Erotic Paradise (3)

Scanning Proofreading: CSH

Erotic Paradise (07)

Lisa 10 Miss America Wonderful

I walked towards the administration building as if someone was chasing me.

My body burned slightly, and my hand kept touching my mouth as my lips tingled, as if he had done something to them, like the lead actor in a high school romance, to kiss me like that. I could still smell him, the clean saltiness of his skin.

Yes, a hundred times better looking than he is in the photo.

But what is most fascinating is his demeanor, which blends everything into a proper vision, because, when he smiles, when he speaks, personality reveals itself.

That’s enough, Lisa.

I mean, this is just a healthy, strong American male who came here to play slave for two years, and who just happens to know how to be charming for any female, and knows how to use his eyes and voice.

I’m so nervous right now. I shouldn’t have selected him so quickly, I shouldn’t have cut the phone, I shouldn’t have kept everyone in the office waiting just to go down and see him!

I mean, sneaking down and kissing him on the mouth as if we were in the back seat of a Chevy. This thing has to stop, that’s for sure, it can’t go on for three days. Three days. Voices like the look in his eyes do exist. But that’s what we want from all of them, yes, we receive their fantasies into fantasies. So what is so wonderful about the fact that he was indeed there?

Eleven o’clock. The “Club” was still alive and well, from one end of the island to the other, the lights throbbing in a hundred windows hung with  windows, and the sky above, illuminated by the full moon, revealing an unfathomable dark blue.

I walked quickly through the darkly carpeted casino, not wanting to see or speak to anyone, just glancing at the naked slaves with the rest of my eyes, moving gracefully between the endless tables, holding my plate high, hurrying to wait on the guests’ orders, serving alcohol, serving drinks in exotic colors and decorations.

Behind the dimly lit thick glass walls of the stage, the slaves on display writhed and struggled in their bondage, their limbs polished to gold or silver, their pubic hairs adorned with tiny jewels. On a distant stage, a small drama was being played out as two Greek slave girls, wearing elaborate handles and bracelets, were being severely punished by the Roman princes.

In the quieter fellowship halls the play was more intimate, and the members of the “club” had brought the slaves who followed them to the tables. In the darkness of the bar, above the glowing bottles of wine, a group of young men, heads bowed, arms raised, entwined, a series of Michelangelo statues, silently turning on a merry-go-round.

I see Black Dog Scott, also a handsome, dark-skinned genius, “trainer of trainers.”

. He was in rapid conversation with an elderly English nobleman, a recent member, who had been here for some months. A slight thrill of excitement rose in me, and I felt my heart warm as I saw Kitty Cottonwell lying at Scott’s feet, her lips pressed to the carpet. Cantwell was lying beside Scott’s feet, his lips pressed to the carpet, silently awaiting his orders.

So he was picking Kitty. That was a good thing for her. He might have taken Kitty straight to the new trainer’s class and used her to demonstrate. I should go, maybe I can learn something. Think of it this way like Lisa in the old days, the old wording of the situation going into this place said so.

Wishful thinking. What a child. Been there for three long days. No, in fact, it hasn’t felt right since my plane landed. Not even before I left.

Except for kissing Elliot Slater just now. What about it?

Richard, nicknamed “The Wolf,” got up from the table when I came in.

“Sorry to wake you, Lisa,” he said. “Tried to reach you earlier, but…”

“I came here to be woken up. What’s going on?” I asked.

The two managers, looking a little dirty from a long day at work. They stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying to be as invisible as possible in the white wall.

There, in front of the table, a girl, wearing a short white terrycloth dress with a belt tied around it, sat there, sobbing exaggeratedly, her fists pounding her knees.

“Miss America Wonderful,” Richard said. “The doctor says she’s not even seventeen.”

If it hadn’t been for the controversy over Elliot, I would have remembered her when I was inspecting slaves in the foyer. Sexy breasts bulged over a loose-fitting collar, and her legs were long and slender, like delicate carvings. She tossed her black curls angrily and pouted her lower lip at me, then her eyes squinted with a watery look of fear while Richard gestured for me to take his chair.

“You can’t! You must accept me!” She said shrilly. Her lips looked almost bruised from crying. She shook her head and pounded her fists again, her entire face knotted. Just looking at her, it was hard to believe that this was the case, but when she spoke, it became clear.

Richard pushed the medical report card at me. He looked sleepy and sleepy, his deep-set eyes a little red, but still amused by the whole thing. I didn’t smile. It was exhausting, and talking to this girl would be adding insult to injury.

“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re too young to be here, and your documents are forged.”

“Shit!” She said. “I’m twenty-one years old. I was trained by Ahir… Hassler trained me to be able to…”

“Have you talked to Hassler?” I asked Richard.

“He denies everything, says she completely lied to him,” Richard says wearily. “Her birth certificate and driver’s license were fake…”

“It’s not fake, I’m old enough to stay here, what are you trying to pull?”

“You’re a minor, you don’t belong here,” I said, “get out tonight.”

I looked at Richard.

“I couldn’t find anything else from her, the same routine.” He lowered his voice.

“I’ll bet you she’s not the only one.”

“Eh, find the others then!” I said unhappily. “Tell the whole group to undergo another inspection. If there are any minors, I want them out.”

“Please…” she leaned forward, her hands gripping her dress almost shyly. “Let me stay down, you guys have documentation, it says I’m twenty-one, so what’s to be afraid of? You guys can’t tell me that you don’t want me. Please look at me. I see the others, and I’m fine, like any…”

“You pick a town,” I said coldly. “Privately and dutifully, you take a plane to Miami, and from there you fly first class to wherever you want to go. You leave now.”

“I’m going to stay here! You don’t understand what this means to me, talk to my manager, he’ll tell you I’m perfect. Listen to me, I’m ready, I’m telling you, I’m trained by the best.”

“Well, get her to LA.”

“No!” She screamed, biting her lip, her gaze looking a little blank, maybe a little world-weary. In a muffled voice she said, “New York.”

“All right, New York, put her in the ‘Plaza’ Hotel for two nights, regular room, and give her another thousand dollars.” I looked at her. “Spend that thousand dollars in a wise way, as the old maxim says.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Oh, and before you leave, I’d love to teach you some manners.” I whispered.

She scrutinized me, desperately trying to take stock.

“Get her out of here.” I said.

“Please tell me a valid reason: why are you doing this to me?” She pleaded. The tears were beautiful, sliding down her round cheeks, but her eyes were like two stones. “You know very well that the members will love me, please admit that. What the hell is wrong with you, wanting someone six years older than me? For God’s sake, please tell me.”

“Honey, it’s a heartless world. But have you ever heard the term ‘legal adult’? We don’t want crazy people, we don’t want minors, we don’t want involuntary slaves. You come back in five years and maybe, just maybe, we’ll talk to you. But don’t fake another name to fool us.

Now, get her out of here and get her on a plane to Miami as soon as possible.”

“I hate you, you son of a bitch!” She screamed. The trainer struggled to lift her up, but she pressed her elbows into her stomach. “You can’t do this to me, I’m fully documented and ready. Call Black!” The other trainer put his arm around her waist. “I had to fuck it to the ‘New York Times’

Lift!”

“Don’t bother.” I said.

She struggled to break away from the trainer’s arm.

“But, if you do take it seriously, we have two ‘New York Times’ reporters in the H bungalow. There’s a guy from NBC on the fifth floor of the building.”

“You think you’re so smart. I’ll expose this place for the scandal it is!”

“Everyone reports on us, honey. You go to the library and look it up! When a slave ‘tells all,’ I’m afraid it’s in the back pages of the tabloids, juxtaposed with tragic films starring former call girls and salty film stars who have already buckled. As for ‘The Times’, you can indeed forget it. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘all the news that’s fit to print’?”

The managers lifted her off the floor. She kicked her feet angrily while they dragged her away from the open door.

The door closed softly behind her, and Richard and I exchanged glances with each other.

“Black’s phone, line one.”

I picked up the receiver.

“Seriously, Lisa, I don’t understand this. There’s no way that girl is sixteen. If she’s sixteen, I’m just out of my mind.”

“Black, I just saw her. Miss America Wonderful. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Lisa, I can’t cope. She has documentation everywhere. Lisa, have you tested her? She’s been working as a cocktail waitress at the ‘Village’ hotel for two years. Lisa, she’s fierce dynamite, I’m telling you, she can’t be sixteen, and she’s teaching me tricks.”

“I’m not fooled by you anymore, Black.” I said.

“Lisa, you can’t do this to me. You don’t understand…”

“If it’s Racquel K. Vicky’s body with Greta K. Garbo’s head, I’m the one who doesn’t understand.”

“Lisa, she may even be cheating God. I have sold you the best merchandise this side of the Rocky Mountains, and you can’t get slaves from anyone in the eastern states…”

“Ever heard of Gregory of New Orleans, or Peter B. Slesinger? You sold us a minor. Black, a sixteen-year-old girl. We can’t trust you, Black. Goodbye.

”

I put the phone down.

I leaned back on the high back of my chair and looked up at the ceiling.

“I’ve pulled the files on the other two men he sold us,” Richard said, walking leisurely toward the table, both hands in his pockets. “There are no other issues. Truly. The two male slaves are at least twenty-three, maybe slightly older, and the female is twenty-nine.” He was watching me. “It’s top notch merchandise.” He said, tilting his head slightly.

I nodded.

“How’s the money?”

“Whatever it is,” I said. “If I knew Black, she wouldn’t get a dime. I don’t want to talk to Black again, and I don’t want to play policeman for children and crooks.”

“But that’s the way it is,” Richard said coldly, “and she’s not a child.” He narrowed his eyes when he was very serious as he often was, and they seemed smaller and brighter. “She might have menstruated at eleven and lost her virginity at thirteen if they still use that uncivilized phrase. She was like everything she said she was, maybe six months working in Ahe’s private room. She had an orgasm when I touched her. If you hit her with the cane, the skin came to life before your eyes.”

I nodded.

“I know all those old arguments. From Kashmandu to Kansas, our name means: no minors, no crazy people, no prisoners, no drugs. No legal adults only!”

His gaze averted thoughtfully for a moment, and his eyes narrowed again in a blank look, all the deep wrinkles in his face emphasizing his look as they always did. His fingers combed back through his hair.

“Don’t create friction like that,” he whispered. “She was chosen by me. I sent her in.

”

“I don’t like to praise people who have done only the bare minimum. Am I going to make an exception and praise you now?”

“But is it fair? Are the rules fair? I mean, she’s been working hard and has learned things.”

“You’re turning me into a schoolmarm or a sociologist,” I said, feeling irritated. “In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you what this place is. This isn’t a series of dimly lit rooms for you to go into on a Saturday night to rest and fulfill the rituals you’ve been dreaming about all week. This is wholeness, this is an environment that will consume you, that will annihilate the reality that any other environment you recognize has. It is those fantasies of yours that become real!”

I stopped. I’m really getting angry. I’m trying to keep my voice down.

“You must remember what those years represent,” I said. “I mean the years between sixteen and twenty-one what do those years mean?”

“Those years don’t mean chastity and obedience anymore.” He said.

“Those years are not just the usual years in a person’s life! Those were the youth she would have paid out on us, and we did not need anything as valuable as that from her or anyone else. We were able to keep the fire going with cheaper and passable energy. I don’t care how supple, how beautiful, how well prepared she is! What do you think she will be like… two years from now?”

“I understand.” He said.

I’m not sure I understand myself. There was a little hysteria in my voice. I kept seeing the cottage in Hillsboro again, and my first owner, and the highway where we drove the limousine, and those verbal fights with Paul B. King. King. Oh, that there had been a Martin B. Halifax.

The size and weight of the “club” suddenly weighs on me. How much more can happen before the new season?

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I whispered. “Maybe this place gets on my nerves once in a while.”

“Well, I think adolescence is very complicated for all of us. Maybe we all regret those teenage years…”

“I don’t regret it at all,” I said. “But I didn’t stay in the club when I was sixteen, eighteen or twenty, which is the whole point. I was allowed to come and go, in and out. I wouldn’t have gone up the high wire rope if there wasn’t a protective net.”

