Masoch's Domain

Severin Rossetti

MASOCH’S DOMAIN By Severin Rossetti

MASOCH’S DOMAIN

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are eith er the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MASOCH’S DOMAIN Copyright (c) 2005 by Severin Rossetti ISBN: 1-59836-227-5 Coverart (c) 2005 by Croco All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America. For information, you can find us on the web at www.VenusPress.com

Severin Rossetti

Chapter One

The first time Mira went into the chat room it was a polyphonic confusion of accents and fonts, a head-splitting blur of conversation in a dazzle of colors. She formed this impression of people sitting in a circle, at a table or squatting on the floor, in an otherwise bleak box of a space. Everyone was speaking at once in a babble of voices, and there was no sense to be found, no rhyme nor reason, no cogent plot. An author could have given a typographic impression of the babble, but that would only have left the reader with a migraine, as it did Mira after that first visit. She logged off wondering if she would ever return. But return she did, a time or two more, always the silent observer, after which she began to notice voices which became distinct among the general hubbub. “Who’s your daddy?” Kilo asked, and people laughed. “Who’s your momma, Kilo?” Wizzy responded, and the laughter spread as the joke—its meaning lost on Mira—was shared. More amusement, others joining in now, but always the mirth suggested by abbreviations, acronyms… LOL, ROFL, LMAO! Mira learned to interpret quickly, after the embarrassment of her first contribution to the room’s chat, when she thought that someone might be offering “loads of love”. “No, Mira! Lots of laughs!” Wizzy corrected her. “Or lots of licks?” Tam suggested. “PMSL!” It was the first time anyone had spoken to her, other than to say hello, and Mira smiled to herself and said, “Ta for that, Wizzy!” “No probs, hun! And take no notice of that plonker Tam!” And always after that, Mira would complete their lazy abbreviations in her mind, instinctively understanding when one person was “pissing myself laughing” or another was “laughing my ass off”. With her understanding of the moods and manners of the room, and of the people who regularly went there, she slowly came to give the place a comfortable reality. No longer was it a bleak space where people shouted or ranted, but a homely area where people conversed and confided. Now, when she entered, she saw the forty or so people dispersed, split into smaller groups rather than gathered like executives at a corporate meeting. There

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was carpeting on the floor, pictures on the wall, windows to gaze through, and music playing softly in the background. In a corner there might be two people sharing a common problem, or simply becoming acquainted; in another a small group, offering advice to a mutual friend; larger groups exchanging music or photographs; and inevitably one central gathering that did nothing but laugh, batting jokes and innuendos back and forth like a shuttlecock, which never touched the ground. People would sprawl, lounge, sit attentively or sulk morosely, but always there would be someone to say hello to her. And always, inevitably, there would be the weird one.

**** She awoke in the early hours, having slept no more than a couple of them. She had been chatting until just after midnight, and still her mind was racing. She slipped from the bed, pulled on jeans and a blouse and stepped over to the computer, bringing the screen to life with no more than a touch of the mouse. The machine was rarely switched off these days and within a minute she had logged on and was entering the room. “Morning! Evening! Whichever it is to you, I bid you greetings!” she said, and giggled to herself, noting that as her manner had become more relaxed, her language had become more florid. There were greetings returned and she acknowledged each, put a face to many, or at least a character. She had photographs of a lot of the people from the room, and these helped her to visualize them, but were by no means necessary. At first, she had imagined them, but now she actually saw them; it was a real room she entered and real people she met. Greetings exchanged, she settled back a moment to regard the room, the people, take note of one or two conversations. Then she excused herself while she went to make a coffee, feeling eyes follow her as she left, so real had the room become to her. “Welcome back, Mira!” said Wizzy, when she returned. “WB, Mira!” said another. “Where’s my coffee?” asked a third. “It was like a cloud had covered the moon when you left, Mira, but now the glittering starlight has returned!” “Eh?” said Mira with a chuckle. “The moon, Mira. You are the Luna which adds lunacy to men’s lives.” She did not know the name, Master Masoch, but in her mind she saw him; tall, dark, hooded brows above piercing eyes. “You know me so well, even though we’ve only just met?” she asked. “I don’t believe any man could ever truly know you,” Master Masoch replied. “But

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what a journey of exploration it would be to try.” “Pass me a bucket someone!” a voice groaned. “Piss off, Tam!” said Mira. “Listen and learn, you unromantic yokel!” And then, to Master Masoch, “Please continue!” “You are man’s sin and man’s soul, Mira. You are the light of his life and the fire in his loins, the reason he has to live, the reason he has to die. You are his energy and his exultation!” “Oh shit! Ffs!” This was Tam again, and Master Masoch said, “Piss off, you jealous little runt, like the lady said.” “Is that runt spelt with a ‘c’?” “Please, Tam, just leave it?” Mira asked, for inwardly she was fluttering to hear such words directed at her. “My loft for some privacy, Mira?” Master Masoch suggested. “Be right back!” she told the room, guessing that Tam was going to make another stupid remark.

**** The door slammed shut behind her, which was one thing she hated, the cacophony which came with people entering and leaving the room. Usually she had such sounds turned down, but now the door slamming shut after her made her start. She looked behind her at the door, then forward again. She had spoken in private with people before, it was all quite harmless, usually they were pleasant, but on the occasion or two that they weren’t, it was a simple matter to return to the chat room. And each loft she had visited had been furnished to suit its owner. Master Masoch’s loft was dark. The walls were dark, with a dull sheen like satin, the floor a more polished darkness which might have been marble, the bed—the only furniture there—a silky black. Against all this inky darkness, Master Masoch’s naked body was a stark white. It might have dazzled her, or simply shocked her, for it took her a moment before she could say, “Erm…just what do you think you’re doing?” “Shut up, slut,” he said in a low voice. “Oh fuck this! Just one more pervert!” Mira decided, and turned to leave. It was a simple matter, a loft was an imaginary place, if you didn’t like the person you met there, you could leave. So what was happening? The door which had slammed closed shut so firmly behind her now remained just as firmly closed. She turned slowly to look at Master Masoch. He was grinning, said, “My words persuaded you here, now my body will possess

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you here.” “In your dreams!” she spat. “No, not in dreams. After so long in this world, your dreams become reality. Haven’t you sensed that already, Mira? Now come to me, slut, kneel before me.” Mira stood firm, her eyes fixed on his, which were so dark and deep that she was unsure whether she was resisting him or transfixed by him. With a couple of quick paces, he was on her, a breath away from her and reaching out to clutch her hair, twisting it into a knot at the back of her neck. He tilted her head painfully back, she raised her hands to his to ease the pain and in an instant, he brought his other hand up to snap cuffs on them, buckled a collar around her neck and fastened them to it. He grinned at her as she twisted, as if craning her neck to see, wondering what had happened. “Imagine what I could do to your body now, Mira,” he said, and lowered his face to kiss her softly on the lips. In contrast with the fierce grip he had taken of her hair, his kiss surprised her with its gentleness, as did the touch of his fingertips stroking her cheeks. She told herself that somewhere deep inside her, in one of the darkest corners of her heart, this was what she wanted, and he was what she needed. As Master Masoch backed slowly towards the bed, then, it took no more than the touch of his fingertips to persuade her to follow, and his eyes which remained fixed on hers. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, the slight pressure of his fingers drew her down to kneel on the floor before him. Then he rested his arms on the bed to either side of him, supporting his body, spread his legs wide and said, “Worship my cock, Mira. Suck it. Make it hard and there will be a reward. Fail to make me come quickly enough and there will be punishment. I will count out a minute, a very slow minute to give you every chance.” Mira looked down at his cock. It was thick, heavy, but for the moment, more flaccid than erect. If her hands had been free, she could have lifted it up to her lips, but fastened as they were behind her head, all she could do was lower her face, twist her neck, work her mouth between his thighs and beneath his genitals. Master Masoch had started counting, slowly, his voice hypnotic like the ticking of a metronome. “One…two…three…” Mira ran her tongue along the underside of his cock to the tip, licked around it to work it into her mouth. Then she lifted her head, bringing his cock with her, holding it fast in her mouth, not moving on it yet, but simply lapping her tongue around it, sucking lightly as the seconds were counted off. “…eleven…twelve...thirteen….” When she felt him grow hard inside her, she pulled her head back a little, smiled

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down to see his thickening cock slip from her lips, glistening with her saliva. “Pleased with yourself, Mira?” he asked in amusement. “Twenty-one...twenty-two…twenty-three….” Just the tip of his cock in her mouth, Mira gripped it lightly between her teeth, pressed her tongue against its head and felt it twitch. Encouraged, she brought her head forward again, felt the stiffness of it resist as it filled her mouth. “….thirty-five...thirty-six…thirty-seven….” She hardly heard him now as she became greedy for his cock, thirsting for it as she began to move back and forth with a steadier rhythm, tongue washing across the tip each time she pulled back, teeth grazing it each time she thrust forward. Moving faster and faster, she began to slobber over him, drooling like an animal as, she pumped his cock in and out, wanting to drink him, to milk him dry, wanting to suck out his soul. But then his bare foot on her shoulder pushed her away, his cock slipped from her lips and she looked up to see him frowning at her. She had not heard him count off the last few seconds. “Not good enough pet,” he told her. “Punishment time.” “But—” “Hush!” he said, pressing a finger to her lips, then slipping his hands down to unbutton her blouse, baring her breasts. He caressed her nipples, then caught them between finger and thumb and twisted, pulled, drawing her to her feet as he stood. “That’s it, pet. Rise.” He trailed his hand across her naked belly as he walked around her, stood behind her to embrace her and then unbuttoned her jeans, slipping his hands inside to tug them down. Then, when they had fallen to her knees, he gave her a rough shove in the back, throwing her face down onto the bed, yanked the jeans free and tossed them aside. “Do not turn around,” he cautioned her, as he saw her head about to move. “For your own benefit, it might be best to keep your face pressed into the bed. The silk will smother your cries, blot your tears.” Taking up a supple leather strap, Master Masoch let it hang loosely over his shoulder as he regarded her naked buttocks, soft and pale, and the firm thighs beneath. They would mark nicely, he decided, bringing the strap whistling through the air, slapping the bed beside her. Her whole body tensed and he laughed, said, “Ah! The fear and the thrill of the anticipation. Wondering if the next blow will find its spot.” It did not, it slapped the bed to the other side of her, but again her body had tensed at the first sound of the strap cutting the air. He imagined her now counting the seconds between the strokes, anticipating the third, and so he paused a little longer this time, so that

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to her the seconds would seem to be drawn out into minutes. Mira’s body was just about to relax when the strap finally struck, and the slap of leather against flesh was drowned out by her cry of agony. “Oh God!” she screamed into the black silk sheets. “No, little one, it is not god you should cry out to, but to your Master,” he told her, striking her again. “It is your Master you should worship, and no one else.” Her body shook on the bed as blow after blow fell across her buttocks, she writhed and twisted beneath them, but underlying the pain, she slowly became aware of a burning in her groin, a fire there which was not unlike the fire of passion. She began to rub her cunt against the soft silk sheets, bunching them between her thighs, feeling their subtle texture excite her. Her body was no longer simply twisting with torment, but it was also squirming with delight. Master Masoch let the strap rest against her burning buttocks, and stroked it lightly back and forth across them. “So who does my little pet worship?” “Master!” Mira sobbed. “I worship my Master!” “Oh pet, but that does delight me! Such words excite me as much as your lips did. They make me hard.” Mira felt the strap drawn away from her buttocks, but now she no longer flinched, guessing that there would be no more blows to follow. Sure enough, she felt a delicious coolness soothing her pain, the soft rasp of Master Masoch’s tongue licking her, lapping over her buttocks, probing between her thighs. Soft hands parted her legs, thumbs eased her buttocks apart, and she felt his tongue prod the bud of her asshole, wetting it. “Relax now, my pet, and you will get your reward,” he told her, his voice as full of love as any she had ever known. “The reward of having your Master come inside you.” It was a finger which probed inside her first, dipping in almost tentatively, but then she felt something larger pressing against her, hot and wet, slowly pushing forward, parting her ass so wide that she was forced to catch her breath. No delicate finger parted her wide, and then he began to fill her, inch by agonizing inch until she felt the mat of his pubic hair, rough against her ass, and the hot tip of his cock nudging parts of her which had never before known such delights. He held himself still inside her for a moment, bending forward to kiss her cheek, the back of her neck, and each finger of her cuffed hands. Then, he began to fuck her with a slow seductive rhythm, all the while whispering his endearments. “You are mine now, pet. You belong to Master, and when I come inside you, you will sob with gratitude for what I give you.” “I will!” she cried. “I will!” “You will want no one else.”

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“No one else!” “You will be mine.” “Yours, Master!” she cried, her body thrashing beneath him, coming at the same time that he did.

**** Master Masoch released her hands, removed the cuffs and replaced them with leather bracelets, added others to her ankles, and a belt around her waist which matched the collar around her neck. All but for these, she was now naked. “Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Let us return to the company of the room.” “Master…?” said Mira, as if the shame of appearing thus would be too much to bear. “Trust me,” he insisted. “It will be alright, you will see.” It was not the room Mira knew. They went from the darkness of Master Masoch’s loft to a place of almost comparable darkness. Dotted about the walls, lamps spilled out a warm red glow, and candles flickered on tables, here and there spotlights shed a brighter focused light. Shadows predominated, it was as much like entering a womb as a room, and in them she was aware of vague figures, their forms barely discernible, just their bright eyes and gleaming smiles. What first attracted her attention, though, were those caught in the various spotlights; here a man shackled to the wall, his chest striped where he had been beaten, weights hanging from his nipples; there a naked woman kneeling, her hands tied behind her; off to the left a couple wrapped in an inescapable embrace, taut leather straps biting into the flesh and binding them together. “Welcome to my world, Mira. Welcome to my domain,” Masoch said to her, and introduced her. “Friends, this is Mira.” “Welcome indeed, Mira,” a voice purred into her ear, and she turned to see a slender red-headed woman smiling lasciviously, licking her lips as if she had been invited to dinner. “Down, Synthia, down!” commanded Masoch, as if he was master to this other pet also. It seemed he was, for immediately the woman fell to her knees before them, head bowed to kiss the floor, her arms outstretched with palms flat. Mira saw that the woman had bracelets similar to her own around her wrists and ankles. Like her, she was naked but for these, and the collar around her neck, the belt around her waist. Masoch knelt a moment, took Synthia’s hands, and as Mira looked on curiously, she saw him link the two bracelets to the ones around her own ankles. “Your further reward, Mira,” he smiled, rising. “Yours to play with for a while.

