Melinda and the Master

by Susanna Hughes

  Chapter Six

  The fluorescent light panel hummed and flickered hesitantly before it lit the room consistently with its bright white light. Melinda woke with a start. The computer lock on the door sprung open, and almost before she knew what was happening, a woman, dressed identically to the woman who had brought her to the cell last night, was kneeling by the mattress.

  'Very nice,' she said, looking at Melinda's naked body. 'I'm surprised they didn't whip you.'

  Melinda blinked the sleep from her eyes, and read the name on the silver brooch pinned to the leather leotard: 'CYBELE'. She was a big woman, with strong, powerful thighs and well-muscled arms that looked as though they were exercised regularly and hard. Her hair, a mousy brown, was cut very short, revealing a neck that was also thick with well-trained muscle. She was a picture of health, her fitness making her skin glow and her blue eyes bright.

  She was unhooking the chains from the leather belt that held the metal block. It fell onto the mattress between Melinda's open legs.

  'Roll over,' Cybele ordered.

  Relieved at last to be able to close her legs, Melinda rolled onto her stomach, the handcuffs twisting against the metal ring.

  Cybele unbuckled the leather belt. 'That's better, isn't it?'

  'Yes, mistress,' Melinda said with relief.

  Cybele's hand stroked the roundness of Melinda's pert apple-shaped arse. 'You're new, aren't you?'

  'Yes, mistress.'

  'Very beautiful.' Her hand delved down into the cleft of Melinda's buttocks. Her fingers were not gentle. She levered Melinda's thighs apart until she could feel her labia. She handled them roughly, but did not attempt to penetrate beyond.

  'Get up.'

  'I can't, mistress,' Melinda said in alarm. Her hands were still locked to the ring in the wall.

  'Get up,' Cybele repeated, her fingers pinching and nipping at Melinda's sex.

  'I can't, mistress,' Melinda said.

  'You dare to contradict me?' Cybele got to her feet.

  'No, mistress, but I...' Melinda struggled. She managed to get her knees up under her body.

  'I don't want to hear your excuses.' Cybele had unhooked the whip from her belt. It was identical to the one Hera had carried, a braid handle with numerous short knotted lashes. 'Weren't you told to obey without question?'

  'Yes, mistress.' Melinda had managed to struggle to her feet but, with her wrists still bound at the level of her ankles, she was bent over double.

  'You see. You can get up. How dare you contradict me!'

  The tight curves of Melinda's arse pointed at her tormentor. Melinda knew what the woman intended. Cybele raised her whip and lashed it down on Melinda's unprotected rump. A blaze of heat and pain exploded across the creamy white flesh. Another stroke followed immediately, then a third and fourth in quick succession. The little thongs of the whip curled into all the nooks and crannies of Melinda's body, down into the cleft of her arse, even lashing the top of her labia and the puckered corona of her anus.

  Melinda hardly felt the pain. The heat the whipping produced spread through her so rapidly it overwhelmed any other feeling. It excited her. But what excited her most was not the physical feeling, but the mental image. This was what she wanted. She wanted to be whipped. She welcomed it. She wanted her arse marked with welts. She would wear them proudly. The symbols of her status, her obedience, her submission. She hoped the marks would be deep so the Master would see them. She hoped the Master had ordered her punishment. She wanted to cry out for Cybele to whip her harder, longer, but she knew she could not.

  On the sixth stroke, Cybele stopped. Her hand caressed the reddened flesh she had created. The touch was more painful than the whip had been. Melinda winced.

  'Sensitive little thing, aren't we?' Cybele mocked. Melinda said nothing, realising too late that it was a question, lost in the unaccustomed sensations that were flowing through her body.

  'Aren't we?' Cybele repeated, reinforcing the question by slapping her hand down hard on Melinda's left buttock.

  'Yes, mistress,' Melinda managed to intone, the slap generating another wave of feeling that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Cybele sensed her reaction. She rubbed her hand over the reddened arse again, harder this time, making Melinda rock from side to side. Then she pushed herself against Melinda's body, her hands slipping around to hold her at the top of her hips. She pressed against her rhythmically as if fucking her like a man, the little leather skirt bouncing against Melinda's rump.

