Removing my clothes, I lay out on my blanket to drink in the sun. I’m just becoming pleasantly warm and aroused when Analise appears like an angel hovering over me in one of her many diaphanous dresses. All her clothes seem to be floral prints of nearly transparent fabric. This one she begins to remove as she stands over me. I watch mesmerized as one shoulder drops away, falling down so one breast is exposed. I still marvel at the way her breasts billow from her slight form, like soft balloons. She moves so slowly that each sensuous movement is like unwrapping a gift, one ribbon at a time. When the top of her dress falls away, she sinks to her knees next to me, and allows the unstructured garment to float to the sand like a feather, leaving her totally naked. She wears a dainty smile, knowing that she pleases me.
Analise strokes my face as she leans over my body. I want to take her loose wobbling breasts in my hands, but instead I let them dangle over my face. They sway gently until I catch one with my mouth and cover the nipple with my lips and suck like a child. She backs off as the nipple remains clutched by my teeth, and I hold on until she offers a tiny wince of pain. I repeat the process with her other breast, making her tug against my mouth before I release. What remains when I’m finished are two tiny tight wet buds against the backdrop of her wide pink aureoles.
“A dip in the ocean?” she suggests, as she smiles down at me. She quickly jumps to her feet and runs toward the water, splashing her way into the foaming surf. I follow, diving into the oncoming wave, so that I can catch her. We play a fitfully fun wrestling game, falling down in the water and rolling in the wet sand. The cool temperature invigorates my sluggish body. Analise’s easy grace and playfulness makes me laugh. We sit in the water with the waves lapping around our bottoms, and between our legs where the soft foam acts like an ever-so-tender lover. We sit arm in arm, like two kids. This is the lightest I’ve felt in weeks, certainly the happiest I’ve felt since I’ve been here. For the moment Analise is the only woman in my mind.
We return to the blanket on the beach and collapse onto the smooth surface. As she lays back to let the sun dry her, I see her cunt ring glint as mine does. There’s a simple single rose hanging from the plain ring. I take the liberty of flicking the jewelry with my fingers.
“Does this hang against your clit?” I ask. It seems long enough to tickle her there.
“I can feel it all the time if I think about it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Anastasia,” she says.
It’s a fact that doesn’t surprise me, though it reminds me of that woman again. I would just as soon keep her visage from my mind, but in this place, with her overbearing manner, it’s difficult not to see her around every corner, lurking nastily at every turn.
“She’s really quite gentle you know,” Analise says reading my thoughts.
“You couldn’t convince me of that in a thousand years, after what I saw a few nights ago.”
“She only implements dreams, nothing more. Is that so horrible?”
I don’t want to believe that there’s anything good about the woman, so I shrug her comment off.
“Let’s go inside,” she says suddenly, “there’s something I want to show you.”
I want to remain on the sand. I want to let the sun bake my body, but there’s something so good-natured in her invitation that I don my shift again and follow her inside the house.
If I were not in such a horrible gloom, this place would be glorious. The flowers, especially the roses, are blooming so beautifully along the garden pathway. The air with its salty tang seems to cleanse me inside out. And the mood about the B&B, despite my malaise, is lighthearted, even jovial, as the women enjoy the splendors of this picture perfect resort. I wonder if they know what nasty secrets are harbored here, or if they will also become victims to the wild Anastasia? Perhaps they’re even part of the malevolent force that fuels this place.
I wonder to myself if my suspicions are getting the better of me; but I wonder only until I remember Peach in the garden and the parlor nights before. That was reality, not some fiction concocted in my head.
Analise takes me on a journey though the house and up the back staircase. At the landing we continue on to the third floor. I haven’t been this far, but I see that there are a number of sleeping rooms, smaller than my own, but still delightful bedrooms for guests. One is already occupied by a guest who has just arrived. For a moment Analise steps outside her angelic role, and greets the newcomer with a smile and a hearty handshake—hardly like her greeting to me. Then dismissing herself with a polite apology, we withdraw from the room and continue down the third floor hallway.
