Melinda and the Master

by Susanna Hughes

  'That's not what you want,' his wife said knowingly. 'Come on, Brian, get on with it.'

  The man stood in front of Melinda. Delicately, he took one of her nipples between his fingers. 'Lovely tits,' he said, almost to himself. He pinched the nipple, but not hard. He did the same to the other nipple, then ran his hand down to her soft pubic hair, his forefinger just nudging into the runnel of her sex. 'Oh, feels soft. She's still wet.'

  His finger, just the one finger, was buried between her legs now. He rotated his hand from side to side, making the finger turn against Melinda's soft labia. She felt it moisten with her juices. He pulled it away and sucked on it enthusiastically.

  'Lay on your back on the bed,' he said, his voice husky with passion.

  Melinda obeyed immediately, her body throbbing with excitement. She had not had sex for a week, because somehow the Master had prevented it. Though she had come twice today, it was not as the result of any human contact. That's what she yearned for, that was the pulsing urgent need that filled her body. She wanted cock; hard, hot cock. She hoped he wouldn't tease her. She didn't think she could stand that.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and managed to squirm herself backward until she was lying in the middle of the mattress. With her hands still tied behind her she was forced to arch her back. She opened her legs wide without being told to do so.

  'Look at her. She's begging for it,' Sybil said.

  It was true. If she had been allowed to speak she would have begged. Brian stood by the edge of the bed, one hand circling his cock and wanking it lazily. Melinda could see its gnarled veins engorged with blood. A tear of fluid formed at the slit of the urethra. Using his finger, the man spread the fluid over the smooth pink flesh, pulling his foreskin right back. He moaned and his body shuddered.

  'I should beat her,' he said.

  'You'd never last,' Sybil replied. 'Look at you. If you're not careful you'll spunk before you get inside her.'

  'Don't worry.'

  Brian walked to the foot of the bed and removed Melinda's shoes. He looked up her long legs as he did so, then knelt on the bed beside her. Suddenly, Melinda heard a tiny but familiar noise. She looked up. In each corner of the room was a video camera. One of them had just refocused its lens, zooming in on the action. They were being watched. That was how the Master would know what went on in the room. He was watching now, Melinda could feel it. All the dinner guests. Watching the show. Marion, the young brunette. Looking at her sex, open and wet.

  The man was stroking her thigh, his fingers running down to the knee then up until his fingernails just brushed against her labia. Melinda moaned at the touch. Any touch was welcome, precious.

  'Suck it,' he ordered.

  'You wouldn't be able to take it,' his wife chided. Brian replied by putting his finger to his lips to indicate the need for her silence.

  Melinda rolled on her side and slithered down the bed, moving her body like a snake until her face was alongside his cock. Eagerly she opened her mouth and sucked him in. He was big. He filled her mouth, her lips stretched to accommodate his width. She felt her body melting. She had never wanted cock more in her life. She pushed her head forward to impale herself on it, get it deep, deep into her throat. She knew she was going to come. She could not possibly stop herself. Too much provocation. Too much excitement.

  Her clitoris throbbed, her body churned. She sucked on his great hard stem of flesh and revelled in the feeling; coming now, not on some strange irritant, nor on a leather strap, but on the overwhelming feeling of having a real cock deep in her mouth. She got what she wanted.

  'Ah... ah...' she moaned, gagged by the cock, her body trembling out of control. As the orgasm raked through her, she tried to free her hands, knowing she could not, knowing that the thick white rope biting into her wrists as she struggled would drive her higher, reminding her of the helplessness she craved. Her body was shaking, all control gone, except in her mouth where she sucked on the cock like a limpet.

  With an audible plop, Brian pulled his cock away. Immediately, he took her by the shoulder and threw her back on the bed, then fell on top of her. His belly flopped down on her and, as his cock slipped between her thighs, his hands found her tits, squeezing them tight. He arched his back and his cock slid into her liquid, smouldering cunt, pumping instantly up and down on the river of her juices.

