Six Masters Island - The Cinderella Syndrome

by Candace Smith

  Six Masters Island - The Cinderella Syndrome

  by Candace Smith

  Copyright 2010 Candace Smith

  Published by Strict Publishing International

  Prelude

  The material of the mattress top was stiff, with small lumpy spots pilling in places and scratching the girl’s naked body. She hardly noticed the irritating bedding while she lay in the darkness, curled in exhausted sleep. To Pansy, the feeling of the mattress against her cheek and bared breasts meant that she was safely within the confines of her cage… a place she was left alone, for the most part.

  She tried not to dream or to let her mind wander to the time before. This had become much easier since the memories became vaguer with each painful passing day. More often, when she allowed herself to consider her circumstances, her thoughts were consumed with either the promise of graduating to a place upstairs in the sunlight, or the fearful anticipation of an alternative her future. She battled those frightening thoughts away, banishing them outside the relative safety of her cage by imagining the faces and hands of one of her handsome trainers.

  It had disturbed her when she first discovered that thinking of one of the men actually served to calm her. Any one of them meant sadistically cruel torture. Any one of them meant an insanely clenching response from her pussy that led to the distracting ability to heighten her arousal and masturbate to gasping climax. She had been caught with the copious discharge wetting her thighs, and now she was being punished. The hideous gag was lodged in her mouth and her hands had been locked behind her, reminding Pansy that even her cage was not a completely safe escape.

  Her eyes opened warily, searching the blackness. Turning towards the door, and then towards the ceiling, Pansy decided that some sound she could no longer hear must have awoken her. She stretched to the degree the confining space allowed, and the fingers of one bound hand curled around a steel bar. Someone would be coming for her soon to guide her through another day of submissive torture.

  Once, a long time ago, she could not wait for the beginning of a new day of working her exciting job and flirting outrageously with the salesmen. Her unusual violet eyes had always caught the attention of men… and they had worked to single her out for the man who had captured her and brought her to this terrifying place.

  The mysteriously intriguing looks of Sloan filled her mind. Just that brief flash of his features, the shining dark eyes focused on her in amusement or passion, caused her pussy to grip and slicken in preparation for him. She thought of his strong hands on her body, coaxing and forcing her to respond to his wishes. God, how she hated the way thoughts of him made her breath quicken and her pussy squeeze emptiness, yearning to have him inside her. Pansy gripped the bar tighter and clenched her other fist in frustration at being bound and unable to stroke herself.

  When the door to her chamber suddenly opened, a sobering cringe of reality caused her to jerk back to the moment and dispersed her fantasy musings. The light switched on and she fought the compulsion to shrink against the back wall of her cage. Sloan… oh god, his brother Daryl is with him. Resolved to the knowledge that they would enjoy using the infraction of her reluctance to issue some cruel punishment, Pansy obediently crawled to the door and knelt silently in front of the bars.

  The latch was opened and she remained in position, waiting for one of the men to tell her how they wished to torture her this morning. “Strapado,” Sloan stated. She shuffled forward on her knees, scraping them lightly on the coarse concrete until she was able to stand. A cool numbness washed through her mind, almost stilling her trembling, while she walked to the chain hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists were already locked together behind her, and the gag in her mouth made acknowledgement to the Master’s order impossible.

  Sloan gripped her cuffs and he threaded the thick hook on the chain through the rings. Pansy had learned that Sloan was the one who designed the restraints, and they were made from a soft sturdy leather with steel locks. With her hands locked behind her, Sloan’s strong hands caressed down the sides of her body, lightly squeezing her breasts and brushing across her nipples. He smiled at the instantaneous response of her tightening nubs, and Pansy moaned behind the gag, closing her eyes slightly when his gently arousing stroking became unbearable.

