Painful Pathway, page 10
Sophie was scarlet now. This discussion was embarrassing, humiliating and she had no idea where it was leading. “Tell me, Sophie, have you never had any feelings of submissiveness before? What was the relationship like between you and Natasha?”
“We are ... were lovers, best friends, soul mates. She was definitely always the stronger one, always the one who initiated things. We never did anything like ... that is, nothing beyond playful spanking with hand or hairbrush, just kinky harmless fun.”
“And you never felt the need for more than that?”
“Well, I suppose sometimes I would wish ... I don’t know really. Yes, I suppose I sometimes wished she would go further, actually spank me hard enough to hurt. But I never said so.” Sophie was struggling to be honest with herself as well as with Joel now, struggling to analyse her feelings and memories.
“And how would you describe your sexuality? I mean, do you consider yourself to be a lesbian or bi-sexual?”
“I’d never been with a man before ... before,” Sophie became flustered, tears threatening at the too recent memory of what Rabanne had done to her. “I’ve fancied men occasionally but not the way I’m meant to - not how it’s written about in magazines and things, not in the romantic sense. I mean, I’d meet an attractive man and feel something like arousal but the thought of making love with him would instantly douse that. The idea of him kissing me, showing me affection, or sending me flowers with little love notes would turn me off completely. Yet I’m supposed to like that, aren’t I? Other women do. I’d feel something so strong, want something so desperately, but I’d have no idea what it was I wanted...so it would come to nothing.”
“What you were wanting was a good beating and a good fucking,” Joel told her. “You, Sophie, are a genuinely submissive little bitch and always have been but didn’t recognise it. And you don’t want games and make-believe and dressing-up - you want a master, a true dominant who will possess you utterly and completely forever, who will rule your every waking hour and every sleeping one as well.”
Chapter Nine
Sophie sat alone on the patio, staring up at the moon, and the stars, and the darting moths, mulling over what Joel had said to her. Was he right?
Had this whole bizarre nightmarish situation caused her to discover and confront a reality about herself hitherto deeply buried? In many ways it made sense and yet it was frightening. It is frightening to discover the truth about yourself.
“Sophie!” the clipped tone disturbed her thoughts. Joel had returned, was standing near the glass patio doors with another man. It was this other man who caught her attention at once. Tall, dark, ruggedly handsome; about six feet, mop of unruly hair; a smattering of dark hair on the backs of his hands indicating a hirsute body; deep-set eyes caught in the candlelight that played over the angular curves of his face; in his early thirties but with eyes that seemed older, wiser than his years somehow, muscular but not too muscular, a physique from hard physical work not working-out. Was this Master Jason? He didn’t look like a businessman. He looked like a Hollywood icon, a male centrefold an ancient Greek demi-god. As she gazed at him an old familiar feeling began to stir, a feeling she had not experienced for so very long, a feeling like that she had described to Joel. A yearning a burning and a deep nagging desire for something identifiable. Not lovemaking. What then? Surely not ...
“Come.” An ice-cold voice spoke to her. She went to him, followed as he turned and strode away. She flashed a fearful questioning glance at Joel but he already had his back to her, was already going back through those glass doors into the hubbub of the party. She was so frightened, her stomach churning, her mind an eddy, yet somehow she felt excited too. Anticipation, yearning, fear, desire, how could she feel so many different emotions at once, such a confusing, conflicting swirl.