  She was coming again. Or was it just the same orgasm driven so high that it felt like another? She didn't know or care. She used all her strength to force her sex down onto his cock. She wanted every inch, every fraction. His considerable weight pressed down on her body and on her arms still bound behind her back. She felt the chain of the leash, trapped between their bodies, digging into their flesh. She raised her legs in the air and felt his balls banging into her arse.

  He was coming. She could feel his cock tensing, pulsing out of control. But he did not stop pumping it into her. She felt it jerking as spunk spat out, but he pumped on and on regardless, until all his spunk was out, until it too formed a river inside her, until she felt wetness running out of her and over her thighs and his balls. With one final effort he shook his entire body - like a dog out of water - as if to rid himself of any last remaining spunk. That was the moment her orgasm broke again, flooding her nerves with sensation just as her sex was flooded with spunk, making her muscles lock, her legs wrapped around his thighs, clinging to him, her arms unable to do the same.

  It was feeling his dead weight rolling off her that made her open her eyes. She found herself looking straight into the eyes of his wife. She was staring at them both with a crazy, wild expression on her face. She had extracted one of her breasts from the lime-green dress and was tweaking its nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Her other hand was up her skirt, awkwardly trying to gain access to her sex.

  Melinda saw one of the video cameras move onto Sybil, its lens turning to get a close-up.

  Sybil had never seen her husband so aroused. She would have loved to have joined them on the bed, sucked all the juices from that delicious wet sex, so open and exposed. But she dared not. She knew the rules. She knew what the Master would do to her if she broke them.

  It was not against the rules to touch herself. It was not against the rules to strip off the lime-green dress covered with little glass beads. It was not against the rules to turn her back to the camera, bend over the chair she had been sitting on and let the Master - and all his guests - see her. She wore flesh-coloured stockings held up by thin white suspenders. Her lacy French knickers were white too. She wanted to give him a show. Her body was not lithe and slim but her ample, round plumpness was nothing to be ashamed of. Many men found it attractive, liked the fullness of her figure.

  She caressed her big fleshy buttocks, smoothing the white silk of the knickers against the curves, before pulling them slowly down. Her pubis was hairy, with tight ginger curls. She let her fingers fall to her labia, intending to tease them gently, let the Master see her playing with herself. But she couldn't. Her need was too urgent. At the first touch of her fingers her body demanded more. She had no control. What she had witnessed had aroused her too much for subtle games.

  Bending over further she drove two fingers into her sex, while a third slid up to her clitoris. Her clitoris was hard and swollen and tender. She moaned. She knew she would come. It was as though she was swimming in a sea of provocation. All around her was sex, and images of sex. The beautiful blonde lying on the bed - the woman she yearned to ravish - her hands still bound. The images in her mind of how they had looked, fucking for all they were worth.

  Sybil had seen the look on the blonde's face, the ecstasy and the joy. That's what Sybil wanted. As she felt her orgasm begin, as it started to take over her body, as its rhythm dictated her every movement, controlled her, led her, she looked into Melinda's eyes and they stared back at her. She wants me too, Sybil thought. Her fingers pressed hard, one final time, deep into her body, hard against her clitoris, and felt her nerves convulse as her orgasm br
oke and her eyes rolled back into exploding blackness. She groaned, a long deep animal voice, her whole body locked as the waves of sensation engulfed it.

  'Stand up.'

  Melinda must have fallen asleep. The voice started her awake. She was alone in the room, still lying on the thin mattress.

  'Stand up,' the voice repeated.

  Melinda struggled to consciousness. She squirmed to the edge of the bed and managed to get to her feet, focusing on the woman who stood before her.

