Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Come in,’ she called, responding at last to the rapping on her door. It was typical of Count André – even though he had rescued her from poverty, and to all intents and purposes owned her – that he should have the courtesy to knock before entering her room.

  The door swung open and he took a step inside – a perfect picture of male sartorial splendour in his dark cutaway, his striped trousers and his dashing neckwear.

  ‘My dearest,’ he said softly, walking towards her, taking her hand and bidding her rise. ‘Let me look at you.’ He led her towards the mirror. ‘Let us look at you,’ he amended, as they stood before the glass.

  Belinda saw herself as a fairy-tale figure, clad all in white. She wore an almost transparent white muslin chemise trimmed with embroidered lace flowers and ribbons, a fierce white silk tricot corset that made her breasts bulge and oppressed her already tiny waist, and a white cotton petticoat adorned with flounces, frills and bows of pure silk ribbon. Hidden by this, but to be seen eventually, were her drawers – also white, also frilly, and conveniently open – and her white stockings with their frivolous lacy garters.

  ‘You are a vision,’ murmured Count André, so elegant yet so predatory behind her. He was caressing her throat slowly with the fingers of one hand while with the other he was cupping her womanhood through her undies. ‘A perfect plaything.’ Nipping her ear, he pressed harder against her mons.

  ‘My lord,’ gasped Belinda, beginning to wriggle. The constriction of her corset was making her sex doubly sensitive at the moment. All her lower organs were bearing down on it from within. ‘Oh please … Oh please –

  ‘Later, my sweet,’ he said, squeezing harder, just once, then releasing her. ‘You must contain yourself and give up your pleasure to amuse my guests.’ He stepped away from her, then took a length of soft white ribbon from her dresser. ‘Let me tie your hands so you do not touch yourself until we are ready –’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t do that!’ she cried, begging for a different boon this time. She felt so vulnerable when she was bound; so frightened. The sense of being quite helpless was almost too exciting, and even though she would never dash away exploring hands for fear of offending Count André, at least when she was free, the opportunity was there in theory. When she was secured, she could do nothing, and her body was available –

  ‘But I wish it,’ he said softly, his voice as kind as ever but shot through with a thrilling steeliness.

  Bowing her head, Belinda held out her hands at an angle behind her and meekly let her slender wrists be tied.

  It was difficult to descend the stairs in high-heeled boots when your hands were bound, but Belinda managed it, with Count André’s guiding help. He supported her elbow solicitously, letting her lean on him if she needed, his attention as courtly as if she had been a royal princess.

  ‘Do not be frightened,’ he said, when she balked on the lower landing after hearing convivial voices in the parlour. ‘Remember how proud I am of you … How I prize you above all others … Now hold your head up, and show them your perfect, graceful posture.’

  ‘Oh, well done, André old chap,’ said an English voice as they entered the room. A hearty-looking fellow gave Belinda a long appraising glance.

  ‘She’s divine,’ said a woman, her tones aristocratic, her eyes filled with lust.

  ‘You lucky thing, André,’ said another, older woman. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a tender morsel like that –’

  ‘Is she as good a looker underneath all those fancy clothes?’ said a second male, this one florid and rather coarse in appearance. ‘What about her tits, her arse and her fanny?’

  ‘She is perfect in every aspect,’ said Count André evenly. ‘And you may inspect any part of her you wish in a little while.’

  There were one or two others in the small appreciative group, but for the time being they confined themselves to looking at her.

  ‘Come along, Belinda,’ said Count André, leading her forward into the centre of the room. ‘Stand here and let my friends admire your charms.’

  While the count attended to the needs of his guests, refilling their glasses and making idle smalltalk, Belinda stood still where he had left her, blushing furiously. She knew the fragile material of her chemise barely hid her breasts at all, and she could feel the heat of many eyes upon her nipples. Her maid had rouged her there, in preparation for just such eager scrutiny.

  ‘André darling,’ said the woman who had called Belinda ‘divine’, a handsome brunette with a small and petulant mouth. ‘May I uncover her breasts? They look so delightful. I’d rather like to hold them.’

