Star Slave (15 page)

‘You're a cold little bitch!' Stella hissed. ‘Is that it then?

Don't you feel anything for me? You can just walk out, like this?'

Felicity was surprised at the depth of emotion she saw in Stella's countenance. The blue-grey eyes filled suddenly with tears, and she looked almost pathetic in her hurt. Even the voice suddenly dropped to a husky, pleading tone. ‘Can't we start over?'

‘No,' Felicity replied with brutal softness, ‘we can't. We never really started, Stella. It was you. From the beginning you went out to get me.' She smiled bitterly. ‘And you succeeded. Just be content with that.' The smile was translated into a brittle little laugh. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful to you. You taught me a lot - about myself, I mean. I'll never be the same again. You also ruined my real love relationship. I won't forget that... ever.'

Stella stood like a statue as Felicity walked around her, and out of the room.

 

But the furore over the screening of
A Woman's Touch
inevitably flung them together in public. And furore it was. Even a head of the Church had a much-publicised view on it. Ratings for the repeat of the first episode and all three remaining parts broke all records, as forecast. It was sold around the world, a series of books were produced and, on the Internet, someone started a lewd comic-strip about the infamous duo. By early December both Felicity and Stella were the world's most revered icons of lesbianism, even though, by the middle of the month, newspapers were reporting their break-up. Indeed, the split served only to refresh the public's eagerly prurient interest in their affairs.

Burnopside Hall became a haven for Felicity. She escaped there whenever she could, and, miraculously, her stays there and her friendship with Lord B remained a well-guarded secret. More and more she felt at home, and more and more she felt drawn to its enclosed society. The world was left outside. Within those secluded bounds she was simply Felicity, one of the girls whose nucleus was the fascinating Magda, to whom she became increasingly devoted.

To Felicity it was the life outside those privileged confines that became unreal. She was still of course caught up in it. And she still spent a considerable time in the company of her cousin during the week, when she was required to be up in town. They continued to amuse and divert each other in their customary ways. But, as they untangled their naked limbs in the glow of the fire one evening, a week before Christmas, John observed, ‘You've changed a hell of a lot, Feely, since you got mixed up with Lord B's crowd.'

‘What do you mean?' she asked innocently.

He shrugged absent-mindedly, and toyed with her nearest breast until she squirmed away from him. ‘It's hard to say, really. You're just different. Quieter. More self-contained, sort of.'

‘That's good, isn't it?' she asked. ‘And what makes you think it's Burnopside that's made the difference? I don't know if you've noticed, but my life's been turned upside down by this movie. I've become the lezzie of the century. I'll go down in the history books.' She frowned. ‘I've lost my lover. My family.'

There had been a very painful scene with her parents only days after the release of
A Woman's Touch
. It seemed their lives had been shaken up too, so that, according to her father, they hardly dared show their faces anywhere any more. It had led to a blazing row, and Felicity's determination that she would not see them again, at least in the short-term future.

‘Why don't you see Mikey again?' John said carefully. ‘He still feels the same, you know. He's crazy for you...' She shot him a glance that showed how deeply troubled she felt. ‘He hasn't tried all that hard, has he? For a start he kept away for weeks.'

‘Oh, come on!' her cousin protested. ‘You did your disappearing act for a couple of weeks. He was going off his rocker wondering where you were. I told you, the poor sod was permanently pissed.' Although she didn't know it, John's conscience was almost equally painful on the subject of her fiance - or ex-fiance, as he must now be called.

His own part in the shattering of Michael's well-ordered successful existence was no small one. And yet John excused himself; it ought to have done Michael so much good to see at first hand how shockingly uncertain people's sexuality could be, dependent on circumstances - and opportunity. Their brief foray into homoeroticism might have started in a drunken spree, but surely it had made Michael readjust his altogether too conventional and judgmental view of such things?

John had of course said nothing to Felicity about the adventure. Close they might be, but not that close! Besides, she was going through her own crisis of sexual identity; sea changes had been happening to her too, with just as profound an effect. He was not exaggerating when he talked of the transformation within her. She was so much more mysterious; adult, contained. And more fascinating than ever.

He rolled over onto his stomach, positioning himself at her feet. He felt the tickle of the rug's pile on his belly and damp penis, which stirred with renewed sensation, despite his recent ejaculation. He thrust his loins pleasurably into the hardness under him. He picked up her right foot, holding it by the heel in his left hand, propped on his elbow. He lapped gently at the painted toenails, and the toes themselves, which waggled at his moist caresses. She shivered and he tightened his grip on her, so that she could not withdraw her foot. His tongue explored further, more firmly, at the ball of the foot, the narrow arch, the instep, to the swell of the prominent anklebone.

She shivered and jerked against his touch. ‘Christ... don't,' she gasped, a hint of pleading in her voice. ‘You're a menace, you know that? You'll have me utterly shagged out, and I've a hell of a day tomorrow.'

His thumbs pressed on the fragile structure, massaging, digging deeply, and she shivered again. ‘You'll give Mikey another call?' he coaxed, like a hypnotist. He bent and licked again, then let one hand slide up her leg, slowly caressing its contours, until he reached the fullness of her satin inner thigh.

‘I'll do no such thing,' she chided, then groaned again. ‘Bastard,' she panted raggedly. The backs of his fingers were brushing, light as feathers, across her labia, which were rapidly responding and dampening yet again to his wicked moves.

His fingertips traced the divide and nuzzled subtly within, and she grabbed at his wrist and pulled him into her softness, grinding herself against him in abandon. ‘You will,' he murmured insistently.

‘Oh fuck... why does everyone tell me what to do all the time?' she moaned. Her hips squirmed and she wriggled down towards him, her head falling back among the cushions, her legs parting while she held him to her, pulling his fingers deep inside her beating orifice.

