Stephanie's Pleasure Page 2

  It was a moment of sadness for Stephanie but it passed. She poured herself a cup of coffee, kept hot by a silver thermos jug on the tray, and allowed her thoughts to wander on to what she was planning for Andrew Harlock - now safely locked up in the castle cellars. She had promised him she would make his life a misery, and so far she was having no trouble in keeping her promise.

  Chapter Two

  Stephanie reached behind her back to clip the black basque in place. She attached the little metal hooks into the furthest of the three eyes that were available on the smooth elasticated back panel, enjoying the sensation of being held so tightly by the taut Lycra, satin and lace. A basque, she knew, suited her, perhaps more than any of the extensive range of lingerie she had at her disposal at the castle. With her slim waist it emphasised the curvaceousness of her hips; and at the back, where the black material finished in the small of her spine, it made the flesh of her pert, apple-shaped buttocks softer and creamier. It was equally flattering at the front, where the lacy cups of its bra pushed her firm breasts into a dramatic cleavage while the scalloped edge underneath pointed directly at the exposed black bush of her pubic triangle.

  Sitting on the bed, Stephanie brushed her long black hair with a silver-backed hairbrush. Her hair was thick and very black and seemed to shimmer in the light. She brushed it in long, even, rhythmical strokes, allowing the brush to pull her head back until the tendons of her throat protested.

  Discarding the hairbrush, she picked up one of the sheer, silky stockings she had already laid out on the bed. She raised her leg, pointed her toes, and inserted her foot into the pocket she made of the nylon. Then she drew the fine material up over her tanned flesh until its welt, darker than the rest of the stocking, was played out on her thigh. Taking the satin suspender of the basque, she wrapped the little rubber nub under the top of the welt then pressed it into the metal frame and trapped the nylon between the two. She adjusted the suspender so the stocking was held taut. Carefully she repeated the operation at the side. The second stocking followed, rolled out over her leg, transforming its nakedness into a sleek, sheer, almost wet-looking sheen.

  Stephanie stood up and slipped her feet into very plain but very high-heeled black court shoes. She stood in front of the mirror, her legs apart, her arms akimbo. It was impossible to keep a smile from her face as she looked at herself, her breasts high and proud, her waist cinched in black satin, her long slender legs shaped by the heels and bisected by the welts of her stockings. The band of flesh, naked flesh, between stocking top and basque appeared impossibly tender and soft, as smooth and lustrous as the finest silk, its gentle bronze contrasting with the black tight satin and nylon that framed it.

  She could not see the lips of her sex through the forest of pubic hair but she could feel them. They were throbbing expectantly, and her clitoris, nestling comfortably between them, was beginning to swell; her dressing, as much of a ritual as a priest putting on vestments prior to devotions, was arousing her again. Tentatively she ran one of her long slim fingers, the nail painted a deep vibrant red, between her open thighs, and gently brushed the hair, as though petting some delicate frightened little creature. The creature responded appreciatively, sending soft waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She looked in the mirror and watched her finger stroking between her legs. With her other hand she folded down the lacy cups of the basque until both her breasts were exposed, sitting comfortably on the crescent of lace this manoeuvre produced. Her red fingernails pinched her nipples playfully, and the resulting shock of pleasure raced down to her sex, generating a familiar churning sensation deep inside her. Her body responded to the increasing sexual temperature in its customary way. Almost before she realised what was happening, the finger ploughing a furrow between her legs was wet.

  There was a temptation to lie on the silk sheets of her big double bed and continue what she had so casually begun; to lie back and think of what Venetia had done to her that morning, how that tongue had invaded her so tellingly. But since she had first set foot in the castle she had realised it was full of temptations, and she had learnt to pick and choose. It was better, this time, to make herself wait. Sexual pleasure, with what she had planned for the evening, would not be long delayed. She would rather have her body gently teased, pleasantly alive with anticipation, than replete at her own hand.