  Although soft, encouraging caressing was not usually employed as a method of torture, the trainers sometimes coaxed her body to a frenzied, heated state that guaranteed her pussy would saturate in welcome for their cock. Pansy’s lips trembled around the gag while the hands moved lower, and her knees almost buckled when his thumb brushed her clit, already swollen to a hard knot of nerves. Thank you… oh, god… yes… oh, god. Her hips pumped against his hand in frantic assistance.

  Sloan’s hand abandoned her sex, and a desperate wail of frustration muffled behind the plug in her mouth. As she calmed and her mind left the shadowed promise of relief behind, the torment of her debasing performance washed color across her cheeks and breasts. Sloan smiled at her humiliation, noting that her reaction was perfect. Pansy’s emotions had not been dulled by the months of training and her sexual arousal had peaked to a satisfactory new level.

  Pansy heard the winch on the wall creaking while Daryl turned it, and her hands began to rise up behind her. The painful familiar tug strained the muscles in her upper arms, and all too soon she was rising to her toes and bent forward while her hands pointed at the ceiling. She fought back the tears while she silently pleaded for the tormenting creaking to stop. The relief offered by the cool numbness had receded when the pain from the strenuous position demanded her attention.

  Pansy’s legs were aching as badly as her arms by the time Daryl released the winch. She faced the floor and looked at her toes. They were folded over to their tips and trying to support some of her weight off her arms. Sloan was still standing behind her, and she felt one of his hands caress her bottom. The humiliating truth that she had been lubricating steadily since the brutal men had entered her chamber was not lost on her. It was a constant source of confused embarrassment for her, and Sloan’s stroking served to increase her debasing response.

  While one hand rubbed circles around her bottom, his other hand followed the crevice separating her cheeks until his fingers were brushing against the inside of her thigh. She gave a quick sob of muffled resistance, but worked to spread her legs for him. Soon she was barely touching the floor with her toes, more in an effort to keep still than to actually take some of the weight from her arms. She hoped she had pleased him with the small measure of access she could manage in this excruciating position.

  Oh… oh god. Sloan’s finger stroked her slit, dipping into her hole and spreading her juice on her clit. The instinct to pull her legs together required all of her focus to fend off, and it took less than a minute for her body to answer his gentle persuasion by pressing into his wet hand. Yes… like that… please… please. Her attention was diverted when she realized that Daryl was unbuckling her gag. The bar slipped out from between her jaws and it landed in his hand. From there, she did not know where it was placed because her peripheral vision was blocked by her hanging hair.

  The next item to block her view of her toes was Daryl’s cock. His knees bent slightly and she felt his hand thread through her hair to hold her steady while he pushed into her mouth. Once, this act caused her to panic and scream; once, they kept a hard rubber ring in her mouth to keep her from biting down; once… she gagged and retched when a penis drove its full length down her throat. That time had long since passed, and Pansy obediently sucked and licked the warm fleshy rod with an anticipation that was not as unwelcome as it used to be… once.

  While sh
e devoured the cock in her mouth, she felt the fingers on her slit diverting her attention. Her clit was swollen and the continual teasing was frustrating. Two fingers began pumping into her pussy and she moaned around the thrusting cock in her mouth. She tried to push her bottom into the hand, but her toes could no longer reach. Sloan kept moving his hand back, not allowing her to push the full length of his fingers inside of her.

  Another finger, dripping with her own cream, circled her anus. The hand rubbing her bottom reminded her to try to relax. She had learned that it would hurt her less not to tighten the barrier, but the invasion was still frightening. She knew that this reluctance was a reason she had been left in the dungeon garden and not moved to the sunlight upstairs. Sloan and his brothers had been working with her, helping her learn to welcome the unnatural act so that she could blossom.

  His cock pushed against her crinkled hole, and Pansy tried to concentrate on the velvety skin of the penis in her mouth and the fingers still pumping into her. Sloan had stopped rubbing her bottom, and that hand now wrapped around to her belly. He spread his fingers to hold her still, and she whined in disappointment when he withdrew his pumping relief from inside her channel. It seemed unfair that her pussy should be empty and left to drool her juices down her thighs. At least he continued to toy with her clit, and she wiggled against his thumb while he pushed into her.

