by P. J. Fox
Rubber panties, as thick and durable as something from an automotive shop, with two surprises inside: molded rubber dildos, one for each entrance. The one meant for the anus had been slightly smaller, but not much. Belle, who at that point had never even touched a butt plug, had been scandalized.
She smiled slightly. How things had changed.
“They’re just large enough that I can feel them all the time.” Julianne straightened, letting her hem drop. “Not as large as Master, of course. But he wishes me to have a constant reminder that my body is his. That my pleasure is his, and no other man is allowed to touch me.”
Sitting on those hard chairs all throughout dinner must have been agonizing, Belle thought; feeling those two foreign invaders pressing deep inside her, claiming her whether she willed it or no. No wonder Belle had found her in here, standing. The release of pressure must have been an intense relief. Still…Belle found herself intrigued by the idea.
By the discomfort, trending now and again toward pain. A pain that could only be eased by shifting this way or that, the invaders—claimants—still lodged deep within. Of the constant awareness of one’s body. She wondered if Julianne’s panties were wet on the inside.
FIFTY-NINE
“You missed dessert!”
Belle smiled vaguely at John, still disconcerted by her thoughts from earlier. That she’d found the idea of the panties arousing was…a surprise. She was still thinking about them, and couldn’t decide which would be more arousing: the physical fact of the stimulation or the relationship they represented. The submission. The knowledge that another person had claimed her in a fashion so intimate and yet so brazen.
The anticipation of what would come later.
Still, Julianne’s situation made her uncomfortable. Despite, or perhaps partially because, of the other woman’s enthusiasm. Submitting was one thing; being controlled to such an extent was quite another. Julianne had no choice in where or how she slept, or with whom she had sex. At no time was she free, simply to be herself.
Did that bother her, Belle wondered, because she truly was a feminist? As she’d claimed? Or did it bother her, came the recurrent thought, because—but for her own denial—this was her?
Ash caught her eye, and she walked over to him.
She was struck, again, by how different he was from the other men present. They looked like overgrown children playing at dress up; behind their swaggering lay a fundamental insecurity. They wanted, needed this environment they’d arranged for themselves, this artificial world full of costumes and protocols, to feel legitimate. To convince themselves that they were, in fact, in charge. She thought back to what Ash had said, about how others either recognized him as a leader or did not. And understood perfectly. He, as always, dominated the room. His stance relaxed, he looked completely at home in his attire. In this setting. He exuded dominance, simply by existing.
“I was speaking with Julianne.” Belle did her best to keep her tone arch.
“I hope she pleased you.”
“Yes.”
Belle knew that more was wanted, but she had no intention of adding to her response. She could play this game, as well. In true dominatrix fashion, she only smiled.
“Julianne was expected at the table,” her husband said.
Julianne, while bowing her head penitently, seemed thrilled that she might be punished.
“I’ll leave you to administer discipline as you see fit.” Ash allowed his gaze to rest on Julianne for a moment, as if appreciating what he saw. Or relishing the idea of her coming pain. “But I wish to give Belle the tour.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Belle let him lead her, having no idea where they were going.
Alone with him, she’d thought she’d feel more relaxed. But she felt more on edge than ever. He seemed to know where he was going, and he walked there in silence. He seemed preoccupied, too. Belle was reminded, uncomfortably, of her time in the club. Once again, she had that feeling of formless dread.
They traversed a hall, and then another hall, and then a staircase down into the former rest home’s cavernous basement. Belle had been in a similar basement, before, in an old town hall while doing research for a school project. She’d half expected to encounter a vampire at any moment. Brick and mortar arches reared up. The air smelled of dust and somewhere, a boiler hummed.
Abruptly, Ash stopped.
Belle swallowed.
He turned. “This is ridiculous,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m warning you, this is ridiculous.” Then, seeing the expression on her face, he paused. “What?”
“I—I don’t know what’s happening.” She sounded lame in her own ears.
“What’s happening is that I’ve got a friend who’s gone completely off the deep end. The last we spoke, he mentioned nothing about his rather…rigid lifestyle adaptations. Nor, indeed, the fact that his wife had left him.”
“He’s married?”
“Was. He told us the story over dessert. I roomed with him for two years. You’d think I’d know, but of course not!” He scowled. He didn’t take kindly to being made to feel like an idiot. Belle didn’t blame him.
“What—did you think that I…?”
“Yes!” she blurted, before she could stop herself.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” And then, “I’d wanted to expand your horizons, yes. But in the classical sense only. I devoutly hope that our lives never include such egregiously bad plastic surgery or—gods! Those corsets are so cheap. I wouldn’t let my dog wear satin that cheap. I wouldn’t let my maid’s dog wear satin that cheap. And the wine! Wine connoisseur my foot. Did he salvage it from some prisoner’s toilet bowl?”
Belle started to laugh.
“What?” Ash demanded.
“You’re—you’re delightful.”