He nodded.

“But it’s not just about the minors themselves,” I said. “Every day more is being written about us. Among some circles, we’re practically common knowledge now. I’m willing to bet that anyone and I mean anyone who sets out to make contact with us will do it. Can’t have any one fabricating stories about minors, crazy people, or captives in this place.”

In fact, the amazing thing is that no one has ever fictionalized such a thing before, because every report about us is written “around us”, that is to say, without our acknowledgement or consent. There is not a shred of evidence behind anything that is written, except for blurry, fictitious photographs that reveal nothing at all. No journalist has ever gone inside.

But there are a lot of reasons why the situation is the way it is. The slightest public mention of a member would result in disqualification and forfeiture of dues. Because of the expensive dues and our careful screening process, no journalist spies exist at all.

Cameras are not allowed on this island. Our own surveillance equipment doesn’t do the recording, so there’s nothing to steal. Electronic equipment is installed at almost all exit points to completely destroy any smuggled film or videotape.

As for slaves, and managers, and drivers, and all the rest of the staff, that only involves simple economics. They create huge paychecks and the special perks are even more intoxicating. Wine, meals, slaves if they want slaves plus staff funds, beaches. No one will pay them enough to expose a scandal, because the exposure of a scandal is not worth that much in itself: if they “speak out”, they become useless in any club in the world. Only a few disgruntled people, those who have been expelled, break their silence and write in a clumsy way unspecific things which are low, low things even for the tabloids in which they are published, as I have already pointed out to the girl.

But when people write “all around” you, they can say anything, and the massive stories in “Lords” and “Playboy” are almost always free of distortion. It’s amazing how even in the tabloids there are no outright lies.

“The question isn’t whether the girl is ready,” I said. “The question is : be careful and be completely innocent.”

“I agree,” he said. “But there’s too much money in this place right now for people to hype this up. My main point is this: some of these underage people, like me, are not underage.”

“Don’t cajole yourself. Not everyone in this world is afraid of money.” The tone revealed contempt. Everything had become too rude. “Listen to me, Richard, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not right tonight. My vacation went it’s too long, I hate going home, and the outside world makes me restless.”

“Of course…” he said softly.

A strange feeling rose up in me again. I saw Elliot Slater’s face and felt his mouth. Slater’s face and felt his mouth. I remembered unexpectedly the guy in the bar in San Francisco, Mr. Straight. Three days there.

God, I’m so tired. Now I might be able to sleep, and maybe all the memories will sort themselves out and come home.

“Eh, you’ve done your duty for your slaves and their masters,” Richard said. “Why don’t you get out of here and go have some fun.”

A subtle change appeared in Richard’s face.

I realized that it was purely a reaction to the change in my face. I realized that I felt very uncomfortable turning my gaze towards him.

“Have some fun?” I asked.

He is scrutinizing me. He nods, a worried look on his face.

“Is that what you call it? Have a little fun?” I asked.

He waited.

“I ask for one exception, Richard,” I said. “Elliot B. Slater. I’m going to suspend his punishment tomorrow afternoon and bring him to my quarters.”

“Eh, you’re not quite right, as you say. You will have this young man in three days.”

“No,” I said. “You’ve expressed a little stand in defense of the rule before every one. Now make one exception in private! I want Slater to-morrow afternoon. They can’t touch him in the morning, and he’ll be bathed and rested about ten o’clock. Send to my room at one o’clock in the afternoon. Now please carry out this order! No one will know about this differential treatment. The other volunteer slaves are too busy and the trainers are overworked, as we all know very well, and I don’t mind at all.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “You’re the boss.”

“Yes, boss and planner…” I said.

“Of course,” he said quietly. “If you feel that strongly about it. Tomorrow, after lunch.”

I stood up and started walking to the front door.

“Something does seem off, doesn’t it?” He asked.

“What?”

“It didn’t start on your vacation,” he said softly. “It’s been brewing, for a while.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just very tired. Make sure they bring me Slater at one o’clock. Will you do it?”

“Will do, dear. Good luck with everything.”

Lisa 11 Welcome to the Mansion.

Something wrong, something brewing for a very long time? Regretting those teenage years? There must be some reason for this ambush of memories, mustn’t there?

I hope everything goes well.

I stood in the garden outside the administration building and looked up at the stars. When there were no clouds, the stars were always bright and clear, as if the sky was sliding down towards the sea. Japanese lanterns swayed faintly in the flower beds. The dark lace of crepe myrtle with lilies as white as the moon underneath.

My mouth began to tingle as if I was kissing him again. And he was only a few steps away, wasn’t he?

Do you realize there are 3,000 members here tonight? Elliot Slater. Slater. Oh, what a success we’ve been!

From the far side of the island comes the muffled sound of an airplane. “Miss America has taken off, returning to the hypocrisy and absurdity of adolescence. Sorry. Good luck!

But I don’t regret it at all, it wasn’t like that. Richard was wrong, at least in that respect.

It would be a great lie to say that I did not do what I wanted to do from the beginning with those early lovers; to say that I did not do what I wanted to do at the end when I resisted Kim B. Paul and refused to go on. It would be a great lie to say that I did not do what I wanted to do when I finally resisted Kim Paul and refused to continue.

Maybe there was something brewing, something I didn’t understand, but I always made my own choices.

Martin Halifax. The night Halifax first called, I did make my choice.

Of course, I had heard about him: he was the mysterious owner of the so-called “mansion”. I almost put the phone down in a moment of wonderful love-hate relationship.

“No, I have a different opportunity for you, Lisa,” he said. “You might have once found this thing easier now. You might be able to try this thing from the other side, you know.”

It’s an American voice. Like the older clergymen of my childhood, it doesn’t sound like a Protestant priest, it’s a real old-fashioned “Irish Catholic” priest.

“The other side?”

“The best slaves make the best Mistresses and Mistresses,” he said. “I’d love to talk to you, Lisa. To talk about the fact that you’ve become, shall we say this? Part of the ‘Mansion’. If you’re afraid to come here for any reason, I’ll meet you anywhere you like.”

The underground private rooms of the Victorians, what they called “The Mansions”. It was strange and interesting, like my father’s library, only filled with more expensive things and farther removed from the noise of the outside world. No Catholic books on the wall shelves. No dust.

It was Martin himself. A beautiful voice finally combined with the friendliest face I’ve ever seen. Simple, unpretentious and extremely straightforward.

“The way things began was strictly a belief, a suspicion,” he said, touching his fingertips for a moment, then crossing his arms over the table. “Out there, for in the web of modern life, there are hundreds of others like me, perhaps thousands indeed, who wander the bars, the streets, seeking in spite of danger, disease, ridicule, and God knows what seeking a place to perform those little dramas, to perform those stark and terrible little dramas, the ones we experience again and again in our souls those little dramas.”

“Yes.” I think I was smiling.

“I don’t think that’s wrong, you know. I don’t ever think that’s wrong. No, each one of us has a dark room inside where the real desires grow. The terrible thing is: these desires do not see the light of another’s understanding, those strange flowers. It is both lonely and dark, that chamber of the heart.”

“Yes.” I sat forward slightly, not realizing that it actually dispelled any doubts in my mind and looked interested.

“I want to create a very special kind of house,” he said, “as special as the chamber of the heart within us. In the midst of such a house, desire can come into contact with bright light. This kind of house will be quiet, warm and safe.”

Are we all poets? Are we all masochists? Are we all dreamers and dramatists at heart? His expression reveals how naive and matter-of-fact it is. There is no hint of vulgarity, of deception, or of the insidious humor that shame can produce.

“Over the years, I’ve come to realize that there are many more people here than we have who can’t be accommodated or satisfied, and that the range of desires is far more complex than I thought it was…”

He stopped and smiled at me.

“I need a woman, Lisa, a young woman, but she can’t be just a servant. There are no pure servants in the ‘Mansion’. She must know how we feel when she works with us. You know, this is not your usual brothel, Lisa. It’s an elegant place, sometimes a beautiful place. You may think I’m crazy when I say this, but it’s a place of love.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“There is understanding in love, reverence for the innermost secrets, and compassion for the root of desire.”

“I understand, I know.”

” I’ll go upstairs! I’ll show you the room. We’re not therapists here, we’re not doctors here. We don’t ask: why? We only think: this refuge, this little town, can accommodate those who have lived a life of sexual exile. We exist for people who want what we have to offer.”

Old-fashioned rooms with high ceilings and dull lights reflecting off wallpapered walls. The solarium, the classroom, the master bedroom now the boudoir awaited me. There were satin slippers, whips, torture canes, belts, harnesses, and visions of perfection, including silver-plate photographs forming tiny golden ovals on the dresser, and silver-backed combs, several bottles of perfume glistening with crystal facets, and fresh, moist roses, nodding in a silver vase of goat-toothed wreaths.

“The fee is perfect for the right person, pardon me for saying so myself. But, you know it’s like joining a club…”

“Or a religious group.”

A soft laugh that expressed respect. “Yes.”

Weekend after weekend, I drove across the bridge to reach out to the mysterious rooms, the vulnerable strangers who were destined to be there, the atmosphere of love and sensuality. The place they call “The Mansion”. My Mansion.

Oh, I know exactly how they feel, I know what to say, and words are sometimes everything: I know when to apply pressure, I know when to give a tender kiss.

Perhaps the situation is under control, finally the kind of control I’ve always wanted.

Then there was the mysterious night of the flight to Rome two years later, when Martin and I got painfully drunk in first class and took a long limo ride to Shinar through the undulating green Italian countryside.

In the secret world of sexuality, symbolized by the exotic, there was a weekend meeting with other talents: Jareks from the Parisian “Mansions”, and one of Martin’s former female henchmen, Christine from Berlin. I don’t even remember some of the others, except that they were elegant and intelligent. Wine flowed in the villas above the city, with all the delicious veal dinners, and the young, dark-eyed Italian boys who passed through the foyer like shadows.

Mr. Cross came in his own plane and brought five bodyguards with him. Three Mercedes-Benz sedans snaked up the hill toward the villa. “When is someone going to tell me what this is all about?”

“But you did hear about him already,” Martin said. The hotel chain and sex magazine empire “Dream Baby,” “Uptown,” and his wife from Mississippi, who knows nothing about what’s going on and wants nothing more than a pretzel.

“Not real money,” Martin sighed, raising his eyebrows slightly. “The best kind.”

Is it possible? We all gathered around that 16th century table to discuss it.

A luxurious club, opened in a part of the world where the law can’t intrude. It was Martin Halifax, and others like him, who invented all sorts of pleasures in ingenious ways. Martin Halifax, and others like him, inventing all sorts of pleasures in ingenious ways. Think about it…

“Um, you know, really escaping the world,” Aarex said. “Luxury accommodations, food, pools, tennis, drugs, and then sex. Any kind of sex, an absolutely therapeutic thing you think about it! Doctors will send their patients to us.”

I cringed at the word “therapeutic”. Martin hates that word.

Then came the quiet voice of Mr. Cross, who sat at the unend of the table, our capitalist.

“You know, it’s possible, an island in the Caribbean. Si, in a way we’re like an autonomous country with our own laws. But we would still have the protection of the kind of government that I’ve been talking about. I mean, as if we don’t have to worry about any kind of interference or any underworld forces coming in, you know. I mean, where we are, we’ll be very orthodox. We’ll have our own hospital, a nice police force, if we need it…”

Amazingly large sums of money. Everyone was silent and speechless.

“You know,” Mr. Cross added, “our research shows that there are thousands, maybe millions, of people who would pay big bucks to have the sex vacation of their dreams. Sadomasochists and masochists, weird tricks, punishments, and bondage whatever you want to call it, they want it, especially if it’s done well and very safely.”

“We provide them with a clean, well-run place that is absolutely luxurious,” Yarex said. “It’s an experience they can’t get anywhere at any cost.”

“What we’re talking about is a sexual atmosphere,” Mr. Cross continued. “In this atmosphere, you can act out any behavior you like in a funky way.”

Martin looked uncomfortable.

