The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  This time, however, Ivana was alone and in a playful mood. The blonde began to paw at Laney’s body once she’d finished peeing in the bucket.

  “Da boys play vit you; I do too, ja?” she smiled. They sat on the bed and Ivana pulled Laney’s head down to her tits, exactly where Laney had relished going since the beautiful breasts had first hovered over her face in the cellar room.

  Laney held them in her hands, caressing the soft flesh, feeling at the same time grateful and scared of how much she desired the pleasure she was deriving from Ivana’s lovely flesh. The two became easily lost in the lesbian sexuality, as their bodies joined, writhing together, kissing and pawing, licking, sucking, slurping, their hips grinding into the other. Instinctively, Laney moved down Ivana’s fleshy body and began to lave her slit, darting her tongue between the labia, and finding her pungent tasting sex bud. After several minutes, dining on this lovely female’s fragrant pussy, Ivana came on Laney’s mouth. As the climax tore through her body, she was bellowing loudly, grabbing tightly for Laney’s hair, and holding her head in the vice-like grip of her powerful thighs. Her voice lifted to the rafters of the old shed and beyond.

  “Ivana!” Kafka bellowed over her noisy come in an angry voice, which had very little effect on either of the women, until he moved into the shed and pulled Laney out from between Ivana’s pulsating thighs, and began slapping the buxom blonde. Meanwhile, Laney landed on the floor in the midst of the chaos and crawled to a corner where she was safe.

  When the commotion was over and Ivana was scurrying out crying and swearing in her own language, Kafka found Laney huddled in the corner. Standing over her, his eyes still glared brilliantly. Laney looked up but remained clutching her bent knees to her chin. A tense moment followed, then Kafka’s face lightened as he reached for her.

  “This one was not your battle, Mrs. Priestly. Ivana should not have come here.”

  “Your other friends do.”

  “Because that is permitted.” He had to pry Laney’s hands loose to pull her to her feet. Her naked body was against his, her breasts brushing against his chest, his mouth suddenly on hers, pressing hard, his tongue opening her mouth. She gave back effortlessly, knowing that if she made a lover of him, he couldn’t kill her.

  Retreating to the bed, she carefully shed his clothes, while his hand roved across her heated skin and turned what Ivana started into a furnace of volcanic desire. She came at him once he was naked, practically clawing his body as fiercely as he clawed at hers. They coupled like frantic strangers, sharing nothing but their bodies and a heartfelt need to feel the flesh of another joined to theirs. Their hips locked, their chests were pressed tightly, their hands roved what they could find, and their mouths almost refused to be parted. Devouring each other seemed like the only sane solution to their private woes and it played out in a hard and simultaneous climax, when his cock slipped between her legs and into the randy portal. It had already been used that day, and had been made ready, the flesh warm and inviting his swiftly moving organ. The soft place pulsed with renewed desire, and drew him further into her with every thrust. She wanted him deeper inside her, and taking her more profoundly than the others had.

  The rhythm between the two built fast until they exploded and finally fell out of each other’s arms.

  Kafka came at her again only minutes after that first explosion. He began to slap her breasts, gently at first and then harder. The pain built, so did the accompanying pleasure. She wanted more of this, she wanted the pain. Only that vibrant, hard-hitting pain would take the hurt and worry from her mind. Only the pain could send her endorphins rushing and bring on a wave of physical joy that might keep her sane another few hours.

  Almost as if he understood this, Kafka turned her over and began slapping her ass, biting her ass cheeks and fingering her asshole—so far the only orifice not stuffed with cock that day. She knew what he was about now, and begged for it.

  “Yes, yes, do it! Take my ass! Slap it hard! I want to hurt, I want to hurt, I want to hurt!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  He did not need her commands to cause her pain, but they bolstered his desire. “Oh, you will get your pain, bitch. You’ll get your beatings. You’ll get your ass reamed until you’re screaming for the rape to stop.”

