The Pleasure Palace

by Caroline Swift

  The odour from the girl’s flesh and crotch cusp filled the bed, exciting Claudia anew. Softly she kissed the wet lips and suddenly felt the ringed tongue flick into her mouth; she closed her teeth, imprisoning it. Then she pressed the shorn head down into the bed and opened her thighs...

  Next day, Tansu was gone. Only the musky smell of cinnamon and sex remained. And Claudia’s sore clitoris.

  The household let the visitor sleep and dream until noon. Then she showered and went down to the brunch laid out in the dining room. On the way, she stole into the room where she had spent so many hours. There was no evidence of the night’s enjoyments. All was spruce and trim; the whipping posts seemed to have been moved back to dovetail into the walls.

  As she listened to the far off cuckoo in somebody else’s nest, Claudia felt she was trespassing too.. She wanted to get back to reality, to Verena and Marina and to Mishka. All the same, one learnt a lot chez Juliette de Frejaviole, mainly about oneself. Claudia was not sure if she wanted to accept a second invitation to the Sologne. She had her own project in hand and needed to work on it. Some day she would do the inviting.

  It was Claudia, quite naturally, who ordered her girls to prepare themselves for the journey to Beaucastel, two days later. They would travel by night express in a reserved sleeper with Gemma next door; they were, she instructed Gemma, to wear not their silk cloaks but, now Autumn was upon them, rough, woollen smocks, heavy velvet riding cloaks with copes, and sandals. No underclothes. They should, she added, be attached together by the wrist, at least until they were in the train. At Rodez, they would be met by car from Beaucastel where Gemma was to sign them in, returning the same day.

  On the appointed Thursday, the girls were ready, excited and, at the same time, alarmed. “Won’t Gemma stay with us, Mistress?” Marina was apprehensive. Claudia kissed them and advised them to be co-operative, proud and obedient. Antoine drove the trio to the Austerlitz station in good time to install them in the luxury of the first-class sleeper. Gemma had the corridor door locked by the controlleur and handed in the tickets.

  “Where the hell are we going, Verena darling?” Marina was nervous, as she took off her velvet cloak in the train and was nude, both being unmanacled for the journey.

  “Hell’s probably right. I haven’t a clue, darling. Relax. Did you see the people staring at us as we walked along the platform? If they only knew!” She smiled. “Now darling. Come over here and do your duty.”

  They made unabashed love in the limited space the SNCF bed allowed, each thrilled by the chink of metal clustered around their sexes. A quivering solace invaded each as the steel rings ground together. The cries of orgasm superimposed themselves over the rush of the train heading south to Beaucastel. Next door, Gemma shook her grey head and slept.

  At Rodez, under a dark drizzle of rain, a Rolls awaited them with a faceless driver, complete with cap and an air of collusion with Gemma. They set off into the dawn.

  They arrived before the enormous walls and gate of Beaucastel at seven, quite chilled.

  Chapter Eight

  The little group waited rather pathetically under the rain, while the chauffeur tugged several times on a bell chain to earn a distant peal of a bell somewhere in the entrails of the castle. For a long moment nothing happened apart from the frantic barking and baying of several terrifying Neapolitan mastiffs, padding and slobbering on the battlements above. The man rang again. Abruptly, the rain transformed into metal wires in the beam of floodlights, blinding the shivering girls. The judas in the colossal gate finally opened to allow a study of the intruders.

  “Two slaves to be delivered, sir, according to orders.” The chauffeur was evidently anxious to be rid of his charges. “And their servant.”

  The eyes in the square of light blinked and a voice said: “We have no knowledge of arrivals. But let them enter, though I have no instructions either from the Master or from the overseers. But get them in, while I check. Morning arrivals are a real pain.”

  There ensued a prolonged drawing of bolts and grating of keys as the postern was cautiously opened ajar. In the entry stood a hooded figure, holding the creaking door. The girls entered, Verena towing Marina after her by the chain that wedded them. They found themselves in a small courtyard surrounded with thick rhododendron bushes; an ornate, melancholy well stood in the centre under the frigid downpour.