  The woman was young, a tall blonde, though her hair was a different shade from Melinda's; not as light and flaxen. She was dressed in black leather; a tight fitting V-necked leather leotard under a short, equally tight leather skirt. She wore knee-length black boots with a high spiked heel, but otherwise her legs were bare, though they were, like the rest of her, well tanned. Around her waist a wide belt was fitted, with two or three stiff leather pouches buttoned at the front, and, hanging from a loop, what could only be a whip. But it was not like any whip Melinda had ever seen. Its thick handle was made of braided black leather, suspended from which were a dozen or more thin leather thongs no more than twelve inches long. Each thong was knotted in several places along its length.

  On the left-hand side of the leotard, just above the breast, was a small silver brooch, upon which had been etched the name 'HERA'.

  Hera did not look at Melinda. Her expression was one of indifference, bordering on contempt.

  'Turn around,' she ordered.

  Melinda obeyed, her sleepiness gone. As soon as her back was turned, Hera began unlacing the white silk rope that had held her hands. Melinda felt the blood surge back as she dropped her arms to her sides.

  'Follow me,' Hera said, not making any attempt to pick up the leash that still hung between Melinda's naked breasts and brushed against her pubic hair.

  As Melinda had been blindfolded on her way in, she had no idea what to expect outside the bizarrely furnished room. She found herself in a short corridor with several doors on each side. Each door was of a different design. The walls of the corridor were stone, like the dungeon of a castle.

  Hera led the way down the passageway. Melinda could hear a voice coming from one of the other rooms, and Hera stopped outside its door. A loud thwack was immediately followed by a muffled moan. Melinda saw Hera smile. It was a strange smile, a crooked smile, one side of her mouth creased higher than the other. Another thwack rent the air.

  They continued to the end of the corridor and out into the main house. Soon, they were crossing the covered courtyard. Hera punched the numbers into the computer lock and the door of the stable block sprung open.

  This time they did not go right to the end of the passageway, but stopped about halfway down. Hera punched numbers into the computer lock of a door bearing the number 8 in white script. She stood aside for Melinda to enter first.

  The room was identical to the one in which Melinda had first been bound. There was one inner door and no windows. The only difference was that this room had a mattress lying in one corner, and the floor was covered in a thick cream linoleum.

  Hera opened the door to the bathroom, which was identical to the one Melinda had used before, with exactly the same furnishings. Quickly, she removed the velvet choker and leash, the leather of the leotard brushing against Melinda's breasts. Melinda felt a surge of passion. Any contact was precious.

  Melinda was permitted to shower and use the toilet. A toothbrush and toothpaste had been provided. As soon as she had dried herself, Hera led her back into the outer room and locked the bathroom door. Melinda had not noticed the object lying on the mattress. Hera stooped to pick it up. Hanging from a thin leather belt, two metal chains were attached to a thick metal block. Two further chains hung from the other end of the block.

  Hera strapped the leather belt securely around Melinda's waist.

  'Open your legs,' she ordered.

  Standing in front of her, she reached between Melinda's thighs and caught the chains, pulling them forward. Melinda felt the coldness of the metal on either side of her buttocks. The metal block fitted neatly between her thighs. It was at least an inch thick and concave on two sides. The concavity fitted it against Melinda's thigh, its length covering the whole of her sex from her anus to her clitoris, the metal being curved to follow the contours of her body. On its inner surfaces, the metal had been raised in little sharp peaks like the metal of a rasp. The chains were welded to the front and back. Hera pulled the two chains hanging from the front and clipped them into the leather belt. The chains followed the crease of Melinda's pelvis, where her thighs joined her belly.

  It was uncomfortable. At its narrowest point, where the two concave sides met, it was at least two inches wide. It prevented Melinda from closing her legs. If she tried, the metal cut into her tender flesh. She knew at once why she was made to wear it.

  'Take off the shoes. Lie on the bed with your hands above your head.' Hera's voice betrayed not a hint of sympathy.

  Melinda obeyed. The metal block bit into her thigh as she manoeuvred herself into position.

  Kneeling by the mattress, Hera took a pair of handcuffs from one of the pouches at her waist. She clipped them around Melinda's wrists. Set into the wall an inch or two above the level of the bedding was a large metal ring. Using a small padlock, Hera secured the handcuffs to the ring.

