by Lindsay Ross
As she entered the house and was led into the kitchen, Chrissie was greeted by a middle-aged woman who offered to pour her lemonade from a jug which also contained ice and slices of lemon.
The friendly face and the welcoming drink added to the circumstantial evidence that all was well but did nothing to change Chrissie’s state of mind.
‘Dominika is here, Sir,’ the woman addressed Roy. ‘She’s gone through.’
‘Thank you, Mary. This is Chrissie, by the way.’
Mary held out her hand and Chrissie took it. ‘Hello, Chrissie. You are very beautiful.’
Chrissie noticed they used each other’s names readily enough which might suggest there was nothing suspect about their activities and Mary was about as matronly and reassuring as it was possible to be. But who was Dominika? The name sounded Russian.
The three men took Chrissie through the house and out to what she thought must be one of the large outbuildings she had seen from outside. Mary followed behind.The place they entered was a vast space and in different parts there were sets like those used on stage or for films with lighting rigs and a gantry above them. It wasn’t the kind of building you expected to find attached to a typically English cottage with roses round the door but what better disguise?
There were other men and woman standing around and Chrissie was embarrassed to be the only one naked although most seemed busy with their own work. Two people were looking at something on a clipboard, cameramen were moving cameras into different positions, and an electrician was up on a scaffolding tower fixing something.
Mary had disappeared for a few minutes but returned with some diaphanous material which she handed to Chrissie.
When she spread it out, Chrissie realised it was a harem girl’s skirt.
‘Slip it on, Chrissie,’ Mary told her.
Chrissie found the skirt was floaty and feminine but it was also more or less transparent so that the triangle of her pubic hair was only thinly veiled. She knew it would be possible to see everything even though her pubic curls were fair. She was still bare-breasted and wore nothing on her feet.
Mary took Chrissie to one of the sets with palm trees painted on the backdrop and a long couch with cushions in the foreground.
There were steps up to the set and Mary asked Chrissie to mount them and to recline on the couch.
Then she saw Roy coming towards the set dressed as a sheikh. Two of the cameras were positioned in front of the set.
One of the men, who’d been standing in a huddle with a few others, came over.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘A few shots of Roy in costume leaning over the girl on the bed. What’s your name, sweetheart?’
Chrissie answered.
‘Right, Chrissie, just point your tits at Roy and look ecstatic at the idea of being fucked by him.
‘Roy, start unbuckling your belt and taking your trousers down. Pause so we see the crown jewels before you get on the bed. Take Chrissie’s skirt off. You open your legs wide, honey… Roy, you get on the bed and start to hump her but take your time. No dialogue in this scene but plenty of grunts and groans from you, Chrissie, as soon as he’s inside you. O.K.? Roll the cameras!’
As Roy’s prick was revealed again, already erect, she realised why all three men were so well endowed. They were studs in porno films and unwittingly she’d been drawn in.
Andy had known exactly what was going to happen to her on the island. And then something else dawned on Chrissie. This was how he could afford designer clothes and drive an expensive car.
Chapter Five
It was weeks before Chrissie returned to the mainland. In those weeks her life had changed irrevocably.
She had taken part in the making of many films and had posed for still photographs in all kinds of bondage gear and restrained in all sorts of equipment. There were enough images of her to saturate the market.
If Mary hadn’t been like a kindly aunt towards her, Chrissie didn’t know if she would have survived.
For the sake of realism, she’d been whipped, caned and paddled and she’d been used sexually by Roy, Piers and Maurice in every conceivable way – for the sake of the camera.
As she crossed the water back to the mainland, in jeans and a top provided by Mary, the truth about her position stared her in the face. She was entirely at Andy’s mercy; he could expose her any time he wished.
This thought made her feel nauseous but the feeling was partly induced by excitement as well as fear because she wanted to be under his control, subject to his every whim and fancy. Yet it was a dangerous and precarious position to be in. If he cast her aside, she would be bereft. She would have to strive with every sinew to please him, today, tomorrow, next month and for the rest of his life.
The trailer was missed out and Chrissie was delivered back to Andy’s home and left on his doorstep like a parcel.
She couldn’t get in and would have to wait till he came back from college.
The heat wave was over, at least for the time being, and the rain was
falling heavily, making it a dreary homecoming.
Chrissie went to a nearby café to wile away the time and to keep out of the rain.
A man tried to pick her up. Had the events of the last few weeks made her look so debauched that he thought she was on the game, she wondered? Had her face been altered by her experiences? She didn’t feel on peak form; there were dark rings round her eyes. Her usually good skin had lost condition. She chain-smoked and drank a series of black coffees, spending the small sum of money Mary had given her; it was only the coffee that kept her awake.
She made her way back to Andy’s flat.
She huddled in the doorway until at last she saw his flash car turn into the street. Only when he parked did she realise there was someone else in the car with him. The new teacher, Emma Holman.
When they got in out of the rain, Chrissie saw a woman’s things strewn round the flat. Emma must have moved in.
***
More weeks went by. Chrissie was ill and spent hours lying on the leather sofa in her grimy T-shirt while Emma shared Andy’s bed.
