Star Slave (25 page)

The judge poured a little more from his fluted glass, and hastily buried his snout in her soaking mound, snuffling and slurping like an old pig. She shivered, the muscles tensing in her thighs at the shameful excitement his touch kindled.

It was doubly appropriate that she should be squinting up inelegantly from the floor; her world was indeed turned upside down, and would never again right itself, she suspected. Clearly, she did not wish it to, for she had brought about all of this.

She was astonished at the strange new sense of freedom she had. One of the greatest terrors about doing
A Woman's Touch
had been that of exposing herself, literally, to the public gaze. She had from an early age been quite libidinous, with few sexual hang-ups, and always ready to learn something new. But always with one partner only. She had an entirely puritanical dread of exhibiting herself publicly. In fact, until she had begun cheating on Michael with her cousin, she had never had a sexual relationship with more than one partner at a time, fastidiously ending one before she took up with another.

And even then John had not seemed to count, somehow. They were so different together, so closely connected, by blood as well as by temperament. In many ways it had seemed merely a natural progression, to something started long ago in the innocence of childhood, and which should have been brought to a physical fulfilment long before.

But since she had fallen under the spell of Magda, and Burnopside Hall, all her values had been turned topsy-turvy. She remembered the night they had stripped her, all the girls, spreading her out on the table in the library, their hands and mouths fanning her desire to an unbearably sweet strength. In the midst of her giddy excitement she had been terribly conscious of those hungry male eyes fixed on her with priapic hunger, and, though it had shocked her, it had added potently to her feeling of sexual arousal. As now, this weird unveiling of her sexual parts, this ritualistic use of them, so openly spread and exhibited before the salacious audience, thrilled her until she knew she might climax helplessly in front of them all at any minute.

The secret lay in that sense of utter surrender, for with it came the irresistible bliss of freedom. Freedom from any iota of responsibility for anything that happened to her. The yielding of every vestige of Will-power, which made her a slave, it was true. A slave that could be tied blindfold to a bed, an instrument for anonymous pleasure. Or sent by car to present her body to a perfect stranger in a hotel room, and to have him do whatever he chose to her; to whip her, cause her fierce bodily pain, or make fabulous love to her. Or bend her over a chair and fuck her like a farmyard animal, then leave without a word.

But none of it was anything to do with her any more, except on a purely physical level. For she belonged, body and spirit, to Magda, and by extension, to his lordship, who had been the first to taste the nectar between her outstretched legs and use her cunt for a drinking cup. Surely her beloved mistress must know now that she was ready to take that final step, had already given up her body and soul to her?

She looked up at the distorted view of the next in line, and saw the great underhang of belly that proclaimed Sir Hugh. Instead of pouring out his libation over her vulva, he was leaning forward, and she felt his fingers prising apart the cheeks of her bottom, gazing avidly into the valley he was shamelessly exposing. ‘Won't she look simply divine?' he purred cryptically, in that slightly plummy voice, and she gawped up at his shrunken prick and fat ball-bag, at a loss. Then she remembered the foreigner at the airport hotel, and how he, too, had opened her up intimately, as though searching for some sign or mark. She was confused, but this was not the place or time to ask about it. Indeed, her mind was soon occupied with far more pressing problems, or pleasures.

She'd had a feeling all day that this ending of the year was to be yet another watershed, perhaps the ultimate test of whether she was truly fit to be a member of this exclusive set. As the grey, sleety dawn of the new year rattled at the windows, his lordship summoned her and Debbie, led them with boisterous arms about their waists, to a fire-lit bedroom and an old-fashioned bed upon which they romped in splendid three-way nakedness.

Felicity was close to coming when Lord Burnopside's florid features were suddenly raised from between her slack thighs. ‘I think you're one of us now, my dear,' he said. ‘You've learnt so much about true pleasure these past weeks.' He turned to the watchful coloured girl crouching at his side. ‘Don't you think so, Debbie? Let's see, shall we? Bring the shackles.'