“I’m also insulted.” Although he wasn’t, not really. She could tell. “Here I was, thinking we’d have a bit of fun and perhaps watch one of my friends torture one of his slaves, and instead I find myself in a nightmare of costuming.”
“Well that’s good, because I don’t think I could dress like this all the time.”
“I may make you. You look fetching.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“I take myself far too seriously.”
Belle felt the tension begin to drain out of her. Her shoulders relaxed. A small smile, of relief more than pleasure, quirked her lips and was gone. She thought again about Julianne, and what Julianne’s life must be like. Could anyone truly choose this for themselves? Charlotte was planning on law school and she lectured Belle constantly on the legal principles in which she already considered herself an expert. One of those was informed consent. As Belle understood the term, there could be no informed consent to a situation like this—not when there could be no explanation of what it truly entailed.
“Belle,” Ash said, “you persist in believing me to be the world’s greatest ogre.”
Her eyes searched his. “You’re not about to insist that I serve your guests their cocktails in nothing but a corset?”
“I’d have to dispose of them. I’m far too jealous to let anyone ogle you.”
“And have—work done?”
“You’re perfect just as you are.” Ash sniffed. “Moreover, those were the worst breasts I’ve ever seen. And, having seen a significant number, I do consider myself an expert. Some, ah, enhanced versions can be quite nice. Although those reminded me more of tumescent cantaloupes than breasts.”
Belle laughed. “And stand with my ankles exactly four inches apart?”
“This house is so stultifyingly dull. I’d no idea that rules gave John such an erection.” He gestured to the door in front of them. “Really, though. This is…ridiculous.”
“You never wanted a dungeon?” In truth, it surprised Belle that he didn’t have one. If anyone was the type to appreciate a room entirely devoted to pain, Ash was.
But he surprised her again. “Only a
n amateur needs props.” And then, genuinely curious, “have I not done a sufficient job of inflicting pain?”
“More than sufficient,” Belle assured him.
He opened the door.
Belle stared. Ash continued to share his thoughts on the subject of how John’s so-called House of Brennus must be the most libido-crushing place in all of England and perhaps in the world. “Any sex act,” he mused, “however minor, must require at least an hours’ worth of planning. Which really, when one thinks about it, how long should one be required to sustain an erection? And how can he sustain an erection, through acting in the role of—I mean, for lack of a better term, he’s an air traffic controller.”
But Belle’s attention was all for her surroundings.
Unlike the rest of the basement, this was a finished space. The flooring was oak, and the walls had been painted red. There were a couple of cheap-looking oriental carpets on the floors, the kind of thing her mother bought at Building 19, but other than that no real decoration.
Except the furniture.
The first piece she encountered was a sort of half-wall, several feet across and with five holes set at intervals around the midpoint. She couldn’t, at first, figure out what she was seeing. It looked something like a stocks but….
“The head,” Ash gestured, “goes in here. “The wrists through the holes on either side and the legs, so and so. On the other side of the stocks, there are shackles to keep the penitent in place.”
Belle could well picture what said penitent would look like: nothing but a back and genitals.
“It’s used for group sex,” Ash said. His tone was distressingly matter of fact. “Or in some cases, punishment. The penitent never knows whose shaft is entering her—or him, for that matter—from behind.” He tapped the wood lightly. “The holes are placed at a perfect height for use.” There was a distinct note of enthusiasm in his voice that Belle found hard to ignore. “Quite ingenious, really,” he continued. “Although one has to be careful, as there’s a risk of cutting off circulation.”
Completing her circuit, Belle examined the thing from the front. There were indeed shackles. She pictured what the intended target must look like inside. She pictured what she would look like, chained and helpless. Ready to be violated by one strange man after another.
Not a man…a disembodied member.
The notion was compelling: to take pleasure, to be forced to take pleasure, not from a particular man but from the organ itself. To know that a cock, any cock, could send her over the edge. That she craved, not a lover but an object. That she herself was an object, subject entirely to the whims of others.
She felt a warm rush between her legs. She couldn’t believe how arousing the idea was. Was this how Julianne felt? Had she been down here, tied up and forced to come for any number of cocks? Knowing that she was such a slut that any cock would turn her on?
Belle swallowed.
The next piece of furniture was a sort of pommel horse, designed so that the submissive in question could be bent over and chained into place. Again, leaving everything open for inspection—or worse. The concept was appealing, but less so.
She wondered what was wrong with her.
Ash ran a hand over the adjacent piece of furniture, a chair welded together from bars of powder-coated steel. The padded seat had a hole in the middle, giving it the look of an outhouse bench. Belle doubted, however, that that was its intended use.
“Too many props,” he said mildly. “Although I am quite fond of the cross.”
He meant the St. Andrew’s cross on the far wall. This particular model had been finished in a blue powder coat, so dark it was almost black. Parts of it were upholstered. Leather, blood red. A St. Andrew’s cross was a tall, narrow cross, a staple in most home dungeons and, according to Ash, in all clubs. There were restraining points for ankles, wrists, and waist, and sometimes elsewhere as well. Fully attached, the submissive was fixed upright and spread-eagled.
