by Willow Sears
What is your name? Harvey asks, and my voice replies:
“Salacia–but Tată is calling me Salsy, just like when I was very young, when I used to cry on purpose to make him cuddle me. He is saying now, ‘don’t cry Salsy, I promise it won’t hurt.’ But I can see in his eyes that he is lying.”
Where are you?
“We are in the dungeon now, but we have to go down to the courtyard. He has to take me down because of what we did.”
What did you do?
“They found us.”
Who found you? Salacia, what did you do?
And that’s when it happens, the thing that got Harvey all excited. I know a lot of French and a bit of German and Spanish. I’m pretty good at languages, but I know nothing of any Eastern European tongue. I say Eastern European because that’s what it sounded like, the harsh dialect I then proceeded to gabble onto the tape. It was all guttural sounds and panicked intonation, a full two minutes of gobbledygook that made no sense to me at all, even if it was coming out of my mouth. As the words flowed the blood turned colder in my veins. The problem was, although it was indecipherable, it sounded like proper language.
There were enough Poles and Albanians and Romanians and Latvians living around me for you to get a feel for the way they speak, but I don’t have anywhere near enough contact with them to pick up even short phrases, let alone full sentences. Consequently, any attempts to sound like a native would be short-lived.
If someone says to you, speak like a Russian (presuming you aren’t actually from Moscow), you would start off with the only authentic words you knew, like da or nyet or even Na zdorovje, if you are one of the many whom erroneously think that Russians use this phrase to make a toast. Then having exhausted your dictionary of real words and phrases you would start making Russian-sounding approximations of words based on the sounds of the real ones, before your repertoire ran out and you started to re-use the most authentic ones again, and then trailing off into fits of laughter at your terrible efforts.
But my dialogue was not like this. There was a pattern but minimum repetition. There was no stumbling and no words that simply sounded fabricated. The throaty intonations varied, as if there was a common feel to the language rather than just a single sound I had picked up on because it seemed authentic. I heard a few words a few times: Tată and Tătic featured throughout, as did Salsy, spoken in a gruffer tone, as if I was mimicking my guardian’s words. Any questions asked by Harvey were answered in this unidentified language, and I sounded frantic, either because he could not understand me or because of the situation I was relating. Then I went silent and Harvey could get no more from me, and so slowly he brought me back up to full consciousness.
I know it is only a short step from speaking in tongues to spewing green custard and revolving your head a full 360 degrees, but it was there plain for me to hear and so what other conclusion could I make? I must be possessed, just like I thought–or at least I must contain inside me the spirits of people who have lived before. And thankfully Harvey wasn’t all excited because he had just secretly abused me, or if he had he must have stopped pretty quickly when the demons started speaking through me.
This had been his first experience of someone actually speaking in a foreign language during regression but he informed me that he did have a contact who worked in linguistics and he would pass a copy of the recording onto him to see if we could get a translation. He gave me a copy too, which I listened to three or four times once back at home, convincing myself more and more that the language I spoke was genuine and identifiable. I researched the name Salacia but got little information: in Roman mythology Salacia was the wife of Neptune, who went into hiding after his marriage proposal to protect her virginity, and who was only tempted to accept his offer after much persuasion on his part. She was seen as a paragon of calmness and purity (so, some reference to the virginity that appears in the dream of the Executioner’s Girl, and perhaps a tenuous parallel to me today, being as I am a technical virgin, although I have had lots of sex).
Salacia is also the source of the word ‘salt’ and its derivatives, although I couldn’t see for the life of me what the fuck this had to do with anything. I searched Salsy, Sallsy and even Salse, and got no answers. Then, almost by accident, I stumbled on the definition of the word salcie, and up came a picture of a tree with its distinctive hanging canopy of weeping branches. Tată is calling me ‘Salcie’ because I am crying. In the old Eastern Europe dialects formed from the original Romance languages, spoken in what was then Moldavia, Transylvania and Wallachia and which is now modern day Romania, salcie was and still is a word. And do you know what it means? It means Willow.