“The place is filling up for this ceremony?” I ask.
“Of course,” Analise says. “But we still have lots of time.”
Time for what, I wonder silently.
At the end of the hallway, she opens a narrow door, and taking me by the hand, she pulls me up yet another flight of stairs to the attic. These steps have no railing and I find the climbing as treacherous as climbing up the ocean cliff from the beach. But on reaching the top, I’m surprised to discover, not the trunk filled dusty attic of storybook fame, but a clean swept room with a generous old couch, a single brass bed and an antique writing table sitting prettily in the dormer window. There are still old boxes, and trunks, and cast off things that belong in attics, but this place has a look of residency, not neglect.
“I stay here sometimes, in fact, Anastasia sends me up here when I’m bad.”
“Bad?” I question. “That’s sounds a little childish.”
“I am a little childish,” she says, laughing.
I laugh too, thinking how completely unaffected this woman is knowing herself as well as she does.
“So what does she do, feed you bread and water, and chain you to the bed?” I ask.
“No,” she laughs more. I’ve never seen her face quite so animated. “Almost… sometimes she spanks me with her hairbrush and sends me up here ‘to think about it’.” She imitates Tasia’s voice.
Immediately I think of Peach punishing me, blistering my ass with her leather belt: another coincidental similarity between the two of us. Perhaps we’re to be cast-offs in the cast-off attic together.
“But mostly,” Analise continues, “this is where I come to be alone, or like now, to be with you. No one will bother us here.” There’s an erotic twinkle in her eye and I almost expect her to descend on me and make love.
“Would you like to stay here?” she asks.
“Stay here? What, so you and your mistress can lock me up, so I won’t get away?” I blurt out awkwardly.
“Oh no!” she exclaims, surprised by my suspicions.
“I’m sorry, I was just kidding.”
She smiles again, “You can come here any time if you like, I won’t mind.”
With that, Analise scampers to the far side of the attic and pulls out a trunk. “Let me show you some things,” she says.
I come closer and sit on a low stool and watch as, with an almost religious reverence, she opens the creaking trunk. “For the ceremony,” she says, as she pulls out feather masks and odd looking bracelets, collars, cuffs, skirts and strange looking bodice pieces. I recall Peach’s flaming eyes as she spoke about the ceremony in that wild diatribe in our room days ago. I can almost hear drum beats in my mind and smell a bonfire in the air. The things in the trunk either reek the odors of the ceremony, incense and wood smoke, or they give off such an aura that it seems they still do.
Analise holds a mask to her face, smiling prettily for me, as if she’s modeling something from her mother’s closet.
“See they aren’t so strange, are they?” she says.
“I think of pagan rituals seeing them,” I tell her.
“Of course you do, but it’s all play, nothing more.” She fingers the items lovingly, going through each piece as if it brings back fond memories of when it was worn and by whom.
“Why are you showing me these things?” I ask.
&n
bsp; “I don’t want you to be afraid of Anastasia, or me, or of your friend.”
“I’m not sure fear’s the word,” I contend.
“Oh, yes it is,” she says firmly as she closes the trunk. “Whoever made you so afraid did a very good job.” This is perhaps the first comment that she’s made that sounds like an adult speaking. Even her voice, the pitch, the modulation, is different; and I wonder if there’s much more to her than I suspect.
“You’d probably like a collar like Samantha Clarisse’s, but I don’t think you’re ready for it yet.”
“Oh? And why not?”
“You have to be ready to submit,” she says. She doesn’t explain further, but having taken some scarves from the trunk, she leads me by the hand to the bed. I watch with bated breath as she closes the blinds at each dormer window, so that there’s even less light in the already dim room. Then going from place to place, she begins to light candles that are scattered about the attic room: sitting on boxes, on the top of the trunk and even on the floor. The warm candle light replaces the darkness with an eerie radiance.