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Come, sit and enjoy.” Mira was led back to a settee so Synthia was drawn with her, pulled forward on all fours with each shuffling step. Seated, she felt a thrill to see the young woman prostrate before her, her red hair spilling over her bowed head. “She won’t look at you until you demand it,” he told her, sitting beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Demand it of her.” “Look at me, Synthia,” Mira instructed, and slowly the woman raised her head to look up at her. Her smile was enchanting, her lips inviting, and as Mira thought she might like to feel the touch of them, so Master Masoch seemed to divine her thoughts, giving her a nod of encouragement. Returning his smile, Mira parted her thighs wide, drew her feet in to pull Synthia further forward, then lifted them onto the settee to draw her higher. “Mira wants you to lick her, Synthia,” said Masoch. “Don’t you, Mira?” “Yes I do.” “Then ask her, for goodness sake! Learn to demand while you have the opportunity!” “Lick me, Synthia,” Mira then commanded. Synthia’s hair spilled over Mira’s thighs as she licked along them, covered her lap as her lips found her cunt, and her tongue began to lick. Mira curled into Master Masoch’s embrace, his hand at her breast lightly plucking at her nipple, and her legs splayed wide, stretched out. She then closed her legs about Synthia’s waist, pulling her hands behind her and drawing her face closer, her tongue deeper. Through the glimmer of light and shadow a figure approached, a broad-chested man wearing a loose cotton robe, knelt behind Synthia and lifted his robe. “Be my guest, Onan,” said Masoch, with a generous gesture of the hand, as Mira caught a glimpse of the flashing white cock before it slipped between Synthia’s buttocks. The tongue lapped at her cunt a time or two more before there came a sudden snarl and the woman’s mouth clamped hard onto Mira, her breath a fiery exhalation. Then, as Onan’s cock began to pump inside Synthia, she licked all the more eagerly, her face thrust into Mira’s cunt with each stroke, to the delight of them both. Her head tossing deliriously from side to side, through half closed eyes, Mira saw a leather clad woman grinding her body against the man who was shackled to the wall, her blood red nails raking his sides, her studded bra scouring his chest. On the settee facing her, a woman was fucking herself with her fingers and grinning back at her. The woman she had seen bound and on her knees was now arching her back to take a man’s cock into her mouth, slobbering over it. “You like my world, Mira?” Masoch asked her, and her only answer was to give a

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delighted sigh. “Good. Good. For now you belong in it. You can be nowhere else. In the words of the song, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

**** Never leave? Ridiculous! Synthia had been released and lay sprawled across Onan’s lap while he idly fingered the ass he had just fucked. The man who was shackled to the wall was now being soothed by the leather clad woman’s caresses, and Master Masoch’s hand now rested lightly around Mira. Slowly, in case he slept, she extricated herself from his embrace, and excused herself with a soft, “Be right back.” But as she rose and crossed the room, she heard a series of low chuckles, saw eyes sparkling with mischief following her, lips parting in smiles to flash their amusement. “Be right back,” she repeated, a little annoyed by the manner of these people, and opened the door. She passed through, closed it after her, turned to see…..that she was in the very same room. “Welcome back, Mira!” Masoch chuckled. “Hi Mira!” “Glad you returned, pet!” The greetings were mocking. They came at her from all sides, even the man shackled to the wall was laughing weakly. “Why?” Mira asked, looking around. “What…? How am I back here?” “Because this is where you belong,” Masoch told her simply, as if what had happened were fact rather than a contradiction of all that was logical. Mira looked past him, saw another door on the far side of the room, and strode briskly towards it. She turned the handle, pushed the door, passed through, and she was back again, this time to a riot of laughter. “Where you belong is a state of mind rather than a location in time or space,” Masoch told her, and patting the settee beside him, he said, “Come back to me, pet.” She spied a third door, set in another wall, but even before she could think to make her way towards it, someone said, “It will do you no good, Mira, it will only bring you back here.” “We shall not cease from exploration, Mira,” another told her, “and the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” “You are back where you started, Mira. Now you know your place,” Masoch said,

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holding out his arms for her. “Come to me, pet.” “Yes, Master,” she said, slowly walking towards him.

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Chapter Two

When Haggitha entered Lord Belacqua’s chamber, she found him stretched out naked on the large bed, propped by pillows and cushions, his fingers idly toying with his cock which was thick, heavy, but not yet erect. “Any luck with your hunting?” he asked with a smile. “Did you find one you might enslave?” “I had no heart for it,” Haggitha answered dispiritedly, slowly crossing the room, hips swaying enticingly. “No? You surprise me! That is not like you! Is there something that ails you?” “Master Masoch. I learned that he has beguiled another, and has had her with him a day or two now.” “Oh, Haggitha!” laughed Belacqua, his broad chest swelling as he roared his amusement. “So the hatred of Masoch is still there inside you? Come here, my love, and let me console you.” Her green eyes flashing, her anger simmering, she said, “I will come to you for some good old-fashioned fucking if you oblige. That will console me.” Raising himself on one elbow, Belacqua reached out to part her skirts, working his hand beneath them. He felt her cunt to be hot and moist, and stroked his fingers across its lips. “Mm,” she sighed, closing her eyes to enjoy his touch. He sat up, moved his face closer to her groin. “Haggitha stinks down there. Hot and musky.” “As my lord likes it,” she grinned, and pulled his face into her. He licked the inside of her thighs, ran his tongue up and down the skin which was smooth like silk, or like fine vellum, smooth and yet not smooth, a soft texture exciting his tongue. Her body arched beneath his kisses, her legs trembled as his tongue licked up her thigh but stopped just short of her cunt. He licked around it, beside it, but never dipped into it. He wanted to feel her twitch in anticipation, as he licked and sucked and bit at her thighs. He got so close to her cunt that she began to itch there. “Mm, that’s nice! But not friendly, my lord.”

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“Oh but it is, Haggitha.” he insisted. “And if you want me to suck you there, then all I will do is simply exhale and breathe hotly on your swollen lips.” Haggitha’s body flushed, and she touched her hands to her bared belly, said, “In which case I will open my legs wide and finger myself until I come. I won’t even think of you, my lord.” “Oh no, Haggitha!” he laughed, catching her hands and pulling her down onto the bed. Wrapping scarves around each wrist, he tied her hands to her thighs. She resisted, protested, but all she could do was writhe, her body squirming like a stranded fish. “Now your cunt does itch,” he grinned, drawing circles across her belly with his fingers. “You want to touch yourself, or have me touch you, between your thighs.” Haggitha cursed him. “Fucker! Fuck me, my lord!” “Yes, but at my leisure and for your pleasure,” he promised, and ran his finger down her body, from neck to navel. “I’m getting cross, my lord,” she warned, her eyes beginning to blaze. Belacqua smiled and kissed her, once, on the mouth, then rested his hand lightly on her cunt, his palm covering it, his fingers curling beneath it. “You hate yourself for the way I make you feel, don’t you, Haggitha?” he asked. “Would Haggitha like me to pleasure her? Would Haggitha like to feel my finger inside her?” She nodded her head even as she said “no”, and he slipped a finger inside her, found her clitoris. It was like a tiny swollen fruit; he thought that if he squeezed it might split and burst. He asked her if he should squeeze it, if he should play with it. “Yes!” she said, now shaking her head violently. “You don’t know what you want, do you?” he laughed, and began to play her like a musician plays his instrument, strumming his fingers lightly across her clitoris. Her cheeks burned, her nipples were erect and her hands strained against the scarves which held them. “Should I kiss you gently, lovingly, and then let you go?” he wondered. “No!” “Release your hands and hold you in my arms?” “No! I like this!” “Should I fuck you hard and fast?” “Do whatever the fuck you like!” she told him. “Or perhaps dip my head down and taste you?” Her hips bucked, thrusting towards him, and slowly he lowered his face to her cunt. “If my hands were free—” she cursed. “Yes? What? This is even worse than being tied to the bedpost, isn’t it? Just that

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little more freedom to make your bondage all the more frustrating,” he said, his lips brushing her cunt as he spoke. “All you can do is squirm, wait, hope.” He licked her cunt, then rose to straddle her body, his cock hot and hard against her belly. He climbed up her body and smiled down at her, took her nipples in his fingers and pinched them, twisted them cruelly. Haggitha screamed, from the pain, from the delight. Then he bent, took a nipple between his teeth and bit. She spat in his face as she cried out: “You bastard!” Belacqua slapped her. “Tut, Haggitha!” he said. “Open your mouth, my slut.” “No!” “Open it!” he insisted, and slapped her again. “Come on, open just a little. Smile for me.” She sobbed rather than smiled, but parted her lips enough for his tongue to slip in as his mouth fastened on hers. Her nipples were hard, crisp. Hands stroking them, tongue licking at her face, he asked, “Would you like me to fuck you now?” “Yessss!” she hissed. “Now? This very moment? Slowly?” Haggitha moaned as he teased her, the tip of his cock nudging her cunt. “Mm, please,” she sighed. If her hands were free she would have pulled him inside her, but all she could do was lift her hips towards him. It was enough. He entered her, pushed slowly inside her and marvelled that she could be so deep. Her cunt burned the tip of his cock, so he withdrew as slowly as he had entered. Cold air on his cock made him even more erect and he wanted the warmth of her cunt, so pushed into her again, harder this time. She moaned as she felt his cock flex inside her, her body ached for him and she cried out. Each time he pulled out he seemed to have grown bigger, each time he drove forward he reached deeper inside, and their groins met so hard that they bruised each other. Kissing her cheek, her chin, her neck, he drove deep inside her for one last time, saying, “Come Haggitha! Come for me! You come, and I will come, both of us together!” And he looked deep into her eyes as he buried himself inside her, felt his cock spitting furiously into her as her body quivered and shook. “The fabric of your world is shaking, Haggitha?” he smiled. “As will that of the bastard Masoch!” she snarled.

**** “How can such a world exist?”

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“If it can be imagined, my pet, then it can exist,” Master Masoch answered simply. “But what manner of imagination conjured up this particular world?” Mira wondered, taking in the splendor of the scene, the mystery of the people. After nights in the room and days in his loft Masoch had finally decided to show her what lay beyond these two dark places. “Our lofts are personal to each of us, the rooms were we congregate are communally agreed upon, the districts where the rooms are found also,” he explained. “It is an amalgamation of like minds with similar predilections. Throughout this world you will find others, areas where a particular style has taken root.” “Such bewildering variety,” commented Mira. “It is all a matter of freeing the mind, of letting slip the leash which holds it back,” he continued, but even as he was saying this, as if in contradiction, he pulled tightly on the leash which was clipped to her collar, keeping her back erect, her head held high. About her shoulders she wore a cape of heavy black velvet, falling to her feet but parted at her thighs as she strode along beside Master Masoch, revealing thong sandals whose ties wrapped around her legs, soft leather biting into her pale flesh all the way up to her thighs. Beneath the cape the bracelets on her wrists were linked to the belt around her waist, further restricting her posture, giving her a haughty and aloof air. People stared as they passed, and Mira could not help but stare back. Magisterial men in leather and latex were everywhere, imperious women in lace and silks, the men giving Master Masoch a nod of respect while the women gave Mira condescending looks of appraisal. Many had company, though not all, lovers of both sexes, or pet submissives like her. Their subjugation was evident in any number of ways--in the hands cuffed before or behind them, in the leashes by which they were led, or in the shackles which linked their ankles, restricting their steps. Or sometimes simply in their look, an expression, the set of a mouth or the hanging of a head. Mira was coming to recognize that look, witnessing it a number of times already in the room of Masoch’s submissives. With a tug on the leash he steered her from the sun-washed street into a covered arcade. Frosted glass above cooled and muted the light, which fell on dusty mote-filled beams, showing the shops on either side. Some were as she would expect them to be, selling food, drink, and comestibles, while others turned out to be not quite as she expected, selling clothes and footwear of such an outlandish nature she had never seen before. There was punk, Gothic, neo-romantic and much, much worse. Mannequins in windows sported dresses whose skirts were full at the front but non-existent at the back, leaving buttocks bare and vulnerable. Trousers of leather had the most ornate constructions at the front to contain men’s genitals. Goods displayed in

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a lingerie shop seemed more like feats of engineering than items of underwear, more like harnesses for beasts than support or covering for human genitalia. It was into this latter establishment that Masoch drew her, and no sooner was she through the door that he swept the cape from her shoulders, baring her nudity. She blushed at her sudden disrobing and the male assistant laughed at her embarrassment as he approached them. “A new one, Master Masoch? Her shyness betrays her,” he said, in a voice which was a little too effeminate for someone of his build, an inch or two above six feet, with a full but hairless chest and muscular arms and thighs. He wore nothing but leather briefs, at the front of which was what might have been a sheath to encase a formidable erection, or what might have been a dildo to compensate for his lack of any erection at all. He reached up strong hands to tweak her breasts, said, “Mm! Nice nipples! They redden quickly! Master Masoch will want something which will show them off to their best advantage?” “I think so,” Masoch answered, even as the assistant was turning to take a garment down from a rack. The leather from which the corset was made seemed to have no suppleness whatsoever. As the assistant stepped behind her to pull it against her body, Mira felt it compress her breasts painfully, forcing her nipples out through the holes which were edged with silver. Immediately her nipples grew crisp, hard, and as he buckled the corset at the back, she felt the urgent need for someone to suck on them, to savage them with their mouth. “Perfect,” said Masoch, running his palms over each dark red bud. Straps drawn down between her thighs made the lips of her cunt pout, as they were tugged tight behind her they parted her buttocks so that she felt as if her ass was about to be invaded. “Yes, quite perfect,” Masoch decided, fingering each orifice before covering her with the cape. “We will take it, she will wear it.” “Impeccable taste as always,” said the assistant, his voice now simpering. “The wimp would like me to use him as I use you,” Masoch whispered in her ear, as they left. Further along the arcade, her nipples throbbing against the soft caress of the velvet cape, against the unyielding leather of the corset, Mira was then drawn into a bar, Masoch’s manner now even more casually possessive, the leash held over his shoulder so that she was drawn along in his wake. “Bull’s Blood! One bottle, one glass!” he demanded, tugging her across the bare flagged floor to a table, seating her beside him on a curved bench of upholstered leather. A maid strode elegantly across to them on improbably high heels, carrying bottle

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and glass on a silver tray, naked breasts falling invitingly as she bent to set the tray on the table before them. Her buttocks were bared to them as she turned to leave, the only clothing she wore was a tiny leather pouch around her waist, into which she dropped the coins Masoch gave her. “Pretty ass, eh?” he remarked, filling his glass as he watched the woman return to the bar. Then he lifted it in a toast, offering it to Mira, “A drink, my pet?” Respect was what he required of her at all times, this much she had already learned, painfully on occasion, and as she leaned forward to bring her mouth to the glass, she said, “Thank you, Master.” “Good girl,” he congratulated her, tipping the glass a little for her, then tasted the wine himself before setting it down on the table.