  “Then do it! Do it now, goddammit!” she vented into the steamy sex-charged air. In the midst of her begging, his fingers were going deeper, penetrating her harder, making space for his cock. The only lubricant he used for her ass, he drew from her sopping cunt hole. Enough perhaps to lubricate the passage, or maybe not. It would have to do, for neither one was willing or capable of waiting longer.

  He plunged and she lurched forward, crying still. But she pulled back to her hands and knees, taunting him with her ass as he thrust and thrust again. The springs beneath them squealed, the bed groaning as if it were about to break.

  “Yes, yes, do it!” she kept saying over and over.

  He grabbed her hair and bending over her back he seethed in her ear: “You have no idea, slut, what you will face. You like it hard, that’s good, because that is how we intend to use the Marquis’ slut.”

  He banged his hips against hers repeatedly, his thrusting cock hitting hard inside her pussy; so hard that she felt hollowed out and opened up so wide that the whole world could see the lust inside her. They could see who she was by the ecstatic expression on her face and know that in her heart she was made for this kind of abuse.

  Coming was almost secondary to the fucking. When the moment exploded on them, he held her mauled ass cheeks and pumped her ass full of himself, a surprising amount, considering that he’d just come minutes before.

  Again they collapsed exhausted into the sweaty mattress, but this time, they didn’t rise again. They both slept for awhile, in fact, Laney slept the night, but by morning Kafka was gone and she was alone again.

  ***

  “Out of bed, bitch,” Kafka swept into the room and began spanking her naked ass, which happened to be pointed in his direction.

  Laney was quickly roused from sleep, the restraints removed and she was led back to the cottage.

  “Everything changes today,” her captor announced as the two moved into the big kitchen. The others, including Ivana were there—Ivana more subdued than she’d previously been and hanging back in a corner, obviously wary of the man in charge after what had happened the day before.

  Wasting no time, Kafka shoved Laney to a table, where she was bent over and tied down, starting with her hands, which were pulled straight out in front of her and roped to the far side of the table. A small padded bench was placed in front of her knees where she was to kneel, her legs then tightly bound to the table legs. More rope was used to tether her midsection to the table, so that once the bondage was complete, she could barely move a muscle and could hardly squirm.

  “What in God’s name are you doing!” her panic finally made her blurt out, as she briefly struggled with the ropes.

  “I said you would be marked. Now’s the time.”

  “Marked? Marked how?” She remembered something about a marking—but that was not a physical marking that had been promised.

  “Shut up, Mrs. Priestly. This is out of your hands. The Marquis will not ever forget who he is dealing with.” She’d turned her head and could see a happy sneer on his handsome face.

  The mark was not a brand as Laney initially feared, but a tattoo placed directly above the brand, above Erik’s EP. The positioning of the mark was apparently intended to trump the bold sign of her submission and she felt terribly despondent that the previous marking would no longer stand alone as a sign of her submission to her husband.

  At least a half hour went by as the tall fellow worked on his art with painstaking precision. Whatever design seemed to be complicated, although any attempts to learn what that design was were made in vain. With her panic not completely abating, she finally blurted out. “Please won’t you let me know what you’re doing? Kafka, please!”

&nbs
p; “I said, shut up!” Kafka stopped the procedure immediately and gave her a hard spanking with the palm of his hand that lasted at least sixty seconds. By the time he was done, her ass was hot and stinging, and tears were forming in her eyes. He could have gagged her for crying out, and she was thankful he didn’t. She kept quiet until the ordeal was finally over.

  Afterwards, she felt a tightness in the skin and a throbbing heat in this new wound.

  “Put a bandage over the thing for now,” Kafka ordered. “She has other things to do tonight.”

  Laney was returned to the shed for several hours where she rested. A cuff had been placed around her wrist, its attaching chain fixed to the bedrail. It was thankfully not the more stringent bondage of her previous days, but it was good enough to keep her there. During that time, any pain in the area of the tattoo dwindled until what remained was a little discomfort, not much different than a sunburn. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see the tattoo, for it was too high on her ass.