Nobody bothered with her and she felt neglected. If she wanted food (though she didn’t have an appetite) or drink (she was always thirsty) she had to stir her aching bones and get up and fix things herself.
Once a man called during the day and seemed to have a key because he came straight up. He said his name was Martin Fowls and he was a friend of Andy and Emma, making them sound like a couple.
Chrissie was only wearing the T-shirt.
Fowls manhandled her so that she was lying across the sofa with her bottom half over the arm with her cheeks raised up for him. He produced a cane which didn’t have a handle; she thought it came from down his trouser leg; he’d brought it with him.
Without a word he lifted her T-shirt right up to her shoulders.
She knew she should be outraged, but she felt nothing.
He caned her, making grunting piggish noises each time he brought the cane down. Instead of the steady rhythm Andy employed, this man worked up to frenzy, raining blows down on her juddering cheeks until he had to pause to get his breath back.
Chrissie didn’t cry out and there were no silent tears. She didn’t struggle, didn’t even shift her position. Her bottom was on fire but she felt herself surrender to the pain, let herself melt into it.
Fowls began to thrash her again, the backs of her thighs and her legs as well as her rear. He sounded as if he was overweight and out of condition, puffing and grunting and wheezing with his exertions. Perhaps he would drop dead with a heart attack.
Then he broke his cane on her and one half flew across the room.
She heard him go to Andy’s bedroom and search round, returning eventually with a paddle.
The pain from the paddle was different from the stinging pain induced by the cane, far duller in quality and it sounded very different when it landed on her flesh; everything was in the lower register; it was a base instrument wherea
s the cane scaled the higher notes; in sound and sensation the contrast was between piccolo and euphonium, or so it seemed. She wondered, not for the first time, if she going crazy.
He was exhausted at last and threw the paddle down on the rug with a clatter before leaving the flat without speaking to her.
Chrissie lay there for a long time, feeling the pain pulse in her lower body. Finally she eased herself into the welcoming limpid well of the sofa that was her bed and slept.
***
Very early one morning, before Andy was up, Chrissie heard Emma came into the living-room and yank the curtains open. Next thing she knew the rug she used to cover herself was dragged off and Emma grabbed her by the hair.
‘Get up, Fat Arse!’ she ordered. ‘I’ve had enough of this!’
Chrissie found herself half dragged, half pushed in the direction of the shower. When they got there, Emma pulled off the filthy T-shirt which was all that Chrissie was wearing and turned the shower full on.
‘There’s body wash and shampoo in there. Use them.’
Chrissie could sense that Emma hadn’t moved away. She was going to supervise her shower.
However, when she shuffled back into the living room wrapped in towels, Chrissie found Emma waiting for her.
‘I’m going to burn this T-shirt.’ Chrissie could see Emma had it scrunched up in her hand. ‘Put something clean on until we can sort out your clothes.’
Chrissie moved to sit on the sofa, dabbing herself dry with the enveloping bath towels.
‘No, you don’t!’ barked Emma. ‘Once you sit down there, you’ll never get up. Dry your hair because I’m taking you to have it cut as soon as the shops are open. Get yourself sorted and then get breakfast underway. Orange juice…plenty of toast and marmalade…pot of tea…on the table in fifteen minutes with you dressed.’
Who the hell did she think she was? Chrissie wondered what Andy would think. She didn’t know if they had agreed this plan of action or whether it was all Emma’s idea. She didn’t like taking orders from Emma. But she was physically intimidating, bigger boned, more mature and stronger looking. But it wasn’t just her looks. She spoke like someone in authority, as if she expected to be obeyed.
She put on a clean T-shirt and jeans and did the best she could with her hair but it was hard to comb out the knots and impose some kind of order.
When breakfast was over, Chrissie had to wash the pots and tidy the kitchen.
‘From now on you keep this flat spotless. Andrew tells me you used to clean for him but being a man he probably didn’t demand my standards. Nothing shoddy will get past me, girl. When we come back in the evening we’ll expect you to have a meal ready for the two of us and I’ll inspect every inch of the flat. If I find anything amiss, I’ll punish you myself. We won’t bother Andrew with domestic matters. Do you understand?’
‘Yes…’
‘Call me Mistress Emma.’
‘Yes, Mistress Emma.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Chrissie. ‘Do you mean slave?
‘Fat Arse.’
‘Yes, Mistress Emma.’
‘Say it.’
‘My name is Fat Arse.’
‘You’ve got to earn your keep, Fat Arse.’
‘Yes, Mistress Emma.’
Without thinking, Chrissie did a little curtsey, just dropping her left leg and flexing her right knee in a little bobbing motion.
***
Chrissie was taken to Emma’s hairstylist and left with plaits in her hair.
She had to stand in the bath and shave off all her pubic hair under Emma’s supervision.
Emma asked Andy to fix a hook to the wall in the living room. Emma found a harness on one of bondage sites on the Internet and when it was delivered she made Chrissie wear it with nothing else. When Chrissie was not in use as a skivvy or a sex toy, Emma hung her from the hook with her feet off the floor. She had to beg to be let down to answer the calls of nature.
