Stephanie's Revenge, page 9
'Do it, do it,' she cried.
They needed no translation. Their fists worked faster, their eyes locked on her body, on the way her fingers worked on her cunt, on her tits, on her pink clitoris pummelled by the tip of her finger.
Stephanie saw Carlo's muscles lock. His fist stopped pumping and squeezed instead. She saw his cock spasm and the white hot spunk jet out from the little black slit, spitting on to her thighs, hot as tar. Then she let herself come, or could not stop herself any longer, whichever; her orgasm breaking the dam, flooding over her, reminding her of all the sensation she had had already that night. As she closed her eyes to sink into the darkness behind them, she felt a hot splash of spunk on her other thigh, like acid burning her soft flesh, as Angelo spunked too. Her orgasm rolled on, this last sensation feeding its flow, as she forced her eyes open to see the last drops of white spunk erupt from Angelo's cock.
She hugged her cunt with both hands, pressing it hard, then not moving, just holding it, feeling it, feeling her orgasm die away on her own hard fingers.
When she opened her eyes again, she was alone on the bed.
She heard a shuffling of clothes in the sitting room and some whispered conversation. She would have liked to get up and go and say goodbye. But she did not have the energy and she didn't want to end the little aftershocks of pleasure that still ran through her body.
She heard the outer door of the suite close quietly, as though they imagined she had gone to sleep.
In her mind, she determined to get up and shower, but her body did not want to respond. She felt something running down her thigh and realised it was spunk. She shuddered with a jolt of pleasure, a pale imitation of the pleasure she had just experienced, but pleasure nevertheless.
It was a night worthy of Rome, she thought. A Roman night, her Roman night.
Chapter Eight
It was no more than a ten minute flight from Rome to Devlin's private airfield alongside the shore of Lake Trasimeno. It wouldn't have taken much longer to drive, but Stephanie had not yet got over the novelty of having a private plane more or less at her disposal, and was determined to take advantage of it at every opportunity. On the plane, Susie the Malaysian flight attendant had served her coffee and, by the time she had finished the cup, the captain was announcing that she would be able to see the lake from the left side of the aircraft.
As the plane banked to make its approach, the lake lay in the sun beneath her. The castle, on its island, was virtually in the centre of the irregularly-shaped stretch of water. A powerboat was cutting a wake across the lake, no doubt on its way to the jetty to pick Stephanie up. Its wake curved through the almost still water, creating waves that rippled out for thousands of feet before dying away entirely. The castle looked, for all the world, like the site of a fairytale, where the Prince would come to wake a sleeping beauty from a hundred years of sleep. And in a way that was near the truth. Her life had become sort of fairytale, though she was, and would remain, very firmly awake.
Down on the ground Stephanie could see little figures working in the orchards, vineyards and gardens behind the castle. At the landing strip she could see the black Mercedes waiting to take her to the castle, its driver leaning on the bonnet reading a newspaper.
As soon as they had landed, Susie unbuckled herself from her seat in the front cabin and came through to open the pressurised door.
'You're going to London now, to pick up Devlin?' Stephanie asked, in case there had been a change of plan.
'Yes, miss,' Susie replied. 'Back tomorrow morning.'
'Tell him I'll be waiting.'
'Yes, miss.' Susie's Malaysian accent struggled with the 'ss'.
The results of Stephanie's shopping spree had been packed away in the empty suitcases, most still in their shop bags. The cases were transferred to the Mercedes. After a short five minutes' drive the car arrived at the jetty where the powerboat, its wood varnish and polished brass shining in the sun, waited for her. The boatmen helped her abroad, cast off and drifted a little way from the jetty before gunning the big engines of the boat out across the lake.
Sitting in the transom, Stephanie enjoyed the sensation of wind in her hair as the boat sped over the water, cutting through the almost mirror-like calm of the lake. The sun, not as high in the sky as it had been when Stephanie first came to the castle, was shaded by a few white, fluffy clouds. But to the west she could see the leading edge of a bank of cloud, broken ragged cloud, mackerel cloud, the first precursor of a storm, she thought.
At the castle jetty she told the boatmen to be ready to pick up a guest that evening. She had arranged with Jasmina that the Rolls would pick her up and drive her to the castle, as the plane had to go to London.
A servant helped her ashore. She climbed the narrow stone steps, worn in the centre by four centuries of use, and draped in a canopy of climbing flowers. Her cases were unloaded, the boatmen and the servant making a stack on the wooden jetty.
Inside the castle she ordered lunch. She was hungry. She had drunk a great deal of champagne last night but had not eaten anything. The morning croissant had not slaked her appetite. In sudden glee she thought of Gianni, chained to his living room wall. She imagined his wife coming home, finding the front door open, the servants gone, calling out her husband's name, wandering into the living room and finding him there, the pretty red ribbon decorating his cock. It wouldn't be easy to unchain him either. She'd left no keys to the heavy padlocks. She giggled to herself as she danced upstairs. That's what you get if you mess with me, she thought.
