They dragged him out of the room. His cock was erect. From the marks across his belly and thighs it looked as though his front had been subjected to the same treatment as his backside.
The Master turned the full force of his gaze on Melinda. He beckoned her over to his chair. She stood in front of him, her hands locked behind her back, her body exposed to his stare. His eyes roamed. She felt them as surely as if they were hands, on her breasts, on her navel, delving into the apex of her thighs. Then up again, up to look into her eyes. She felt all their power, hypnotic, impossible to resist, just as she had felt them that first evening as he had greeted her at his front door.
'Kneel,' he said, his tone altogether different from the one he had used before.
Melinda obeyed, but slowly. It was not easy to kneel without using her arms for balance.
'Closer,' he said when she was down.
She scrambled forward on her knees until she was inches from the Master's naked legs. Her heart was in her mouth, her excitement coursing through her nerves.
The Master leant forward, looking into her eyes. It was the closest she had ever been to him. The power of his eyes was overwhelming. She felt as though she could drown in them, drown in oceans of steely blue. He stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek lightly. Melinda had to resist the temptation to turn her head and kiss his fingers. His touch was intoxicating. Her heart was beating faster and faster. She begged with her eyes and her body. 'Take me,' she tried to express without words. 'Please.'
She dare not look into his lap. She looked only into his eyes.
He relaxed back into the chair. 'You pleased me today, Melinda.' It was the first time anyone had used her name in the house. 'You excited me a great deal. You are an extraordinary woman. Your obedience... your...' he searched for the right word, 'passivity. Perfect. So perfect. I don't think I have ever come across such a perfect example. You want it very much, don't you?'
It was a question. She was allowed to respond. She tried to cram all her emotions into the two words, 'Yes, master.'
'Good, good.'
He got up. As he did, the front of his white robe brushed Melinda's face. He walked behind her. She dared not turn around without being ordered to.
'I want you to do something for me, Melinda.' He did not have to ask. He only had to command. 'Get up now, come over here.'
She got to her feet with difficulty and turned round. He was standing by an open door. She could see a bathroom beyond. He beckoned her forward as he'd done before.
The bathroom was walled in white marble. It was lit brightly, much more brightly than the bedroom. One whole wall was a mirror. Melinda had only glimpsed herself briefly in the mirror in the dining room since she had entered the house. The sight of herself now, naked but for the red high heels, her breasts thrust forward by the position of her arms, was a shock. It did not look like her. It looked like someone else, a stranger. She even seemed to move differently. Her hair and make-up were different. It was another person.
The Master came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and embraced her, looking over her shoulder into the mirror in front of them. Contact. Real contact. At last. Melinda felt herself melting around him. With her arms cuffed behind her, her hands were pressed into his groin. She thought she could feel his cock.
'Child,' he said quietly, then released her. The moment passed.
She swayed back, almost losing her balance without his support.
He took the key from around her neck and quickly sprung the handcuffs open.
'Do they hurt you?' he asked solicitously.
'No, master,' she lied.
'But they must do. I can see the marks on your wrists.'
She wanted to say that it wasn't important, that she'd do anything for him, anything. She knew she must say nothing.
'So good,' he said.
Her hands hung by her sides. He sat in a white Lloyd-loom chair by the bathtub.
'Run a bath,' he said, his hands pressed together in an attitude of prayer, the tips of his fingers touching his lips.
Melinda reached over to the mixer taps. She felt his eyes on her buttocks as the water gushed into the tub. He said nothing else until the bath was full.
'Get in now,' he said as she closed the taps.
She obeyed.
'Does that feel nice?'
It felt wonderful. She hadn't had a bath for three days. Her body was flushed pink with the heat of the water.
'Yes, Master.'
'Good. Wash yourself.'
Uncertainly she reached out for the soap. There was a shelf alongside the bath. She took the soap and a large natural sponge. She soaped herself quickly and rinsed the lather away with the sponge.
'Do you know what I want you to do for me, my dear?'
'No, Master.'
'Your hair. I want you to shave your hair.'
Despite the hot water Melinda went cold. He wanted her to shave her head. She went cold not because she was horrified at the request, but because she knew she would do it instantly, without question.
The Master went to a small bathroom cabinet. He extracted a shaving bowl and brush and a tiny razor, its blade no more than an inch wide. He set them down at the side of the bath. It was only then that she realised he meant her pubic hair.
'Use these,' he said.
She hesitated. She hadn't the slightest idea what to do next.
'Stand up.' A note of irritation had crept into his voice at her hesitation. He took it for disobedience. 'Don't disappoint me now.'
She picked up the shaving brush and bowl of shaving soap and stood up. The water cascaded off her body. Dipping the brush in the soap she worked up a lather. She transferred the lather from the brush to her triangle of pubic hair, painting on a thick foam.
'Good.' He sat down again, pulling the chair nearly to the edge of the bath and leaning forward.
Melinda picked up the tiny razor. She had no qualms about what she was doing. Her body did not belong to her any more. She was only concerned to do a good job. This was what he wanted. All she wanted was to please him, to earn more praise, to be perfect. She wished he had asked one of the women to shave her, someone who knew how to do it well. She had never done this before.