  ‘Of course, Mabel,’ said Count André genially. ‘Please proceed.’ He took a sip of champagne and winked at Belinda over the glass.

  Mabel hurried forward and began unfastening the buttons of Belinda’s chemise. ‘Oh, she is just the prettiest thing,’ she exclaimed, folding aside the thin muslin and easing Belinda’s aching breasts forward. ‘And rouged nipples too. How droll! André, you are so naughty! I do so love that, especially when they’re firm and pink to start with.’

  Belinda clenched her jaw as Mabel began to handle her. Pinching, rolling, pulling, inflicting little pains that did diabolical things down below. She felt desperate to move her hips, to work them to and fro a little; to do anything that might assuage her growing tension.

  ‘Do you whip them?’ enquired Mabel, cupping both Belinda’s breasts and pushing the nipples inward until they touched. ‘I’m sure they’d look absolutely glorious if they were wealed.’

  ‘No, I do not,’ replied Count André, coming across to where they were standing and touching each of Belinda’s nipples with one forefinger. ‘I prefer to see her breasts unmarked. It is more aesthetic, in my opinion.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Mabel, sounding slightly thwarted. ‘What about clips? Have you tried them on her? Apparently the best ones can be quite excruciating.’

  ‘Oh yes, clips can be very becoming,’ said Count André thoughtfully. ‘If you wish to experiment, you will find a selection of appropriate ornaments in the usual drawer.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ cried Mabel, releasing Belinda and nearly skipping across to the secretaire. ‘Oh yes, these are just the thing,’ she said, reaching in and bringing out some tiny silver objects, then returning to stand in front of Belinda. ‘The very thing. These will look so pretty.’

  Taking each breast in turn, Mabel screwed on the wicked silver clips, tightening each one to a terrible, crushing pitch. Belinda felt tears trickling down her face as they were adjusted, as much from shame as from the clips’ fierce effect. The horrid pressure on the tips of her breasts only increased the arousal that surged within her. She bit her lip in a hopeless effort to keep still.

  ‘Does it hurt, my dear?’ enquired Mabel, brushing away Belinda’s tears, then kissing her on the mouth. When Belinda nodded, she gave each clip an additional turn. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll take them off in a minute or two.’ She grinned devilishly. ‘And that will hurt more than having them on.’

  ‘Courage, my darling,’ whispered Count André, when Mabel had retreated in search of more wine. ‘See how beautiful you look,’ he said, directing Belinda’s attention to the large mirror that had been set up at one side of the room for the express purpose of letting her see her own humiliation.

  Belinda observed her flushed face, her glowing skin and her maltreated nipples, and knew that she was indeed beautiful; the very picture of submissive, erotic suffering. She wanted to lift her petticoat and open her knickers too, so she could show all the party how aroused the pain made her.

  Like a white-clad living ornament, she stood waiting while Count André and his friends drank their wine and discussed her appearance. Some of the observations they made and some of the things they proposed to do to her made her blood run cold. If she were to belong to any one of the others, she knew she would suffer unimaginably, but at least she felt safe in Count André’s possession. He respected her and his limits were hers too.


  ‘Let’s see her arse then!’ said the crude man after a while, breaking away from the others. ‘It’s high time she felt a taste of the lash.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you are right, Henri,’ Count André said pleasantly, obviously humouring the man. ‘Come along, my sweet,’ he said to Belinda. ‘Let me undo your hands so you can pose more comfortably to receive your punishment.’

  ‘You’re too soft with her,’ said Henri, licking his lips. ‘If she were mine, I would have thrashed her by now, bonds or no bonds.’ He moved closer, then grabbed her cruelly, his fingers digging into the softness of one buttock. ‘And I’d have sodomised her too. It’s plain as day that she needs it. She’s got a loose, wanton look about her, André old man. She needs a proper taming.’

  ‘You’re probably correct, Henri,’ murmured Count André as he unfastened the ribbon around Belinda’s wrists.

