“You’re going to survive this place; you’re going to make it outside these walls into the real life.”
The idea wasn’t instantly registering in Delila’s brain. Lexia had moved down to her navel, her tongue dancing around the skin.
“You’ll be the only woman to leave here, your marriage intact, the only woman to triumph over this place instead of it swallowing you up.”
Lexia and Mira changed places, Mira going after the pink bud of her clit, while Lexia’s throaty voice was at Delila’s ear. “You aren’t like the others, you aren’t like us. You have a special ability that no one else possesses. Don’t ever forget that.”
By then, these hushed words were interesting her. “What do you mean?” she replied, even as Mira’s tongue on her clit was doing a fascinating tango she would have liked to follow to orgasm. For a while before she replied, Lexia was running her tongue around Delila’s inner arm making her shriek.
“No matter what anyone says, you don’t belong here. You belong in your marriage bed; you belong in the real world away from this place.”
“But I love this place,” Delila found herself replying.
“Of course you do, but you can take Outer Island with you when you leave.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. Mira’s fingers were in her cunt, prodding her hard, not hard enough to be painful, although the force of the penetration was a delicious treat she wanted to continue.
“You will, my sweet,” Lexia whispered to her, as her lips toyed with Delila’s ears. “You’ll understand very soon.”
They spent their interlude enjoying each other bodies. What Mira’s tongue and fingers did to Delila’s cunt, what Lexia’s mouth did thereafter to the same engorged place, Delila did in return to the two women. They spent two hours in this blissful state – with the women’s mysterious words echoing in Delila’s ears.
Chapter Twenty
“How did you manage to be here?” Delila asked her husband as he checked them into a small hostel in a dingy town not far from Degas’s factory.
“I bribed three officials, and worked double-time for a month to earn the credits to do this.”
“They know you have me here?” she asked.
“They made me swear on my life that I’d have you back as planned. At the station, same time you’d be arriving as if you were returning on the train.”
Delila was amazed that Armand would go to such lengths to be with her, when their first and second visits had been rocky at best.
“I still have to cane you,” he reminded her. “In fact, they told me to double the punishment.”
“Then let’s get it over with,” Delila suggested right off.
Armand’s face turned dour at her proposal. “I still maintain control, my dear. It wouldn’t pay for you to get too high and mighty,” he said sternly. “Besides, I have something creative in mind for your punishment.” His expression looked even grimmer.
“What would that be?” she asked cautiously.
“You’ll have to wait. And wait you will indeed, I need you now, wife, come to me.” He was at one side of the small room, she at the other. It seemed a tremendous distance between them, one that Delila carefully negotiated. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, whether he was happy to have her. He must be, having arranged this visit specially. Or was he still filled with the anger that was so apparent in their earlier visits?
Despite her questions, Delila wasn’t arguing with Armand’s passion so wildly rendered; it was sparking her own, not with the oddities of its originality, but with the security that his steadiness and constancy exerted on her. Falling into his arms, he overwhelmed her with dozens of kisses that seemed as much like Mira and Lexia practicing lovemaking on her body, as they felt like a man’s hands pleasing her. She felt the love through them, astonished that even when they were separated, as they had been, even with all the nastiness of the past that once clouded their relationship, Armand would still show his love so easily. It made her heart soar, though she kept her enthusiasm guarded.
Glad to have her husband intoxicated with her again—likely he’d never been intoxicated with her like this in the past—Delila responded, coming down on his groin with her mouth, taking his whole prick as deeply into her as she could possibly manage. Then backing off, she began an exuberant fellatio, until his anxious cock burst and he spewed his seed across her face.
She climaxed herself when Armand pulled her into his arms, and holding her tightly to him, stimulated her between her legs so that she was almost crying at the completion. The power that surged from him to her was enormous; she hadn’t felt anything so strong, except perhaps from Degas, though his power was of a different sort. This was all consuming, and like with Degas, she had no choice but to succumb. There was love and darkness coming from Armand, where with Degas, she knew only darkness. They slipped out of each other’s arms when they finally relaxed, and lying back on the bed were content to remain connected through the touch of fingertips.
“I’m having a hard time with this duality we live,” Armand spoke out into the stillness of the sexual aftermath.
Strange, for Delila, the duality was what made the circumstances bearable—that she could have two separate lives that were in no way connected made it easier for her to be a wife for a few brief days and a whore the remainder of her life.
“I can see it’s difficult for you. It’s worse because it hardly seems like we have any time at all to get to know each other before we’re ripped apart again. Sometimes I wonder about this arrangement. I wonder if the State isn’t setting us up to fail.”
“Why would you wonder that?” Armand said.
“If the State really wanted us to be together, it seems that there could be some other way for me to serve my sentence.”
“But that is the point, Delila. You’re serving a sentence for a heinous crime.”
Obviously, he didn’t understand. “How much of a crime is it to love,” Delila said wistfully.
