Melinda and the Master Read online

'Your knickers,' the woman chided again.

  Melinda had stopped undressing. It was not hesitation. She had simply forgotten the knickers. Was that her mind's way of telling her it was acutely uncomfortable? She hooked her thumbs into the high waistband and drew the black cotton down her long legs.

  The clothes lay in a heap on the floor. There was nowhere to put them.

  'My name is Marion,' the woman announced, with no warmth. 'Hold your hands out.'

  Melinda obeyed. The woman inspected her nails, then ran her hands through Melinda's hair and examined her face carefully, obviously looking for any trace of make-up.

  Casually, her hands ran over Melinda's body, down over her shoulders and arms, around her back, down over her breasts, along the distinct curve of her waist and over the flare of her hips.

  'Open your legs,' she ordered.

  Melinda parted her feet. The woman stood so close at her side that Melinda could smell her heady perfume. One hand delved between the cleft of Melinda's buttocks, the other over the downy hair of her pubis. The fingers met over her labia. They parted the puffy thick lips and Melinda gasped as one, then two, then three fingers penetrated her body. There was no resistance. Melinda was already wet. It was the first time in her life she had been touched intimately by a woman.

  'You experienced an irritation here?' Marion asked, her fingers deep inside Melinda's silky flesh.

  'Yes,' Melinda said breathlessly, trying to control her feelings.

  'And on your breasts?'

  'Yes.' She hardly managed to pronounce the word, her breathing was so shallow.

  One of Marion's hands left the crease of Melinda's sex to cup her breast. Melinda looked down as the long carefully manicured fingernails, varnished a bright flame red, found her nipple and pinched it between the nails of her thumb and finger. At the same moment, she thrust her other hand up deeper into Melinda's sex, with such strength that she was hoisted onto her toes. Melinda gasped.

  'I can see why he wanted you,' she said, looking straight into Melinda's eyes. Her face was consumed with what looked like anger and jealousy. 'Well, if you make a mistake it will be my job to punish you. I will take pleasure in that.'

  She pulled her hands away from Melinda's body. The fingers she had used to penetrate her sex she brought up to Melinda's mouth. 'Suck them.'

  Melinda opened her mouth and sucked the three fingers she was offered. She sucked greedily, feeling the long nails against her tongue. She tasted herself. It was a familiar taste. She had often sucked her juices off her own fingers. She had never sucked them from the fingers of another woman. The idea excited her.

  Marion read her mind.

  'You have never had a woman, have you?' She extracted her fingers from Melinda's lips.

  'No.'

  Marion's expression changed. For the first time, the hardness seemed to melt slightly.

  'The rules are very simple,' she said. Her hand stroked Melinda's cheek tenderly now. 'Obey. Obey anyone who gives you an order. Anyone. Without question. Speak only when commanded to speak. Never address the Master by any other name, if he commands you to speak. They are the only rules. They are absolute. Obey, and you will be punished only for the entertainment of others. Disobey, and you will be punished for your own sake. Disobey repeatedly, and your contract here will end and you will be sent away.'

  Her eyes searched Melinda's face, looking for her reaction. 'Do you understand?'

  'Yes.'

  'You will call me "mistress". And any other woman who commands you.'

  'Yes, mistress.'

  As she said it the words sounded strange, like a word that had suddenly acquired a new meaning.

  Marion was looking at her body again. 'You are a beautiful woman. Aren't you?'

  Melinda phrased her reply carefully, wanting to please. 'If you say so, mistress.'

  'Will you like being used by women?'

  'I don't know, mistress.'

  Marion felt a sharp ache of desire. She hoped she would be allowed to initiate Melinda into the pleasures of female love.

  'Stand where you are,' she ordered, snapping herself out of her reverie and returning to the business in hand. She strode out of the room.

  Though completely alone, Melinda stood stock-still, bound as firmly by Marion's words as she would have been by physical restraints. The soles of her feet hurt, the short fibres of the matting cutting into them as sharply as pins.