She determined to swim before lunch. In her bedroom, she pulled on a black, one-piece bathing suit - of a very practical design, except perhaps that it was cut high on the hips - a black chiffon wrap, and a pair of high-heeled sandals. She wrapped her hair into a chignon at the back of her head and pinned it there.
As she came downstairs, one of the servants was bringing the first of her cases up to her room.
There was a duty to perform before her swim and lunch, however. She pulled aside the corner of the large modern tapestry that decorated one of the walls at the bottom of the staircase, to reveal the thick wooden door that led to the cellars. As she stepped inside, she felt a cool rush of air.
Stephanie picked her way carefully down the stone steps, worn by the passage of time just as the jetty steps were. She walked across the brick-vaulted cellar used for storing Devlin's extensive collection of wine, to the heavy door that was the entrance to the more unusual feature of the castle.
Bruno, the keeper of the keys, answered her double knock immediately, swinging the door open. Here the brick-vaulted cellar - once a dungeon for the enemies of the duke who had built this impressive fortress - had been divided into cells, each with its own thick wooden door.
'Any problems while I've been away?' Stephanie asked.
Bruno answered by shaking his head. Dressed like a mediaeval executioner, with a black tunic and breeches, and a ring of keys and a sturdy whip hanging from a wide leather belt at his thick waist, Bruno's face betrayed no other emotion. As he had, apparently, suffered an accident which had deprived him of his masculine attributes, he was ideal for his job in the cellars.
Most of the slaves were out in the fields working. There were only two in the cellars, both women. One was cleaning the suite of rooms at the far end of the corridor, a set of rooms lavishly decorated and comfortably furnished. Devlin's guests could take the slaves there, or to what was called the bondage room, where those with more active imaginations could indulge their whims for more unusual sexual tastes. Everything, in fact, the heart might desire.
The other slave was chained, naked, to the corridor wall where all punishments were carried out. Though all the slaves were at the castle as an alternative to prison sentences, and therefore rarely caused discipline problems, occasionally they forgot their situation and rebelled. If the rebellion persisted, they were returned to the mainland and prosecuted for whatever crime against Devlin's empire they had committed originally, but generally it did not. Generally, they realised that life at the castle was a great deal better than life in prison.
Stephanie walked over to the woman for a closer look. Bruno followed.
'What exactly have you done?' she asked. The women had short fair hair and, though not fat, was distinctly plump around her waist and her hips. She had heavy, sagging tits. In two weeks, Stephanie thought, she wouldn't recognise herself; a controlled diet and regular exercise would do wonders for her figure. She hadn't been at the castle long.
The woman's arms had been chained to a metal ring above her head. Her legs were spread and chained apart and she was facing the wall, her overweight arse bearing the marks of Bruno's whip.
She did not answer Stephanie's question. Stephanie pulled the chain that hung around her neck. The disc bearing her name was jammed between her ample breasts and the stone wall. Stephanie pulled until it was up by her throat and she could swing it round her neck and read Fran inscribed on the metal.
'Answer my question, Fran.'
Fran turned her head and looked Stephanie in the eyes. The expression on her face was surprising; it was quite clearly an expression of lust.
'You're very tasty,' the woman said.
'Answer my question.'
'If I don't will it get me whipped again? I can still feel my arse. It's still hot. Why don't you feel it?'
'Answer my question,' was all Stephanie could think to say, trying to ignore her own nascent sexual excitement.
'I refused to dig the bloody garden.'
Almost without thinking what she was doing, as a reaction to the woman's insolence, Stephanie slapped her hand across her wide buttocks. There was a resounding 'thwack' of flesh on flesh. The woman's eyes flared with excitement.
'Couldn't you use the whip?' Fran said, still looking straight into Stephanie's eyes. 'What do I have to do to get you to use the whip on me?'
Stephanie, again almost without thinking, pulled the whip, a short crop, from Bruno's belt, and slashed it down on the white flesh of the woman's arse. A red welt appeared. The woman moaned, but it was not a moan of pain.
'I never knew it would turn me on...' she said, almost to herself.
Stephanie ran her hand along the woman's spine and round her plump arse. She was astonished at how much heat it seemed to be generating.
'Feel how wet you've made me,' Fran said. 'Feel it.'
Stephanie's hand dipped between the woman's legs. Her pubic hair was wispy and sparse. Her labia were wet. She moaned at Stephanie's touch.
'Do it to me. You know you want to, I can see it in your eyes. Please...'
The woman's words hung in the air. Bruno stood impassively, his arms folded over his chest. With an effort of self-control, Stephanie pulled her hand away. In her mind she could see herself pressing into this woman's soft body, feeling it envelope her, her fingers finding no resistance in the pliable, plasticine flesh...
'If you dig the garden when you are told to dig the garden, then you might get what you want,' she said. Discipline was a mixture of the carrot and the stick. The stick had patently failed with this woman; perhaps the carrot would work.
'I want it now,' the slave replied.
'Good.'
This time her movement was deliberate. She ran her hand down between the woman's legs again, found her labia and then her clitoris. She caressed it wantonly, provoking a moan of delight from Fran, her body arching with pleasure.
'Do as you're told and you get more,' Stephanie whispered, taking her hand away, denying the woman what she so obviously wanted.