  Later in the afternoon, Ivana came to the shed and led Laney back into the cottage. Once again in the kitchen, she stood in a washtub full of warm water and was bathed from head to toe.

  “Damn good thing you’re doing that, Ivana, she was starting to stink,” Kafka chuckled as he was passing through the room.

  The blonde washed her carefully, which Laney in no way resisted. She’d begun to smell her own putrid body stench and was more than grateful for the opportunity to feel clean again. Ivana’s warm hands tenderly caressed her, as if she were recalling those brief sexual moments together the previous day. When Laney closed her eyes, she could smell the scent of her womanliness as a combination of fresh country air and her floral scented perfume. She drank her in, relishing that fragrant, womanly aroma, while knowing that she’d likely not get the chance to act on her renewed feelings of lust. Sadly, Ivana’s artful fingers didn’t take the risk of deliberately playing with Laney’s roused cunt. She used a washcloth in that area, being afraid of Kafka’s wrath should she make the activity an erotic one.

  Ivana carefully worked her way around the new tattoo. Laney still wondered what the tattoo was—but Kafka refused to let her see it. More initials maybe? A symbol of some sort? It was difficult to accept any mark that she hadn’t a hand in creating, and though she resisted this one, it was useless to fret now that the deed was done.

  Laney had a distinct feeling that both the mark on her flank and this careful bathing had a larger purpose. Everything changes today, Kafka had said, when the day began. The tattoo and the bathing were relatively small changes, and she was certain that there would be more, bigger changes very soon. Something stirred in the air, excitement, anticipation, all coming from the inhabitants of the cottage, and most of all from Kafka himself.

  After she was bathed, Ivana had her lie back on the kitchen table while she shaved her swath of dark pussy hair, removing every bit of it until she was shaved as clean as a baby. She’d never shaved this way herself, and never felt more naked with the lips of her pussy so vulnerable and so exposed.

  Ivana then washed Laney’s hair in the kitchen sink using water she heated on the stove. She lathered her hair twice with sweet-smelling shampoo, rinsed it thoroughly, and finally applied a fruity conditioner that smelled like what she used on her own hair.

  Laney toweled herself dry in front of Ivana and the two men then combed her hair, as it began to dry. She felt a little more normal now, a little more human than before the day began. Perhaps this was a good sign.

  There were clothes for Laney to wear, pulled from a shopping bag that Ivana carried into the kitchen from one of the cottage’s other rooms. The sweater and skirt were very much like the clothes Ivana wore: too tight for Laney’s body, allowing her significant body parts to be clearly displayed. A small cropped black sweater fit tightly over her breasts and she wore no bra to contain them. She was hardly as well-endowed as Ivana, but her lovely mounds were clearly highlighted by the sweater’s snug fit, and if she bent over, she would practically spill out the top.

  The small red skirt hugged her hips, accentuating Laney’s natural curves. She had the feeling that, should she have been given an opportunity to look into a mirror, which she was not, she would have looked like a street whore on the prowl. It seemed quite possible that her captors planned to prostitute her—the idea was as frightening as it was appealing—if it were possible that she could be prostituted and be safe. The very thought stunned her. Her reckless sexual mind was like a trap, luring her into places she had every reason to shun, if she were sane at all.

  The skirt was so short that Laney dared not bend over, and when she walked, she could feel it riding up her legs to bare more naked flesh. She finally caught a glimpse of herself in the window glass and was shaken by her appearance.

  “I can’t wear this!” she hissed in protest, presumably just to Ivana, but Kafka happened to be within earshot and was immediately on her saying:

  “Of course, you can.” He stood in front of her with his hand in her hair, gently caressing her panic away. Just looking into his eyes seemed to calm her, but it did nothing to dispel her rising fears about what came next, and what she’d be forced to do. When Kafka moved away, he did so only to retrieve a pair of shoes from the table and hand them to her. “Here, these will really set off your slutty body,” he said.

