by Sarah Fisher
Alex felt her stomach contract. Left under Mario’s care her life would be hell. She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Tourne will be angry with you,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel.
Mario laughed. ‘If you tell him, I make much worse for you. Now, shut up and open legs.’
Alex stayed still. Her jailor’s face contorted into a maniacal grin. ‘I can make very bad for you, now open legs, you English whore!’
Alex knew resistance was useless, and probably very foolish; it would only succeed in angering him further. She slowly parted her knees.
‘Is right,’ hissed her tormentor. ‘You give Mario pleasure now.’ He smiled and spread her legs wider still, driving his fingers deep inside her. She shrieked at his brutality, but his only reaction was to grab hold of her knees and drag her onto her back, scraping the welts across the rough surface of the mattress. He jerked her towards him so that her feet were on the dusty floor, her hips on the edge of the platform, and her tender back on the cold rough concrete. Forcing her legs wider still he stood between them and began to paw at her breasts and quim with one hand, whilst unbuttoning his fly with the other.
Before Alex had time to recover, he plunged his cock home, making her shriek with surprise and fear. He was deaf to her cries and drove on and on, dragging her onto him time and time again. Her back screamed out in agony as it rubbed against the concrete, but nothing she said or cried made any difference. Mario ploughed into her relentlessly, gasping and snorting, and clawing at her nipples until she knew he was close to the point of no return.
Totally disgusted, Alex squeezed her eyes tight to blot out the abhorrent image of his red and contorted features slobbering over her like a madman. She knew he was about to come. At the last second she felt him drag his cock out of her and spurt an arc of semen over her belly. As it splattered onto her skin she felt sick and empty.
Mario wiped his loose mouth with the back of his hand and turned away without a second glance at her.
Alex started to shake, tears coursing down her face. She had to get away from the villa. Whatever Peter Tourne had to offer her it was not worth this. If she stayed she would be at the mercy of any man who wanted her, master or servant, whether it was forbidden or not. The cell door clanged shut and she took a deep breath. Mario’s seed clung to her belly in an unnerving puddle. Slowly, steadying herself at every step, she crossed to the shower, the water was icy cold as it hit her, but Alex didn’t care. All she wanted was to be clean but she doubted whether water alone would be enough.
Chapter 4
Upstairs in the sitting room, Peter Tourne poured himself and Starn a glass of brandy each. Starn’s expression was set, his manner cool and offhand. Tourne knew that by denying his friend the opportunity to make use of Alex Sanderson’s vulnerability he had infuriated him, and quite enjoyed the sense of power it gave him. He handed Starn the glass.
‘Gena is still waiting for you downstairs,’ he said, indicating the door. ‘Would you like me to call her up?’
Starn snorted. ‘If I’d wanted Gena I wouldn’t have bothered to come up here with you. What are you planning to do with Alex Sanderson once you’ve broken her?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re tired of Gena, already? I’m surprised I thought she was perfect for you. You want to sell her on? If you do I’m sure I can find a buyer. She’s a very beautiful young lady. She would command an excellent price.’ He knew it wasn’t what Starn meant at all, but enjoyed playing with him.
Starn stared into his brandy balloon.
Tourne continued, ‘Armande the Frenchman, Bene, Michael - they would all jump at the chance of owning one of my girls. Would you like me to make a few calls?’
‘No,’ snapped Starn. ‘It’s not that I’m tired of Gena you know it isn’t. It’s just that I thought, as we are friends, you would let me sample your new girl’s delights as well. Hell, that greasy slob of a driver of yours gets to have more fun than I do!’
Peter smiled. ‘What about this morning? You are so impatient, my friend. You haven’t lost the chance to have some fun with her again, it’s just that at the moment I feel she will respond more quickly if I alone teach her.’
Starn snorted derisively again. ‘You didn’t think that earlier when she was here with Gena.’