“But here’s something you don’t seem to understand. Most of the people who want this kind of thing are masochists, they’re passive, they can’t even admit such things to their husbands and wives.”

“They can admit it to us.” Mr. Cross said.

“No,” Martin replied. “You’re talking about people with money and status, the kind of people who can afford to take these kinds of holidays. What makes you think they would come to such a huge resort? They might see other people they know here. The biggest problem we have in the midst of the ‘mansions’ is seclusion, not letting one guest see another. People would be ashamed of their masochistic desires.”

“But there are ways to make things funky,” I said. A moment of silence. The idea was seducing me, and it was wonderful.

“Yes, but how do we do it? How do we make things funky?” Aarex looked at me. “How do we staff it, organize it, make it available to the public?”

“Okay,” I said. “We need famous people, rich people, people who don’t want to be ridiculed for their abusive habits, who don’t want to be ridiculed for their love of being whipped and tied up. OK. You just create a situation in which they don’t have to admit to it, and being a member of the ‘club’ doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. The members who come to this island are all ‘Mistresses’ and ‘Mistresses’ and are served on their knees by a group of well-trained male and female slaves in both public and private settings. They were guests of Kublai Khan in the Upper Capital, where they enjoyed the dancers and dancers, the harem, unless of course they wished to retire to their soundproofed bedrooms, and if necessary ring the bell to call in a slave, who would be able to serve them as ‘Mistresses’ or ‘Mistresses’ with all the appropriate skills. “

Mr. Cross smiled.

“In other words, all members have dominant power.”

“Strong man.” Aarex said, raising an eyebrow and letting out a dry, mocking laugh.

“Exactly,” I replied. “It’s our way of marketing this stuff all over the world. Come to the ‘Club’ and live like a sultan. Being seen by others in the ‘club’ doesn’t necessarily mean you won’t be there enjoying the tiny view, swimming and sunbathing and being served by people on their knees.”

“That might be useful,” said Martin. “That might be wonderfully useful, I think.”

“Except for the slaves themselves,” Mr. Cross said. “The personnel you talked about…”

“That’s no problem at all,” Aarex said. “You’re talking about a different kind of class now. Young people from all walks of life, ‘bachelors’ who live in big cities, young women who engage in sex play, and young men who engage in homosexuality.”

“Yes,” Martin said. “Pretty boys who would have been starlets, high-class prostitutes, dancers performing in Las Vegas or on Broadway. Offering them room and board in paradise and a nice paycheck to fulfill their most ridiculous fantasies. Believe me, they’ll be squeezing through the doors.”

“I think we’ll have to start small to do well,” I said. “It has to be carefully planned to be truly clean and unadulterated, with no slovenly elements. This ‘sex’ has its rituals, its limits, and its rules.”

“Of course, that’s why we asked you to come,” Mr. Cross replied. “Let’s think about a little club in a seaside area…”

Look around you in five years! On this very night, there were 3,000 guests on this island.

Our imitators include the “resorts” of Mexico, and the “resorts” of Italy, and the big, luxurious city clubs of Amsterdam and Copenhagen, and the big, luxurious city clubs of Berlín, where all members are slaves, and the staff are the masters. The staff are the masters. And then there is the great hot springs of South Carolina, our fiercest competition. The inevitable auction rooms, and the personal trainers, and that large and mysterious group of people who are always present, the private owners of slaves.

Is this inevitable? Is this the right moment? Would someone else go ahead and plan something like this, discreetly advertise it, and make it a big business? What if we’re not the ones who go for it in the first place?

Who minds? Were pleated flaps on the front of pants inevitable in that era? What about de-emphasized singers? What about the expensive white wigs of the “old system”? What about foot binding in imperial China? Or witch trials, crusades, inquisitions? You make something work, it gains momentum, it exists.

Motivation. For me, year after year, that’s fanaticism.

Meetings, drafts, drawings, discussions, reviewing buildings, selecting structures, paint colors, shapes for swimming pools. Hire doctors and nurses, train the best slaves to be dominant, to be able to “handle” sadomasochistic members who don’t even know their own desires. Execute, correct, expand. Start with two buildings, then three, then fence the land. Themes, concepts, costs, covenants, contracts.

Seeing one’s fantasies, one’s secret dreams turn into a dizzying reality can be just as intoxicatingly satisfying at this point. Only now it’s almost unpredictable in its magnitude.

I can always think of something better and more subtle than what my masters have done to me. The sources are actually endless. Whole lives are variations on certain themes. Now I see others involved, dazzled and amazed, making the situation expanded and varied. The flame burns brighter and brighter.

But what about passion for me?

Enthusiasm? What does that mean?

There is indeed no longer an owner. At some point that intimacy has been completely lost; sometimes I don’t know why. It’s because when I was a Mistress, I did prefer that intimacy, because it wasn’t just the excitement of yesteryear, it was also a wonderful feeling: knowing what my slaves, my lovers really felt like? I mean, I really own them. My knowledge and understanding penetrates them and they belong to me completely.

As for love, Si, such things don’t ever happen. Did it ever happen? Not in the traditional way. But if love is not the kind of love I felt for each of them in those moments, then what is love?

In the dark corners of my shielded bed, I own some of the best male slaves, some bodies you wouldn’t believe.

In “The Club”, there’s a full 30 seconds between “want” and “have”.

Whip them, make them submit, order them to go . . marveled at their passion, their strength, at the kind of force at our disposal, the kind of extraordinary male body that belongs to me.

Note their reactions later in the computer file. Know better how to manipulate them each time.

Then the slave girl, fingertips like silk, tongue licking. Leslie, Cocoa, and the currently neglected and lovely Diana, my darling, who snuggled up to me in a darkness that might as well have been the kind that spreads from one end of the world to the other, a very, very soft kind of darkness.

Midnight in Eden. But is this Eden? Somewhere there’s an old-fashioned clock chiming.

Twelve hours until Elliot Slater shows up. Twelve hours until Elliot Slater shows up. What was so special about this blond, blue-eyed man? Wasn’t he like other men?

Erotic Paradise (08)

Elliott 12 White Cotton

The corridor was a kind of maze. Fragments of the “club” passed me by without making any real impression. All I knew was: she was at the end of the rope, and the rope was about to help me through. She had rescued me from the abyss and they were taking me to her.

I woke up from my half-dream state of lusting for her. Stop lying to yourself that it’s not like that. All morning I’ve seen flashes of her face, released from snippets of dreams, felt the lace of her short blouse touch my chest, felt that almost electric sensation at her mouth.

Who the hell is she? Really? What the hell is wrong with her?

Then an unusual thing happened. We began to clean the toilets on our knees at dawn, but the attendant was lenient with me and did not insult me in a subtle way or beat me with a whip.

She must have done it, but what did it mean? Despite having to scrub the toilet, it’s easy for me to think about it. It’s easy to think of her.

We ate our lunch in the cold little dining room, on our knees of course, and it occurred to me: nothing here is as I think it is.

Whatever Martin had told me, I knew: boredom would drag on, an inevitable state of incompetence, and the whole thing would become bland and uninteresting.

Well, I wasn’t bored. I wasn’t fully aware of what had been going on since it started. And now I had this unfortunate desire for her, this unexpected reaction when I smelled her, saw her, touched her.

At least, I have to control that part. I mean, she must have trained a thousand slaves like me: she probably wouldn’t have minded any of them. Really, just like I didn’t mind those “Mistresses and Mistresses” who beat me in front of Martin’s watchful eyes in the “Mansion”.

Frankly, I don’t even bother with Martin. Sure, I like him, maybe even love him. Really, I get turned on just thinking about him. But as soon as it comes to the sex part of the wonderful foundation of the sadomasochistic and masochistic ritual I don’t mind at all who does it, unless it’s done in the most disingenuous way possible.

Right now, my heart goes out to her. She is taking over. It’s as if she was just a dark shadow, but now she’s starting to become an entity. I don’t like this at all.

However, the faintly throbbing excitement had worsened. I felt like a real slave, in a state of real danger caused by her, while I felt increasing pain in my hands and feet.

Then, while being taken to the shower, I knew I was walking right into her. Wonderful hot showers, skillful massages this is how good guys live.

Add to this a kind of banter: the sight of so many more polished bodies on the massage table, and the slaves in the bath are a group of beautiful girls and pastoral gods, amidst potted late cherry trees and goat’s teeth, emitting reassuring chatter (“You can talk now, Elliot, if you want to.”) , and the smile of a toothpaste commercial.

Why was I afraid to ask what was going on? Why I waited for handsome little Ghanimo who massaged me with fingers as hard as steel to utter the words, “You’re going to the boss’s wife’s, Elliot, and you’d better get some sleep.”

If I had been dozing off earlier, I would have been fully awake after hearing that.

“Boss lady?” I asked.

“She is,” he replied. “She runs the ‘club’ and she actually started it. She’s your trainer, good luck with that.”

“High and mighty woman.” I mumbled. A whole string of firecrackers went off in my head.

“Close your eyes!” He said. “Please believe me, you need to rest.”

I was asleep, I think I must have been. Purely from exhaustion, I must have fallen asleep, for suddenly I was gazing upward at the great pattern of latticed glass that formed the ceiling, and there stood that agent, saying, “Come on, Elliot, let’s not keep that perfectionist waiting.”

No, certainly don’t keep her waiting.

Thus, the labyrinth, together with the last moments of my “life before Lisa”, passed slowly.

We stop. A white foyer with a pair of carved double doors. Silence. Well, you’re too stable to have a full-blown nervous breakdown.

The manager snapped his fingers, “Step inside, Elliot, and wait there on your knees in silence.”

The door closed behind me. He’s gone, and I feel panic welling up just as strongly as before.

In front of me was a large room, all blues, crudely splashed with that bolder color that captures bright light. There is no electric lighting here, only sunlight penetrating the blue and purple patterned windows  above the French doors.

Yards and yards of crimson carpeting, huge Renoir and Thurott paintings on the walls, mixed with Haitian paintings the latter are outstanding works, showing Haitian skies, green mountains, and long, thin, dark-skinned Haitians working, playing, and dancing.

There are also long-faced African and Indian masks in bright, sleek greens and reds. Snake-like carvings of graceful African wood and stone rose everywhere from piles of potted plants and goat’s teeth. To my left, a very large four-poster brass bed appeared in a haze, its top leaning against the wall.

The bed reminded me of a huge golden animal cage. The bed was decorated with ruffled twigs and swirls, all hung with white cotton lace, even the purely curtained  part of the lace, and the curtain  surrounded the bed, forming a kind of transparent cloud. Piles and piles of lace-adorned pillows were piled on top of the crepey white cotton sheets. It was like a gazebo, the kind of whimsical thing that men usually adore but can’t put together themselves, leaving it only for women to create as they go through life.

I hallucinated myself walking towards the bed. I was wearing a black dress and holding a bouquet of flowers, the usual daisies.

I leaned over to kiss a girl who was sleeping in her bed.

That kind of bed. But there was no “girl” on the bed. She’s nowhere to be seen.

It was time to enjoy the intensity of the room, a look that wonderfully suggests “taboo,” even in this taboo place. Outside the patterned tulle window , the green branches of the trees move slightly, like a dance.

I felt my blood rush upwards and suddenly lost my sense of direction. A trapdoor had opened and I stumbled into a secret room. Seeing the whole room, I suddenly felt pain for no reason: the silverware in front of the round mirror on the dresser was in a mess, along with boxes, perfume bottles, and brushes. A black satin high-heeled shoe was leaning against the side of a chair. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but snow-white lace.

I leaned my body back on my heels and looked around, wishing my face wasn’t so hot and the rest of my body wasn’t so hot. I’d been in Martin’s house before, in a stuffy and feminine Victorian bedroom, but this was different, natural, even a little crazy. This place was not a stage set for all the madness here, but a real place.

I saw a lot of books. There were shelves of books lined up on a far wall, all tattered, as if someone did read them until they died. Paperbacks were stuffed into hardcovers, some repaired with duct tape.

I stared forward, staring at nothing but everything; at a white leather refinery dangling from the ceiling with a pair of leather handcuffs tied to it; at the black satin shoe leaning sideways.

