After each course, the waiter returned to clear the table. He did not look at Melinda once.
'No dessert,' the Master said, as the fish was cleared away.
'Yes, sir. Coffee?'
'Yes.'
The waiter went back into the kitchen. Melinda heard the Master's chair scrape back on the wooden floor and his footsteps approaching her, but he still remained silent. The waiter returned almost immediately, his silver tray this time containing a Georgian silver coffee pot, and a single cup and saucer in delicate white china.
'Shall I pour, sir?'
'No, just leave it on the table.'
The waiter did as he was instructed and then left the room. The Master's words hung in the air. His footsteps approached the stone column until Melinda could feel his breath on her neck. He did nothing for what seemed like hours; nothing but look. Then his hand brushed her short blonde hair. His touch made her start.
'Well, my dear,' he said. 'You must be very uncomfortable.' It was not a question. She knew better than to reply. 'Are you?'
Now she could speak, 'Yes, Master.'
'I'm sure. But you know it pleases me. It excites me. I explained that, didn't I?'
'Yes, Master.' As long as it pleases you, Master, she wanted to say.
He walked around the column until she could see him. In his hand he held a pair of scissors, big commercial tailoring scissors, their chrome blades catching the light. He came up to her, so close their faces were only inches apart. She thought he was going to kiss her. She looked into his eyes and immediately felt herself overwhelmed; it was a sensation like looking directly into the sun. He moved behind her, but his eyes still burnt on her retina.
She felt his hand on the back of the jacket. She heard the scissors slicing through material, and in a second he had cut the jacket in two from waist to neck. He pulled the shirt from her trousers. This time, she could feel the cold blade of the scissors as he cut the shirt in two along her spine.
He pulled the waistband of the trousers out from the small of her back, extracting it from the chain that bound her to the column, and cut along the crease of the trouser leg right down to her ankle. A second cut destroyed the other leg. He cut round the pockets and along the sleeves of jacket and shirt until the clothes hung in tatters from her naked body. He pulled the remnants away. The stone column felt cold against her naked breasts and belly.
He was kneeling at her feet, taking off her shoes, stripping off the men's socks.
'Beautiful,' he said. He was clearly excited; his voice sounded husky.
He ran the tip of the scissors up the back of her legs, from ankle to thigh, then up over the roundness of her arse and along her spine to the nape of her neck. Their coldness made her shiver. Then she felt his hand, warm by contrast, caressing her buttocks, moulding itself to her curves, feeling the weight of the rump overhanging her thigh. His fingers pulled the cheeks of her arse apart; she could feel his eyes on the puckered corona of her anus. His finger examined it, probing but not penetrating.
Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he pressed himself into her, wrapping his arms around the stone column and squeezing her body between it and him, with all his strength. She could feel his erection thrust against her arse. Every muscle in his body seemed hard and tense, his face resting against her naked shoulder.
He had knocked the breath out of her. She gasped to regain it, as she wallowed in this sudden human contact, so total, so all-consuming, unlike anything she had experienced under the Master's control.
'I knew you were a woman,' he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. 'Under those clothes. I knew.' He was not talking to her. It was his own private fantasy playing in his head. His cock moved against her rear, but only the smallest of movements. She heard him moan, a peculiar sound, a cross between a cough and a yelp of pain.
As suddenly as he'd started, he stopped. As she panted for breath, she heard him walk back to his chair at the table. He poured a cup of coffee, and she heard him sipping it. There was a long silence. The clock ticked away the minutes.
Had the Master come? Had his elaborate private fantasy - her bondage, the men's clothes - made him come so quickly? Melinda would never know.
'Tell me what happened on the plane?' His voice rang out across the room.
Melinda hesitated. She had not said more than a few words to anybody for a week. What should she say? She had to tell the truth but she had lost the art of forming sentences.
'The woman... I was... They unstrapped...' She couldn't think of the words.
'They unstrapped you?' the Master prompted.