“And the bed.”
Belle’s eyes followed his gesture. She hadn’t thought anything of the bed at first, except that the bedding was tacky, but now she realized that this wasn’t just any bed. It, like most of the furniture in the room, was fabricated from steel. An enormous four poster, it was crowned with a series of arches. Also steel. From each of the arches hung, at intervals, steel hanging rings. It didn’t take much to imagine all the ways that an unlucky person might be suspended. And used.
“Of course, the bedding is awful.”
Belle laughed, and the strange tension that had been building around them lessened. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips. Ash caught the movement, and she felt the weight of his stare. “Perhaps I should have a dungeon,” he said.
She felt her heart skip. “What?”
“You’re flushing.”
“It’s warm in here.” But it wasn’t.
He trailed his fingers across the combination cage and table behind him. Its surface, like that of almost everything else in the room, was leather-padded. A double strap body outline gave the only hint as to its purpose, although simple context supplied Belle with more than enough information. “A veritable stage of delight.” His voice was low, dangerous.
“You don’t need props,” she reminded him.
“But you might.” He moved toward her. “I saw how you examined that pillory. And in other circumstances I might be intrigued.” His hands were on her now, his breath warm in her face. “Even if it was only me, playing the part of another man. Except”—he took her chin in his hand, tilting it up—”doing so might plant the suggestion in your mind that other men might please you.”
“Perhaps they might.” Her words were little more than a whisper.
“You came to me pure and shall remain so.”
She swallowed. “I don’t like it here.”
“You like something. I can see it in your eyes.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“I….” She trailed off. His grip was firm. She wondered what would happen if she tried to twist away. To leave this place. Her skin under his was warm. “I like the idea of you.”
“Hurting you?”
“Yes.”
“Because you like pain?”
“No.” She hated pain. She’d always been squeamish, the supreme irony in a dancer. A dancer’s world was pain. “Because it pleases you.”
“And you want to please me.”
“Yes.”
His hand, when it slid up her thigh, found that the secret space between her legs was wet. Wet and ready. She felt like she was burning up from the inside out. He kissed the hollow of her neck and she gasped. His touch was like fire and ice. She arched her hips toward him, not caring how wanton she seemed, desperate to maintain contact. He kissed her again and then bit her, hard, using his free hand to muffle her when she cried out.
He had her bent over back onto the table, his lips everywhere, but in a single motion he stood and jerked her upright. Then, without ceremony, he spun her around and forced her back down, onto her stomach. She hit the leather with an involuntary exhalation. Before she could react, he used the ties on the table to secure her wrists. The table was wide, far wider than average, and she was stretched taut.
He pushed her skirt up, and his hands slid over her flank. “You don’t need these,” he said. There was a ripping sound and her panties disappeared.
“What if someone sees?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” There was an edge to his voice. He was in his element, now. “You’d like them to come in here, see you naked and dripping. Desperate.”
She said nothing. It was true. Part of her did want exactly that.
“They can watch as I take you from behind, like a whore. As you wiggle your tight, cute little ass for some cock, any cock to sate your need.”
He was reading her mind.
“Tell me.”
“Please.” The
word was half whisper, half moan.
“Please what?”
“Please….”
He teased her, ever so gently, with his fingertips. The effect was electrifying. She knew that if he just touched her a little more, just a little more, she could come. And she needed to come. Desperately. She had no idea how she’d gotten so aroused, so fast, but the need wasn’t even pleasant. It was like a physical pain. Like the worst hunger, the worst thirst, she’d ever experienced.
“Please what?” he prompted. He, unlike herself, was totally in control. And there was a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice, which told her that he relished the difference.
“Please….” She forced herself to say the rest. “I want to come.”
“How do you want to come?”
“With your cock inside me.”
The first, ringing slap caught her completely by surprise. She buried her face in the leather, trying not to cry out. She wanted people to see, she didn’t, she didn’t know what she wanted. But instinct warned her to be quiet. The flesh of her bottom burned. It hadn’t been a gentle slap. Sometimes, when he spanked her, it was little more than play.
This was no game.
At the second slap, tears sprung up.
“I don’t sense much enthusiasm.”
Another slap.
She gritted her teeth.
“Tell me.”
Another slap.
Finally, she exploded. “Please, oh God, fuck me and make me come around your cock.”
He drove into her. She gasped, the tears running freely now. Not from pain, but from simple release. Spanking, as a sheer physical act, increased blood flow to the genitals and thus arousal. There was no orgasm so earth-shattering as one achieved through pain.
But what drove her over the edge was being forced to submit. Being forced to want to submit. Her entire life so far, Belle had been quiet. Self-contained. In control. In Ash’s hands, she became completely powerless over her own desires. No longer the arch, aloof ballet dancer, she was thrusting her hips back toward him as wildly as her bonds would allow as she silently begged him to help her find her release.