  The video camera appeared to be trained on her, but she had not seen or heard it move since she came into the room. There was no way of telling whether it was on or off.

  It was only seconds before Marion returned. She was carrying a black leather harness, an arrangement of wide leather straps connected by bright, strong, chrome chains. The leather was thick but supple, and smelt strongly of itself.

  'Raise your head,' Marion ordered, coming to stand behind Melinda.

  'Yes, Mistress,' Melinda said, for no other reason than wanting to hear the sound of her own voice: so obedient, so submissive.

  'Don't speak unless you're told to,' Marion snapped. She slapped the palm of her hand down on Melinda's rump to emphasise the point.

  Melinda felt a wide leather collar being wrapped around her neck and buckled tight. It was not tight enough to affect her breathing, but the hard leather grazed the flesh of her throat uncomfortably if she lowered her chin. She could feel the coldness of a metal chain hanging down between her shoulder blades. Something was attached to the end of the chain.

  'Hands behind your back.'

  Melinda only just managed to stop herself from saying 'yes, mistress'. But the words were in her mind. They made her sex pulse. She knew she was wet. Bondage always made her wet. And she could feel Marion's fingers in her cunt; they seemed to have left an impression there like a key pressed into soap.

  The chain at her back was attached to a pair of leather cuffs. Marion lifted Melinda's hand up into the cuff bending her elbow at an acute angle and quickly folding the leather around her wrists; buckling it tight. The other wrist followed. The harness was uncomfortable. It held her hands high in the small of her back, forcing her elbows out to the side, her arms straining against her shoulder blades.

  But that was not all. Melinda could still feel something hanging down from the harness, down the cleft of her arse until it almost touched the floor. It was a thin leather strap no more than the thickness of a rope.

  Melinda felt Marion's hand pick the leather up. It was attached to the metal link that held the two cuffs together. Parting Melinda's thighs, Marion drew it up between her legs - allowing the strap to cut into Melinda's sex - up over her pubis and navel, between her breasts.

  'Now you must sit on the stool,' Marion said, still holding the end of the strap in her hand.

  Looking over her shoulder, Melinda moved back to the stool. Without being able to use her hands for balance, it was difficult to lower herself onto the stool, but she managed it without falling over. Immediately, Marion pulled the strap tight and buckled it into a small loop of leather that hung down two inches from the front of the neck collar. The thin leather bit into Melinda's sex.

  In Marion's experience, and in these matters it was great, this was the point at which most women rebelled. The Master's persuasive technique took them so far and no further. It got them through the gates, up to the house, into this room. It got them to undress, to be inspected. But after that the tentacles of fear began to grip them, loosening the Master's hypnotic gifts. They had perhaps imagined the Master waiting to greet them, waiting to take them straight to his bed. They had not imagined this. Some rebelled when Marion's fingers probed them, some at the first touch of the leather collar on their throat. But the majority left it until it was too late, until their bondage was complete, until this last thin strap was buckled tight, girdling their body lengthways, pressing up into their sex.

  They would discover, if they tried to get up, that the leather strap would cut them in two. They had no choice but to sit on the stool and wai
t. The more violent their rebellion, the longer they had to wait. It took some longer to learn than others. It was the first step in their training, a training that would lead them to submission and ultimately to pleasure. Rare pleasure. Marion knew, because she had been one of the first to undergo the Master's techniques.

  But Melinda was different. Melinda had not hesitated. She had not rebelled and would not, Marion knew. She could sense that Melinda's body was already on fire with excitement. Melinda was a natural; just as the Master had said she was.

  Marion looked down at her, kneeling uncomfortably on the tiny stool. Then, feeling a sudden envy of the sensations Melinda was going to experience that evening - the newness of it, the not-knowing, the anticipation and suspense - she turned and without a word left Melinda alone, locking the door behind her.

  Melinda thought she could hear Marion's heels clacking on the wooden floor in the corridor outside, but it might have been her imagination. The noise faded and there was silence.

