In return for an agreed sum to be paid indirectly to him once the slave was safely home and for the full use of her body during the night, the individual undertook to provide money for the journey by the 0715 hours express from Rodez to Paris, as well as a cloak and shoes. She would, after being fucked in the shed, leave by the wicket-gate in the nearby wall, used for deliveries to the castle. Despite the hour, he agreed to arrange by phone for a taxi to convey Marina to the station; it would be waiting at the last oak on the descending pathway.
She would have only an hour or two to wait for the train. Beaucastel, he assured her, would be still dormant.
He would await her at 2 a.m. in the shack.
With a racing heart and a last piece of advice from her Swedish confidante, she went to bed and read, waiting for the moment, within earshot of Verena’s perfidious groaning beneath Ashley’s sweating body. Except for Nastasia, whose tender, heavily ringed labia were being attended to by Roscoff and Gerda in Cell VII, the other inmates were all asleep. The Slave Hall lights had long since dimmed to a glimmer.
Close on two o’clock, Marina nervously slipped off her neck chain; with one last glance at Verena writhing under Ashley, she crawled out of the Slave Hall on hands and knees, her flesh rings hanging loose. She avoided the cameras and the faint lights.
Sleet was falling in chilling curtains over the deserted courtyard as she ran, slithering, towards the hut where her flunkey was waiting. The door creaked open to reveal a bare interior with a bed, table and rickety chairs; despite the small fire burning in a grate, the place was rife with the mephitic smell of earth and potted plants.
In the centre of the room, lit by a single candle, stood the ally, his breeches open, revealing a sizeable cock in total erection. Marina admitted to herself that she had seen less attractive shafts...
She was used with disgusting haste, after being thrown face down across the table. The man took her savagely, without a word, among the flowerpots and gardening tools, first penetrating her behind cruelly; then it was the throat and finally, after restraining himself over the half hour of brutal viciousness, in the sex that was dry and sapless with tension. Never had Marina been taken with such force. Tugging on the nipple rings, the man grunted once and came; she felt the successive jets of thick cream jerk into her vagina. Her own orgasm was as far away as the train at Rodez, she grasped the sides of the table, longing for the nightmare to be over. She felt dispossessed of her sexuality - a mere object with holes.
The nauseating figure threw the cloak and shoes at her feet as she rose, hurt and humiliated to a degree she found loathsome. But it would be worth it...
“Get out of here, whore!” the creature muttered, buttoning up his crotch. “The wicket gate’s open. Over there.” He pointed across the sleeting cold of the yard beyond the filthy window. Marina shuffled into the shoes, twice too big for her, and gathered the rough cloak around her. She made for the gate, gratefully grasping four 100 franc notes offered.
Hesitatingly, she fumbled with the latch, her fingers frigid again after the man’s warmth and the heat of the shack. She eased the wicket-gate ajar. A floodlight suddenly shattered the streaks of sleet; she stood face to face with Restif leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb, a braided horsewhip in hand. At his side three mastiffs slobbered.
“Let’s go back to the warm Hall, slave, shall we?” His voice was calm. “It’s far too cold to be walking around the countryside almost naked at this time of night.”
He ripped off the girl’s cloak to deliver a blow of the doubled whip across the buttocks. The stroke left a fierce, purple laceration from the hipbone to the lower thigh as Marina crumpled in agony.
“We don’t want a sick slave in the house, do we? Get back, you brainless whore, into your cosy bunk before I flay the goose-fleshed hide off you!”
In Marina’s head dumb phrases formed: Let me go, you bastard. I’ve had enough of this place. Don’t you touch me again... But her throat was clogged with fear.
Restif threaded the lash of his whip through the girl’s clitoris ring, doubling it back again into his grasp and hauling her towards the castle. Marina seized the leather with both her hands to protect her distending flesh below. She was soaked with sleet, quivering.
“What would your lesbian slave friend say to leaving her all alone?” the man asked sardonically. “And your owners? And the Master? Ungrateful slut! You’ll be whipped to the blood for this.”