Peter wondered how he could possibly explain what he had seen in Alex’s demeanour that had changed his opinion about her fate. Alex hadn’t just been broken she had given herself over entirely to sensation and submission. It was an instinctive thing, part of her nature that Peter recognised as something of great value. Alex Sanderson wouldn’t just resign herself to being man’s slave; in time, when she came to terms with what she felt, she would learn to relish her new role.
‘Of course, Starn, you’re quite right. Eventually I will auction her,’ he said after a second or two. ‘Unless a bidder comes forward in the meantime with a sizeable offer. Just give her a little time more to settle in. In another day or two, when she understands what we expect of her, then of course you can have your fill. Don’t let’s fall out over one woman, for God’s sake - the world is full of them. Here, let me top your glass up.’
Starn seemed appeased. ‘An auction? Will you hold it here?’
Tourne shook his head. ‘To be honest Alex’s arrival at KaRoche has come as a total surprise to me. I haven’t had the time to give it a great deal of thought. It might be interesting to let her be sold off with Simon Bay’s surplus girls when the time comes. He’s staying on the island for the summer. He gave me a ring a week or so ago to say he had a rather good stable at the moment, and suggested I might be interested in taking a look. When Alex is ready we ought, perhaps, to take her over there.’
Starn grinned. ‘Simon has a good eye. Perhaps he might even buy your protégé for himself.’
Both men looked at each other knowingly. Simon Bay’s girls were famous. A slave master, unrivalled amongst his contemporaries, he was an entrepreneur and businessman who used his frequent business trips around the world to acquire girls from everywhere on earth. If Simon Bay bought Alex for his own use it would be the ultimate accolade.
Tourne smiled, aping nonchalance. ‘It would depend on what he offered. Now, are you going to call for Gena, or would you prefer another glass of brandy?’
Starn stood his glass on the bureau. ‘I’ll go and find her, and God help her if she doesn’t satisfy me. After the exhibition with your little artist friend, I need more than just a little light relief!’
Tourne grinned. ‘I’ve had Mario take Alex down to the cells, perhaps you’d like to take Gena to the Gallery room and make use of the facilities there? It never hurts to remind your slave who is in control.’
Starn nodded.
He watched his friend depart, wondering for a few seconds whether he should go and settle himself in the hidden room overlooking the gallery to observe what would undoubtedly be a fine performance by Gena and her master.
He was disappointed that Starn was so easily distracted from the exquisite blonde. Originally Gena had come here to work as a secretary, but he’d known the second he’d laid eyes on her beauty that her obvious talents would be wasted behind a desk - over a desk would be a different matter! He sipped his brandy, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift back to that most enjoyable morning when he first had the pleasure...
At Gena’s interview, after their preliminary discussions, and as she handed Peter Tourne a letter of recommendation from her previous employer, he ‘accidentally’ nudged a sheaf of papers off the corner of his desk and onto the floor. Gena instantly and elegantly dropped to all fours to retrieve them. As she gathered them back into a neat pile, Tourne stood up and moved around his desk. At once Gena’s instinctive reaction was to look up at him. When their eyes met, she blushed, aware that something other than a simple interview was taking place. As her colour deepened and she began get to her feet he
lifted a hand.
‘I think,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that you should stay exactly where you are.’
The blonde girl swallowed hard. ‘Stay?’ she murmured innocently. ‘Here?’
He nodded. ‘You understand precisely what I mean...’ Peter took another sip and allowed his brandy and his memories to warm him...
He picked up a pair of scissors from his desk and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, cut along the back of Gena’s blouse, through her bra strap, down through her pencil slim skirt and flimsy white panties, tearing away the fabric as he worked, ruining her expensive little interview costume. While he worked, Gena stayed perfectly still, her pale body trembling as the cold blades brushed her skin.
Finally, naked except for her sandals, she crouched amongst the ruins of her clothes. She looked exquisite, a pale creamy-skinned Madonna, cowering, subdued awaiting whatever her superior had in store for her. For a few seconds they were both still - master and slave awaiting each other’s pleasure.