A door opens somewhere with a soft, barely audible cackle, and I feel the hair shrug at the back of my neck.

She had finished her bath. I could smell the fragrant vapors of the bath, a pungent floral scent that smelled good, and another aroma, a dense, clear scent, mixed with the perfume, her body odor.

She walked across the room and into my field of vision without making a sound. She wore white satin pointy-heeled slippers, much like the black satin ones abandoned by the chair. Looking up from the slippers, she wore only a small lace-trimmed undergarment that rolled down to cover halfway up her thighs. The underwear was cotton. What bad luck.

I actually don’t like the feeling of flesh revealed through the nylon texture. But the flesh underneath the cotton material would drive me crazy.

Her breasts were bare under the lingerie, and her hair hung down, creating a dark shadow around her shoulders, like the Virgin Mary’s cowl veil. Through the lingerie, I was able to see the dark triangle between her legs.

Again, I felt a sense of power radiating from her. Beauty alone could not explain the effect of her presence, even in this crazy room, although she did possess it.

I would not resume my sitting position without her permission. And it was against the rules of the game to look directly at her, yet I did.

I looked up at her, only my head hanging slightly. When I see her tiny face that forms sharp angles, her large brown eyes as we stare at each other, eyes that are almost contemplative I feel the power she possesses even more strongly.

Her mouth was sexy beyond description. The lips were coated with lipstick and no gloss appeared, so the deep red color seemed natural. The wonderfully tilted shoulder blades, for some mysterious reason, tantalized me as much as the voluptuous tilt of the breasts.

But the electricity transmitted from her was not all the wonderful physical details. No, instead it was like she was giving off invisible heat. She was simmering in her tight little underwear and fragile white satin slippers.

You can’t see the smoke, but you know it’s there. She’s almost inhuman. She reminds me of the old-fashioned word “lust.”

I discreetly looked down and got on both hands and knees and crawled towards her, stopping when I reached her feet. I could feel the power firing off of her, the heat of it. My lips pressed against her bare toes, against the insteps above the white ribbons, and I felt that magical, confusing shock again, the one that left a tingling sensation on my lips.

“Stand up,” she said softly. “Grab your hands behind your back.”

I stood up as slowly as I could, my movements uninterrupted. I obeyed her orders, knowing for certain that my face was really red. But it was not the ritualized emotion of yesteryear. I stood there looking down at her, and although I wasn’t gazing at her any more, I was able to see her clearly, to see the well between a pair of breasts, and the dark rose-colored areola underneath the white undergarment.

She lifted her hand upwards and I almost stepped back from her, feeling her fingers in my hair. She gripped my head tightly and massaged it with her fingers, shivers running down my back, and then her fingers slowly moved up to my face, as a blind woman might do, to “see” in this way, to feel my lips and teeth.

It was the kind of touch given by someone blazing with body heat, her fingers dancing hotly, deepening the heat even more by making a kind of muffled sound, like a cat making a low hum of contentment without opening its lips.

“You belong to me.” She said in a voice lower than a whisper.

“Yes ma’am.” I replied. I watched helplessly as her fingers slid to my nipples, pinched, and jerked. At the same time, my body tensed up as the pleasure pounded right into my dick.

“Mine.” She said.

I had an urge to answer her, but I didn’t say anything as I gazed at her breasts, my mouth opening and closing. That fragrant, dense scent wafted over me again and overwhelmed me. I thought: I can’t stand this, I have to have her. She is using a brand new weapon on me. I can’t be tortured like this, in this silent bedroom, this is too much.

“Move backward, to the center of the room.” She said in a monotonous low voice, advancing as she spoke, her fingers still pressing and tugging on my nipples, suddenly pinching hard as I gritted my teeth.

“Oh, we’re all sensitive, aren’t we?” She said. Our eyes met again, heat blazing in her eyes, her red lips parted just enough to see a flash of white teeth.

It was almost as if I was begging her, saying “please”. My heart was jumping, as if I had been running.

I’m about to run away, just leave her with whatever I’m not sure is trying to crush her power. However, I won’t do that at all, not at all.

She tiptoes up in front of me. I could see her grabbing something above me. I looked up and saw the pair of white leather handcuffs with the buckle hanging off the end of the white leather.

I had forgotten this thing, which seemed a fatal mistake. But after all, what does it matter?

“Raise your hands,” she said. “No, not too high, my tall handsome man. Just a little above your head so I can still touch. Very good.”

I hear myself trembling. It was a little symphony of stressful confessions. I was shaking my head, I think.

The leather first encircled my left wrist, buckled tightly, and then encircled my right wrist. Both my wrists were crossed and bound together. I stood there helplessly as if there were six men holding me down. She went to the far wall and pressed a button, and the leather refining above me retracted silently into the ceiling, and the cuffs pulled my wrists high above my head, then stopped.

“Very powerful,” she said, walking toward me again. She was wearing pointy heels and had a very elegant posture. “Will you try to break free?” Tiny underwear rose up her thighs, little tufts of hair prickling her flesh under the white cloth.

I shook my head. I knew she was going to touch me again. I can’t stand that tension.

“You’re so rude, Elliot,” she says, her breasts almost rubbing against me. Her fingers flattened against my chest. “You can only say ‘no, ma’am’ or ‘yes, ma’am’ when you speak to me.”

“Yes ma’am.” I said. I was sweating all over. Her fingers slid downward to the top of my stomach and her right index finger pressed into my belly button. I couldn’t keep quiet. She quickly let go of her hand and started touching my dick.

My hips moved away. Her left hand went upward to the back of my neck. She walked over to me and squeezed the loose skin on my scrotum very hard with her right hand, her nails piercing it. I tried not to make a bitter face. “Kiss me, Elliot.” She said.

My head turned to her and her lips brushed mine, my mouth opened and that electric shock came back.

My mouth pressed against hers and I kissed her as if I were trying to swallow her. I kissed her as if I were hanging her from a hook and loop. I was able to hold her down like that in spite of how helpless she put me in, that is, in spite of how strong the current was. I was able to lift her up by sheer force, to pull her out of herself.

I was in this state of extreme arousal, feeling her breasts touch the side of my belly, knowing I had done it, knowing I had her. And the kiss was wet, sensual, and sweet. Her nails pinched the flesh around my scrotum harder, but the pain combined with strength to get out of me and into her. She tiptoes, the weight of her entire body against the side of my belly, the fingers of her left hand gripping the nape of my neck, and I’m enjoying her, my tongue inside her, my wrists squeezing into the leather cuffs, struggling to break free even though I know it can’t be done.

She disengaged from me and I closed my eyes. “God!” I whispered.

I couldn’t help but wince and moan loudly as I felt her wet mouth sucking on my armpit, tugging hard on the armpit hair. She took my balls in her right hand and was rubbing them, gently, so gently, her lips sucking on the skin of my armpits, and I thought I was going to go crazy. The skin all over my body came to life. She bit into the flesh and licked it.

My body became rigid, my teeth clenched. I could feel her fingers letting go of my testicles and encircling the column of my penis, caressing upwards. “I can’t… I can’t…” I said through clenched teeth, dancing backward, suppressing myself from cumming. She let go, turned my face around and kissed me again, her tongue in my mouth.

“It’s worse than being whipped, isn’t it?” She let out a low grunt of satisfaction as she kissed, “Suffering pleasure?”

This time I broke away, got rid of her, and then I kissed her whole face hole, sucked her cheeks and eyelid lids. I turned around, the word against her, against the thin cotton of her underwear. It was wonderful to feel her through the cotton.

“No, don’t!” She stepped back, letting out a low, ominous laugh, and tapped my dick with the palm of her right hand. “Don’t do it unless I tell you you can do it.” She slapped my thingy repeatedly.

“God, stop.” I whispered. My dick twitched, hardening with each slap.

“Do you want me to put a muzzle on you?”

“Yes, muzzle me. Use your breasts or your tongue!” I said. My whole body was shaking, and though I had no intention of doing so, I couldn’t help but pull hard on the leather handcuffs as if I meant to try to break free.

She let out a low, shaky laugh.

“You bad boy,” she said. She made another mocking, punishing swatting motion, her nails skimming the glans, then pinching it to cover it up. Yes, just the thing for an obnoxious child, I wanted to say, but swallowed the words. I press my forehead into my forearms and discreetly turn away from her. But she takes my face in her hands and turns it.

“You want me, don’t you?”

“Like to take you up the ass.” I whispered. In a kind of rapid sprinting motion, I captured her mouth again, looming over her before she could break free. I jerked against her again. She stepped back, her hand making a great swirling motion, and started pounding my dick again.

She drew back silently to the other side of the carpet.

About six paces away, she stood, just looking at me, one hand outstretched on the dresser, her hair falling around her face and partially shielding her breasts. She seemed wet and vulnerable, her cheeks throbbing with a deep blush, the same blush appearing on her breasts and throat. I couldn’t catch my breath. Even though I’d been this hard before, I couldn’t remember. Even though I’d been teased to this point before, I’d dismissed the memory.

I think I hated her then. However, the rest of my eyes devoured her, along with her pink thighs, the curves of those feet in white satin shoes, those pointy-heeled slippers, and the way her breasts swelled under the cotton lace, even the way she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth.

She picked up something from the dresser. At first glance it looked like a pair of flesh-colored, leather-covered horns. I opened my eyes to get a better look. It turned out to be a dildo, shaped like two penises combined at the base with a single scrotum, almost like a real one. She pressed against the large, soft scrotum on top, like a child pressing against a rubber toy, so that the two penises seemed to move out of their own willpower.

She held the object closer, both hands raised as if it were a sort of offering. The shape of the thing was very definite, both penises were oiled and shiny, both had carefully traced tips. As far as I could tell, there was some fluid in the large scrotum, and if she twisted both penises in the right way, then the fluid would squirt out of the tiny openings.

“Ever been with a woman before? Elliot.” She whispered, her hair thrown back over her shoulders. Her face was wet, her eyes wide and blank.

I let out a weak sound of protest that I couldn’t control. “Don’t do that to me…” I said.

She lets out another low simmering laugh. She goes back for a small, stuffed stool by the dresser and places it behind me.

I turned to face her and gazed at the object as if it were a pocket knife.

“Don’t rush me.” She said mercilessly, her eyes narrowing. One of her hands rose upwards, palming my face.

I turned slightly to get over the shock of that stinging pain after the palm strike.

“Yes, you’d better cower.” She whispered.

“I’m not cowering, Kagome.” I replied. Another slap, surprisingly solid, and my face throbs.

“Am I going to whip you first? Really whip you?”

I didn’t answer, but I couldn’t get my breathing to slow down, couldn’t suppress the shaking in my body.

Then I felt her lips on my cheek, right where she’d palmed me, her fingertips brushing my head, a low, pounding sensation penetrating my whole body, intensifying the sensations of my dick.

“Do you love me? Elliot.”

A kind of protective film has broken. My mind can’t catch up, my eyes are wet.

“Open your eyes and look at me.” She said.

She had stood up on the small stool, only inches away from me, holding a pair of dildos in her left hand and lifting the lace skirt edge of her lingerie with her right.

I could see her curly black pubic hair, small locks of curls clinging to her pink skin, and shy, wonderful labia, almost hidden by the end of her pubic hair. She lowered the dildo and pushed one end upward, pushing it inside herself, her whole body undulating gracefully to receive it; the other end curved and protruded outward and toward me, exactly as if she were a woman with an erect penis.

The imagery was frightening: her beautiful body, with its glistening dildo rising wonderfully out of the tangled, curly pubic hair, her face seemingly so fragile, and her mouth revealing a deep rosy red color. I hardly saw her hands move or reach up, but then I felt her thumbs press into my armpits, her face close to mine, and she said, “Turn around.”

I made a small sound in anger and helplessness. I was unable to move. Yet, I did exactly what she said.

I felt that dildo against me while my body hardened and jerked away from her.

“Stand still, Elliot,” she whispered. “Don’t turn into a rape.”

Then there was the wonderful sensation of being opened up as it was pierced, that marvelous sizing up of the oiled dildo as it entered.

