“My, that was almost worth what you must have paid for her,” Mrs. Peacock said as she finally pulled herself from her chair and began to rebutton the tiny pearls at her bodice. She’d hardly been naked. No one had ever seen the diva naked except her husband; but she did have a good garden party cunt, and she was always the first to have hers mouthed by a hungry slave. She understood good slave flesh too - having owned enough herself.
“She’s only beginning to pay for herself,” Bozart said.
“Then you plan to use her up or not?” another mellow guest inquired. “I’d like to be there if you’re planning a debauchery.”
“As I’ve said, I’m not yet sure,” Bozart replied. For an instant the now mellow Diandra shivered where she lay against the green grass in the shade. Her eyes that had not been the least bit watchful for the last few minutes now perked hearing her fate discussed. She’d been close to being deflowered before, in fact probably close every time she performed her duties with such diligence as she had this day. And still, the quality of Bozart’s consideration was different from that of other masters who had owned her.
“But …” her elegant owner continued. He spoke in a lazy drawl. He too had been satisfied by her efficient tongue just minutes before. “… But, after this afternoon’s fest, I’m leaning towards a complete defilement.” His guests were attentive hearing his plans. “After all, it would be criminal to take her much past her age, since any slave isn’t good for anything but a brothel past twenty-seven.”
“Oh, but some of the older ones are choice for household duties,” Mrs. Peacock chimed in. “Why my Ellie is a good stable whore even at nearly thirty-two.”
“Yes, I see your point,” Bozart agreed. “But Diandra will never be a stable whore for me. Once she’d been breached, she’ll be a fine pony to ride hard. She’ll be prime for showing for at least a few years, even if she won’t bring top dollar. It would be my plan to let some old fart buy her then.” Bozart looked down at her lying still on the ground. Something affectionate was in his eye, almost as if he regretted his last statement.
“My, Bozart, you are a blackguard,” one guest observed.
“It’s the times we live in,” he replied with a kind smile. “Who here is to cast their judgment on how we live?” There was no one who’d answer that statement. “Come here, fair one,” he ordered the girl. She crawled up on her knees and came to sit as her master’s feet. Her skin was rosy from the sun that had beat down on her as she’d paid sexual homage to Bozart’s guests. It glistened now from sweat. And the chain that had been pulled tight between her legs and then clamped at her neck remained, undoubtedly quite uncomfortable after nearly three hours time. Her only good fortune was that the day was slowly ebbing away as the sun fell lower in the sky about to dip behind the hedge that framed the manicured garden..
Bozart grabbed the chain in his hand and then twisted it. She gasped almost inaudibly.
“If you had your preference, my sweet, would you live the remainder of your life a virgin, or prefer to be rent in two and given the full benefit of your station?” He looked at her sincerely, waiting for a response.
Diandra, not accustomed to offering opinions, turned her head away unable to reply. To her reticence, Bozart jerked the chain harder in his fist and with the other hand he slapped her squarely in the face. “Answer me, or I shall rip your cleft apart with my cock this instant,” he ordered her.
She cleared her throat as if speaking itself was tortuous, and in a throaty voice, she finally spoke, “I should be pleased with however you wish to use me, because I am yours. But if it was mine to choose, I would be pleased to have my body feel the same pleasures that your guests have felt today, and pleased to find myself filled full by your erection between my legs.”
How touching and how melodious her voice, Bozart thought. Perhaps he’d like to hear it more. Bozart smiled at her kindly. “Good, that’s very good,” he said, while his guests sat back astonished that he would even ask. There was a grin in his eye, merriment in his smile. He pulled the chain still tighter in his hand and eyed the slave thinking for just a second of the first moment he’d laid his eyes on her at the private auction. So innocent for her years, as pure as the first snows of winter, or a lush untouched beach. There was much, so much to her, it was hard to understand the feeling he’d had when he realized what he had purchased in her. That day, the spotlights on her, the sweat on her brow, the inspections of her genitals, the authentication of her chastity—how proudly she’d withstood the demeaning rituals. It had made his lust for her greater than any he’d had for any slave. Lust that he feared might become something even more than sexual.
No, he was sure now that he wouldn’t barter her for a whole harem of lovely torsos and firm thighs. No, when the time was right, he’d use her without restraint. He’d defile her, train her, give her away and then take her back. He’d make up for all her virginal years with years more of relentless copulation. In her ass, her cunt and her beloved mouth, she’d become renowned for her body’s many talents. And then maybe, just maybe when she was no longer worth a pittance for her age, and the wrinkles that had begun to show, and her skin becoming slightly flaccid, he’d even keep her in his stable of beauties as a mistress to them all. Then he might enjoy her for the sweetness of the tangy perfume that comes with age. He could pick her brain of thoughts that rattled behind her wide-eyed intelligence. He could see what kind of woman she’d become, unlike fainting matrons like Mrs. Peacock, but what a woman of her substance might become at forty and beyond. It wasn’t likely that she’d even be a slave then. How interesting the thought.