My spirits have improved dramatically since this revelation and I almost felt like going back and kissing Harvey, although his work was clearly not yet over and we needed to unearth more in order to cure me. However, I felt the end was in sight and I would soon be purged of the sadist tendencies that were liable to put a dampener on any relationships I forged, not least the one I intended to have with Ariadne. I called on Harvey for an impromptu “emergency” appointment but sadly Salcie didn’t come out to play and only that wizened-prick, arse-fucker, James Frobisher made himself apparent. Harvey was pleased with this, although he couldn’t see that it was no progress (it was odd that to go forwards we have to go backwards).
Despite knowing no dates, I was convinced that my Salcie and her executioner sweetheart came from the earliest time. That memory just felt more ancient than any other. There was a rawness and barbarity in the air itself, seeping from the dank dungeon walls and pervading the atmosphere. I wasn’t too dispirited that Harvey was incapable of encouraging her out that time. I was sure she would make her reappearance sooner or later and I was looking forward to seeing Ariadne again as soon as possible, sure now that progress with her was not far away.
I went to the club on Friday night and she was indeed there. She gave me a bit of the cold shoulder treatment to start with but I was soon sent an invite via one of her minions to attend a gathering at her place later that night. I just sat there with a contented grin all evening, absolutely convinced that something would happen between us. There had been a bit of a crackdown on lewd and overtly sexual behaviour at the club over recent weeks, and such naughtiness was by necessity now generally confined to the shadows and the restrooms, which didn’t particularly suit us Masters and Mistresses, who liked to demonstrate our power where all eyes could see. We had been assured by the management that it would all blow over soon enough and get back to business as usual, but in the meantime we relied on parties to ensure the fun we began at the club continued into the night.
I could actually have enjoyed watching Ariadne tease some of those big cocks that she loved so much. I felt safe now and the envy was fading from me. I might have had a tug on one myself, if not for the crackdown and for the fact that I had attracted almost exclusively girls around me on the night and the only male who seemed to require my services was a blobby man lurking on the periphery dressed in a blue rubber suit and ridiculous work boots. Yes, Blueberry was there, as always. I should have guessed it, and in fact I didn’t even sense the usual rise of irritation at seeing him, more a feeling of acceptance and perhaps even comfort.
Harvey had no doubt extracted the information about my attendance tonight during my last session at his house. Perhaps he had been heartily glad that I didn’t want to listen to the recording of the claptrap I had been spouting as James Frobisher, because if I had I might have discovered that he was lying and that Frobisher had not come at all and that all the tape contained were the questions Harvey asked me in order to squeeze out my secrets. No matter though, not tonight. All I could think about was being alone with Ariadne and since this would come about because of the good Doctor Harvey, I could hardly rip him to pieces, could I?
When the time came to go Ariadne walked purposefully over in my direction on her huge spiked heels, drew close to me and stooped a little, flicked out her tongue to g
ive an electrifying butterfly touch on my closed lips and calmly said, “Are you coming?”
She meant back to her place but she was almost right on both counts. Wetting my panties right there in the club would have been a bit embarrassing but if she had touched me again it would have happened. I gulped the latest champagne supplied to me by Blueberry and took a deep breath. My fat blue shadow had slunk closer and closer to me all night until the drinks he was relaying from the bar weren’t just magically appearing on my table but actually being handed over by him directly, and he was crouching by the table at my side. He vied for more attention once Ariadne had come to me and I almost tripped over him in my rush to go. I should have kicked him aside but instead I gave a defeated sigh and told him he could come with me. I don’t know why I did this but I just didn’t have it in me to turn him down after he had got me so close to my goal, although if I had thought about it more I might have realised that, having wanked him off, it was him who owed all the favours. I had just softened to him, I guess–I cannot explain why. He was like a faithful dog, always there and ready to serve and unable to quite communicate what was needed from me in return.