The razor cut a swathe through the white lather. After several passes most of the lather had gone, and with it her downy fleece of blonde hair. She looked in the mirror, not to see herself, but to check on the job she had done. There was still hair down at the apex of her thighs. Soaping the brush again she put one leg up on the side of the bath and painted more soap down between her legs.
The Master's eyes were rooted to her sex. She looked into his lap, but could not tell whether he was erect. The folds of the cotton robe hid any tumescence. She hoped this was the prelude for him, the ritual that would incite him to take her, the first man to enter her slick, hairless cunt.
Carefully, she stroked the razor over the crease of her sex. She had to bend double to see what she was doing, her leg up, her crotch open. She scraped away at the lather.
The Master let out a tiny, almost inaudible moan. Melinda reached for the sponge and rinsed away the rest of the lather. She was hairless. It was only now, now it had gone, that she realised how much her pubic hair had covered. Without it, the lips of her sex were clearly defined. Even standing with her legs together, the crease of her sex, at least the first delicate folds of it, was clearly visible. She stared at her sex in the mirror. Now she looked as she had looked as a child.
The Master got up. Melinda could see a clear bulge in the robe. But she could sense too that his mood had changed.
'Dry yourself. Then come into the bedroom. Quickly.' The kindness had gone from his voice. He walked out of the bathroom.
Melinda hastened to obey, taking one of the large bath towels and hoping his mood change was not the result of something she had done. She towelled between her legs, feeling, for the first time, the lack of hair. Her big, puffy labia felt different. She did not look at he
rself again in the mirror. She slipped back into the red shoes.
In the bedroom, the Master was pacing the thick carpet. The bulge in his robe had disappeared.
'Get over here.' He indicated the bed. What had she done wrong? His eyes looked at her with anger. 'Lie down on your back.'
She obeyed. The counterpane had been turned back, and the cream-coloured sheets were silk. He came and stood beside the bed, looking down at her naked body. She felt more naked now, the final cloak of modesty shaven away. Her body pulsed. It was a pulse she recognised. Her sex was moistening.
The Master sat on the edge of the bed. Please touch me, kiss me, take me. Do anything to me, she wanted to scream. Every nerve in her body ached for contact, wanted her to wrap herself around him, plunge her head on his cock. Make him want her. Every nerve ached for release. The more his eyes looked at her, the more she wanted to touch, to hold, to have.
'I should have had you shaved. You shouldn't have shaved yourself,' he said almost to himself. 'You must do it every morning,' he said to her, 'every morning without fail. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Master.'
Involuntarily, she felt her body inch towards him. It was as though he were a giant magnet pulling her to one side.
'Use this,' he said. From the drawer of the bedside table he took a black dildo. It was a perfect replica of a cock, complete with balls, every detail moulded in hard black plastic. He tossed it onto the bed between her legs.
Oh no, no, she wanted to scream. Not that. Of all things don't make me wank. Do it to me. Have me tied and bound and spread. Let Marion do it. Or Cybele. Cruel and hard. But not by my own hand, don't give me freedom again. Please, please. Her eyes begged. This time her hesitation was rebellion.
'Melinda. You will obey,' he said.
She saw not anger in his eyes, but sadness. She had displeased him. Immediately, she took the dildo in her hand and scissored her legs open, bending her knees. She had made a mistake. She was thinking of herself, of what she wanted. She wanted not to masturbate, she wanted not to do it for herself. That was wrong, that was her mistake, because it no longer mattered what she wanted in this world. She no longer existed. It was as simple as that. That was what she had forgotten.
Brutally she jammed the dildo up into her cunt. There was no resistance. Her sex was wet. She pushed it up using both her hands, right up until she could feel it at the neck of her womb and the balls were hard against her arse.
This was what he wanted. That was all there was. She would do it because he wanted it, do it as well as she could.
She pulled it back again and felt her body gush with juices. With no subtlety or gentleness, cross with herself for her stupidity, she rammed the dildo to and fro, on the river of her excitement. She had to be excited, she had to excite herself because he wanted that. He wanted to see that.
Using one hand to manipulate the dildo she ran the other up to her breast. With all her might she squeezed each breast in turn, then used the long nails of her thumb and finger on her nipples, pinching them hard, so each had a crescent-shaped impression etched into the tender flesh. She wanted to feel the pain, wanted to punish herself.
She repeated the punishment as the dildo reamed into her cunt. But her eyes never left the Master, never stopped watching him as she saw his eyes roaming her body. This was what he wanted.
There was no longer any inhibition. What she was doing suddenly felt like nothing she had ever done before. It was different. It was not an act of freedom, but of submission.
She was coming. All the frustrations of the day were concentrated in her sex. The hard, big dildo filled her cunt. Her breasts and tortured nipples, her clitoris, every nerve in her body, strained for release. The Master's eyes, cool, detached, unblinking, watched the dildo as it sawed in and out of her labia, its shaft glistening with her juices. The first kick of orgasm jerked her body, rolling her eyes closed. Then, instantly, she was falling; falling into a deep black, endless abyss where she could feel only sensation and all conscious thought was gone. Her body was tossed from side to side as the dildo pressed, for the last time, deep inside her.