Felicity's heart began to race as Debbie immediately moved away. His lordship was kneeling astride her. His erection had died, but his prick still hung heavily between her breasts, weeping its sticky juice into her cleavage. His strong fingers played with the soft mounds, teased at her nipples, and she shivered with dread and desire. ‘Are you going to hurt me?' she whispered huskily.

He smiled down at her. ‘That's what true pleasure means, my dear. That's what we want to teach you; the pleasure of pain.'

Her heart beat wildly as she lay submissively under him, and her limbs trembled. His fingers curled, pressed harder and harder into her yielding flesh. ‘You must give yourself up to it,' he urged. ‘Let your body go with the pain,' he murmured hypnotically. ‘You'll understand-when you're truly ours.' She whimpered, felt as though she might faint, and was shocked by the massive charge of erotic thrill that passed throughout her body.

The cold metal of the restraints bit into her wrists and ankles. She didn't struggle as Debbie fitted them to her. All the rings interlocked. The bracelets securing her wrists were fastened to those around her ankles, so she was hobbled, bent forward, folded upon herself, her backside proffered for whatever use his lordship chose to put it to. She was placed in a kneeling position across the bottom of the bed, her forehead fitted between Debbie's spread-eagled thighs, her brow pressing against the curl-capped base of the brown belly. Debbie's hands pressed firmly on her shoulders, pinning her down. Blindly, every muscle tensed, she waited.

There was a soft thudding noise, and then a shocking jar as something thick fell across her uplifted bottom. She could not identify it, but in any case she was incapable of constructive thought as the blaze of breathtaking pain flared over her clenching buttocks. She screamed, despite her determination to endure the punishment in silence. Debbie's thighs tightened about her, the hands held her instinctively rearing body, and her cries were muffled in the fragrant female flesh. The fire rippled across her flanks, there was an agonising pause before the second stroke fell, and she screamed again, unable to resist the sweet feeling of release such an onslaught brought her.

She didn't know how many times she was beaten. She gradually became aware of the steady throbbing of her flayed bottom, and the lessening of pressure from the girl holding her. ‘Splendid, my dear.' Lord Burnopside's voice was thick with passion. Even he was gasping, short of breath.

She hung there, still folded in her subservience, when they both left her alone. She felt the bed bouncing vigorously, almost toppling her off the side, and she realised his lordship and Debbie were fucking furiously, their limbs occasionally buffeting her as they coupled.

It was over fairly quickly. Felicity whimpered at a light touch on her throbbing flanks, but then came a blessed sensation of coolness and ease, as some icy liquid was sprayed over the crimsoned globes.

Later, Lord Burnopside showed her the whip he had used, with something of pride. It was one heavy, thick lash, of a curious rubbery substance, bound with silk. ‘We won't always have to worry about marking you, my dear,' he told her, as though that was something for her to look forward to.

 

‘I think you'd better get your things together and go,' Stella said coldly, facing the tragic looking figure garbed in her customary black outfit and ugly boots. Nicki's young face was red and smeared with her tears. She sniffed like an urchin recovering from a fit of crying. ‘That's if you can ever sort them out,' Stella twisted the knife. ‘You've turned this place into a tip.'

‘Can't wait to get your boyfriend moved in, I expect!' Nicki whined, again sounding so childish that Stella almost smiled, losing the edge of her impatience.

‘Probably,' she answered calmly. ‘It'll save a lot of to-ing and fro-ing.'

The sense of rejection and frustration were just too much for the youthful figure. Her secret had been festering for days. Long lonely days spent mostly in solitary misery, her grief and resentment smouldering away inside. She had been discarded before the affair had really begun when Stella had fallen for that simpering bitch, Felicity Keynes. Nicki had pretended that all the publicity that came with the launching of
A Woman's Touch
, the endless photos and telly interviews, the sight of their unclothed frames plastered together leering at her from everywhere, didn't bother her. But then, to find her wishes coming so stunningly true, when she had given up hope, to find herself Stella's lover and partner only to be tossed aside once more, after a matter of a few short weeks, was too cruel to bear.