But on some days Chrissie found out what the cruellest thing of all was…they completely ignored her.
***
Then, one morning when she was in the middle of her chores, Chrissie heard Mistress Emma let herself in. Emma went into the bedroom and when Chrissie answered her call to follow her she found Emma had stripped.
Chrissie was told to lie on the bed. Emma lowered herself over her slave’s face and, when Chrissie began to lap at her pussy, Emma took up a celebrity magazine and began to read it.
Chrissie had never had intimate physical contact with a woman before and Emma had given no previous indication that she wanted it. Her treatment of Chrissie had not suggested any affection or attraction so the younger girl was very surprised to hear what she said as she made herself comfortable.
‘This is what I want a slave for, Fat Arse. Satisfy me in this department and I may go easier on you. Andrew doesn’t need to know. It’s best if girls get on with it and leave men out of the equation. This is the way I like to de-stress.’
Chrissie’s head was on the pillow, face buried between Emma’s cheeks with Emma’s toes beginning to search for Chrissie’s slit.
‘I’ve got some friends you can do this for.’
Chrissie was soon overwhelmed by new tastes, new smells and new sensations.
PART TWO
Chapter Six
Susannah Freeman was a spoilt brat, at least that was the way people saw her. Her father used to say, ‘you’re not too big to go over my knee, Madam,’ but she must have been because he never did it. The only person who ever controlled her was Malcolm Grainger, who had the riding stables.
Susannah’s parents bought her a pony as soon as she asked for one and riding was her one interest until she reached about twelve when boys came into the reckoning. Her parents were pleased about her love of horses, hoping it would keep her out of mischief but it didn’t.
Part of the problem was that Susannah was exceptionally good-looking and in a sexy way that attracted boys in droves. She often looked moody and bad tempered but that actually seemed to enhance her appeal rather than detract from it. She had an abundance of glossy brown hair which she trained to fall over her left shoulder as far as her breast (sometimes she wore it in a ponytail or a chignon) dark hazel eyes, regular features and large pouting lips which often registered a sneer of superiority. Her skin was clear, with just a sprinkling of tiny moles around her shoulders and neck.
There was some part of Susannah, buried away for most of the time, which was scared by her rebellious nature; that part of her yearned to be controlled but no-one seemed able or willing to rein her in. Until she went to work for Malcolm Grainger in the school holidays, mucking out, grooming the horses, taking little kids out for their riding lessons.
He was the first to conform to Susannah’s image of what a man should be, masterful, brooding, taciturn; she knew this image came partly from books she’d read. The main thing about Malcolm was he wasn’t impressed by Susannah’s looks or posh background or anything else apparently. It was a relief when you were so used to getting what you demanded.
If anything, he was rather brusque with her, as though he considered her slightly in the way and never gave compliments or praise. He just got on with things and expected everyone else to do the same.
Susannah went back to the stables every holiday and more or less behaved herself.
But she didn’t behave at school. When she was sixteen she was expelled for the second time and at the crucial stage of GCSEs. She’d been found drunk in the lessons after lunch, a time she’d spent with a group of older lads who were not pupils at the school. She’d also had sex with three of the bunch. She knew she deserved her reputation as an easy lay.
Susannah was promiscuous. She was very popular with boys and she enjoyed having sex with them, at least when she was sober. When she was stoned on drugs or alcohol and just let them use her, she had mixed feelings afterwards. Part of her enjoyed being the object of their lust, the bit
ch on heat, the pack panting for her, another part hated it and longed for a stable relationship with just one lad. But perhaps that was not for her. She would get bored easily and be flattered by the attentions of other boys. She wasn’t convinced she could do fidelity.
Truthfully, it wasn’t just boys who were after her. Men in their twenties and some much older men chased her, too.
She was sure she was bi-sexual as well, because she found some women very attractive though she hadn’t had much experience in that area, just a little kissing and feeling each other up at one of her boarding schools. She liked a few of the mistresses there, in particular a young woman who taught English. But better than that was other girls developing a crush on her. She liked to imagine them pining away and dying of unrequited love.
She liked to be admired so she could adopt a manner of indifference and disdain, although it got boring after a time. She loved the power she had over people who wanted her.
When she reached her late teens, Susannah set about snaring the one person she liked who seemed impervious to her charms, Malcolm Grainger.
If he’d noticed how tall and curvy she’d become, he gave no sign.
She was spending most of her time at the stables having dropped out of education; her parents had given up trying to find a school that would take her; they had practically washed their hands of her altogether.
Skin-tight jodhpurs didn’t do the trick, even when she bent over and practically wiggled her bum at him. Shirts unbuttoned most of the way didn’t attract a second glance even when she didn’t wear a bra. Flirting left him cold.
One night, Susannah came into the stable where Malcolm was attending to a sick horse. She’d been out drinking and found it difficult to prevent herself falling over, grasping the ends of the stalls to steady herself.
‘You’re drunk!’ he said.
‘How is she?’
