Stephanie's Revenge

  STEPHANIE'S REVENGE

  by

  SUSANNA HUGHES

  Stephanie's Revenge first published in 1993 by Nexus. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.

  ePub ISBN 9781780802114

  mobi ISBN 9781780802121

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Susanna Hughes. The right of Susanna Hughes to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter One

  Stephanie let the warm water from the shower cascade over her body. The shower was powerful, pumping needle-jets of water at considerable pressure. It was one of the many things about life at the castle that she loved. A real luxury. She turned her back and let the water wash through her long black hair and down the length of her spine, until it hit the slope of her arse and funnelled into the deep gully between the plump cushions of her buttocks. Turning again, she dipped her face briefly into the hard stream of water to wash the sleep from her eyes. She shampooed her hair and soaped her body. The water ran down her neck, down her hollow collar bone, over her firm breasts - seemingly defying gravity with a distinct upward tilt, their nipples puckered and hardened by the water - over her iron-flat stomach and waspy pinched waist, to the fullness of her hips and into her thick, black, curly pubic hair. Here it was momentarily trapped. It accumulated, like rain on the leafofa tree, then fell away in large drops or ran on further down the long sculptured curves of Stephanie's thighs, over her tight shapely calves to her delicately pinched ankles.

  Shutting off the water, Stephanie stepped out of the shower. She ran a thick comb through her long hair to untangle it, and examined her body in the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the white Carrara marble bathroom. The three whip marks on her thighs had almost entirely disappeared. But the one on her inner thigh, the one from the cut of Gianni's whip that had so narrowly missed the soft folds of her sex itself, still displayed a slight bruising on her otherwise flawless tan. The welt across her breasts, from the same source, was also distinctly visible - an angry red scar across the top of her breasts in the middle of their soft, opulent curves.

  It made her fume every morning, made her curse his name. It made her think of that night, three weeks ago, when Gianni had used her and inflicted these marks.

  Pulling on a white towelling robe without bothering to dry herself, Stephanie walked through her spacious bedroom to the large terrace outside, paved in terracotta. The morning sun would dry her hair.

  She walked to the parapet and looked down at Lake Trasimeno. The sun had just cleared the horizon to the east and hung, a huge fireball, in the clear blue sky. Two or three small fishing boats were rowing for shore, their pre-dawn work done. They left long wakes in the silvery calm water of the lake. Somewhere, a distant solitary church bell tolled an irregular note. Down beneath the terrace she could hear the water of the lake lapping at the jetty. No doubt it had done so since the fourteenth-century castle, in which she now lived, was built. It was a pleasant, hypnotic noise. A slight breeze ruffled the over-hanging jasmine intertwined with bougainvillaea. The air was full of the heady scent of flowers. The breeze took up the calm waters of the lake too, and corrugated them into a pattern that glistened and reflected the sun. It was, Stephanie thought, paradise. And it was hers. For as long as she wanted it.

  Every morning she awoke with a sense of incredulity at her situation. No doubt when she got used to it the disbelief would fade. At the moment, she had to remind herself how it had all happened. The sexual odyssey she had embarked on had been a voyage of self-discovery - a sudden and unexplained need to explore her own sexuality, the desires, lusts and longings she felt so fiercely but did not understand. It had led her through the faltering and painful first steps with Martin, to Devlin and to the castle.

  Devlin had brought her to this island castle, on Lake Trasimeno in the middle of Italy, for a weekend. The castle was more than a beautiful and luxurious house with every possible amenity. Its ancient dungeons had been converted into cellars adapted to cater for every conceivable sexual taste and 'staffed' by men and women who had been caught with their hand in one of Devlin's many company tills. Their choice had been simple: come and serve at the castle or face the police.

  Whether Devlin expected her reaction she did not know, but Stephanie had found herself responding to the castle in a way she would not have predicted. She had not been shocked or repelled. She had discovered that an ability to control and dominate, to play the ringmaster in a sexual circus - the power Devlin was only too willing to give to her - had given her feelings she had never even imagined. After three days of sexual excess, of every sort of sexual experience - including Gianni's abuse - she had found herself on a sexual high that was simply beyond her experience.

  She had not asked herself where her odyssey might end. She had no idea it would end here, with her relishing the role Devlin had cast her in or, more accurately, the role she had created for herself. She had treated Devlin to a display of total dominance. She had made the master into a slave, her slave. And he had told her it was the most exciting experience of his life. He wanted it repeated. And repeated. Which is why he wanted her at the castle, and why he'd offered her the chance to make the castle hers. Stephanie's Castle.

  The sun was already hot. Stephanie slipped off the robe to let it dry her body. She lay on one of the loungers, waiting for her breakfast to arrive. Looking down at her body, she caught sight of the marks on her breasts again and a wave of anger returned, spoiling the peace of the moment.