  “Straight up the pathway, over the drawbridge and wait under the portcullis until you are sent for.” The man’s gruff instructions were at least clear. The girls ascended the slope, looking back at Gemma who had rejoined the chauffeur. Gemma - the last palpable contact with reality - was being severed from them. There were no goodbyes.

  Crouching together under the shelter of the huge archway, the girls waited, terrified.

  “Well, that was quite a welcome,” Marina muttered. “But I suppose slaves don’t warrant more. What an awful place!” Scared, she grasped her lover’s clammy hand. Long minutes passed, the rain continuing to fall on the black hounds growling above.

  Suddenly the man reappeared, his head uncovered, giving the girls ample opportunity to take stock of him. He was of middle height, slender, wearing a cloak not unlike their own, handsome with rough-cut features and grey eyes that seemed to have had insufficient sleep. As he approached them, the girls were startled at the sight of his ponderous genitals hanging bare beneath a mass of black hair on the lower belly. Buckled above the loins was a belt of worn leather, slanting sideways towards a heavy tawse - a single thong of horsehide, split at the end. His thorax was bound in narrow straps of leather. He wore riding boots and small spurs that glinted in the pale light of the dawn.

  Huddling against the stone wall of the archway, the girls watched the gloved hands wind up the portcullis gateway of what seemed to be the castle keep. He beckoned to them, his genitals swaying indolently, threateningly.

  “I apologise for the welcome to Beaucastel, Mesdames,” he said with what the girls took to be Beaucastel irony, “but please enter. You need warmth and comfort after your journey, all the way from Amsterdam.” The voice was colourless and flat. Neither girl sought to correct him as to their origin, dismayed that they were so anonymous. “My name is Restif. I am your custodian here with the rank of senior valet. You will address me as ‘Sir’, just as you will address my superiors, the overseers, as ‘Mistress’ and ‘Master’. You will never address a servant, male or female, in any way whatsoever. I mention these items to avoid you running into serious trouble in your first moments here. The complete rules of Beaucastel will be read to you after your induction and following the marking of your flesh with our house numbers for identification during training. Your induction will take place at midday.” He paused, looking carefully at the nude slaves. “You will not speak here unless you are given permission, even during sex. Follow me.”

  He led them into a small chamber in the gatehouse. It was grossly overheated, so much so that tiny beads of sweat broke out amid the down and faint freckles on Marina’s cheeks. Coming out of the cold, the prisoners were taken aback but welcomed the warmth.

  “Kindly strip stark naked and place your belongings in the lockers marked ‘106’ and ‘107’ over there.” He indicated a long row of square cupboards. “Those are the numbers by which you will be known during your stay at Beaucastel. You will wait here until the overseers summon you for identification. Breakfast will be served in a moment.” To the girls’ astonishment he asked: “Do you prefer coffee or tea or something else? English, continental or oriental. We cater for all tastes.”

  As the girls drew off and folded their coverings, adding their sopping sandals, the man approached to check their flesh rings and nodded. “Appropriately ringed, I see. Well and good.”

  Satisfied, the man left them, nude and solitary in the small, windowless chamber which boasted several chairs, a table and, in full evidence on the wall, a short whip of three
tough tongues of bull’s hide, far more frightening than anything Claudia and Mikhail had yet contemplated using on them. In the ceiling a heavy ring hung from a hook, which the slaves noted with trepidation. All the objects threw grotesque shadows in the light of a single bulb above the door. But one more item drew their attention: from the far corner, the eye of a video camera stared down at them. Verena gestured at it with her chin and Marina saw it and grimaced.