Bozart would often think too much—though usually not at garden parties. But then, this one was about over. The guests were reluctantly preparing to leave or retire elsewhere with another of Bozart’s more than adequate slaves. It had been a good one. His poor chained Diandra was exhausted, he could see that in her eyes. It was time for her to retire too.
The next garden party would be the best. He was already making his plans. As he led the fair blonde maid from the lush garden, as he admired how the fading light made her slave skin glow a luscious hue, he thought of the next one as his finest scheme. Next time her blood would be spilled in the company of his friends, and she’d be on her way to paradise—made to go from virtue to ruin in a matter of seconds … and then required by the nature of her lowly station to crawl back to the pinnacle again on her knees offering her slave ass and her slave cunt to all he gave her to.
What a marvelous fantasy. It was truly Bozart’s finest dream. And a lofty one that he’d revel in for its inspiring possibilities.
He so loved his afternoon teas.
Saving Carly
She came to me like a breath of spring, wearing blue, eyes so soulful that I wanted to melt inside their softness. Her kiss on my neck was tender sweet, and I would have stayed in her midst forever, if that had been our fate.
It was in the old stone church where we first consummated our love. Me in my sundress, she in hers, we were so close to naked from the start, it hardly seemed anything at all to remove the garments that kept our bodies hidden from each other’s eyes. Once we were bare, our breasts touched first, and then our mouths began to open wide, connecting lips, as we invited each other to come inside, and make us one person, not two. We were joined at the hips, pubis mounds, rubbing like two desperate maids seeking erections where there were none. Thankfully there were other things that sufficed, like hands, and cheeks and sinewy legs wrapped around sinewy legs.
We used the old broken altar as a bed, as though we were offering ourselves to the deity that resided there - sacrificing ourselves to pleasure. What sacrifice! We scoffed at such an idea with all the corrupt carnal acts we accomplished on that cool, crumbling stone. Mouth to cunt and mouth to cunt, we played each other’s womanhoods like instruments producing song. She licked me in the soft folds about my center, while my tongue relished the taste of her tangy juice right from the hole where it was fresh. Face
s pressed into each other’s crotches we were whores in this sacred place, happy with the thought that we were unholy on holy ground, defiling it with what some would call unnatural lust.
When we were finished—at least for a time—I looked around, noting that this place had already been defiled. The mortar between the cold stones was crumbling. Through holes in the walls, sunshine shot like the hand of God’s wrath. But such a gentle wrath it was; it only shed light on the darkness inside; it only illuminated our lust before the eyes of whatever spirits were still prancing about. I wondered if those souls buried beneath the stone floor were up and dancing as we made merry in their austere edifice. I wondered too, that time and nature had taken its toll on this chapel, returning this house of worship into its more fundamental form, a place where the elements of the earth happily collide.
What I remember most about that frivolous day were her cries and mine. While she was opening the root of my body, parting my thighs and reveling with her tongue, teeth and mouth at both orifices of sensation, I screamed gleefully. My body wrenched. I was on my knees, and came away scratched and bruised by the unconscious pounding my flesh took. I remember her cries just moments later when I buried my face in the earthy home between her legs and watched as she writhed snake-like, until the visions and vibrations passed away.
Carly and I were ravenous like that all the time. It didn’t matter the time of day or where we were, we came together like clashing storms. There was little holding back for propriety or anyone’s judgmental eyes.
Carly had a way of being bad. Running off for days, getting drunk on really cheap wine—the kind winos leave inside the brown paper sack and sip from a straw. It made her breath smell foul, like very old things and something sour. But still, her aroma was a perfume too dear for me to resist. I was in the habit of pulling her out of nasty smelling joints, and running after her when she’d call in the middle of the night, out of money and no place to go. I regularly saved Carly from herself, even though she pissed me off how careless she was. Regardless, the flippant, cigarette smoking, wisecracking, booze smelling Carly couldn’t have been any more inside me if I’d birthed her.
Our wars were something else. “Tempests in teapots,” she would say, like they really weren’t all that horrible even if I thought they were. But when she got too reckless, I had ways of taking the bite out of her bark, the sass out of her talk, and the snicker out of her smile. I remember the first time I tied her up while she was sleeping. She woke and the devil was in my eyes. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t off somewhere without telling me,” I told her. She stared back at me so innocently, I almost felt sorry for her. But I knew it was an act.
“Are you going to keep me here like this forever?” she asked as she watched me putter around the kitchen making breakfast. I ate mine without her. Didn’t even offer her a bite. Looking at her naked belly, all shrunk as if she were starving to death, I should have had some compassion. But she showed me so little. This was my way of getting back.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. But instead of letting her go, I walked out the patio door to the garden and began to work on my plants, while she remained securely affixed to the posts of our bed. Arms above, legs at the foot, she was beautiful, like a feast prepared for me, even if she was screaming for me to let her go. Later in the day, I tortured her alternately with rose petals and candle wax. I found the fragrance and the feel of both intriguing. The rose scented candle, the rose scented petals—one with bite and the other with gentleness so delicate she would have to struggle to feel it. She may have hated being bound, but her body loved it.