When Gena finally looked up to him her dark eyes were bright with fear and anticipation. She remained crouched on all fours, her heavy breasts swaying like liquid silk, breathes coming in short frantic bursts as she waited for his next move.
Surveying her, Tourne knew that beneath the thin veneer of sophistication Gena was still a peasant at heart - her hips were curvaceous and broad, her breasts, now pert and full, would one day be pendulous and heavy. Between her pale thighs was a thatch of glistening black hair, at odds with her bleached blonde curls. She might well have a clutch of diplomas from secretarial college, but her body betrayed the fact that she was born to serve. He indicated she should stand.
Gena clambered to her feet without a word, pushing off the last remnants of her clothes. Tourne ran his hand over her haunches, assessing her body as he would a good horse. She turned instinctively under his fingertips, moving obediently to his unspoken commands. He brushed his fingers over her back and shoulders, letting his hand linger on the curve of her waist.
Already, despite her ripeness, her figure showed signs that it would thicken. For a few years she would serve her master faithfully and later, when she had lost the peach moist richness that suffused her body now, she had the hips to become a breeder, producing a whole new generation of submissive slave girls. He lifted a hand to cup her breasts, fingers working over the pert nipples. She shivered but said nothing. He knew then that Gena was an excellent find. She was naturally quiet and still - an attribute that many men favoured. Her natural demeanour was meek but sensual. She was the ideal submissive companion.
‘Would you like to work for me?’ Tourne asked, letting a single finger trail down towards her soft, rounded belly.
Perhaps afraid to speak, Gena nodded. He could detect the pulse in her throat fluttering like the wings of a tiny bird. Amongst the trappings of his expensively furnished office her nakedness seemed extreme. Her pale creamy skin was a stunning contrast to the backdrop of dark corporate grey and silver.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure you’re suitable. My business clients are sophisticates, where you are barely one step away from the vineyard.’ He caught hold of one shapely breast, twisting the nipple savagely. He felt her flinch. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier back down on the farm, barefoot, with some country boy sniffing around you, and a baby sucking on your tits?’ He watched her face for a reaction. Her eyes flashed but still she didn’t speak. He smiled triumphantly. Walking confidently around her his fingers continued to trace a careful pattern of intimate exploration.
Finally he plucked a long flexible cane from amongst a Japanese arrangement that graced a side table by his desk. He flexed it thoughtfully, eyes never leaving hers. Still Gena did not bolt or cry out.
‘Are you still a virgin?’ he asked. It would not be unusual for a Greek girl of her age to be unbroken. Country people had always valued virginity as a prize to be held on to until marriage. Blushing, Gena shook her head. It was obvious that even though she was no longer a virgin, she wasn’t experienced either.
‘Who?’ asked Tourne relishing her discomfort.
Gena’s colour intensified, but significantly she didn’t refuse this complete stranger an answer to such an intimate question. ‘My cousin, Giuseppe. Last summer we...’ the words dried up as he moved closer to her. ‘We only did it the once,’ she stammered.
His expression remained impassive. ‘Your cousin? You country girls are all the same. How do I know you aren’t lying? How do I know you haven’t fucked every man you’ve laid eyes on with those big tits, that arse - how many hands have played around in that wet little cunt of yours? How many cocks have you sucked dry? Or do you prefer it when they fuck you? Or do you prefer other girls?’
Gena’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Mr Tourne,’ she began to protest in astonishment.
‘You’re no better than a whore!’ he snapped. ‘And then you come to my office, pretending to be respectable so that you can get a job with my company! What were you thinking of?’
Gena stared at him open-mouthed, too shocked to speak.
Peter Tourne indicated his desk. It was a huge single slab of black marble supported on trestles.
‘Bend over,’ he said. ‘Let me show you how we used to treat the peasant whores on my father’s estate.’