  The shoes were bright red, patent leather stilettos. She felt a little dizzy just taking them from his hand.

  “Go on, put them on,” he said.

  She struggled to keep her balance and grabbed for Kafka’s arm to stay upright. It should not have surprised her that the shoes fit her perfectly. The clothes she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped had been missing since Ivana stripped them from her; she assumed that she’d never see them again. They would, however, have been used to learn her sizes.

  “There, look at you!” Kafka declared, almost proudly, as the heels lifted her body to its tiptoes and accentuated her tight round behind. “You’ll strut like the slut you are.” He turned this last phrase with a lurid, mocking twist. Then he left, saying to the others as he walked out: “Have her in town by eight. I want to be there for the early crowd.”

  She wanted to ask where they were going, but was quite sure they would tell her nothing.

  Two hours later, after eating a small dinner, Laney was stuffed back into the small vehicle that brought her to the cottage, this time bound only by the wrist cuff, with the chain attached to a ring in the side of the car’s door. Ironically, the cuff was on the same wrist that bore the Marquis’ bracelet. As she was driven back to the city for another chapter in her ongoing surrender, she found herself ruled by two indomitable men: the Marquis and his enemy.

  Chapter Twelve

  The night had taken all the daylight from the landscape. There were streetlights, headlights and marquees to illuminate the evening. And in the air was the same excitement Laney had felt while she was in the cottage being bathed. ‘Everything was changing,’ Kafka’s refrain repeated.

  Through twisted, narrow streets and pitch black alleys, the small car careened with surprising ease, although she hardly felt as jostled about as she had been when she was leaving the city bound in the back seat—not four days ago—four days; it seemed like an eon ago. She felt apprehensive but hopeful now, although she had no idea what inspired her hope. She knew that she’d be used for sex that night—sex she’d learned to handle with some ease. But she was still at the mercy of ruthless villains who she had every reason to fear.

  The car abruptly halting in a narrow alleyway caused her to careen forward in the seat, then settle back just as fast. Seconds later, the car door opened, the chain from the wrist cuff was detached and she was led to the opened back door of a nightclub, from where the hard grind of rock music emerged, immediately connecting with her sexually.A thick cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out into the alley. Then from inside that cloud Kafka’s face materialized like a ghost. Sneering scornfully, which Laney had become accustomed to, he grabbed
the chain and shooed his two friends away.

  “Find a place to park the car.”

  Laney was shoved into an alcove, just inside the door.

  “Make believe it’s the Marquis leading you about tonight, Mrs. Priestly, and you’ll have nothing to fear. Resist nothing and you won’t be punished. Clear?”

  “Yes, very.”

  From out of nowhere, he pulled a heavy iron collar and, glaring exultantly, he snapped it round her slim neck, lined up the connecting links, and thread a bulky steel padlock through the loop. Another chain with large, thick links was attached to where the padlock was fixed, and served as a leash that Kafka used to lead Laney through a maze of hallways. At the end of one corridor, they descended two flights of stairs into a basement, where they finally emerged into the crowded nightclub. They stood at the entrance until they were noticed, which didn’t take very long. Laney’s quick study of the place and its primarily leather-clad clientele suggested that the kink that inspired her deepest sexual passions was something practiced here. Until that moment, Laney had not paid much attention to how Kafka was dressed, though now, giving his attire a lingering glance, she reacted immediately to his leather pants and the way they accentuated his tight rear end and the pouch between his legs.

  A storm of erotic stimulation blasted her at once.

  Even the fact that she was collared and now brought in on a leash ignited a storm of pulsing spasms to set her mood. Fear took a backseat. Although this was not familiar territory for her, since she and Erik had never been to a leather bar or formal S&M dungeon as Elise and Matthew had, she immediately connected with the lust that drove this place. Above the smell of cigarette smoke was the heady scent of leather. Behind the loud music was the sound of cracking whips.