She lay, eventually, completely still, her hands at her sides, her legs still open. Slowly, inevitably, the dildo slid out of her cunt. The motion jerked her body in an involuntary spasm. She opened her eyes.
Marion stood by the bed. She was taking off her negligee, her long, very black hair flowing over her shoulders. Under the white silk teddy, her body looked exquisite, soft and rich and ripe.
'Leave us,' the Master said, not looking at Melinda. His eyes were fixed on Marion.
Melinda struggled to sit up, her body still lost in the feelings of orgasm, her nerves not co-ordinated with her muscles yet. Marion was kneeling on the carpet between the Master's knees, her hands caressing his calves.
'Now,' Marion snapped at Melinda. She smiled. It looked like a smile of triumph.
Melinda scrambled off the bed. She headed for the door. She tried not to look, because she knew what she would see, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Marion unwrapping the robe, and her head descending into the Master's lap.
She ran through the bedroom door. Cybele and Selene were waiting. Cybele closed the inner door while Selene cuffed Melinda's hands behind her back. Melinda felt the tears welling in her eyes, but tried to blink them back. The cold metal cuffs were welcome. She strained her wrists against them, wanting to feel them bite into her flesh. She was an object. She should have no feelings. She was there to be used, and she had been. What else did she expect?
Melinda counted the days. Since the evening with the Master, five days had passed. Each day had become routine. She would be woken in the morning by one of the three leather-uniformed chatelaines who would bring her breakfast and supervise her shower and toilet. A razor, shaving bowl and brush had been put in the bathroom, and each morning she shaved. It was necessary. Her pubis sprouted bristles with surprising regularity. They felt different from the fluffy softness Melinda was used to; harsh and wiry. She had become more adept at shaving as the days passed and now her sex was completely smooth, all the little crevices shaved clean too.
After breakfast, Melinda was given a cotton bra to wear to support her breasts and taken to exercise. The regimen was strict. Each exercise was timed, and she was not allowed to stop until the chatelaine announced her time was up.
Another shower followed. In the afternoon she would be taken to a solarium. As she was not taken outside, its tanning effect was necessary to maintain her summer colour. Clearly the Master did not want her developing a prison pallor.
The rest of the time she was given a menial task to perform - scrubbing the floor of her cell, or cleaning the bathroom - or left alone, her hands cuffed to the wall, the metal block between her legs.
After five days, Melinda was beginning to lose hope. In some way she had offended the Master. From considering her his favourite, from seeing her as 'perfect' he had, for some reason, lost interest in her. Even the camera in the cell wall seemed to bear testament to his displeasure. Not once had Melinda seen it move. The Master was not watching her any more.
Neither was Marion. She did not see Marion either, in the days since being summoned to the Master's bedroom.
The only parts of her day that were not predictable were the beatings. They were never done at any set time, nor in any set pattern except that it was always two of the chatelaines together. They were never alone. Some days they would chain her to the wall, her breasts against the plaster, her hands chained so high above her head that she was forced onto the very tips of her toes. In this position they would whip her, alternating their strokes, one standing on one side of her body, the other opposite; her arse assailed from both directions. They never counted the strokes. Sometimes when it was over, they would twist her round to face them, then kiss her, bite at her nipples, penetrate her sex, pinch and maul her.
Then they would leave her. They knew the pain created a need in her body. They would leave her chained to
the wall, the metal block placed between her legs, her body stretched, her nerves aching for the relief it would never be allowed to have. Having created the need they left her unable to fulfil it.
Once, after they'd turned her round, Hera and Cybele had lain on the mattress and made love. They had not stripped off their uniforms, just pulled up their skirts and unfastened the studs of the leotards between their legs. With no preliminaries, Cybele had climbed onto Hera's body and positioned her sex above Hera's face, while her mouth had plunged onto Hera's sex. They had lapped eagerly at each other's bodies, squirming and writhing with the pleasure they created, glancing occasionally at the helpless Melinda, smiling tauntingly at her as if to say, 'Don't you wish you could join in?' She did, of course. They knew that. They knew she would have done anything to feel what they were feeling. To be touched. To be had. Instead, all she could do was hang by her hands and watch and listen. Listen to their screams of joy as their bodies exploded in each other's mouths, trembling out of control.
At night, her body ached most. Not from discomfort. Not from the chains that held her or the marks of the whips. It ached for sex. Here in this cell, naked most of the time, waiting for the door to open, there was nothing to do but think of sex. For the first two days they had filled her mind with sexual images she could not forget. But then they had allowed her some release. Now she was allowed nothing. Five days of frustration reinforced by constant attention to, and provocation of, her body and her mind.
It was deliberate. She knew that. All part of a plan. She hoped it was the Master's plan for her. Not just routine. That it was all designed by the Master to make her feel, to make her what he wanted her to be. Not routine. Not what they did to all the women he had trained. Just the same old routine because he could no longer be bothered with her, because he no longer cared. Not that. Please, she prayed at night, when such thoughts plagued her most, please not that.
Melinda and the Master Page 11