'Yes, Master.'
'The man fucked you?'
'No, Master. The woman...' She came to a grinding halt again.
'The woman. What did she do?'
'Sucked me, Master. Licked me.'
'And what did you do?'
'I couldn't help it, Master.'
'Answer my question.'
'She made me come, Master.'
'You had an orgasm?'
'Yes, Master.'
'While the woman licked you. You had an orgasm.'
She could feel his eyes on her naked back. 'Yes, Master.'
'And what did the man do?'
'Nothing, Master, not to me.'
'He touched you?'
'Yes, Master.'
'But that was all?'
'Yes, Master.'
'Did he do anything to the woman?'
'He was...' She was just about to say 'fucking' and hesitated.
'Fucking her?' the Master prompted again.
'Yes, Master.'
'I see,' he said, lapsing into silence.
After another cup of coffee, Melinda heard the chair scraping back on the floor, and footsteps leave the room.
Almost instantly, the housekeeper appeared. She bustled over to Melinda, and quickly unlocked the padlocks that chained her to the column. Her long thin fingers unbuckled all four leather straps at her wrists and thighs. Finally, she released the thick leather belt at her waist.
Standing without the support of the column, Melinda felt weak. The housekeeper took her by the arm and helped her over to the dining table. A tray of food was brought out from the kitchen by the same waiter who had served the Master. He took considerably more interest in her naked body this time. The housekeeper indicated that she should eat.
'This way,' the old woman said as soon as the food was finished. She set off across the room. Melinda got up from the table and followed, not at all sure her limbs would obey her commands. Unsteadily, she walked out into the corridor.
They mounted the stairs. Melinda found she was out of breath at this sudden exercise. She put her hand out to steady herself against the banisters. It was the first time she had been able to move her hands all day.
The old woman opened the first door on the landing. It was a small bathroom. Everything was Victorian in design, but with modern plumbing.
'Use the facilities,' she said, a Scottish accent now evident.
There was no shower, so Melinda ran herself a bath. She used the toilet while the bath filled. The old woman's eyes never left her but Melinda was used to performing the most intimate of activities in public now. She eased herself into the bath, but was not allowed to luxuriate in the warm water.
'Hurry up,' the housekeeper snapped.
As soon as Melinda was dry, the housekeeper led the way up a second flight of stairs. At the top, she walked down a small corridor and opened one of the doors. Indicating that Melinda should enter, and without another word, she locked the door the moment Melinda was inside.
Melinda stood in the room alone. She felt totally lost. No bonds, no cuffs, no metal block between her legs; no camera either as far as she could see. Within the confines of the small room, furnished, with only a single bed, she was free. She could even switch the overhead light on and off herself.
She stood unmoving on the room's bare wooden floorboards. Just as she had found it difficult to form sentences earlier, no
w her sudden freedom made it difficult to think of what she should do. Within the room she could do anything. The choice was suddenly overwhelming. She could touch herself; she could spend all night in endless masturbation. She could torture her nipples, invade her cunt, stroke her clitoris. Do everything she had so desperately wanted to do all the nights she had been chained and helpless. There was no constraint.
Except she knew what the Master intended. This was her punishment. He knew what had happened on the plane. He knew she had not resisted, that she had come in the chauffeur's mouth. This was her punishment. Freedom was her punishment.
She lay on the bed. The room was warm and she did not need to cover her body with the blanket that lay across the bed. She looked down at her body. The marks left by the leather straps had faded slightly but were still evident on her waist and thighs. She rubbed her thigh then stopped herself. Mechanically she raised her hands above her head, her wrists together. She would show him. She would show herself. She would take her punishment. She opened her legs so her thighs were not pressing against her sex. She would show him. She would not touch herself. She would lie all night and take her punishment. She would show him she did not want to be free.