While Restif threw her on to her bed, heads bobbed up round the Hall at the commotion. Such interruptions were common whenever slaves were abruptly dragged out from their repose or brought back, flagellated and running with semen. The inmates turned over and went back to sleep.
Marina burst into tears, quaking from the shock of the treason and the shock of her abortive escape. I should have known better, she sobbed. The bastards, the black bastards, she moaned, running her fingers along the welt of the whip’s lash that by then had flared up in a gruesome ridge over her buttock meat. It was the token of what her stupidity deserved. Somehow she managed to drift into a fitful sleep, as the dawn slowly coloured the barred windows high in the Hall masonry with the sickly hue of an early winter morning. At first, Marina’s flesh rings lay like circles of ice on her loins and on the taut, frozen teats of her resplendent breasts; then they warmed and, singularly, she was content to be back in her bed, anguished and perhaps disparaged, but among her sister slaves again. One cannot elude one’s destiny. If only Verena would come to her with her incandescent body...
It was Birgit who sidled up to her bed, long after breakfast had been served by the naked servants.
“Try to sleep, darling,” she soothed and kissed the girl on the lips with a furtive gentleness. “Well, you tried. You have guts, I must say,” she murmured. “Now you’ll have to pay for your recklessness. I warned you but, darling Marina, don’t blame me.”
“I’m not blaming anyone, Birgit. Really. Not even Verena.”
At that moment, her lover passed by. “What a scatty thing to do!” Verena remarked, holding one of Ashley’s buttock cheeks in her hand. “You don’t own me, Marina!”
The terse remark only made her lover burst into tears again.
Behind the sinister walls of Beaucastel, Restif’s punctilious report of the attempted escape traced its inevitable way up through the overseers to the Master of Beaucastel. In the course of the day, the Master duly admonished the servant implicated in the event, adding a word of appreciation for his reliability in informing higher authority of the slave’s intentions. The journey money offered to Marina was promptly restored to him with the Master’s thanks; the man’s conduct would certainly weigh in his favour when it came to future promotions to the rank of senior valets.
As to sex slave 107 herself, there would have to be consultation regarding her impending punishment; this involved not only the overseers but also her owners in Paris. The Master of Beaucastel decreed that the weekend in the Hall of Ceremony would be devoted to that punishment. He desired it to be just, ferocious and unforgettable.
The reputation of Beaucastel had been blemished by a misguided female and this naturally had to be suitably redressed in public session with the whip. And later in the dreaded Black Cellar that only Birgit had experienced.
Claudia happened to be in at the Quai d’Anjou when the call came through.
She was mortified. The little bitch had done this to her! What would Juliette think? It was shocking. A sex slave in whom she had confidence kicking over the traces! The irresponsible slut needed an impressive correction.
On the phone the Master proposed a special session that weekend at which he desired Mikhail and Claudia to be present. He asked if he could be given a free hand. Without seeking the endorsement of Mikhail, who was in New York on business, Claudia assented.
“Master,” she responded immediately, “please apply your mo
st strenuouus and most austere rules to the woman. We shall be present. Of that I can assure you!”
She instantly put in a call to her lover and Mikhail flew back for the Friday in order to travel down with Claudia to Beaucastel.
Meanwhile, Marina had been summoned into the august presence of the Master. Led by Vasa, who had now taken over possession from the valet, the slave was towed by a chain, snapped into her nipple rings into the fabulously furnished apartments of the owner of Beaucastel with its mixture of odours, of exotic perfumes, of rich leather and cigar smoke but also of flesh and the acrid scent of sex. Marina trembled as she was drawn through the great door, marked with crossed whips, the crest being headed with an erect penis. Beneath the heraldic regalia, a scroll read: ‘The tawse cures all ambition’. It seemed tragically appropriate.
