“What are you doing?” she asked. An uneasy fear stalked her; this was nothing like the gentle seduction hours before that made her dream of fragrant fields and seductive jungles, and sunlight and the freedom to run naked without the dreadful weight of confining bonds. He didn’t reply, though when Degas put his hand against her ass she realized that her clothes had been stripped away and she was naked.
“What are you doing?” she tried her question again.
Again he was silent.
Leading her from the room, she was in a corridor for a long time walking ahead of him, as he prodded her gently on the bottom.
When he refused to speak, she didn’t try another time.
The two moved in silence through an old storage facility in the factory basement, finally coming to a room that appeared to house old files. Drawers and drawers of metal all locked tight, though the weight of their contents had seemed to make them sag. Their dented, scratched and peeling paint showed layers of color that aged their fragile looking appearance all the more. Stopping Delila in front of a dingy olive green cabinet, Degas undid the lock and swung the door wide. She saw little more than an array of office supplies, papers, pens and pencils covered with a fine layer of dust. He reached inside, Delila having no idea what he was doing, then suddenly the inner shelves of the cabinet pulled free to reveal a door. The surprising result was something reminiscent of an old memory—perhaps a book, or a plot from the celluloid picture show—a secret compartment leading to something hidden down below.
Stepping inside, Degas held her bound hands fast in his. They were comforting, considering that the narrow metal staircase they negotiated in the dim light threatened her. She was even dizzy for a second thinking that she’d fall into the unseen abyss below them. Her feet finally hitting bottom made her feel safe again and the dizziness diminished.
There were doors everywhere, though only one was made of wood, and that was the one he approached. “Paradise,” Degas whispered in her ear as he swung back the heavy oak on its hinges. “Paradise.”
Moving beyond the threshold, Delila walked into blackness, through other doors and a maze of corridors, finally moving through a fast swinging entrance where from somewhere music beckoned her mind with sounds it had been years since she’d heard.
As bleak as the outer rooms and corridors had been, the other side of the doorway was replete with beguiling flashes of sensation. Fast-paced chatter, the sound of laughter, moans that suggested sexual release, and small blinking colored lights teased her body senses, while her nostrils discovered a spicy fragrance that made Delila think of the aroma of foreign food cooking over an open flame. There was smoke in the air and a taste on her lips, something cool. Had someone given her something to drink or was she just imagining that?
Degas pushed her deeper into the interior of the wild room, while Delila’s eyes adjusted to never before seen sights: women dressed in jewels, so it appeared, their shiny garments clinging to them like skin, and breasts bared like hers were, but set-off by lewd costumes accentuating the sexual parts of their bodies. Bare asses, shaved pussies and hairy ones were displayed like trinkets on a wall. Men’s cocks dangled freely. She looked away from one embarrassed, only to find another at eye level to her gaze. She walked beside a platform where bound and naked bodies writhed in sensuous dances, as if the bound ones were inviting those looking on to dine on their wares. So much skin, so much flesh, so much music and incense and fast blinking lights. She was dizzy again. Almost swooning, Degas held her safely from behind, as he pushed her still further into the interior.
So much black and sparkling color. Feathers in long streamers adorned female necks, garments of chains jingled softly as their wearers walked in spiked heel shoes. Lips were painted with cherry reds, while sultry eyes were decorated with purple, blue and iridescent green.
Some bodies in the writhing throng of people seemed like seekers, looking at the flashy half-clothed men and women as if they were about to make a purchase. Though the seekers were fully dressed, even their attire provoked sexual imagery with low cut bodices on slinky dresses and skin-tight leathers that wrapped about them in the oddest ways. Delila smiled, seeing how the savage wildness of this alien world pleased her even as it made her tremble with fear.
Deeper into the interior she passed by cubicles where couples were having sex. Gross copulations were going on in front of any watching eye, as bodies pounded each other in beds behind the walls of glass. Women fucked women, and men fucked men, and men and women in pairs and groups fornicated with passion as if the entire planet of their existence had gone awry, all the world asunder in a flagrant violation of all that New Victoria stood for.