While she struggled to free herself, she struggled with orgasm too. I watched. Her belly undulated seductively, and then she squirmed to bring her thighs together so she could rub her clit against flesh. Unfortunately her bondage didn’t allow much opportunity for her to do anything but fuck the air. And that she did well.
Carly climaxed, like some spontaneous combustion going off. Her body wouldn’t wait for the attention that it craved. It shot off like a firecracker and then collapsed as if it was exhausted.
“You will untie me now?” she implored me. For the tough, stern bitch she could be, she was looking so sweetly refreshed by the wave of pleasure that had worked its way through her. So vulnerable, it almost made me cry to see the expression in her eyes.
When I untied her however, the reaction was exactly as I expected. “You conniving bitch!” she came up like an angry cat and roared, reminding me that she’d never been peaceful at all. She lunged at me, and I ran. But then she captured me anyway, threw me to the floor and pinned me. She sat above my face, pressing her juicy cunt to my mouth. “Give me the rest, Roxanna,” she demanded. “I need more.”
I was smiling, practically laughing that I’d made her so mad. But I wasn’t in a position to bargain - with her bottom resting on my face. After satisfying her, my punishment was pretty simple. She slapped my breasts until they were red and hot. It was punishment all right, but it was making my body ready for something more.
“Don’t ever do it again, Roxanna,” she warned. I laughed at her, just as she would laugh at me, but I had to satisfy myself with masturbating since she wasn’t about to help me out. We didn’t speak for days.
The silence between us broke after Carly had been gone two days on one of her unannounced trips. I was a little frantic that she’d left in the first place thinking we should probably patch things up before she went on the prowl. I didn’t want to see her do something stupid. Being pissed off was one of the great motivators for her bad behavior. Afraid for her, I started combing her familiar territory: the bars and strip joints along the old wharf in our harbor town. When she wanted men, she wanted them rough and brutal—”guys with real balls,” she’d say. I suppose deep down she had a need to be punished and I could never give her the kind she really loved. How many times I picked up her broken pieces, I don’t recall. Thankfully, she always went back together.
This time, I found her in a strip joint, the kind with the dirty neon flashing outside at irregular intervals, the name of the joint something like “Stingers”, but it was hard to tell since part of the sign was missing. I hadn’t seen her in this place in months, maybe longer than a year. I felt squeamish walking in. Why’d she have to pick this one? Her usual haunts would have worked just fine to make me mad. She must be doing it to get me back, not just drinking and playing around with the patrons, but dancing nude in this hole in the wall.
Inside it was almost impossible to see or breathe through the fog of smoke. When I arrived she’d just finished her stage dance, and was sitting naked on some longshoreman’s lap getting fondled. I just watched for awhile, initially just glad to know that she was all right. She’d hate it if I came between her and the burly man whose hands roved her pendulous breasts. That was the type of dive this was: no rules for the women. I suppose if any girl dared to work there, she must not care if she got felt up.
Watching Carly move so sensuously on the man’s lap made me jealous for awhile. Her kisses to his brow and those on his lips reminded me how I loved her lips on me. When the gruff man’s hand went to her crotch, I winced to see her part her legs so he could have access to what I considered mine. I’d always known that I would share Carly with the whole world. The choice wasn’t even mine to make otherwise. But to see it so close up… as much as I loathed looking… I couldn’t take my eyes from her and that man’s impatient hands.
A few minutes later Carly stood up and led the man to a room behind the bar. There wasn’t suppose to be real sex for the patrons, but no one followed that rule either. There were dozens of exceptions every night.
I followed them to the back of the place, and stood at the curtain watching the pair. They fucked hard, the longshoreman groping her like she was meat, while Carly screamed for him to screw her harder. When she looked up to see me standing in the doorway, I said nothing and neither did she. With just that much eye contact, it was mutually agreed that this a
ct evened any debt I owed her for keeping her tied up that one long day.
When I took her home that night, she seduced me into bed with her soulful eyes tuned to my heart. After having a crude fuck just hours before, she was lush like the wine on her breath, like a garden just over the edge of summer, like a ripe peach that drips juice down your hand. Afterwards, I lay with my head on the pillow of her belly and allowed her hand to stroke my face. I felt her breath, her stomach gurgle, and smelled the scent of the man in the bar, the smoke and the cheap perfume that she’d sprayed to disguise where she’d been that afternoon. Bathing in her essence, I drifted off to sleep, happily.
Carly wasn’t going to last forty years. If she made thirty I’d be surprised. When she was being kind and we weren’t fighting, she’d tell me how I kept her sane and safe. How she could never live without me, though I know that wasn’t true. After sex, she’d often ask me questions about God and salvation, like, was she bound for heaven or hell? I couldn’t tell her for certain. After all, I wasn’t sure if just being natural and being yourself could get you excluded from heaven. She only did bad things because she hurt so much. Because inside, the little Carly had never grown up. Besides, her sins were harmless. I told her she was likely to get to the pearly gates because she was too stubborn not to, and because I figured that God really liked mavericks—he’d made so many. I suggested to her that people like her kept the world from getting too serious about itself. We needed crazies like Carly to break the rules once in a while, to remind us how human we are. She liked that, since for some time, she’d thought she was crazy.
Extremes Page 6