“Tie me to the bed,” she says, handing me the scarves. She backs away from me and begins to wiggle from her dress. Seeing her disrobe the second time in as many hours, I find this far different from the first time on the beach. I know she’s naked underneath, but I wait anxiously to see her soft sensuous lines in the glowing candlelight. A strange illumination dances on her body as she pushes the dress off her hips and it falls to her ankles. If she’s inclined to rituals, this is certainly one. The somber look on her face gives her away.
At first she sits primly on the bed and holds out the scarves to me. When I take them, she scoots her feet around and lies prone, with her hands above her head holding on to the brass bedposts.
I take a scarf and tie one wrist securely to the post, and then do the same with her other wrist. Her legs spread wide; she doesn’t have to tell me to tie them. With two scarves left, I see her designs clearly, and comply as if I do this all the time. When I’m finished, Analise lies bound with her arms and legs stretched tight, so that she’s nearly immobile. I find the look stunning.
“The candle,” she says, “the wax.”
I flash back to my past, to Elizabeth. “You want me to drip the wax down your body?” I ask guardedly.
She nods as her eyes go dim and sultry.
Lifting a candle from the bedside table, I see the pool of hot wax forming at the top. It jiggles as I move, though it doesn’t spill. I’m mesmerized by the act I’m required to perform; it almost seems a privilege to be giving her this desired gift. Suspecting that this will arouse her in a most distinctive way, I do it lovingly. Letting the molten wax collect in the little cup around the wick, I tip the candle and let it spill down, first on her left breast, and then her right.
She cringes when it splashes onto her skin. There’s even a little cry from her, but she’s reaching some ecstasy, the way her head moves from side to side and her groin begins to sway.
“Oooo, my yes,” she moans. “Lower,” she instructs me. As the liquid wax collects again, I tip the candle, and dribble it down her body from her breasts to her belly. She squirms delightfully, and I’m hypnotized by her erotic moment.
My own excitement swells as a perverse thrill floods through me. Dominating her body this way is incredible. The wax drips lower still, and I’m beside myself with passion, thinking of the rush that will claim my own body when I finally reach her cunt. I make her wait. She even looks at me imploringly, but I smile in return and let her know that I’m in charge. This seems to delight her, and as I finally spill the wax across her cunt, where it descends inside her tender open slit, I hear her cry and see her body jerk in pain. I pour more in that private place and she squeals. Her cunt bucks up and churns as if she were grasping for something. More wax, and she tenses madly.
I force her thighs wide apart and drive three fingers in her cunt with my free hand. More wax drips on her nether lips and on her clit as she rides my hand. I’ve never seen her move so passionately. I feel her orgasm against my hand and watch her body undulate like some primordial creature. And when the orgasm dies away, I watch her relax back into the sheets.
Withdrawing my hand, I back away and stare at her peaceful repose. This scene has me flustered and so horny I want to rub myself off. I can’t keep my hand from my cunt, so I begin to play, while Analise drifts in and out of consciousness. Her eyes meet mine and then close. She looks so frail tied the way she is.
I watch her mellow writhing as my fingers slip into my cunt. Finding a chair to sit on some few feet away, I let my hands explore at will the places that are raw with need. The idea that she’s in my power, that I control her fate, seizes me as surely as I’m seized when I’m under someone’s control. I feel her anticipation, her dependence on me. I feel her coming and now feel the satisfaction that makes her weak and exhausted. I thrill to the fact that she will not move from her bondage until I allow it.
I throw off my dress. It annoys me, getting in the way of my play. The waves of pleasure take precedence over anything else. One hand pinches my erect hard nipples the other massages my cunt with easy familiar motions. I know right where it leads; and I time the edge, an experienced sojourner in the land of masturbation. Cumming, I moan softly as I sit precariously at the edge of this straight back chair. The single-mindedness of this venture leaves me in awe.