The punishment continued in the morning. Her breakfast arrived with the housekeeper, who stood over her while she ate it. Then she was led down to the bathroom. A razor and shaving brush had appeared, and she used them to shave off the daily growth of pubic hair while the old woman watched impassively. At any moment she was expecting to be cuffed and bound. But she was not. As soon as she was dry the housekeeper led her downstairs, through the dining room where she had been chained last night to the back of the house.
'In here,' the woman said, opening a glass-panelled door. Melinda stepped into what looked like a vast Victorian conservatory. In fact, the curved glass roof housed a large rectangular swimming pool, bordered by lush tropical plants on three sides, with a small gym area on the other complete with various exercise machines and a jacuzzi.
'You will not be required until seven,' the housekeeper said. It was the first time Melinda had known from one minute to the next what she would be doing.
The door was closed but not locked. Melinda was left alone. Alone and free. All part of her punishment. She was sure of that now. She could see the Master's eyes, calculating, making the punishment fit the crime. She had come, allowed her body to escape his control, and this was the result.
It hurt. It hurt more than any of the bonds had done, more than the chains yesterday, more than being whipped. She no longer wanted freedom.
She swam without enthusiasm and used the exercise machines, half-imagining one of the chatelaines standing over her, telling her what to do. She lay uneasily on one of the many sun-loungers, and felt the heat of the sun through the glass roof beating down on her naked body. The housekeeper brought a meal at lunchtime, but did not watch her while she ate it.
Without the constriction of her bondage to distract her, her mind roamed freely. She yearned to be back in the house in London, back where her life was controlled, her movements decided. What made the punishment worse was that she knew she deserved it. She should have controlled herself, she should have fought the couple, fought her orgasm. She went cold when the thought occurred to her that the Master might not take her back, that this was the prelude to her release, that she might never see the London house again.
Such thoughts were torture, more painful than anything she had endured so far.
At six, the housekeeper opened the conservatory door again. Without a word she indicated that Melinda should follow her. They retraced the morning's journey through the house and up to the bedroom, having first used the bathroom. Melinda was locked in.
Sitting on the bed, she comforted herself with the thought that at least she hadn't been told what the next hours would bring. She was back with not knowing. Such crumbs of solace were important to her, her mind still full of unwelcome thoughts.
It was only a few minutes before the door was unlocked again. The housekeeper entered. She dropped several items on the bed next to Melinda.
'Play time,' she said, a slight smile flickering on her face; a cruel smile rather than one of pleasure. 'Put these on,' she ordered, holding up a pair of what looked like full-length black leather gloves, with the addition of a flap about an inch wide, perforated from top to bottom with holes reinforced by metal edges.
Melinda pulled the first glove over her arm. The soft leather was tight, and it took a great deal of effort before her fingers slid into the carefully tailored stalls, and she could smooth the glove flat. The leather extended right up to her armpit. Here, sown to the top of the glove was a leather strap which the housekeeper buckled over Melinda's shoulder. The second glove followed with equal difficulty, once again secured by a strap fastened tightly over the shoulder.
'Hands behind your back,' the old woman ordered. She grasped Melinda's arms in her hands. Despite her frailty, her grip was strong, her hands pinching like the claw of a bird. She pressed Melinda's hands together, fingertip to fingertip in an attitude of prayer, except that her hands were pointed to her feet. 'Now don't move,' she instructed.
From the bed, she picked up a long leather lace and threaded it through the holes in the flap attached to the gloves, as if lacing the eyes of a shoe. She worked quickly, pulling the laces tight after every two or three eyelets, effectively binding Melinda's arms together, tighter and tighter, from wrist to shoulder. At the very top, the laces forced Melinda's upper arms together, her shoulder blades almost meeting, her breasts pushed out prominently in response to the position of her arms.
The old woman took a black satin basque off the bed. She made Melinda step into it, then drew it up around her body. The basque was laced too. Once satisfied that it was correctly positioned the housekeeper drew these laces tight, until Melinda felt its constriction encasing her body. It had her breathless.