'You bitch,' the woman shouted, as Stephanie walked away. 'Come back here. Don't leave me like this...'
Walking away was against all her instincts. Her excitement was intense. It was the excitement she had felt the first weekend at the castle, the excitement of power. In the castle, down here in the cellars, she was the mistress of all she surveyed; she could do anything, have anything. Last night had been a marvellous sexual experience for her and had proved, had she really needed proof, that she didn't need the pleasures of power to enhance her sexuality. Power was an extra, an optional extra. It was the same as her realisation that she could get pleasure from women as well as men. Being able to enjoy sex with a woman didn't mean she never wanted a man again. On the contrary, it made her feelings for men that much stronger. So it was with the feelings she got from being in a dominant role. It didn't mean she couldn't lose herself in the sort of sex she had experienced last night, couldn't resume her traditional submissiveness, the role she had played before she had discovered the other worlds of sex. It was different, that was all. The two were not mutually exclusive. And they fed on each other: being spread and used as she had been last night was exciting now because she knew how it felt to play the other role, to spread and use in return.
Man or woman, dominant or submissive, in the end, it was all sex. The more she experienced the more she wanted to experience, the stronger and more pleasurable her sexual feelings were. A wonderful world of sex, she thought to herself, parodying the title of a television programme she had watched regularly as a child. The more she knew the more she wanted to know; the more she felt the more, it seemed, she was capable of feeling.
But not now. Now she walked purposefully out of the cellars, ignoring the appetites the slave had created, and up into the light. Out in the sun on the jetty, she plunged into the warm waters of the lake. She would swim and eat and have a siesta before Jasmina arrived.
The waters of the lake were silky and smooth against her skin. She swam strongly, stretching all her muscles, wanting to work, to feel the strain. Then, some distance from the island, she trod water and relaxed. The lake was full of fish. None seemed inhibited by the presence of a large mammal in their territory and, as she floated lazily, they swam up to investigate this strange phenomenon.
She swam back to the jetty as energetically as she had swum out. Pulling herself from the water, she lay on the wooden boards to dry off in the sun. The clouds were still threatening to the west but as yet were a long way off. At the moment, the sun blazed down unobstructed. Turning herself like a steak on a griddle, she was soon completely dry.
She thought about going upstairs to change for lunch but hunger overcame her, and she pulled on the chiffon wrap instead and walked up to the terrace where the servants had laid the table for her lunch. A crisp, pink linen tablecloth matched the pink and white crockery and the tiny flower arrangement of pink and dark red flowers that she did not recognise but that were, no doubt, grown in the greenhouses behind the castle.
She had ordered fillet steak, bleu. She wanted red meat. And a salad, a green salad fresh from the gardens, tossed in virgin olive oil. She drank two glasses of Barolo 1983 with the meat and gazed out over the lake watching the inexorable approach of the leading edge of cloud as it gradually advanced from the horizon. The servants, in their crisply laundered white linen jackets, served her without a word. After the main course she asked for a small portion of melon ice cream that was one of the specialities of the castle chef. She didn't have coffee, wanting to be sure she slept for a while this afternoon.
Upstairs in the bedroom, the maid had already closed the shutters and curtains on the windows to keep out the midday sun, and the room was pleasantly cool. Stephanie stripped off the swimsuit and lay naked on the bed. She pulled a single sheet over her body and settled her head on to the goose-down pillow. After the strong Barolo she felt delightfully relaxed, her eyes heavy, her body unstrung. She knew she would sleep deeply after the rigours of last night, and she was right.
She was licking Devlin's body. His body was as misshapen as his face. His torso was short and compacted, his shoulders badly rounded, his legs scrawny and bowed. Every inch of his flesh was covered in thick wiry hair - once black, now grey and white. His back was hairy too, dense clumps of hair covering his kidneys. Stephanie found it exciting. His extreme ugliness was exciting, as exciting as extreme beauty.
She licked his face, his grotesque bulbous nose, his pock-marked cheeks, his ears, from which great tufts of hair grew. She kissed and licked his neck and his chest and bit his nipples, teasing them with her teeth, watching the effect this had on his penis, his huge erect penis. It twitched with each bite like the rod of a water diviner. She worked her mouth over his navel while her hand took his penis by its root.
His penis was like an ageing tree trunk circled and bound by fronds of ivy. Blue and purple veins, distended and swollen, ran up and round it in a chaos of directions, apparently at random and to no purpose. Each vein was a different shape, some long and twisting following the whole length of his stem, others short and wide, rising from his tumescence only to disappear again. Some looked so gnarled as to be varicose, an angry purple red; others were veins on veins, hitching a ride on the back of a bigger cousin. Devlin's cock could be mapped, a road map of a strange new planet.
Stephanie licked and nibbled at its base, then worked her mouth higher while her hand played with his balls. Devlin groaned, a large tear of fluid leaking from the slit of his penis to further signal his excitement. With the tip of her tongue Stephanie licked it off greedily, then plunged her mouth down on to him as far as she could go. His penis filled her cheeks, down into her throat. She was gagged with flesh.