“It’s a crime to pursue men when you have vows with another. I’d think by now you’d understand that. I can forgive you, but if you think I’m going to absolve you, you’re wrong.” He was annoyed with her thinking.
“Then, let’s forget about it, and just be happy we can have some time together.”
Armand continued to brood. The thoughts of her indiscretion went through his mind again, even after he tried to push them away for the sake of the present. Caught up in the pictures in his head, he turned toward her and grabbed her hands. Rising above her, he held her down, her arms overhead, his body pressed firmly against hers. In seconds, he was hard enough again to thrust inside and he pounded her relentlessly without ceasing, until he’d spent himself. Pulling away from her, he left her in the bed while he showered.
***
“You’re angry with me again,” Delila said, leaning against the door jam, watching as Armand dried his torso and his swaying testicles and penis with a towel.
“It comes and goes,” he replied.
“Because I was trying to deny my crime.”
“Isn’t that what you were doing?”
“I will always regret causing you hurt, jumping the gun on my life by taking Rafferty to bed; but I’ll never be able to shun the sharing that comforted me when Rafferty was with me. It kept me sane when I believed you were gone forever.”
Armand looked up from his task, his bold eyes looking exceedingly sharp. “In theory, Delila, that sounds really good. But unfortunately, all I can think of is the consequences that your recklessness as wreaked on our marriage.”
He turned away. Finishing his bath, he splashed water on his face and combed back his dark hair. Coming to her, his clean nakedness against the fragrant ripeness of her body made Delila think herself unclean, as impure as her thoughts often were. What she really wanted was his affection, care and love, and still she was saying things to bring the opposite result.
“You must have had some reason for arranging this vi
sit,” she said.
“So we could have more time,” he said flatly.
“Then let’s not waste it talking about things that cannot change.”
He seemed to agree on that. Drawing an arm around her, he held her for a while. Then leading her into the washroom, he bathed her, laying the soap against her skin, scrubbing her with a washcloth and then rinsing her clean with water. When he was finished, after he’d rubbed her body with a sensuous cream so she was like a sweet confection to his touch, he’d use the cane to mark her ass and leave deep welts.
***
Armand allowed Delila to nap after her bath. A sleepy sadness had depleted her energy and in the lethargic moment, he thought it would be best if she repaired a bit before he applied the pain. He watched her for a while, while she slept on the dingy blanket that covered the bed. The flawless skin on her ass looked like virgin territory for whip, cane and cock, even though he knew better. The longer his eyes gazed on the two rounded orbs of flesh, the more he burned inside to see that pale skin burn hot. For a while, he toyed with the cane in his hand, wondering what kind of misery it would cause to strike her while she was in the throes of slumber. For a while, he thought it contemptible to be so vicious, and yet, hadn’t her offense affected him as hurt him as cruelly as the cane would her? Hadn’t her underhanded promiscuous act created a rip in his heart that seemed never to mend? Perhaps it would be another step toward perfect justice…
With that thought in his mind, the cane abruptly singed the air, and landed on Delila’s bottom.
She jerked in shock, feeling the pain. Without any restraints her mind might fashion expecting the assault, the sensation was uncontrollable, and she cried instantly, “Gawd, nooooooo!”
“Don’t move!” Armand ordered her.
“Please no!” she wailed, knowing that another cut was coming soon. She tried turning over to plead her case.
“Lie still!” he ordered. “You turn over; the cane will land where it will.”
Falling back against the bed to protect her front side, she felt the next blow land squarely in the middle of her ass. This time, anticipation allowed her to bury her tears in the sheets beneath her. Subsequent cuts made vicious marks, a doubled count of twelve that turned into nearly twenty. Armand made certain that her ass would bear the number recommended by the State, and many more.
When he was done, she sobbed, however her suffering was interrupted by Armand, turning her over and fixing her eyes with a wrathful stare.
“This was your special plan?” she asked, hurt.
“Plans change, this was what I wanted to do,” he said. His lips came down to kiss her, his body pressed against hers with his cock presenting itself again and finding its home deep in her cunt.
This time, on finishing, Armand didn’t draw away from her, but spilled his seed and then kissed her down to her own soppy crotch and sucked her until she spasmed underneath him, and he could see the beads of sweat rising on the surface of her hot skin.
“You like caning me as much as fucking me, don’t you?” she asked later on that first night.
“Yes, I do,” he admitted. “As much as it arouses you, my darling.”
“Arouses me?”
“Yes, arouses you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that. Perhaps it’s something to be grateful for, since it’s obviously something you’re required to endure.”
It was no secret to Degas, her bizarre lust, and now no secret to Armand. She never believed her passions were so transparent.
“Why do you cane me now and not just before our visit ends?” she asked him.
“Because I like to look at the marks, know that I made them. They remind me that as sweet as these days with you might be, there’s a darker side to our lives that I can’t ignore. I don’t get swept up in pipe dreams and fairy tales that way.”