  Her instinct had been right. She had intended to go to Rome to take her revenge on Gianni immediately, the day after he had abused her so wantonly. But when Devlin, on her instructions, had called to make sure Gianni would be at home, he had been told that Gianni was away. And so far he had not returned. If she had been able to get it out of her system, repay him for what he had done to her, Stephanie would have been able to concentrate and enjoy all the considerable delights of the castle and her new position. But while it still lingered, while the marks on her body remained, however faded, the idyll was flawed. The only advantage to the delay was that she had thought long and hard about exactly what she was going to do to Gianni. She had developed an elaborate punishment to fit his heinous and elaborate crime against her. As soon as Devlin discovered Gianni was back home in Rome she would take her revenge.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks earlier Devlin's private jet had landed at Heathrow. Stephanie was the only passenger. The black Mercedes coupé was waiting to meet her, its driver ready to take her luggage. But there was none. This was a day trip to clear up her affairs in London, put her flat on the market, and give in her resignation at work. She had told the pilot of the plane to be ready to return to Italy by five o'clock that afternoon. It was, she thought, definitely the only way to travel.


  The driver brought the Mercedes round to the front of the terminal and got out to open the passenger door. But Stephanie had other plans.

  'I'll take the car,' she said. 'Be here at five to pick it up, will you.' It was not a question.

  Walking round to the driver's door, Stephanie slipped into the deep leather seat, adjusted its position with the electrics provided, and pulled into the traffic, leaving the hapless driver standing on the kerb.

  She hadn't wanted to be chauffeured today. Firstly, she wanted the feeling of driving a big, powerful car. Secondly, she wanted to be alone. She intended to enjoy herself. She soon felt at home in the cocooned double-glazed interior of the big car. Its engine accelerated effortlessly as she cruised past other cars on the motorway into central London. She turned the radio on and let it search the airwaves automatically until it found Radio Three and a concert of English baroque music. The sharp, crisp, brassy sound suited her mood. She adjusted the air conditioning so it blew colder. It was a typical English late summer day, hot and stuffy, and the cool air from the vents was welcome.

  She wore a short sleeveless yellow dress that clung to her figure, curving into her slim waist and emphasising the richness of her full hips and the taut firmness of her bust. Apart from a pair of pure silk tanga cut panties and her matching yellow high heels, she wore nothing else, unless a pair of gold-framed Cartier sunglasses count as clothing. Her black hair was pinned up to the back of her head, revealing her long graceful neck.

  When Devlin had asked her - begged her, would be a more accurate description - to stay at the castle, she had phoned her boss to say that she was ill. After a couple of days she'd got a friend to tell him she'd be back in a week. Today the week was up. Apparently, her boss had been most concerned about her welfare, sending good wishes for her speedy recovery.

  It was fortunate that Stephanie intended to give her notice, because there was no way her boss would ever have believed she had been ill. With the almost continuous sun at the castle, with slaves to massage her with sun screen, she had an almost perfect tan. She looked and felt better than she had ever looked and felt in her entire life. She was relaxed and, most of all, she was in control. That was the feeling Devlin had given her, encouraged in her, created in her. She was her own woman now.

  She parked the Mercedes in the curved driveway in front of her company's office building, next to the managing director's rather smaller model. The commissionaire scuttled out of the building immediately, his arms waving in agitation.

  'You can't park there, Miss,' he said, coming round to the driver's door. He hadn't recognised her.

  Stephanie opened the door of the car and swung her long tanned legs out, her knees together. The shirt of the dress had ridden up on the leather seat. She could have sworn she heard him gulp.

  'I'm sure I can for a little while,' she said, slipping a fifty pound note into his hand.

  'Miss Curtis?' he said, looking at her as though she were wearing a mask.

  'Look after it for me, Cyril. I won't be long.'

  Not waiting for his reply, she left the keys in the ignition and walked into the building.

  On the sixth floor she acknowledged the 'How-are-yous?', 'Are-you-betters?' and 'Good mornings' of her colleagues. After her experiences at the castle, after flying into London on a private jet, the office seemed particularly dim and unreal. The person who had worked at her desk in this large open-plan office was very different from the person she was now. Her life had changed irrevocably; she did not want her old life back.

  At her desk, she sat down and went through the drawers, looking for anything personal she might want to keep. There was very little. She looked around her. The other people in the office were staring at her as if she were a ghostly apparition, as though trying to reassure themselves that it really was her. She smiled at them angelically.

  The phone on her desk rang.

  'Stephanie?' She recognised the voice of her boss.

  'Norman,' she said.

  'You are in, then?'

  'It appears so,' she said sarcastically.

  'Can you come and see me now?'

  'I was just about to.'

  'Are you feeling better?' He sounded concerned.

  'Much better. I'm coming up now.'