**** In a remote corner of the bar, shrouded in shadow so that anything might be permitted, Lady Haggitha brought her face close to Belacqua’s, and she said in a low snarl of a whisper, “Look how he fawns over her.” “Only for propriety’s sake,” he commented, “so that in public she might be seen to be his. I’m sure in private he might treat her more harshly.” “Offering her drink, feeding her tidbits,” Haggitha continued, “having her lick his fingers clean and then wiping them on her cheek. It offends me, Belacqua. Just think how we might use her.” “Would we want to?” he asked, turning to regard Lady Haggitha for a moment, before returning his gaze to the couple on the other side of the room. “She is pretty enough, but unremarkable. The hair is lustrous, the eyes bright, the smile fetching. I suspect that the leather corset might flatter her figure, though. And unfasten those thongs which bind her thighs and how firm might her flesh be, eh?” But she was taking no notice of his dispassionate appraisal of the woman, her hand fell on his and gripped him fiercely as she said, “I want her, Belacqua. Take her from him, and give her to me.” “And do I beguile her, bewitch her or abduct her?” he smirked, and then, before she could berate him for his flippancy, he spied the maid coming towards them, said, “Might we at least eat first?” Sitting prim and erect as her mood demanded, hands folded lightly in her lap, she pursed her lips tightly as the plates were set before them. Belacqua knew this was because of the effort required to contain her impatience with him. He grinned at her as he attacked his meal with gusto, forking up food, taking deep droughts of wine, so that first his lips and then his chin became wet with the juices of both. Lady Haggitha, in contrast, ate daintily, almost in a sulk, one hand still resting in her

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lap while the other brought her mouth no more than a peck of food at a time. Though Belacqua ate greedily, it was she who had soon had her fill; she set the fork on the plate, pushed the plate away and returned both hands to her lap. She was seated opposite him, but a little to one side, so that he could see her clasp her delicate hands in her lap. Her fingers appeared thin and fragile but he knew them to be actually quite strong. They separated, opened, then settled like moths on the inside of her thighs, and he could imagine the softness of their touch against the silk of her skirt. Her fingers clenched, clawing the hem of the long skirt a little higher. It rose around her ankles, moving slowly as if in a gentle breeze, slipping over the sensual swell of her calves. Belacqua cleared the last of the food from his plate and dropped the fork with a clatter, watching Haggitha smiling at him, her blue-grey eyes so deep and mysterious that he would like to lose himself in them. He also noticed a trace of amusement about her mouth, lips dark and moist, opening slightly, and he saw the tip of her tongue run quickly across her teeth before retreating. Lady Haggitha’s skirt was higher, bunched in her hands, exposing her knees. She drew it up to her waist and he saw panties, white—so unusual for her, and now so exciting—tight against her, the fabric molding itself and hugging the contours of her vagina. Smiling directly into his eyes she slipped the first two fingers of her right hand inside the panties, pulling them aside. He saw the dark shadow of her pubic hair, lush and extravagant, her sex gleaming wetly within, like a small summer lake in a gloomy forest. Belacqua glanced up, looking away with a great effort, but then had to turn back to Haggitha. Her eyes had narrowed now, like crescent moons, and the amusement was even more evident around her mouth. Her tongue came out again, licking across her glistening lips. It was pink and moist, he wanted to lean forward and suck it into his mouth. Beneath the table he could see that she was pinching her clitoris, pulling the lips of her cunt open. She touched a fingertip to its bright opening and left it there lingering, tracing the tiniest of circles, then slowly inserted it up to the first knuckle. Under the table, seen only by Lady Haggitha, Belacqua removed his cock from his loose linen trousers, and she made a slight lustful expression, as if blowing it a kiss, and removed her finger from the wet folds of her cunt. Belacqua could see the juices on it as she slowly put it into her mouth. He closed his fingers around his cock and gently began to stroke it. Aroused by the sight of his masturbation, she returned her hand to her cunt, her finger now darting furiously in an out, making a low sound, almost moaning. Others in the bar might have heard that sound, but Belacqua knew that it was only for him. Her eyes were shut, her hand was stroking frantically against her cunt, against her clitoris. And then they were open again and she was looking at him, he was drowning in

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those beautiful eyes and felt himself rushing towards an incredible orgasm, knew that she was close to orgasm too and nodded at her so that they might come together. Slowly she removed her hand from beneath her skirt, leaned forward and rested her elbow on the table, her slender wrist so delicately bent, her face coming closer, offering him her fingers so that he could lick her delight from them. “Dessert?” he grinned, closing his lips on them, running his tongue between them. “Oh no,” Haggitha said, her own smile fading. “For dessert I will have Masoch’s new pet. You owe me that now.”

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Chapter Three

Onan had been about to cross the room and greet Masoch and his new pet, when his attention was caught by the voices in the adjacent booth—the low throaty chuckle of a man and the soft venomous curse of a woman. It was the latter that he knew. He recognized the hatred in the tone, a hatred which could only come from the Lady Haggitha. Through the lattice screen which separated the booths he could make her out her long, black hair which framed her face like a cowl, her blue eyes so piercing that they could stop a man dead in his tracks, and her cruel mouth which was made to sneer. That part of the bar was too dark to make out all these features clearly, of course, but so vividly was her memory imprinted on his mind that he could add clarity to what the eyes might only vaguely perceive. As clear in his mind as her cruel beauty was also her hatred, the hatred she felt towards his friend, Master Masoch, who had once beguiled her, owned her, made her his, only to spurn her and cast her aside. Why, Onan had never known, she was too beautiful to surrender on a whim, but Masoch had spurned her, and so he had earned her undying hatred. He listened to her curses, so cold that they chilled the very air and her companion’s patient amusement as she voiced her desire for Masoch’s latest pet. So this was how she would finally have her vengeance? This should have been enough for Onan, going directly to his friend to warn him, but as he was about to rise and sidle from the booth when he saw that Lady Haggitha and her friend were now dining. Not so much on the food before them, as on each other. She had her hand between her thighs, her long skirts tucked about her waist and stark white panties tugged to one side so that she could excite herself. Her finger was probing her cunt slowly, deliciously, parting the lips and stroking between them. Onan felt an aching in his heart, a burning of his cheeks which made him want to bury his face between those cool thighs, feel them grip him tightly and squeeze the life from him. No, Lady Haggitha was not a woman to be surrendered to on a whim, as Master Masoch had, but she was a woman who could quite easily command one’s own surrender. He had to stifle a gasp as Lady Haggitha raised her hand, offering it to her companion, and as the man took it into his mouth, Onan could almost taste the juices on her fingers. As her friend drew his cock from his trousers, so Onan drew his from the short

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leather kilt he wore, stroking it as the man stroked his. There was a dreamy gaze in Haggitha’s eyes now, her lids were heavy, and the smile that played across her lips was as much at the other man’s pleasure as her own, as if relishing the effect she had on him. Almost as if she were aware of the effect she has having on a third party, too.

**** After the bar, Masoch took Mira for another promenade, parading her like a trophy, like a prized pedigree beast, and slowly she became more comfortable with this. No longer did he need to hold the leash taut to keep her head up, her back erect. Voluntarily she held her posture and took pride in it, as well as in Master Masoch’s ownership of her, returning the glances of others without shame. Knowing this behavior was required of her, she instinctively lowered her eyes when he stopped to talk with friends and acquaintances. “You are progressing well, my pet,” Masoch congratulated her as they strolled through a park, making their way back to his chamber as dusk fell. “Ultimately, you will be a delight to me.” “Ultimately, Master?” she asked, her tone a little dejected, for she thought she had done so much to please him. “Yes, ultimately,” he repeated. “There is a way to go yet. You still have much to learn. But take heart,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek, “your manner, so far, augurs well for your development. Ultimately—ultimately—you will be my prize possession.” The path they took through the park skirted a tiny lake and a gentle incline. As they climbed, cresting the shallow brow, Mira saw what seemed to be a bandstand come into view, an ornate structure of white wrought iron. The sounds which came from the bandstand were nothing musical, and her brow furrowed, her curiosity evident. Master Masoch grinned as he caught her expression and led her forward. As they drew closer to the structure, Mira saw people milling around, maybe a dozen, a score or more, and then between the crowd she saw the stocks, naked people were held in low yokes of polished wood, their heads, arms and legs caught fast by them. “These are pets who have not yet been a delight to their Masters and Mistresses,” Masoch explained to her, weaving his way through the small throng, shortening his hold on the leash to keep her close to him. Now she could see how the people in the stocks were being abused; genitals were being fondled; nipples were twisted painfully, bared buttocks slapped mercilessly. One woman was being forced to suck a cock, a man to lick the cunt which was ground against his face, and a third was being fucked in the ass by a leering woman who wore a huge strap-on dildo. There was a slap of leather on flesh as one unfortunate was lashed with a stout strap

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and Mira shivered against him. “Fear?” he asked her. “Or excitement? Would you like to be treated in this way? Or perhaps use people in this way yourself?” “I think I would feel shame, Master, to be treated like this in public, by all and sundry,” Mira answered, lowering her eyes. “Then let’s hope I never have cause to subject you to such an ordeal,” he said, tugging on the leash to draw her on, and as they moved away from the crowd he gave a low chuckle. “Master?” “I laugh because you didn’t answer the second part of my question,” he explained. “I asked if you would perhaps like to use people in that way yourself.” Though she was too uncertain of herself to answer, Masoch must have caught a slight glint in her eye which suggested that maybe she would. “You enjoyed having Synthia helpless at your feet, that first night in my chamber?” he prompted. “I, er….it was an unfamiliar sensation, but yes, enjoyable,” she admitted. “Then perhaps I might allow you to become more familiar with it, once you have submitted yourself to me heart and soul. Once I am sure that you are mine and mine alone, then perhaps I might permit another to submit themselves to you.” He stopped a moment, touched a finger to her cheek to turn her to face him. “But always, even then, you will be mine. Is that understood?” “Yes, Master.”

**** Onan spat his seed onto the floor between his feet, slumped in his seat, his chest heaving, his mind filled with a wonderful silence, a profound peace. This silence was compounded by the fact that the booth next to his was now empty, and glancing quickly to his left, he was just in time to see Lady Haggitha and her companion leaving the bar. Hurriedly wiping himself on a napkin, then tossing it carelessly aside, he strode across the room after them. If he could find out where she now called home, or which places she frequented, then it would be much easier to thwart any plans of hers. As he peered from the door of the bar, he saw the couple turning left from the arcade, onto the broader boulevard. He strode quickly along after them and then paused a moment to give them a start. Dusk was falling, the sky a faded denim color, darkening at the edges, the light taking on an early evening mistiness. Since there were plenty of people about, and plenty of shrubs and trees along the boulevard, it was an easy matter to follow the couple unnoticed,

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to keep at a safe distance without losing sight of them. There was no contact between Lady Haggitha and her companion, no sign of the intimacy they had recently shared. They walked on, side by side, a foot apart, and Onan wondered at what their relationship might be. Friends? Casual lovers? Occasional entertainment for each other? Friends, he decided, when he saw them pause at a junction, she rising a little on tiptoe, he stooping a little so that they could swap kisses on the cheek. They exchanged a word or two, then parted, the man continuing on ahead while Lady Haggitha turned down a narrower lane. Good, thought Onan. Now the damsel had no escort. Alone, Lady Haggitha’s pace quickened from the stroll she had shared with her friend, long strides taking her quickly forward, making her skirts billow behind her, her hair flow back from her face. Onan increased his pace with her, keeping the distance between them constant. He was not familiar with this district, he rarely frequented it, the architecture too dark and cluttered for his tastes and he much preferred the open classicism of his own neighborhood. Here, as the streets narrowed and the houses seemed to tower above him, he began to feel claustrophobic. Where the hell was the woman leading him? he wondered, and then laughed softly to himself. She was leading him nowhere. He was following her to her home, not being led to her lair. Suddenly Lady Haggitha made a succession of quick turns, down a lane to the right, another to the right, a third to the left. Onan had to quicken his pace to follow her direction, saw her turn from the first lane to the second, just caught sight of her switching from the second to the third….and then lost her. Dusk had turned into night, or perhaps it was the narrowness of the lane and the height of the buildings which made the world seem darker; whatever the reason the gloom ahead was empty, deserted, with no sign at all of Lady Haggitha. Slowly, cautiously, Onan walked forward. The next junction, the next lane or alley or turn-off was at least a hundred yards ahead. There was no way she could have covered that distance in the time she had been out of his sight. Ergo, he smiled cleverly, the woman must have her home in one of the houses along this street. And if he had truly been as clever as he thought, then he would have been satisfied with this knowledge, would have turned and made his way back to tell Master Masoch all he had learned. Instead he continued forward, thinking to learn just a little bit more about the scheming Lady Haggitha.

