Star Slave (24 page)

Felicity shivered but did as she was told, her toes trailing on the rug, her behind raised, her face resting on her folded arms. The crumpled sheet was still warm against her cheek, faintly damp and rich with their perfume and perspiration.

‘You mustn't lie to me ever again,' Magda said gently. ‘About anything, no matter what. You do understand that, don't you?'

‘Yes. I promise I'll never do it again. I swear.'

‘You won't, my darling.'

Magda picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table. If Felicity had thought the punishment might be lessened because of her ready repentance, and because of the wonderful loving they'd shared in the hours since dawn, she was mistaken, as she discovered with the first resounding splat delivered plumb centre on her clenched rounds. She screamed at the immediate blaze of pain, which raised a blotchy red outline on the quivering flesh. Magda's large left hand encircled the back of her neck and thrust her down forcibly, while the second blow landed, with its cannon crack, and Felicity jerked and howled like a demented marionette. She blubbered and twisted, choking on huge sobs, and the brush continued to fall in rapid succession until her bottom was a flayed and scorching mass of undefined agony.

‘Come - down - stairs - when - you've - dressed!' Magda ordered between each swooping strike, and over the wail of Felicity's anguished weeping. And then the beating abruptly ended. ‘And put a skirt on - no trousers.'

Felicity lay there when Magda had gone, stretched face down on the bed, her fingers clutching the sheet, soaked with her tears. It was many minutes before the violence of her grief died away. Her eyes were puffy when she did rise and glance over her shoulder at the area of reddened flesh, and gingerly tried to touch the stinging curves, wincing as she did.

What on earth was happening to her? Why was she letting that sadistic creature and this strange place take over her life? She was a star now, famous throughout the land - and abroad. A whole new world awaited her. Hollywood, perhaps. Who knew? Yvonne had said anything was possible for her now. And did she seriously want to give all that up, now on the very threshold of major success, for this? To be part of this mysterious cult, this tight little band of Magda worshipping slaves who surrendered every vestige of free will and independence for her love? She shivered as she realised how powerful was that element in her which answered yes. Even now, the throbbing pain in her bottom compelled her fingers to steal down over the dark fleece and caress the folds of her sex.

She sat on the bidet, easing her discomfort under the warm flow, and washed herself carefully. Then she took time to make up her face and disguise the marks of her grief and passion. She noticed her dark eyes were shadowed, the faint bags underneath a token of the hectic life she'd led in recent weeks. But she decided it added a subtle attraction, a hint of decadent youth that went so well with the role she was playing at the Hall. She dressed in a plain blue sweater, with demure neck and long sleeves, in keeping with the season, but over a bra which made the most of her curves. She also wore a grey skirt of modest length. When she had brushed her lustrous black hair she was pleased at the reflection which gazed back at her. A girlish, wholesome figure of demure conservatism verging on the pearls and twin set, and one far removed from the elfin modernism that marked her persona in the outside world.

 

The girls and Magda were gathered with his lordship in the morning room. Magda called Felicity over at once, and lifted the back of her skirt to show Lord B her scorched bottom. ‘You see? I had to smack our girl, my lord.' She smiled. ‘She's very sorry though, aren't you, my dear?'

Felicity's blushes made her feel even more like a little girl as she murmured contrite apologies, even though she'd lost sight of why they were needed.

‘Don't get cold, will you?' Magda went on fondly. ‘No knickers or tights. In
this
weather.'

‘What about that young man of yours?' Lord B asked jovially. ‘Is he coming down for the party tonight? He'll see the New Year in with us, I trust.'

‘Oh - I don't think so, my lord,' Felicity blustered. ‘I mean - we haven't - I haven't spoken to him since before Christmas. Things are a bit... tense... between us.'

‘You did ask him, though?'

‘Oh, yes my lord. But that was - before. We quarrelled just before I left.'

‘Then call him up,' Lord B persisted. ‘Get him down here. He'll come if you ask him nicely, I'm sure.'

Despite his jocular smile, Felicity knew it was an order. ‘Yes, my lord,' she responded. ‘I'll do that.'