  Belinda trembled as she looked into her beloved’s eyes. If he wanted his friend to possess her backside, she would endure it, but only because it was his – her master’s – wish. And if Count André would hold her hands and kiss her lips while his friend took his pleasure, she could almost believe she would enjoy it too.

  ‘Now, my dear, perhaps you would kneel on the chaise-longue?’ said André encouragingly, as if she were a nervous fawn to be coaxed out of hiding. Taking her elbow, he helped her up on to the padded, velvet-covered chaise, and then pressed down on her back so she assumed the right position – resting on her elbows with her rump up in the air.

  The pose was difficult to hold, especially with her clipped breasts dangling down like pears and throbbing cruelly. Belinda swayed a little, then felt her spirits lift as André touched her cheek.

  ‘Would you assist me, Pierre?’ she heard him ask another of his friends, one who had not yet spoken. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to uncover Belinda’s bottom?’

  ‘Of course, mon ami,’ replied Pierre, his voice refined and pleasant. Belinda felt happy that it was he who was uncovering her. Monsieur Pierre was dark and handsome, his features exotic and Eastern, and he had always been a little kinder than the others. He would enjoy her punishment, certainly, and the spectacle of her red and fiery bottom; but she sensed finer feelings beneath the surface of his lechery.

  Even so, she flinched as she felt him deftly adjust her clothing; lifting her flounced petticoat, then dividing her loose, open knickers.

  A gasp of approval went up around the room, and all those assembled moved in a little closer to improve their view.

  ‘That’s a sumptuous arse, André,’ observed Mabel, her voice slightly breathy. ‘What I wouldn’t give to have one like that to beat whenever I wanted.’ Belinda heard the swish of silk as Mabel sidled close, then felt feminine fingers touch the furrow of her bottom. ‘She’s so sensitive too. Ooh, how lovely! Like velvet to the touch.’

  Despite the awkwardness of her position, Belinda bit her knuckle and tried not to respond. Mabel’s drifting fingertips were as light as a feather, and they seemed intent on lingering. Belinda felt the whole of her bottom groove being explored, her anus being palpated, her sex-lips being patted and pushed very gently. Where she had been rough with Belinda’s breasts, Mabel was tenderness itself with her nether regions; but in the pit of shame, the woman’s cruelty was easier to bear. Suddenly, Belinda yearned with all her heart for the lash – the blessed instrument that would both elevate and focus her.

  Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Henri who came to her aid.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shilly-shallying about,’ he said, pacing the room grumpily. ‘When is she to be beaten? It is what you invited us here to see.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Count André courteously. ‘We will begin in a moment. But first perhaps another drink for you all?’

  Belinda remained motionless on the chaise while Count André dispensed hospitality. For a few moments, she perceived herself as they might – not really a person but just a human entertainment. She pictured herself as such – a study in still life. A mass of white linen, a creamy rounded bottom, a set of stockinged legs, and feet in buttoned boots. And at the centre of it all, her wet, blushing pudenda and her shadowed anal crevice. The image in her own mind made her sex pulse and quiver, and she felt a great urge to gyrate her naked buttocks.

  If only one of them would touch her again. Rub her. Insert something into her. Her unfulfilled need for stimulation was intolerable; she was almost beside herself. And yet she knew that if she touched herself, she would be dismissed and found wanting.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, Count André spoke up. ‘And now it is time,’ he said solemnly. ‘Henri, will you take the strap from the drawer?’

  Belinda heard the slight squeak of the drawer being opened, but there was no other sound. Breaths were bated and she sensed lips being licked all around her.

  ‘I will beat her myself first.’ The leather strap hissed experimentally through the air. ‘And then, perhaps, someone else would care to take over?’

  There was a chorus of heartfelt ‘yeses’, ‘absolutelies’ and ‘with pleasures’; there seemed no shortage of candidates to torment her.

  The next thing Belinda heard was a series of tiny rustling sounds – her beloved count removing and folding his jacket, then rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘Mabel. Pierre. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hold her in position?’ Belinda sensed her master moving into place somewhere close behind her. ‘Henri, I think you will find that the seat by the secretaire will give you the best view.’ The strap swished again. ‘Julian and Madame Clermont, perhaps if you stood a little to your right you too would be better able to see.’