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Each house along the street had a shallow covered porch, and all were in darkness, though here and there a light burned in an upper window. Passing each, he searched their shadows for any sign of life within, but found none. He had traveled maybe a third of the length of the street, with fruitless glances to the left and the right, when he heard a soft sound behind him. He turned and saw, in the porch he had just passed, Lady Haggitha smiling at him. “Hello Onan! Won’t you come in?” she said sweetly. Her piercing eyes held him a moment, the smirking lips captivated him just long enough; he failed to notice the prod which hung from her belt, was too slow to react as she raised it and slapped it against his bare thigh. There was a soft electric crackle, a searing pain, the muscles in his thigh knotting as he hobbled a little, struggling to retain his footing. “You wouldn’t expect a woman to wander the streets without protection, would you Onan?” she grinned, brandishing the prod for him to see as she stepped forward, then touched its crackling tip to his shoulder. The pain made Onan spin this time, hopping on his one good leg. A stab to his hip drove him back, another to his chest flung him through the open door behind him. Even as he was falling flat on his back the door was being slammed shut and bolted before he had a hope of clearing his senses Lady Haggitha was standing over him, prodding the same thigh as before to bring an anguished cry from him. “Move! Crawl!” she told him, the prod held ready to use again. “You have one good leg! Use it!” Pain searing his shoulder, his chest, his thigh, muscles in spasms or locked in rigor protesting, Onan used his foot to push himself back along the floor, deeper into the house, Haggitha keeping pace with him, standing astride him all the way. At the end of the hall she reached out to open a door, said, “Left turn, dear. To the top of the stairs.” He fell back as the first step took him unawares, cracking his head painfully on bare stone. Lady Haggitha simply laughed and gestured with the prod, indicating that he was to continue, that he was to make his way down the steps no matter how painful or awkward it was. Perhaps it was the shuddering or jolting of the descent, or maybe the effects of the prod were wearing off, for Onan felt a slight tingling of sensation return to his thigh. “Too little, too late,” Haggitha told him, seeing his muscles flex, and kneeling by his head she slipped cuffs around his wrists, linking them to a chain which hung from the ceiling. Before there was any chance of him having full use of his legs again Onan was

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raised, hoisted, and suspended with barely the tips of his toes touching the floor. The prod now hanging at her waist, with no further need of it, except maybe for her own amusement, Haggitha walked slowly around him, looking him up and down with undisguised disdain. Coming back to face him, she said, “You stupid brute, Onan. You were breathing as if driven by a bellows as you tossed yourself off on the other side of that screen. Think I couldn’t fail but notice you, you oaf?” Elevated and suspended as he was, his gaze fixed ahead, Onan stared some inches above her head, as proud as he could be under the circumstances. His manner annoyed Lady Haggitha; his silence offended her. “I think we’ll have this cute little number off for a start,” she said, unfastening his kilt at the waist and tugging it down. “There, much better. A suspended man always looks so much meeker when his genitals are on show. The blouse may stay, until I decide to beat you,” she added, as if showing him some consideration. She turned her back on him to cross the room, sure that now he would lower his eyes to follow her, pulled an easy chair over on its castors and set it before him. Seating herself comfortably, crossing her legs, she lifted one foot to nudge his genitals, the polished toe of her boot slipping beneath his balls. “Now there are a number of things we must attend to,” she said, matter-off-factly, almost conversationally. “You are aware that I intend to take Masoch’s new pet from him, you overheard me say so, so the first thing to attend to is to ensure that you don’t forewarn him.” She chuckled as she gave him a gentle nudge with her foot, rocking his body a little, said, “I think we have achieved that much. You agree, Onan?” He said nothing, but did at least lower his eyes to glare at her, which she found as pleasing a reply as any. “The second matter to attend to, and this is one that really would please me,” she continued, smiling up at Onan, her toe now nudging his cock, lifting it as if to weigh it, “what would really make me happy, is if you were to help me achieve my goal.” “What--?” There was almost an audible crack as Onan’s head snapped down to look at her. “You mean--?” “Help me take this new pet from Masoch,” she said, her eyes wide and pleading, almost innocent, as if it were the simplest of favors she was asking of him. “There must be some way you can help me, some advantage you can give me.” “Never!” “Not even if I ask nicely?” she pouted. “Not even if you beat me to within an inch of my life!” “Oh but how crude!” Haggitha laughed, getting to her feet, and standing beside Onan, curling an arm around his waist to hold him to her, she said, “Lady Haggitha has

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sweeter torments and persuasions than a simple beating, so sweet and subtle that they could make you scream louder than any thrashing. Tell me, Onan,” she then asked, a hand slyly creeping to his groin, brushing his cock, “did you enjoy your earlier ejaculation in the bar? Was it satisfying?” The mere memory of it made his cock twitch, and Haggitha caught hold of it, squeezed it gently. “I can see you did, I can see it was. Then I was separated from you by a screen, but still had you gushing stronger than you can ever remember. Just imagine, Onan, how stronger still that ejaculation could be with me here beside you, holding you, caressing you.” Her hand was moving slowly, gripping him strongly, making him grow between her fingers. “If you’re thinking to seduce me in order to make me betray my friend--” Onan began. “This is no seduction, dear man,” Haggitha told him. “Or that for the sake of a single orgasm--” “What orgasm?” she cut him off, nails digging into his cock, her other hand slipping around to squeeze his balls. “There will be no orgasm for you, my dear, simply the torments I spoke of. This,” she said, looking down as she resumed stroking his cock, “is simply to make you hard. And then, to keep you hard…..” From the folds of her skirt she took a long needle, rounded at the tip, and raised it for him to see, holding it between their faces so that it seemed to him to glisten as her eyes did. She grinned wickedly into his face as she recognized his fear. “A catheter, Onan, genuine Chinese jade,” she said, her fingers squeezing the tip of his cock, parting the tiny hole and making it pout, then lowered the needle towards it. “Don’t look so worried, dear heart. I have some medical expertise, I have seen episodes of E.R.”

**** Mira saw that Master Masoch’s chamber had changed when she was taken to it that evening, the furnishings different, the easy chairs and couches gone to be replaced by a wooden dining table large enough to accommodate a dozen seats around it. Changed, too, was Masoch’s attitude towards her. Gone was the solicitousness he had shown towards her during the day, and in its place, as if evening had chilled his temper, there was now a cold detachment. “We will feast and you will serve,” he told her, pointing to a door as he went to the table to inspect the settings. “Go help in the kitchen.” It was the door Mira had hoped would lead her from the room, on that first confusing visit, and this time she knew that it would not lead her directly back into the

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room but to a kitchen. It was as Master Masoch had said, and as she was coming to understand, that if it can be imagined then it can exist. If he said there was a kitchen beyond the door, or if anyone imagined there to be one, then there would be. There were pans bubbling, steam rising, the heat hit her as soon as she entered, so thick it caught her breath. Hearing her gasp, a man looked up from the other side of the central stove, gazed at her across the bubbling pans. As he straightened she saw that he was tall, the white tunic he wore was damp against his broad chest, his long blonde hair was pulled back from his face and tied in a pony tail. “You will be Mira?” he supposed, coming around the stove. “I am,” she said, and then hesitated, wondering if she should call him “Master”. “My name is Cartier,” he said, guessing at the reason for her hesitation, “but in the kitchen you call me Chef.” “Yes, Chef,” she acknowledged. “Now cover your nakedness, put this on, we don’t want your sweat dripping into the sauces,” he told her, tossing her a tunic. Then he laughed, said, “Although some of them here tonight might be somewhat turned on by that!” The tunic was thin, almost transparent like cheese-cloth, falling to just above the knee. “It won’t make you all that much hotter, and it will soak up the perspiration,” Chef said, regarding her a moment. “And by the time it comes to serve you will look enticingly damp. Already it is molding itself nicely to your breasts.” Mira looked down, felt a tickling rivulet of sweat run between them, then looked up to see that Chef was back at his pans and gesturing to her to join him. Immediately as she did so a wooden spoon was placed in her hand and she was set to stirring, while he applied himself to chopping up and adding more ingredients. “Sweat in the sauce indeed!” he said, chuckling softly as he worked. “And what other exotic juices could I persuade them I have added, I wonder?” Mira was a cook enough herself to recognize the fragrance of the Bolognaise Sauce she stirred. In another pan meatballs simmered, in a third, pasta. Hardly a banquet, she thought, when it seemed that the table in the next room had been set for one, but she made no comment, simply stuck to her given task. Finally when it seemed that all was ready, Chef lowered the heat beneath the pans and carried each over to a counter where he had large silver dishes waiting. Filling each dish, pouring pasta and sauce and meatballs into them, he placed them on a trolley and nodded to Mira. “There you go, dear, you may take them through now,” he told her. Masoch’s guests had now assembled, each of the dozen seats around the table was taken, as Mira entered all were chatting quite amiably and toasting each other with glasses

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of wine. “Ah! Here we are! Now we can feast!” said Masoch, seeing Mira and pointing to where she should put the trolley. “Synthia? Will you do the honors, dear?” The red-haired Synthia wore a gown of shimmering green silk, and as she rose from her seat to cross the room Mira noticed that while its skirt was full at the back it was cut to the waist at the front, baring her thighs and her naked groin. Others of the women were dressed almost similarly, wearing extravagant gowns which left some part of the anatomy exposed, while the men had opted for anything from casual to formal, loose kaftans or tight leather waistcoats, robes as simple as togas or suits as florid as any worn by a dandy, with much silk and lace. All now waited in silent expectation. Synthia was gone from the room for no more than a moment, and when she returned she had a naked man in tow, her finger hooked through the cuff on his wrist to pull him along after her. He wore cuffs on his ankles too, as Mira would have expected, and hanging from each side of the belt he wore about his waist were slender lengths of leather. “Make way! Make way for supper!” Masoch exclaimed, clapping his hands, and a couple of people moved back from the table. Immediately, without being told to, the naked man climbed onto the table and stretched out along its length. No sooner was he flat on his back than his hands were raised high above his head, his feet stretched as far as they could and all secured with stout straps which were brought up from the table legs, the lengths of leather which hung from his belt passed beneath the table and tied, holding him fast. Then, as Mira looked on in wonder, Synthia produced a paper plate the size of a platter. It was scored with a single line from the rim to the centre, where a hole had been cut, maybe a couple of inches in diameter. As Synthia lowered the plate over the man’s lap she twisted it, as if about to tear it, worked the man’s genitals through the hole and then let it spring flat once again. His cock was like a lightly cooked sausage against the white plate, his balls swollen like two plums by the pressure of the stout paper around them. “Serve please, pet,” Masoch told Mira. And then, when she was slow to respond: “Now, dear! Before the food grows cold!” “Yes Master! Of course!” she said, bending over the trolley. The man flinched a little when she ladled the long strands of pasta over and around his genitals, his body squirming as much as his bonds would permit. When his groin was hidden by the mound of pasta Masoch raised his hand, said, “Enough, pet. Now the sauce and meatballs.” These were hotter than the pasta, it took moments for the sauce to seep through but when it did the man grimaced, gave an audible gasp, the muscles of his belly and thighs

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knotting as he sought vainly to pull away. “Good!” said Masoch, indicating that Mira should stop and step back, and then to his fellow diners: “Bon appetit, my friends.” Silver forks and spoons stabbed none too gently at the mound of food, people leaning over to wind strands of spaghetti into their mouths, parts of their bodies brushing the man’s nakedness as they concentrated on his hidden groin. He let out a slight cry, and Mira guessed that a fork had probed too deeply, then had his cry muffled when Synthia, at the head of the table, leaned forward, covering his face with her belly as she stretched out to feast on him. The pile of food slowly dwindled, mouths grew greasy and chins stained as the diners greedily sought to expose the man’s genitals. Then Mira saw his cock rise, drawn up by a strand of spaghetti which Masoch was sucking into his mouth, the pasta wound around his cock and tangled beneath his balls, running around them in a greasy caress. “He is positively purring!” Synthia said, lifting her body from his face to let them all hear, running her hands across his chest and scratching at his nipples to encourage him more. “Hmm! And these particular meatballs seem undercooked, less tender,” said another woman, foregoing any utensils to thrust her face into the food, lapping it up as a beast might from a trough. Mira guessed that the balls she spoke of were the man’s very own, for as the woman licked and nibbled his groans grew more pronounced, as if he had as great a need as the diners. Master Masoch demanded more food be ladled out, suspecting that the one they fed off was close to an orgasm, and a time or two more Mira replenished the plate, until finally all decided that they had had enough. As the diners sat back in their seats, hands over full bellies, sighing with satisfaction, Master Masoch grinned over at Mira, said, “Now my dear, if you would be so good as to clean him.” “Master?” she asked. “Clean him! We can’t leave him in that state!” He laughed, said, “It’s okay, you may use a damp cloth.” “Not her mouth?” said Synthia, obviously disappointed. “No Synthia, not her mouth,” he said, soaking a napkin in wine and tossing it to Mira. “There you go dear. And do it carefully. Do not, I repeat, do not, make him come.” Gingerly Mira pried the paper plate from the man’s genitals, saw his cock twitch, his balls shrink and harden as the pressure on them was eased. With the damp napkin she wiped his thighs and belly, moving slowly closer to his groin, careful not to excite him. She

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folded the wet cotton around his cock, hoping its cool compress might calm his tumescence, lifted it from his belly and then held it between fingertips while she wiped the food from his balls. Then, looking to her right, she saw Synthia rising from her seat, leaning forward with a malicious smile on her face. Not taking her eyes off Mira, she bent to kiss the man on the mouth, her tongue parting his lips, slipping inside, her own mouth parting wider as if she was ready to feast again. Mira felt the cock stiffen between her fingertips, give a little lurch like the skip of a heartbeat. She looked in panic at Master Masoch, who simply shrugged nonchalantly, and then at Synthia, who had slipped her tongue from the man’s mouth and was lapping it all over his face. The smirk in her eyes said that she knew just what she was doing, just how close she had the man to coming. “Perhaps it is best you finish your task before Synthia finishes hers,” someone told Mira, and she returned to her cleaning with as much speed and as little titillation as possible. She ignored Synthia’s evil chuckle, but heard the woman’s soft exhortation—” come for me little man, come for me”—and was aware of her leaning forward, lowering her breasts onto his face and smothering him, quickly having him gasping and writhing. It was only seconds, not long enough for Mira to finish her cleaning of him, and he was spitting his ejaculation into her face. “Oh dear, you have his come on your lips, pet,” said Master Masoch sadly. “But—” “In the absence of Onan, someone had to come,” said Synthia. “Ah yes, where is he?” Masoch wondered, turning from Mira’s pleading eyes. “I think he must be yours to punish, Synthia, for declining my invitation.”

