Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Regan’s ass heated again, and then again, until it wouldn’t cool at all, and another strike would only sting, no matter how easily it was applied. She took the punishment with little verbal protest until that point when Clayton bore down for the last battle of the scene, when he leveled her with a flurry of strikes that seemed to have no end.

  “Ach! Augh! No! Please, sir, please, sir, please!”

  The blistering barrage went on until Clayton determined that the struggling slave had been properly punished. Finally ending the last volley, he laid his paddle on Regan’s sweltering behind, letting the two surfaces—her flesh and the hard wood—greet each other without the previous passion. She paid no mind to the unforgiving instrument, but felt the cool of the air begin to soothe the hot sting. The sting turned warm and her body billowed with the unexpected joy of sexual arousal making it difficult not to respond in a sexual way. This was not fair to feel this fire and desire its rightful conclusion. But fair is not a state of being a slave expects to feel. Fair is for the world of equals, not the world of masters and slaves.

  “She belongs to you, Tennyson,” Clayton said at last, pushing her off his lap and to the floor. As her sore ass bumped against the hardwood, she would have liked to have let loose with a rousing ouch! Instead, however, Regan pinched her lips together and took a deep breath—while Clayton’s last remark finally registered.

  She looked up and stared around the room, from Matt, to Clayton, to Kurt, to Tennyson and back to Kurt—and then without knowing why, Tennyson drew her gaze back to him.

  “Livia,” the master called to a slave who was standing at attention in the corner of the room, waiting.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take this slave to my room, secure her by the collar to the foot of my bed. She’ll spend the night there. You may give her a pillow and blanket, but nothing more.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tennyson turned to Regan. “Go with her now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Livia worked for Tennyson Hallock’s house wearing a simple skirt, blouse and white starched apron—looking not unlike the General’s prim maids; although Regan had already seen this slave in collar and chains, and knew her to be quite a slut when she was getting erotically punished.

  Before leaving the room, the well-spanked Regan looked toward her husband as if she were seeking consolation.

  “He’s not your master now,” Tennyson noted as he saw the hope in her expression.

  Meanwhile, Kurt shrugged—none of this was his choice now. With his judgmental eyebrow raised, he pushed her away with the cool blue chill of a wintry gust of air. She was discarded, the property of another master until she earned the right to be with her rightful owner again. “Don’t fuck it up, slave,” Kurt managed to say. “I can as easily divorce you as keep you as my wife.”

  Regan gulped, chagrinned and very much afraid. “Yes, sir,” she answered respectfully as the very idea of divorce turned her stomach into a sour knot.

  Her eyes returned to Tennyson, but only as long as it took to read his thoughts. He had no more to say to her.

  Peeling her sweaty nakedness from the floor, Regan retreated from the room on Livia’s heels, not looking back for answers or sympathy. Following the maid upstairs, she was quickly collared, leashed and secured by the neck to one foot post of Tennyson’s bed with nothing but a pillow and a thin yellow blanket for comfort. Thankfully, it was a warm night; although that did little to quell her agitated, empty stomach, or cure the creeping arousal that seemed to snatch away any peace the day’s punishment might have given her. Tied to the bed, she was reminded of the night she’d spent at the country inn, when her relationship with Kurt was fresh and new and full of wonder, mystery and desire. The memory had always been a pleasant one—but with her relationship teetering on the brink of collapse, that memory only caused her to worry more.

  Doomed to spend the night on the hard floor, she imagined that it would be several hours before Tennyson would come to bed. By then, she hoped to be fast asleep.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Slave Regan ate her breakfast from a bowl in the kitchen, while her hands were clasped behind her back, and the cold, unfeeling Tennyson Hallock stood over her impatiently. He had her leash in his hand, tugging it every few minutes to make certain she remembered he was there. How could she forget?

  He had not left her presence since retiring for the night, at two a.m. just eight hours before. She’d been tied at his foot board long before he finally came to bed, forced to listen to the distant laughter of masters floating up the stairs. She lay on the floor waiting for sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, not with her body gaining in arousal as the effect of the punishment sessions retreated into her memories, and those memories acted on her lunatic sexual self, which loved that kind of painful depravity.

  She feigned sleep when Tennyson finally came into the room. Tucking her head into the pillow and snuggling her blanket, she’d hoped he would forget she was there. More vivid, though, was the hope he’d throw all protocols aside and bring her with him under the sheets where his erection would impale her aggravated cunt. Knowing that would never happen, she prayed that the sexual tension between them—what caused her undoing in the first place—would disappear enough so she could finally rest. She’d waited as he underdressed, as he read for nearly an hour turning pages in some unseen book, and then as he turned out the light and lay down to sleep. With the light extinguished, she opened her eyes to the darkened room and listened to the thump of her heartbeat, worrying that she’d spend the night inside her thoughts and not her dreams.

  “Regan!” She heard the sharp whisper of Tennyson’s gruff voice.

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered back.

  “Go to sleep, slave,” he ordered.

  How did he know she was awake? she wondered. Was it the way she breathed, or was she unknowingly, restlessly, noisily moving so he could sense her wakefulness? Could he read her mind? Feel her thoughts? Peer that intimately into her?