At the party I was prepared to let Ariadne set the pace, since I was still in her bad books for playing hard to get the last time. These silly games had to stop. I would wait for her and allow myself to be reeled in. She wasn’t fishing though, at least not for me. She seemed intrigued by my one accompanying slave and suddenly I felt deeply silly that my only hanger-on that night was a plump, pointless fruit of a man. If his tiny pecker came out I would look even more stupid. I am meant to be able to attract the beauties of this world, not the dregs–at least that’s what Ariadne was supposed to think. She immediately upped the ante by forcing two trim studs to bare their cocks and bring them to full stiffness for each other–and my, were they big!
She laughed gleefully as she measured the boys out with her tape and then announced the results to gasps from the audience and smatterings of spontaneous applause, although she herself loudly declared them only “adequate”. I thought ten inch erections were the stuff of porn film and legend but these were all so very real. I got the same stomach-wrenching fear on seeing them as I used to get whenever spiders crawled out of the woodwork. It was that same need-to-run-but-can’t mesmerised nausea, that certain knowledge that danger is upon me, but it is simply too fascinating to turn away from.
Their cocks looked even bigger in her slender fingers and glistening with her spit, thick as well as long, two frightening spunk-truncheons as hard as I have seen. Her joy at handling them was palpable, the tender kisses she gave the tips, the way she held them to her cheek like long lost friends. Again, my jealousy could be held down because I knew it was all for show. She picked out my gaze specifically and whenever our eyes met she made an even greater demonstration of her cock hunger, just to put me in my place. It was OK, though–I knew I had to suffer a little before I could get back in her good books. She decided upon a prick-taking competition and quickly selected a young skinny blonde girl and a paunchy man in a gimp suite, not unlike Blueberry but taller and less front-heavy. I wondered if this was a calculated slight on her behalf, to demonstrate that she had low-end hangers-on too, but they were still a cut above my own!
The full implications of her little game came to light once the two chosen ones had their backsides bared and liberally lubricated, both having to take syringes of olive oil into their arse-holes and eject it all back out onto the plastic sheeting that covered the floor of Ariadne’s Fuck Room (which wasn’t nearly as good as my Scold Room, by the way). The two backsides were bent over and held apart by willing assistants and then the Ten Inch Brothers brought their weapons to bear against their respective arses (the one given the gimp’s rump not wavering one iota in his task), and slowly but surely pressed forward to sink their lengths inside the proffered holes. There was much eye screwing, swearing and gasping but the two bodies took the two cocks little by little, a sight that had me exclaiming my disbelief aloud.
Once the Ten Inch brothers were in as far as they could go they slowly drew back and lunged in again, slowly finding a rhythm until they were pummelling the rectums of their victims. It looked impossible. Glistening rods so long that however far back the hips went the tip never became visible before the length was rammed back along the tight passage. I caught Ariadne looking at me with bright eyes and a wide smile, acknowledging my horror. This then was all for my benefit.
The rods were slammed in and out until the fuckers were mightily close to exploding. The gimp had a fatter arse and so try as his fucker might, he just couldn’t squash it down any further to gain extra penetration. Ariadne called a halt before the cocks could blow, grabbing them from the backsides and squeezing them near the base to halt any rushes of spunk. The pricks were compared for the oily tide mark around them to gauge a winner, and although the judging was inaccurate due to the running of the lube and the fact that Ariadne had smeared it when she had gripped the pricks, she declared the blonde the winner and this was universally acclaimed, since her fucker had a slightly longer and fatter prick and his balls had clearly been heard slapping against her sodden cunt. The gimp was put to his knees for losing and was forced against his will and with the threat of a mean-looking cane to suck the bum-tainted pricks one by one and take the shooting come into his mouth.