  Slipping on a black silk robe, she tied its belt around her waist and opened the terrace door on to the balcony. A huge white moon hung in the sky, with no pollution in the air in this part of Italy to colour it, and only the smallest sliver nibbled out of one side preventing it from being entirely full. The moon lit the almost ripple-free expanse of lake below in a ghostly colourless light. In the summer, when Stephanie had come to the castle in the middle of the lake for the first time, it had been warm enough to stand on the terrace nude even in the dead of night.

  Now, though it was not cold, there was a chill in the air and she found herself wrapping the robe more tightly around her body.

  Strangely, perhaps, though the flowers that had trailed from plants clinging all over the castle walls had long disappeared, their perfume seemed to linger in the air: a musky, heady scent that Stephanie would forever associate with lying here on the terracotta-paved terrace, soaking up the sun.

  In the moonlight she could see the jetty that jutted out into the water below; and in the near-silence she could hear the slight lapping of waves against its wooden supports. It was only a month since she had been led ashore there, half-naked, her arms bound behind her, to begin life not as the mistress of the castle, but as one of its slaves. She could not suppress a shudder at the thought. For a while there had been no hope; it had seemed there would be no rescue from the rebellion Andrew had engineered. Fortunately, it had been only weeks before Stephanie and Devlin had escaped, and Andrew had been returned to the dungeons along with the other freed slaves. The chaos he had caused was quickly righted and all that remained was to see that he - and his partner in crime, Amanda - were suitably chastened for what they had done.

  She could, of course, have returned Andrew to England, and let him face trial; not for the rebellion, but for his original crimes against Devlin's company.

  Like many of the slaves in the cellars below, he was guilty of embezzlement and fraud. Andrew, and all the slaves he'd freed, thought he had managed to destroy all the evidence of their crimes and thus believed themselves no longer under threat. But through Venetia's cunning the files had been saved, and when presented with the choice of being returned for trial or being punished at the castle, he had begged to be allowed to stay and face rougher justice. Stephanie smiled to herself, the unpleasant memories of being Andrew's slave replaced by the delight she took in devising means by which he could be adequately punished.

  The chill finally got too much for her and Stephanie walked back inside, her high-heeled shoes clacking on the terracotta tiles. She found she was still smiling as she closed the terrace doors. Before she had met Devlin, before she had come to the castle, she would never have dreamt that she would get pleasure from sexual power, from being dominant, beyond contradiction, in control. Now, however, it gave her a pleasure so profound, so primal, she knew it was part of her sexual psyche. In the course of the months at the castle she had been forced, on occasion, to be submissive too: and that had not been without its satisfactions. Stephanie had climaxed profusely as she'd wrestled to obey Andrew's commands and earlier, when she had been kidnapped and imprisoned in Rome, her sexuality had been no less aroused. Just as she had begun to believe her proclivity was towards dominance, the experience of submission, of being slave rather than master, had given her new pleasures. New: but not, ultimately, equal. Being a slave, having her will forcibly denied, being bound and helpless had added a new dimension to her world. But for Stephanie, in the end she knew, it was power, power and mastery that gave her the most total satisfaction.

  Like the power she felt now. Dressed for the part, her body held tight in black satin, her leg
s encased in sheer stockings, her high heels giving her already tall figure extra height, the excitement of anticipation, of knowing she was in command, prickled the nerves of her sex.

  She glanced at her watch, a wafer-thin Patek Phillipe that Devlin had given her. It was time. She thought she'd heard steps on the spiral stone stairway that led directly from her bedroom to the cellars. They would be waiting for her to open the door.

  With one final glance in the mirror, her dark brown eyes staring back at her with curiosity and amusement, her full lips painted with lipstick that matched the red of her fingernails, she gathered her hair into a single plait at the nape of her neck, and threaded it through a black velvet-covered band.

  At the far side of the room, set in the silk panels that covered the walls, was a small door. There was a key in its brass mortise lock. Stephanie turned the key and swung the door open.