  Neither dared even whisper in the eerie silence enshrouding them. They merely held hands, standing mute in the chamber, waiting in servile obedience. Then, unexpectedly, their breakfast was brought in and placed on the table. The servant was a dark-haired, lovely woman of about thirty, wearing white stockings and high-heeled shoes, leather manacles around the wrists, ankles and throat but nothing else. Her buttocks had evidently been severely and very recently flogged to judge from the welts. She was not ringed and carried herself with grace. She offered a momentary smile to the two newcomers. “Bon appetit,” she wished them softly in broken French. Marina guessed she was from Croatia or perhaps from Slovenia. She was extremely sexual, the sultry sort Marina liked.

  The meal was sheer delight; the fresh croissants were hot and soft, the honey trickling viscously. As they ate, Verena risked a word.

  “There’s obviously a strict hierarchy here. That female must be a servant, at the foot of the pyramid, and the overseers somewhere near the top, I suppose. This Restif character must be in between, don’t you think, darling?”

  Marina found it difficult and hazardous to chat. And she was right.

  When, sometime later, Restif returned to lead them to their induction, he mentioned the fact. “It is forbidden to speak other than in the slave quarters or, I repeat, when spoken to by senior castle staff. This could earn you thirty lashes on the service trestles in solitary confinement, chained and hooded. In future,” he added, “the rules are there to be obeyed. Follow me.”

  The man deftly released their wrists, placing the chain Claudia had supplied for the journey in one of the cupboards; then he snapped two long chains to the girls’ nipple rings and tugged smartly. The procession began.

  They walked down what seemed to be endless passages, turning corners, mounting steps and then descending again through labyrinths dimly lit with violet bulbs. At one point on their itinerary, the group passed a naked female outspread wide against the stone wall of the corridor, a huge dildo plunged into her sex, her breasts elongated with heavy spiked weights dangling from chains hooked to the teat rings; she seemed oblivious of her colleagues passing a step from her. Her head lolled downwards as she moaned. The sight unnerved the girls, around the body there roamed a distinct acrid odour of stale semen and obviously she had been there for hours. Restif sensed his charges’ hesitation as they stumbled.

  “Disobedience,” he remarked, wrenching on the chains, “To be fucked, flogged and tortured tonight in the Master’s personal cellar. Whore trash!” The girls hurried forward.

  Finally, they arrived before a stout studded door. Restif knocked with the shaft of his whip, inclining his head to catch the word of permission to enter.

  The room was a surprise. Strewn richly with carpets, mirrors round the stone walls, the place was luxuriously furnished and at a long table sat a woman with a man slightly to the rear. Again, video lenses kept track of the proceedings.

  On the wall hung several instruments of flagellation, more, Marina sensed, as decoration than for use, but who could tell? To the right of the couple several gilt-framed notices leaned from the stone; in Gothic script the first read very simply: ‘The degree to which flogged slaves surrender themselves to their owners is the sole measure of their worth.’ Beyond it, Marina read the second: ‘Submission and pain are the harbingers of ecstasy’. Other encouraging messages were beyond her view. Matters were becoming serious.

  Behind the desk with its grey computer, the woman was austere. Her eyes were narrowed and dark under the long lashes; her arms, extending from her strap-harnessed chest and superb bare breasts, were enclosed in thin kid gloves from her armpits. Her hair was page-boy style, carefully brushed. Peering at her screen, she did not look up when the group entered.

  “Kneel! Thighs open, breasts out, arms across the rump,” the valet ordered and now Marina was certain he was probably a chief valet with broad powers. Then the man stood aside, holding his service whip ready for any eventuality, with the right to lash a slave on any pretext and with total impunity.

  The woman finally looked up and scrutinized the two superb naked bodies.

  “My name is Vasa, principal overseer at Beaucastel. This is Lalaniere, “ she turned her head a fraction, “my colleague. We, together with the other overseers, are charged with your training here. Your owners have paid for this and we shall try to meet their requirements, delivering totally trained flesh in return for their confidence. Your fortnight with us here will be well spent, that I assure you. All laxity, slovenly behaviour or hesitation will be severely punished. You will be taught every conceivable aspect of carnal slavery, some of it will be hard but all will benefit you. You will never be the same after Beaucastel. You will issue forth from here as exquisite sex slaves, worth a great deal on the international market.”

