours to submit—then occasionally we need to take exceptional measures to see that we continue to enjoy what we love.

  “It is my right as your owner to give you experiences that will examine your resolve. It is my right to be concerned if I think that resolve is failing. Just as it is my right to discipline you as I will now, and give you back the thrills you seek. I take my vows seriously—and I don’t really question that you do also—but we do need a few reminders occasionally and this is one of those times. You didn’t pass my test, so you will be punished. I’ll see what kind of slave you are by the time this is finished.”

  The tears flooding her eyes spilled free. Even so, she managed a clearly stated, “Yes, sir,” in reply.

  “Until I tell you otherwise, you will obey and serve these three masters as unerringly as you serve me. Remember, your test will not be over until the four of us believe you are as humble and obedient as you were when we left the sanctuary and your first training.”
r />   “Regan, up,” she heard Tennyson’s voice behind her.

  She moved to her feet in a second, feeling a powerful surge of lust reach out to all four men. Is this what Kurt wanted? Could he tell how this moment resonated through the fibres of her surrendering soul?

  Tennyson was the first on her—with a pair of wrist restraints immobilizing her hands and joining them together. Pulling her to a near corner of the living room, he pushed her face forward so her nose was practically hitting the plaster. He hoisted her wrist cuffs to a hook almost out of her reach; and then in a move that stunned her entire body with panic, he fastened each of her rings, those at her nipples and those hanging from her inner labia, to small latchhooks in the wall.

  She was bound to the wall without being bound, forced into submission, teetering on the tips of her toes afraid to move. There was not an inch of slack allowed, and from each pierced place the pain and the ache began.

  Regan was left for nearly a half-hour pinned to the wall. Her shoulders twitched, and her bound hands ached. Every second was a struggle to endure. Each of her four piercings was strained in some way. To move a foot or joggle her hips, she felt another tug, another roar of painful sensation burst through her anxious body.

  Behind her in the room, the masters considered her punishment—discussing extreme sadomasochistic tortures she’d never experienced.

  The ache in her arms grew intense. She tried falling back, only to have her nipple rings stretch the holes so far that she feared the skin would tear. At her crotch the pain grew to a throbbing roar.

  “Please, sir.”

  “What was that, slave?” Matt—the kind one—jumped on her plea, standing at her ear, mocking her condition, pressing the thick end of a flogger in the crack of her ass. “Perfect slave that you are, you should be able to hold this pose for an hour—or have you become weak?”

  “No, sir. I have not.”

  “Then buck up, because you’re not done yet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  An attempt to wipe the tears from her eyes was met with another jerk of flesh—all self-imposed, a product of this Dominant’s sadistic inspiration.

  “You haven’t had half the trauma and you’re already wimping out.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then show us what we have to look forward to, Regan the perfect.”

  “I am not perfect, sir. I am faltering.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I think you’re doing just fine.”

  Matt—the kind one in the flannel shirt with the gentle manners—took three steps back, and unfurling his flogger, let the talons rip the air and land with a definitive jolt against the slave’s naked back.

  “Yeeeeaaaawwwww!” She jerked, though the scream had nothing to do with the sensuous stroke of the implement. That and each successive strike of the flogger made her body sway, and the rings pull, and the tension magnify.

  “No, no, please,” she howled, though there was no relief.

  Thwack… slash… swish… thwack…

  Matt forced the dance of pain as he worked the flogger from her shoulders to her thighs and back to her strained shoulders again.

  “Oh, no please.”

  “Quiet!” he ordered when he was tired of her cries. “Or shall I gag you?”

  Thwack… slash… swish… thwack…

  Her mouth clamped shut, her body absorbing every stroke and each mean rhythm as the cavorting ribbons of suede splashed against her skin in devilish abandon.

  Her anguish swelled, until it was not just the strained slips of skin burning from the stress as they pulled taut, but her entire backside feeling an immense heat that would not go away—not for seconds or minutes.

  “Ah, sir…” she gasped, quietly letting her tears flow as she worked to hang on.

  Thwack… slash… swish… thwack, again and more… more still… thwack… thwack swish… thwack…

  She screamed silently, mouth wide with her soundless anguish…

  One final jerk, the flogger ceased.

  So stark. So sudden. Her body moved as if another swish would land on skin. But there was none.

  A kind and merciful hand moved between Regan and the wall, undoing hooks, easing tension, and rubbing off the strain to her skin. She collapsed for seconds into the arms of her rescuing angel—although he would not play angel long. “On your knees, slave,” Kurt’s voice hit like a blade of sharpened ice, and she was at his feet. “You’ll rest in Sir Hallock’s box until we’re ready for you again.”