  Unable to stop herself, Belinda whimpered when Mabel sat down beside her on the chaise and took hold of her hands. At the same time, Pierre took her by the hips, raising them higher and making her part her thighs further. ‘That’s it, Mademoiselle,’ he whispered to her. ‘Spread yourself a little more.’ Belinda felt him sit down beside her, then felt one arm slide over her and secure her around her waist, while his free hand settled snugly on her vulva, middle finger crooked so it compressed her swollen clitoris.

  ‘Oh no! Oh dear God!’ keened Belinda, feeling the familiar spasms tremble beneath that fingertip.

  But just as her vagina began to convulse, the leather strap lashed down heavily across her bottom. There was a moment of complete blank shock, then it was followed by a raging slice of pain.

  ‘Oh André!’ shrieked Belinda in her agony and ecstasy. At last her exaltation had begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  Help at Hand

  ‘IS SOMETHING WRONG?’ Jonathan asked Belinda, as they walked towards the priory.

  ‘No, not really,’ she replied, telling a little lie. The leather book-cover felt strangely warm beneath her fingertips, but she was quite at a loss to explain how she had suddenly found herself in one of its pictures, then lived in it like an encapsulated world with no memory whatsoever of her ‘real’ existence.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Jonathan, obviously not fooled. He eyed her shrewdly. ‘Let’s sit down for a while.’ He nodded to a stone garden seat at the edge of the overgrown formal garden, then guided Belinda towards it.

  ‘OK, Lindi. What is it?’ he said, taking her hand once they were settled on the sun-warmed stone.

  Belinda decided to pitch straight in at the deep end. ‘Do you believe in the supernatural?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to … I think … But nothing’s happened to me yet that would make me believe.’

  Belinda felt relieved then slightly annoyed with herself. Why had she doubted him? Jonathan had always been an open-minded type, and of all the boyfriends she had ever had, the one most prepared to explore new ideas.

  ‘What would you say if I told you that we’ve stumbled into a supernatural situation right now?’ She paused and looked towards the house, which was beginning to look mysterious and secretive again, now that aftern
oon was slowly blending into evening. ‘That nothing here’s really what it seems.’

  Jonathan followed her look. ‘You mean André?’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yes, I have noticed that he’s not exactly Mr Average. I mean, the hours he keeps, for one thing –’ He faltered, his smile looking a bit nervous at the edges. ‘You’re not trying to tell me he’s really Count Dracula, are you?’

  Belinda laughed, trying to diffuse her own nerves. Framed in words, it all sounded so preposterous. ‘I did ask him if he was a vampire, but he said he isn’t –’ Oh Lord, how could she phrase this? ‘But he is two hundred years old!’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ Jonathan’s hand was shaking slightly where it curled around hers.

  ‘I’m not. You know all the portraits of men with the blue eyes? They’re not of his ancestors; they’re all him!’

  ‘Jesus wept!’

  ‘It’s true. He –’

  Belinda was just about to explain as much as she knew about their peculiar host when she heard an insistent, roaring, thrumming noise. It sounded quite distant at first, but quickly grew louder as the source of it drew closer. Looking in the direction that it seemed to be coming from – the winding drive they stumbled along in the rain two nights ago – she saw the dark shape of a motorcycle burst violently from the tree line then charge towards the house, spewing stones and gravel from beneath the blur of its wheels. As it passed behind the building, the powerful engine note was throttled back-then abruptly killed to silence.

  ‘Well, that certainly wasn’t Paula,’ observed Jonathan mildly. ‘Unless there’s something she’s forgotten to tell us.’

  ‘It must be a friend of André’s,’ said Belinda.

  ‘What, another two-hundred-year-old raver?’

  ‘He’s not a raver!’ cried Belinda, not sure why she was springing to the defence of a man she hardly knew, especially as he was sexually exploiting her.