  She leaned back calmly in her high-back throne. “The simple fact that, as sex slaves, you have graduated through Beaucastel will ensure you of austere, powerful and grateful owners, if ever you are put up for sale or rental.”

  Beads of perspiration began to gather on both girls’ brows; it was not the heat but sheer fear that afflicted them. They dared not regard the woman in the eyes; they kept their heads bowed, as Claudia had taught them. The terrifying Vasa rose and walked round the desk. The girls saw that she was attired in clinging, black vinyl that left her bush and crotch bare; the high, glittering boots were in themselves sufficient to scare any slave. Claudia was child’s play compared with this threat, Marina thought, beginning to waver. The straps that gripped the Gorgon’s firm breasts, like parcels from hell, frightened Verena too. God help us! And I’ll wager, she supposed, the scarlet band round her throat indicates her high rank.

  The woman jerked Verena’s right breast up viciously by the teat ring. “Why hasn’t this slut been marked?”

  She flashed a glance at the valet.

  “Neither, Mistress, has been marked yet. They’ve just arrived.”

  “Well, see to it immediately afterwards. This slave is 106 and this blonde beauty,” she slapped Marina’s bosom, is 107. Get it done, man! “

  “Yes, Mistress.” The man agreed with alacrity. The hierarchical patterns were plain.

  While the woman circled round the two kneeling figures, Marina glanced at the man sitting beyond the desk. He was strikingly handsome, a little akin to Mikhail in build and by reason of the pointed beard. He was muscular, well shaped and immensely compelling; she could imagine the man’s penis without seeing it - heavy and overpowering, capable of long staying, durable erections and massive ejaculations of opaque, compact semen. She rather liked the long hair brushed back from the brow and the dark eyes.

  The overseer Vasa returned to her desk and scrolled down on the computer screen. “I see they are recommended by the Comtesse de Frejaviole - a discriminating sponsor. All seven rings in place, used to the whip and, more or less, to triple orifice usage... I see that a certain amount of sex is recorded here and some degree of flagellation but little or no sex torture. Restif, see to it they are manacled forthwith. The owners, I see, desire the best, permanent fixtures we provide.” Then she halted, peering at the screen. “Oh, I see from the curriculum they are lesbians. Well, now...” She paused and leaned over the desk. “I want to make our rules clear, 106 and107. In the slave quarters you can do what you like, sleep together, suck each other off, frig each other stupid but never in session, unless expressly ordered. Moreover, you will be frequently trained separately and put to male slaves for
fucking, to assess your competence and adaptability. You are both accustomed, I trust, to the male cock?” There was a silence. “Speak!”

  Verena managed a nod and Marina a sibilant ‘yes’.

  Vasa acknowledged their bisexual competence by switching off her computer. “Right. That is all. You will have your first course this afternoon at four in Cellar I: naked deportment, overt masturbation and oral sex servicing of other female and male slaves. Elementary, maybe, but essential. Your first flagellation and anal use will be tomorrow at five in Cellar III. Meanwhile you, 106,” she gestured at Verena, “you will service me tonight in my chambers and Lalaniere, my friend, you may wish to exercise your prerogatives with the blonde one, 107, exchanging with me tomorrow.”

  The male overseer did not seem to mind with which flesh he passed the night, as long as the body was attractive enough. He nodded and rose, displaying his superb genitals to the girls for the first time. Marina was right but she caught her breath all the same while Verena gazed with awe. The cock was at half-erection and superb. A pure monster, a true female’s dream - even if Marina and Verena were inclined towards vulvas. The cock was, of course, the girls deduced, one of the justifications of the man’s rank at Beaucastel, apart probably from his qualities as an elegant, experienced flagellator. They wondered how long it would be before they, too, would be transpierced by and impaled on the thing that swayed before them. Only too soon, if they had understood the proposed programme laid out for them.