It was too gentle, too pleasurable, entering completely, then rocking back and forth, a kind of pleasure that made a low campy sound, running through the limbs from the hot little entrance there. God, wish she was just shoving it in as a sort of go-it-along rape. No, she’s being me. It’s worse this way. She operated such a thing as if it were a part of her, soft rubbery scrotum against me, hot, like her glowing bare stomach, and her glowing thin thighs.

My legs had stretched out. That overwhelming sensation of being filled, of being impaled appeared, yet also felt that rich, wonderful friction. I hated her. And I was enjoying it. I couldn’t stop.

Her arms were around me, her breasts against my back, her fingers found my nipples again and pressed hard.

“I’m sick of you,” I whispered, “you little bastard.”

“You do loathe me, Elliot.” She replied in a whisper as well.

She knew what she was ramming that thing against, swinging it. I’m going to come out, I’m going to shoot into the air. I’m whispering all sorts of short curse words. She pushes harder, pushing me forward, her hips slapping my body, then speeding up, slamming into me, her fingers stretching my nipples, her lips spreading, sucking on the back of my neck.

Things were building and building, and I let out a stuttered, low moan, thinking that she wouldn’t just come out like this, leaning over me because I wasn’t coming out. The strokes began to pound into me, almost throwing me off balance. Then her body hardens and she lets out a sheer cry of ecstatic womanhood. The heat of her breasts throbbed like a heart against me, her hair hanging over my shoulders, her hands gripping me as if she would fall if she let go.

I stood there, paralyzed in desire and anger. I was locked out of her and she was inside me.

But suddenly I felt the dildo slip out, creating a burning sensation while the soft hot weight of her body moved away.

But she was still very close to me. I was not expecting to feel her hands on the leather cuffs above me. She unlocked the cuffs, relaxed my wrists, and lowered both my hands back to the sides of my body.

I look away from her. She had backed away from me. I turned and saw her standing at the foot of the bed. She no longer had the dildo in her hand. The only thing on her body was the small piece of lingerie that barely covered her sex organs. Her face was rose colored and her eyes sparkled against a patch of white. Her hair was beautiful in its tousled mess.

I could feel me pulling the little underwear off, and with my left hand I pulled her head back… her back turned towards me, and one of the straps of the little underwear fell over her shoulder. She parted the gently cotton bed curtains and climbed onto the bed, so I could see her bare ass and her small pale red labia. Then she turned to me and, almost demurely, drew her knees to one side, her hair hanging over her face, and said, “Come here.”

I leaned into her, not yet realizing what I was doing.

I soaked her in the crook of my right arm, lifted her up, placed her on a nest of pillows, and immediately drove into her, impaling her, pounding her, just as she had done to me.

A blood-red flush immediately appeared on her face and neck, the false look of her tragic, pained face. Her arms were outstretched, bouncing against a mess of lace frills like a rag doll.

She was so tense, so wet, and so hot that it rather surprised me, and the spastic appearance of her flesh, which felt almost virginal, drove me to the edge of the front. I tore off her underwear, stripped it from over her head and threw it off the bed. In a moment of madness, she seemed to possess me again, this time with her tight little cunt, while her bare stomach and breasts surrounded me and I became her prisoner, her slave. But I wouldn’t come out unless she did. I won’t let out until I see her trembling and helpless.

I stopped and lifted her hips with my left arm, lifting her up, forcing her down on me, and then ramming against her under the entire weight of my body, my mouth clenched on hers, kissing her so that her face was still situated under mine. I held her like this, ramming against her, kissing her. Thus, her insides exploded, the blood-like redness turned dark, her heart stopped, the full power of the horse fell into a “little state of death”, and she moaned like an animal, very roughly. I went on with her with impunity, exhausting myself in her, harder than anything or anyone else in my life, man or woman, whore or bitch, or imagined specter of powerlessness.

Elliott 13 Fur and Perfume

I tried not to go to sleep, but it was no use. I fall asleep for a while and wake up again, feeling this strange anxiety, staring intently at the way her sleeping form reveals that soft profile against the undulating drapery. Lovely woman, flawless up close, as threatening in sleep as she is awake.

How could she sleep after this? How could she be so sure that I wouldn’t jump up, grab her by the hair, and drag her around the room? I had an almost irresistible desire to start kissing her and matting her again, and yet, I wanted to get out of the room quickly. I held her against me, giving up everything in a kind of inevitable drowsiness, gently caressing her breasts and sex, and then fell into a dream, literally slipping away, as if knocked out.

When I woke up, the room was dark and she was calling my name. A faint alarm went off in my head. If she told me to go now, fuck it, I’d go crazy.

There was a hazy lamp on the dresser, casting a bright yellow light over the harsh, lean features of the carvings and masks, and the brass bed gleamed. I lay flat on my back on smooth cotton sheets; the sheet and pillow were gone, and the drapery had been tied up. A familiar sensation, the familiar sensation of leather handcuffs binding my left wrist, and I was fully awake. She had fastened the loops, and now she leaned over to me, her knees enduring me, and snapped on the cuffs on my right side.

She’s going to whip me, I thought. She’s not finished with me. The excitement boiled over fast. I really had it coming, didn’t I? Said those things, so things are going to be tough. If I hadn’t asked for it, she would have done it. I think she’d have stopped her? Frightened. A slow boil.

I give the straps a tug to try the strength, realizing that it may not be possible to break free. My left foot is quickly bound to the bedpost. Then the right foot. This had happened before and it wasn’t the worst. In fact, it was the most comfortable kind of whipping. So why the inner panic? Because of her? Because I hadn’t possessed one of my tormentors before, not in the way I had possessed her. Beautiful! Despite this, I can only think of one line from a poorly made movie about Romans and Christians. In the movie, a slave says to his disheveled noble master, “Whip me, but don’t send me away.”

I twisted my body, tugging at my belt, my dick rubbing against the sheets, but I didn’t even pull the heavy brass bed frame tight.

She was watching me, standing to my right.

She had her back to that light, and her skin looked almost white-hot in the shadows, as if the heat from her body had been transformed by magic into bright light.

Emotions boiled over as I thought of her being under me again, of her strong brethren and her softness, of her wanting to whip me. I suddenly wanted to say something to her, to break the tension. But I didn’t dare, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say. She had a black leather whip in her hand, and it was going to be bad. Even if I did speak to her, why should she mind? What was I going to say?

She was now dressed all in black, just like all the trainers wore, except for the lace knickers which weren’t black. She looked exciting and handsome, with a tiny tight leather undershirt and skirt that fit comfortably around her body, and high-heeled boots that laced up to her knees. If I saw her sitting in a restaurant on the sidewalk looking like that, I would cum in my shorts.

In fact, I almost ejaculated against the cotton sheets.

She walked towards me, holding the belt in her right hand.

Now, I’m going to pay for not only trying shrewdly, but also possessing her. That’s it, isn’t it? I almost cringed. After all, whipping never feels good. No matter how much you want it, or how much you love it, it always hurts. She would know how to do it. She’s the boss.

She comes closer, bending down, the crepe edge of her short coat skimming my shoulder. She kisses my cheek. Perfume, silky hair. I leaned back on the sheets and shifted my position, thinking: I can’t just cum like a schoolboy because she kissed me, that would be madness.

“You’re an obnoxious soulful fellow, aren’t you?” She said in a low voice that almost revealed love. “You have a really smart mouth. You are not at my disposal, nor at your own.”

I’m almost going to say: Yes, I really am, I am. If you let me go, I’ll kiss your feet. But I didn’t say anything.

She kisses me again, making the tiny hairs on my entire body stand upright because that kiss was so light and maddening. A mere taste of her mouth. Another waft of her perfume. “We’re going to learn a few lessons,” she says. “About how slaves talk and respond in the ‘club’.”

“I’m a really fast learner,” I say. My head turns away from her, what the hell do I want to do? This was bad. But I can’t stand the sight of her, the sight of that tight tank top, and the plunging neck of the short top, I can’t stand it.

“I hope so,” she laughed softly. “If not, I’m going to whip the shit out of you.” Her lips touch me again, licking my neck. “What’s going on here, huh? Hands and feet already? What do you think I’m going to do to you when I whip you and you have to cum against the bed? Take a guess.

”

I didn’t dare say anything.

“Now, when I’m punishing you,” she said just as softly, brushing the hair back from my forehead. “Every time I address you, you will answer me with great propriety and respect, and you will control the strong impulse of pride, no matter what the stimulus, understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” I said, turning, my body stretching forward hard and kissing her before she could move away. She stepped back again, her whole body loosening up, dropping to both knees and kissing me, the same sizzling electricity sweeping through her body, the kiss almost touching off a bomb.

“Lisa.” I whispered, I don’t even know why I whispered it like that.

She stayed there quietly, very close, looking at me. Immediately I felt why this thing was so horrible, I felt: they always used to wear masks in my imagination, the women and men who whipped me or restrained me. Who were they? The question really didn’t matter at all as long as they said the right things. But she is not wearing a mask. The “fantasies” didn’t shield her.

“I’m scared to death of you,” I was whispering. I could hear my own voice revealing surprise. I was speaking so low that I doubted myself if she could hear me. “I mean I… it’s hard, it’s…”

Her face changed slightly, her expression having a slight shift. God, she was beautiful. It was as if in this moment, her face opened up, as if the face became her inside, rather than what she wanted to present to the outer world.

“Very good,” she said, her mouth forming a kiss without touching me. She slowly stepped backward. “Are you ready for your whipping?”

I sighed slightly and nodded.

“You have to act better than that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shakes her head and is examining me. I lick my lips slightly and look at her mouth. She frowns slightly, her eyes looking down and then back at me, her eyelashes like a kind of dark fringe. “I like the way you say ‘Lisa,'” she says musingly, as if she’s considering it. “Let’s change it to ‘Yes, Lisa.’

It!”

“Yes, Lisa.” I was shaking. I was always that way with Martin. Yes, Martin. No, Martin.

“Good boy.” She said.

She disappeared and went to the foot of the bed there. At first, she swirled the belt hard, like a male trainer. The way she whipped was efficient, each lash had weight.

She started working. It was like a kind of inspection of what she looked like whipping. The pain built up slowly and luxuriously, like the way the pleasure built up when she fucked me with the dildo. I could feel myself crumbling, a slow arousal building in agony, all my defenses weakening. That defense was strong enough to resist her if she attacked more roughly, quickly, noisily.

Then that whipping really began. My muscles tensed up and kicked off the sheets. I couldn’t keep quiet. I tried to hold on, as I so often showed, unwilling to relax, but it wasn’t working. My whole body was reeling, unable to stand it any longer. The belt sought out small places it had originally overlooked, and I felt dizzying tingles. Even though I tried to block it out, the excitement raged on, and the belt once again teased the severe whip marks. That precious moment that doesn’t come often comes, the one in which I know I’m no longer in control, and at the same time I feel everything and anything.

“You know you belong to me?” She said.

“Yes, Lisa.” I replied naturally.

“You came here to please me.”

“Yes, Lisa.”

“No more rude remarks.”

“No more talking, Lisa.”

“Not to repeat the rude words I heard you say this afternoon.”

“Not to be repeated, Lisa.”

Finally, I moaned unreservedly, unable to pretend I wasn’t moaning. Even when I answered her, it was through clenched teeth. I thought again of her sex, her legs stretched out, and that hot little sheath clamping down on me. I wanted to see her. I had things to say to her, things that hadn’t been shaped into words yet. But I didn’t dare say anything beyond uttering the proper response, and I only paid attention to each question as the lashes fell like rain. I was ready to do anything she would ask.

Finally she stopped.

My skin makes a silky sound and steam rises from every whip mark and cut while her maddeningly soft and agile little fingers undo the handcuffs and tell me to stand up.

I got out of bed, like a drunk, and fell to my knees in front of her, exhausted, as if I had run for miles.

My muscles ached from tightening and relaxing during the whipping. I desperately wanted to hold her in my arms, so I pressed my head firmly into the floor, suppressing that desire. This feeling for her weakened me, like a drug.