  She couldn’t risk asking, so she closed her eyes—and, as if the command actually worked to still her brain, her mind closed down a thought at a time, until there was nothing left but sleep.

  Eating oatmeal from a bowl on the floor seemed as normal to Regan as any other act required of her. It was simple. Simple as being collared at the foot of a gruff man’s bed, simple as peeing in a bucket, and crawling from the bedroom into the bath, then to the kitchen where the rest of Tennyson’s house was eating from bowls with utensils, sitting in chairs at a civil breakfast table. She was no less than the servants in the house—they all were slaves. She was, however, now singled out for the extremes of humiliation—something any slave should expect and resign herself to. And Regan was resigned, knowing her trials would run their course and somewhere, by the end of her ordeal, she would feel more passionately and more beautifully the joys of her surrender and slavery than she’d felt in many months. At some time, that joy would attach itself to her master—the right one who claimed her heart and knew her soul and was ready to lead her for a good many days into her future.

  When Regan finished the meal, she stared up at the impatient master above her. Her unfailing obedience to him was obvious. Even loyalty and devotion appeared in her attentive eyes as she waited for her next command. She needed no other master but Tennyson Hallock; she was his to command and use.

  Tennyson peered back at her for several thoughtful seconds, then with a scornful air, threw her a towel. “Clean up your face,” he said. “Then, you can find your way to the library—on your feet. I think your knees have had enough of a workout.”

  The house was lonely in the morning hours. Somewhere clouded in her mind, the remembrance of the scaffolding and the fresco appeared to her. Was it just half-finished or were there just a few colors left to blend? It was hard to remember what she’d done an hour ago, let alone a day. Life confined itself to simple acts, simple orders for a simple discipline.

  In the library, Regan sat on th
e floor at Tennyson’s feet doing nothing. She watched a bug crawl across the floor, listened to the master sip his morning cup of coffee, and paid attention to her own breathing. Her body juices were on the rise, a fact that made her squirm in tiny erotic movements that Tennyson did not appear to notice, as he was preoccupied with the morning paper. What turned her on was the mystery—perhaps just the promise of things to come. Occasionally, the master glanced down at her, but he never said a word until he got up, rifled through a stack of books and finally pulled out a volume that he handed her.

  “Read it, cover to cover,” he instructed. Leaving her beside his reading chair, he moved to his desk keeping himself occupied with paperwork for the next two hours.

  While he worked, Regan read. The hardback book was old, the spine threadbare, a few pages falling into her hands, which she carefully put back once she read the words. She jumped in full throttle to an exposé of sexual conduct written in the 1930’s by several married consensual slaves. She liked Miriam best—or as this slave called herself, Mim—an easy slave name.

  “I’ve been a slave so long, I don’t know what it is to be a normal person anymore. Hank gave me no choice when we married. I suppose for a while I thought he’d tricked me into giving everything up for him. But I haven’t regretted what has happened. To the world, we appear perfectly normal—except that I have a rather controlling spouse. Some women these days don’t go for fellows who like being in charge. They like their independence. Thankfully, I do not.

  “Hank has his oddities—like keeping me naked most of the time. The house servants are used to me now, though I’m sure they thought it a little odd that the mistress of the house would be treated with less dignity than the hired help. I serve my husband like a slave, doing exactly as I’m told; even though it means that I frequently get whipped and often in the company of strangers and Hank’s friends. I have no friends of my own, which isn’t all bad. My chums from school were all too silly for me. Though it wouldn’t matter what I prefer now, the company of my husband’s companions seems perfectly natural. They think of me as his pet, more than as his wife. I give them pleasure—oh, not the kind you think. They like seeing me physically chastised and how that gives my body so much pleasure that I lose myself to the experience. Before I realize what is happening, the beating turns into the most exquisite moment of bliss. My entire body bursts in climax. As often as Hank whips me the same thing happens.

  “I live a curious life… and have no idea why my husband is having me write these things. He told me to tell the truth. He says it is for posterity, but who would read this and believe what I’m saying? People—women in general—don’t turn themselves into slaves. But it would appear that’s exactly what I have done, or what has been done to me. I am without moral qualms over any of this. It is simply how I’ve come to live. Would I have chosen this consciously—I’m sure I wouldn’t have, simply because I didn’t know that this kind of life existed before I got married. Would I choose it now, knowing what I know? I think so. I am pleasured and so is Hank. That makes our life perfect. What more could I ask?

  The pages before and after Mim’s narrative were filled with such stories, all by women who found themselves living similar kinds of lives, firmly controlled by their husbands. Why anyone would have conceived this confessional; and particularly been able to find so many women who could write about these things seemed impossible to Regan. She read each story, not bothering to think of herself, or with the idea that she lived the same kind of life. Her surrender felt different—more deliberate, even though there were many calculations made by her husband to bring her to this point. When she closed the book, Regan looked up at the clock realizing that she’d been reading for nearly two hours. Tennyson was no longer in the room—at least he wasn’t at his desk. She stared around, expecting to see no one—it was much too quiet even for silent, breathing bodies. To her shock, however, all four of masters were entering the room. On cue, perhaps?

