Melinda and the Master

by Susanna Hughes

  He had never been whipped. He could feel each little mark where the thin lashes had landed, criss-crossing his buttocks. They felt like fingers; hot sensitive fingers probing at his body, and, more tellingly, into his mind. What was happening to him?

  His mouth reached the welt of the stocking on the other leg, where the tight elastic held it firmly to Marion's thigh. He crossed the divide onto the glorious, smooth creamy flesh. He kissed and licked it enthusiastically.

  Suddenly Cybele grabbed his head and yanked it back. Marion opened her legs. He stared down into her sex: the neatly trimmed but thick black curls; the wrinkled oval of her labia like an exotic orchid, open and moist.

  Cybele pushed his head forward. He had no need to be told what to do. Eagerly, his tongue sought out the clitoris, probing through the thick hair until he found the crown of nerves.

  Marion moaned. He was good at this, very good. His tongue was on exactly the right spot, its tempo perfect. Marion felt her body respond with a surge of pleasure, her thighs closing on his head to hold him tight. She tried to remember she was there to serve the Master.

  Cybele picked up the other whip, the discarded riding crop that still lay on the floor. Buried between Marion's thighs he would not anticipate this blow. She lashed his arse, the single cut of the crop so much more cutting than the many lashes of the other whip. She saw him rear up. She lashed again. Two long red welts appeared. She hit out again, a third stroke to form another welt.

  Marion could not stop herself. His mouth had been turned to fire by his pain, each stroke provoking a cry of protest, gagged by her sex. She felt her body flooding, her juices running down her cunt, over his mouth and tongue, soaking him as if she had spunked. She could not muffle a gasp of pleasure.

  She struggled to regain control. Still trembling, she caught Mark by the ears and pulled his head away. She knew the Master was watching, knew they were all watching.

  'Give it to him,' she said to Cybele. 'Quickly.'

  Cybele took a small white pill from her equipment belt. Marion squeezed Mark's cheek in her hand, forcing his mouth open. Cybele popped the pill inside.

  'Swallow,' Marion ordered. He hesitated. 'Swallow, damn you.'

  Marion saw his Adam's apple move. She relaxed. Now it was Cybele's turn. She was already stripping off her uniform. Cybele was tall, but her big body was beautifully proportioned. Naked, the leather uniform at her feet, her muscles glistening with the sweat the heat of the room had produced, she looked like an Amazon warrior queen, her pubis hairless, her breasts no more than crescents on her armour-like chest.

  She lay on the bed next to Marion and opened her legs, her big powerful thighs ready to crush any man who dared to lie between them. Marion stroked her body. Cybele's nipples were huge, like cupboard knobs and, at the moment, just as hard. Marion pinched them both in turn, harder than she would have risked with any other woman. She ran her hand over the iron muscles of Cybele's belly, down to the hairless apex of her thighs. She stopped there suddenly, remembering where she was and why. The idea of taking this wonderful body was all too seductive.

  'Get up here,' she snapped at Mark.

  He needed no encouragement. If this was punishment he would like to be punished every day. The whip had left his body coursing with passion; visceral, unaccustomed, almost uncontainable passion. He knelt between the Amazon's thighs, his cock inches from her big, hairless cunt. He could see every inch of her sex, every crease. It seemed to be winking at him; inviting, open.

  Marion's hand pulled him forward.

  He lay on Cybele, his cock nudging against her sex. He bucked his hips and he was in her, swallowed right up to the hilt. His balls banged against her arse. He reamed into her. The movement made the muscles of his arse ripple. He felt the welts there react with a sting of pain. It turned to heat, sexual heat. It spurred him on. He was going to come. After all they had done to him, he couldn't possibly hold out.

  Marion stood up. She took the riding crop in her hand. It whistled through the air and landed low, almost at the top of his thighs. Virgin territory. He moaned, hanging on to Cybele's body as though it were the cliff face of some mighty precipice.