 

‘Where are you going?' Nicki Lowther was sulking, pouting so childishly that at any other time Stella would have snorted with laughter. But now when the beautiful blonde stared at her, it was with a look of dark contempt. She was busy fastening her magnificent breasts into a black bra, the satin half cups of which cut away so steeply that, in the low-cut dress she intended to wear, it would look as though the pale fleshy orbs were devoid of any form of support. The only other garment clothing her at that moment was the tiny black triangle of her G-string, hugging her mound and leaving the fuller globes of her bottom on splendid display.

She sat on the edge of the untidy bed and held out a long leg, toes pointed, and drew on a sheer dark stocking. With its companion in place she stood to adjust the darker lacy tops. She glowered at the forlorn figure, whose slight frame was covered to mid-thigh by a crumpled and baggy T-shirt, the tiny points of her nipples evidenced against the white cloth. ‘For God's sake get changed,' Stella grumbled, and gestured angrily. ‘And tidy this place up! Look at it, for Christ's sake! I've only been away a couple of days and it's like a pigsty. When Margy comes in she'll do her nut.

‘What is it,' she added nastily, ‘a case of
nostalgie de boue?
'

‘Eh?'

Stella gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Oh, never mind.'

Nicki's face turned beet red. ‘Sorry, but you know how thick I am. We can't all speak fancy foreign languages!' She watched Stella ease herself into the black elegance of the skimpy mini-dress. ‘Why can't I come with you?' she muttered, sounding even more like a sulky teenager.

‘Because I say so, all right?' Stella rounded on her, her face colouring with rage. ‘For God's sake, why don't you stop whining and get off my back?' She saw the hurt on the young face, and guilt assailed her. ‘I don't know when I'll be back,' she went on, in a gentler tone. ‘If you want to go out, go ahead. Just make sure you lock up.' She left hurriedly, slamming the door behind her, before she should start to feel too sorry for the forlorn figure standing there with tears in her eyes.

In the loud silence of the luxury flat Nicki sobbed and flung herself on the bed, crying harshly, the storm of grief shaking her wiry frame. She knew bloody well where Stella was going. She relived the feel of his brutal invasion of her body, the hard thrusting of his cock, burrowing into her, the weight of his body pinning her down, smothering her, trapping her while he satisfied himself. She shuddered at the memory of that potent discharge, warm, then cold as it trickled from her after his horribly abrupt withdrawal.

‘There! Feel better now, you big macho bastard?' she'd snarled, after quelling her own gnawing excitement with her fingers. He'd reacted, rounding on her, bending her over his knees and slapping her rapidly, an open-palmed spanking that left her bottom stinging and evoked yet more dark pulses of desire, despite her so recent orgasm.

Now, through bitter tears, her brain ran a vivid picture of Stella's beautiful body coupling with his, made acutely responsive by the very self-denial she'd imposed only a short while before. ‘I haven't time,' she'd said bluntly, cruelly snubbing Nicki's tentative attempts to initiate the beginnings of lovemaking.

And that wonderful slit would be flowering once more, revealing its moist treasures for that swollen stabbing brute of a cock. Nicki groaned tormentedly, her face buried in the sheet. Helpless in her need, her hand crept down between her closed thighs, caressed the slight swell of her mound, feeling the tiny bristles of her shaven hair, and the pulsing edges of her labia peeling back to her touch, wetting her fingertips with their lonely desire. The fingers moved, stoked her clitoris until her hips were undulating, driving her belly against the heel of her palm. The still faintly bruised buttocks lifted and sank, tightening and relaxing. She drew up her right leg, the knee out to the side, thus offering herself more openly to her caresses, the rhythm increasing. Her jaw clenched and she moaned softly, moving slowly towards the still distant peak of her lonely self-consummation.

 

Michael put down the phone with a mean sense of triumph. Felicity's voice had sounded meek in its penitent humility. ‘I'm sorry,' he'd said. ‘There's simply no way I can change my plans now. I've promised to be somewhere. Call me when you come back to town.'

