The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  In a community of likeminded souls, this prominent physical alteration identifies the property owner of the subject slave to other participants in sexual rites and scenes; and ensures within the group an understanding of the unalterable contract in this master/slave relationship.

  There are numerous means of marking chattel. My preference goes to the more permanent mark. Piercing clearly makes a bold statement. Foreign objects such as rings, bars and other devices, juxtaposed with human flesh suggest a very deliberate violation of the body. For a master’s mark, I would recommend the more unusual or extreme pierce, as opposed to more common ones. (i.e. nipples, lips etc. Even the tongue pierce, while a very stirring submissive sign, has become more commonplace in recent years, and thus less useful for the purposes I outline here.)”

  Erik stopped reading, looking quite amused at this point. “And how many years has tongue piercing been popular?” he posed rhetorically as he gazed around at the other masters. He turned the book over looking at what seemed to be an aging cover. “Either Barth did a fair psychic reading of the 1990’s years ago, or this book was written rather recently. Though he does have a point here.”

  Jason stirred, chuckling under his breath, “Nothing in this place is as it seems, Erik.”

  “How true.” Erik read on…

  “One pierce that will likely never be commonplace is the piercing of the clitoris itself. Deeply painful when it’s executed, it will have a long-lasting impact on the slave, as well as make a daring statement to those who view it.

  “Tattoos can also make staggering statements adding the drama of color and offering a wide range of creativity to the master’s mark. Though I recommend both of these physical alterations, however, I am most enamored by marks that dig deeper into the physical body. Pierces can be removed, often without a sign that they have been there; and even tattoos are now much easier to change or even remove if the subject abandons their choice. Cutting and branding, however, are the most permanent of body alterations. What deforms the flesh cannot be changed. And the terror involved in the process is enormously exhilarating.

  “No technique to mark the human flesh is without its dangers. And it is the sacred responsibility of the master to be acquainted with the procedure, its hazards and its proper execution. Where experience is lacking, I recommend enlisting the assistance of those who are accomplished in the practice—thus I do not go into the details here.

  “As regards the ritual surrounding the marking of a slave—ritual can be ignored in favor of a simple off-hand procedure, totally without ceremony. Certainly, such a step would properly demean the chattel. However, by the time the master has reached this point with their slave, such measures should be unnecessary. The marking can then be part of a larger ceremony—like a marriage, which bonds these souls together in a distinctive statement of relationship.

  “I have effected both cutting and branding on my personal slaves. My decision in each case is totally dependent on my mood at the hour, and my current feelings about the chattel to be marked. There is satisfaction for the master in both.

  Standing back from these acts, I think the greatest impact on the slave comes when a deliberate ritual accompanies the mark, so leaving an impression that will last forever in their consciousness. The mark of a slave breeds the feast, feels forever in the psyche; it becomes an undeniable wellspring for pleasure. It is a mistake to ignore this truth.

  Erik turned the page reverently, “The book ends with this note…”

  I now end my musings on the subject of training human flesh, and give them up to my readers, who will either excuse these ramblings as nonsense from a depraved and vacant soul, or find within my words a scheme for liberating the submerged desires of those who have a more profound purpose to pursue. Whether as lowly chattel or lofty master—I suggest that if you have an emotional/sexual response to this book, it would be worth the reader’s time to explore that response.

  I am, Respectfully, Christian Barth.

  Erik closed the cover of the leather bound volume and looked up at his audience of panting slaves. Obviously, Barth had no more to say—at least officially—on the subject of his amazing book.

  Turning his attention toward his friends, Erik circled the trio of women one more time. “You made your choice, we’ve made ours,” he said, making it clear to everyone what would happen next. As this thought lingered on, the slaves quaked with excitement. This was no game anymore, not some torrid and impossible sexual scene with a beginning and a decided end. It was not a series of rites induced merely by the unnatural climate at the curious island. Just as it had been repeated to them several times: they would not, could not, forget their stay on Marquis Island, no matter how they may try to deny its impact on their lives. It was clear that those prophetic voices were right as the experience would be no easy memory to lose with its imprint permanently altering their flesh.

  The main door of the library opened, with Darius and Essex entering the room with Christian Barth as Archibald Devane following closely behind. Devane only entered nominally, remaining near the door while the other two moved into the center of the room.

  “Gentlemen,” Erik nodded to their guests. “We’ve prepared our slaves; they are yours.”

  As Erik stepped back, Darius stepped forward with an air of authority radiating from his formidable form. Sure in his purpose and his next steps, the rugged man let his eyes come to rest on each slave as he methodically appraised the trio.

  Each shuddered, feeling surprisingly embarrassed to be nude before his imperious eyes. Perhaps it was his knowledge of them, having produced such a profound intimacy that caused their chagrin. They felt more naked now; for he seemed to have unclothed their souls as much as their bodies were bared. He could see beyond the surface to the secret truth inside each beating heart.

  “Stand,” he ordered them.

  They rose, barefoot now, peering upwards into Essex and Darius’ faces while the pair loomed down on them. Feeling so dwarfed by their supreme bearing, it almost seemed natural that the three should drop to their knees in an act of respect. Yet, without such a command given, they remained on their feet with their faces blushing with misplaced modesty.

