Chaos in Paradise

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I wake at midday my in own bed within my cell. Every inch of my skin has known some degree of ravagement. My cunt and ass are painfully sore, and I feel a tightness at my mouth where it was stretched wide to accommodate the largest of my captor’s cocks. I purr a little playfully to myself realizing that I have been relieved of my other duties for at least a day. Knowing that, I lie back against the scratchy blanket beneath me and fall asleep with my hand gently caressing my cunt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’re working too hard,” Knowland tells me. He repeats this refrain until I’m bored with it. We both know why I’ve suddenly become more priestly—a more avid worker in this province of ours. Bringing food to the needy and counseling my flock seems to take my mind from Teagan. It also makes me realize that there are other unhappy people in Utopia as well as me. This can be both a comfort and a revelation.

  Since this is not a place where a priest keeps secrets easily, there are many that know I am myself nursing deep wounds. I’m sure if I met another Teagan, which I won’t, there would be scores to sneak about and follow me to a whore’s house. I preferred my life before I became a married man—now both married and spurned. Of course Knowland circulated his own rumors—those that suggested it was me that scorned my wife, not her scorning me. Truthfully, I believe neither version. It’s this country, this province, this Utopia that spurned us. I wish now I’d never put her through all the trials. Unfortunately, turning back is impossible in any world.

  “I work as hard as I need to,” I tell my friend.

  “Well, tonight you will play.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You won’t, trust me,” he says, and I find his hand on my arm firmly taking me away.

  There’s a tavern on the far side of the village where we would often go when we were young, just to drink, and occasionally find a woman. That was a long time ago. I’ll accept his drink, but not a woman, never.

  Once we’re inside this restless place I feel an old sensation driving through me. Funny, how easy it can be to purge lust from your thoughts, but the body still responds. The tavern girls that serve us must be handpicked for this chore, sensuously dark, bold, with sleazy bodies and very warm smiles. One with her hands on my shoulder makes my cock jump erect. I’ve already had three drinks when I feel this sexual surge in me, and I begin to wonder if Knowland is right about what I need. The drink makes me less sure of myself, and the more I eagerly pour down my throat, the more hands that comb me, the more I forget the memory of Teagan, and let my desire move toward these not-so-gentile whores. Seeing the spark in the eye of my Provincial Lord, he can tell I’m ready for some woman’s bath of steamy flesh.

  This one behind me would be perfect. Her gentle fingers comb delicately through my hair, and when her hands run down my back, my penis grows fully hard, pressing my leather pants like its burning to explode. I can only give her casual courtesy in public, while my mind begins to stir with fantasy of her in private.

  “You want one that likes it rough?” Knowland whispers.

  “I don’t want one at all,” I tell him.

  “You lie badly,” he says, cuffing me on the shoulder. He hands me another beer.

  “I don’t lie. Lust is one thing. Letting it have its way is another thing. I have a wife.”

  “You fuckin’ bastard,” he crows. “You think she’s better than these bitches? You think she wouldn’t be here right now with her lips about to wind their way around your ear, while she whispers to you about the nasty things her mouth would do with your dick? You ain’t celibate and I’ll be damned if you’ll spend your night by yourself.”

  “Will you keep your voice down?” I bark harshly under my breath.

  “No, man. You are a man aren’t you?”

  I ignore him. If I don’t, as drunk as he is, he’ll be shouting about my sexual needs at the top of his lungs.

  I’m drunk by the time I reach the sanctuary in the dark of night. This will be the first time since Teagan left that I’ll sleep in the bed we shared. It’s okay. I won’t remember anything.

  I can’t tell how long I’m passed out, but I when feel a woman’s hands begin to run up my chest, when I smell the distinct perfume of femininity and find my cock becoming erect, I open my eyes. The face of the girl in the tavern greets me with a smile.

  “If you want to harass my ass, I am very willing,” she says as she kisses my lips with her whole mouth opening for me, warmly wet, with the aroma of alcohol lingering on her breath.

  She’s naked next to me with her breasts pressed to my chest. When I think they should feel like soft cushions, I find them hard. Running my hands about them I realize she has them bound.

  “You tied yourself?”

  “That hairy looking fellow in the bar said you like women who enjoy pain.”

  “And you do?”

  “I have always wondered what it would like to be purified,” she purrs to me, kissing me softly along my jaw. One of her hands holds my cock tightly. She jerks it roughly and then backs off to tease my balls. As my hand strays down her body, I find the ropes that bind her breasts continue down her torso, being thread through her cunt and pulled tightly.

  “You think I could purify you?” I deride the possibility.

  “I could try, father, if you are a good priest to me.”

  “Your other lovers beat you?”

  “Those adventurous enough. But most are scared. I don’t imagine you’re scared when you do this every day.”

  I manage to laugh. “Not every day. I might be a satisfied man.”