  Stephanie made no attempt to hurry. She finished clearing out her desk and found one or two things she did want to keep. Stuffing these into a plastic carrier bag, she walked back to the lifts, ignoring the questions in the faces all around her. As the lift arrived, she turned to the assembled company and flexed her fingers in a tiny wave.

  Two floors up on the executive level, the offices were divided into executive suites, unlike the open-plan offices for the menial classes below. Each suite had an outer office for the executive's secretary and, its size depending on the importance of the executive, a large inner office. Some had adjoining conference rooms, some, for the most important in the company hierarchy, had their own toilets. Stephanie's boss was among the latter.

  'Mr Hughes is waiting for you,' the petite, mousy-haired, bespectacled secretary said, as Stephanie walked in, as though keeping Mr Hughes waiting were a capital offence.

  'I know,' Stephanie said, opening the door beyond the secretary's desk and walking straight in.

  'Stephanie...' Hughes was obviously about to say something. Instead, he eyed the exquisite vision in yellow that had just walked into his office. 'Stephanie?' he repeated, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  'Norman,' she said, sitting in the chair in front of his desk without waiting to be asked and crossing her legs. She had always liked Norman Hughes. The resentments and disappointments she had felt in her job were not of his making: she ascribed those to a system dominated by men. Norman had always treated her well and given her credit for her work.

  'My God...' he said, seemingly hypnotised by her appearance. His eyes were riveted to her legs. Her skirt was so short. 'You've been ill?'

  'No. I've been offered a new job. I've come in to give you my notice.'

  'You told me you were ill.'

  'I lied,' she said, blatantly smiling.

  He managed to take his eyes off her thighs for a moment, and looked into her face. He didn't appear angry. 'It doesn't surprise me. You're very good. Is it one of our rivals?'

  'No.'

  'But in advertising?'

  'No. It's a job where I can use all my talents.' It came out more provocatively, more teasingly, than she had intended. She realised she had not taken off her sunglasses. He could not see what was going on in her eyes.

  'What talents are those?' he said.

  'If I told you, I don't imagine you'd believe me.'

  'Really? Sounds very interesting.'

  Hughes got up from his desk. He was a tall man, and his face was not unattractive in a rugged, weather-beaten sort of way. His short curly hair was flecked with grey, and his piercing eyes seemed grey too. But his feature, literally, was his belly - a huge hillock of fat rising from just under his chest and only descending again at the top of his thighs, where the belt of his trousers was pushed down by its weight. His shirt struggled to contain the rubbery flesh, the buttons stretched to their limit. White, hairy blubber poked through the gaps created by its own bulk.

  He came round the desk and leant on its front no more than a foot away from her. His eyes went to her crossed legs, the finely drawn lines of her thighs.

  'Is there something about my legs that interests you, Norman?'

  'Everything about you interests me. Surely we can persuade you to stay? I'm sure I could get a sanction to offer you more money...'

  'It's not a question of money...'

  'Perhaps even a company car—'

  'No,' she said, simply and firmly.

  'There's a lot of companies going bust out there. I'd hate for you to walk from a nice, secure job into something that wasn't going to last.'

  'It's nice of you to be so concerned.'

  'I am. I'd really like y
ou to stay.'

  'My mind's made up, Norman. I'm flattered...'

  'Well, at least I can't be accused of sexual harassment, can I?'

  'Sorry?' She did not understand. The tone of his voice had changed.

  He leant forward and put his hand on her knee. 'Well, if you're determined to go.' He slid his hand higher, until it was almost halfway up her thigh. 'If I tell you I think you're absolutely gorgeous, it isn't sexual harassment since you've given in your notice. And I do - think you're gorgeous, I mean.'

  Stephanie measured her reaction. Before her experiences at the castle she would have felt anger, then panic. She wouldn't have known what to do, what to say, or how to react. But now she felt in control. She didn't feel threatened or cowed or put upon. She felt no anger. Instead, she felt a delicious sense of power. She had a power over this man; power she could use, wanted to use, to see how far it could be used. It was like a muscle wanting to be exercised.

  She took off her gold-framed Cartier sunglasses and put them down on the desk, leaning forward slightly and looking straight into his grey eyes.

  'Your hand is very hot,' she said steadily.

  'Is it?'

  'Very. I like that.'

  'Do you?'

  'It makes me hot.'

  'You feel very cool.' He was rubbing his hand on her smooth thigh, up and down. In his trousers, under his gut, she could see movement.

  'I feel very hot.'

  She got up from her chair and walked slowly around the office. She picked up and examined his executive toys, looked at his prints, went over to the window and looked down, seeing her Mercedes parked below. She could feel his eyes following her, burning into her back, the neat curves of her arse, the slimness of her legs, the pinch of her ankles. She felt too her barely covered sex, felt it beginning to want attention. He had woken it up.