Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s up to me now. I could sell you in a heartbeat to anyone who’ll purchase your sorry ass. You’re good for scrubbing floors—with a little more training. You can even paint a decent picture on a blank wall. Hell, your cunt might even be pleasant to screw, your mouth a decent orifice to pleasure cock, and your ass a tight fit for a horny man’s dick. You don’t look half-bad, you keep yourself clean. Kurt says you don’t have any major bad habits. Shucks, I might buy you myself just because I know the merchandize. Wouldn’t have to play any guessing games. But I sure wouldn’t make you a fuckin’ prima donna slave. You’d taste what the real world’s like. Soon as the divorce is final, I could do that. Take you off the man’s hands without the hassle of an auction? It’s a possibility?” He looked at her thoughtfully as if she had an answer to his dilemma.

  She was, however, preoccupied in her thoughts. Divorce. Auction. Was he serious?

  “You realize how you violated him?” Tennyson moved on.

  She was thinking the question rhetorical so she didn’t reply.

  “Answer me!” he roared when she was silent.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t deserve the kind of life you lead. Most sex slaves don’t have a cushy life. They get beat, but not loved. They work their fingers to the bone for a pittance of a reward—if that at all. You, Regan, have lived a slave’s dream. And you fucked up.”

  His disgust was as thick as molasses.

  “He believed in you. He trusted you.” He chuckled darkly. “We had a wager and he lost because of you. Good lord, no wonder he doesn’t want to have you back.”

  Wager. What was this?

  Tennyson shrugged as he paced in front of her. “Of course, he couldn’t have you anyway because I won the prize.”

  His wretched sneer stabbed her in the gut.

  “What a prize you are.” He shook his head. “No, there’s no percentage in buying you. Soon as I can, I’m going to unload you on the open market, hope there will be some Dom out there who won’t mind the used goods.”

  This couldn’t be true!

  “You lost the game, slut. And it’s really too bad. I’ll miss you. Have to hire someone else to get that fresco done.”

  “No! No! No!” Her mind screamed, while her frantic heart was beating so hard she worried that it would explode. “You can’t mean this, sir? This must be a joke. Kurt loves me!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Like he was sure of you?” he retorted with a twisted sneer. “Looks pretty pathetic to me now. But don’t worry, the worst is almost over. I’m ready to let you go. Soon as I beat you, I’ll have had enough. I won’t need to worry about you any more… Beating you will be my pleasure, now. I get to do it because I’m a sadist and I love taking a masochistic woman like you and making her pitiful body sing. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen. After that, you’re going to be alone on my dungeon floor with no one’s face to greet you.”

  “No, please! This can’t be true!”

  “Hush. I don’t want to hear your voice. I’m sure you’re panicked, as well you should be. You thought this was a little object lesson in lust and slavery and loyalty. So sorry, gentle Regan, this game was a whole lot more. It was for the big money, the grand prize. And you lost the wager. You lost your life. After I beat you, I’ll cage you up until I have a buyer and you’ll be out of here.

  Her eyes screamed No!

  “You think I’m kidding?” he raised his eyebrows as he watched the tears flow down her cheeks. “While you were reading my little book, I was drafting the divorce papers so Kurt could dispense with you and get on with finding a decent slave. I wish this were just a joke, Mrs. Kingsley. But you were wagered on a bid of faith and you didn’t perform. Now give me your hands.”

  She shook her head, body trembling so much she was sure she would faint.

  This was all a ruse, another game? Any minute Kurt would appear to bring her out of this horrible trial.

  Without thinking, because all her courage had vanished and there was no strength left to fight with, she held out her trembling fingers for Tennyson to take.

  The shock stopped her tears, and almost her heart. Though her heart did beat on, passively, without longing. A dead space filled her insides with emptiness.

  Where were the other masters? She didn’t expect Kurt to be with her now. But even Matt and Clayton were absent. The veil of protection that always warmed her soul had disappeared.

