Fall from Grace

by Syra Bond

  He pinched harder each time he smacked, and my mind was filled with my own slurping, the taste of semen, the pain in my tongue and the burning smacks across my upturned bottom. There was nothing else in my world - I was consumed by it all. Suddenly, I felt a jerk come on me then another and, as the rhythm of pain increased in tempo, the jerks merged into one and I was overtaken by the thundering roar of my coursing blood and the pounding of my frantically beating heart,

  Suddenly, the lights went on. The room was full of people! Shona was standing by the dark haired woman who had been reading her palm in the café. A great cheer went up and they all started clapping, then they burst into a hymn - clasping each other’s arms and rocking from side to side in time with their chanting dirge. The hymn subsided and the clapping broke out again and, this time, built to a deafening crescendo. For a moment I thought their adulation was for me, but I felt my face flush red as I realised how stupid I was to think such a thing. I was simply a vehicle for someone else’s glory.

  Shona was pushed forward and, as other girls walked out and formed a line, Shona was directed proudly to its head. She had been rewarded for baiting the latest victim - me!

  They did not try to hold me back - I was free to go - but, as I walked out of the packed room, their jeers, derision and contemptuous glances filled my head. I walked between them as they taunted me with comments, poked at me and spat on me. Semen dribbled from my lips and I hung my head, but the walk to the door seemed to take an age. I gripped the handle and turned back before opening it. I saw all the faces shouting, and I heard their mocking comments and, as I twisted the handle in my hand, I felt again a wave of joy as a fresh and powerful orgasm seized me with a sudden jerking wrench.

  NIAGARA

  FALL FROM GRACE

  It was a slow drive on the I190 past Buffalo and into Canada. The queue at the immigration post was long and tedious and the beak-nosed uniformed immigration officer was facetious and tiresome. Suddenly life seemed duller, gas was more expensive, and everyone appeared to be either coming out of a long winter or preparing to enter the next one.

  I arrived at Niagara Falls, parked the pick-up and walked down to the Canadian Horseshoe to see if I could find the spot where Superman rescued Lois Lane from the horror of drowning in the roaring falls below.

  Niagara Falls - tall, tower block hotels, crowds of tourists, the endless thunder of the falls, everything tacky and gaudy. I sat outside a café staring across to the American Falls - gigantic, forceful, smashing down in uncontrolled torrents on the jagged rocks below. I watched anxious newlyweds clinging to each other like octopuses - unable to move away from each other’s grasp, unable to release the other for fear of falling down in a dizzy turn of separation. Somehow, I knew this was the end of my journey. Somehow, I knew I would travel no further north.

  A young woman, barely in her mid teens, sat with a muscular young man a few years older than her, on a high-backed bench looking out towards the falls. Occasionally the mist rose up in a huge cloud, was caught by a sudden gust of wind, and blew across them in a drenching shower. The girl’s skin, smooth and moistened, radiated youth and naivety. But her eager smiles, and the way she clutched the muscular arm of what looked a new and more mature husband, testified to the sexual heat which had been ignited in her slender, taut body. She wore a very short skirt. The flimsy material clung to her buttocks - tightly drawn together, compact, firm yet pliable. I imagined her cunt - malleable, soft, and wet - and I heard myself breathing heavily.

  Her husband got up and went to a nearby counter for food. The girl looked across and smiled at me. I smiled back. She tossed her head back and opened her mouth. I saw her pink tongue, glinting and wet with moisture, as her full broad lips opened wide. It was as if she allowed me to look inside for a few moments, then, when she thought I had seen enough, she closed her lips together again and offered me another broad smile.

  She glanced at her husband. He was searching for money, thrusting his hand into the rear pocket of his tight jeans. The straining tension of his hand in the pocket pulled the worn, blue material tightly against his prominent cock and outlined the general shape of his weighty testicles.

  She jumped up and quickly came over to me.

  ‘My name’s Angela. Tonight, 8pm, Maid of the Mist. Meet me there.’