  'Come in,' she said, walking back into the middle of the room.

  Bruno, the mute servant, dressed as ever like a medieval executioner in black breeches and tunic, led Andrew Harlock forward by a chain attached to a collar around his neck. As soon as Andrew was standing in front of Stephanie, he unclipped the chain from the collar and shuffled back to the doorway. Relations between Stephanie and Bruno had not been good since Devlin had given her authority over the cellars, where previously Bruno had ruled. But he had suffered in the rebellion too, and having seen what Stephanie had devised for Andrew (and Amanda, his ally) as a result, he had somewhat changed his attitude. Now he could even manage a suggestion of a smile as he closed the little door behind him, leaving Andrew to his fate.

  Stephanie smiled too. Andrew, long before the events of the last weeks, had always been a cocky and rebellious slave. He had been punished regularly for insolence and disobedience and had never accepted the system for what it was: a way of keeping him out of the clutches of the police and jail. Now all that had changed. Now he stood stock-still, his eyes cast to the floor as far as that was possible for him at the moment, his whole demeanour suggesting total submission.

  In truth, he had little choice. His body was securely bound as it had been every minute of every hour of every day since his recapture. Only his legs were allowed freedom, enough for him to walk with a shuffle; a short chain had been attached to leather cuffs strapped and padlocked around his ankles.

  Stephanie had devised his bondage herself, intending it not only to prevent any attempt at escape, but to remind him graphically of his extreme servitude. It started with his head. The collar around his neck, by which Bruno had led him in, was the lowest of four wide leather straps: of the others, one ran around his chin, one around his eyes, with small ovals cut in it to allow him to see, and one around his forehead. All were joined by a strap that ran from the bridge of his nose, up over the top of his head, then vertically down the back.

  Projecting from this vertical strap was a stainless steel hook. Behind his back, Andrew's arms had been secured in two leather cuffs just above the elbow. These cuffs were held together by a single metal link to which was attached a short length of chain. The chain, in turn, was fixed to the steel hook at the back of the head harness, forcing the head up and the upper arms to be held out at right angles to the body.

  But that was not the full extent of his bondage. Pulled around his waist so tightly it made it difficult for him to breathe was a girdle of bright shiny stainless steel, padlocked by a hasp in the small of his back. Projecting downwards from this odd garment was a metal tail, shaped to curve down between his buttocks, its width separating them slightly. The tail was fashioned to finish in a stubby finger of steel which had been inserted into his anus. It did not penetrate very deeply, but its presence could be felt whenever he was required to move. On either side of his phallus, at its base, two thin chains ran down between his legs and up on the other side following the crease between thigh and pelvis, to clip into the metal girdle at the front of his hips.

  To complete his helplessness, leather cuffs, again joined by a single metal link, circled his wrists. These were chained to a small ring set in the metal tail of the girdle at the point where it began its descent into the cleft of his buttocks.

  Stephanie examined her handiwork with pride, like an engineer inspecting a new invention. She ran her long cool fingers over his bonds, over the leather on his face, around the metal at his waist, down over his buttocks to where the steel pushed between them, then up again over his tortured arms, satisfying herself that everything was in place.

  'Comfortable, Andrew?' she asked, looking into his eyes. He did not return her stare.

  Before, she knew, he would have gazed at her with fury and made only one reply: 'Get me out of this, you bitch.' Instead, his eyes firmly rooted to the floor as far as the position of his head would allow, he mumbled tamely, 'Yes, mistress.'

  'You know it is your choice, Andrew. If you choose not to be punished you only have to say so. You will be sent back to England immediately...'

  He knew what that meant. It meant the police and certain prosecution.

  'You know that, don't you?' Stephanie insisted.

  'Yes, mistress,' he mumbled.

  'So you do want to be punished, don't you?'

  'Yes, mistress.' His voice contained not the slightest hint of rebellion.

  'Say it, then.'