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Chapter Four

Onan didn’t know which was more powerful, the need to urinate or the need to ejaculate, there was the urge to do both but the jade catheter filling his cock all the way back to his bladder permitted neither. Held stiff by the insertion, his cock ached, as did his arms and shoulders through being suspended the whole night. And was it still night? He had no way of knowing. Once Lady Haggitha had inserted the catheter she had gagged him to stifle his cries, plugged his ears, pulled a leather hood tight over his head so that he could neither see nor hear nor plead. All he was aware of was the tingling of his balls, the burning inside, the chill air of the basement across his belly as he hung helplessly, his body turning slowly at times when he tried to ease the cramp in his muscles. He was turning now, through a slow one hundred and eighty degrees and back again, he must have spent a restless hour to build up such a momentum and Haggitha and Belacqua moved as his body did, walking back and forth so that they faced him but were never seen. “He’s a bit of a brute,” Belacqua commented quietly, admiring the musculature which was enhanced by Onan’s predicament, the bulging biceps and strong chest. “And you reduced him to this unaided, without my help or anyone else’s?” “But of course!” Lady Haggitha laughed aloud, knowing that her captive would hear nothing. “You doubt that I’d be capable? Many times I have had you at my mercy.” “But with a certain willingness on my part.” “Do not challenge me, my lord,” Haggitha cautioned him, her eyes cold for a moment, and he joined in her laughter. “So what next, Haggitha?” “Soon he will hallucinate,” she said. “He will hear sirens calling to him, imagine visions beckoning him.” “Sensory deprivation?” “Of a sort,” she agreed, “though perhaps sensory compensation is a better term, in the way that a blind man compensates for his lack of sight by having other senses

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accentuated. Regulate the amount of outside stimulus and I will decide what he thinks, what he feels, what he experiences. After no more than a few hours of this, blind and deaf and dumb, not able to smell, my merest touch could bring him to orgasm.” “Which is one thing you will not permit him?” Belacqua guessed. “Most certainly not,” Lady Haggitha grinned. “First he will rant and rave and spill his mind. But just as interesting as the result of my touching him would be the result of me returning his sight.” “And that would be?” Lady Haggitha’s smile was one of delight, of possession, of triumph as she said, “His first visual impression, after having his sight deprived, will be intense and long-lasting. I will present myself to him in a manner which will be remembered. My love, my tenderness, whatever I choose to offer will make him mine.” “This is what you hope?” Belacqua said. “This is what I know,” Lady Haggitha insisted. And slowly Onan’s body came to rest once more, no longer turning gently but hanging still and in such a state of insensate oblivion that he didn’t even feel the breeze from Lady Haggitha’s skirts as she turned and led Belacqua from the basement.

**** Mira was on her hands and knees, wrists loosely shackled, ankles too, polishing the black wooden floorboards of Master Masoch’s loft. Her work was made more difficult by his constant pacing, heavy boots with steel tips continually scuffing the floor each time she achieved an acceptable gloss. “Not a word, not even an excuse or an apology!” he complained. “I promise you, dear, he will be yours to punish when he finds the courage to show his face!” Sadly this promise was made not to Mira, but to Synthia, who lay sprawled on his bed, propped on one elbow, smiling down as she watched the unending labor. “Mm, nice,” said Synthia, her hand stroking her breast, making her nipple visibly hard beneath the thin lace blouse she wore. With a nod to Mira, she asked, “And might I use your pet as the instrument of my punishment?” “Do not push your luck, Synthia!” Masoch frowned, pausing in his pacing to caress Mira’s buttocks with the toe of his boot. “It is domestic servitude for my pet, for a day or two more to teach her obedience. Then I will decide how she is to be used next.” “As you wish, Master,” Synthia conceded, with a hint of a sulk, and pinched her nipple hard, as if she was angry with herself. Finally Masoch’s impatience seemed to get the better of him, his annoyance growing too great, he held his hand out to Synthia to demand her by his side, saying, “Come, let us search out the ill-mannered Onan and see what he has to say for himself.”

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“Which will be very little when we have him bound and gagged?” Synthia hoped, a gleeful smile on her face as she was quickly by his side. “And Mira, to the kitchen with you once you’ve finished here,” said Masoch as he crossed to the door, leaving more heavy scuff marks behind him. Synthia, Mira noticed, deliberately left a deep gouge mark with one of her high heels, grinning back over her shoulder as she did so. Wearily, Mira sat back on her haunches, and wiped the back of her hand across her brow. Master Masoch’s bed looked inviting, she saw the imprint Synthia’s body had left on the sheets and could imagine herself fitting nicely inside it. The previous night she had only been permitted to sleep at the foot of it, though, crossways, shackled and kept there at her master’s feet, and now her back ached from an uncomfortable night and the domestic duties to which she had been set. But they were duties and she returned dutifully to them, allowed herself a momentary smile to think what her friends might say, to see the one they had always called “the lazy slattern” applying herself so eagerly to housework. She brought the shine back to those parts of the floor Master Masoch had scuffed with his boots, worked hard to hide the scar which Synthia’s heel had made, and she knew that it was not pleasure in a job well done which drove her, but simply the hope of pleasing her Master. Finally satisfied with her work, she left the room, taking the short shuffling steps which were all that her shackled ankles permitted her. Master Masoch’s world had taken on a more familiar geography now and down the stairs, along the hallway, she could see the door which she knew would take her outdoors. No longer was the place a logical conundrum which she was unable to leave, as it had been on that first night. And yet somehow it was just as difficult to leave as ever, being in thrall of her Master meant that she would go nowhere without his permission, and so she turned her back on the door to the outside world and went into the depths of the house to the kitchen. Cartier was seated in a corner, his hair hanging loose, shirt open to bare his chest, his feet propped on a table and a book in his lap. “Morning Mira,” he said, looking up as she entered. “Masoch has you with me again then?” “Morning Chef,” she replied. “Yes, he has.” “Then let’s have those cuffs off, there is food to prepare,” he said, beckoning her forward to release her wrists.

**** The neighborhood where Onan had his loft was a pristine world of white Doric columns and carved pedimenta, open squares and gleaming temples, through which

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Masoch and Synthia moved like two black bacteria, overly dark and overly ornate. Synthia’s silk and lace and skirts of rich satin were out of place among the classical togas, Masoch’s leather and lycra just as incongruous. People turned and frowned as though his steel-capped boots clanging along the avenue might actually cause harm to their environment. “Onan never really did fit into our circle,” said Synthia, looking disapprovingly at the plain dress of the people they passed. Masoch noticed her flexing the fingers of one hand, lining up the rings on them like a knuckle-duster, the gold and stones and sculpted silver as much weapons as decorations. “It’s all a question of taste and personal preference,” Masoch laughed. “Relax, Syn. The difference is in the fashion these people favor, that’s all. They enjoy the same delights, they pose no threats.” “But so boring, so little left for the imagination,” Synthia remarked, casting a critical eye over a couple approaching them, the woman’s robe so plain and flimsy that she might have been naked, her companion’s cotton kilt so short that the tip of his cock could be seen hanging beneath it. “Oh, I don’t know, there might be an occasional charm in their style,” smiled Masoch, turning to look back as the couple passed. “Onan, we came to find Onan,” Synthia reminded him, giving him a dig in the ribs. “So we did and here we are,” said Masoch, coming to a halt before a squat white-walled building. It could have been Bauhaus or it could have been Byzantium, Pasadena or Pompeii, a block of a building around an open atrium. They mounted the three steps and entered the porch, Synthia following Masoch to a stone staircase. “He’s boasted about the view so he must be on an upper floor,” said Masoch, following the switchback of stairs. “Couldn’t he have picked a place with an elevator?” Synthia grumbled, lifting her skirts as she mounted step after step. “A little out of place in a place like this,” commented Masoch. “As are you two,” came a voice from above, and they looked up to see a figure on the next landing, barring their way. “We’re friends of Onan’s, looking for his loft,” said Masoch, squinting against the light, eyes narrowed to make out the silhouette before him. An iridescent white glow finally cleared and coalesced, the gossamer garment melting into the light so that at last all that was seen was the figure beneath, the full breasts and wide hips, the firm thighs and slim waist. “His dark friends? The ones he sometimes speaks of?” said the woman, taking a

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pace or two back, allowing them to climb the final couple of steps onto the landing. She stood head and shoulders above Synthia, as tall as Masoch, her long gown with its fluted folds making her seem quite statuesque, and the only ornate thing about her was her hairstyle, blonde curls intricately wound with strings of pearls, the only other decoration the plaited silk cord around her waist. “My name is Domna,” she said, extending a hand to them. “Masoch and Synthia,” said Masoch, returning the introduction, and took her hand. Domna lingered a while over Masoch’s greeting, taking his hand between both of hers, she was more perfunctory with Synthia, nails lightly scratching her palm as she withdrew her hand. “And Onan?” asked Synthia irritably. “He has had his loft closed to his friends for some days now,” Domna answered. “No one has seen him for some while now.” “No one?” “No one,” Domna repeated, but speaking to Masoch rather than Synthia. “We thought nothing of it though, knowing that he enjoys the company of you and your friends. Always one for variety, was Onan.” “It’s the spice of life,” Masoch smiled at her. “Indeed, though we find variety enough in our own little group,” said Domna, half turning from them. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for a while, confirm for yourself that no one has seen Onan?” “Why not?” Masoch agreed, as Synthia was about to decline, and followed Domna along the landing. He grinned, hearing Synthia mutter her disapproval as she trailed behind. The room was a lighter, airier version of Masoch’s, and Synthia frowned as she entered, finding it much too bright and totally lacking in mystery. People sprawled about the place, on couches and cushions and divans, and it seemed that there were no shadows at all in the place, that the light was everywhere. Lanterns and oil lamps were there simply to perfume the air, and served no other purpose. “Friends of Onan’s,” Domna announced, as people turned to regard the two newcomers suspiciously. Some nodded and accepted their presence, returning to their conversations, but one said aloud, “The ones who keep him from us? What have you done with him?” “Tut, Grippina, they have done nothing with him,” said Domna. “They miss him too and came here looking for him.” “Well he isn’t here,” said the one named Grippina, frowning at Masoch and Synthia as she got to her feet and swept from the room.

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“You must excuse Grippina, she is fond of Onan and misses him,” said Domna, resting her hand lightly on Masoch’s arm. “Now, can I offer you something to drink?” she invited, her touch persuasive, leading the way to a quiet corner of the room. She gestured them to couches so low that they were little more than mattresses on the shallowest of legs, went to get their drinks. Masoch sprawled easily on one couch, arms stretched out, legs spread, but Synthia perched primly, irritably, on the edge of another. “Do we really want to be here with these insipid people?” she asked glumly. “You don’t mind the company of Onan, and he is one of them,” pointed out Masoch. “One on their own I can suffer, or cause to suffer, but a whole bunch together... they’re just so bland and uninteresting! As boring as Brahmins at a Bacchanal!” Masoch laughed gaily as if at a joke as Domna returned with three silver goblets of red wine, while Synthia continued to simmer and sulk. “Nice,” commented Masoch, tasting the wine and finding it warmer than he had expected. “It darkens the lips and brings color to the cheeks,” smiled Domna, pulling up a stool and sitting facing them. A little color to the cheeks was what these wan-faced dullards needed, thought Synthia, noting that as Domna leant forward, elbows on knees, the pale moon of a breast protruded from her gown. “So, no clues about were Onan might be?” asked Masoch. Domna shook her head, licking her lips around the taste of the wine. “The trouble with Onan, as we have already agreed, is that he is so fond of variety, never content with the one single milieu. I could name a whole host of bars, bawdy houses and bordellos where he might be. And I’m sure you could add to the list.” “There are one or two avenues we might yet explore,” Masoch acknowledged. “It sounds like it might be something of an adventure which it might be exciting to share,” said Domna, with a sly glance at Masoch, and he inclined his head as if to say that may be possible. The slut was flirting with him! Synthia cleared her throat, said, “The name, Domna—” “Yes?” said the woman, her smile switching effortlessly from one face to the other. “It would suggest a forceful person.” “Oh yes indeed, I am, very forceful.” “But you look to me rather…” Synthia began, but then shook her head and dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand, leaving the observation unfinished. She had hinted at enough for Domna’s face to darken, though, her smile becoming a

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little less friendly. “Do you think I need your cuffs and chains, your bonds of leather and steel to have my way?” she asked coldly, her hand slipping to her waist and toying with the cord which circled it. “With my soft silk and my strings of pearls and I could have you besotted, you would melt beneath my smile, wilt under my cruelty. My sandaled foot would be enough to keep you in your place.” “You think?” sneered Synthia. “I know,” said Domna. “Ladies! Ladies! Enough of this!” laughed Masoch, aware that others in the room were taking note of the altercation. Setting aside his wine and standing, he said, “Come Synthia, I think it’s time we were going.” “Yes it is!” she agreed, already on her feet and making her way to the door. “I must thank you for the wine,” Masoch said to Domna, following more slowly. “Yes, you must, some other time,” Domna smiled suggestively, her body brushing his as she walked beside him. “Your flame-haired friend,” she said, nodding ahead to Synthia, “she feels some attachment to Onan?” “She, er, enjoys him from time to time,” Masoch answered tactfully. “As does Grippina!” Domna laughed. “It might be interesting to pit the two women against each other, see who could win him over.” “It might indeed,” he smirked, taking her hand to say farewell, then embracing her lightly. “And if you should need any help in searching for Onan I would be delighted to join you. We could share each other’s worlds, broaden each other’s horizons.” “We shall see,” said Masoch. “We shall see.”

**** Cartier had left Mira to her chores, it was a couple of hours later that he returned, and on entering the kitchen he made a quick critical scrutiny of the room. “Foodstuff must be wrapped if it is to remain fresh, moist, succulent, if it is to retain its juices,” he said, his lips seeming to salivate around each word, and gave her ass a mighty slap. “Do you understand, girl?” “Yes,” Mira answered, flinching beneath the blow. “Yes?” he echoed, his hand striking her ass again. “Yes? Yes…. what?” “Yes, Chef!” she added, her knees buckling beneath the second blow, her hips giving a slight lurch forward. His hand rested on her buttock, and beneath the thin cotton shift she wore she could feel her flesh burn. His hand moved in slow circles, as if to soothe her, but then he pulled her against him, beside him.