A tiny bead of perspiration broke out on Gena’s upper lip. The smell of her reluctance and fear were as tangible as her perfume. She didn’t move, but he could see her anxiously pondering the distance to the desk, as if she had already taken each step. He lifted his hands in a gesture of dismissal, and as he did so Gena walked slowly towards the austere piece of furniture as though she was taking her last few steps to the guillotine. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the middle distance as she submissively draped herself across the icy marble.
He heard her gasp as the cold stone sucked the heat from her body.
‘Open your legs,’ he directed. ‘Let me see the sweet little honey pot that attracts all those other men.’
Gena complied without a word, revealing the merest glimpse of her quim beneath the shapely contours of her bottom. The muscles in her buttocks were rigid in expectation of what he had in store for her. He stepped behind her and, catching hold of her hips, pulled her off the table a little so that more of the glorious moist pit was exposed and accessible.
First, he thought, he would administer a good sound beating and then, before the pain and humiliation had faded, before the red glow left her flesh, he would slide inside her. She was so mouth-wateringly ripe - there was part of him that adored her peasant fullness and natural subordination.
Stepping away he lifted the cane and brought it down with a resounding crack across her backside. She screamed out in a mixture of surprise and pain, bending into a contorted arc before slumping back onto the black marble. Her breasts spread beneath her, as pale and full as the harvest moon. Back swung the cane and exploded again. She squealed and arched up towards him, but not so violently this time. He hit her again, striking over and over until the rounded orbs of her backside were raw with a tapestry of welts.
Between Gena’s thighs he could see her quim was flushed crimson, the moisture clinging like gossamer to the lips of her sex. Stepping closer he undid his flies and guided his raging shaft deep inside her. She squealed again and struggled unconvincingly to unseat him.
As she twisted round he locked his fingers in her hair and jerked her back up towards him, his other hand scooping up one of her ample breasts, fingers nipping and twisting her cold, erect nipples.
Gena shrieked madly, writhing under him like a frightened animal, but still he held on, riding her, pulling her back onto his cock again and again, grinding his pelvis against the soft expanse of her glowing arse.
‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘Please no, I am good girl, Mr Tourne. I am not a whore. Please, please don’t do this to me. I am good girl.’ But
while her mouth said one thing her body told Peter Tourne something totally different. Her quim tightened around him like a clenched fist, pulling him deeper, her hips instinctively pressing against him, driving him towards the point where even his inscrutable exterior threatened to crack and display some emotion.
Gena gasped and sobbed, tears streaming down her face. He took her hand and urged it down to her sex, guiding her fingers to seek out the bud of her own clitoris.
‘Touch yourself,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Let me show you what it is that all those men want from you.’ As he spoke he pressed her fingertips hard against the engorged ridge. She mewled in astonishment, almost convulsing as crystal circles of pleasure formed in her belly, bucking and roaring as he began to circle the little nub, pushing her fingers to and fro until finally her head fell back onto his shoulder and he could feel her fingers moving of their own accord.
With Gena’s pleasure building, Tourne began to move in earnest, dragging her back hard, tightening his grip on her hair, his free hand returning to weigh and knead her full breasts. She was moaning and breathing hard, struggling to pleasure them both. He felt the first intoxicating ripples of her quim tightening around his erection as orgasm overtook her, and knew then he was lost too.
An incandescent wave flooded through him, driving away all reason as he plunged into her again and again, on and on until he felt he was drowning in a sea of pure pleasure.
When, finally, Peter Tourne slumped onto her back, his body utterly drained, he opened his eyes and smiled.
Beside Gena’s tousled, sweat-soaked hair, was the letter of recommendation that she’d handed to him only a short time before. One sentence in the main paragraph caught his eye - it read: I have always found Gena to be an extremely willing and able young woman.
Peter slid out of her and adjusted his trousers. What a shrewd judge of character Gena’s previous employer had been.
