In the morning, longed for coffee and crisp rolls, then a protracted soak in a scented bath, where she conducted a leisurely review of her situation.
What on earth had happened to her? Not the physical beatings she had endured, they were easily understandable, although, on first waking she had wondered if she hadn’t imagined it all. A simple examination soon removed any doubts in that direction. No, it was her reaction that bewildered her. For a start, why had she driven straight home, without going to the police with a complaint of rape and assault? Why hadn’t she taken them to the island and had them look for evidence, and trace the red-headed ogre who had so ill-treated her?
Come to that, why hadn’t she made any attempt to escape while she was on the island? She had surly had plenty of opportunities. Seventy-one in fact, when she was running down to the shore, unsupervised, to collect rocks. Even if she argued that he would have become suspicious after a few minutes, and caught her with his outboard long before she could have swum ashore, she couldn’t hide behind that excuse when she had been sent to gather driftwood for the fire, and had worked her way along the shore, out of sight of the tower, for half an hour before hoisting her uncomfortable burden onto her back to carry it to the dungeon. In fact she hadn’t even examined her chain and collar to see if they could be removed. She hadn’t resisted his assaults or his rapes. Even when he had told her she was to be buggered, she had made no protest, but lain over the table where he had placed her, and waited, submissively, for him to violate her virgin sphincter.
The fact was she had found satisfaction, sexual and mental, and after satisfaction, peace, for the first time in months, if not years. She hadn’t enjoyed the beatings and the degradation, the labour and the rapes. She had screamed and writhed, kicked and moaned, but at the end of the day, they had faded away to leave the fulfilment she craved. She had actually climaxed under that brutal anal rape.
She lay working out the answers, and the lessons learned, until the bath grew cold, then swung into action. Two letters, to Paragon and to ‘Hells Bells’, signed and faxed before she should lose her nerve, then, still wearing nothing but her now fading bruises, she searched her bag for a card, tucked in a pocket, and punched out the number on it. A female voice, not young, not old, with a suggestion of a foreign accent, answered by a discreet repetition of the number.
“Madame Ruskova?”
“Who is this calling, please?”
“My name is Madeleine Fines. I would like to come and see you on an important matter of business.”
“May I ask how you obtained my number?”
“Peter Silters gave me your card.”
“That was, perhaps, rather indiscreet of him.” The voice took on a slight edge.
“Not really, seeing that I am his immediate superior.”
A pause, as if for reflection, and then Madame asked, “What business is it you want to discuss with me?”
A slight sigh of relief from the caller, as if she had staked a lot on getting the woman’s attention.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea to go into such things on the telephone, do you? May I come and see you? Sometime today if possible?”
“Very well. Be here at four o’clock precisely. Do you know where to come?”
“Thank you, yes. I’ll be there.” And the receiver was replaced softly in its cradle.
Madame Ruskova lived in a small block of discreetly secluded luxury apartments, West of Queensway, and near the Park. Madeleine was let in by a young, and very pretty, maid, who took her to an elegantly furnished drawing room, where an equally elegant woman in her forties, indicated a chair, opposite her own. The woman ws tall, very straight, with glossy black hair drawn back off her high boned features, into a severe bun.
“You said you wanted to discuss a matter of business?” she opened without preamble.
Madeleine replied with equal directness. “Yes, I would like to work for you, entertaining clients.”
Madame Ruskova raised her eyebrows in surprise and question.
“I thought you had come to request services, not to offer them, she said, “did Peter not make clear just what the nature of the business is?”
“Oh, yes, I understand exactly what sort of services are provided, Peter was very explicit. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am asking you to take me on as a call-girl, available to entertain clients able to afford my services, which would not come cheap.”
“I see, and what figure would you place on yourself?”
“I would expect to receive five thousand pounds for the use of my body for a twelve hour period, normally overnight. That would be after you had taken your own fee and expenses, of course.”
The older woman shook her head. “It’s not unknown for the kind of clients I handle to pay that sort of money for something they especially fancy, but the woman would have to be both exceptionally beautiful, and exceptionally sexually talented,” she explained, “and, while you are certainly beautiful, I have a dozen on my books who could match you, and an amateur, like yourself, could never match their erotic expertise.”
“For a start, I do not intend to be an amateur at this game. I told you I was Peter Silter’s boss, and that was perfectly true when I spoke to you, but the company has my resignation, effective from noon today, and I have also turned down a job offer at one of the biggest outfits in town. I intend to devote myself to my chosen profession, though I might just freelance occasionally in the advertising business as a cloak for my real activity.”
“I appreciate the seriousness of your intentions,” Madame Ruskova said, a little sharply, “but I am afraid you are still putting too high a value on your body.”
Her visitor stuck to her guns. “Tell me,” she asked, “do your girls ever refuse to go along with a client’s requests?”
“They would me very sorry, indeed, if they did,” came the reply, with not a little menace in the tone, “although,” she added, “naturally, we draw the line at sadism, the whip and all that.”