  “Much better, Pansy,” Sloan’s deep voice came from behind her. Pansy smiled around the cock in her mouth.

  Daryl’s fingers began massaging her scalp while he pushed himself down her throat. After the beginning times, when she was sure that she would suffocate, Pansy had calmed to a point where she automatically worked her muscles and tongue to coax his balls to tighten. Sometimes they let her fondle their sacks, but that was a rare treat.

  The thought reminded her of her painful arms, and she tried to concentrate on the possibility that Sloan might actually permit her to climax. Without realizing it, her hips’ motion had increased so that the thumb on her clit excited her tingling nerves. Sloan was completely seated, and he heard her groan in frustration when he stopped his manipulation to grip her waist with both hands. His slick cock pounded into her ass and finally erupted in a jerking spasm. Daryl exploded at almost the same time, and she found herself frantically swallowing and trying to ignore the frustration of her own denied orgasm.

  “I’ll tell mother she’s ready for evaluation,” Sloan offered.

  Although Pansy was looking forward to going upstairs, their mother’s evaluations always caused her to panic. They were torturous exercises that strained her control past her limits, and gave the vicious woman a reason to punish her. The only consolation that Pansy had was that she had been through several, so she must be close to meeting the terrifying woman’s approval. Sloan and Daryl looked back at the hanging girl one last time before switching off the light, closing the door, and leaving her in darkness again.

  Upstairs, Cynthia’s fingers sifted through the dark damp curls on her husband’s chest, and she sighed. “The boys will be leaving this morning.” Instead of sadness, Alexander felt her full breasts as they shivered against his ribs in anticipation. He kissed the top of her head and smiled while he squeezed her affectionately, and Cynthia looked up at him with flashing emerald eyes dulled only slightly with the residual passion from her recent orgasm. Her long dark hair lay in a plaited rope across his stomach, reaching almost to his crotch.

  She sat up and unwound the thick braid. She only wore it that way, sliding over her shoulder, in the privacy of their bedroom. It had been how she was wearing it on the night when they had met, and Alexander enjoyed the idiosyncrasies Cynthia saved to share with him alone. Where her twisted psychosis had led them to a passionate, unique lifestyle of sadistic pleasure, his obsession was making her happy. Anything Cynthia wanted, no matter how cruel or compulsive it might appear to others, was provided by her husband or by the sons who adored her.

  Cynthia stretched, letting her feet stroke down the lean muscles of his thighs and shins. After kissing him and letting her tongue taste his upper lip, she rose and walked towards the bathroom. Her husband smiled and he watched her hair sway across her back, brushing the top of the comfortable flair of her hips and the strong long legs that had been wrapped around him a few minutes ago. After thirty years of marriage, she was still the only woman he desired. “I’ll be in the garden,” he called to her.

  Alexander did not impose on her time with the boys when she issued last minute directions and information. It was enough that he would see the rewards of their trip, but Cynthia needed the feeling of control by initiating the route they would take and making the final decisions alone with them.

  A slight girl with a pretty figure, short golden curls, and a natural deep blush to her cheeks and lips, was naked and kneeling silently on the carpet by the deep tub, nervously waiting for Cynthia to enter the room. Rose had filled the bath and added the flowery scented oils that stepmother liked, and she prayed that she had not done it so soon that the water had chilled too much.

  Rose had remained curled in her cage by the bed, until she heard stepmother and the Master rise. Over time, she had learned to recognize the change of their breathing when they were close to culmination of their sexual trysts. When she was first brought to stepmother’s room to be her personal servant, Rose had been surprised that the cruel vicious nature of the pair was not evident when they were alone together. It seemed the sadistic thrills they enjoyed were limited to their servants. Their times together were passionate and arousing, but did not involve the games they used when training new slaves or for punishment.