  Tennyson bound her hands and her feet, then ordered her to the dungeon floor. Hoisting her feet first, he suspended her from the ceiling, legs and arms wide, her body open for the floggers and Tennyson’s single-tail bullwhip. He would beat some life back into her, some cry, some torment, some of herself. It wouldn’t do for any slave to lose all her spirit—then they were truly worthless.

  Only once before had Regan been inverted during a punishment scene. Now with the sudden feel of her body rising from the floor, her feet tugged into the rafters, she swelled with new fear—not the wretched one that gnawed her stomach with a fright so terrible that she could hardly breathe; but a fear that made her sexual insides merry with excitement. How could this be happening when her life was suddenly in shambles? Or was it in shambles at all? Was Tennyson Hallock no more than a charlatan delivering fear to frighten her back where she belonged?

  Blood ran to her head, pounded like a ruthless locomotive in her ears and brain. With her body vertical to the floor, the first strikes of Tennyson’s flogger began to hit her skin. Circling her with the implement, he struck at will, avoiding any sensitive region but landing his blows against anything that it was safe to wound. She jerked frenetically, finding inside all her miserable gloom a swelling satisfaction starting to rise to the surface and supplant her anxious dread. This was punishment… like being pinned to the living room wall by her piercings or brutally spanked until she was hysterical, and punishment was made to right wrongs, set the world aright again. It was healing, self-serving, a necessary depravity… balancing the scales, and it was happening now. Surely there would be a better end to this nightmare than the one Tennyson wrote with this chastising dialogue.

  “Yeessssss,” her body brightening with pain as he laid the flogger repeatedly on her ass and then lower on her strained shoulders. She wanted more.

  He flogged her pussy, letting the impact of the whip turn her crotch into liquid fire. She wanted more.

  “You’re on a roll, aren’t you, bitch?” Tennyson spat out. “And you’re thinking this is absolution. I know your mind. Well, it’s not.”

  Taking a long zipper of clothespins, he attached them in a chain across the base of her ass, and let them stay there while he roped her tits until the skin was stretched taut, and her pierced nipples bulged out. He squeezed clamps at the very tips of the hardening buds, happily listening to her shriek with pain. Each clamp bit like a claw, but that was not enough. Not this time. A third clamp closed around her clitoris, taking Regan’s pain to another level. She breathed hard and evenly as the onslaught of sensation rose, and rose more.

  “Ah, gawwwwww, pleeeeeeeeeeese!” No more, not now, she added silently.

  “Rough going, is it?” Tennyson taunted.

  “Please, sir.”

  “Why should I give you mercy? What right have you to even think such a thought. You’re a slave. There’s no requirement for compassion and I feel none now.”

  He stood back, watching her body contort, seeing spasms in her belly and breasts, seeing her mouth protests in ways she didn’t dare voice. Then, with the adroit speed of a bird plucking berries from a vine, he zapped her ass with his single tail whip, expertly picking off one clothespin at a time. As each one snapped away, the pain spiked and she shrieked again. Taking them slowly he cut five from the base of her left ass cheek; then, reaching forward, he grabbed the remaining zipper and ripped it free.

  “Yeeeeeawwww… gawwwwwwwwd!” One, loud, guttural shriek
shocked the air.

  Then in front of her again, he snapped the clamps from the tips of her nipples. The impact of the single tail didn’t even hurt—but the blood rampaging back into each nipple was excruciating.

  “Noooooooooo,” the pain began her angry wail. Tormenting her clit, Tennyson teased the bulging, purple sliver of skin, scowling with what venom was left in his heart.

  “You want this off bad, don’t you, slave?”

  “I want only what you want for me,” she cried the perfect slave’s reply.

  To which, he nodded almost kindly. “Good answer. Too bad it comes too late.”

  It is not too late, she delivered him a silent scream.