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“A juicy piece of rump you have here,” he remarked, leading her across to the large table in the center of the kitchen. “But perhaps it could do with a little tenderizing.” “Chef?” “So that you remember your duties,” he said, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting in it, then patting his lap. “Over here girl, lie face down and offer me your ass.” Dutifully Mira placed herself across his thighs, made herself comfortable. The memory of his blow was fading, replaced now by a tingling expectation. She tensed a moment as Cartier’s hand rested on the back of her neck, then relaxed as she felt it run the length of her body, along her spine, across the small of her back, down to her buttocks. His fingers stroked the back of her thighs, then slipped beneath her skirt and slowly worked it up, inch by inch, until her buttocks were bared. His fingers caught the waist of her knickers, drew them down her legs, and then a single digit probed between her buttocks, ran over the tiny puckered asshole and down to the folds of her cunt. Involuntarily her body arched, her buttocks lifted, and she heard Cartier give a soft sigh, as if of approval. Then the flat of his hand came down hard with a resounding slap. The force of the blow drove her body firmly into his and she gave a gasp as her bare flesh smarted. “You appreciate the pain and will perhaps appreciate the lesson?” asked Cartier, his hand now tenderly stroking her ass as if he wanted to take away the pain he had caused. Mira nodded, made some incoherent murmur of agreement, then cried out again as he slapped her once more. This time there was no soothing caress to follow, but another slap, and then another. The blows rained down until the tears came into her eyes, and she wondered where the kindness had gone, was perhaps just about to beg for some when… there… his touch was soft once more, soothing, fingertips lightly stroking. Mira sobbed, then, with gratitude. “You appreciate the tenderness when you have suffered the pain,” Cartier said, as if this was a part of the lesson she had to learn. “And then you wait, you wonder, your body tenses with a thrilling expectation.” Which it did, as his hand lifted from her buttocks and the room filled with a daunting silence. There was a breath of air across her smarting flesh, a brief ache of anticipation and then the sting of the flat of his hand. The blows came in quick succession this time, unremitting, the pain was constant, but as Mira’s body was driven against his once more she became aware of the excitement of it. Moreover, she also became conscious of his excitement, felt his cock becoming erect and pressing against his trousers, pressing against her belly. It was no longer solely the force of his blows which made her rub her body against his, but the need to increase his excitement. As much as she sobbed, as much as he hurt her, she was still thinking of his

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pleasure as she squirmed and writhed in his lap. As the blows finally slowed she heard his breathing, short and panting, as if his punishment of her had been an effort. Conscious that this was not the only reason for the shallow heavy breathing, she inclined her head a little, smiled up at him through her tears. “Wicked little wench,” Cartier said, resting his hand on her burning ass. His fingers delved deep again, touched her swollen cunt. “You’re wet,” he told her, needlessly. And then, roughly: “Get up! Stand!” Mira slipped from his lap and stood before him, her legs a little unsteady. Reaching up he hooked a finger in the neckline of her dress, where it was cut in a shallow vee, and plucked the fabric a little away from her damp, perspiring breasts. “Take it off,” he ordered. With trembling fingers Mira undid the half dozen buttons which fastened the dress down the front, parted it and let it fall to the floor. For a moment he regarded her appraisingly, then ran his finger slowly down between her breasts, across her belly and over her cunt. Mira closed her eyes to the softness of his touch, opened them again to see him taking something from the table. “Cling film, what our American cousins call Saran wrap,” Cartier said, showing her the translucent roll. “For keeping things moist and succulent, retaining their juices.” Standing, Cartier kicked back the chair and knelt at her feet, plucked the end of the film from the roll and drew out a length. This he pressed against her ankles, then wound it around, passing the roll from hand to hand behind her. The film formed itself perfectly to her contours as it went around and around, slowly climbing up her legs. “Hands on thighs,” he told her, when he had her legs bound as high as the knees. He paused a moment while she complied, then continued. Mira’s hands were bound to her thighs, her arms were pinned to her body, and the film was brought ever higher until she felt it wrapping her shoulders, squashing her breasts. When he finally tore the end of the film and tossed the roll aside she was bound from her feet to her neck, barely able to flex or bend. “So sweetly wrapped,” said Cartier. “Powerless. Immobilized. But still quite naked for all that you are bound.” He rested his hands on Mira’s hips, smiled at her, enjoying her vulnerability, and a certain shame that she would have to admit to. When he took his hands away his damp palms plucked slightly at the film, making a kissing sound which he echoed with a smack of his lips. Then he lifted her in his arms, as if she were nothing more than a carcass of beef, and deposited her on the stout wooden table, brushing the salad things to the floor to make room for the latest comestible.

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Perching one buttock on the edge of the table, he grinned down at her, asked, “Now what must foodstuff be, if it is to remain moist and succulent?” “Wrapped, Chef,” Mira replied. “Yes, wrapped, and at chef’s disposal. The question now is what chef should do with this tasty little morsel.” He touched his fingers to Mira’s cheek, let them graze her lips. With the rest of her body wrapped, however, there was nowhere else he could caress her, when it was his caresses that she most needed. If he ran his hand across her body the film would cling to his touch. When he pinched her nipples, though, making a tiny puckered peak of the membrane above each, they pricked and hardened against the transparent film, burning red as raspberries against it. When he rested the palm of his hand against her cunt she could feel the heat build. Slowly he dug his hand into her flesh, his fingertips stiffening, probing, as if he was kneading dough. She tried to bring her body up to him, so that he would press harder into her, but her immobilized limbs could not respond. She was at his mercy, he was in control, and in his smile she could see that he enjoyed the power he had over her. As did she. Her eyes pleaded with him, then the lids lowered as she thought of her wantonness. Perhaps a tear of shame escaped from beneath a lash, perhaps a sigh shuddered through her body and communicated itself to him. Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, Cartier seemed to understand her need and take pity. She felt his fingers closing, drawing together, meeting at the very lips of her cunt. Slowly, tantalizingly, his nails began to pluck at the film, score it, make tiny tears in it. Then a single finger tore through to touch her naked flesh, as it reached the throbbing lips of her cunt it seemed to scorch her very soul. Slowly its tip circled those lips, agonizingly it parted them, deliciously it slipped inside, knuckle after knuckle until it wormed its way to her clitoris. And there it rested. “Ripe,” said Cartier. “As if it’s about to burst. And if I squeeze it do you think it will burst?” he asked, applying some pressure, pressing it back against the wall of her cunt. To Mira’s dismay her sharp intake of breath seemed to spit his finger out, for his hand withdrew and she opened her eyes to see him raise that finger to his mouth. He licked the tip to taste it, as he might do with any sauce, closing his eyes to savor the taste. “But a good chef strives for variety,” he said, smacking his lips. “He must vary his ingredients and be imaginative in their choice.” Mira was aware of his other hand rummaging about the table, searching among those items which had not been swept to the floor. “Ginger?” he said, his hand finally coming back into her field of view, showing her the stem which had been peeled and pared, and as he brought it down towards her thighs her whole body tensed within the film which wrapped it.

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She could guess how much the raw ginger would burn if it entered her smarting cunt. “Just a tickle, just a touch, just a tingle,” Cartier said, stroking it once against her lips, but still this was enough to make her whole body itch for something more satisfying. She needed a red hot cock inside her, a dildo that had been chilling in the freezer, a finger or two to scratch away the irritation. With a casual gesture Cartier tossed the ginger aside, brought his hand back to brandish a cucumber, this also peeled and pared so that its raw pulp was glistening and moist. “Oh yes!” Mira sighed, as he prodded it against her cunt, and now she was able to thrust against him, despite being bound she somehow found the strength to arch her body upwards. The film tightened around her, it constricted her chest and seemed to choke her breath but somehow she was able to bring her cunt hard onto the cucumber’s moist and succulent tip. Moist. Succulent. Words Cartier had used. And now she was starting to understand why he had salivated over them. “In you, Mira?” he asked, applying a little pressure. “In me!” she begged, her body aching, her soul yearning, as it strained towards him. The cucumber slipping inside her felt cool, felt slick, it was sweeter than any cock she had known as it filled her with its fat flesh. And he stroked it! Back and forth in a slow but steady rhythm! His other hand tore more holes in the film which sheathed her buttocks, she felt nails rake her flesh and fingers tease her ass, one even invade it, but there was no pain anymore. She had known pain enough and now she could only enjoy the delight, the subtle sensations he brought to her body. When he bowed low over her and brought his mouth to hers, when his tongue entered her mouth as the cucumber entered her cunt and his fingers her ass, which was the supreme act of tenderness which meant that she could forgive him anything.

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Chapter Five

“Masoch wants to see you,” said Synthia, poking Mira’s rump with her boot, the pointed toe slipping easily between the bared buttocks. “Come on, stir yourself! He won’t want to be kept waiting!” Slowly Mira rose from her knees, straightened, and Synthia snatched at the chain which connected her manacled wrists, tugged her along the corridor to Masoch’s loft. “I hope he has it in mind to beat you, I would enjoy that, I had a very dissatisfying day yesterday.” “You didn’t find Onan then?” Mira supposed. “What is that to you?” Synthia demanded, coming to a sudden halt and turning to face Mira. “Just taking a friendly interest,” Mira smiled innocently, feeling the other woman’s perfumed breath on her face and quite enjoying it. “Friendly interest? What makes you think you and I ever be friends?” sneered Synthia. “The delight with which you licked my cunt on that first night,” Mira answered, and Synthia frowned, tugging harshly at her manacles. “Come on, get a move on!” “You don’t think my situation will always be like this, do you? My time will come,” promised Mira, and Synthia’s silence was enough to bring a smile to her face. That smile lingered only until she was ushered into Masoch’s loft, though, whereupon she adopted an attitude more suitably meek and subservient, her head bowed, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped loosely before her. “Cartier had cause to reprimand you yesterday, I understand?” “Yes, Master Masoch,” Mira admitted, her voice low, contrite. “But don’t look so ashamed, Mira,” smiled Masoch. “There is nothing Cartier and I enjoy more than correcting a young woman’s minor faults. Now please, sit down and tell me of it.” Mira detached herself from Synthia at her side, lowered herself into the chair facing Masoch. He dressed quite casually, she saw, loose cotton trousers, an open tunic which left

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his chest bare, and he crossed one leg over the other, his hands clasping a brandy glass in his lap as he nodded to her to relate what had happened. Not admitting neglect as such, hinting that she would have wrapped the food eventually, she told of how she had been slow in doing so after she had prepared the food. “So Cartier thought it fitting to spank you?” “Yes, Master Masoch.” “On the bare buttocks, across his lap?” he asked, fingers toying with the stem of his glass, lightly running up and down it. “Yes, Master.” “I know it would hurt, Cartier has a firm hand, but did it also excite perhaps?” Blushing, Mira admitted that it had, added, “And Chef too, I think.” Chuckling softly, Masoch glanced down at his own lap, and when Mira followed his gaze she noticed the bulge in his trousers, understood that he was getting hard just thinking about her punishment. “Stand and show me, Mira,” he then said. Rising from the chair, Mira turned to present her bared buttocks to him. “Back towards me, come closer,” he ordered, and she took cautious paces back until she felt his hands on her. “Mm, such spank-able skin,” he said, softly stroking her buttocks, weighing and squeezing them, his palms making lazy circles. His hand slid down to her thighs, her calves, then fingers trailed back up inside them. “Such lovely tension the wearing of high heels has given to your legs, we must have you back in them soon,” he said, enjoying their firmness, and then the softer flesh at the top where her thighs swelled beneath her buttocks. He inserted one hand deep between them, began to move it backwards and forwards in a sawing motion, the edge of his finger running across the lips of her cunt. “Get wet for me, Mira,” he said. “Make it quick and profuse. That is an order from Master Masoch. I want you dripping on my hand.” “Yes, Master,” she answered, her body swaying a little with the movement of his hand. “Think wicked thoughts if it helps you. Tell me your thoughts, see if they delight me, share your wickedness with me.” “I am thinking of how my wetness might please Master Masoch, of what he might do when he has me wet enough,” she responded, pressing hard on his hand, feeling her cunt slip slickly across it. “Good! Very good!” he told her, his hand withdrawing, both now resting on her waist and pulling gently. “Now lower yourself onto my lap, dear.”

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And as Mira sat she sighed at first, then gasped in wonder, for the cock that slid inside her was as thick as if he had been toying with it all day. It was magnificent! It was long and firm and real living flesh, not some exaggerated artificial tool. Her cunt parted to admit it, wider than it had ever been parted before, and it seemed to take forever to enter her, when her buttocks finally rested on his lap her cunt felt so full that she couldn’t possibly have taken a centimeter more. “Now slowly, Mira, rock back and forth,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her, filling his hands with her breasts. “Feel how hard my cock is inside you, force yourself against its rigidity, fight it.” Mira bent her body forward, her breasts flattening in his hands, and felt his erection straining to pull her back. Then she surrendered fell back against him, her head flung back “Delicious?” he asked her. “Delicious, Master!” “Good, then rise on it now,” he told her, bringing his hands to her shoulders when she move a little too quickly for his liking. “Slowly again, girl!” he cautioned her. “Slowly!” Obeying, Mira let inch by tantalizing inch of his cock slip from her, feeling each vein and ridge excite her until there was just the bulbous head inside her. There she hovered over him, a trembling in her legs as she held herself still, waiting, until the gentle pressure on her shoulders told her that she could fall onto his lap again. “That’s it dear, slowly, always slowly,” he encouraged her, and as her eyes closed the last thing she saw was Synthia’s icy stare.

**** Onan had been lowered those few merciful inches so that his feet could touch the floor, just his toes and the balls of his feet but enough that he could ease the strain on his arms from time to time. After granting him this relief Haggitha had removed the gag from his mouth, let him lick his lips a moment and then raised a spoon of food towards them. Before he could taste, though, he made to speak, so the spoon was withdrawn, his face was slapped and the gag replaced. It took a time or two more of this, at hourly intervals, before he slowly came to understand. Silence was necessary. Now, though the rest of him remained bound, his mouth was free and Haggitha was feeding him, offering him spoon after spoon of some bland stew which he eagerly consumed. “Just like a baby,” she said, knowing he was unable to hear, and touched her free hand to his genitals.