  She squeezed my hand and went back to her table. She did not look at me again after her husband returned, preoccupied as she was - petting him and kissing his tanned cheeks and neck, laying her hand on his lap, and fingering his cock within the tight creases of his jeans.

  When she got up to leave, she opened her knees to slide herself across the seat - I thrilled at the briefest glimpse of her naked cunt. I felt the pounding beats of my heart in my neck.

  I sat around thinking of what Angela had said, and how she had said it - the air of mystery and the hint of knowing, both mixed together and spoken with a voice of naivety and innocence. The words of the old Indian woman who had stopped me when I had escaped from Father Dawson came back into my mind. She had said that the place I would find grace would be ‘where a young woman will lead you into the mist’. A sudden wave of fear ran through me. It was as though I was meeting my fate - acting out a part in a drama beyond my control, a destiny that had been mapped out for me by others who I did not even know. The thought unsettled me and I felt nervous and uncomfortable.

  I walked around the town impatiently and, eventually, at 8pm, I found myself on the promenade above the dock for the Maid of the Mist. I stared down at the heavily built boats which transport tourists in blue plastic raincoats to only yards beneath the crashing and relentless torrent of the Niagara horseshoe. The ticket offices were closed. There was no one to be seen.

  Someone grabbed my arm from behind. I swung around. It was Angela.

  ‘Come down here,’ she said, dragging me urgently by the hand.

  I didn’t have time to think as we went quickly down a long tunnel carved into the rock. We passed a young girl pressed against the wall by a thrusting boy. She wrapped her legs around his buttocks and pulled his hard cock into her needy cunt with forceful desperate jerks. She reminded me of someone, but I did not know who. I slowed to watch.

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Angela. ‘Come on!’

  She squeezed my hand tightly and rushed on into the tunnel. We passed a naked woman on her hands and knees. She did not move as we ran by.

  ‘She’s waiting for her master’s orders,’ said Angela. ‘Come on! Come on!’

  We rounded a corner. A woman was chained by the wrists, face forward against the rough rock wall. She was stripped naked. Her clothing lay in an untidy pile by her feet. Her back and buttocks were covered in raw red stripes. Her head hung limply onto her shoulder - her mouth gaping, spit running from its corners. A man wearing only leather jeans flogged her with a short broad leather whip. She looked unconscious and no longer aware of the pain that had driven her to this state of senselessness.

  ‘Hurry! Hurry!’

  Angela pulled me along. We passed a small tunnel leading off to the right - I heard the sound of a flogging strap and the high pitched screams of pain it wrung from its victim. Somewhere, I could not tell exactly the direction or location, I heard the endless scream of another suffering soul whose punishment I could only imagine. I shivered as pictures of her horrendous torture and humiliation sprang into my mind. I imagined her being crucified and could not shake the thought from my head.

  ‘We’re here! Here, put this on.’

  Angela held out a long, blue, plastic raincoat. It was made of very thin plastic, translucent, with a hood and wide cape-like arms. On the back was written “Maid of the Mist”.

  ‘Put this on. You’ll need it!’

  I took it from her and began to pull it over my head.

  ‘Take your clothes off first!’ I looked at her and she nodded vigorously. ‘Yes! Yes! Take them
all off. And be quick!’

  I pulled my T shirt over my head, undid my jeans and pulled them, together with my light green panties, down to my feet. I stepped out of them and kicked them into a pile against the rock wall. I struggled for a moment to work out how to get the plastic raincoat over my head. When, finally, I pulled it down, its thin filmy surface stuck to my skin. I could see my breasts through it, and my hard nipples stood out prominently against it. It clung between my thighs and the shape of my naked cunt was outlined and completely visible. I pulled the hem down as well as I could, as Angela grabbed my hand again and dragged me on.

  We ran out into the open and down a metal gangway with worn wooden handrails. The sound of the falls was all around us. I could see the mist billowing from the massive horseshoe on the Canadian side, and a low, arched rainbow buried itself in the crashing torrent opposite on the American side.

  She led me up onto the Maid of the Mist.

  ‘Here! Stand here!’ She pulled me to the iron rails which bounded the bow of the boat. ‘Yes, here. I will help you. Quickly!’