  'Punish me, mistress.'

  'I didn't hear "please"?' Stephanie chided.

  'Please, mistress,' he said at once. 'Please punish me, please.'

  'Very well. Since you ask so politely, I will.'

  The exchange had thrilled Stephanie. She felt her nipples contracting against the satin of the robe as her sex throbbed.

  Normally, in the castle, all the male slaves were made to wear tight, leather-covered metal pouches, chained over their genitals so inflexibly that it was impossible for them to achieve an erection. But she had ordered Andrew's to be removed tonight and replaced by a single chain, wrapped around his shaft and under his balls. It served the same purpose, but allowed her to see how his cock strained for release.

  'On your knees, Andrew.' Her voice was cold and imperious. It was time to begin.

  Awkwardly, his arms unable to help him balance, he thumped onto the thick carpet. Stephanie moved forward until the black satin of her robe brushed his face and he would be able to inhale the full aroma of her expensive Givenchy perfume - even, perhaps, the faint scent of sex generated by her excitement. Slowly she unknotted the belt of the robe and pulled it aside. She slid the satin back, trapped as it was between his face and her stomach, until his cheeks were against the tight basque, his chin touching her pubic hair. Then she wrapped the robe around him, enclosing his head.

  Every breath he took was scented with the musky aromas of her body. He squirmed and wriggled uncomfortably and she knew she had created the desired effect from the way his erection strained at the chain holding his cock. But this was only the beginning.

  'Kiss me, Andrew.'

  He had no need to ask where. Fighting the bonds that held his head so high, he tried to work his mouth down onto her belly. She let the robe drop from around his head, then pulled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor at her feet. Taking the leather harness at either side of his head between her fingers, she used it to force his head down until his mouth was at the junction of her thighs.

  'Lick it, Andrew,' she commanded.

  She felt his tongue trying to force its way past the tangle of her pubic hair and onto her labia. Bound as he was, it proved an impossible task. She felt the slightest of touches but no more.

  'You're useless,' she said. Using the leather harness she wrenched his face away and stepped back. She could see his cock twitching, ballooning out against the chain that held it so implacably. It would be agony. 'Look at me.'

  Stephanie set her left foot, in its black high heel, on Andrew's thigh, the toe inches from his cock. She bent forward and reached down with both hands to smooth the nylon of the sheer black stocking up her long leg, pull
ing it taut as if it had developed a wrinkle. Her naked breasts shifted forward, unrestrained by the basque. She saw his eyes roaming her body, watching as she refastened both suspenders, front and side, to draw the stocking tighter.

  'No...' he moaned almost inaudibly.

  She turned her back on him so he could see the big bulb of her arse. Its creamy flesh was perfectly framed by the basque at the top, the welts of the stockings at the bottom, and the thin black suspenders at the sides. With her slender legs closed there was a diamond-shaped gap at the apex of her thighs, a little mouth pleading to be filled, its upper dimensions fringed with her profuse black pubic hair. It had all belonged to Andrew, been his to command and demand, to use and abuse, to fuck and suck and play with. How he would wish it still was.

  'Up,' she ordered, ready for the second part of the evening's schedule. She had to help him to his feet, the bondage being too extreme to allow him to get up unaided.

  'What do you say?' she asked testily.

  'Thank you, mistress.'

  Despite the chain his cock had swollen. It was red and angry and looked as though it might burst.

  'For what?' she insisted.

  'For helping me to get up, mistress.'

  'No, you idiot.'

  'For letting me look at you, mistress,' he corrected quickly.

  'And touch.'

  'And touch, mistress.'

  'Follow me.'

  Stephanie turned on her heels and headed for the bedroom door. Andrew struggled to keep up, the chain at his ankle heavy and unwieldy as it was meant to be. Outside in the corridor Stephanie strode down to one of the guest bedrooms, then stood waiting for Andrew to catch up. He looked pathetic as he struggled along trying not to trip over the chain between his feet.