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The catheter was still there, keeping his cock erect, and her touch was as much a pain as a delight, causing him to choke and splutter. “My baby,” she chuckled, setting aside the spoon for a moment to wipe his chin. He emptied the bowl of food, there wasn’t so much as a spoonful left, so she offered it to him for him to lick clean. His appetites were building nicely. A few hours later, when it was dark outside though he remained unaware of it, she returned to him. She touched a finger to his lips as her other hand stroked his chest, announcing her presence as she cautioned him to remain silent, then pulled over a chair of soft leather. Pushing it against the back of his legs, his feet were lifted from the floor and he hung uncomfortably by his arms again, until slowly she lowered him, let his buttocks rest on the seat take his weight. He would not speak, he had been warned not to, but she heard an audible sigh of relief escape his lips as he felt the soft upholstery cushion and embrace him. Behind his blindfold his eyes would be smiling. And then smiling more but then suddenly startled as he felt his hands released from above only to be strapped to the arms of the chair. In quick succession his feet and legs were also fixed to his new throne, his waist and chest also bound to it, so that although he was comfortable now he was just as immobilized as before. The touch of a fingertip on his lips again was warning enough, and this time he nodded as he felt the pressure on his ears eased, the blockages from his nostrils removed. Now he could hear, he could taste and smell, and for this he was grateful. His blindness seemed no more than a minor inconvenience now. Pulling a chair across to face his, Haggitha sat, took out cigarettes and lit one. She inhaled deeply, enjoyed the rush of nicotine to her brain, enjoyed even more exhaling and seeing Onan’s nostrils twitch. “Do you know where you are and who is speaking?” she asked, quickly adding, “And remember to answer only with a nod or a shake of the head. No words until I demand them of you.” Haggitha was gratified to see Onan give a slow shake of the head. Long minutes of silence passed, while she smoked her cigarette and let its smoke gather about his head like a shroud, like a halo. Then she swapped the tobacco for something more pungent, more potent, and saw that his heightened senses immediately recognized the difference in fragrance, his nostrils now twitching almost deliriously. “You don’t know me, you’ve never tasted me, but I think you would like to,” she said, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke deep inside, then craning forward to kiss him full on the mouth and fill his lungs with it. “Now behind your blindfold your eyes flutter with

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delirium,” she knew, sitting down again. Onan shuddered and softened, as if he would shrink inside his bonds. But one thing that did not shrink was his erection; the catheter inside would not permit it. Haggitha reached out a hand and let his cock rest in the flat of her palm, with the fingertips of the other hand taking hold of the end of the jade insertion, withdrawing it just a fraction of an inch. “You are full, you are aching, you need relief,” she told Onan, her voice now soft and smooth with kindness. “I know that. But before I take this out you must know what manner of relief it is you need.” She withdrew the catheter a little more, said, “Nod if you understand, nod if you don’t, nod if you accept what I am about to demand of you.” Slowly Onan’s head dipped, his jaw falling onto his chest as if with exhaustion, then rose again to complete the nod. “Good,” she said, rising from her seat and lifting his cock as she did so, removing the catheter with one hand as her other parted her skirts. “Now remember what manner of release you need,” she told him, sinking onto his cock as she tossed the jade stalk aside, before his erection could diminish or he could think to empty his bladder. Onan shuddered and gasped but still did not speak, and Haggitha wrapped her arms around him, clutching him in her embrace, smothering him with her breasts. “You can feel me, you can taste me, you can smell me,” she told him, slowly beginning to rise when she felt his cock seated firmly inside her. “Do you want me?” she then asked. His head moved against her breasts, saying that he did. Haggitha arched her back, freed his face from her breasts, ran her fingers over it, caressing every part of it. This would not take long, she knew, feeling his body strain beneath her as she rose and fell on top of him, seeing his arms and legs pull against their bonds, fighting to be free. “You are going to come inside me now, Onan,” she told him, driving harder, clenching him tightly inside her, and her fingers moved to his blindfold, unfastening it. As his body locked rigid, and his cock began to spasm inside her, Haggitha whipped away the blindfold and smiled down into his eyes. “You are mine now Onan, aren’t you?” she said, as his eyes blinked back at her, as if blinded as much by her beauty as by the unaccustomed light. He nodded and she covered his face with light kisses, her cunt milking him dry. “You may say it, you may speak now.” “I am yours,” he said, his voice weak. “Forever?”

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“Forever,” he promised.

**** “My pet has progressed nicely, has learned her lessons well,” said Masoch, easing Mira from his lap. “She deserves fine clothes and kind treatment once again. Enough of the drudgery. Synthia, run a bath for my pet.” Synthia hesitated. It had been enough that she had to witness their coupling, the copulation that had been tender enough to be called love-making. But now to be asked to run a bath for the bitch? “Synthia?” said Masoch, regarding her sternly. “Do I sense reluctance? Or are you just being remarkably slow this morning?” There was no apology for her hesitation, no enthusiasm about her movements, Synthia slouched through to the black-tiled bathroom suite and began to fill the marbled tub. “Lots of oils and smelly things, don’t forget!” Masoch called through to her, winking at Mira as he removed the shackles from her hands and feet. “I want my pet to be fragrant!” “Synthia will hate me for this, Master,” said Mira. “Yes, won’t she just?” he grinned, mischievously at first, and then a little more wickedly. He went to the doorway of the bathroom, taking Mira with him, leaned there with arms folded, watching as Synthia added oils and flakes and powdered essences to the steaming water. In her skirt and blouse of heavy satin she was already beginning to perspire, locks of red hair plastered damply to her cheeks and brow. “You disappointed me yesterday, Synthia,” he finally said. “Master?” she said, turning to him and brushing her hair from her face with the back of a hand. She looked almost like a washer woman, a laundress, not quite the cool cruel beauty she usually was. “Your behavior, with Onan’s friends,” he continued. “It might have seemed that I was amused by it, but in truth I was not.” “First they were bland, then they were bombastic,” she said, trying to excuse herself, but Masoch would have none of it. “In all things you take your lead from me, Synthia, and especially when in company, whether you find that company invigorating or not.” “I’m sorry, Master.” “Yes, I think I have every right to make you sorry,” he said. “Do you know, the woman Domna had a very interesting challenge to put to me.”

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“Yes, Master?” “Yes, Synthia. It seems that the moody one known as Grippina is as enamored of Onan’s cock as you are,” Masoch told her. “Domna, not quite the bore you took her to be, thought it might be diverting if we were to see which of you was enamored the most, which of you might win the race to subjugate him.” “I would not demean myself by competing with another woman,” said Synthia indignantly. “What did you say to the Domna woman?” “We shall see, we shall see,” smiled Masoch, and nodded towards the bath tub. “I believe it is full enough, you can turn off the taps now.” As Synthia turned off the taps Masoch led Mira towards the tub, holding her hand lightly as if they were about to dance a minuet, helping her to step into the water. As she was about to lower her body into it, though, he stopped her, said, “No, stand a moment pet while Synthia soaps you.” “What?” asked Synthia, eyes blazing, the look in them as fiery as her flame red hair. “You’ve licked out her cunt before,” Masoch reminded her, “so it shouldn’t be too much of a trial for you to wash her down with soap and water. Or would you prefer that it was your pretty mouth and your agile tongue you used?” Frowning, Synthia picked up a sponge and soap, wetted them and worked up a lather. “Gently now, remember she is my pet,” Masoch told her, as she brought the sponge towards Mira. Slowly Synthia began to work the sponge around Mira’s knees, front and back, a rhythmic circular motion. As she worked higher Masoch took Mira’s hand, told her to put one foot on the edge of the tub, and nodded approvingly as the sponge was washed over the inside of her thighs, felt her shudder slightly as Synthia’s hand pressed a little harder into her groin. “The belly now, the breasts,” Masoch instructed. “And to use both hands would be better, more efficient, more enjoyable.” Synthia’s hands stroked higher, she had to rise up on her knees to reach Mira’s breasts and water ran down her bare arms, soaking the front of her blouse and spilling over her skirt. “Beautiful breasts my pet has, hasn’t she?” said Masoch, enjoying the way they were pulled this way and that by Synthia’s hands. When a nipple protruded between her fingers he couldn’t resist going over and putting his lips to it, sucking the soapy nub of flesh into his mouth. Mira stumbled, almost fell, as she gasped with delight. “Getting to be a little too much for you, is it dear?” he grinned, and gripped her by

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the shoulders. “Then lie down, stretch out, enjoy.” Mira’s body submerged now, only her head appearing above the foaming bubbles, it seemed that Synthia’s hands were given a secret license to explore more deeply. Slowly they crept down from her neck, between her breasts, across her belly to delve between her thighs. There was no sponge now, just Synthia’s fingers, soapy and slick as they parted the lips of her cunt and crept deeper, first one finger, then two, then three. Eyes closed, head thrown back, there was a blissful look on Mira’s face, while on Synthia’s, Masoch noticed, there was no longer that peeved chagrin at being asked to perform an onerous task. Now Synthia was enjoying her chore, the women were enjoying each other. So, time to put a stop to it. “Okay, okay,” said Masoch, clapping his hands together. “I think Mira’s clean enough now, Synthia, you can stop.” Mira’s eyes fluttered open, lazily as if woken from the sweetest of dreams, while Synthia shot Masoch the most hateful of looks. “Bath time’s over, let’s have her dried and dressed,” he said, turning his back on them.

**** “You know Masoch, who many refer to as Master,” said Haggitha, not questioning Onan but instilling the knowledge in him, insisting that he did know and would recognize the man she hated more than any other. “Dark, over-decorated and over-dressed,” said Onan, returning to the prejudices he should have held towards Masoch and those of his world. “I know him.” “And his latest pet, his newest acquisition?” “Her name is Mira,” he knew. “You are to take her from him and bring her to me,” Haggitha told him. “Masoch won’t like that.” “No, he won’t!” she laughed. “He is fond of his new pet, he will try to stop me.” “Which is why you must be discreet, tactful and tactical,” she explained patiently. “You are welcome in his circle, so you will take advantage of this, choose your moment.” Belacqua had been sitting silently, sipping wine and listening to this exchange with interest. “I must say, you’ve done a remarkable job of turning him,” he congratulated Haggitha, raising his glass to toast her success. “Thank you, my Lord,” she said, with a gracious bow of her head. “With deprivation and drugs, belittlement and beguilement, anything can be achieved.”

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“Yes, the hunk made meek as a lamb,” Belacqua continued, regarding the man seated opposite. “So malleable, so obliging. But are you sure he is really what is needed in order to achieve your purpose? It strikes me that the earlier Onan, the unbroken man with drive and passion, would have better suited your needs.” “What my Lady Haggitha wishes shall be hers,” said Onan softly, and Haggitha gently patted his hand. “Thank you Onan,” she said; and then, to Belacqua, “He has entry to places that are denied me, and therein lies his usefulness. Softly, softly we will catch the monkey, Masoch’s latest pet, using stealth rather than force. Better to have one of Masoch’s own spirit her away for us, rather than to go marauding in there and try to wrest her from him. And the very fact that it is one of Masoch’s own who does this for us will pain him more, will add to my pleasure.”

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Chapter Six

There was an Auction Room where people submitted themselves for subservience, offered themselves as slaves to be used and abused, to serve or to suffer. In the continued absence of Onan, Grippina was restless and frustrated, she had sought to distract herself with a number of the habitués of Domna’s domain but found little satisfaction. So perhaps there might be some entertainment to be found at the Auction, she thought. A long woolen cloak covering her flimsy tunic, the hood pulled over her head to keep her ornate coiffure in place, she made her way through the streets. From the golden girdle around her waist there hung scarves and cords and strips of leather, in the event that there might be someone at the auction who took her fancy, she had darkened her eyes with kohl so that her desires too might seem dark and secret, glossed her lips to make them enticing, as intoxicating as the strongest wine. May the Gods have mercy on any she set her mind on having, for they would surely be the one to suffer for Onan’s inconsiderate absence! The Auction Room was a simple place, intentionally so in order that it might appeal to all tastes, or at least offend none. And all tastes were to be seen there, all fashions and predilections; ones like herself dressed in a tasteful classic simplicity, others like the two dark ones who had come searching for Onan, all manner of fops and punks and Goths and dandies. In the Auction Room she pulled back her hood and parted her cloak, took a seat facing the low stage onto which the candidates for slavery would stumble. Some happened upon the room by chance, others were aware of the nature of the room and were there intentionally, but it was often the former who afforded the greatest entertainment. Yes, here came one almost as soon as she was seated, obviously in the wrong place and looking around in bewilderment as he staggered into view. Immediately two female hosts grabbed hold of him, one stripping the shirt from his scrawny chest while the other tugged his trousers down. “Any takers?” asked the first host.

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“Imagine what fun you could have with this novice!” said the second, baring her teeth at him and snarling. “I’ll take him! I’ll tame him!” cried one woman, looking as though she had stepped from a Monet painting, wearing a long summer dress, a straw hat and holding a lace parasol over her head, but already the accidental interloper had broken free and made a hasty exit. As the audience laughed at his horror a sweet young naked girl came next, this one obviously aware of where she was and why, her ears, nipples, navel and labia all pierced with rings, from each of which hung slender silver chains. A male host stepped towards her, a riding crop in his gloved fist, but before he could reach her she was on her knees and offering herself. The bidding began immediately, people—both male and female—offering money or favors for her, or even to fight over her, and within a matter of minutes she had gone, a collar around her neck and a leash held by a buxom woman who looked like lard encased in latex. “Poor young slut,” said Grippina softly. “That fat cow will smother her rather than subjugate her.” “I quite agree,” said the woman seated beside her. “An obese bitch like that, she’d be more into fisting than fucking. Can you imagine it?” Grippina turned, but saw that her neighbor was dressed like some Victorian governess, pungently perfumed and wearing layer upon layer of silk, so said, “No, I can’t imagine that.” A couple of seats were vacated before her and she moved forward to the front row, away from the overpowering fragrance of violets, was just making herself comfortable again when she saw one of the female auctioneers reappearing from the side of the stage. She was wearing only a bra and brief skirt and her muscular body shone with perspiration, the sinews in her arms straining as she tugged on a stout rope. Whoever was next on the stage seemed somewhat reluctant, there was the unmistakable slap of leather against flesh and he fell into view, quickly chased by the second female auctioneer wielding a heavy strap. “Now here is a challenge for you Doms and Dommes!” announced the first woman, tugging the man forward like a fish on a line, while all around the room there came sighs of approval and admiration. “Simply refuses to be cowed!” said the second, breathing heavily as she struck him again and again across the back and buttocks. He was inches over six foot, his shoulders broad, his thighs thick, but under her blows his arrogant posture slowly crumpled, his shoulders slumping, his knees buckling,

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until finally he was on his knees, one woman with her fingers clenched in his long jet hair while the other held taut the rope which was knotted around his neck. But still, for all that he had been brought to his knees, there remained a defiance about him, a feral look, like that of a wild animal cornered. “Oh yes,” said Grippina, leaning forward with interest, close enough that she could smell him, could touch him if she reached out. For all his defiance, for all his seeming reluctance at being there, she could see that the cock between his thighs was thick and hard. He might fight against his subjugation, but still he would ultimately enjoy it. “A challenge indeed! He wants a strong woman to take him but just doesn’t realize it,” she heard, and as she turned to the voice she was aware of the odor of violets, saw the Governess beside her once again. Grippina heard that someone had made a bid for the beast but missed the offer, said irritably, “You again?” “Hello dear,” smiled the Governess. “Magnificent, isn’t he?” Another bid, and then another, people rising to the challenge the man presented. Grippina tried to follow the bidding but was distracted by a hand resting on her thigh. “I doubt you’d be able to afford the likes of him, dear,” said the Governess, fingers kneading her thigh, making the thin fabric of her skirt ride higher. “And what makes you think I’m interested?” Grippina asked, annoyed that she had missed another bid, then started as she felt a finger insert itself between her thighs. “I know you are, can feel it, can feel how wet you are.” “Stop that!” she said, clenching her thighs. “Why? I know you enjoy it,” said the Governess, leaning against her so that the stink of violets Became almost intoxicating. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy him for you, let you play with him if I can play with you. How about it, dear?” “Get lost!” spat Grippina, striking out, and the auctioneer asked if the raised arm represented a genuine bid. “No, it doesn’t!” she scowled, rising and hurrying from the room. Her annoyance and frustration were greater than ever now, the visit to the Auction Room had achieved nothing other than to increase her unrest and she strode angrily along the street, her cloak clutched tightly about her body. One man she barged against, perhaps recognizing her haste for what it was, made a lunge for her, and she kicked out viciously at him, imagining that he was Onan. A second made lewd suggestions, a third asked nicely, and she treated each the same, imagining they were Onan and lashing out at them, wanting to punish them, wanting to punish him.