  Small rest that it was, Regan welcomed the fainting moments. She remembered crawling through the living room, into the foyer beyond her scaffolding and finally to the elegant subterranean stairway. She’d remembered the jail cell from her previous journey to Tennyson’s dungeon but not the hanging cage where she now dangled in the basement wind, subject to every current of hot air and cold draft. She hardly remembered climbing inside and being hoisted in the air. Six feet above the ground, she faltered looking down, so she kept her eyes closed, and her curiosity from knowing all the facts of this imprisonment. She knew the cage was crude and unpadded, as new aches surfaced while the old ones calmed. By feel alone, she could tell that it was no more than metal mesh made into a box about four feet square. Though there was little comfort in this temporary home, nothing struck her skin, and at least for a few minutes, her wounds could begin to heal and the throbbing in each piercing diminish.

  Regan swung inside the cage for an unknown amount of time—long enough to wish herself elsewhere. Kurt’s bed at home would have been perfect, but she imagined that it would be some time—and many new tortures before she would indulge herself there. Although it was impossible to sleep in her confinement, she made every attempt to feign sleeping. Perhaps she could trick her mind. She was somewhat successful, finding herself able to drift enough so that the first jab of the bamboo cane in her side went unnoticed.

  The second jab, however, practically lifted her off the metal rack. Luckily, the four walls and the roof of iron protected her or she would have fallen off. Jostled against the edge of the cage, she opened her eyes and gazed down at Clayton Lawrence who was poking her at will with the end of his slender implement. While he harassed her, the cage slowly descended from the basement rafters to the floor, finally settling on the cold concrete.

  Looking like a cornered rabbit, Regan stared at the paunchy, balding man wondering from where he drew the nastiness appearing in his florid features. He’d never impressed her as a vigorous Dom; his temperament was much too mild-mannered for stern measures. Obviously, by the look of him now, either someone had given him a short course in mastery, or he’d been hiding his malevolence well.

  “Let’s get you out of this cage. I can hardly punish you while you’re confined in here.”

  Surprisingly, when Clayton spoke, he retained some of the gentleman Regan knew him to be. Though that wasn’t much comfort when she could feel the same sort of steely resolve that she witnessed from the other Masters assigned to her punishment.

  Unlocking the cage, Clayton drew back the lid and offered her his hand, which she gratefully used to pull herself upright.

  Regan spent her next six hours collared naked and on her knees, polishing Tennyson Hallock’s marble foyer and then the hardwood floor in his dining room—despite the fact that the room was normally covered with a thick Oriental carpet.

  Every muscle in her body ached by the time Clayton Lawrence finally summoned her into the library, where all four masters had been playing poker. She’d been Clayton’s to punish all afternoon, and was still under his supervision.

  “Have you finished the jobs I gave you?”

  “I’m almost done with the dining room; though I should buff it one more time.”

  “That can wait,” he said. “I think it’s time you had your reckoning with me.”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked expectant and dutiful. Any spirit of rebellion in her had fled. Feelings of discomfort simply didn’t matter anymore; she was in the submissi
ve space of surrender where ego didn’t exist, only the command and her obedience to that command.

  “Sometimes the simplest punishments get the point across; and this one will be simple. Come here.”

  Regan inched her way to Clayton’s side. Though curious, even leery of his plans, she wouldn’t waver. Hesitancy was beyond her now. The unthinking garments of the perfect slave clothed her in their protection. Life was easy from this perspective… and how wonderful the feeling of letting go. Any master could command her and she would consent without question. Not since the sanctuary had she been this free of the inhibitions that made her frightened—or caused her to think, when thinking only got her in trouble.

  Wriggling forward in his chair, Clayton Lawrence’s legs formed a perfect resting-place for a penitent slave to take her licks. Nodding first to her master as a matter of respect; he then nodded at Regan before he tugged her by the hand and pulled her over his lap.

  While tempted to giggle like a schoolgirl upended for a spanking, Regan suppressed the urge. This was no laughing matter—this punishment was not child’s play. To instill that point, Clayton held a broad flat paddle in his substantial grip, while his grim expression suggested that he’d show no mercy to a lying slave.

  “Get your head about you, young lady,” he warned, “or you’ll see this wood again until you do behave yourself. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Now upside-down, her muffled reply was not easy to hear.

  Smack! Clayton laid a good one on the center of her cheeks.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir!” she spit out more loudly.

  “Better.”

  The paddle began its staccato beat as a steady barrage of strikes heated the globes of her rounded behind. She jerked, quaked and then struggled as the intensity peaked, backed down and then peaked again. He was an expert in the craft of warming a brat’s behind. Affording himself all the tricks he’d known, he kept the spanking going much longer than any of the other masters would have guessed his subject could survive the vehement onslaught. Just as she was about to buck herself from the man’s tenacious grip, he would settle her down with a few passive strokes… She eased then, with her desperate breathing becoming more normal. In those brief moments, Regan fantasized about the ending—about bowing at his feet, listening to another lecture and more verbal reprimands. But there was no lecture. Clayton Lawrence spoke with his paddle, not his voice. The small let up in intensity only led to another and more zealous crescendo of strikes.