  “You know your way to the dungeon, Regan,” Tennyson was the closest to her, and was speaking. “Go there now where your crimes began. Your punishment will end there. Stand where this debacle started, and spend some time thinking about who you are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Again she looked for her husband’s affectionate glance. Again, there was nothing. He was not the man she remembered loving, and she wasn’t sure where that man was now. Her only thought was obeying Tennyson’s order. Doing that, she scampered quickly past the four and found her way to the dungeon stairs.

  Regan took her place in the center of the underground fortress where she’d stood before, listening to Tennyson warp her mind with thoughts that led to her small insurrection. Nothing had changed in the subterranean cavern … her plans for scarves, pillows and the soft light of candles went nowhere after they were first conceived. That should have been a clue that the plans were all a malicious ruse—a very good malicious ruse.

  She was a fallen slave now, like a fallen star, no sky to cling to, no place to burn but perhaps here. Yet, Regan was suspicious of this moment, with a heart beating too rapidly, anxiety clutching her everywhere. She knew they’d saved the worst punishment for last, one from the most exacting master. And how appropriate; he was the reason for her fall from grace—if not the reason, then the catalyst for her undoing.

  Regan waited, naked, lonely… with her body giving her away. The memories were strong. The picture just as vivid now as it had been when the dungeon master outlined his dream to her weeks before. In reply, her body chilled with a shiver of physical joy running down her spine and tickling her ass. The rings thread through her nipples perked from the cool and the remembrance of that verboten climax. She closed her eyes for just a moment, finding herself teetering as though she might faint.

  Opening her eyes to restore her balance, she kept them open, staring carefully, looking at details she’d not seen before. Some meticulous slave had cleaned the room with a Navy spit and polish. Even the handles of the hanging whips gleamed; the floor was spotless; the carpet in the center looked brand-new. Metal bolts, handles and rings shone almost glaringly, the candles had been scraped of soot and the walls wiped down, the ceiling free of cobwebs. (Kurt’s apartment was not that spotless from Regan’s efforts, she noted silently.)

  “You paying attention to your assignment?” Tennyson was behind her. His voice crawled up her back like a fat brown spider. She could see the stairs from where she stood, which meant there was another stairway located elsewhere in the basement.

  “Sir?” she looked around.

  “Eyes forward,” he ordered otherwise.

  She turned back. They were alone, as they’d been before… the same squeamish, agitated feeling of fright and desire making her insides tumble nervously. Her hands sweat and her head started to throb.

  “Tell me about that day, Regan.”

  “What more is there to tell?” she replied.

  She felt the smack of his bare hand on her ass. “That answer will not do!” he retorted.

  “Haven’t I said it all?” she tried another kind of protest.

  He smacked her even harder, reminding her ass of the whipping from Matt Hardy’s flogger, and Clayton Lawrence’s brutish spanking.

  “I want your answer, slave. You dodge me again, I’ll thrash you with a cane before we even begin.” He grabbed her hair and tugged it hard.

  “I was turned on,” she blurted out. “This house, you, every little innuendo you’ve thrown my way. Haven’t I said it all?”

  He yanked her head harder. “Don’t get angry with me, bitch!”

  She wilted instantly. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You’d better be. Your future depends on what you do right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And blaming me for your mistakes is not a good way to start.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe you could use your brain and tell me what would have averted your fall from grace?”

  “If I’d never come here,” she r
eplied.

  “That was not an option, slave.” And because he thought she was being flip, his fingers tightened inside her hair. She softened once again.

  “If I remembered who I was,” she answered.

  “As a slave, what is the protocol for your position in another master’s house?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Guess then! What would an unfailingly, perfect slave do with desire roaring out of control?”

  “Stopped the scene,” Regan answered.

  “Yes, slut. A slave would have that option—she could stop any man from moving on her sexually, she has that power.”

  “If that slave was not slave to that man.”

  “Just as you were not my slave.”

  “That’s what I mean, sir.”

  “But you didn’t stop me, did you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You wanted me to go on.”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “You were so selfishly engaged in your own pleasure that you forgot who you are. You forgot your vows to Kurt Kingsley. You forgot the written and unwritten rules of your sacred agreements. You smashed that in the face with your treachery.” He let go of her hair and waltzed around so that he could look her in the eye. “‘But it was such an innocent treachery,’ you’ll say. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’” He whined these remarks, sneering as he did.

  “Slaves are not weaklings! You know that, too! They are tough, determined, steady, patient and resourceful. A good slave knows how to pull away as easily as they know how to relent—when pulling away is what serves their master. You say this was a scheme to make you lose. That it was. And it was a very good scheme, Regan, because it taught you an important truth about how easily you fail. Even when you think you have your life licked, all the ducks in order, the cards stacked in your favor, you find out that you’re vulnerable; that you are woefully susceptible to failure; that you’re not as good as you thought you were. You have a weakness, a bad one, one that could well cost you everything you’ve become. You realize that?”