Perhaps he would have liked a little more protest, a little begging. But never mind. The hushed tone had certainly sounded anything but uncaring or disappointed. And, by Christ, he hoped she
was
suffering, after all she'd put him through these past few months.

Excitement knifed through him like a sweet pain as he turned his thoughts to the matter in hand. When the bell buzzed and he saw Stella standing there, muffled in a fur against the cold, he had to breathe deeply to calm himself. He took the coat, striving not to show the tension he felt inside.

‘Well,' she said, after a sip of the drink he poured for her. They sat on the sofa and her blue-grey eyes held his steadily. He felt an odd mixture of both anger and admiration at her composure. ‘Where do we go from here?'

He had to say something, for she paused, waiting. ‘Is there anywhere to go?' he asked, hoping there was.

Her eyebrows rose. ‘I would've thought so. I don't like being jumped by a man, even on Christmas Eve.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said, gaining a little confidence at her calm manner. ‘Would you have preferred it to be a woman? Are you going to file a complaint?'

His gibe did not seem to bother her. ‘I don't know,' she replied slowly, studying him. ‘I'm not sure what happened.' She laughed then and raised a hand. ‘Well, I guess I know what happened, I'm just not sure why. On both our counts. Were you just out for revenge?'

‘I was - at first.' He felt compelled to be honest. ‘When I followed you in there. But then I suddenly wanted you. Wanted - to make love to you.'

‘To fuck me, you mean.' His blush deepened. ‘Well, don't you?' He shrugged helplessly. She nodded. Her face was very intense. ‘I don't know, either. That's why I'm here. That's the first time - in ages - that a man's screwed me.' The lovely features looked suddenly vulnerable, almost afraid. She shivered. ‘I'm not sure how I felt... feel.' She stood abruptly, looking down at him as though having made a decision. ‘Will you take me to bed?' she asked nakedly.

Once in the bedroom she seemed to wilt. He actually felt her go limp in his embrace. ‘You'll have to take charge,' she whispered. She was crying a little, and his erection was beating mightily against his clothing. His hands moved with a new sureness, stripping the little dress from her, peeling away the twin scraps of lingerie and admiring the firm thrust of her breasts, even without the support of the bra. When he was also naked he laid her out on the bed and used her stockings to tie her wrists to the bed-frame. He knelt, her sandy fleece before his face, and dipped to kiss it.

She cried out, her tethered hands twisting vainly to reach for his blond head, and he lapped at her tangy vulva, not with a sense of submission, but of domination. Domination fully realised moments later when he moved of his own volition, lifting her thighs about him as he drove his rigid penis into the tightness of her sheath. He seized her ankles and pressed them up and back beside her pinioned hands, in an undignified sprawl that lifted her buttocks and exposed her mercilessly invaded cunt, which throbbed as madly as the driving prick possessing it. The frenzied whimpering and thrashing that denoted her orgasm followed his ejaculation by seconds.

 

‘Happy New Year, my dear.'

Felicity felt the tingle of the champagne trickling over her sex, and felt a cold stream meandering up her belly to catch in the folds of the dress rocked around her waist. Her pubes were flattened and darkened by the sparkling liquid. She shivered as the judge's slobbering lips touched her labia, his tongue lapping greedily at the wet divide of her flesh.

From her inverted position, her head resting uncomfortably on a cushion on the floor, she stared up past his knobbly knees, his scrawny hairless thighs, his scrotum, and the jutting little spout of his penis with its puckered folds of foreskin gathered at its tip, shrouding its head. The pot-belly reminded her of poor refugee children she'd seen on TV, with their bulges of malnutrition. Not that that was the explanation for Judge Fairlie's paunch, or the flaps of his breasts that hung like an old crone's.

Two of the girls were stationed on either side of her, holding her upside down against the wall, her legs spread wide. Her limbs were still encased in sheer black stockings, which were attached by black ribbons to the garter-belt. The blue evening dress was bunched about her middle, the hem hanging at her breasts. Her shining dark hair draped over the cushion supporting her head. Only the tiny knickers had been removed before they upended her for this unusual way of drinking a toast to the New Year, which all the naked male guests were lined up to take part in.