Master Jason led her across the moonlit sward to where there stood a small, detached cottage away from the main house - a worker’s cottage, probably, from when this had been a sporting estate years ago. A dark saloon car was parked outside. Master Jason had to duck his head when they went through the tiny wooden front door that led straight into the living room. He switched on the electric light and Sophie saw how the tiny abode had been specially prepared for its new use. Pulleys, metal loops, shackles and billhooks adorned the ancient rafters overhead. There were even metal loops attached to the polished floorboards here and there. The whitewashed stonewalls were festooned with a sinister collection of whips, chains, tawse, paddles, canes, rope and other implements of dread. Leather-topped whipping stools, benches, an inflatable bondage chair, a tubular steel wheel of some sort with a leather seat inside it, a fuck harness and love-swing ... so many terrifying delights crammed the space. Sophie felt her blood heating, her pussy growing moist. No school uniform. No ‘doctor’, ‘matron’, ‘headmaster’, or ‘daddy’. No make believe or role-play. Just a man, a man who gained pleasure from inflicting pain and humiliation on women. Who wanted to inflict pain and humiliation on her. She stood twisting her fingers nervously, staring around at the paraphernalia surrounding her, as Master Jason went through to the tiny kitchenette, put the electric kettle on to boil, then came back and lit the gas fire. He sat down in a large leather comfy chair and stared unerringly at her, silent, menacing. Her veins throbbed and her thighs ached. Why did this seem so very different from before, when the others had used and hurt her? Why was the fear a different sort of fear? Why was it spiced with something almost akin to craving? Why ...?
He stood, fetched a riding crop and with it tapped at the leather whipping-stool. Obediently Sophie knelt down and leaned forward over it, trembling, timid, knowing now just how much a man could hurt her. He lifted the thin nylon of the nightdress she was still wearing, the one she had put on for the ‘doctor’, and stroked her bare bottom tenderly for several long moments. Then he rubbed the length of the crop to and fro against her cheeks, tantalisingly, threateningly, suggestively ... she sighed, a deep down sigh. A swish, a cruel ‘crack’ across her flesh. A scream, a raised red welt.
She had no idea how many strokes she took but it seemed to last forever, that thrashing. She was sobbing pitifully but remained in position and begged no quarter. She rubbed her bottom with her hands when he finally stopped and tried to ebb the tide of tears.
“Stand.” Such a cold voice with no emotion. She stood - her hands behind her back, legs slightly apart, head lowered, tears flowing silently now, bar the occasionally gasp or suppressed sob. He literally tore the flimsy nightdress from her, threw it aside; stood and gazed at her nakedness, at her huge breasts, her trim waist, her nude exposed pussy, the aroused bud with its tiny ring. He surprised her then, by prising open the nipple rings, removing them, discarding them on the floor. He circled her, like a hawk, a predator stalking its prey, waiting to pounce... Can he hear my heart beating so loudly, she wondered. It was like a drum, pulsating, throbbing, like all of me. Why?
He tied her wrists together behind her back with a short length of cord. She felt panic rising like bile, but another emotion as well, not unpleasant. A blindfold. Darkness. Straining to listen for sound, movement or clues. Where is he now? What is he doing?
“NOOO!” Sophie wailed as a myriad of short leather straps flayed against her thighs and she faltered but did not fall.
“Yes,” the Master’s voice hissed close to her ear. Strike after strike, blow after blow, not indiscriminate but carefully aimed - first several to her thighs, then her bottom, then her breasts. She did not beg, cry out for mercy, but she did cry. She howled, and moaned, and wept bitter salty tears. But she did not ask him to stop. When he did at last stop he released her hands and she at once clasped her tortured breasts and then rubbed her thighs and her cheeks that burned so brightly, filling her with a fire.
“Kneel.” She knelt. She felt him close to her, the softness of the black cotton trousers brushing against her bare skin. He pushed his erection into her mouth. Obligingly she began to suck him in and out, flicking her tongue over the knob, hoping that she was pleasing him though she hated it herself. She hated the taste, the smell, the humiliation ... and yet ...
“Stop.” She stopped. He took her upper arm, pulled her to her feet, and led her across the room to the wall, gently pushed her forward so she realised that she should stand leaning against it. She buried her face in her folded arms and waited for whatever was to come. His hands caressed her body, slowly, intimately, leaving no part of her unexplored, undiscovered. She squirmed, groaned, pushed her hips back towards him, so aroused by those experienced sensual hands ...