  “You’re thinking this is just a joke, aren’t you? That I’m not really this mean, nor is your husband giving you up. Divorce is a pretty nasty word for a slave who believes she’s earned some rights in the world becoming a wife. Frankly, I think the whole concept of marriage in this lifestyle is wasted. If you’re going to live with the values of a century ago, why cloud it with meaningless ceremonies? It takes away the true virtue of slavery, the right of a slave to be nothing but meaningless property.”

  As he spoke, Tennyson flicked the clit clamp with his finger—ever so lightly. Seems it shouldn’t have mattered, but each tiny movement of that wicked thing sent the pain shooting.

  “Hate it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she seethed.

  “How much do you hate it?”

  “Very much, sir,” she could hardly whisper now.

  “Ah, then, let’s get rid of it.” He pulled the toy away.

  “EEEEEeeawwwwww!”

  She panted afterwards, trying to get her breath; but Tennyson didn’t make it easy. He was on her again, the whip jumping out across her flesh, snapping streamers of pain, one after another.

  “Oh, noooo, sir.” He snapped the whip again. “No, sir, no.”

  He wouldn’t stop because she said so. Another eight minutes of torture followed (though she was not exactly keeping track); until it seemed as though it would go on endlessly. She thought often of orgasm, and just as often pushed away the thought. Part of her was riding through the worst of it, endorphins kicking in to ease her through. An especially vigorous rip, she was shocked back to reality, then drifted when the sensation calmed and dipped below that subspace threshold. More endorphins, more letting go—but never enough to free herself. She only made the mistake once—never again. Even if she never saw her lover/husband/master again, if everything Tennyson said was true… even if the facts would send her penniless, husbandless, masterless into the future as sold goods, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Tennyson eased Regan slowly to the ground when he was finished with the torture. Throwing a blanket over her shaking body, he left her by herself some minutes, letting her climb back into some conscious thought. When he returned to the dungeon, he had the slave cage ready. This one was built for transport, so that the unknowing eye would have no clue what kind of livestock was housed inside. There were plenty of breathing holes in all four sides and in the top; otherwise the cage was cramped—a mean place for a recently punished slave. Before he shoved her inside, he gave her a sip or two of liquid, something sweet and replenishing.

  “The transport will not take long,” he told her as he closed the top of the cage over her head. “As you’ve probably guessed, I did a lot of creative threatening while I had you in my dungeon. Your future has already been determined—that done days ago. I wish you well—truly. It might have been fun to take you myself, but I’m not sure I have the capacity for what you need. It would take a better trainer than me. The one you’ll have now will challenge everything you’ve been. Might take some time to believe it’s so, but I’m sure you’ll survive.”

  Surviving wasn’t hard, loving her life would be another matter.

  Regan was too exhausted to worry about the future as she was coming down from her physical high. Her circumstances changed quickly, however, as she realized that she’d wake up in some unknown place. She was cognizant for a time of being moved, of a draft of air as she was taken outside and placed in a vehicle for transport. After that, the edges of reality started to soften and her mind began to numb. She thought, perhaps, Tennyson had drugged the juice he’d given her. Her instincts, sight and senses began to blur. Though there was nothing to see, and little to hear, taste or feel, it seemed as though she was losing consciousness… drawing away from herself a bit at a time.

  ***

  After three years as his owned property, Regan Wheat married Kurt Kingsley in a ceremony surrounded by the evidence of her chosen lifestyle… one she’d built on for many years.

  The couple was dressed in Renaissance clothes, taking their vows in the middle of a woodland grotto on the property of the sanctuary where she had been trained. She pledged to him her loyalty and faithfulness, her unceasing affection, her love, and her obedience—all of which she assumed would never be shaken, even by the capricious tests that real life threw to try the soul and its fidelity.

  They pledged an unbroken forever, one she expected would go unmarred by the normal things that tear lovers apart, and wives from their husbands. She assumed a great deal because she had such trust, such faith in this man, her master. She knew—no matter what the circumstance—he would see her through any trouble. Her trust in him was unflagging; it would not die, and theirs would be an unbroken forever.