  Suddenly, Cybele stopped herself. What had started as a game was getting too difficult to control. And she had to remain in control.

  Taking the key of the handcuffs from one of the pouches on her belt, Cybele knelt to release Melinda's wrists. There would be more time later. Perhaps the Master would allow her to indulge herself with his new helot. She sincerely hoped so.

  Cybele unlocked the bathroom door. But she could not resist one final command, a precursor of what was to come, if not with her, then with one of the other women in the Master's employ.

  'Kiss me,' she said.

  Melinda had never kissed a woman before, not on the mouth. A momentary rebellion flared. She hesitated. Why didn't Cybele just take what she wanted, pull her into an embrace, force her mouth down on hers? Instead, she stood in the bathroom doorway, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

  'If I have to repeat myself it will be bad for you,' she said quietly.

  Melinda took the two steps towards her. Pushing aside any feeling but the desire to obey, she angled her head to one side, raised herself on her toes and pressed her lips against Cybele's mouth. Cybele's arms, those strong powerful arms, wound around her back and up to her neck, holding Melinda's head firmly to allow no escape. But Melinda wanted none. Not now. As her tongue probed Cybele's mouth, as their lips squirmed against each other, her reluctance disappeared. Her arms encircled Cybele, her naked body writhed against the leather uniform, suddenly relishing the contact. It felt so different from kissing a man, excitingly different. The mouth was softer, more open, more receptive somehow. She felt Cybele's tongue pushing into her mouth, and experienced a flood of passion.

  Cybele broke away. She smiled that knowing smile again. 'That's enough,' she said. 'Use the bathroom now.'

  She had sensed Melinda's feelings, knew she had created a need in her. It would be torture for her to have to stop what had been so easily started. But Melinda was not there to be pleasured, not yet at least.

  Melinda hesitated for a second time, rebellion growing again. The kiss had left her breathless; hot and wet and aching; aching for more contact; more of being held tight in those strong arms. She wanted to throw herself on Cybele; devour her; taste the pleasures the kiss had hinted at; the pleasures she had never experienced, never chosen, but now, so suddenly craved. But something stopped her. Something profound. Something that held her back as tightly as if she had been bound. Her indenture was sealed. There was only one precept: obedience. What she wanted, she reminded herself firmly, was no longer to be considered.

  She walked past Cybele into the bathroom, hoping she would reach out and pull her back into her arms, but knowing she would not. In the shower cubicle, she managed to slip a finger between her legs and feel her sex. It was wet, as she knew it would be. She ran the water cold to try to distract herself from her body's evident needs.

  As she cleaned her teeth, she heard the outer door open. The make-up woman exchanged pleasantries with Cybele, before putting her black plastic box down on the dressing table. She was wearing Lycra leggings and a leotard again, this time in a shiny dark blue.

  Melinda sat in the dressing-room chair without being told. The woman began her work, cleaning off the make-up Melinda had not washed away last night; then replacing it. She looked at Melinda only as was required for her work, focusing only on the areas she worked on. Melinda's body had not been stilled by the cold water. It was still throbbing with the taste and shape and feel of Cybele's mouth. It fluttered with expec
tation, like some young girl on her first date not knowing what was going to happen next. Something was definitely going to happen. They would not go to the trouble of making her up unless something was planned. Or would they?

  Cybele had disappeared. Just as the make-up woman was finishing, she returned with a breakfast tray containing a croissant, orange juice and coffee.

  The make-up woman packed up her box and left. Though she had no way of knowing, Melinda had the impression the make-up was less heavy than it had been last night.

  'Eat,' Cybele ordered. Melinda needed no further encouragement. She had eaten nothing since yesterday lunchtime. She demolished the contents of the tray.

  'Put these on,' Cybele said the moment she was finished, dropping a cellophane packet of stockings into Melinda's lap.