“Don’t come yet,” he told her. What a hard instruction to obey! But she must. She must obey this man. She had obeyed Rabanne, Joel, and the others out of fear, from the sheer genuine terror of what they might to do her if she had dared to disobey. But with this man ... No. Of course there was no difference. She was compliant only out of fear, not from any genuine desire to please him, not out of any deep longing to ...
The long leather fronds of a cat slammed heavily against her back and she screamed. It was a severe, savage blow dealt with a harsh heavy hand.
“Count!” came the curt order.
Sophie wondered how the hell she could do that when she was in such agony. But somehow she found a small voice and gasped out the numbers. ‘... Two ... three ... four ... five ... six ...’
The punishment ceased. She heard the thud as the cat was thrown aside and then felt his hands brush against her flesh once more as the blindfold was removed. And then she suddenly felt the strangest, most unexpected emotion ever - an alien sensation of loss, of being cheated somehow! She was so confused by the emotion, felt such bewilderment. And then she shocked herself by suddenly asking for permission to speak and when a brief nod confirmed consent, by actually saying,
“Please don’t stop that yet, Master Jason.” What the hell was she saying? But she did want more of the cat; it was an overwhelming desire she simply could not deny. Six strokes had not been enough. Master Jason let out a deep guttural laugh. He pushed her forward against the wall once more and began to tease her seductively with the plaited leather fronds for a while before he resumed the flogging proper. The strokes were varied between teasingly light and savagely heavy and her back soon felt so hot and stinging. She gasped out the numbers, determined to take as much as she possibly could. At one hundred strokes she suddenly gasped out, “Please!” in a choked voice.
“You want me to stop?”
“No,” she answered honestly, gazing around at him with red bleary eyes (would he have anyway, even if she’d said yes? She doubted it).
“But may I lay down for the rest, please? I think I could take more that way.” Again a guttural laugh and a nod of consent. Stumbling slightly, Sophie moved away from the wall and lay down on her front on the floor, burying her face in her arms. The flogging resumed once more, Sophie counting the blows in a gargled voice. At number three hundred she once more stopped him, but only in order to ask for something to bite on. He threw her a leather gag and she bit onto it tightly in order to enable her endure more. She ceased counting but he did not admonish her for it; she was crying bitterly now yet did not ask him to stop. He stopped at a thousand strokes. Sophie raised her tearstained face and asked in a choked voice for just a few more strokes.
“So I can say I’ve take over a thousand,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper now; she was feeling faint. He obliged by delivering another five strokes and then threw the cat aside.
“Are you pleased with me?” she asked, smiling up at him through her tears. What a stupid question! Why should she care? But she did care. He laughed and did not answer, but she was certain that he was pleased with her; she was definitely pleased with herself.
He left her lying on the floor and went through to the kitchenette. She heard the kettle boiling again, listened to the some how out-of-place domestic sounds of him making a mug of coffee. He came back, sat down in the comfy chair and gazed at her silently as he finished his drink. Then he put the empty mug aside, went over to where she lay curled in a foetal position trembling slightly, whisked her up in his arms and carried her, cradled like a small child, upstairs to the one small bedroom.
It was comfortably furnished, with a double divan that filled most of the space, and the usual pieces of furniture crammed against the walls. There was a small suitcase open on the bed and he kicked it off onto the floor and lay her down on the soft maroon duvet. She lay there in silence, tearful and yet still smiling and watched as he undressed. He looked even more impressive in the nude. What an Adonis - a primordial, raw, dangerous Adonis!
He mounted her, forcing her onto her back and, spreading her legs apart, pushed himself into her. He grasped her wrists tightly and pinned her arms above her head.
“Now you may come,” he told her and began to pump and thrust hard and fast. It was more savage, more bestial and more lustful than any fucking she had taken so far. And more arousing. She did come, again and again and again, moaning, shrieking, writhing and bucking, struggling against his grasp in her passion and fervour.
