* * * *
A stream of water struck her face, and Ian found herself still seated, but freed from the electrodes. Morgan was standing before her, with a pair of nipple clamps that did not look like anything that she had ever seen before. They had broad tips and large knobs shaped like a propane valve. Ian’s nipples were quickly trapped in the coated teeth. Morgan started tightening the knobs until she had the nipple trapped between them, but not hard enough to have caused any pain.
“No, no, please enough, enough, I have learned my lesson, I swear it,” Ian tried to say, as Morgan pulled out a cane and tested it in the air before Ian’s eyes.
“But I want you to feel what it is that you have subjected others to.” Morgan said, stroking the smooth, flexible rod. “You believe yourself to be devoid of feeling. But is that you really want to be? I will show you a glimpse of your soul. A chance for your redemption. ‘The great day of anger has come, and we will see who survives.’ Revelations 6:17. Shall we begin?”
In a split second the cane whooshed through the air embedding itself in Ian’s flesh before bouncing back. An intense and fearful shriek was torn from her lips followed by a string of expletives that would make a Swede blush. A reddish welt was already visible across the front of her exposed thighs. Ian had always avoided those damned pieces of rattan. Try as she might, she had never been able to quite master them. But she had to admit they were effective; one strike drove all the breath from her and made her see stars.
These momentary thoughts were interrupted by another cane stroke. There was just no way out of this one. It was bizarre to be caned while seated, her body believing that she could just stand up and leave, only to be defeated by the restraints. The caning continued and Ian thrashed about like a fish on a line, able to see each stroke’s mark across her thighs, breasts, and stomach. Her flinching and thrashing finally knocked the chair over.
Morgan’s strokes did not slow or alter. No attempt was made to place Ian upright, or even in a more comfortable position. New marks appeared on parts of Ian’s body that had not been exposed before. Morgan admitted silently that she was enjoying herself. This was about punishment, pure and simple. The cane was an instrument that led straight to the soul. Most people could dish out a hell of a lot more than they could take, but that was not the case with Morgan. She had taken a caning just like this before. It was the one thing that separated her spirit from her body and allowed her to soar.
* * * *
The caning continued until Ian was reduced to a pile of red, bruised, blubbering flesh. She apologized, she confessed, she told the woman that she would never do it again, she begged and promised and cajoled and even made a threat or two in the beginning. Then there was nothing that she could do. She just wanted the caning to stop. She needed to regain her sanity and that was not possible with the flurry of blows she was experiencing.
Then, quite suddenly, Ian no longer cared about appearances. It was no longer possible to think about appearances. All of her defenses, one after another, came crashing down. She had never felt this vulnerable before and yet at the same time she became aware of a humiliating dampness between her legs. There was a fire of a different sort starting. Even as she begged forgiveness for all manners of sin, she stopped feeling any pain at all. Her eyes were rolling around in her head and howls slowly turned to moans and whimpers.
Morgan, aware of these types of changes in herself, was fascinated that the mighty Ian was not above succumbing to her bodily needs. She slowed and toyed with Ian, giving her a taste, just a small taste, of the peace of mind that comes only when one is stripped of pride and arrogance. When Morgan stopped, she was covered in sweat and her breathing was labored. Not type of breathing that comes from a good work out, but the type of breathing that comes from being aroused. She stood over Ian and relished the sensation. Morgan bent down and with a bunching of her shoulders and arms, righted the chair. With absolute precision, she stepped back, aimed her cane, and she struck the nipple clamps simultaneously, causing them to pop off. Ian was instantly snapped back into her body and the most unearthly sound emitted from between her lips accompanied by an earth-shattering, body-shaking orgasm. Morgan turned on heel and left the room.
* * * *
Ian was kneeling, her body trembling, focusing her attention on Morgan’s feet. She wondered if it would be too desperate to lie prostrate, kissing the tips of the black leather boots. She was terrified that she would be sent away now, just as she had found this yawning need in her. She was terrified, because she knew that was exactly what was going to happen.
“You and I differ in an important way, Ian,” Morgan was explaining. “You hunt, capture, then discard. I want you to understand—really understand—what it would mean if I sent you away now, with no way to contact me, knowing that you would never see me again.” She watched without moving as a tear dropped onto the toe of her polished boot. “This is, after all, what you do, is it not?” She noted that Ian’s tear-streaked face nodded.
“That is because you are a player,” Morgan continued, spitting the word out. “I do not play. This work I do is my calling. It is, in fact, my profession. Although,” she chuckled, “not in the way you might think.
“Unlike you, I recognize my prey has value beyond the beating and the fucking. Until you learn the same, I do not wish to see you again.”
Ian choked awkwardly, drawing in a ragged breath, but did not speak. Morgan watched her approvingly.
“I am letting you walk out my front door, so you know where I live, and know how to find me again. I am not, like you, afraid to be found. Indeed, I welcome being found.”
“Show me you have been redeemed, demonstrate that you recognize the value of the people around you, bring me proof of your repentance, and I may consider working with you further.”