“Freedom, my Delila, freedom,” Degas whispered in her ear.
“How can this be?” she whispered in return.
“Ah! My dear. You’ve quit New Victoria forever,” he answered. “And come to my Outer Island.”
Chapter Ten
For the first time in weeks, she saw the sun streaming so wildly through a window that she had to squint when she opened her eyes.
Degas was in her room, along with someone didn’t recognize.
“She’ll be in demand,” the other man said.
Delila began to focus on a face that came into view only after the sun momentarily fell behind a cloud and she could see more clearly. A redhead man wearing chaps, and a leather piece covering his genitals stared at her as he stood side by side with Degas, eyeing her.
“I’ll use her for a while to taunt the guests,” Degas told him.
“Perfect,” the redhead replied.
“Cage her, I think.”
“They’ll likely rape her otherwise.”
Degas eyed her with a bemused stare, not so dark as usual, there was a sly joy in his expression. “I want her first, when she’s finally ready.”
Not understanding their conversation, Delila lay against the warm sheets, staring at them petrified of each new remark. She was scared of the evil twists their words took in her mind, as the memory of that unbelievable room with its lights and music and debauchery returned to her thoughts. Had it been real, or a dream?
Approaching her, the redheaded man leaned over enough to take her labia tag in hand and pull.
“I’m surprised you managed this one. The State isn’t letting these beauties get away much anymore. At least not the ones they mark like this.”
“Few are as fine as this one. But the truth is, we all should be wearing tags for our fornication,” Degas joked. “Delila’s problem, she got sloppy. Isn’t that so?” he said addressing her directly. The dark man leaned into her and smirked.
Still dazed, Delila struggled to put the various pieces of bizarre reality into place, though nothing was quite fitting.
“You start her tonight?” the redhead asked.
“Late shift, I think. She’d slept late. Besides, the cage won’t be too hard on her. We’ll tease the guests with her until they’re ravenous and will pay any price to plant their cocks in her cunt. Degas gave her one last artful smile, and then walked to a door at the far side of the room, leaving the redheaded valet to take charge of her.
“Oh, by the way,” he said turning around. “After you clean her up, cane her. I promised her that much.” His grin was ghastly, how it mocked her.
“But you said …” Delila cried out at his remark, they were the first words from her lips.
“Hush, my fine one,” Degas said. “Just a reminder of what you’ve left behind. I wouldn’t want you suddenly changing your mind about your new assignment. Surely, you can take Fier’s caning. A bit grim I’m sure, but nothing that you aren’t use to. If you take it in the right spirit, you might enjoy yourself.” Degas looked at Delila’s dumbstruck face and then blew her a kiss. “Give her ten,” he told the valet. “Hard and deep, that should keep our guests intrigued seeing stripes as well as that wicked tag she’s wearing.”
Delila tried to rise from the bed, but she fell back against the cushions beneath
her as she heard Degas last remark. Only then did she realize that her arms were still tied behind her and she couldn’t jerk free.
“Oh my, so she’s going to be caned?” a sassy voice rang out.
“Hush, Mira,” the redhead spoke to her harshly.
“Ooo, Fier, she’s so meek, so timid. You don’t have to cane her so soon. Degas is just showing off.”
A naked woman sauntered toward Delila’s bed wrapping a silky black robe around her body, pulling the red sash tight. She stared down at Delila with a sensuous smile. The woman’s ash blonde hair had been wildly teased, and now was all askew from a night of sleep. Her thick make-up was smudged, but underneath all that, there was a genuine face, one that Delila imagined could smile warmly.
“I could cane you for your suggestions, Mira,” Fier snapped at her. “You’d best keep your opinion on Degas to yourself.”
“You’re still scared of him, aren’t you?”
“You should be.”
Mira shook her head. “It’s been years since he could raise a good fright in me. There’s nothing to taunt me with. You should be so lucky.”
