The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Chapter Seven

  Laney sighed heavily as she turned on the light in the den, and shuffled through her mail. Sinking down in Erik’s leather chair, she grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, intending to catch the eleven o’clock news. The smell of the flowers, the roses and honeysuckle, sitting on a table beside her, made her smile—a gift from Sandra and Elise, who would soon want all the intimate details of her trip to Marquis Island. They’d get quite a story, although she had yet to make sense of what had happened and the pair would have to wait until she’d sorted it out for herself.

  The TV came on with an advertisement for the latest miracle drug, during which Laney absently looked through the usual bills and advertisements in her mail. A letter from Sam, her accountant, she set aside for later, then at the bottom of the pile was a postcard, with a shiny colored picture of the docks at St. Martina. She smiled. Turning it over she read the message: Hope the ankle’s all healed! Alex.

  That was it! She had to laugh.

  For the first time since she returned home, the thought of sex and punishment with Alex Greenwood filled her thoughts. Oh, she might have lighted on his memory from time to time, but she’d been too busy to allow what happened during that long night to return to her and engage her emotionally. The last several days she’d been busy in court for nearly sixteen hours each day, wading through complicated testimony in a criminal trial, her client charged with arson and theft. She was exhausted by the time she arrived home late each night, and although it had only been three days since she was on the island, it seemed like a century ago.

  She’d been called in on an important care and was obligated to pitch in for another colleague who’d taken an emergency leave of absence. The unexpected change in plans probably served her well, since she wasn’t prepared to take off on another excursion so soon after the last. If she were to continue her search for the Marquis, where would she go? The trip to the island had yielded little in the way of concrete information and just as Alex mentioned, it seemed pretty foolish to search every bookshop and book dealer in Paris.

  She reread the postcard several times, as if she thought she’d missed something in Alex’s simple greeting. Hope the ankle’s all healed! Why would he even have bothered? With thoughts of him now rampant in her brain, she put her head back and closed her eyes, letting those powerful memories return. She was suddenly there again, her skin hot, a breeze on her face, the prescient tingling sensation enlivening her body as she mentally moved through the ancient house. And Alex. His image stirred her beyond all the others.

  The agitating sounds of the evening news disturbed her present reverie, so she clicked off the TV, which in that instant caused her eyes to light on the books she’d stolen from the library on the island. They were tucked inside the small shelf under the tabletop, directly beneath the bouquet of flowers. She’d almost forgotten that she’d put them there. Her plan had been to read them on the plane home, but her hands had faltered as she reached inside her backpack to pull them out. It was too soon, her time there too fresh to add more fuel to the disquieting fire that raged in her hungering body.

  Thrust back into her working life, she’d had to concentrate on this case and nothing else.

  Even on this night, Laney should have let her brief memories be enough for her; it was late and her body longed for sleep. But just the sight of the two slim volumes compelled her to pick them up, which was enough to require she open the cover of the first one—The Marquis’ Book of Pleasure—and demand she read. Within seconds she was lost in the pages, reliving the rich wealth of feelings just as she’d experienced them when she heard the words on the page read by her husband three years before.

  “The Care and Training of Human Chattel. Chapter One, the Slave Decision.”

  Chapter One – Being that slavery has been banned in most modern countries, the practice of keeping sexual slaves is rarely an appropriate topic for consideration. Only in secret fraternities and free societies like the one on Marquis Island will proponents of these practices be allowed to appraise such curious ideas. It is my belief, however, that the rite of slavery is one deeply embedded in the psyche of humanity—one not easily eradicated by law. It is as well, particularly desirous as a means of sexual stimulation and satisfaction. For the obviously dominant male to subjugate, imprison, and use the female species as he desires is a deeply seated craving that cannot be turned aside without giving up some degree of personal liberty and truth. Conversely, for certain members of the fair sex to deny their yearnings for submission and turn from them as though they did not exist is equally as damaging to the soul…

  Do not, however, misread my remarks here. A sexual slave can and should be expected to serve her master sexually at all times—from the first day of her slave life until the last. Compliance is expected. And a good master will demand it, while at the same time knowing that time and training increase the sexual benefit for both master and slave. The slave’s decision is just the beginning…

  Just the beginning…she’d hardly started and suddenly her mind was there again at the island, not with Alex, but with Erik, Sandra, Elisa, Jason and Matthew…and Archibald Devane. The subversive words slipped into her consciousness like rain dissolving into the air, making her body breathe with the forceful fire that consumed her when she was victim to the book. She’d only experienced a fraction of that feeling on her return. Even Alex had noticed that she had a lot stored up, and she could feel that stifled energy now, rumbling as if it were about to break free. She paged forward in the book…

  “Raw livestock should remain naked for everyday activity. They do not eat at tables, sit in chairs or on sofas, sleep in beds, and should be tethered when walked or ordered to crawl on all fours. It is only proper that they remain at the feet of their masters, or humbly waiting in corners during meals, where, if their master is so moved, they are fed by hand, or given scraps from his plate when his meal is finished…

  “To subjugate the ego of a human slave, it is essential they have no self concern, self-consciousness or modesty. They must have no thought for propriety. Indeed, they should have no concerns at all. Their single task is to obey the rules set for them by their master, and in so doing dispense with any idea of self and the conventions of society they may have adhered to in their past.