  As they went eye to eye with Darius, Sandra remembered her night under his control, soon finding a bit of her female juice was trickling down her thigh in reply to the vivid remembrance. Elise was truly fearful of the man. She’d bonded with Essex, who remained just out of sight. She would have preferred that master’s gaze to this devilish one. Laney was smitten by the bold man in the black clothes. She viewed him as an older version of her husband, and her immediate desire was to be fucked by his savage instincts. Her body boiled with desire as Darius’ eyes assaulted her, and he allowed a fleeting moment of lust to pass between them. If Laney were not mistaken, she was as much an object of his desire, as he was hers. But such a thought could be dangerous to a slave owned by another master.

  “Essex,” he turned to his friend. “The shed is ready?”

  “Indeed is it.”

  “Very good,” he said as he moved to the door, “Bring them on leashes and put them to the floor when we reach the chamber.”

  ***

  Beyond the estate house with its grand façades and tropical architecture, near a path toward the beach, there is a stone hut with an ancient padlocked door. Looking like an abandoned storage shed, the aging, though still sturdy structure, remained ignored by the newest guests on Marquis Island. They’d passed it several times on their way to sun themselves on the sand. Grasses growing three feet high skimmed its surface, blowing like gentle waves of grain in the brisk ocean breeze. Loneliness caressed its wind-polished stones, while a curious mind could imagine a thousand scenarios for its probable use—but likely, none that rightly guessed the building’s actual function.

  Stepping into the tropical air, the three slaves quaked nervously, while they let the mild day allay their fears, at least for the few minutes it took to reach the hut.

&nbs
p; With the key to the padlock in his fist, Essex led the way along the sandy beach path. The masters followed, hiking briskly while towing their leashed slaves so fast the three naked women had to struggle to keep up. Then, as if he were prodding them all with a poker—which he was not—Darius brought up the rear.

  As Essex unlocked the hefty hasp on the aging hut, the door creaked open slowly, revealing nothing but black and something glowing strangely beyond. A gust of heat from inside almost pushed them back, while the smell of something burning singed their nostrils. The slaves’ fear magnified.

  “On the floor,” Erik barked before they could adjust their eyes to the odd room.

  Crouched at the masters’ feet, the submissives remained poised, with their heads down and almost touching the packed dirt. They sensed some ritual about the proceedings, which seemed like a bizarre formality in these crude surroundings. Whatever the plan, however, its shocking implications took what physical arousal that was already abundant in their bodies and raised its force to alarming degrees. Trembling, they waited for the men to take their places. And as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they could peek enough to see a three-foot high stone structure beside them. Its upper stones glowed red, suggesting this was some kind of furnace with its fire stoked and phosphorescent embers in the pit above. In front of the them was an apparatus that looked very much like a torture rack, though smaller, with its spaces more confined and its use likely limited. Considering the purpose of this rite, it seemed reasonable to assume that each one of them would be strapped down to the device in order to be marked.

  There was nothing in this scene that did not strain their desire to limits beyond which they believed possible. Sandra’s thoughts, voiced hours ago as they waited wonderingly for their masters, came back to them with the significant truth: they didn’t want to know what happened next. The truth could cause them peril when they only wanted to accept.

  Standing behind them, their masters waited; curiously calm as the scene unfolded. Their intrepid journey on Marquis Island was coming to an end. A fact that settled well with them. If their slaves were somewhat drained of strength, living on raw desire and little more, the three men mimicked that predicament, realizing that this game—what had started as an innocent wager and magnified to something far beyond that—needed its finish now. The end they chose seemed fitting, permanent proof of what they’d done these two weeks. It didn’t faze them that in their right minds, at home in New York, the whole fantastical drama would seem absurd—especially this last unalterable act. Time can alter memories, but nothing could alter these physical remnants of their tropical vacation. It took some trust to let this scheme unfold, but these masters were too enamored with the promised results to allow any fear to rule.

  Standing beside the furnace, Essex peered into the smoldering embers—his face glowed like the devil. And Darius, the acknowledged master of the occasion, stood over the three women wearing his dominance like a crown of supremacy. If Christian Barth were in the room, no one seemed to care. Though he’d been the original author of the play, he was now as unnecessary as the costumes the slaves had packed away that afternoon in the hefty steamer trunks.

  Still unsure what awaited them, the trio waited expectantly. They could guess the kind of markings that their masters had agreed upon, but until the words were actually spoken, they didn’t dare think that the men they loved could be this daring and arbitrary with their untarnished bodies.

  “The masters on Marquis Island,” Darius began to speak the shocking truth, “have chosen to mark their chattel on their flanks, using fired pokers to brand their initials permanently into their chattel’s flesh. With this act, they strip away any notion that the events occurring in this place have been some inconsequential game. The die has been cast. May these marks signal the beginning of extraordinary lives beyond this island.”