“You should feel lucky to still be attractive enough to work here.”
“I love it, Fier, you should try that.”
“So get on with you, aren’t you due on the floor this morning?”
“Yeah, for a while. But be gentle with her,” she said kindly.
“You be gentle with her, love. That’s not my job,” Fier replied.
“Well at least remove those bonds, good god she slept that way. You must be exhausted,” the woman said stroking Delila’s cheek.
Fier shoved the woman aside, lifting Delila to sitting. Undoing the bonds behind her, he helped her stand, and then led her into a carpeted corridor, and to the bath.
“You have an hour to yourself,” he said. “I have things to do elsewhere, just be ready when I return.” The valet gazed up and down her body, though he showed no reaction to his scrutiny. “You’ll fit in here nicely,” was all he said before he left.
Delila: I relished that bath, the water like balm from the gods descended to caress me, so it seemed that days and weeks of grief lifted away, even as I pondered with dread the fearsome possibilities of this strange place. It was truly the most luxurious place I’d seen in months, with carpets and golden wallpaper and fine feeling velvet. The bath … I could stay there forever … was a room of elegance, the walls painted with murals of voluptuous bodies engaging in every kind of carnal act. I couldn’t help myself, when looking at two women poised together kissing mouths, I found my hand slipping between my legs to toy with myself. The thought of women pleasing me sexually was as verboten as any sexual taboo in New Victoria, though apparently not taboo in Degas’s world. I climaxed easily, thinking of myself in such an indecent scene, though thoughts of my response to Briel’s affections reminded me of the guilt I bore for such wretched sexual appetites.
I couldn’t imagine my strange fortunes had brought me to this place. I wondered about the dream I’d had before Degas brought me here. I wondered how vastly different that dream was from the reality of this place, and yet … I’m not sure it was wholly different since I was awakened just after the dream had turned from pleasant to grotesque, and I didn’t experience the end.
All that I was sure of was that nothing in this bizarre realm was ordered the way the real world was, and yet it was still too new to know how it was ordered. It was clear that Degas’s promises of sexual freedom were likely true, although I remained prisoner to Degas and this place. This must be progress, but there was a ways to go before I’d feel liberated.
***
Finishing her bath, Delila waited in the room for Fier to come to her. She supposed that facing a caning should fill her with dread, but with the luxury of her surroundings and the promised satisfaction she was beginning to fathom, she found the prospects of punishment were once again holding a treasured arousal—an arousal she should surely reject; though like her trysts with Rafferty, her body seemed in charge, not her reason.
When Fier arrived at last, he held a collar in his hand and immediately clamped it at her neck.
“You’ll wear this until Degas orders otherwise,” he said.
Saying no more, he fastened a leash to the collar and led his charge into the corridor again, and down the hall.
“Have you been caned before?” he asked her when they’d reached their destination—a dim lit vestibule that had been carved out of the corridor wall. Perhaps three feet deep and five feet wide, the opening was distinct for the eyehooks, rings and handles that were strategically embedded in the plaster overhead.
“I’ve been caned just once,” Delila answered his question as she stopped in front of the vestibule. “You’ll do it here?” she asked.
“In the open, yes,” he said. “We don’t hide sex or punishments in Outer Island,” he said.
“Outer Island?” she asked. She’d heard Degas say that the night before.
“Yes, that’s what we call this place.”
“Degas named it?” she asked.
“No,” the man replied. “Goes far back, before anyone can remember, even Degas. Now, if you don’t want me to cuff you to the rings grab those handles and hold on.”
“When I was caned, it was in the middle of an open air courtyard,” Delila said, as she turned toward the wall and stretched out her arms to reach the wooden handles. She had to stand on tiptoe to grab on tight.
“Then this should be easy for you,” Fier said, as he took the appropriate implement from its place on the wall. “Degas does this frequently, especially with his new women. Says it teaches them sexual discipline. I think it’s because he enjoys seeing the stripes, reminds him of the power he has over them.”