  ***

  The sheets on the bed were clean, smelling of the sweet outsides and breezes. Regan could smell the salty ocean, though she was uncertain why.

  Her mind was a blank, waking senselessly as a few minutes of thoughtlessness ticked away. At first, she thought she was at home; but then she remembered, as her body ache began to rise, that she’d been punished, worked over, and very likely transported to another life.

  Was that possible?

  She opened her eyes, looking around an unfamiliar room. The décor was exquisite: natural colors, modern sleek lines of wood, glass and fabric. The gray sheets and black comforter were expensive and soothing. She sniffed. The aroma of fancy herbs greeted her hungry nostrils. Was breakfast waiting?

  Regan sat up in bed, looking down to see herself naked. She noted a few marks left from the beating—was that just a day ago? Or had her recuperation taken longer?

  She stared around looking for answers to her question, spying as she did an envelope with her name printed across the back. She tore through it looking for the message.

  “Get up, get dressed and ready for work. You have a new client. 6 Eldeberry Ave. (see map). Nine o’clock sharp. This is an important one, don’t be late! Love, Kurt.”

  Kurt, of course Kurt. She hopped from bed, happiness floating through her like a fog, until she looked at the clock seeing the time. Now 8:01.

  Racing toward the bathroom, she almost slipped on the slick tile; then she did lose her balance as she looked for the shower and found it around the corner. Gathering speed she suddenly found herself falling, not to the floor but into a pair of muscled arms.

  She looked up, eyes glassing over in an instant. Kurt. “Hummm, ouch!” she said without thinking. His hand seemed to dig deep into her side. Must have found a bruise. Everything that had happened in the last few days was appearing to her all at once.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She started to cry.

  “I think so.”

  “Okay.” He was honestly smiling.

  Her mind brimmed with questions. “I have so many things to ask…”

  He put a finger to her mouth, “And you will in good time. Right now, slave, you have a job to do for me and you’d better put on some speed and your beautiful face.”

  For one last second before he pushed her off, he stroked her face tenderly, then leaned in for a kiss.

  “You love me still?” she asked.

  “I’ve never not loved you, brat. Now go get ready.” He pulled her upright and pushed her toward the shower.

&nb
sp; Yes, yes, she would get ready for him and for her new client. And she’d let her questions wait until later. Apparently, her life was not aborted by her unfaithfulness—thank God!

  As the water splashed down on her head, through her tangle of curls and against her welted, bruised and war-wounded skin, her heart glided free. Ah, yes! This was good. The fall was finally at its end. And Tennyson Hallock was right, she was in the hands of a better master than he, one whose devotion to her matched the devotion she had for him.

  In time, she’d understand all that she was to learn from this ordeal… not the least of which was that her trust in Kurt and her love for him had not been misplaced.

  MORE FICTION BY LIZBETH DUSSEAU…

  The Surrender Of Lady Charlotte

  Her required virginity examined in a bizarre ordeal, loins locked in a chastity belt, and life torn, Lady Charlotte is sent from her ancestral home to become the bride of the cunningly ruthless Ilusian Lord, Mountbane. Unlike her homeland where she was free, in Ilusia, women are slaves, and she must accept submission before her wedding can take place. Taken to the dungeons to be trained, she rebels against her keepers. Neither whippings nor cruel tortures change her mind, though they awaken her sexual fires. Finally surrendering, she undergoes an arduous training to learn the postures and attitudes of a worthy slave. Once married, her body thrills to the deviant acts required of her and her life of sexual debauchery. Treachery, inventive punishments, orgies, archaic sexual rituals, and the crude deflowering of virgins give this tale its nasty twists. Fem/fem scenes, anal sexuality and fisting give it added spice—for those who feast on the lust of sexual extremes.