  It was the beginning...

  Chapter Four

  Melinda sat crouched on the hard wooden stool. In this position, with the seat of the stool being so low to the floor, her legs were almost doubled up underneath her. She had quickly discovered she could not stand up; the long leather strap cutting deeply into her sex the moment she tried to raise her head.

  She managed to ease the pain in her knees by wriggling her legs around so they were straight out in front of her. But, though this helped her calf muscles, it put all her weight on her buttocks, which soon protested as painfully as her legs had. This was to say nothing of the ache from her arms and shoulders, held so awkwardly by the leather harness, or her feet, still tortured by the prickly coir matting.

  But the discomfort only revved-up Melinda's excitement. Along with everything else: the way Marion had touched her; the way her fingers had examined her as if she were some sort of animal being prepared for market; and most of all, the look in Marion's eyes. Her lack of interest had changed, Melinda knew, to something else. She hoped it was desire. Though Melinda had never had a sexual experience with a woman and never imagined she would want one, she knew that Marion had aroused her. She ached to feel Marion touching her again.

  A noise attracted Melinda's attention to the video camera above the door. A little electric motor had whirred to change the focus of its lens. Someone was watching her, ordering a close-up of her body. She stared into the camera proudly, wanting to show whoever was watching that she was not afraid, that she accepted her fate; gloried in it even. Perhaps it was the Master, his ice-blue eyes watching her naked body on a television screen, somewhere in the depths of the house. She saw and heard the lens being moved again, zooming out she thought, so as to view her whole body. She held her head high, ignoring the aching pain this caused in her shoulders, and the bite of the strap as it was pulled deeper into the tender flesh of her sex.

  Suddenly, though she had no way of knowing for certain, she had the impression that the camera had been switched off. She was alone.

  It was not true to say that Melinda's expectations had been fulfilled. She had none. She had imagined vividly all sorts of fanciful things, but there was a difference between imagination and expectation. She had truly not known what to expect, and still didn't. Nor did she really want to know. She had imagined what she would feel like. She'd graphically imagined her excitement. And in that respect her mind had let her down; the feelings she was experiencing now were out of all proportion to anything she had imagined in her wildest dreams.

  The leather cuffs bit into her wrists, her elbows stretched back. The thin leather strap between her legs had worked its way up against her clitoris; a constant reminder of her situation. If she dipped her head slightly forward, she could ease the pressure on the strap a little, but only a little. Too far forward and her hands were pulled up by the collar, increasing the pressure on her shoulders and pulling the strap tight from the other direction. If, on the other hand, she moved her head back to ease the pressure on her arms, the long leather strap was pulled up at the front, and once again bit sharply into her delicate flesh.

  By shifting her weight Melinda found a subtle way of dealing with the constant constriction in her limbs. Each time she brought about a momentary relief, it was a cause of delight. However, it did not last for more than a few precious seconds.

  She had no means of telling the time. Time ceased to have any meaning. She could measure it only in the minutes it took for the ache in the limbs to become unbearable; before she needed to ease them, however temporarily, by some small movement.

  Despite the pain, or more truthfully because of it, Melinda's body throbbed with excitement. The thin leather strap rubbed against her clitoris whenever she moved even slightly. She realised that, by rocking back and forth, she could move the strap between her labia. By straightening up, she could get it to go deeper. She had started doing this before she realised what she was doing. She eased the strap right up against the swollen bud of her clitoris, sawing it back and forth, the harsh leather moving against the engorged flesh. She looked down at the black strap emerging from between her legs, bisecting her pubis and rising between her soft, plump breasts. With a little effort, she twisted around so that one of her nipples rubbed against the thin leather, as she rocked her body from side to side. The sensation was pleasurable but not pleasurable enough.