  A heavy stanchion, a sort of mast, rose up from the grey teak deck. Wet ropes hung from either sides of a crossbar welded to the heavy upright at shoulder height. She stood me in front of it and pressed me back against the rusty iron mast. It was rough and cold, and I shivered as she drew out my arms and began tying my wrists to the ropes which hung from the cross bar.

  She drew the ropes up tightly - I winced as she leant back and yanked on them with her full weight. When she had finished, she dropped to her knees, placed my ankles either side of the upright stanchion and tied them securely with more rope. My ankles bones were pulled against the rough and rusty iron and I shouted out in pain. She took no notice, but put even more pressure on the rope as if she was punishing me for my weakness.

  I hung on the cross bar, slightly twisted at the waist as I allowed some of my weight to hang on my wrists. I flexed my hands and felt how securely I was tied. Then, as if I had not noticed what had happened to me, I had a sudden surge of fear as I realised my situation, and I saw how I had so quickly allowed myself to be put in it. The image I had of the crucified screaming woman flashed into my mind and I dropped against the ropes at my wrists as if accepting my fate.

  Angela pressed herself against the rails at the point of the bow and stared ahead. Suddenly, I remembered what the old Indian woman had said - the place where a girl would ‘lead me into the mist’. Yes, this must be where the old woman had predicted my sins would be washed away. For a moment, I wondered if I dared submit to my salvation, but I realised that I already had, I was bound to the crucifying crossbeam and already we were heading into the roaring waters of the massive waterfall ahead. Yes, this was where, at last, I would be redeemed.

  The mist covered my face. At first it was a soft and caressing moisture, but soon it became a violent storm. The plastic raincoat stuck to my body. I looked down at my breasts and nipples, and my navel and, beyond that, the outline of my cunt - I could see its pink nakedness through the filmy blue plastic. I felt the pressure of the tugging wet surface on my skin. I moved myself against it, and felt a wave of joy spread to every rain-soaked pore of my body.

  The hood dropped down and partly covered my face. Water battered me in a heavy and massive deluge. I could hardly breathe as it pounded against my face and chest. It ran in a stream down the gully formed by the thin plastic pulled tightly between my thighs. Everything around me was in turmoil. The ship pitched and rocked in the white churning waters that surrounded it. The hood dropped further down until it stuck to my nose. I could see nothing clearly.

  I saw Angela moving ahead in the mist. I think she stood up and turned and, suddenly, out of nowhere, I thought I saw the old Indian woman beckoning me, reaching out to me, calling me to her. I strained against the ropes at my wrists and tried to shout to her, but it was useless, any sound I made was drowned by the roaring thunder of the falls.

  There was only whiteness around me - I was entombed in the thundering mist of the falls. I could not see where I was, which way was up and which way down. I felt as if I was drowning.

  I thought I saw Father Dawson’s two penitents running, like ghouls, through the swirling spray. Again I shouted, but this time I could not even hear myself as my mouth filled with water the instant I opened it.

  My mind was full of images. I thought I was delirious. I saw a flying eagle, and then Bracken flying through the rain. I thought I felt Sir Orfeo’s touch, or his bite, around my nipples - I even winced in pain. I blinked my eyes and held them wide in fear. I felt a rush of humiliation as I thought I saw Leanne and Crystal. It was as though all the people I had met on my travels were appearing before me, as if they were on a stage, and nothing I could do would stop them. If I closed my eyes they were there, and if I opened them they seemed only the more real. May from Johnson’s Farm stood before me beckoning, smiling, peeling off her clothes, and Petra and Robin reached forward and placed their hands across my eyes, giggling, wanting to play a game with me. I thought I saw Dr Fitz bending and clasping my nipples between his teeth, and I even saw the flash of Sublime’s green hair crest, just before I felt the stinging lash of Athala’s cane on my bottom. I felt giddy and confused. The burning taste of vomit welled up in my throat. The hood of the raincoat was stuck to my face, everything I saw was tinted blue and drenched with saturating spray. I struggled against my bonds and felt weakened by the effort. I slumped against the ropes at my wrists and hung on the crossbar terrified, confused and unsure what, if anything, was real. Then I saw the delectable Shona walking towards me arm in arm with Father Dawson! I gasped and my mouth filled with water.