  Grabbing for a cane that was leaning against the wall of the hut beside him, Darius addressed the chattel specifically, tapping the long rod on their thighs. “Look at me,” he said. The three slowly pulled out of their crouch and leaned back against their heels, peering up at Darius’ steely eyes. As their anticipation increased, desire leapt on desire, and leapt on with such tingling excitement that they could hardly take a breath. Such desire brewed the liquid in their crotches and made their bodies itchy with apprehension and arousal.

  “Grey’s chattel present yourself,” the master called the woman from her stupor, rapping the side of Sandra’s thigh.

  Not knowing exactly what to do, she guessed accurately by rising to her feet.

  “On the rack,” he said.

  She moved forward. Having a better look at the rough structure before her, she determined where to place her feet and how she should lay her body over the wooden bars. But with every nerve in her body quivering so nervously that she could hardly move, that was little comfort for the scared slave.

  It took another sharp rap of Darius’ cane to get her started. Then as she mounted the rack, Jason moved in to strap her down. There was a bar for her feet six inches off the ground, and above that, a network of wooden slats to secure her torso—all fitted with straps to hold her tightly in place; then a second bar for her to grasp in front with more straps at her wrists to make sure she couldn’t suddenly bolt away.

  “The pain is surprisingly less vicious than one might think,” Darius informed her master, though not because Sandra’s master was hesitating with the plan. The comment seemed to ease the troubling energy that was vibrating about the hut as each slave recorded Darius’ words desperately hoping they were true.

  After a careful inspection, the master prepared a spot high on Sandra’s right thigh, cleansing the skin with disinfectant, then nodded at Essex.

  Fanning the fires in the furnace, he turned the recently prepared rods, noting with a practiced eye how well they glowed, and the degree of heat they contained within them. Picking up the iron with the initials JG, he handed it to Jason and backed away, letting Darius lead him in the act. Once the branding iron reached the proper heat, Darius nodded the okay, and Jason moved in. Having been well-tutored prior to this moment, he laid the hot iron high on his lover’s thigh, and let it singe his mark deep into her skin.

  Sandra’s mind flashed with fear, and as the hot iron burned her body. Pain seemed to overwhelm her senses, yet it was more fear than true pain that evoked her scream. With her nerves instantly fried, there was not much to feel but the shock of sexual desire glutting her body. Darius carefully observed as the iron finished its work and was removed. Then he dressed the wound and nodded for Jason to remove Sandra from the rack.

  “Mr. Parker, your slave.” Darius moved quickly with the ceremony, as though the first slave branded inspired his purpose. The lust moving through the small hut flowed freely, like a wild beast on the run, affecting everyone who watched or waited.

  As Matthew repeated the bondage with his wife, her body seemed small compared to Sandra’s voluptuous form. Yet, her thighs were as sensuously displayed, twitching with expectation as the truth of the moment became clear as glass before her eyes and mind. Perhaps Sandra had given her some strength walking this unknown path before her, for Elise seemed more calm and far less frightened—at least until her husband tightened the last strap around her left wrist. Then, suddenly overcome with emotion, she turned her head his way, and looked him in the eye as if she were begging for mercy. Her expression of uncertainty was so obvious that Matthew answered it telling her with conviction, “I’ve made the decision, slave. Your plea is useless.” His voice ran like ice through her veins, though the declaration was enough to see her through the next few minutes.

  The embers in the furnace glowed, the fire roared and dwindled, and out of the fire Essex pulled the second branding iron and placed it in the master’s hands.

  With slave’s skin prepared for the strike, Darius nodded and with a decided shove, the iron took hold of Elise’s upper thigh and reshaped the flesh in the image of her husband’s initia
ls, MP, which made an artful looking scripted monogram to embellish her already lovely flank. Her body bore the strike with a less animated response than Sandra’s, though every muscle in her taut body shook with terror, and her gasping shudder settled especially poignantly in Laney’s unmarked body.

  Lifted from the rack, Elise was limp against Matthew’s side, looking like a vanquished princess; though she was merely a slave in his eyes and was forced to resume her lowly position on her knees.

  “Priestly, your slave brings up the rear again,” Darius declared.

  “She’s ready,” Erik informed the man.

  Pulling Laney to her feet, the wary slave made the journey with the same trepidation her friends experienced. She was afraid and aroused with her pussy so wet that her sticky sex juice felt uncomfortable between her legs. Lying on the rack, she wanted to rub her cunt against the bar that hit her squarely in the crotch. She could get off in seconds rocking her labia against the wood, pressing so that her clitoris moved out from in-between and got the essence of the stimulating motions. Her erotic need was so strong that no one in the room could deny its force. But they chose to ignore it, rather than let it change the mood of this solemn ritual. With his hand pressed firmly on his wife’s ass, Erik calmed the roaring storm inside her; then as she stared at him, he suggested with his harsh black eyes boring into her, that her behavior was inappropriate.

  “Slaves have been known to be whipped before a branding,” Darius added to further take the edge off her arousal.

  Though she still burgeoned with a need to cum, Laney kept still and waited. It was like some dream, like all the other dreams this island of desire had touched inside her. She was almost outside herself when the branding iron began its task. Her cry, her shudder, and the sensation thereafter seemed to happen to someone other than herself, as though someone else were being singed with the hot iron, and she was listening inside that body to the sounds and feel of someone else’s reality.