I don’t think much after the weights begin to take effect. At first, their bite and density provide a pleasant stimulation, which makes my pelvis grind softly on the air. Tiny particles of empty space caress my opened labia and attack my clit. The muscles clench, flex and relax a dozen times, while I wonder if I can take this simple stimulation all the way to orgasm.
I don’t get the chance.
The attention to my body gets more vicious. Fingers tug the clamps and twist my nipples, while someone jerks my hair. My head’s pulled back and there are lips at my ear—Kovac’s. He whispers, “I’m giving you away, Silk.”
I feel him leave me and I’m lost…
“Yeeeeeaawwww! Yesssss……….”
A hail of strikes rain down on my shoulders. Then someone takes the sharp edge of a knife and runs it up the center of my spine.
“Ssssssssssssss,” I breathe in, hissing softly. I don’t dare move.
The man in front repeats the act, starting with his thin blade where my labia parts and drawing with infinite patience a moving line of fright from that prickly place of pleasure, upwards across my belly, over my navel, and then between my breasts until the knife hits the collar with a tiny thud.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” my breath slowly escapes as I realize I’ve survived.
But this is only one trial. There are many more to come.
The tortures multiply as a new one appears on the heels of the one before. Sensation cascades through my body, in rivers moving outward from the experience of pain to the far ends of pleasure.
“Ah, more,” I hear myself murmur when a kind and very feminine hand strokes my swelling belly. A pair of delicate fingers parts the heavy-weighted labia and there’s a woman’s tongue tenderly caressing the throbbing bud between them. From behind, another hand and other fingers spread my cheeks wide and begin to work the unyielding hole until it slowly starts to ease. I have no choice but to let go and let this insistent fellow breach the barrier. I can tell it is a man; he works with obsessive force. I can already imagine him screwing my ass. I’ve only reluctantly relinquished this barrier to Kovac. He’s easy with my ass, but this man is not. I soon give in.
At first, it is his fingers, then a wide throated dildo; and finally, as he withdraws the prick and my ass gives up control, a hand glides into the opening, the entire fist lodged inside me.
Lips in front, a fist behind. I’m afraid of being torn apart as the two tear recklessly at my body.
Some melody begins to play, a piece I’ve heard before—Enya? Or perhaps the other one with the spooky name. Reminds me of being haunted. I float for a time on the ethereal voice, and the energy of these lovers… then suddenly my body relaxes to find that the two have left me empty and without the climax I expected.
“There’s more, Monroe.” Kovac’s voice sounds like Broc’s. “You want more?”
“Yes, I want more,” I whisper. He stands behind me, his thick chest pressed to my aching back, the muscle of his body supporting mine while I feel weak. My mind’s confused. I’m in the abandoned theatre, and then the brothel, then Sir’s great house, and finally lost in the memory of Broc, one last time. How did Kovac know? Did I mention the last time I was with the Colonel?
The night moves on…
The minutes—perhaps hours that follow—are spent detached from everything but the way my body feels. I endure the pain of several lashes—some harshly driven into my flesh, others lightly caressing my thighs, my ass and shoulders. I feel an anxious sting when a crop sears my upper breasts. My body jerks, my mind reels on from memory to fantasy, to present reality. I’m sure it’s Broc. It has to be, but then things change again.
My pussy is paddled with a thin flat leather, stroked with fingers, and brought close to that instant of final gratification more times that I want to count. With each one, I’m deserted before I reach the finish.
I think that Kovac must truly hate me when he releases my wrists and ankles, aborting my climax. How can he leave me this way? His obsessions beat as passionately as mine do. He must want more.
After massaging my arms to restore some feeling, Kovac attaches them to an apparatus above me, a loose swinging rod, which gives my abusers more leverage. They’ll need it.
It hardly surprises me when my legs are lifted off the floor and a cock stabs my pussy with a sharp, stunning thrust. What sends me to the zenith is a cock at my ass—one with a curved shaft, which enters the worked asshole with a crude thrust.
“Oh, yesss, gawwwwwwwd, fuuuuuk me!!! Yessss……….”