  Rose crept to the bathroom when she heard the moaning gasp Cynthia was beginning to make, and she drew the water. When the tall woman walked into the room, Rose began to tremble. It was as natural an act for her as breathing, because stepmother’s presence always meant pain. The direction or amount that Rose would be subjected to was determined by Cynthia’s mood. Cynthia dipped a toe into the water, and she smiled as she climbed into the bath. “The tray, Rose.”

  “Yes, stepmother,” Rose replied. Ironically, this cruel torment meant that she was pleased, and the slave ran to the cabinet for the appropriate device. She held it in her hands while she knelt within Cynthia’s reach.

  Cynthia finished winding her long hair up into a bun, and after hooking the leather strap on the back edge of the tray to the loop in the front of Rose’s collar, she picked up the clamps with the chains attached to the far corners. Rose felt a damp finger from each hand tickle her nipples until they stiffened obediently with a shadowed promise of pleasure. It was quickly destroyed when the clamps came down, biting into her excited stiff tips. Rose inhaled a gasp while the flat rubber bars squeezed her light pink nipples, causing them to darken as the trapped blood began to pulse. She stared at a tile on the far wall of the tub until she was sure she could control her anguish.

  Cynthia stared at the purpling nubs, and when she studied the girl’s face her eyes narrowed in satisfaction at the torment just below the surface of the tears. After months as stepmother’s personal slave, Rose still could not ignore the pain. She waited to see which bottles and soaps Cynthia would place on the surface, to pull and torture her poor breasts further.

  She had overheard stepmother tell Master Alexander that the sons would be leaving this morning. In the past, this had put the woman in an excited good mood, and Rose was relieved when only two small flasks were set on the quivering surface of the tray. At least, with the device attached and balancing from her nipples, it meant that stepmother would be washing herself.

  Thirty minutes later the clamps were removed, and Rose’s eyes blurred with more tears when the blood flowed back into them. It felt like needles were piercing the sensitive tissue, and it burned. She quickly stood with a soft fluffy towel and dried her beautiful, cruel stepmother. “My sapphire robe, Rose.”

  “Yes, stepmother.” Rose walked to the wardrobe and dared to let her hands lightly massage her br
uised tips. If stepmother caught her trying to comfort herself, to ease the throbbing in her nipples, it would mean punishment. Rose pushed the silk gowns aside until she located the dark blue one just as Cynthia came into the room. Rose stared at the intimidating woman. She seemed impossibly striking with her tall, taut figure that enabled her to endure long sessions working in her garden.

  Rose was certain that no matter what situation Cynthia had chosen in life, she would have been the leader. Her regal bearing commanded respect and compliance, and her edicts along with the cold gazes she cast, terrified the servants. After helping stepmother into her gown, Rose brushed her black hair until it was gleaming while Cynthia applied her light make-up.

  They left the room and Rose followed her downstairs, veering off towards the kitchen. When weather allowed, stepmother always had morning tea and a pastry in the garden. She would spend a short while in a meditation that made Rose nervous. Sometimes the woman would close her eyes and smile while she inhaled the scents of her flowers… and other times, her eyes would focus on some weed. A quiet, seething anger would build until she flew to the offending plant and ripped it from the ground. She would stare at it with an almost insane look of hatred in her green eyes while she slowly shredded it to pieces. She had been tearing one once, and Rose thought she heard her whisper, “Do you hear the screams?”

  Cynthia was sitting quietly with an indiscernible expression while she stared at the flowers and sipped her tea. A pebble was digging into Rose’s knee, but she knew better than to move and possibly disrupt the woman’s silent musings. For her own part, Rose had been distracted with the thought that the sons would be gone, and she had not studied the ground before she knelt as she usually remembered to do. This particular torment was of her own making.

  Master Alexander was already in the dungeon after saying goodbye to his boys. This was another reason for Rose to be optimistic. With the four sons gone for at least a week, stepmother and the Master would be busy with the garden and she would be left alone. She tried to forget the stone under her knee and concentrate on thoughts of the calmer relief of the week ahead.