  'To stop you playing with yourself,' Hera stated with obvious pleasure, her mouth curling into that peculiar crooked smile. She stood up and went to the door, taking the velvet choker and high heels with her. 'Sleep well,' she said sardonically as she swung the cell door closed.

  The lights went out as Melinda heard the deadlock turn. The room was plunged into total darkness.

  Melinda lay uncomfortably. She tried to lie on her side so she could rest her head against her forearm but in this position her legs were forced together and the unyielding metal dug into the soft flesh of her thighs. The only way she could lie with any comfort was on her back with her legs open and her head between her outstretched arms. This put a strain on her shoulders but was the least uncomfortable of any of the positions she tried.

  Remarkably perhaps, she was not tired. Her mind raced with thoughts, feelings and images. Walter Hammerton had taken her at her word. She had told him her fantasy and he had accepted it, had taken her submission for granted. She had been bound, as she was now, but only symbolically. The real bonds had been of her own making. She had wanted to show him, and herself, that she would not flinch, that she would do and say exactly what she was told. That was what would give her the greatest pleasure. And it had. Beyond her wildest imaginings. And now she was committed, now she was enslaved. There was no turning back. This was the first night of 365 nights in which where, how and when she slept - like everything else in her life - was to be determined by someone else. By the Master or one of his delegates. Her will had been taken away, surgically amputated, the moment she had walked through the front door.

  The response of her body had not surprised her. Over the years, she had introduced Mark to her ways, got him to be her master, to bind her and use her. But that was not like this. To Mark it had been a game, a sex game. And she, ultimately, had still been in control; she still had to guide him as to what he should do. He had no natural talent for it. But this, this was reality, and not a game; and a reality she did not control at all. Now she was only an object. The door could open now, in an hour, in a week, in a month, whenever they chose. The choice had nothing to do with her. She had no idea what to expect, except they would demand her total obedience.

  She had not realised how much she would miss being touched, held, embraced. She had been touched of course, but only as an object, only to be examined, as when she walked around the dining room table; or to be used, as Brian had on that bare mattress. To them she was not a person, just a thing. She needed more than that, she wanted to be caressed and held. Human contact.

  She knew why, of course. Now she had been deprived of her will; now she was an obje
ct to be moved around at someone else's will; now her thoughts, her opinions, her desires, counted for nothing, for less than nothing; now there was not the slightest question of what she wanted; there was only her body. All she could do was feel. It had started in the taxi. Whatever they had used to irritate her body had worked perfectly. Instead of sitting thinking of what she was about to do, her last act of will, they had even taken that away from her. All she had been allowed was to think of her body, its discomfort, and then, rapidly, its pleasure.

  She wanted to be touched, because that was the only contact she was permitted now. No conversation. No meeting of minds. No discussion or argument. Human contact was narrowed to flesh on flesh.

  No wonder her appetite for sex seemed insatiable. It was all she had.

  Was that why she so badly wanted to touch herself? Had the Master known that was how she would feel, and acted to prevent it? If the cold metal - it seemed to absorb no heat from her body at all - would have allowed it she would have used her thighs to squeeze her clitoris. That would have been enough in her current state. She wouldn't need fingers. But the metal kept her thighs apart. She tried to push herself down on the metal itself, but the surface was so pitted and sharp it brought not the slightest hint of pleasure.

  The more she realised there was nothing she could do to touch her throbbing, swollen clitoris, the more she wanted to. She tried to relax, tried to forget her need, the hot pulses that swam up from between her legs, but she could not. She could not ignore the images that continued to crowd into her mind. Most of all she saw herself walking naked around the dining table, the hands pawing at her, the Master's eyes watching his guests' reaction to her body. Everything excited her, everything that had happened. It played over and over in her head like a video loop. It was torture.

  And, she knew, it was a torture the Master had specifically arranged.