I bend over, kissing the smooth leather of her small plimsolls. My hand grips her left ankle and my face hole rubs against her. I no longer minded anything in the world, except her really. Already experiencing all these phases in her. Owning her, fearing her, being whipped by her, holding her.

“No,” she said, and I pulled my hand back and kissed her foot a couple times. Pain and desire flashed.

“Well played, wasn’t it?” She asked.

“Yes, Lisa.” I nodded, unable to help the slight chuckle that escaped me. I hope you know that “well played” I want to devour you. I… what?

“Do you feel better?” She asked, touching my cheek lightly with her belt, and I looked up.

For a few moments I could not see her very clearly. Her whole being seemed gentle. Then her face burned. She was sweating a little because of the effort of the whipping, her lipsticked lips shimmered, and her eyes revealed an innocent look of ambiguous curiosity. Much like Martin’s look, really, the kind that symbolizes frequent surprise, exploration, and discovery.

“I asked you a question. Do you feel better?” She said politely, but also with a touch of impatience. “I want to know.”

“Longer, more passionate,” I murmured. I knew I was smiling at her, almost sarcastically. “And harder, but not better, Lisa.” I said.

She leaned in to kiss me, and I thought that I would finally cum, unable to control it, with that wet feeling of her mouth, that kiss unlike any kiss I had ever experienced.

I started to get to my feet. I would have picked her up and pressed her hard against myself. But she quickly moved away, leaving me shivering on my knees, feeling that warm tingling sensation among my limbs again, and that strange numb feeling in my mouth.

“I could have skinned you alive,” she said. “But I’m just going to turn you on a little bit, and you’re going to do things for me tonight.”

I looked up at her again, lest she might tell me to look down. “Please…” I whispered. “May I have your… may I have your slave make a small request?”

She looked at me almost coldly for a moment. “Okay!”

“Let me kiss you again, Lisa, just once.”

She gazed at me. Soon, however, she bent over and suckled me, so that my hands went upward and clasped her; as if her hot breath had rushed into me noisily, and rudely and lyrically. I was just an animal that needed her, that’s all.

“Let go, Elliot.” She said, her tone sounding stern and like she was being nonchalant, but her fingers tightened around me and then released me as if I had asked her to let go rather than her asking me to let go.

I lowered my head.

“It’s time to really learn obedience and manners,” she said, but there was a little uneasiness, trepidation in her voice. A beautiful voice! “Stand up.”

“Yes, Lisa.”

“Put your hands behind your back and grab your waist.”

I do as I’m told, and the ancient cycle beginsWhat bad things are going to happen, Si, maybe I really should go nowThe quivering low alarm. But you belong to her, I thought. Don’t think about anything. Oh, yes, you really do belong to her. A certain slice of belonging to a thought is sweeping through my mind: we are searching for the ultimate pain, and my ultimate pain is lusting after her, on the verge of dying for her, while at the same time she is punishing me, not just punishing, but focusing the center, the desire. Yet this is not entirely the case.

She circled in small circles around me, every nerve in my body on alert. She walked with a regal air, her calves taut under the smooth lambskin of her high-heeled boots, her short suede skirt floating wonderfully over her tiny hips.

She gently pinches my face. “You’re beautiful when you blush,” she says sincerely. “The whip marks look great on you, they won’t break your face. You look like you should look right now.”

I felt the vague microwaves, what the French call “tremors.” I looked into her eyes.

But I dare not ask to kiss her again. She would refuse.

“Look down, blue eyes,” she said, but she expressed no reproach. “Now, I won’t put a muzzle on you; your mouth is too pretty. But if there’s a slip, I mean, if the original Elliot I saw this afternoon has a slight attack of temper, I’m going to muzzle you and tie you up, do you understand? And I’m going to be angry with you. Do you hear me?”

“Listen in, ma’am.” I looked at her enough to give her another, bittersweet glance.

She laughed, as she had done several other times, in a low voice, and as she kissed me again on the cheek, I looked at her again, and something flickered, something more subtle than a smile. It was like flirting with her in the most devious way. Please kiss me again. She did not kiss me.

“Now, you’re going to walk in front of me,” she said, “and slightly to the right. Again, if you get smart again, I’m going to muzzle you and I’m going to make you kneel. Do you understand?”

“Understood, ma’am.”

Erotic Paradise (09)

Elliott 14 Sports Ride

It was demoralizing: to leave her mattress and be taken to the “club”. The flickering lamps of the typhoon and the noise of the crowds in the gardens in the evening stirred up a deep, primitive chord of fear.

Suddenly, there seemed to be even more guests scattered around us than I had seen on the first day. I looked downward and felt a low camping sound pass through my whole body: I was so led, slowly and cautiously, past many unavoidable glances.

I followed the trail, Lisa’s arm poking me as I turned the corner; if there was a fork in the road, her hand was outstretched to guide the way.

We passed the buffet table and the swimming pool and marched down a path that led out of the large garden towards a low building with a glass dome. The low walls were crawling with vines and the lighted dome glowed like a big bubble. I could hear muffled shouts and laughter.

“It’s a ride, Elliot,” she said, “do you know what that means?”

“I don’t know, Lisa.” I said in a surprisingly calm voice, but it sounded awful. I was already sweating. The whip marks and cuts were itching.

“You’re an athlete, aren’t you?” She asked. She pushed me along the trail slightly faster. There was a young manager with long red hair and a very pleasant smile, reaching out to open the door of the strange building, which made a deafening noise.

“Good night, Lisa,” he exclaimed. “They are gathered there to-night, and will be glad to see this one.”

As soon as we walked in, the bright lights seemed to dim even more, but maybe it was just the crowd and the smoke. The smell of tobacco mixed strongly with the maltiness of the beer.

I could tell there were only a few women, but the place was wide enough to be a hidden huge garden, with a long bar stretching along the curved wall. Trainers pushed past us with naked male slaves, some tied up, some walking like me, and others clearly exhausted and covered in sweat and dust.

All around we could hear people talking easily in a dozen different languages. I could feel eyes skimming over us, hovering. I could also clearly hear French and German, snippets of Arabic, and Greek. All of them, of course, were well-to-do people, wearing expensive sweatshirts with tiny accessories representing money and power.

But the terrible thing was the shouting from above, the familiar noise of men from the depths of their throats, cheering for some kind of contest, and then, when the situation was questionable, cajoling and cursing. I wanted to leave now.

Lisa pushed her way through the wall of people, and before me I saw a street lined with field trees and lined with clear, soft white sand, stretching ahead for about a hundred yards, or more, before the masses engulfed the street.

In the distance, to the left and right, there were large towering fountains, scattered park benches, and naked slave girls. The naked slaves, all extremely beautiful, were quietly and busily raking the sand, emptying the standing ashtrays, and collecting abandoned glass bottles and beer cans.

The street itself appeared to be a shopping street, lined with scattered buildings neatly painted white, each connected by strings from which hung small lights. Between the buildings were fenced off areas; groups of people leaned against wooden railings, making it impossible to see anything going on inside. Guests enter and leave the buildings. There are hundreds of people strolling on the white sand, their shirts open to waist level, drinks in their hands, just looking in at the open doors from time to time.

I took a step backward, but unconsciously, sort of pretending I had to dodge two men in bathing suits passing by. I felt Lisa’s nails pinching into my arm. My mouth opened with the slightest thought of pleading with her, something like, “I’m not ready to face this.” But no words came out.

The mass around us grew. Pants, boots and tops swept over my body and I felt claustrophobic with fear. But Lisa’s hand on my arm pushed me toward the first of the long white cubicles.

It was dark inside, and for a moment I couldn’t make out what was there. It turned out that there were mirrored walls and ceilings, smooth hardwood floors, and decorative neon lights forming thin white lines that starkly delineated the ceiling and stage. Then I could see they were playing a typical amusement park game. You buy a couple of black rubber bands, toss them around, and try to get them all to hang on one of the projectiles, accumulating a perfect score. Only here, the projectile is the slumped head of a male slave. The male slave kneels on a conveyor belt that quickly transports them to the other side of the stage.

For the guests, it was a vulgar, boisterous pastime of putting many rubber bands around the necks of the slaves before they disappeared from the side of the stage. Despite the simplicity of the game, it reveals a truly horrific meaning: the kneeling slaves show the kind of submission that transforms the oiled body into a pure object as it passes in front of the crowd.

I stared at the tiny stage, the bowed head, the rubber band hanging around my neck. I don’t want to be left there. I can’t be. There must be some way to make it clear. Instead of actually considering the matter, I just moved backward until I suddenly moved behind Lisa and kissed the top of her head.

“Go outside,” she said. “Don’t plead with me in vain. If I wanted you to go up there, I would have put you up there above. Yet I don’t want to.”

She pushed me toward the door.

The bright light of the street flickered on the lids of my closed eyelids for a second, and then I moved again, being pushed steadily into another small room to my right.

It was a much larger, smaller room with the same slick, high-tech stage setup, with a bar and brass rail visible along the wall, about thirty feet deep. Instead of rubber bands, this time brightly colored plastic balls, about the size of tennis balls, were played with and thrown at moving bullseye markers, which were male slaves with thick glowing colors painted on their buttocks. Their hands were tied above their heads and they kept moving, desperately trying to avoid what they couldn’t see. The ball adhered to the mark as it was projected. The slaves shook their bodies, trying to shake the ball off. The situation involved a wonderful implication of humiliation, as well as a fair component of real pain. I didn’t have to see the slaves’ faces to realize that they twisted their bodies much like a horse arranging its feathers with its beak. Every lovely muscle was fully alive.

I felt sweat dripping down my face hole. I shook my head slightly in denial. Impossible, really impossible. Walking out. With the rest of my eyes I see Lisa watching and I show a blank face.

The next two small rooms played a similar game, with slaves running on an oval track above them, escaping the attack of the spheres and rubber bands. And in the fifth small room, the slave is hung upside down on a merry-go-round and does not have to twist or turn on his own.

I wonder if that’s how they dealt with slaves when they got tired of other games placing slaves on that merry-go-round, hanging there helplessly upside down? A first-rate form of suffering. And this is the regular service in the “club”, isn’t it? This place is not like being sent down a flight of stairs to be punished.

Remember that in a normal world these things don’t happen, but any such memories are actually untrustworthy. We have stepped into a painting of Hieronymus Bosch. We have stepped into a painting by Hieronymus Bosch, filled with blinding silver and red; there is only one chance for me to get out again: the woman who brought me in.

But do I want to go out? Of course not. Or let’s put it this way: I don’t want to at this moment. I hadn’t thought of anything like this in my entire sexual fantasy. I was scared to death, secretly in a trance. But the situation was like that of the old Jarrett Bergers book. The old “Purple Cow” poem by Bergers: “I’d rather see than be involved.”

I moved sluggishly in the blinding brightness, my senses overwhelmed. Even the noise seemed to pierce me, the sweet smell of smoke slightly anesthetized me; the hands of others touched or examined me from time to time, combining fear and desire in a way that I could not hide.

Naked female slaves appeared and disappeared, offering cocktails, champagne, and white wine, like those bright pale red flames in the moving mass of men.

“Aren’t we geniuses at making bizarre sex?” Lisa suddenly whispered. It was startling to hear her speak. But the expression on her face was even more surprising. She surveyed the masses with the same bewildered look as I did, as if we had been wandering the city’s bazaar together for hours.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I said. My voice sounded just as strange as hers.

I’m sweating.

“Do you like it?” She said. Not sarcastically. It’s like she’s forgotten who we both are.

“Yes, I like it.” I said. Her face and voice were innocent and I secretly felt a powerful sense of satisfaction. She looked up at me and I winked at her. I could almost swear: she blushed as she averted her gaze.

I thought: why don’t you grab her? Let her bend over my arm and I’ll kiss her like Rudy Lentino did in “Beautiful Boy”? Like Rudy Lentino did in “Pretty Boy”? I mean, in this bizarre “sex”

In the midst of it, that would be very interesting, at least for me. But I don’t have the courage.

If she gets mad at me, I’ll die. That means: if she gives the order, she’ll start playing that tantalizing little game for once, right?