  Laney shuddered with that memory fueling a raging storm between her legs, and it was all she could do to stop herself from masturbating.

  “In order to attain this selfless state, it is imperative that they undergo efficiently administered beatings on their buttocks, thighs and even their shoulders—all places where punishment can be dealt and not produce permanent damage…

  “The whip is perhaps the most enticing of all sadomasochistic implements for its many varied uses.

  “Straps have the same correctional implications as the paddle, and unlike the paddle can be used for long, harsh sessions of punishment…

  “Bridles, tethers and other such devices are for containment…

  “No well-behaved and well-mannered slave learns their duties without experiencing the utter emptiness found within extreme restraint…

  “Everything becomes erotic. The skin sensitized, the orifices thirst for pleasure and the body becomes a magnet for ecstasy. Every movement, every touch, every kiss rife with passion…

  “…what happens to the slave from this point is totally dictated by the property owner, and as such, many masters including myself find a certain finality associated with leaving their mark on the chattel’s body as proof of their sovereignty over the submissive livestock.”

  The Marquis’ book fell from her hands to the floor as the reality of the words invaded her being. Her body screamed for satisfaction, her thighs rubbing against themselves, her ass squirming on the leather seat. Lifting her bottom off the chair, Laney pulled up her skirt and frantically struggled out of her pantyhose and panties, tugging them off almost desperate to be rid of them. Once they were flung across the room, she settled back down,
but she was hardly calm. The warm leather seat felt like a lover’s hand against her ass, and her eager fingers moved down between her legs. She parted them wide, feeling crude and savage and vulgar as a street whore, lifting her legs up over the chair arms and scooting further down in the seat, with both hands tearing at her convulsing pussy. Her fingers probed her cunt hole as deeply as the position allowed. She fucked herself with her right hand, while rubbing her clitoris with her left. Her inner muscles clenched tight, relaxed and clenched again, and many more times over as she worked herself to climax. Her passions were unguarded in the safety of the familiar den, and her desire crescendoed rapidly. In her mind, there were masters and men surrounding her, goading her with sneering faces and their whips snapping at her naked flesh.

  She broke the action once, by command of the unknown master lodged inside her mind, who insisted she remove her blouse and bra and bare her tits to his unseen eyes. She sat up, practically ripping the buttons apart as if there were a whip ready, waiting to hound her into compliance with the cutting bite of its sting on her bare arm. She cast her bra aside, taking a deep breath as she pushed her naked breasts forward like an offering; and lifting them to her lips, she kissed the moist and aromatic surface. Then she settled back again, slumped in the chair, obeying that anonymous inner commander, hooking her legs over the chair arms, and bringing herself back to the brink of orgasm.

  What she lost in momentum was quickly restored, so her savagely working fingers, that probed her cunt hole, and pinched her nipples until she moaned, and slapped her pubis with blows like that of a paddle, took her to that bitter edge, where she was forced to teeter precariously in anticipation of the master’s next command. She backed off from the precipice a dozen times, all because this disembodied spirit told her to in a voice that barked its orders. She feared the consequences of disobedience; she would have to punish herself in some brutal act of contrition if she failed the man. Again and again, she reached that exquisite high, then backed off until her inner mind began to beg like she would beg a flesh and blood master who held her pleasure, or her pain, in his miserly grasp.

  At last… at last… “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, yesssssssss,” she quietly breathed out, and her crotch writhed against her hands, her clit rubbed more, her cunt hole finger-fucked, energy billowing from her at first in sharp and grinding spasms. She winced, her face twisted, then in softer surges of pleasure, like waves crashing against a beach, the orgasm played out to its finish.

  The eyes of her masters looked down on her in judgment. Their cruelty made her desire to come again strong and very real. But Laney stopped herself, exhaustion making it almost impossible to attempt another masturbation. Then, of course, the voice in her head had stopped speaking, and the images of men around her vanished. She was almost too embarrassed to believe that her obsession had turned into such a violent frenzy.

  She had been weakened to the point that she slid from the chair, naked now, and crawled five feet to the leather couch, where she used to lounge reading law briefs, while Erik was busily engaged in his own work. Its cool surface comforted her heated body. Even now, she could sense the tightness in her body where Alex had worked her with the strap, the whip and the cane, sensations she’d ignored since the incident, and had that night burst in on her like raiding warriors to assert their power. She knew that marks remained where Alex had beaten her; they became her visions, the voices in her mind, the masters of her body, assuring her that she could not make herself forget, no matter how hard she tried. There was not enough will inside a body as desirous as hers to impede the knowledge of her true nature as a submissive woman, and what that true nature demanded she do.

  She sunk into a deep but troubled sleep.