  “Let me satisfy you tonight,” she hums as her hands move along my skin. She writhes snakelike, purring and cooing, and then shrieking when I tug at the ropes and make them cut into her skin. “Ah, yes,” I hear her gentle murmur. The harder I tug, the more she cries. When I feel deeply between for the pouch of her sex, I feel metal rings that have been pierced into her skin. I jerk these hard, and she falls off of me, frenetically thrashing about the bed. I rise over her and jerk the rings again. She shrieks but makes no move to get away from my grasp of her cunt. “Yes, yes, harder,” she shouts. I think she’s cumming, and jerk harder still. Turning her over, she goes to her hands and knees as she screams. The girl came fully prepared, I note, drawing a studded leather paddle from the table beside the bed. It’s a vicious thing, but the first smack to her ass has her writhing like an angry beast on all fours, howling miserably—as though she likes it one minute and hates it the next. “Yes, father, hit me hard!” I hear her nasty voice like it’s the sweetest music. Laying the leather on her ass, she clenches when the mean thing strikes, and then pushes her cheeks toward me for more the instant the pain subsides. I go on knowing she’ll be battered hopelessly, and still she asks for more. “You mean-assed sonofabitch more!” She makes my dick angry.

  I pull up behind her and jam my prick into her ass.

  She screams again, “you nasty bastard!” in a breathless voice. She’s both scared of my dick and relishing the feel of it lodged inside her. Spanking her roughed-up rear with my palm, I feel each jolt with another squeeze of her muscles against my penis. “Harder asshole!” she blares at me. What a slut! What an unwholesome, randy harlot!

  Using my fingers I drive them into her cunt while my cock rides her ass, and she cums like the whore she is, whipping about the bed with an angry heat.

  We rest for a while. An hour perhaps. But my mind rages on, one desire leaping on the next and I can’t stop myself. Dragging the bitch from bed, we escape into the dawning day, covered in capes to hide the nakedness underneath. We make our way briskly to the back of the church, and I take her through the lower catacombs into an old whore’s prison. There I tie her with chains to the wall of the ancient punishment chamber, so her heaving, panting, masochistic body grovels against the scratchy brick. I flog her with a riding crop until she cums again. My prick jerks with each lash, rising pleasantly as it springs back to life. Though I slow the pace of the crop, it continues to strik
e until her last orgasm is just a simple body memory.

  I watch her for a time as she twitches in this damp cellar. She writhes in her chains as though she enjoys the lack of liberty. Each time she strains, another painful cut of the binding ropes makes her sigh with happiness. I think her cunt could use another cum, but not before she satisfies me. Undoing the chains and pulling her off the wall, she sinks to her knees and takes my erection in her mouth, milking it vigorously as her back channel milked the cum from me.

  As the last of the sticky liquid shoots against her lips, she smiles at me, batting eyes toward my face as though she wants to seduce me into one more scene. I feel the liquor making me dizzy again. Interesting how I sobered for sex and now I want nothing more than to collapse back on my bed and sleep for a day.

  “You could bind me here the rest of the night,” she says looking lovingly at the wall where she was chained, and at the scourges that hang there and the old cages that would confine the worst of the sinning sluts. She would have served time in this dungeon, but it was put out of use fifty years ago. I wonder if I should resurrect it for women like this nameless one.

  “Yes, I could keep you chained here,” I say.

  Her face turns softer still, and her eyes become less blazing. I note how sad she looks. “But you won’t do that,” she concludes.

  “No, I won’t.” I shake my head.

  “No man has ever been so severe with me, or loved me more.”

  “And that’s sad. But sadder still would be attaching yourself to a priest. I could never give you all you need.”

  “Can you be so sure?” she asks.

  “Oh, yes, I’m very sure,” I reply. “I’ve already tried.”

  Bending down to the floor, I begin to undo the chains and all her ropes. “If there is one man like me in Utopia, certainly there are others.”

  She has a sweet grin, but I know behind it is the futile feeling of melancholy brought on by what she knows is quite true. She doesn’t belong in Utopia anymore than Teagan does.

  Thankful for the kindness I’ve showed her, she leaves me with a gracious kiss.

  ***

  I think I’m even more despondent than I was before the girl came to me, tasting what I know I can’t have from the woman I love. My heart is still bleeding, and Knowland is pissed, nothing seems to change under our Utopian sun.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I spend more of my life sexually engaged than I do in the fields. Now and then, I’m forced to awaken at an awful hour and required to spend an entire grueling day harvesting vegetables or tilling soil with every muscle in my body already aching from the strenuous activity of the night before. I assume this is simply meanness on the part of the men that use me, or perhaps this harvest is late, or the man in charge of me forgets where I last spent my time. Regardless, there are many days I run on exhaustion and in fear of scourges that I won’t relish if they are laid on me. I find the sexuality of punishment far more appealing than what comes with no erotic allure at all.