  She wanted to pinch and torture her nipples; to squeeze and knead at her breasts. She wanted desperately to plunge her fingers into what she knew would be the soaking wetness of her cunt. She wanted to play with her labia, and hammer at her clitoris; all the ritual things she did when she wanked, all the things she knew so well, that brought her off. But she could do none of them. Her hands were no longer her servants. They no longer belonged to her. She had given them to someone else.

  She felt her excitement increase another gear. She pulled her head back, harder and further, and felt the leather dig deep, pressing her clitoris against her pubic bone. Oh, how she wanted to touch herself, and how she almost swooned with the knowledge that she could not. Rhythmically, she rocked her head back and forth, the leather sawing up and down, her whole body concentrated on that little knot of nerves the leather so cunningly caressed. She knew she was coming. She watched the black leather between her legs as it moved up and down, glistening with her juices.

  Her orgasm began slowly at first: big waves gradually mounting higher and higher; gathering height and weight; seemingly hovering in mid-air, unwilling to crash down and release her. But, at that moment, out of the corner of her eye, Melinda saw the camera lens move again. She was being watched. This time she knew it was the Master. She could feel him. See his eyes. Immediately she thrust her head back, right back as far as it would go, cutting the strap right up into her body. That was the final release. She felt the wave of orgasm crash down over her, enveloping her, gathering up all her feelings, all the pain in her tortured body, all the pain she welcomed, into one, feeding on it, and on the images in her mind, her excitement, her situation.

  Her whole body shook, testing her bonds, trembling out of all control, feelings that seemed to go on forever. Naked, bound, helpless, available. It was her fantasy after all. What she wanted, what she had craved ever since the first time. Ever since then...

  He had been handsome and strong. Very strong. Long, thick black hair falling over his forehead as he walked or talked. Long black eyelashes too, the longest she'd ever seen on a man. He always wore the same clothes. White T-shirt, jeans, a black leather jacket. The picture of the rebel he was.

  She'd never been out with a man like him. She had never been short of men. She used her beauty to get the men she wanted. She took them to bed occasionally, let them fuck her. Sometimes they even made her come, the more experienced men, the ones who knew what to do.

  But he was different. There was something about him, something unpredictable, something very different. He was dangerous.

  He took her to his flat. She would have been
devastated if he hadn't. But he'd kissed and stroked her all evening, and on the dance floor she pushed herself up against him and felt his penis harden. She'd squirmed against it, wanting him to know she liked it. Wanting him to know she wanted it, that she wasn't afraid. And she wasn't.

  The flat was sparse. He led her straight into the bedroom. The double bed had an old-fashioned brass bedstead. A single bedside lamp was draped with a red cloth to dim its light.

  'I want to fuck you,' he said, drawing her into his arms, his broad chest squeezed against her breasts.

  'Yes,' she said.

  'But you have to do as I say.' His voice was serious. 'Exactly what I say.'

  The words made her feel peculiar, stronger than she had ever felt in her life. The dampness she had felt between her legs turned instantly to wetness. Her knees were hardly capable of holding her.

  'Will you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Say it.'

  'I'll do exactly what you say.'

  'Good. That's what I need.'

  He swept her off her feet and, carrying her over to the bed, laid her down on the sheets. They were black.

  'Take your clothes off.' The authority in his voice was absolute, no room for discussion.

  She unbuttoned her blouse and threw it aside. She slipped off her shoes and pulled her skirt down.

  'All your clothes,' his voice demanded.

  She reached behind her back and unclipped her bra, hardly able to believe the level of her excitement. She had to keep reminding herself to breathe. Her breasts quivered as she peeled the bra away. His eyes never left her body as she arched her hips off the bed and pulled her panties down. His eyes never left her as he stripped off his clothes. He pulled down his pants and jeans together, his cock bobbing out, already fully erect.

  His cock was big, circumcised, a tear of fluid formed at its tip. She reached out a hand to touch it.

  'No,' he said, the rebuke delivered so smartly it felt like a slap in the face. He pushed her back and over until his face was inches from hers. 'You do what I say.'