Ian stumbled out the front door, the street noises and scents from the Bloemenmarkt easing through the haze in her mind enough to orient herself, and to ensure she memorized the address and street of Morgan’s house. She wanted to return as soon as she left, but knew she could not. Not without giving her Lady what she required.
She shoved her hands in her pockets, shivering, and felt her fingers brush against a scrap of paper. Pulling it out, she found a torn piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it, with the note “G—please call.” The “please” was underlined twice. Her loins twitched even before her mind recognized who the note was from. Ian sighed. This could be the way back into Morgan’s house. A gift. To lay at the feet of her Lady.
* * * *
Morgan was a jumble of emotions. Her anger was spent and now she was simply excited beyond belief. She entered her bathroom and started the steam shower. Leaning over the sink and popping out the green contacts to show clear blue eyes she thought about how Ian not only had talent as a potential scout, but also had the makings of a half-way decent piece of property. A bit rough around the edges with a lot to learn, but definitely trainable. She was concerned about her standing as a spotter for the Marketplace, but then again this little adventure had not involved anyone but outsiders. If Ian remained quiet, whether from humiliation or hopeful obedience, no one would be the wiser. She did not think Ian would go to the police with a fantastic tale of drugged beer and electrical torture in a hidden dungeon. Shame on Genevieve for mentioning the Marketplace to an outsider to begin with—if she ever regained her confidence and belief in what Morgan had to offer, Morgan would address that issue with her. Perhaps it would all work out in the end.
Morgan removed the red wig, shaking out her raven-black, wavy hair before entering the near scalding hot shower. As her muscles relaxed she thought of the payoff for the punks then turned her musings to Ian. Mentally, she bet against herself as to how long it would be before Ian returned to her door—to earn back the undamaged Marty that lay on the table in her dungeon. No, Morgan was never one to throw away anything that showed quality. Or to lose something of value without someone paying for it.
Chapter Twe
nty-Six: In Hot Water
Chris let his head loll back at the ridge of the tub and breathed slowly. The water was near scalding, as most Japanese baths were. It seemed to awaken every scar on his body, old and new, made it a pleasant agony to move. Mostly, he kept still, feeling the sweat trickle through his hair.
The green tea helped settle the knot in his stomach; the hot water was working on all the others. He didn’t feel like eating; sleep was the most seductive of early afternoon choices. It might be a good idea—certainly the invitations to private little farewell orgies would be coming in soon.
Not that he was eager to attend them anyway. He closed his eyes and sighed. Now that the vote was all but taken care of, he had the leisure to ponder Tetsuo’s plan. There had been no messages from Anderson, no stern transpacific phone calls, no cryptic indications of approval or annoyance. It wasn’t like her to remain silent. Unless she was very, very angry.
Chris struggled with it, but then let the laugh out. His voice echoed against the walls, and his rising chest made the water ripple and splash up against his throat and ears, sizzling and teasing, which made him laugh even louder. It would be the ultimate irony, of course, if she were to be angry with him at this moment of victory.
“I see you are in a good mood, Mr. Parker,” came a voice from the door.
“Shouldn’t I be, Ninon?” he asked, opening his eyes.
She was wearing the ubiquitous cotton yukata and light slippers, and a female slave scurried in to attend her with an apologetic bow in Chris’s direction.
“I apologize for taking this liberty,” Ninon said, letting the robe slip away. “I realize that you had specified a private room. I took advantage of my rank.” Her generous body was as beautiful as Chris had heard described, a golden olive sheen to her perfect skin, round, feminine expanses of flesh that were lovingly massaged and pampered.
“When you offer me a glimpse of paradise, how can I even suggest that I am wronged?” Chris asked, closing his eyes again. Of all the people who could have overawed the attendants outside the bathrooms, she was one of the few who he could bear right now. Definitely one of the few he could be comfortably naked in front of. He controlled the urge to laugh out loud again.
“Very good, very good,” Ninon said, sitting on the bathing stool and allowing her hair to be pinned up. “As if I did not have the proof of your skill at flattery this morning, hm?”
“It’s still awkward,” Chris admitted. “I always feel like I’m saying someone else’s lines in a bad play.”
“Yes, it is not in your nature to flatter,” Ninon agreed. “Still, you apply yourself, and that is to be admired.” The slave played a stream of warm water over her body and then gently applied sudsy lather, and Ninon sighed in pleasure.
“Whenever I come to these things, I feel like some sort of underachieving student running into all my old professors,” Chris said, his eyes still closed.
“And perhaps you are, although I must quarrel with that word, underachieving. Is that how you feel now?”
Chris wiped his forehead clear of sweat and let the hot water splash him again. He smiled, slightly.
“Ah-hah,” Ninon laughed. “A student no more.”
“A student always,” Chris demurred. “Just a slightly more cocky than usual one today.”
“Deserved, I think, your cockiness, and not merely for your splendid compromise,” Ninon said cheerfully. “May I join you in the water now?”
“Please do,” Chris said, shifting slightly over to one side. Leaning on the slave’s arm, Ninon slowly lowered her body into the hot water, with the slightest of hisses. She smiled briefly before settling down, and accepted a rolled towel for the back of her neck with a moan of contentment.