We started walking again, and I noticed her with the rest of my eyes, her protruding breasts appearing under the elegant layers of lace, the tank top molding her into a tiny hourglass. It was the difference between heaven and hell.

She guided me to a clearing, at which point I realized that she probably wanted me to look at a variety of games before choosing the one that affected me the most.

But when I saw the game in the clearing, I couldn’t hide my feelings properly.

There was a sort of contest going on here, with the men all gathered around the rodeo, which was fenced on all sides, with their feet on the rails, like what happens in a cowboy stunt competition. They cheered at the naked slaves, who turned out to be racing to climb on neat rails.

But these slaves don’t just race to climb to the far side. They also used their teeth to bite back the black rubber balls that the guests at the rail had thrown onto the track, and these guests, while waiting for the first ball to be bitten back, threw the second ball down. The onlookers prodded them with their whips.

It appears as if five balls decide the game, for both arms are lifted upward as the victor places the fifth ball at his master’s feet. His face was red in the holes and sweat dripped down his face while he was cheered, patted, and caressed. He is immediately led away from the clearing, a white towel wrapped around his body, but the others gasp and quiver, get whipped, and take their places for the next game.

I see the penalty. You’ll race on until you win.

As I expected, the slaves were extolling the matter, and they did compete with each other. They were on their knees, balancing their bodies, desperately ready to start again, looking at each other, their jaws tightening.

I stepped back again, trying to appear unconcerned. Aren’t we going to the next clearing, the next little room? I mean, come on, there’s so much to see, right? I think I’m gonna go home and read the New York Times now. The noise is like a camp sound in my head.

“This sort of thing does seem too difficult for you, doesn’t it?” She said, her big brown eyes looking upward again. Everything inside me melted except of course the parts that never melt. I thought of so many mean things to say, but I didn’t say them. I felt myself displaying a charming look of submission to her. I kissed her cheek with a gesture of defiance.

She stepped back, snapping her fingers and making a little gesture for me to move forward. “Don’t do that again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She was really flustered, her face showing pink.

She guided me toward the crowded street without looking back. I told myself: I don’t want to look at the empty lots on either side of me, but I couldn’t help but do it. More races, different distances, different variations. But even more fun: watching her beautiful little ass sway under her skirt, the wave of her hair coming from almost that far away, and the tiny wrinkles behind her bare knees!

A dense crowd was gathered in front of a lighted stage, and as we approached the group the street diverged to the right and left. There were about eight or ten slaves on the stage, every one of them naked, except one who had a white towel draped over his shoulders.

Lots of loose hair, polished muscles, and smiles, very provocative smiles, while the slaves make little gestures and head movements that say “come on”, obviously taunting the crowd.

I soon saw what was going on. The manager was selling slaves for a contest or game, and the slaves gladly accepted, competing with each other for the higher bidder. Two slaves were sold, while I paid attention to see what would happen when three bidders were having an informal little auction. Immediately another pair of slaves are taken from the enclosure to the ladder and the same “feathering with the beak” and delightful taunting begins. The sound of the lord barking, the shouts of the guests, and the occasional threatening cries of “I’m going to take that smile off your face” and “Do you want to campaign for me?” The tension of merriment is heightened.

Lisa’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer to her body, her fingertips against mine, and the touch was all but maddening. I stole a few glances at her breasts under her low-necked blouse, and could almost see the nipples.

“Which one is the most attractive and fleshy?” She asked, cocking her head as if we were a pair of dogs in a purebred dog show. I felt even more completely overwhelmed by her. “Think about your answer and answer me honestly,”

She said. “So that I will know things about you.”

“I don’t know.” I whispered a little sexily. I couldn’t help but feel angry at the thought that she would walk in on one of the rough slaves and start to pay attention to him.

“Think hard about what I want you to do.” She said coldly, her hand rising upwards and brushing my hair back, but her expression was cold and revealingly threatening. “Pick out the one you think is the most handsome, the one you’d want the most if I asked you to do it. Don’t lie to me or even think about it.”

I was in great pain and I felt nothing but jealousy. But I looked at these men and my insides were a mess. My senses dominated me, shifting gears quickly, feeling very new. All of them were young, obviously very strong, and they were proud of the whip marks on their bodies, the pale red hue of their asses, and of their sex organs, the muscles in their legs and arms.

“I think this one on this side, the blonde one is great.” She said.

“No,” I shook my head as if the matter was not even up for discussion. “There’s not a single person on stage who can match that guy behind the fence, the dark-haired one.”

Even in the midst of a place full of special people, he was special. He was a young, dark-haired, flat-chested shepherd god emerging from the primeval forest. He should have had pointed ears. His curls were short, though thick in the side areas and just a bit long in the back. His neck and shoulders are especially nice and strong.

His dick was partially erect, almost as big as a beer bottle. He looked a little like the devil, especially as he stared straight at me, his lips slightly pouted and his smooth black eyebrows gathered together for a moment in a playful frown.

“Just let you pick him, do you want him?” She asked, sizing him up. They brought him to the front of the fence, his hands behind his neck, his eyes gazing up at us while that dick hardened.

I imagined myself as she watched him, split in two inside. When I was at Martin’s, that sort of thing was difficult for me, very difficult in front of other people . It was easier to get whipped and take a dozen insults than to let them see me do that kind of thing. I felt something being released, and he made my body temperature rise.

Lisa made a little gesture to the manager, a clever bidding gesture like those made in art auctions. The manager immediately made a motion for the slave to walk onto the small stage, then down the steps and through the crowd towards us.

Upon closer inspection, he was a real screamer. His olive skin was tanned by the sun, and every little bit of his body was hard. He walked forward with his eyes looking downward, displaying a very polite demeanor, both hands still resting on the back of his neck, while he dropped to one knee and kissed Lisa’s plimsolls in a surprisingly graceful gesture. Even the back of his neck was tantalizing. He quickly glanced up and down at me. I looked at Lisa, half wanting him, half hating him, unable to probe what Lisa really thought of him.

As he stands up, Lisa takes the towel off his shoulder and tosses it to the manager. Then she makes a motion for us to follow her.

We immediately walked out into a very noisy clearing, a very open circular area where the loose masses were about three people deep, equal to half a circle of packed bleachers.

Lisa pushed forward, making motions for us to follow, and then we came to the railing and the crowd immediately surrounded us.

Two apparently fresh and sexy slaves were crawling, just about to enter the circular clearing, when the spectators began to count in low tones, one, two, three, four, five… At the same time, the slaves were taking offense at each other, like combatants. They gazed at each other warily through their disheveled hair, their bodies glistening with a thick layer of oil, one of them a dark-skinned, brown-haired slave, the other a silver-skinned, blonde-haired slave with long, disheveled hair covering his face.

But what kind of game is this? Just squashing another guy, dozens of times? Or is it rape?

The brown-haired slave lunged at the blonde, hissing and straining to mount the other. Yes, it was rape. The blonde one slipped away easily, thanks to the thick oil rubbed on him. When he slipped away, he turned and pounced on the darker skinned one, again unable to grab the other. A real melee ensued, with the oil rubbing hands desperately trying to slip away from the rubbing limbs. The counting of the children’s voices continued, over a hundred, and the struggle intensified as the brown-haired slave mounted the other, his arm hooked around his throat. But he was shorter than the blonde slave, and no matter how hard he pounded, he couldn’t win. The blonde slave rolled on top of the other, struggling to break free of him, and at the count of one hundred and twenty finally shook him off.

There were no winners. Both were booed.

Lisa turned to me. “Do I need to tell you what to do?” She asked and gestured to the manager. The olive-skinned shepherd god pouted and smiled at me again while I glared angrily at Lisa.

“Can be very old-fashioned stuff if you ask me.” I said. The top of my head was falling off.

“No one asked you.” She said. “By the way, you picked a fighter. You better behave.”

The manager pulled us aside to rub the oil as more clamor came from the crowd. The evil little shepherd god was scrutinizing and sizing me up, his lips pouting and revealing the same sort of infuriating scowl. He was ready. I heard bets being placed and saw people debating and talking in the crowded bleachers.

My anger disappeared and was replaced by another, more ferocious emotion. Go get him. – Him! The bastard. I’m ready too.

Gladiator, that’s what Lisa called him. Probably called him that hundreds of times. A fuck-it gladiator, that’s what he was, and I’d gone down to sea. Okay! I was getting more and more excited and frantic. The situation revealed an air of solemn cruelty that was inspiring me, yet another door opened to a kind of what was always locked.

“Remember,” the manager said, pushing me toward the circle. “Always crawl, no hitting, and don’t waste time defending yourself. Grab him. Now start.” He pushed me under the rail.

There came the sound of a strong crash, and the clock started.

I could see him moving in front of me, eyes glaring at me angrily beneath his black eyebrows, the oil he was rubbing on forming beads on his hands and cheeks. He was thicker than me, with a little stiffness in his muscles, and this wasn’t good for him. The clock is counting to thirty, thirty-one…

Suddenly he lunged at me as if to jump on top of my head, and I swerved to the right just in time to see him land awkwardly in the dust. But here’s the secret: get on top of him now and don’t hesitate for a second. I pounce on him before he has time to recover. In fact, I made a full circle as he came at me. I jumped on top of his body, hooking my left arm around the place of his throat and reinforcing it with my right arm. But it was going to be maddening to maintain that position; his body slid underneath me while leaping angrily, his greasy fingers messing with my hands in vain. I could hear him growling.

But he didn’t break free, not from me. It was a gutter battle I hadn’t experienced, a rape in an alley I hadn’t done or even really imagined. And he was letting it happen, this son of a bitch, he would do it on me. It was awesome, I made him arch his back as if I was already inside, clamping down on him like a vise. That worked, he couldn’t shake me off and his chi was on the wane. His fingers gripped my arms and both my hands, but slipped free. The crowd was roaring. I slammed into him hard, and he shook his head roughly, struggling to roll, but I was too physically heavy, and I was too frantic and determined. I went in. I possess him, both arms around his neck again, and he doesn’t stand a chance now.

The crowd stops the clock one-zero, one-one then lets out screams and cheers. He jumped wildly, making the situation even more favorable; the friction was wonderful as he struggled to break free. I came out, shooting into the heat inside his body, pushing his head to the floor.

After the shower and scrub, they let me rest for a while. I sat on a small patch of soft grass with my arms crossed over my knees and my head resting on my arms. I wasn’t really tired or exhausted.

I was thinking. Why did she choose that particular game for me? It was the exact opposite of humiliation, yet the contact was vertiginous. What was learned was unique, a rape without sin.

Should everyone experience this kind of thing once in their life?

Showing that each person has the ability to take advantage of another in that way does not involve real moral harm or physical harm.

I could have gotten caught up in this little game, but I was already caught up in “her”. It haunts me. Why did she choose this? It’s a difficult thing to deal with, but it gives me the opportunity to dominate another human being. Was she building up my physique in preparation for a real defeat?

I looked up at last and saw her leaning against a fig tree, gazing at me, her head tilted to one side, her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her suede skirt. She had a very singular look on her face, with large eyes, a lower lip that one could not help wanting to kiss, and a face like a girl’s, very gentle.

A strange desire arose in me to speak to her, to explain something to her. I had the same impulse in the bedroom, and that pain: what on earth would she mind? She didn’t want to know me, this woman didn’t want to know me. She just wants to use me, that’s why I’m here.

However, we looked at each other, separated by the distance of the tiny wash-house, forgetting the clamor coming from the round place. There the same drama was repeating itself. I was afraid of her again, as I had been afraid of her for hours, afraid of what was to follow.

She beckoned to me and I felt a stirring in my loins that was almost audible. I had a real hunch: it wasn’t going to be about strong men’s weird tricks anymore.

I stood up and walked towards her, the anxiety intensifying.

“You’re good at wrestling,” she said calmly. “You’ll do things that a lot of new slaves won’t.

But now it’s time to whip you, don’t you think?”

I gazed at her plimsolls, at the tight fitting part of her ankle. Go back to her room! Please, I thought. If we were alone there again, I could take anything. Think about this… I know I should answer her, but I can’t say the proper words.