  He was going to come. He pumped faster and harder. His spunk filled his cock, ready to jet out of him. Another stroke of the whip would do it, provoke him beyond recall.

  Marion's arm slashed down. He bucked in response to Cybele's wonderful cavernous sex. But nothing happened. He was at the brink of orgasm. But not over it.

  He pumped harder still, and faster. The whip landed again, always finding new areas of flesh, where it had not been before, always provoking, its pain immediately translated to throbbing, hot pleasure.

  Harder and faster. He was sweating too, their bodies sliding against each other as if they had been oiled. He could feel the sweat on their chests, against their bellies. He had never wanted to come more in his life. He pummelled into her, feeling her cunt squeezing him, milking him.

  Cybele's fingernails reached for his nipples. She pinched them hard, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to his cock. Marion threw the whip aside. She slid her hand between his legs and found his balls, playing with them as if they were some strange toy. They drove his need. He bucked and writhed and squirmed. But nothing he could do would make him come.

  They played with him; they toyed with him. Marion's hand stroked his welted arse; Cybele tongued his ear. Every provocation.

  'No, no, no,' he screamed. 'Stop it...'

  Every nerve in his body cried for release. None came. The more they provoked him, excited him, massaged and kissed and fucked him, the more he ached, the more desperate he grew. It was worse than pain, much worse. It was agony. It was his punishment.

  Eventually, Cybele rolled him off her body. They stretched his arms above his head and cuffed them to the posts of the bed, leaving him lying on his back. During the night, the other chatelaines would use him, and any of the staff. His erection would not go down. Like a dildo it would remain hard and available for use. Tomorrow he would be sent home.

  Behind the black glass, Melinda watched impassively. She felt no emotion other than relief, relief that her husband had not been allowed to spoil her sojourn with the Master. Nothing else mattered.

  The Master had slipped his hand into her lap. His fingers delved between her legs. She was wet, soaking wet.

  'He will be released in the morning. You can go with him you know. You do know that?'

  'Yes, master.'

  He withdrew his fingers from her sex. 'And you wish to stay?'

  'Forever, master,' she said, never having meant anything more in her life. Had she known what was to come, perhaps she would have felt differently.

  Chapter Twelve

  A week passed. Melinda's routine was relentless. The morning: shower and shave and toilet, a vigorous workout, the solarium. In the afternoon: various menial tasks. In the evening: cuffed to the bed, the metal block between her legs.

  She had not seen the Master, but she had the strong impression that he had been watching her. The lights had been left on in the cell, and the video camera was operated, its lens zooming in and out, focusing on her naked body. She could see his eyes, cold and blue, and imagined him laying on his bed naked, his big smooth cock erect and excited.

  She was not depressed that he did not call for her in person. In fact, she had reached the stage - a stage which she knew had been brought about by everything the Master had planned - where she thought of herself hardly at all. She did what she was told to do.

  The only exception was her sexual feelings. Since the incident with her husband, her body and her mind found it difficult not to dwell on sexual imagery. At night especially, in the dark, the sexual experiences she had gone through under the Master's guidance danced through her mind. Her inability to relieve herself, after all the years when she had masturbated freely, and with such pleasure, made matters worse. The fact that she was bound and unable even to squeeze her thighs together to get relief, was
a provocation in itself. It reminded her forcefully - painfully, even, if she tried - that everything she did was controlled by someone else. And that, after all, was for her the ultimate sexual image, sending currents of feeling coursing through her body at the very thought, further enhancing the need she had no means to fulfil.

  The routine was broken on the eighth day. Melinda had only just been cuffed to the wall and left on her own by Selene, when the cell door opened again and Marion walked in, a black leather bag, like a doctor's bag, in her hand. She looked beautiful: her long very black hair pinned up to her head; a dark blue dress tight to her bust, but with a full, knee-length skirt. Her neat nylon-sheathed ankles and navy high heels came to rest only inches from Melinda's face.

  Melinda felt a surge of desire. She remembered how Marion had felt, pressed against her body.