  When I am called on for sex now, it’s always in the most extreme form—unless I’m lucky for an hour to two to have a man that simply wants to hold me, or kiss my lips, or admire the gentle swell of my breasts with his tongue. These interludes are almost as precious as sleep—more perhaps, because I become aroused and enjoy my body without the thrills and a good deal more ease.

  I’m rarely taken to the elaborate living room anymore, but shunted away immediately to the various chambers where my sexual torture takes place. I am one of just a handful of women in this prison that have such masochistic desires, and I do believe that I am the most extreme of them all. I have been imprisoned for days in a cage, where my use becomes easy for the men that come and go from the cavern where I’m held. The utter humiliation of this plight reminds me of my time with Cabot, though I believe that this is even more profound than that. This last so much longer since I’m pleasing a number of men, not just one.

  When I am caged, I must half recline in the metal crate because it’s not tall enough for me to stand. Sometimes I curl in fetal position on the floor and try to sleep. The weight of the collar and cuffs that I wear no longer bothers me, their heaviness seems part of my body, part of my soul—yes, and part of my heavy heart. Perhaps they just keep me from flying away. I think about that sometimes, floating in air, floating over the yellow fog and beyond these Southern realms, floating toward Utopia, swooping down like a bird on the tiny village that shelters the church of my purification. If I could, I’d land on Keven Brannoch’s shoulder and sing in his ear. I’d tell him I still love him, tell him that my life seemed to disappear when I left the place I could not live.

  When I’m caged my mind has time to wander, if I remain awake. There’s a sweet solitude I feel nowhere else, not even when I’m in my cubicle. Feeling so small, I can find the vastness of my insides and realize that it goes far beyond the world I see and hear and taste and touch.

  I have been on an ancient rack, my body cranked to such limits I thought my bones would break—and yet they didn’t. There I was honestly tortured with a dominant man’s feast of miseries. My nipples were clamped, my breasts pinched, fire and ice and knives inflicting pain I’d never felt before. Then too, I fly away on sensation and return to earth, landing in a body I hardly recognize. I wonder if this will go on forever, though I realize that I don’t really care. My life disappeared the moment I took that first step on my return trip South.

  There’s a brilliant sun in the sky beating down on our tanned bodies as we work in the fields. I had been tending the scrawny orchard, thankful for each peach and apricot that I find to harvest. When I work alone, I can steal a few to eat, or to pass on to the women that remain my closest companions—even though we work together less frequently. This day, I’m back with my small tribe. We’re pulling weeds—the worst thing in the world. My hands are grimy from wet dirt, my brow must be the same, the way I sweat. My shift is soaked. And yet, on this day there is the oddest breeze blowing our way, not off the desert, but one that has the smell of salt and a freshness that is rare in the climate. I wonder if this is an omen, then I’m quick to remember that I gave up omens some time ago when they failed me.

  When the overseer motions for me to come to him, I question him. He stares at me irritated by my hesitation and calls for me again. There’s a man with a straw sunhat standing at his side whispering something in his ear, and I wonder if this farmer is asking for sex.

  Obediently, I follow the old man as he leads me out of the field to one of the main prison buildings. Apparently he was sent to summon me and nothing more. As I reach the official quarters of my captors, I am hoping that they’ll let me shower before I’m used for sex. I have never been called directly from the fields, though it does not surprise me. I wait for a time in a chair outside a closed door, without much thought to what will happen next. My cunt grows warm just from expectation. When the door opens, I’m ordered inside and left in the company of a man I’m shocked to see—even though I know him well. The blood drains from my face and I’m sure my feet are numb.

  “Teagan, how are you?” Knowland asks me. He seems so kind, though his presence reminds me of my sexual shame and I want him to go away. I hardly feel like the woman that once made love to and married his best friend.

  “How did you find me?” I ask, with my back to the door. I still can’t move.

  “The price on a woman’s head grows when she’s wearing the insignia of a priest,” he tells me.

  “And why are you here?”

  “To take you back to Keven.”

  “No. I won’t go,” I tell him flatly.

  “Oh, yes, you will,” he assures me, and his kind expression immediately turns into an angry glare. “I should just kill you, report to the man that his slut died in captivity …”

  “Yes, you should,” I agree. “That might be the kindest thing you can do for him.” I watch his face, how it changes just slightly. “Oh, but then, even you can’t be that horrible, c
an you?” I turn away, strolling to the windows on the far side of the room.

  “Do you have anything to pack?” he asks.

  I laugh. “I am in prison, what do you think?”

  “Then I’ll find you some proper clothes, you can’t wear that.”

  I look his way again.

  “You’ve wasted your time, Knowland. I certainly hope you didn’t pay them gold for me, because I’m not returning with you.” It takes great courage to counter a man as fierce as this one, but I do so with a deadly gaze meant to communicate the resolve I feel.