I don’t realize how uncomfortable it is until I’m finished. Opening my eyes to Analise, she’s wide awake now, staring at me, expressionless. We stare at each other for some time, getting used to what we’ve done and what we’ve witnessed. This is far, far different than our midnight bedroom romps across my sheets.
I get up and go to her, standing over the bed looking down at the dried wax that begins at her breasts and continues all down her body. It cracks now when she moves, flaking into white snowflake specks. I remember the wax Elizabeth poured on my tits, how it would itch before she scraped it off, how I’d twist and turn in my bonds until she had compassion enough to set me free.
“I think you’ll stay here like this,” I say. She nods submissively. I check to see that the scarves are not too tight. I put my hand to her cheek and stroke it lightly. I still can’t get over how frail she looks in spite of the inherent voluptuousness of her body.
Is it revenge against Elizabeth that allows me to leave her this way, knowing the distress of lying bound with no freedom to use hands or legs?
I leave the attic, as a surge of unbidden satisfaction pours into me. I have control of her completely, her willingness more than evident. The sense of power intrigues me as much as it arouses me. I snicker to myself as I jauntily pad down the stairway to lunch. I think of her lying there waiting for me to return, for some whim, or fancy to pick me up from where I am and bring me back to her, where her fate lies in my capricious fantasies. I realize how she trusts me. The responsibility gives me courage and a feeling of composure and steadiness I’ve not had before.
Tasia has a beautiful meal for her guests in the dining room, which bustles now with the sound of clinking glasses and merry conversation. A female giddiness exists here, a loving exhibit of female virtue, female emotion, and even female lust. How odd that the only places left to sit are at Tasia’s table. There are two, one for Analise and one for me, though Analise will not be joining us for lunch today, I think to myself with insidious satisfaction.
Peach sits beside Tasia, still wearing a collar, though this one is different than the other. Just a simple ribbon, it nonetheless states her submissiveness to the woman on her right. There’s a sense of ownership of Tasia for Peach; it would make me sick to my stomach, if I didn’t feel the same way right now. I even flash to the thought of leading my own submissive Analise through the dining room on a leash, to sit at my feet at this table. Oh! How my fantasies take every act of rare sensuality further to the extremes of imagination!
I smile at the two women when I sit down. I see Tasia is surprised that I’v
e chosen this seat across from her. I feel like an opponent squaring off, though this will not be some victim-filled emotional war between us. I feel like a changed woman.
“Have you seen Analise today, Cassidy?” Tasia asks.
“Yes. In fact, I just left her in the attic.”
“Oh?” She looks at me curiously. “Will she be coming down to lunch?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I left her bound to her bed.”
It’s not shock that registers on her face, but a brief startled expression that fades as soon as it appears, her face returning to its characteristically obscure aspect.
“I see,” she says.
I wonder what she will do, if she thinks I’ve overstepped my bounds. I don’t really care what she does. I hold Analise in my grasp, and even should Tasia preempt me, I’ve made a statement she will not easily forget.
I imagine Peach will not forget it either. For the first time in days, she looks at me with some degree of respect. And though we eat in silence, I don’t feel a strain. Getting used to what I’m feeling pleases me, even if I’m not yet certain how this fits into the scheme of my life.
There’s part of me that would rush back to Analise, but the better part is content to let her remain bound in the attic as if she were nothing but my toy to do with as I please. I picture her there often as I go through the next hours. The longer I wait to return, the more aroused I become. I’m not sure she’ll even be there, that Tasia hasn’t already freed her. But I’ll be happy either way.
I read for awhile in the garden; it seems it’s the first day I’ve actually been able to relax anywhere other than the beach. The ominous feeling of the house has made it and its surrounding gardens too oppressive to enjoy. Since the afternoon with Donna and Cozinne my emotions have been frenzied and my thoughts filled with dark desire. But now, there’s a peacefulness creeping into me. I’ve cast away the original version of the vacation Peach and I had planned, and have replaced it with this more bizarre one. What troubles me is that this one appears to have no clear purpose, and no predictable end.
Pagan Dreams Page 9