It was dark. She could hear and feel his rhythmic breathing and knew he was sleeping the deep satisfied sleep of the satiated. She couldn’t remember when the fucking had stopped, didn’t know how many times he had taken her and in how many ways, or how many times she had exploded with a volcanic climax. Did she vaguely remember a spanking on her bare cheeks and upper thighs between fucks? Did she dimly recall a slim metallic dildo being eased into her most secret orifice before yet another screwing? Had she actually fallen asleep with him inside her? He was curled around her, his arm across her breasts, in an almost affectionate embrace. He stirred only very slightly when she gently moved his arm and slipped from the bed.
As silently as possible, Sophie went to the kitchenette and made herself a mug of coffee. She fetched Jason’s abandoned mug from the other room and washed it up. She looked in the cupboards for something to eat and found bread, butter and jam. She ate it on the black faux-fur rug in front of the gas fire in the living room. As she sat there soaking up the warmth of the fire and the silence of the night with an unexpected satisfaction, she rubbed her injuries, delighting in the tingling and stinging that rippled through her and the twinge of each and every movement. Mini pre-orgasmic ripples undulated through her in response. She reached out to the abandoned cat and ran the fronds through her fingers; she caressed it, kissed it and wondered at why and how she could possibly feel such contentment tonight.
Her midnight snack finished she curled up on the rug, cuddling the implement of terror and pleasure and gave a sleepy sigh. She did not hear the pad of bare feet on the stairs or on the floorboards. She did not sense the eyes wandering over her curled naked form. She started when Jason lay down beside her, propped up on one arm and began to casually caress a nipple.
“You left my bed without permission,” he said. The voice did not seem nearly so cold. Warm, sleepy, sensual, yet somehow still threatening. Threatening in a pleasant way. Can there possibly be any such thing as a pleasant threat? Oh yes, yes ...
“I’m sorry. I woke up thirsty and didn’t think I should wake you. And besides, I didn’t think you’d want me to stay in your bed for the whole night. You’d finished with me and ...”
“I say when I’m finished. I might have woken and wanted you. I do want you.” He pressed his mouth against her neck in a warm open-mouthed kiss, his hand straying from her breast to between her thighs. ‘I want you ...’ She savoured the words as she writhed beneath his caresses, gentle at first but becoming quickly more animated. He just means ‘I want to fuck you’; I wish he meant ‘I want to keep you’ ...
Sophie lay on the rug, trembling slightly with arousal, and watched Master Jason as he ferreted about the room. When he had found what he wanted, came back to her. He attached nipple clamps to her erect darkened nubs, the tiny alligator teeth nipping painfully at the flesh, and then pushed a vibrating love-egg into her wet welcoming passage. She groaned softly, her body yielding willingly to all he wanted from it.
“How does a dog take a bitch?” he asked her quietly and she responded by getting into position, on all fours. He grasped her hips as he pushed himself into her rear passage. Soon he was slamming in and out of her, grunting with exertion and ecstasy, as she rocked to and fro, back and forth, moaning and sighing and crying. At last he exploded into her and withdrew; he ordered her to suck him clean and she did not hesitate.
“Coffee,” he said and, still with post-orgasmic aftershocks reverberating through her, she went to make some for him. He sat in the chair to drink it and she curled up at his feet, stroking the dark hair on his legs.
“Are you a close friend of Omar’s?” she asked. He frowned.
“Omar?” he queried.
“Omar Rabanne.”
“I don’t think ... ah, yes, the doctor, I have heard him mentioned here but no, I have never met him, I know nothing of him really. I only know Joel Edwards through a business acquaintance. I am based in London and have not been to these parts before. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” She rested her head in his lap and he stroked her hair as he sat back and slowly drank. Should she tell him her story? Would he believe her? Would he even care? And if he did, there was surely no way he could help her anyway. Joel would not have entrusted her in his care for the night if there had been any doubt he could be trusted to keep secrets, to be part of their conspiracies.
“You are different now. Worried, anxious. What is wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s only that I don’t want the morning to come.” That was true. She didn’t want tomorrow to arrive. Jason would go. Joel would put her to work satisfying the perverse fantasies of his clients. And she would be even lonelier - more friendless and more wretched than ever.