“If you were to accept my offer, you would not have to draw that line.” Madeleine said quietly.
Madame Ruskova looked at her, without replying, for a long ten seconds, then: “Take off your clothes.”
Madeleine stood and without haste, removed her clothes one by one, laying each garment carefully on the chair she had been sitting on. Madame’s mobile eyebrows rose a touch as the blouse came off, revealing rope marks across her shoulders from the flogging at the apple tree, and she nodded, as if confirming the answer to something she had been suspecting, when the discarded knickers revealed the ravages, fading slightly now, to the once white globes of the proud buttocks. Naked, Madeleine rested her hands on her head, lifting and offering her pert breasts, with their prominent pink nipples now firmly erect, and made a slow pirouette, displaying her body to its full advantage, and finishing facing her prospective employer, her feet apart to expose her sex, and looking her straight in the eye.
“Wait here,” came the command, and she obeyed, relaxing her pose slightly, remaining naked and astride, but with her hands ‘at ease’ behind her, while Madame Ruskova left the room.
She returned after five minutes with a slip of paper in her hand.
“Put on your jacket and skirt.” Again, it was an order, rather than a request. “That will be sufficient to travel in.” And then when she was partially clad, as instructed. “Now go to the address on this paper. No, you won’t need that.” She took the handbag from her, giving her only a ten pound note, “for the taxi,” and her front door key. She offered no further explanation or instruction and Madeleine walked from the room, barefoot, to find a taxi, and the rendezvous she had been given.
Three hours later she let herself into her own apartment, and dropped face down onto her bed, her body heaving and twitching, low moans coming from her throat. The man she had been sent to was a master of his craft, and of women. He had tested her to her limits, and beyond. It was not just the savage beatings, for he had made her bend
time after time for fresh sets of cuts of his fearsome cane, and which now made it impossible to rest her devastated buttocks even on the softness of her bed, nor the pain he had inflicted by his brutal sexual assault on her throat, her pussy and her anus and by the dozen other tortures he had inflicted on her. In his handling of her, by the manner in which he made her submit to him, and his tortures, sexual and otherwise, by the countless degradations he heaped on her, he had reduced her to a whining, crawling animal and then, suddenly, contemptuously, had stuck a folded note in her vagina and told her to get dressed and go home. Now she lay, spiritually disembowelled, wearing only the crumpled jacket and skirt of a once-smart silk suit, awaiting whatever might come.
What came was a special messenger, bringing a parcel which proved to contain her handbag, and the underwear and shoes she had abandoned at Madame Ruskova’s apartment, and a telephone call from the lady herself. It was brief, and to the point.
“Your performance was satisfactory. You may come and see me in the morning.”
The interview was long and searching. Madame did not fail to note the stiffness in her ‘guest’s’ gait, but invited her to sit, nevertheless, and smiled, quizzically, at the grimace that fleetingly crossed her face as she did so.
“I understand that Walter gave you a hard time yesterday,” she remarked.
“About as much as I could take,” came the rueful response, “I did agree to more, but stipulated that I would have to be tied. I don’t think my body could have taken it without restraint. As it was he didn’t insist.” She moved uneasily on her chair. “I thought your clients did not go in for that sort of thing?”
“Oh, no, they’re not allowed to practice it on our girls, but there would be plenty of interest in someone like you.” Madame Ruskova smiled thinly. “Walter is a good client, of long standing, and has always respected our limits scrupulously, but has made no secret of his inclinations. From time to time a girl, who has committed a serious breach of the rules, is given the option of being dismissed out of hand, or taking a session with Walter. I asked him to explore your limits and he was impressed. Quite a testimonial, coming from one as experienced as he. How did you find out about your ‘talent’?”
Madeleine squirmed again. She hoped she wasn’t opening up any of the cuts that had bloodied her sheets in the night. They might be staining her skirt through her underwear, if she wasn’t careful.
“I only found out in the last few days, but the decision, when I came to it, left me with no doubts,” and she went on to share the considerations she had thought through so carefully in her bath, only twenty-four hours previously.
How she’d become aware of an unfulfilled, but unidentified, need in herself, of the frustrations of her career and of the golden offer from ‘Hell’s Bells’. She explained how she’d gone to find herself in the wilderness, and had succeeded, though not quite what she had expected.
“It was not so much a conversion on the road to Damascus,” she quipped, “as on the road to the Isles.”
The older woman listened with great interest to her description of the events on the islet, and her reactions, and nodded from time to time as Madeleine described her feelings, and her analysis of them, soaking her bruises in her morning tub.
“So here I am. I intend to make a career of this, with or without your help, but I think it could be messy on my own, and I would like your protection, if I can get it. I’ve already burnt my boats, as both my present and my prospective employers have my resignation now. I did not think that I was likely to be able to keep up a full time job against a background of irregular nights, or longer sessions and, additionally, I could foresee frequent occasions arising when I might be too much the worse for wear to go to the office. I will be freelancing though. I’m very good at my job and there are plenty of people who will give me work, which will provide me with an ostensible means of supporting my life-style.”