“He doesn’t use the cane himself?” Delila asked.
“Never,” Fier replied. “But you hush now and bow your head, and don’t cry out. I’m obliged to double your sentence if you do.”
It was quite the spot for a caning, very ingenious. The pose required was rigid and demanding. To grab the handles meant she was standing on tiptoe, and yet bent slightly at the top of her thighs over a gold metal bar in front of her. Her body was rigidly outstretched, her skin taut, making her bottom the obvious target of discipline as she was cruelly struck by the bamboo cane.
Delila closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as the cane swooshed and snapped and a line of excruciating stimulation overpowered her senses. The strength of Fier’s stroke was every bit as fierce as the administrator’s in prison. She squelched her reply, though she couldn’t squelch the tears beginning to form in her eyes; they were only more apparent as the second cut landed.
How she’d endure ten in silence, she had no idea.
Fier was practiced in the art of caning. So practiced he could sense a woman’s passion in her reply to the brutal implement he held. From the moment he saw Delila reach for the embedded rings, he sensed her arousal, a keen eye picking up the mild jerking in her abdomen as she waited for the caning to proceed.
The first cut he laid on was always the harshest, except for the last one, which was worst of all. He picked up speed after the initial one, laying them on faster, and with a sharp snap of the wrist. Three, four, five, six.
“Degas was right,” Fier said. “You’re a natural for this.” As Delila held back her cries with every ounce of strength inside her, the redhead valet continued with the cane, pausing only to watch the red marks rise: six distinct places where the skin was marred and blistered. Then seven and eight. In some places where the lines began to crisscross, her skin was breaking slightly, a bead of red blood appearing, and then another.
She was trying hard, trying not to wriggle, trying to endure, trying to squelch screeches that Fier could still hear coming from her belly even if she was completely silent. She wanted to slump to floor after the ninth cut landed, but she remained in the awkward stance fighting all her instincts to flee. Yes, it was power they held over her. Fear and desire, ea
sy companions, made her remain there even though she was enduring the worst kind of agony. It was a fine thing, that the girl feared the sweatshop and an eternity of nothingness more than she feared this pain. It was a fine thing too that she knew enough about pain to realize, on the other side of pain was bliss.
Ten.
Fier drew the bamboo back and brought it down with a savage snap of the wrist, with power behind the cut that hadn’t been there before. She couldn’t help the shriek that escaped unheeded, and the valet couldn’t help but sense the erotic quality of his charge’s present agony.
In the days to come, Fier would ram himself between her sweating thighs afterwards, and take his pleasure while she remained strung up. However, Degas would take nothing for himself; she hadn’t been properly initiated.
***
“Give her something to soothe her wounds,” Fier announced to a honey-haired woman in a long purple robe.
“What have you done to her?” she said annoyed.
“Degas’s orders,” Fier explained. “It’s not for you to quarrel with, Lexia.” He gave her a sharp-eyed look. “He wants her in the cages tonight.”
“Tonight!” Lexia protested.
“Don’t argue.” Fier walked from the room leaving the two women alone.
“You’re new,” the woman said, sauntering toward the defeated looking Delila as she stood before her naked in the entry of her room.
Delila shook her head, trying to shake away the tears, but the kindness in the woman’s eye was too much to behold without breaking free in a raw emotional sob, with lust and pain and fear and hurt all combined in a reckless commotion.
“Here let me help you,” the woman said. With Lexia’s hand on her arm, the crying Delila collapsed into the comforting bosom of the woman’s generous embrace. Lexia was statuesque, a strong woman with enormous breasts, a tight torso, ample flaring hips and finely shaped legs. In her arms, Delila felt warm and protected, as the women helped the distressed initiate onto the bed.
The candlelit room was Lexia’s private boudoir; something about her forceful presence in this unusual place suggested that the room was a haven of her own design. Here she was the mistress. Would even Degas bow to her in this place? Delila would later wonder.
Outer Island Page 5