“I wish you knew how dark it is sometimes,” she replied.
“Why don’t you tell me,” he said.
She shook her head, already knowing she’d said too much, even though she’d said so little. “It wouldn’t really matter if I did,” she answered him. This time it was her turn to be sullen, and he didn’t press her.
Delila: I was beginning to understand that what I’d brought upon my marriage was more than shame and separation. There were longings in our collective soul that were revealed. Armand was more human to me and less myth, and I began to understand his brooding nature and what was behind the forbidding expressions on his face, those times before this trial of ours when I’d leave him be. In these new circumstances, I was bold enough to point out his moods and ask him to explain them. For Armand’s part, he was more likely to answer me honestly. Sometimes I wondered if he thought his honesty would hurt me, I know sometimes he wanted it to. I figured it would be a while yet before he’d get completely beyond revenge. Maybe then, he would really forgive me.
The seed of hope nurtured in our last visit was nurtured again this third time, so much so, I wondered if I could go back to Outer Island and separate myself from Armand as easily as I had before.
Armand: I would never believe that this abominable fate would be a blessing. The times between our visits were numbing, when I didn’t think I was alive at all. The only thing that seemed to sustain me was that I’d be seeing my wife again, that I would have her in any way that I demanded.
When we were together though, I felt more alive than even before this horror began. I’m sure it had to do with taking off the limitations in our lives. We were talking about things we would never have discussed in the past. I allowed myself physical and emotional liberties with her that I wouldn’t have even thought of before. Caning her was satisfying. At first, I didn’t care that it hurt her, although on this third occasion, realizing that she was actually deriving some weird satisfaction from the punishment, I found some strange satisfaction for myself. I wasn’t sure what kind of relationship that we aspired to, but there was something in me that decided to hang on, despite the ridicule and shame I constantly lived with. At one time, she’d simply been a wife, now she’d become the most lascivious creature on earth, a woman of fascinating moods and base urges that duplicated my own newly born lust.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was turning cold again in Outer Island, the wind whipping about in a frenzy sent drafty chills through windows and cracks. So much earlier than other years. The whores were begging to be on the floor where it was always warmer than the breezy rooms on the perimeter of the building.
Delila returned to the chilly climate, surprised to find her assignment had changed for some unknown reason. She was back on the main floor in her rose-colored dress and some nights dressed in a leather corset that showed off her nether ring. Degas wasn’t paying attention to her, and she didn’t know if that was a blessing, or something to be worried about.
“How was your visit?” Degas asked her, when he finally had her returned to him days later.
“It went well,” she said.
“I understand you had more time with him traveling close by, so that he caned you twice?”
“Yes. You must have spies.”
“I know everything, Delila. Don’t think otherwise.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t.”
“Well,” Degas said, finally smiling that dark way where something pleasant had obviously just crossed his mind. “It’s too bad, I suppose, that you’ll miss your next visit.”
“My visit with Armand?”
“Are there other people you’re visiting these days?” he mocked her.
“My god, why?” Her face was ashen.
“I have a special assignment for you. In fact, it was the reason I was so interested in developing you into the whore you’ve become. I think you’ll find it quite compelling, though it does require your service for five, perhaps six months.”
“Six months! And I can’t see Armand?”
“No.”
“But that’s against the State’s decree.”
“State decrees can
be changed. Surely you understand that by now.”
“But …”
“Your assignment will commence in three weeks, until that time, treat yourself well. I’ll place few demands on you. There will be so many once this task gets underway, let’s just say I’m being kind.”
“You’re doing this deliberately to pull me away from Armand, aren’t you?”
“You think I care about you and your husband?”
“I don’t know what you care about, Degas. I know that what you do is manipulate people, and you do that very well.” There was a vile anger in her about to break loose, but seeing the Degas’ expression, she did everything to control the emotion.
He was calm, and cold, as cold as the draft that came in under the door, and through the rickety windowsill. His breath was like ice. Everything about him was cold, except for the blackness in his eyes. For reasons beyond her understanding, she felt some heat from those searing eyes that reached deep inside and clawed at her soul.
“I’d suggest, Delila Armand,” Degas began to speak, “that since you know me so thoroughly, you use your knowledge to contain your comments, or I might just double last month’s rigors on your fair ass, and you’ll be doing twice the hours over the bar.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Degas dressed her in mourning weeds, the symbol of a widow. There was no other way to get Delila across the borders of New Victoria.
“Her husband was fighting in the Nether regions, this is her pilgrimage,” he told the patrol at the small crossing station. As was the custom, the official was inspecting the train going out of the country for contraband and escaping criminals.
“Taking a female citizen that deep into the other side is dangerous,” the border guard remarked.
“She’s aware of that, but has insisted that she take the risk. The government has approved her passport.”
“Good luck.” The man tipped his hat at the woman in the black veil. Such darkness! he was thinking, just barely making out the outline of a widow’s dark eyes and of course the raven hair beneath the shadowy veil.
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