What Marina saw of the enormous room was superficial but she sensed the luxury: richly silenced with thick Iranian carpets and surrounded with antiques. Glancing furtively at the inlaid cabinet, she caught sight of the display of priceless Lalique vases, jade curios, aged opium pipes and snuff boxes. On the velvet-draped wall to the left hung a series of preciously worked whipping quirts, fashioned from Turkish leather embossed with flowers, the five tongues pierced with holes which Marina knew by now were there to blister the victim’s flesh. Dozens of other whips of different sorts suspended there, hideous but erotic thongs from silver hooks, resembling trophies. On the oak desk stood a grey computer and above leaned a row of flickering screens monitoring the chambers of the castle; on one Marina glimpsed Gerda suspending Marja’s boyish body by the wrists from a meat hook in one of the more frightening cells, probably, Marina thought, Cell IV.
To the right reared an exquisitely carved trestle bristling with barbed studs, crimson silken cords lying fastidiously curled at the feet of the uprights. Marina experienced a contraction in her gut as she recognized the pyramid to be a ceremonial flogging frame that she had heard about in the Slave Hall. Something to be avoided at all costs...
Before Vasa could order her to lower her head and kneel, Marina saw the figure reposing on the huge bed. The man’s ascetic face was sallow, the cheeks hollow below cold, grey eyes, the thinning hair brushed back from a high forehead. He wore a strange kimono of woven silk, open over his body. To his right knelt a thin, immensely attractive female with cropped hair, rather like Marina’s own, the colour of rye ripe for harvest. She was gently but firmly masturbating the man’s glistening erection that reared up from a completely shaven groin; she massaged the cock with one hand, kneading the base of the scrotum with the other. Her tongue protruded, ready to lap over the bulbous, meaty head when the gathering semen finally spurted...
The man calmly scrutinized his papers, casting page after page to the floor when read. He did not look up as the couple entered. Then, with lethargy, he raised his head
“Report!” The tone alone sent a tremor through Marina’s entrails as she knelt in fear.
Vasa brought Marina forward with a wrench on her nipples. She now lay prostrate.
“The lesbian whore slave, Master, who attempted escape. Brought before your Honour for judgement.”
The Master regarded the extended body, its face against the carpet.
“An extremely sexual, succulent body,” the remark was almost clinical. “Has she been routinely flogged?”
“Yes, Master, every day,” Vasa replied, “Twenty-one lashes. She takes it well.”
The man stared down at Marina and again complimented her. “The body is worth the lash. The slave is admirable and succulent. But attempted escape is inexcusable.” The man bent the masturbating woman’s head forward towards his groin.
“Suck, slave,” he ordered. The naked woman leaned forward and swallowed the cock into her throat, down to the base, still grasping the sack of heavy balls. Almost unconscious of the expert fellatio, the man looked at Marina, who slightly envied the sanctioned slave’s mouth gluttonising the huge shaft of veined meat. If only she were to be given the chance to suck that magnificent stake of manhood, she might be able to mitigate the terrible punishment that awaited her; her own body was as majestic as that of the slave now servicing her Master. The bitch was not even ringed; she was just a common flesh whore, of which there were many in the castle; but she had the Master’s cock in her mouth.
“Let her be prepared, fully weighted on all rings, for the week-end ceremony. She will suffer alone. You know the ritual. Hung by the four limbs, belly down, and scourged by all four of you Then the Black Dungeon - hung by the legs and crotch-flogged. Hung by the breasts and the body whipped to the blood. Maximum force, if I make myself clear?”
Stupefied, Marina drew her breath with a hiss through her teeth, her head laid sideways on the rich carpet, the rump high in the air. So, patently, what Birgit had recounted a day or two before was true: blood could be drawn, very rarely in the training cells but irrevocably in the Hall of Ceremony for gross infractions and, above all, in the Black Cellar or Dungeon, without the least solicitude for the victim’s body.
Marina clenched her teeth. Ask for pardon? Appeal to her owners? Her mind reeled. But she shrewdly brought her thoughts together as best she could. At least she could attempt to seek a modicum of compassion. She prepared her words inwardly as the man continued to watch the whore-slave descend and mount his erection.