“I also appreciate that you no longer seek comments yourself,” she said after a few silent moments. “Years ago, you would have asked me what I meant with the phrase ‘not merely.’”
“I cultivate patience in many things,” Chris said. “It’s grown easier not to look for compliments or praise. This way, it’s always a surprise when I get them.” He opened his eyes slowly and Ninon laughed.
“Yes, you and patience,” she said. “Your first important writing was on that topic, I believe.”
“All right, I surrender,” Chris said. “I will show my terrible manners by asking what you thought of my paper. You’re probably the only one here this weekend who’s read it.”
“Oh, I do not think so,” Ninon said seriously. “Oh, no, not at all. Certainly there will be those who put it away with all the others. I do not have the time to read everything I get over the year anyway! But you, I look forward to.” She closed her own eyes and leaned back comfortably. “It is very sad, this one.”
“Sad? I suppose it could be read that way,” Chris said. “Denial and frustration are not very happy subjects to begin with. But I hope that I came up with some useful observations and suggestions.”
“Yes, I think you did. Many of them will apply to my practice; it is a shame so many owners practice erotic control in haphazard ways. I appreciate your observations a great deal, especially upon the ‘eroticism of rejection’ as you put it. I have often cautioned clients to use their periods of denial as sources of strength and serenity. I also liked very much what you said, that depression can lead to transformation. Yes, a very odd thing to hear in this age where there are pills for everything. I look forward to the responses you asked for, and will certainly advise my friends to examine your paper thoroughly.”
“Thank you,” Chris murmured. “That’s what I needed to make this morning perfect. Now, I can take a nap.”
She laughed lightly, and the water around them rippled. “Is that the way of it? You win your battle and earn your praise and go off to a well deserved rest?”
“Barring a king’s daughter to marry, I think that’s the best any knight errant can hope for,” Chris said.
Ninon puffed her lips out in a dismissive fashion. “I do not think that marriage or anyone’s daughter would be of interest to you, Mr. Parker. A handsome prince, now...?”
“I have a handsome prince.”
Ninon laughed. “This Michael? Oh, yes, he is handsome. And there is a sense of—what shall it be—a frustrated royalty about him? It is a pity the methods in your paper would not work upon him.”
Chris edged his body up a little and cocked his head to one side. “You can tell that?”
“Yes. He does not feed upon his frustration, it feeds upon him. I suppose he must be a miraculous handler.”
“You suppose incorrectly,” Chris sighed. When she looked surprised, he nodded. “Oh, he is adequate. Slaves will obey him, and he is strict enough. But he is ... haphazard in observation, and frankly unimaginative in testing and interviewing.”
Ninon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And yet, you chose him?
“Anderson chose him.”
“Anderson...” Ninon echoed. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, and Chris watched her. There was nothing false about her confusion. She shook her head after a minute. “It is a mystery, then,” she said. “How curious. And for this battle, she did not deign to show herself, either. Most curious, indeed. Well, I shall call her when I get home and share gossip, and perhaps she will tell me why this handsome prince of yours is to be a trainer. In the meantime, if you seek a prize of a king, I suggest you look no further than Sakai-san, who seems most impressed with you this week. His third year trainee, Jiro, is very handsome indeed.”
“Indeed,” Chris said. He left it at that, and Ninon gave herself over to the water, the two of them in silence.
Abe Jiro was in fact a good looking man, tall and slender and slightly feminine, and clearly was surprised by Chris’s appearance at their table the night before. But he recovered quickly and spoke a very accented and halting but obviously American-tutored English, never ignoring Chris or condescending in any way. In fact, he seemed eager for a chance to practice his language skills. And Tetsuo had seemed pleased with the attent
ion his trainee showed to Chris, which had eased the entire table into a more comfortable mood.
What a marked difference it had been, really. To sit among them as an equal—as a peer—to be acknowledged and spoken to, answered, laughed with. As opposed to being a threat or a curiosity or a thing of revulsion.
* * * *
“None of the slaves wish to train under you, otachi,” jeered Saburo-san, Sakai-sama’s chief under-trainer. He used one of the many words that no one had actually defined for me yet but which I had surmised meant things like pervert and freak. “They have said that they would rather be kept back in training until you have gone. Do you understand me?”
Saburo often slowed down his speech to an almost ludicrous level, articulating every word sharply, exaggerating the sounds to make it “easier for me to comprehend.” I knew better than to ever suggest that I didn’t need this sort of help. If I did, then everything directed to me would be in the most obscure of phrases—idioms and slang terms would abound even more and conversation would be rapid-fire and I would be lost. So I took the disgrace of his pediatric phrasing.
“Yes, Saburo-san, thank you for speaking so clearly, forgive me for my poor Japanese.”
“Better you should leave now and save these poor slaves from having to endure any more time waiting for you, don’t you think?” He leaned closer to me, pushing into my space easily, with all the confidence of someone who knew he had the right, his teeth bared in a hostile grin.
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