  Melinda opened the flap of the packet. She had undone thousands of packets like this in her life but, even after such a short period in the house, it felt strange to be doing this. It was mundane. It belonged to her other life, the life where she was free, the life she had left behind.

  As she extracted the sheer, gauzy nylon from the packet, she realised her hand was shaking. The stockings were black hold-ups, with a wide lacy welt.

  Holding her leg out in front of her, she pointed her toe and fitted it into the nylon she had bunched up in her hand. The nylon had been woven with Lycra to give the stockings a slippery, shiny feel, but it also made them feel tight as she unravelled them over her legs. She pulled them to midway up her thigh until the band of elastic under the lacy welt gripped her. She pulled it higher, until the welt almost touched the crease of her sex, the nylon below stretched taut. Raising her other leg she repeated the process, the sheer material transforming her legs, moulding and shaping them, holding them tightly, its sheen like a coat of translucent paint.

  Cybele led her out of the bathroom and locked the door behind them. The nylon of the stockings rasped against each other as Melinda moved.

  'Now put those on,' Cybele ordered. A red satin dress with long matching gloves and a pair of red high heels lay on the mattress. She picked up the dress and handed it to Melinda. It was tight-fitting, strapless and knee length. Its zip was already undone. Melinda stepped into it. The bodice was tight and boned. It fitted her breasts perfectly, forcing them upward and together to form a deep cleft of cleavage as Cybele pulled the long zip up. The skirt too shaped itself to the rich curves of Melinda's hips and the pertness of her arse.

  'And the gloves,' Cybele said, not picking them up this time.

  The gloves were in the same red satin. Melinda pulled them on over her fingers, smoothing them up her arms with a great deal of tugging and effort. Like the stockings, they seemed to have an elasticated band under the top edge that held them tightly in the middle of her upper arm. With her arms at her sides the gloves were at the same level as the top of the dress. It made the total bareness of the flesh above seem, by contrast to the shiny red satin, that much more naked.

  Cybele indicated the shoes. Though their heels were high they were not as high as the shoes she had worn last night. Melinda slipped her feet into the red leather.

  'Very pretty,' Cybele commented. 'Follow me.'

  Melinda was expecting bondage, expecting to be bound in some way. Clearly now, they expected her to be bound by her obedience.

  They set off down the corridor and through the covered courtyard into the main house. Marion was waiting in the vestibule under the double staircase. She wore a grey business suit and a white blouse. Melinda could see the lacy white bra holding Marion's ample bosom. For the first time in her life she experienced a sensation of desire. She was looking at Marion with new eyes. She wanted her.

  Without a word, Marion brought her to a halt and inspected her, walking around her as if she were an animal in a farm show. Cybele was dismissed with a wave of her hand.

  Marion opened the front door. Outside, a Jaguar saloon waited, its engine running, its nearside passenger door held open by a uniformed chauffeur.

  'Get in,' Marion ordered.

  Melinda walked out into the open air, just as she had walked into the house last night. She was ostensibly just as free, unbound, unfettered. But as she walked out into the bright sunny morning she could not have felt more totally enslaved.

  Stooping, she climbed into the car and sat on the leather seat. It was not an ordinary saloon, she realised. The car had been stretched. The passenger compartment was double the usual size, with jump seats folded away in front and a glass divider isolating the driver from the passengers. A deep pile wool rug carpeted the floor.

  Marion got into the car. Melinda's eyes caught a flash of stocking-top under the skirt. Marion's stockings were a slate grey.

  The chauffeur closed the door and got behind the wheel. The car pulled off down the driveway, the electric gates opening magically as they approached.

  Marion's attitude to Melinda seemed to have changed again. Now it was simply as though Melinda did not exist. She made no attempt to speak to her or look at her. She gazed out of the window. In twenty minutes they were in the city. The Jaguar pulled up outside a modern, attractively designed block, four or five storeys high. A discreet logo over the main door, in Art Deco lettering, announced it as the 'HAMMERTON CORPORATION'. The chauffeur opened the nearside door.

  'Out,' Marion snapped.