More, I want more. I bounce between the two, body jostled back and forth. I’m sure I’ll be split in two. The holes accommodate. Driven wide, I release my orgasm as both men start to cum. I think I’m finished, but it starts again, another pair of lovers and another, until there’s just one man inside me.
I smell Kovac’s scent, or is it Broc’s? Or am I dreaming? And the rumbling under me, inside my crotch, is just the Orient Express thundering at high velocity toward Bucharest and Istanbul; and any second I’ll awaken and the nightmare will have only been a dream. My film crew will jostle me from the deepest sleep of my life and tell me it’s time to get on filming the next segment of the trip.
Whose eyes will I see when I awaken? What incarnation will I be living? Have I shifted shapes? Am I that other person in the dream? Past and present collide, confused behind this blindfold, and for a moment—or several moments, I sink into the unconscious void of complete surrender.
Chapter Thirteen
Everything is dark around me when I awaken. The stage is bare and the apparatus hanging from the ceiling is still hanging there as though it was never used.
I’m in Kovac’s arms. One of his heavy hands delicately moves the blonde hair from my face. We’re alone where we began.
“I wondered if it was all a dream. Like being in slavery never happened?”
“Maybe so, and you’re still dreaming?” he speculates. “Eventually you’ll wake up.”
“I think I have.”
“Oh?” He’s so very kind.
“Broc was here.”
“Where?”
“Today, tonight, whatever, I felt him.”
“Maybe. Was he blond, looked like a Texas cowboy in a guerrilla’s clothes?”
“Yes!” I start at him anxiously, my mind in a flurry of excitement.
“Then he wasn’t here.”
“But?”
“I read about him in your journal.”
Is he jealous? I wonder. “Ah, hon, I do love you. Broc means nothing to me.”
“I know. But he haunts you, he always will. The past has that kind of power. He is your nightmare and the center of your darkest hours, your demon and your savior. You survived him— you always will, just as you did tonight. But he’ll never leave for good. He’s right here,” he puts his hand to my chest. “You’ll learn to live with him.”
Kovac caresses the white silky dress, which has somehow survived the night intact—so I can walk home presentably. The dress feels good clinging to my sweaty torso. I think I’ll wear it more often.
“Next time, Monroe,” he says as we pull to our feet, “we’ll lose the blindfold and you can do this with your eyes wide open.”
I Belong To YouPrologue
I haven’t a care in the world when I’m in this place. White sand slithers between my toes as I make footprints down the beach. Wind blows kindly against my skin. Sam, my mongrel retriever, barks excitedly as he rushes toward me with a lump of driftwood in his mouth, which he drops at my feet before playfully kissing my face with his wet tongue. The surf crashes delivering up a fine mist that covers my arms and I smile. I am determinedly peaceful.
When I look toward the bluffs, for just an instant my smile fades into a frown of uneasiness. I think for a minute that I see his silhouette against the watery blue sky, but then it’s gone. That is all that Kovac is to me now, a faint apparition that I see in dreams and against the unfettered sky, or fleetingly on a busy stree
t one arm’s length too far away for me to touch. He died eighteen months ago, victim of a car crash, which left me without a lover, a friend, a companion, a savior and my master.
My heart broke. My life crashed around me. My world of dangerous lust and of verboten pleasures disintegrated into dust as if it had never been. I lost the liberty I felt in the arms of sexual surrender because I lost the comfort of Kovac’s strength keeping me safe.
Kovac had been my anchor, the force that put me back together after three horrifying years of captivity in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. Abducted from the Orient Express traveling from Bucharest to Istanbul while filming a documentary, I became a slave, trained to be the sexual servant for those who take pleasure in the defilement of women. I would still be the property of a sadistic master if a miracle had not intervened to bring me safely home.