The crowd was still applauding when Ariadne came towards me, with a sly grin on her face. I wasn’t sure what I would let her do to me–pretty much anything I reckoned, as long as she did it in private. But she didn’t want me at all. As soon as she got to me her gaze left mine and alighted instead on Blueberry who was crouched at my feet, blinking up at her, one eye pointing off to the side. She didn’t even ask me, she just took him. She led him away without a word, taking him through the crowd and behind a door off the Fuck Room. I couldn’t argue because she held all the aces, even if Domme courtesy does demand you don’t use your power to take another’s slave, especially the most pathetic ones. The door closed behind her and I was left like a lemon, wondering what the hell was going on in there. I expected them out at any second, perhaps with Blueberry being ridiculed publically, maybe naked and carrying his diminutive privates on a silver platter for all to witness and deride, as I had seen her do to other poorly-endowed slaves before. The door, however, remained shut.
I was there alone long enough to watch an overweight but pretty blonde take a good old-fashioned flat-palmed spanking to her lovely ample arse. Her large blue eyes ringed with their heavy mascara looked wonderful when glistening with tears. She was seen to by five or six spankers, each taking over from the last when their hands grew too sore to continue. She had to be held down and she shrieked and wriggled as her skin was taken from pale piggy pink to rosy red with purple blotches. Eventually she found her pleasure plateau and her wails turned from pain to delight whilst her fat pussy dribbled its thanks down her thighs. I had forgotten how delicious a pure, simple spanking could be. It almost stopped my eyes from constantly swivelling across to the closed door to the room hiding my Ariadne and my slave. Still they did not emerge. The chubby blonde was filled with fingers and brought roughly to orgasm before being helped away by two erect-pricked males, who no doubt had designs on her wet and finger-readied holes.
Her place was taken by a forty-something woman who was slapped and stripped, her nipples stretched and pinched mercilessly by Vincent, who then wrapped a thick rope around her middle to trap her arms before dealing her a series of painful shocks via a miniature cattle prod. She took the ones to her belly and nipples but when Vincent concentrated on her inner thighs she let go, screaming out and pissing with hot fury onto the face of the man Vincent was holding down between her legs. The whispers of the crowd told me the held-down man was the tortured victim’s twin brother. Dirty bastards.
All this could not stop the growing rise of jealousy inside me. The door stayed resolutely closed and I had to reach for my reserves of will-power to prevent my barging in on them.
I hated the thought of Blueberry seeing her in any state of undress when she had shown me so little. I hated her being the centre of his attention. I had been worried that she would make him strip and force him out to endure the laughter of the gathered crowd, and by doing so force him to reveal his face and his identity to me. Now I didn’t care if she sent him out dressed as a fairy and being ridden by a goat, as long as he came out. And then he did. He looked untouched, still in his Blueberry suit, still upright and walking. He came back to me with his head bowed and I felt the unreasonable envy surge through me.
“What did she make you do?” I demanded.
He said nothing, not wanting to speak for fear I would recognize his so familiar voice. I shook him and slapped him but he remained mute. I manhandled him into a corner and put him over a soft Fuck Cube. I threatened him but he would not speak, so I grabbed a cane from the rack on the wall and hit him with it, hard, right across both fat buttocks. His head jolted back and he sucked his breath in, but kept his silence. Three more equally hard strikes should have seen him spilling his guts unless he was very used to such punishment. He sobbed aloud but still he did not crack and spill his secret. I had to re-direct my aim to the more painful target at the back of his thighs. I did feel some guilt, since I knew he would probably have spoken if he thought he could maintain the secret of his identity. I was even thankful for his reticence, since I had no desire for him to be revealed as Harvey, something which might force our sessions to stop short, before the final breakthrough was made.
To my annoyance I had managed to draw a couple of on-lookers away from the main crowd, eager to see one of the prime Mistress’s in action. They would want to see him completely broken and abused. I wouldn’t want them to witness my wretched jealousy, beating him solely to extract the truth of his treatment at the hands of another Domme. I had to hit him for their benefit and as he was surely aware of the gathering crowd, he would have been even more determined to stay silent, as much for me as for him. The situation became more farcical: me beating him, desperate for him to speak so I could stop the torture but willing his silence so that the on-lookers couldn’t learn of my petty jealousies; him wanting it all to stop but knowing that his secret might collapse if I heard and identified his voice, and particularly desirous not to embarrass me in front of these people.