  Marion was looking at her with an expression Melinda could not read. Desire was there, but mixed with something else. Pity? And sadness? She knelt, and stroked Melinda's cheek tenderly. With no human contact for seven days Melinda could not suppress a moan, as though Marion had touched her sex.

  'Yes I know. This is the hardest part. But it's the rules.'

  Rules? Melinda's mind filled with questions as it had so often in this house. What rules?

  'You are very special. The Master was right. I was jealous when he took you instead of me. That was stupid. I see that now. You have such special qualities. I wish we could be together again.'

  Her hand stroked Melinda's naked breasts, followed the curve of her waist, her eyes riveted to Melinda's nakedness.

  Melinda was puzzled. Why couldn't they be together again? Why didn't she unchain her now, spread her legs and take her, suck and be sucked. Melinda yearned for that experience again. Why couldn't she? Had the Master forbidden it?

  Marion was kneeling on her haunches. Melinda could see up under the loose skirt. She was wearing stockings. Melinda could see the suspender holding the stocking on the side of one thigh. It was white. She could see the crotch of Marion's white knickers too, containing her sex. It looked puffed up and soft, like a cushion, the tight curls of her pubic hair pushing against the white silk. The view disappeared as Marion rested her weight on her knees and opened the black bag.

  'Do you know, you're making me wet. I can feel it,' she said quietly.

  I'd like to make you very wet, Melinda thought. I'd like to lick and suck you till I could drink your juices. She said nothing, trying to make her eyes express her feelings.

  Marion extracted a roll of Elastoplast from the bag, and a pair of scissors. She stretched out about a foot of the roll and cut it off. She then cut this in half. Stripping off the backing from one piece, she took Melinda's breast in her hand and pulled it up towards her chin so the underside, usually hidden by the weight of the breast, was exposed and stretched taut. Using the Elastoplast, Marion taped the breast in this position. The second piece held it firmer still.

  Slicing another foot off the roll, Marion repeated the procedure with the other breast until it too was firmly held upside down.

  She was not looking at Melinda now. She concentrated on her work. Putting the scissors and plaster back into the bag, she extracted a shiny chinagraph pencil.

  The position had to be right. She climbed over Melinda's body so her knees were either side of her hips. Her bottom rested on Melinda's thighs, the material of the skirt brushing her legs. Marion stared at the area of flesh she had exposed. With the pencil, she made a dot about an inch under the crescent of the upturned left breast, dead centre. She dotted the right breast in the same way but, on consideration, rubbed the mark away with her finger and did it again. Satisfied she had got it centred this time, she climbed off Melinda's prone body.

  Melinda looked down. She could see nothing but her own breasts grotesquely plastered to her chest, their nipples pointing to her face.

  Delving into the bag again, Marion brought out a small tin. Carefully she took the top off the tin and laid it on the floor next to the mattress. Another trip into the bag produced a leather strap, to which was attached a tongue-shaped gag of rubber.

  'I have to gag you,' Marion said, with an apologetic tone Melinda found odd. To make it clear she did not mind, Melinda opened her mouth wide. The gag filled it as the one in the hood had done. A gag was a relief. It took away her ability to disobey, to voice the thousand questions filling her mind. Marion buckled it around her blonde hair.

  From the tin, she produced two squares the size of large postage stamps. They were dark purple in colour, with white edges. Carefully, using her long fingernails, Marion tore the backing off one of the squares. Leaning over, she positioned it over the centre of the dot she had made on Melinda's flesh. The second square followed. Melinda could feel them sticking to her skin.

  Marion put the tin tidily back in the bag. She extracted a little glass bottle, its cap attached to a long stem like the old-fashioned eye droppers, with a rubber bulb to produce the drops. Carefully she brought the tip of the dropper to the first square, and squeezed the rubber bulb. Two drops of liquid fell on the square. She squeezed two more onto the other patch and returned the bottle to the bag.