  Several hours later, Laney woke chilled and pulled an afghan she’d made two winters ago over her body. She slept some more. About five o’clock, according to the hallway clock that struck the hour and each half hour, she woke again. This time she awakened completely and sat upright on the couch with her eyes fixated on the second book, the Marquis’ diary. Wrapping the afghan around her body, she moved from the couch back to the leather chair, and taking the book from the table, she opened the cover, paged through several pages—for reasons completely unknown to her—and then began to read when her eyes settled on…

  June 15th… The new arrival is expected tomorrow. I’ve been assured that this one has the temperament I’m looking for. The body is nice enough from the pictures, a classic beauty, dark hair, dark eyes, although it is difficult to tell the color for sure, and pale skin. I have a penchant for pale skin since it marks so easily with the whip and the marks keep their color, and the welts their explicit shape for days.

  June 17th … Indeed, my new property arrived in fine shape. I made my usual physical inspection, measured the breasts, and the depth, shape and volume of her cavities. Anal proved difficult for this little beast—I shall call it little beast—there is a bite in the eyes—sky blue eyes—of course that bite will be beaten from her. After my measurements, I began that regimen. Floggings morning and night as usual. As needed otherwise. I caged little beast in the dark, which this one is particularly afraid of. There is no use coddling them…

  June 19th … I am making great headway with my new acquisition. And am quite fond of the pretty face, the lovely eyes, the lustrous hair, which I’m afraid I had to be cut off. Little beast looks like a boy now, though there would be no mistaking it for one, given the shape of the physical body—and the equipment. I must remind myself that this one has been promised to Alain. I am no more than the trainer and this subject is sure to pass through my hands much too quickly for me to relish all of the accoutrements offered. Crawling supine, belly, breasts and crotch to the earth was a first accomplishment, aided by the whip. These ones never seem to learn otherwise. Ah! But those cuts were such a pleasure to deliver! Watching as the welts formed across the white expanse of the back and buttocks has become one of my fondest enjoyments. Round little globes those ass cheeks are. As soon as the wailing thing calmed, I dropped to my knees, pulled apart those succulent ass cheeks with my clenching fists and opened the ass to receive my organ. It didn’t take long given my state of arousal, and the cries were pitiful, to which I had to comment afterwards, reminding the little one that crying is not allowed. At least not with me as the master. I gave the thing some succor by not immediately stringing the beast’s arms up to the rafters for a chastising punishment. Soon enough, soon enough. Little beast will dangle by the arms suspended, gaining the strength to support the body. The suffering only expands, but like the others acquisitions I have trained during these thirty years, this one will come around, finding in the duty of compliant performance more grace and beauty than would otherwise be possible. My properties are never ordinary in any way…

  Laney put down the book, realizing that her body was chilled and she was shivering, cold as stone. A deep breath brought some life back to her limbs. Moments later, she felt a pulsing heat in her crotch. She was hardly surprised. Lips parched, mouth dry from too much ragged breathing, she reached for a glass beside her, half filled with day old tea. It was enough to cure her immediate thirst and she returned to her reading. Nothing about the narrative surprised her. And yet, the arrogance, the haughty distance the Marquis described between him and his property, and the unsettling details, were enough to chill the sun, to stop its orbit cold.

  June 25th … suspension training is going well, but requires a good deal of punishment to properly implement. We’ve had to take a break for some wounds to heal.

  July 5th … after resuming the training, I’m finding a much more compliant property. I suppose a week in the trap has been the only way to ferret out the continuing resentment. But I’m seeing a much more compliant subject now. The only concern is: will it stick? After one day out, it’s too soon to tell…

  July 10th … suspension training much better now. Later today, we began the suspension bondage. Much straining follows, but the silence was a good sign. Although,
I had to use a gag, I’m afraid. I much rather see a mouth stretched wide to receive a cock, not some ugly ballgag that distorts the face…but one does what one has to do to achieve the desired results.

  July 25th … A little more than a month. How time flies. Little beast is almost done with the initiation. I’m glad of it. There is too much strong feeling in me to have this one here any longer, only knowing that I’ll have to give the thing up to another man. While having a property achieve total selflessness is always my goal, I’ll have to let Alain finish in his own way.

  After I am done with this property, Alain will send it on for the physical enhancements before he receives the shipment. I argued with Alain that the breasts were too perfectly formed to be tampered with, but some men have fetishes that refuse to take perfection into account. An augmentation of two bra cup sizes will we be ordered and I’m sure will be carried well.

  Below the narrative, which continued for two more pages, were a couple of notes scribbled in the margins as reminders:

  1) Need to order up the standard wooden crate… tomorrow!! Pick-up date scheduled for Friday. Delivery to Dr. Roman immediately following. Must relay that message to the clinic.

  2) Send note to Gerard from the bookshop to ready my old journals for delivery. (So glad he found them intact in the barracks.) Must order a secure courier to his shop…by the Bibliotheque Nationale…Write down directions!!!

  Laney stared at this last entry, blankly at first, but the excitement soon gathered in her belly. She stopped reading and began searching through the diary for dates, the year to be exact… finally 1999 caught her eye. She searched more, becoming sure that the missal was that recent. She would call her friend Corinne in Paris to verify the shop’s existence. In the morning, in the morning… she could hardly wait. She paced the room, her head filled with swirling thoughts, plans, making plans. Of course, nothing could be done until after the trial, and the trial would last another two weeks. Unless she could get Amos to finish up, which he’d be better at doing.