 

Michael knocked her wrist away from his loins and rolled over, hiding his limp penis from her. He gave a shuddering sob, his face buried in his folded arm on the pillow. ‘Leave it, for God's sake.' His voice was muffled.

Felicity felt the heat of her shame rise to her cheeks. It was all going so horribly wrong. What should have been a wonderful reunion of flesh and love was turning into a nightmare of embarrassment. She scrambled hastily out of bed, snatched her silk robe and pulled it tightly around her. She went into the living room, blushed again at her recall of the abandoned lovemaking she had enjoyed with John on the rug there. She poured herself a drink and knelt by the fire, feeling its bathing warmth on her face and her body through the thin silk.

She was stunned by this unexpected reversal. Was it really because of her? Because he simply could not make love to a lesbian? Confusing images of Magda and the lovely girls at Burnopside kept swimming into her mind. Could it be true, that she was indeed gay? But no - she had very clear evidence that she was not. She knew only too well how ready she was for sex with Michael, and that only added to the bitterness of the tears that flowed down her cheeks.

She heard him stir, then he came out, wearing his unbuttoned shirt and trousers. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, in a deflated voice. He too refilled his glass, and then sat in an armchair. ‘I don't know what's wrong. Too keyed up, I expect. I've been going through a bad time recently. Not just with us. Work's been hell, too. A lot of problems—'

Suddenly she shook with rage. It welled up inside, almost choking her. With the anger came a rush of contempt for his whining weakness and his inability to satisfy her. When she spoke her words came out in a harsh, cutting snarl. ‘You've got problems? What the fuck do you think I've been going through? You were the one who broke things off. If you still don't want me why don't you have the guts to say so?' She was crying, but the tears seemed to fuel her fury. ‘It took a hell of a lot to ring you, and now you don't even want me. That's bloody marvellous, that is!'

She felt the wildness surging through her, the aggression stirring her excitement like some kind of foreplay. ‘You bastard! I've been through hell lately, so don't come snivelling to me! I want you to fuck me! Understand?' She flung herself at him, seizing him by his open shirt, clawing it open all the way to his navel as she pulled him off the low chair. He was too shocked to resist. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back and she was sitting astride him, beating at his bare chest with her fists and clawing at his pants, ripping them open.

She knelt up and dragged them brutally down off his hips, then the tight white briefs that lay beneath. His prick, large but flexible as a hose, hung there between his thighs. Her fingers closed round it and she pulled, stretching it, and he yelped. She jerked her hand up and down, and the helmet throbbed and swelled under her touch, while he made girlish whimpers of protest. The hand moved, her long fingers curved, the nails dragged up the furrowed underside of his balls. Her black hair swung over her face as her head dipped and she nibbled at the stiffening column, pressing it back flat against his belly, holding it with her fingers while she chewed and worried at it. Her tongue licked, the helm reared, and he was as stiff as iron.

She rose a little, still clinging to his prick, and let her gown flow open as she spread her knees wide and descended, guiding him to her sex, taking him inside, feeling the potent shaft surge into her, filling her tightly welcoming sheath. He grunted at each descent of her body onto his belly and thighs, while she rode him furiously to a shattering climax for both of them.

 

In the secret upper room, The Babylon Chamber, the arc lights flung down their brilliant whiteness on the marble circle at its centre. Faint blue whirls of smoke drifted up from the shallow metal dishes at the outer surrounds, where the heavy musk of incense burned. From her dais, the scarlet-cloaked Grand Mistress nodded. Her black robed acolytes came forward, carrying a large piece of apparatus, which was a metal frame on a wheeled stand. The frame was laced by strands of broad elasticated tape, which formed a stout but flexible webbing.

They positioned the equipment directly in the centre, on the black star. They then led forward a drooping figure who moved with reluctant obedience. Marie-Angele Carrier, the French girl, was tall, with a mane of rich chestnut hair, which was gathered loosely on top of her head. She was already naked, and the neat triangle of her pubis shone with the same rich redness against the whiteness of her belly and thighs. Her lovely face was stamped with a look of fear, her eyes wild as they moved frantically from one to the other of her companions. Her lips were compressed as she strove to make no sound.

The frame was tilted until it was almost horizontal, and the robed figures helped the girl climb on the webbing and spread herself face down, so her arms and legs stretched out towards the comers. Her wrists and ankles were firmly bound with looped restraints, and she hung there like a pale star, every detail of her body revealed in the brilliance of the light. There were deep hollows in her taut buttocks, shadowed as she clenched them in anticipation of the pain to come.

‘Daughter, you have been chosen to undergo the test of obedience, to accept the chastisement on behalf of the Daughters of Babylon.'

Marie-Angele's voice came as a smothered sob. ‘I thuh - thank you, mistress, for the great honour bestow upon me.'

Again, the scarlet figure nodded. The frame was tipped once more, so that the captive girl hung at an angle of forty-five degrees, her head uppermost. The muscles on her body could be seen to tense. The frame shook slightly with her involuntary trembling. The first of her punishers stepped forward. Debbie flung back her cloak, revealing the splendour of her brown body as she drew back her arm and delivered the first hissing blow with the three-tailed whip. The webbing strained noisily as the naked girl jerked and a gasp escaped, then a sob, which was quickly bitten off. Her behind flexed. The thin red lines rose, glowing on the abused rounds.

Debbie withdrew into the dimness beyond the circle of light, and another stepped forward quickly. The second blow whistled and struck, the aim as accurate as the first, and more angry lines appeared. A whimper came from the bound form and the webbing creaked again. A third girl replaced the second, struck again, and this was repeated until six lashes had been delivered on the now writhing captive. The French girl was crying, unable to hold back her grief and pain, though the sound of her weeping was muted as she struggled to suppress it.