  He stood in the storm of spray and stared at me. He grinned and came closer. He pressed his face against my ear. He was real!

  ‘Syra. My dearest Syra.’

  He spoke! I couldn’t believe it! I stared at him blankly.

  ‘Have you been so long away from your master that you no longer recognise him? Poor Syra. Surely you didn’t think you had actually escaped from me? Oh, Syra! Surely not! You did! Syra! You did! You actually thought you had found freedom. Oh, my dear Syra, I am embarrassed for you. You are such a fool! Syra, I have watched you all the way. Throughout your journey, you have been playing my game. What other game is there for you to play? Oh, my poor Syra. You have never been out of my sight. I have watched everything - everything!’

  The plastic hood fell over my face. My heavy tears mixed with the thunderous spray. His words shocked me with a pain as deep as any I had ever felt from the whip or belt or smacking hand. He was truly my nemesis - he was inescapable.

  He backed away and Shona and Angela untied me from the mast. I felt I was being let down from the cross. I fell forward onto my hands and knees. I knew he was going to punish me, and I knew it would be worse than ever. I had committed the sin of thinking I could escape him and that could only be forgiven by more suffering at his hand. And I feared it but, at the same time, I wanted it. In the storm of spray and the thunderous roar of the waterfall, amid the dizzying confusion and the realisation of my own stupidity, I wanted salvation more than ever and that meant I wanted punishment.

  I raised my bottom. The plastic clung to it. I felt him thrust his fingers against it and into my cunt. I felt as if the surface of my whole body was inside my cunt. The plastic pulled tight against my skin and his fingers dragged it close against my flesh. I raised my bottom more - it was the beginning of my punishment and I wanted it so much. The hood stuck across my mouth and I gasped as he thrust my cunt roughly. I moaned and cried out and whinnied and spit ran from my mouth and mixed with the vortex of water that churned around me. Suddenly, he took his fingers out. My jaw dropped. I felt empty - hollow without him inside me. But I waited. I knew he must thrash me. I knew I must kneel for the pain, take it all, and wait until he decided I had suffered enough- enough for repentance, enough to deliver me from the foolis
hness of believing there was such a thing as freedom outside his control - and only then would it be over.

  The first lash made me cry out - it was so hard, so vicious. Spit foamed from my mouth and disappeared into the roaring vortex that surrounded me. I felt as though I was in a watery hell, drowning as I sacrificed myself to punishment. Another cutting blow. I was knocked forward but immediately put myself back in place, on my knees my bottom held as high as possible. That act of submission was enough to start it. I felt a jerk, a sudden jerk of pleasure, and knew it had begun. The next blow brought another, this time more intense, more directed, and I gritted my teeth and held myself ready for the next which was already following. I knew it would get worse, that the pain would only increase but, as the storm of spray whirled around me, and I realised that again I was on my knees before my master, I raised my bottom as I high as I could and hoped that, as he thrashed me, the edges of his belt would cut into the soft flesh of my cunt and deliver me to the ecstasy of repentance that my sins required.

  I hung against the window of the fourteenth floor room of the Sheraton Fallsview Hotel. I stared out at the horseshoe of the falls as billowing mist curled from it in a massive incessant cloud. I looked down at the hectic, never-ending effort of valet parking around the entrance below. The gleaming bonnet of a shiny black Ford sedan flashed in my eyes. A man stepped out as the valet jumped into the driver’s seat. The rear of the car dipped as, with a sudden squeal of tyres, it was driven away speedily. The man looked up. I could see it was him, even from this distance, I could see it was Father Dawson. He had left me in the hotel for the night to recover - he knew I would not run away, he knew I no longer believed in escape, even though I had been alone, he knew I had still been his prisoner. I had not even slept in the bed. I had curled up on the floor in anticipation of being put back again into my kennel at Dawson’s Rise.