Suddenly the Master looked down at Marina. “Do you have anything to say, slave?”
Marina saw her chance. She lifted her blonde head and tense neck, the throat collar crushing her arteries.
“No, Master,” she murmured, her cheek off the carpet; her wrists, bound behind her neck, were also in intense pain. “I should like permission to suck your cock, sir, and draw sperm. It would be an honour for a guilty slave.”
“Then since you make no appeal for clemency, I see no reason why you should not enjoy your last moments of freedom. Suck and receive my discharge. It may give you some courage for what is to going to be done to your body. Rise and fellate.”
Vasa was astonished at Marina’s audacity, yet she admired her for it. She helped the girl to struggle to her feet but declined to release the wrists, despite Marina’s pleading look, for her hands had, with Mikhail, become highly adroit on the male genitals. The Master kicked his fellating slave aside and held his cock towards Marina.
“Since you have the insolence to propose it, suck me out slave. The better you fellate, the less will be your future pain..” Marina bowed her head low as the man went on. The man’s hairless genitals intrigued her. “Whatever prowess you display on my cock that you have the pluck to say you desire, will be taken into account in your sentence. You may be a docile sex slave - when you are not attempting evasion! - but you are also a brave, intrepid woman and the sort that appeals to me. The type I like to have around me here as staff in Beaucastel.”
The Master shifted on his pillows, holding his erection firmly. “Get to work and suck the life-giving semen out of my shaft. I permit you to swallow rather than to hold the semen and inject it into this whore’s mouth or sex - which is our usual practice with two females at work on me. This sex slave of mine here,” he jerked his chin again towards the girl he had thrust aside, “will, however, lick me clean afterwards.” He dragged Marina forwards by the nipple rings. “Put your whore mouth to me,” he ordered, “and pleasure me.”
Marina took the place of the privileged domestic fellatrice and sank down on the throbbing erection. To her own amazement, she was sucking the Master of Beaucastel himself! Not just a lascivious Lalaniere or a Roscoff or even the insatiable Restif. She knew the Master was playing with her but also offering a measure of leniency; she could not afford to make a mistake. She performed with energy and finesse, her cheeks hollowing with the suction down the stiff rod, knotted with violet veins. The Master had been well prepared for over a quarter of an hour and came smoothly under the girl’s virtuosity; as the rush explo
ded in her gullet, she swallowed the rich load of semen voluptuously, showing her pleasure. She really relished the refreshing discharge with its delicious taste of salt and acrid seaweed she had been starved of all day.
“If she takes the scourge as well as she takes a cock,” the Master gasped, “she can come to no harm. Take her away, Vasa, and prepare her for flogging and sex in ceremonial session. Her owners are present and she’s sure to behave as well as she has done here.”
He looked straight at Vasa. “Maybe a potential candidate for a post at Beaucastel?”
The overseer lifted an eyebrow but saw that her Master meant what he said. And Vasa could not disagree.
The beautiful creature had guts. There was no doubt about it.
Chapter Eleven
In accepting an invitation to a weekend at Beaucastel, guests - whether they were slave owners or prospective purchasers - knew they would be entertained royally in the presence of the Master himself. Not only were the comparing of notes and the conversations rewarding but also they provided ample opportunity for exchanges of slaves. Claudia was fascinated by the requirements of some of the proprietors; she and Mikhail listened with avid interest to the exigencies - the degrees of flagellation imposed, the resilience of their slaves and the sexual duties they were called upon to perform. Above all, there were the discussions with the probable buyers and these intrigued Claudia even more. She had never had, so far, to purchase a sex slave as Juliette had. But here were men and women from different countries discussing prices and the qualities of human flesh. The market was rich with girls and youths seeking owners. All candidates were of age and conveniently provided with papers of some sort to permit transfer from one country to another.
The Pleasure Palace Page 12