  'Try not to struggle,' she said, solicitously. On previous occasions, some had struggled violently, thrashing and fighting their bonds. Others remained calm. It was a simple process. The liquid reacted with the chemical impregnating the paper to form an acid in the pattern with which the paper was stamped. The acid burnt away a thin layer of skin and allowed the ink in the paper to seep below the surface, exactly like a tattoo. It was painful, but only momentarily.

  Marion saw Melinda's body tense. She did not struggle. Her body arched slightly off the bed, her chest rocking from side to side as if trying to shake the patches off. Melinda did not try to scream. Then, the tension in her body relaxed. Her eyes were looking at Marion like the eyes of an animal. What have you done to me? they said. The look filled Marion with desire. She felt her sex pulse. She wished there had been time. But there was not.

  Marion got to her feet, looking down at Melinda's awkwardly taped breasts. They had to be left until the morning, the ink from the patches seeping in slowly. She should have taken the gag out, but she did not want to take the chance that Melinda might speak. She didn't want to hear Melinda's voice again. That would have been too much. She knew what Melinda was feeling. She'd felt it herself when she'd been marked. The pain soon turned to pleasure; squirming, heated pleasure. She didn't want to hear Melinda beg, beg for sex, for contact, for love. That would have been a temptation she could not resist.

  'Goodbye,' she said. She would see her in the morning of course, but not alone. Tonight was the last time they would be alone together for a long time, perhaps forever.

  She closed the cell door behind her, the noise of the lock clicking into place echoing down the long corridor with an air of finality.

  Melinda could not sleep. She had seen something in Marion's eyes she did not understand. Nor had Marion ever said goodbye before. Something was going on, and though she had not the least idea what, her mind was full of a deep foreboding.

  The pain from the patches under her breasts had been sharp and strong, but had not lasted long. What the patches were she couldn't imagine, but she had the feeling they had been used to mark her in some way. The purple colour had reminded her of indelible ink.

  It was not only her mind that refused to go to sleep. The pain from her breasts had turned to an insistent inner throbbing, the familiar tempo of sex. Her whole body was consumed with it: the need she had no means to satisfy.

  Eventually, she drifted off to sleep. She dreamt and woke with a start. She had dreamt of her husband. He had been in the Master's bedroom in Scotland. Instead of her tied in the laced gloves, suspended from the white rope, it had been him. She had strapped on the dildo, had approached and fucked him with it. She had then been pulled away by the Master, who'd taken his cock and put it where her dildo had been...

  She was drifting back to sleep wh
en the cell door opened. A triangle of light from the corridor outside spilt into the room before the door closed again and a thin beam of torchlight played across the floor.

  Melinda knew at once it was the Master. She pretended to be asleep. She knew that's what he expected her to be.

  The torchlight lit her body. She could feel his eyes examining her.

  'So lovely,' he whispered to himself.

  He knelt beside the mattress and used the torch to scan her breasts, and the little patches under them. He shone the beam down onto her shaven pubis and her open legs. He shone the beam up onto her face.

  'I shall miss you,' he said, getting up from his haunches. He unlatched the door and tiptoed out.

  Now she knew she had been right. Why should the Master miss her? Something was going to happen tomorrow and whatever it was, it clearly involved her.

  It was Cybele who strode into the cell in the morning. She knelt by the mattress and removed the gag, then the tiny patches and the tape holding Melinda's breasts so awkwardly, before she freed her from the cuffs and metal block. As soon as she sat up, her breasts resumed their normal position, completely covering whatever marks the patches had left.

  Cybele unlocked the bathroom, and watched as she showered, shaved, used the toilet and ate breakfast. Melinda was convinced the make-up woman would arrive and, sure enough, as she finished her coffee the woman hurried in.

  She worked with unusual haste.

  'She's the second,' she said to Cybele.

  'How many's going up?'

  'Four. They've all got to be done by twelve.'

  After twenty minutes, the woman appeared satisfied with Melinda's appearance.