“I don’t think your life-style is going to suffer any,” Madame assured her; “the trouble may be in making your legitimate earnings seem adequate. I accept your own valuation of yourself, and you are likely to become a very rich young woman. But only on my terms,” she added, with a slight steeliness to her voice. “Firstly, you will take any client we send you, without question. You may rely on me to ensure your protection. Our clients, however wealthy and powerful, know better than to cross me. Some of my friends are not very nice at all, and even they are careful not to offend some of their friends. We’ve very seldom had a client offend. and no-one has survived to try a second time.”
Madeleine shuddered. What was she getting herself into? Well, whatever it was, it was too late now. She was committed now, if only to herself and her need.
Madame Ruskova pressed on with defining her conditions of work.
“Secondly, you will obey the client absolutely, relying on the same protection. As to the frequency of your sessions, we will decide that and, although I will listen to anything you have to say as to the condition of your body, it will be my decision alone as to whether you are fit to perform again. There may be times when a client wants you unmarked, and you can look forward to a rest of several weeks, but there are others who would have no objection to you bearing the signs of an earlier beating. In addition there are some men who would have you even with an embargo on actions that leave durable markings. The imaginative client, and especially the women, can think up a dozen ways to hurt and humiliate without raising spoor on your hide.”
“I would be expected to serve women too?” She hadn’t considered that possibility, but why not? As Madame had hinted, a female would understand her vulnerable points, physical and mental, better than any man.
“Of course. Did I not say any client?” came the swift retort, “and we have many female clients on our books.” She returned to her list of requirements. “I think it must be obvious that you will have no dealings with any client other than through me. That includes giving out your address or phone number. Finally, you will be subject to the same discipline as all our other girls.”
Madeleine could not prevent a wry smile at the thought of yet more beatings on top of what she had contracted for. How could they be construed as punishment? As if she could read her thoughts, Madame Ruskova continued.
“Don’t run away with the idea that you would be unable to distinguish between punishment and pleasure. There are more ways of punishing a girl than by beating her bottom, a procedure which, in your case would be totally counter productive. I have an enforcer who is quite capable of making you feel deep regret at transgressing the rules, without any of the satisfaction that is the motivation behind your choice of career.”
Madame’s dire words, delivered as they were in a flat tone, all the more threatening for its quiet matter-of-fact-ness, had wiped the small smile from Madeleine’s face, and she sat in grave attention, even the soreness in her bottom failing to distract her.
“So there you have it,” Madame Ruskova concluded, “you can join my string and earn big money, but we demand absolute obedience, and will enforce it rigorously. The choice is yours but remember, once you are in, you are in until we release you. There is no turning back, or giving in of notice in this game.”
A daunting commitment indeed, but the candidate did not hesitate.
“I accept,” she said, “and on your terms, of course.”
“Very well, then,” Madame replied, “go home now and sort out your affairs in the light of the new life you will be leading. In view of what Walter left on your body, I would think we would not be calling on your services for at least a few days, a week or two even if your first client wants to work his art on an unmarked canvas. Line up your freelance stuff, but make sure you are free at short notice to take on an assignment.”
That had been three months ago, and now she was on her way to another client. She’d been to nearly a dozen in that time. Two or three really severe beatings and, in between, others, who had not minded her welts and cuts by other’s hands, and those w
hose tastes leaned more to humiliating her or torturing her in ways that left little trace to offend the hard men, who got their pleasure from watching blueberry tracks swelling on her white haunches, and thin red stripes lace her alabaster back.
She thought this was going to be one of those severe thrashings, the ones that left her hoarse with screaming, body aching and throbbing in a dozen places, her ears still ringing with the echo of her demented shrieks, rather than one of the exquisitely refined sessions of more subtle and degrading treatment. She was never told what to expect, but it was over three weeks since she had been whipped to the blood, and her body was healed enough to be served to the more fastidious exponents of the whip and rod, who were prepared to wait, and to pay, for a pristine body on which to practice their art.
And they did pay, too. As Madame Ruskova had admitted, she was worth her five thousand to the oil men, currency dealers, entertainment stars and other super-rich, and even more when she was sent to be a plaything for more than an evening. She’d already served one twenty-four hour stint, and Madame had warned her that week-ends, or even longer periods, were possible, and could not be refused, if offered.
Meanwhile her bank balance grew, and she kept up her cover as a freelance creative writer. She found that her talents were, indeed, much in demand, once free of Paragon’s shackles, and enjoyed the respect she won, and the social contact. Moreover, desperately hard and long though her sessions were at the time, they actually took up very little of her week, and she was grateful for constructive employment to fill the days until she received her next cryptic instructions.
Madeleine Page 4