The basque had no bra. It was topped by two half-crescents which tucked under the breasts, but did not hide or support them.
Melinda was pushed into a sitting position on the bed. Sheer black stockings were rolled over her legs and clipped to the long satin suspenders of the basque.
The woman brushed Melinda's hair, and applied make-up, blusher, eye-liner, eye-shadow and lipstick. Finally, she dropped a pair of black high heels on the floor and indicated that Melinda should put them on. Then she left the room, locking the door behind her.
Melinda's breathing had not returned to normal. She was breathing in rapid, shallow pants. Her heart was beating fast. There was no mirror in the room. Melinda could only look down at her own body, her naked tits hanging over the incredibly tight, black satin corset, the welts of the black stockings bisecting her thighs, her hairless pubis revealing the folds of her sex. She could not suppress a shudder of pleasure.
As her body had been bound, her excitement had increased, every pull of the laces of the gloves like a notch on a gear that racked up her feelings. Once again she was helpless, her body held and bound. Her shoulders ached, her whole torso a tightly wrapped package. And, in the centre of it, open, exposed and available, was the melting wetness that throbbed between her legs.
With every muscle in her body she fought the bonds, wanting to feel their constraint. To her delight, she could move them not an inch. This bondage was the tightest she had experienced. She gloried in it. She welcomed it. She knew her punishment was over.
Darkness had fallen before the bedroom door was unlocked again and Melinda had no means of reaching the light switch, now, to switch on the light. She had sat on the edge of the bed, where she had been left, relishing the feelings her body generated, her doubts and fears, her ability to think, gradually submerged in waves of discomfort. Once again, she had no will. Once again, her body, bound and dressed and made-up to someone else's design, did not belong to her.
The door finally opened. The housekeeper turned on the light and beckoned her forward.
Without being able to use
her hands for balance, she had to walk down the stairs with care, not wanting to pitch forward. On the first floor landing, the old woman led her to the far door, rapped twice, opened it, and pushed Melinda inside, closing the door behind her.
'Come in, come in...' The Master's voice sounded different, softer; even, Melinda thought, a little drunk.
'Well, don't you look pretty?'
The bedroom was not as large as the one in the London house, and contained little more than a large double bed with tables on each side supporting two bedside lamps, which were dimmed to give the room a deep rich glow. Hanging from the ceiling to one side of the bed was a thick white rope. It was wrapped around a pulley and trailed off to the side wall where it was tied off on a large brass cleat. The rope's silhouette was reflected on the opposite wall. It looked like the shadow of a gallows.
The Master lay on the bed in a white silk robe, his back propped up on pillows against the wall. He was not alone. Kneeling in a tight ball, his knees under his chest, was what from behind appeared to be a naked young boy. The boy's mouth was devouring the Master's cock; riding up and down on the shaft, licking and sucking as it went, covering the hard shaft with saliva.
'Come close, and watch,' the Master said.
Melinda obeyed. The robe had been pushed up to allow access to his cock. It was the first time she had seen it. It was big and handsome. From what she could see it was very smooth, almost polished-looking and neatly circumcised. She could see his balls were big too, and very hairy.
'Stop,' the Master ordered. The boy's mouth obeyed, immediately pressing into his crotch as it happened to be on the downward stroke when the order was issued. 'Put the clips on her.'
The boy raised his head. The cock slipped from his lips. It was only then that Melinda saw that the slight figure kneeling on the bed was not a 'boy' at all. The short-haired waif was, in fact, a girl, though the most masculine girl Melinda had ever seen. Like a man, her figure was angular: big shoulders and very little waist; her features large; her breasts non-existent; and even her nipples, though erect, no more than tiny buttons on her flat chest. Had it not been for the absence of a cock nestling between her legs, had it not been for the labia of a female clearly visible under a shaven pubis, there would have been nothing to point to her femininity.
Melinda and the Master Page 14