“A blonde slave’s face gives it all away,” she said, curving her fingers to caress my cheek. “Ever been tied to a real whipping post to receive a whipping?” She asked. “For a large, discerning congregation to watch?”

Then the situation is going to come up.

“Eh?”

“No, ma’am.” I said in a monotone, flashing a cold smile. Not letting any of the crowd watch. God, not letting this crowd watch, not in this place, I had to think of something, not complete begging. Still, I couldn’t think of anything.

A manager appeared behind her, a flash of indispensable leather straps on her hairy wrists.

She said, “Take him to the scourging post. And when he walks, let him put his hands on both sides of his body. I like that look of him better than any other. Prepare him for the scourging with all fetters and handcuffs, and make him suffer.

”

I couldn’t detect a pulse at all, and I realized coldly that if I said “no” and refused to move, the son of a bitch would whistle, call his assistant, and probably drag me there all the same.

Well, that kind of thing doesn’t happen.

“Lisa…” I whispered, shaking my head slightly.

Her hand came toward me again, sending a clear, recognizable scent of perfume That bedroom, those sheets, her nakedness beneath my body, it all flashed back. Then the warmth of her hand gripping the back of my neck.

“Shhh, come on, Elliot,” she said, her fingers massaging my neck muscles. “You can take it, you will take it, for me.”

“Ruthless!” I whispered, clenching my teeth, my eyes not going to her.

“Yes, exactly.” She said.

Lisa 15 Whipping Post

For the first time he looked a little scared, all the pleasant look on his face was gone, and so was his anger, just like he looked before a wrestling match was about to start. No, something was finally working. He didn’t like the idea of being added to the shackles and handcuffs and being whipped in front of an audience. Courage had finally faltered.

What a joke it would be if he knew how afraid I was of disappointing him; what an inward panic I felt at not making it worth his while!

I mean, the notion that it’s all shit, that slaves exist purely to please Mistresses and Mistresses, is nothing but shit. We have to give everyone in this place everything he, or she, expects, and we know it. The system depends entirely on the fulfillment of all parties. What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t really squash him and give him what he came here to get?

But now with the whip, we have something. Good.

I told my manager to take him ahead of me because I didn’t want to see his face for a minute or two. I had to get rid of him, I had to get myself dominated again.

When you train slaves, you learn to pay attention to everything, including the slightest change in expression or breathing, the faintest sign of pain This signal varies greatly with the punishment, with the thrust. Theoretically, you are involved. You act enthusiastic. But you learn to behave well so you don’t have to be as enthusiastic as you are. Sometimes this enthusiasm is so steady, so constant, that you don’t realize: how powerful it is. But there is something else going on here. I wasn’t just watching him, I was attracted to him. If I don’t look at him every second, touch his skin, his hair, I feel miserable. I’m going to stir up his rebelliousness again, stir up that very surprising condescension, that sobriety.

The one thing I can’t stand is: conquering him when he has every right to expect me to conquer him.

I let them walk a few yards in front of me, feeling a little surprised at the way he looked around. Once or twice the manager gave his arm a sharp push, but it didn’t do much good. All I had to do was look at his posture and see the way his shoulders stiffened, and I knew he was nervous.

And the rational part of me, the purely professional part of me, kept trying to figure out what was going on between the two of us? Why am I losing control?

Okay! He’s a thousand times more handsome than the file photo. Forget early estimates in that regard! His hair was thicker, almost very thick, so moderating the shape of his head. When he wasn’t smiling, he did reveal a faintly unfeeling look, a cold look, which he didn’t fabricate; on the contrary, he tried to play at hiding it. He did not like this cold look of his own so much. He didn’t value that look. Well, that was fine.

And the blue eyes, yes, unbelievable, infinitely beautiful in sunlight, torchlight and white heat lamps whether he smiled, stared, brooded or looked serious or not. That body, the kind of body a man has. Say no more.

Now, if you add the long fingers, the narrow hands, the neatly clipped nails (almost unheard of among slaves), and that gesture, that deep change of voice, and that look of him doing almost everything I tell him to do, then you have a strong man displaying a rooted elegance  of gesture, like the ski chalet in the cigarette advertisement The guy by the fire with the strong jaw, smoking a Marlboro cigarette as if he were lazily recharging his batteries with it. You know that this fellow would like Mozart and Billy Holiday, and would also like the idea of a tolerant You know this guy will like Mozart and Billy Holiday, and he’ll savor French wine with tolerance.

Well, I own that part. I admit I have not seen a slave like this one before. It was the stuff of dreams, only I didn’t dream it.

But what about the rest of it? The look in his eyes, the strange and intimate way he smiled, the way he showed when he told me he was afraid of me, the go-it-alone witty remarks no one has ever shown me like that before and that special energy. When we made contact, that energy began to burn out the circuits.

I didn’t fall in love in high school, and I didn’t believe in the whole thing about guys being better at “kissing” than everyone else. But he really knew how to kiss. He kissed the way I imagined men kissing each other, rough, but sexy and passionate in a way that could only happen between equals, real equals with equal potential for acceleration and fulfillment of desire. I was able to get into the back seat of a Chevy with him and kiss that way for an hour. It’s just that men don’t kiss each other in the backseat of a car, do they?

What the hell is going on here?

We’ve come to the triple whipping post. Okay, he’s really pissed.

Intense bright white light spilled over the three circular concrete stages, and each slave’s neck was tied to a high post that reached almost to the place of their chin. Rows of shackled and handcuffed slaves waited their turn, only two slaves had their eyes blindfolded and one had a muzzle over his mouth.

The crowd is the usual crowd, “five or six drinks at nine o’clock, and no one has to drive home because we’re right at home,” and they are the guests, sitting at tables on the rumpus terrace, accepting without hesitation the fact that: pure and simple whipping turns them on. They don’t need games and competitions; they think they’re stupid. Don’t mind that whipping is fifty percent show and noise.

And the usual stragglers, about a hundred of them, milling about in front of the stage, drinks in hand.

The manager, a very rude young man whom I did not recognize, guided Elliot to the side, but Elliot turned his head to look at the slave who was “being whipped,” and the manager’s whip snapped at him to correct his action.

I moved slightly closer. I kind of wanted to put the shackles on him myself, but the managers did it better and faster, they were more experienced. I leaned in close enough not to interfere.

Elliot looked at me for a second. A small muscle twitched in his cheek and a dark red flush surfaced.

The manager wrapped thick white leather straps around his chest and then tied his wrists to the straps behind him. He was going crazy, casting his gaze over the crowd, and I could see the glassy layer of his eyes.

I kept reaching out to touch him, kept tightening my fingers, moving so he wouldn’t notice the gestures.

But now my fingers were in his hair. He kept looking at the whipping post, not paying attention to me. His mouth was slightly twisted and he looked a little mean.

I thought he would struggle when the manager added the white leather collar around his neck, which he almost did.

“Relax.” I said.

It was a lovely collar, adorned with soft fur, thrusting his chin upward in a graceful gesture, but making you feel fifty times more helpless. I could see him clenching his teeth hard.

“You’ve been through this before…” I said, stroking his back. I really wasn’t enjoying this very much. He couldn’t lower his head to look at me, couldn’t even turn his head anymore, and I could see that it was killing him.

“Blindfold him.” I said.

He really did not anticipate the incident and silently looked alarmed. The manager rudely addressed his head and blindfolded him with a leather blindfold. His body became rigid. I could see the thick padding under the white skin, and I thought to myself: what does it feel like when these pads are pressed against the eyelids? The manager fastened the leather eye cover. As is so often the case, the lower part of his face looked irresistible, his lips twitching and stretching nervously, biting together and releasing.

He shivered all over, gagging and changing his body weight.

I tiptoe to my feet and kiss his cheek. He moves away. He was getting worse by the second, his body seeming to swell up beneath the shackles, his wrists twisting amongst the bindings, his lips pouting back in a snarky smiling scowl. But he did get excited. He was cold, and he couldn’t hide that no matter how angry he turned away from me.

I kiss him again and feel that tremor. I tiptoe up and kiss him on the mouth. He started to back away, angry and frustrated, but he didn’t apparently couldn’t make up his mind fast enough about it. That situation started again, that manifestation of energy, that tremor shown when the open mouth twitched.

He stops and turns away again. But he is losing control completely, shaking his head as if the blindfold is driving him crazy. The blindfold looks like a white bandage tied around his eyes, with blonde hair above it, and it looks boyish and fragile, as if he’s injured and wrapped in gauze.

“Lisa!” He whispered, barely opening his lips. “Remove the blindfold, remove the collar, and I’ll be able to remove the rest myself.” He started to break free of the shackles, his face a shade of red. The manager tugged at him contemptuously, kicking his legs out of the way.

“Shh.” I kissed him again, pressing against his body. “You’ve been blindfolded before. You were able to endure it.

”

“Not this time, not here,” he said in the same whisper. “Lisa, take it down. It’s too much.”

Then he quieted down, like a man counting to ten to calm his temper, sweat running down the side of his face.

“I’m going to take you to the front of the line,” I said. “They are going to whip you next. It won’t be much worse than what I inflicted on you in the bedroom.”

“It’s just that two hundred people saw it,” he whispered between his teeth, “and I couldn’t see them.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to put a muzzle on you.”

The words worked on him. He doesn’t want to put on a mouthpiece. In silence, he literally falls apart. My arms are around him, and this time he doesn’t break free. He can’t take it anymore and turns to me as I tiptoe up again; he kisses my hair.

I felt a wave of desire for him in my mind that was almost unbearable. I signaled to the manager to go up and arrange for the whipping; I tried hard to hide my face from anyone. I didn’t want to do all this stuff, but it was what he was here for, to go to it, what he really wanted, and I didn’t dare not give it to him. I don’t know what the hell is going on.

I suddenly loathed it all, the artifice of it, and yet the excitement, the sense of taboo, the pure lust that had aroused him when he appeared helpless… well, it was still there. And he was feeling it all, and his energy wasn’t waning for a second. But he was really nervous.

Well, first-class “club” experience, Elliot. That’s the way it is.

“You’re trying to impress me,” I said, leaning close to his ear. That’s what a hostess is supposed to say. Take that with you to the Academy Awards! “Tell me that you want to please me. I want to hear it.”

But the manager has come back for him. It was time. The other two new slaves were being tied to the post where he would be on the right.

I handed him over to the manager and walked up to the highest part of the stands to keep an eye on him.

From there, I was able to see a lot of buildings, streets, fountains, small rooms, and crowds of people, who crossed the walkway and dispersed from the concrete stage that jutted out from a clamping yoke.

The manager grabbed the metal ring in front of his white collar and pulled him forward. Then the manager tied the metal loop tightly to a high post. Quickly, they tied the straps around his ankles. Now, all he could do was stand straight up, arms pressed tightly against his back, and receive a whipping. In fact, he looked very noble. Just like Elohim in “The Magnificent Four” when he is captured by the enemy: the upright hero of the Saturday afternoon drama in chains, grinding desire with a root like a time probe.

The masters in charge of the flogging began to swing their belts.

The others thought it was something to be expected and showed wonderful dramatic discernment, but he was nervous, his body shaking, and he kept resisting.

About a dozen guests were attracted to him, having a real eye for the special. They began to mock him. But I don’t know how many of them realized that he was really falling apart.

The noise and rhythm of the belt had a hypnotic effect. The longer it lasted, the worse it got for him.

Obviously, no matter how much excitement he felt, it was a ravaging experience for him. He could not give in.

As soon as the whipping was over, I made signs for them to take him under the bleachers, where the shackles and blindfolds were to be removed.

His body was hot, like a man just coming out of a steam bath, his hair wet, his chest heaving, his breath like a faint gasp. I turned his body around and looked at his skin, and he didn’t show the slightest sign of resistance.

He looked as inviting as ever. He was silent and licked his lips, only his complexion and the twitching muscles of his face revealed a message: how much pain he was in.

I carefully pushed him down the walkway and through the masses. He was still acting frantic because he couldn’t see a thing. At the touch he jumped. But he would not ask me to remove the blindfold again; he made no sound. I steadily pushed him to the front floor of the ride, into the garden and quietness outside.

(to be continued)