Her desperate effort to forestall that prick Michael Sinclair by interceding, placing her own body between him and her beautiful Stella, had not worked either. He had spurned her too, after that one memorable session here in Stella's flat, just before New Year. Not that he'd have had much time, even if he had fancied another session with her. Stella had made sure of that. The two of them had scarcely been out of each other's sight or arms since then.

Her own hurt was too strong to resist the desire to inflict pain elsewhere. ‘At least that way you'll be able to keep an eye on him, I suppose,' she sneered. ‘And believe me, you need to.'

The blue eyes narrowed icily. ‘And what's that supposed to mean?'

‘Just that he's not one to turn down any opportunity for a bit of nooky. As I well know. I've never said anything before now, but he had a go at me while you were away in Scotland. Right here - on the sofa.'

‘You lying, twisted little dyke!' Stella roared. And for a split second Nicki questioned the wisdom of seeking revenge. But she summoned every ounce of resolve.

‘Oh yeah? He fucking had me, right there.' She stabbed a finger at the sofa. ‘Made me strip off and he did it to me. We didn't even make the bedroom. And afterwards he tanned my arse for me, if you want to know. He enjoyed himself on both counts. Why don't you ask him if you don't believe me?'

‘You jealous little cow!' Stella gave an inelegant snarl of rage and launched herself at the slim figure, knocking her back onto the piece of furniture where the adulteration to place, sinking talons into the T-shirt and clawing it off the overpowered girl. She knelt over her victim, pummelling and slapping ineffectively, while the sobbing girl kicked feebly and covered her face with her arms.

Stella soon stopped and stood up, breathing heavily. She was convinced Nicki was telling the truth, and was amazed to find her anger was entirely dissipated. Indeed, she felt startlingly good, her body calm, the adrenaline like a relaxing drug. ‘You pathetic little kid,' she said contemptuously. ‘Come on, get your things and piss off. One thing I'm certain of, sweety - if he
did
shag you, he'll have forgotten all about it long since!'

 

Later that evening, when Michael arrived, she told him Nicki had gone. ‘I threw her out,' she said, studying him closely. She could read the guilt in the slight flush, and the way his eyes darted away from hers. ‘Are you sorry?'

‘Mm?' He tried to act casually, as though not really interested. But the guilt made him overdo it.

‘I just thought you maybe fancied keeping her on, as a kind of substitute. You could always bring her on for the second half if you thought I was flagging a little.' Uncomfortable embarrassment suffused his features and made him shuffle from foot to foot. ‘I hear you smacked her backside for good measure. I wish you'd show
me
what a macho man you are!'

He recognised the challenge, and the excitement behind the taunt. And he felt the throb of a new and exultant force flow through him. The new Michael. The decent, gentlemanly prat had gone forever. ‘Oh, I will!' he promised tightly.

She fought surprisingly realistically. Soon her dress was ripped, buttons wrenched off, her breasts, encased in a satin bra, were thrusting free. Her shoes were scattered, flying from her kicking feet, before he bent her over his knee, her knickers tugged down off her bottom, which he struck until his hand ached and the pale rounds were rosily hot. He pushed her off his lap and she lay at his feet, still squirming, her clothes dishevelled and her eyes wild. She rubbed her stinging behind and glared up at him through dishevelled golden locks.

‘And then you shagged her right here, is that right?' she panted, her deep cleavage heaving invitingly.

‘That's exactly right!' He seized her, hauled her roughly upright, then thrust her head down into the cushions. She had stopped struggling. She remained doubled over while he dragged the silk briefs down her limbs and off her feet, flinging them behind him. She sobbed, her rosy bottom uplifted while he fought out of his own clothes, then folded himself over her and immediately thrust his rearing penis into her moist cleft with savage elation.