I was a beaten and defeated woman then, but Kovac took this freed slave and returned her whole to the civilized world. He gave me hope and love and tenderness. He did all that, while at the same time honoring the great discovery I made during the time I was enslaved. He honored the woman of submission I had become and allowed me to accept the submissive elements of my character I never knew existed. He molded my new freedom with chains and bondage, reshaped my liberated mind with comforting authority, and created a consensual slave to fit the customs of the day. He offered a new, palatable form of captivity right for a sane and enlightened time. I thought our life would last forever, that this relationship was the gift God had given me for surviving a trial no woman should face.
Obviously, God wasn’t finished with me because Kovac died, and once again, I was required to put an intensely passionate segment of my life into rational perspective and continue on down another path.
Such rational perspective became surprisingly easy once my initial grief passed. I believe now that I would have fallen into the gutters of despair had Kovac not found me soon after my return to the United States. And yet, there is something strangely reasonable about his death. As if he were no more than an angel, descended for the one task of restoring me to the real world, Kovac appeared in my life, completed his work, and then unceremoniously left, certain that I could handle the rest on my own.
Of course, my life changed greatly when he died. But oddly, I picked myself up, dusted away the old and moved on. With greater ease than I ever expected, I packed up my life with Kovac like old clothes taken to the basement and stored. I began anew, wiggling back into the skin of an independent woman with her head on straight and her eyes focused keenly on a benevolent and productive future. I made up my mind then, eighteen months ago, that the sexual submission I needed under Kovac’s guidance was necessary closure—in colloquial terms—a way to resurface after three years away and find strength before I could resume a normal life. The idea that my life couldn’t be normal after being conquered by cruel terrorists was simply not true. He was merely a bridge to the present, a necessary one that I will think of fondly as the years pass.
Even now, as I gaze toward the bluff with the idea that Kovac will suddenly appear again, my mind flashes even further back in time, where the imprint of that other man haunts my boundless skies. In truth, it’s his face I hope to see, not Kovac’s. It’s his face I look for in crowds, not that of my just deceased master. It’s Daniel Broc’s that I imagine appearing out of nowhere. I may miss Kovac—the fact that he was taken from me so abruptly stills stuns me. But while he set my mind right after the cruel brutality I endured from the slave traders, he was not the man who reached into my heart, my guts, my loins and shook the foundations of my psyche with holy terror. He was not the man who raised the animal, the voluptuary and the seductive temptress that I am. It was Daniel Broc—an Ivy League educated Texan turned brutal mercenary—who found lurking inside me a brain and body fettered by 20th century rules, a woman of substance, humanity, humility and sexual power. And quite oddly, it was Daniel Broc—the antithesis of what we hold dear in a rational society—who taught me that I could love deeply with my whole heart, not part of it; Broc, who gave me the ability to love the other men who would replace him.
I am content that I will live the rest of my life with neither Broc or Kovac at my side, or above me as my master. They are both pieces of the past. The chains, the collar, the corset and the whips have been gladly given to the Salvation Army for impoverished dungeon connoisseurs.
I, Michelle Monroe, am on a different path now. I am nearly engaged to Steven Vanderberg—whose beach retreat this is—a decent, solid citizen, a kind and generous soul. He’s All-American clean-cut, with an affable grin and a frequent twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. He is the kind of man to love forever, to change for, to accommodate and to inspire—he tells me frequently how I inspire him with my enthusiasm for reinventing my life, since I’ve done it so many times—I’m afraid he doesn’t know the half of it! I trust his even-tempered calm to wrap me in a safe cocoon, just as his steely arms and muscled chest hold me safe. He’s a health guru, a body-builder, a man grace as much as might, seamlessly perfect, while unapologetically self-effacing. I could even indulge myself in the romantic fantasy that perhaps he’s the one God has been preparing me for.
But then, it’s far too soon to tell.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s to count on nothing.
I used to think that sitting at the feet of a master was an end in itself, that whippings and sexual servitude were a calling in me so deep that I couldn’t live without it. But apparently, that’s not true. I put away the trappings of servitude along with my kinky ideas and am perfectly content with normalcy.
I still occasionally hope for Daniel Broc. But even that is rare anymore—just like this brief moment when I’m caught off guard staring toward the rugged New England bluffs. That faint hope will pass through my thoughts with only the tiniest ripple of regret. Steven seems to be all I need now.