  Melinda climbed out and stood by the car. Marion followed her. Passers-by stared. A woman as beautiful as Melinda in a tight strapless satin dress would draw attention at any time, but in the middle of the morning it was positively bizarre.

  'Follow me,' Marion said. Melinda was used to the words now, denying her even the tiniest of independent thought. Marion led the way, not through the main doors, but to the side of the building where a long narrow passage separated one building from the next. Halfway down the alleyway, she took a key from the pocket of the suit and unlocked a single door set in the yellow brick walls.

  She took Melinda's arm and led her through the door, locking it again behind them. They were in a small hallway, at the end of which was a lift. Marion pressed the lift button and its metal door opened immediately. Inside, the control panel indicated only two floors. Marion pressed the top button. The lift ascended rapidly to what Melinda judged to be the top of the building.

  Marion led her out into a large and expensively decorated anteroom done in modernised Art Deco. Ash panelled walls were inlaid with shallow S-shapes. Electric lights set in wedges of opaque glass were regularly spaced around the room, and gave it a warm glow. The thick carpet was patterned in the same style, pastel shapes contrasting an angular black design.

  There were three doors. Marion led Melinda over to the largest of the three and knocked on it twice. 'Come,' a voice pronounced immediately.

  Marion opened the door and indicated that Melinda should go first. The larger room beyond was also designed in Art Deco, displaying the same extravagant use of wood. At its centre was an enormous oval conference table, built from the finest ash and inlaid with delicate marquetry in a pattern mirroring that on the walls. High-backed chairs in a design that looked as if they might be Bauhaus originals, surrounded the table.

  Twelve men sat in the chairs. Walter Hammerton sat at its head. He was smiling at Melinda.

  'Charming, charming. Gentlemen, may I present the woman in red...'

  The assembled company laughed politely.

  'Come over here, my dear.'

  Melinda walked over the thick carpet, its pattern a continuation of the one in the anteroom. The men's eyes watched her walk.

  Taking her wrist, the Master pulled her around to stand next to his chair, facing down the table.

  'My latest acquisition,' he announced. Like a painting. An object, a chattel. He released her wrist. For a moment he stroked her iron-flat satin-covered navel. Then both his hands returned to the papers in front of him. 'Now we have to make a decision in relation to the proposed rights issue. Could you let us have the latest estimates of the brokerage costs, Gordon
?'

  A man at the far end of the table started reading from his notes. Other people spoke. Melinda stood stock-still. Marion had sat on a chair by the door through which they had entered, her legs crossed, her hands resting in her lap. She watched the Master, her eyes never leaving his face.

  Melinda saw the men at the table gazing at her, sly glimpses, open stares, assessing her, appraising her, in more or less the same way the guests at dinner had done, except they did not have the advantage of seeing her nude. Were they used to this? Were the Master's helots, his new 'acquisitions', regularly made to stand here?

  On the wall facing Melinda was a large clock. It had no numbers and no dial; just two hands and two marks immediately above and below the fulcrum of the hands. Melinda watched the hands describe ten minutes, then twenty, then forty. The conversation continued. Her back ached but she remained still. The Master leant back in his chair, apparently listening intently to what one of the men was saying, but Melinda suddenly felt his hand running up her spine to the top of the dress. His fingers found the little metal tongue of the zip and pulled it down, right down to the small of her back. The zip sung. The boned bodice remained in place, only slipping down slightly. The Master's hand slipped under the open zip onto her bare flesh. His hand was warm and noticeably damp. He wormed his fingers down, over her buttocks. As the dress was still tight on her hips the action tugged the dress down a little. More of her breasts were exposed though not her nipples. The eyes of the room were centred on her. The man who was speaking tried to concentrate.

  The Master must have signalled to Marion. She got up and came over to stand behind Melinda, her hands on her bare shoulders. Melinda felt herself being guided back and then over to one side of the room. Marion held the dress in place.

  On the far side of the room, set against the wall, was a long table in the same style as the main conference table, but smaller. At one end it was set with a tray carrying glasses and bottles of Evian water. The rest of the table was clear, its polished surface reflecting the wall lamp hung above it.