I remain watchful. I know that any minute, that warm rain of contentment may turn cold. A creepy premonition hits and the back of my neck tingles for just an instant of warning. Perhaps I’m not yet done with my life’s grand adventures, and perhaps my past is not yet through with me.
Chapter One
“Sunny, my God, you’re flushed. What happened?” I remark, as my assistant rushes in the door, looking disheveled, self-conscious and confused.
“Nothing, Shelly, nothing.” She continues her flustered movement around my desk, gathering files, sorting through documents, looking harried and nervous. We’re in the process of producing a documentary on city life seen through the eyes of the twenty-something generation. Street life, clubs, kink joints, drugs, concerts, poetry jams, dance, art, and sexual habits are all familiar to my twenty-something assistant. They should be familiar to me too, but then my life was interrupted, and I’m only finally catching on.
I watch the girl move around me erratically. “You’re lying,” I say evenly, my voice taking on the appropriate authority to get her attention. “Something’s wrong.”
She stops herself immediately. “Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong.” Her eyes are wide and unfocused, staring beyond me and my desk. You’d think she’d seen a ghost.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I tell her.
“I thought we needed to go over the story boards and copy for the street scene.”
“We do, but that can wait. Sit down.” I point to the chair next to my desk.
Sunny’s dressed to match her name today, in a bright yellow, but simply tailored dress. Despite its ordinary design, she manages to make it look quite sexy. There is something about her abundantly lush body that must require its carnal features be plainly evident. Her curves stretch the fabric of her dress ever so slightly across her hips and chest as if her flesh is spilling from the seams. I find her pleasingly alluring, sometimes wishing I could just once kiss her full mouth, draw her into my aura, settle her there and kiss all that slutty beauty with the admiration I feel. I’d love to feel her breasts, those perfectly rounded pillows of fl
eshy down, and run my hands along her curvaceous hips.
She has a 21st century look, while I’m still back in the 90’s. The 90’s were a pivotal time in my life, why not stay a little stuck there? Sunny’s short spiky hair, oddly colored lips and nails, clunky high heels—sometimes stilettos, but not when she’s on the run like she is today. She’s experimentation, androgynous sex, motorcycles, Cadillacs, sugar daddies and alternative bands, rap music and soulful jazz. She’s also my assistant and a damn good one as long as she’s steered right. She’s fearless—will do anything, which makes her perfect for the job of getting in people’s faces. But I have to keep her on track, which is important right now. We have deadlines and I can’t have her going off the deep end. If she gets too rattled, she sometimes drinks too much; if she drinks too much, she’ll have to sleep it off and we lose valuable time.
“Don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong, hon. I know you too well.” And I do.
She sighs in a way that wilts her body into a sensuous mass of smoldering energy.
“I’ve just had the most amazing experience of my life!” she rolls her eyes and smiles mysteriously.
Since I’ve heard this line every week I’ve known her, I don’t get too excited by the exclamation.
“Tell me,” I say drolly. We’ve gone through this routine before.
“No, honestly,” she leans closer, as if there might be someone listening, which is impossible. We’re in my private office and the secretary is ten feet away on the other side of the closed door. “I’ve been,” she nervously nods her head back and forth which makes her whole body jiggle erotically, “you know, sort of dabbling. Met this amazing guy at Stony’s Café today—well I actually met him on the Internet first, about three weeks ago. We’ve been exchanging the most amazing email.” She stops to see if I’ll judge her. I don’t, much too early for that. “Anyway, we met for lunch.” Her hazel eyes get big again. I stare at her funky hair, wondering exactly what color is natural. Today it’s a harsh red-brown. She must have put a new rinse on it last night. Yesterday it was an orange blonde. I like this better. “He’s really big into controlling. You know, that searing look, the hawk-like eyes, the heavy voice, contemptuous—in all the right ways.” Her voice lowers again, “I’m so wet in my crotch I’m going stain the chair. He made me take off my panties right there in the restaurant.”
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 15