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Everywhere she now saw Onan. There... and there... and there! That was Onan, surely, in the company of one of those women in dark silks and satins that he sometimes preferred! A pace behind Onan and his companion, like a bodyguard, like a chaperone, was another dark one, male. The trio seemed to have some particular destination in mind and so Grippina followed.

**** Haggitha’s words in his ear were like a chant, a mantra. Onan felt lulled by the soft timbre of her voice and he wondered how he could have ever forgotten her or lived without her, how he could ever repay her for releasing and relieving him. “You are a part of their company, you are welcome among them as long as you make no mention of me,” she was saying, her words not so much a vocabulary as a purr, caressing as much as communicating, each syllable trilling against his ear drum. “There is no need to rush, there is no need for haste, when the opportunity presents itself you will take Masoch’s pet from the room and bring her to me. I want her secure in my loft before he even knows that she is missing.” “Yes Mistress,” Onan answered. Behind them Belacqua was matching his stride to theirs, glancing over his shoulder at intervals. The hulk named Onan was now besotted with Haggitha, she had entranced him as she said she would, and with this he was comfortable enough, he understood her reasons and her method. Being besotted as he was, though, meant that his bulk now counted for nothing, he was aware of little else but Haggitha and in such a state was no protection at all for her. Haggitha glanced back at Belacqua. “All’s clear,” he told her. “As if I need worry about that?” she sneered, and took Onan by the wrist, her slender fingers holding him firm. “I trapped and trained this brute. Do you think there is anything I need fear?” “I’m just being cautious,” Belacqua explained. “You have me, and him, while Masoch has many.” “That may be, but soon I shall have Masoch’s new pet too,” Haggitha vowed. The streets were dark, the sky had turned from faded denim to thick blue serge and weak sodium lights and gas-powered lanterns cast just enough light to obscure the stars, to make vague shadows of the people who passed. But still, in the gloomy penumbra of these people Haggitha recognized ones who might be going to Masoch’s room, who might belong to Masoch’s world.

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They were no more than a block away now, she could see the lights from his room shining onto the pavement, and she paused in a darkened doorway. “Of you go now Onan, please your Mistress and there will be a reward for you,” she said, embracing him, resting her cheek against his so that he would remember her warmth, her perfume. “You have faith in him?” asked Belacqua, as they watched Onan cross the street. “It is in my own abilities that I have faith, he will not fail me,” answered Haggitha. “Now come, we must prepare for my guest.”

**** For moments after Onan entered the room there was silence, not a single one of the dozen or so people gathered there returning his greeting. “We all in mourning then?” he asked jokingly of the dark faces which regarded him, but not one broke into a smile. “Toggy? Gaffe? Feisty? What’s happening, buddies? Have I missed something?” “Masoch’s feast,” one finally said. “You declined his invitation,” said another. “My mate Masoch!” said Onan, as if only just recalling him, and looked about the room again. “Where is he?” “Here,” came the broody reply, as Masoch stepped into the room, moving from shadow into light, as black as a Ninja in loose cotton trousers and tunic. He at least permitted a slight smile of acknowledgment as he held out a hand and Mira joined him, richly dressed now that her period of domestic servitude was over. “You remember Onan, don’t you, Mira, my pet?” he said. “I do,” she nodded. “Well that surprises me, since he’s been absent so long without so much as a ‘by your leave’ or ‘excuse me a moment, I have more important things to do’!” Others were smiling now, though there was nothing welcoming about them as they shifted restlessly in their seats, like a pack of predators waiting to pounce. “Go greet our long lost friend, dear,” said Masoch, kissing Mira lightly on cheek. “Greet him as we have rehearsed it.” Her long skirt swept the floor so that she seemed to glide as she moved across the room, her feet hidden from view, though the sharp tap-tap of slender steel heels gave a menacing hint of how they were shod. Her hips swayed as she approached Onan, her head was tilted a little to one side and she wore a distant dreamlike smile which slowly brightened, her lips parting, her hands running up her body, across the tight leather corset and then to her neck, her cheeks. It was almost a look of surprise she wore, or a promise of some surprise she offered,

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as she came to a halt inches from Onan, parted lips pouting, fingertips lacquered a dark blood red touching lightly to each cheek. She held his gaze a moment, aware that he was fighting not to glance at Masoch, in search of some explanation, then began to circle him slowly like some exotic dancer, her body twisting and turning in lazy pirouettes. Behind him she raised a hand to stroke the back of his neck, beside him she paused, extended an arm to examine her outstretched fingers, then brought it towards her to buff the polished nails on her corset. Stretching both arms out again, as if easing a cramp, as if unwinding after sleep, her fingers then bunched, her body turned and she brought the point of her elbow hard into Onan’s midriff. Winded, Onan’s body began to buckle, and she quickly had her fingers clenched in his hair as he sank to his knees, making him retch at the pain in his stomach as his head was held up. “If someone would care to secure him?” said Masoch, taking a seat, and a stout iron bar was brought over, pressed against Onan’s back, his wrists fastened to the cuffs at each end to keep his arms spread behind him. Still clutching his hair, Mira knelt beside him, running her hand in circles over the spot where she had struck, gently at first but then with more force, denying him any easing of the pain. “Now would be an opportune time to apologize for missing my feast,” said Masoch. “S-sorry Masoch,” Onan grimaced. “Tut! Even I, novice that I am, have learned that Masoch should be referred to as Master,” Mira scolded him, pressing and twisting her fist in his stomach, keeping tight hold of his hair as he strained to bend forward. “Sorry...Master.” “Very good Onan, your apology is accepted, late though it is, but I fear you still must be punished.” Masoch smiled at Mira, pleased with her performance, recognized the glint in her eye and said, “Have you ever made a grown man weep, pet? Would you like to try? The way those Masters and Mistresses had people weeping in the public stocks I showed you?” “Oh yes Master! May I?” she said delightedly, twisting Onan’s face towards her so that he could see her enthusiasm. “Well I did make a promise of sorts, suggested that some day you might,” Masoch smiled teasingly, stroking a finger against the side of his jaw. “Stop tormenting the woman!” cried one voice. “Set her loose on him and let’s see what she’s capable of!” called out another. “May I?” hoped Mira, her excitement building to such a pitch that now she gripped

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Onan’s hair so fiercely that his face was contorted. Masoch looked at Onan, saw the pain etched on his face and enjoyed it, so gave Mira the slightest of nods. Smiling she slowly released her grip on Onan’s hair, her fingers unclenching, smoothed at the knotted locks and patted him on the head as she stood, coming around to face him. “Look at me, keep your eyes fixed on mine and don’t let them stray,” she ordered him, and reached down to take hold of her skirt, plucking at the material with just the tips of her fingers, lifting it like a can-can girl might, or a lady of the court about the make a curtsey. Her feet were sheathed in tight supple leather, her calves also, to just below the knees, but the slender heels which arched them were of gleaming tapered steel. She paused a moment, then raised her skirt higher still, revealing stockings of black silk, the soft white flesh of her upper thighs. “Your eyes on mine I said!” she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip as she saw his gaze about to wander, and somewhere in the room someone gave a low chuckle of approval. She hoped it was Masoch, but resisted the temptation to turn and look. Satisfied that she had Onan’s attention, she raised her right foot and rested it on Onan, the heel against his thigh, the toe against his groin, poking beneath the short hem of his tunic. Stirring her foot around, she worked the material free of his groin, baring it, exposing his swollen genitals. Then she leant forward, rested her arms on her raised knee, one hand cupping her chin, the other hanging free. “A veritable vision!” Masoch applauded, as Mira let her weight bear down on her raised knee, causing the heel of her boot to dig viciously into Onan’s thigh. “Like Rodin’s ‘Thinker’, but sculpted from jet and ivory!” Tears began to well in Onan’s eyes as the heel scored his skin, but they were not of the type that Mira wanted of him so she gazed deeper into his eyes, so that he might see his own fears reflected in hers.

**** Grippina was not used to such gloom, the world she favored was one of clear light and open spaces, classical lines and uncluttered areas. The building she followed Onan into was far too dark, as dark as his strange friends who had come looking for him, and she quickly became disorientated. Halls and corridors were twisting, narrow, claustrophobic, lit intermittently and then only dimly, sputtering gas flames or naked torches set high on the walls which sent eerie shadows dancing about her. There was no sign of Onan, nor anyone else, she had to pause a moment while his

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escort left and by the time she was able to follow him into the building he was lost to her. Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, shivering though aware that there was nothing cold about the building itself, she made her way down the corridor, running the fingers of one hand along the rough wall as she passed from light to shadow and back again. Rooms she peered in were mainly empty, occasionally occupied by a person or three who mainly disregarded her, finding nothing odd about strangers coming and going and passing through their rooms. She came upon a stone staircase, tightly corkscrewing to the floor above. More rooms there. The occasional murmur of voices, or soft music. But no Onan. She began to wonder if she had the right building, if in the darkness of the street she might have mistaken the door through which Onan had passed, tried to remember how many floors made up the building. Perhaps try just one more, she thought, seeing another spiraling stone staircase off to her right. Her knees felt a little weak as she climbed, perhaps as much with trepidation as the effort of the climb; she had both hands out to the wall on either side to pull her upwards. This staircase seemed to go on longer than the previous one, and in tighter circles so that she could see no more than a couple of steps ahead. When the light before her finally brightened, she was almost on her knees; she bent forward and down to wearily rest her fingers on the topmost step. Immediately a hand fastened on her wrist and yanked her forward, pulling her into the corridor, twisting her arm painfully behind her while another hand came up and an arm wrapped itself around her throat.

**** “Well, what do we have here?” exclaimed Masoch, and all eyes turned to see Synthia bundling the elegant if rather disheveled woman into the room, one arm wrapped around her throat, the other with her hand twisted high behind her back. “Yes! Look who I found skulking about downstairs!” said Synthia, her eyes bright with excitement as she manhandled her captive across the floor, then growing brighter still as they swept the room and saw the shackled figure on his knees before Mira. “And my darling Onan has returned!” she said happily, before frowning and asking, “But what is she doing with him?” “An exercise, an aptitude test,” said Onan dismissively, beckoning Synthia forward, grinning as he recognized the face of the woman she held. “It’s the one named Grippina, isn’t it?” Masoch said, at the same time that he snapped his fingers at Mira, directing her to cease her mistreatment of Onan. Grippina spat on the floor at his feet, Mira pouted sulkily and Synthia grinned to

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mark the reaction of them both as she brought her prize before Masoch. Her satisfaction was short-lived, though, as Masoch said, “But what way is this to treat a guest?” “Master?” she said, confused. “Don’t embrace her so forcibly, is what I mean!” he said, and patted the settee beside him. “Set our visitor down here, Synthia! Show a little courtesy!” Reluctantly Synthia eased her hold on Grippina, then gave her a hefty push in the back to send her sprawling onto the settee beside Masoch, took up a position on his other side at the merest nod of his head. “Better, so much better,” he said, taking a hand of each in his. “We have Synthia, we have Grippina, we have Onan.” And what of me? wondered Mira sulkily, as others in the room regarded Masoch curiously, wondering what he was up to. “Synthia and Grippina are both enamored of Onan,” he explained, his smile sweeping the room, touching face after face. “And with a cock such as he exhibits now, who is to blame them?” A cock which I caused to grow, thought Mira bitterly, the only one not grinning as chuckles rang about the room. “And your friend Domna,” Masoch continued, turning to Grippina and speaking as affably as he might to an invited guest, “hinted that Onan brought out in you a certain expertise, was so confident in your talents that she even set down a challenge to me.” For the first time since being dragged into the room Grippina spoke up, curiosity now overcoming both fear and anger, asked, “And what manner of challenge might that have been?” Masoch now switched his gaze as he answered, a mischievous grin creasing his face. “What you missed, Synthia, in your haste to be away from that place, was the delightful Domna suggesting how interesting it might be to see which of you, yourself or Grippina, could be the first to make him come, to subjugate him, to make him sob with delight or surrender.” While Synthia was still considering this, Grippina was already breaking free of Masoch, on her feet and swooping down on Onan like a pale wraith, pushing Mira aside so that she could wrap him on the folds of her gown. “Stop! Wait!” said Masoch to Mira, seeing that she was about to return to Onan, noting the covetous glance she cast towards the bound man, while he continued to hold Synthia firmly by his side. Mira hovered, frowning, and Synthia too shifted restlessly while Grippina wound herself and her gown about Onan until his head was shrouded by the fine material.

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“You know what I like, I know what you want,” she said, her body slowly writhing and undulating as if beneath the tent of her skirt he was struggling to break free. “Is that not right, Onan my dear? You thirst for my sweet cunt, I like you to taste it and then tease you with it until you plead for more.” “And how much teasing does it take?” one of the gathering asked. “I hear no pleading,” remarked another. Synthia moved forward on the settee, sitting on the edge and straining, but Masoch held her there, said, “Stay, give her a moment longer.” Grippina’s movements were now becoming more tortuous, hips churning from side to side, thrusting back and forth as if she was fucking Onan’s face with her body. Finally Masoch clapped his hands, said, “Mira! Let’s see if the slut’s contortions have had any effect.” Quickly Mira stepped forward, caught Grippina’s wrist and pulled her away so that her skirt unwound from Onan’s head. His cheeks were flushed, his brow was moist, his erection was as red and swollen as ever, but there was no sign that he was anywhere near to orgasm, let alone had it in mind to beg for one. A smattering of applause rang around the room, congratulating him on his self control. “Think you could have any more success, Synthia love?” Masoch asked, and her eyes sparkled, when he gave his nod of permission she darted forward like a hungry bitch set free of the leash. Rather than hurl herself at him, though, as the other woman had, Synthia came to a sudden halt while she was still feet from him. Sitting on the floor facing him, there was a rustle of satin and lace as she drew her skirts slowly up to her waist. Her legs parted, spread in a wide vee to either side of Onan, the bareness of her cunt was revealed to him, the soft white of her thighs, the moist pink of her lips. One hand slipping down parted them, delved inside them, she smiled at Onan to let him understand the delight she was causing herself. Then she raised a finger to her mouth and sucked on it. “Your cock next, Onan? Is that what you would like?” she asked softly. “My lips on your cock?” “Oh my, but she is good! I’m almost getting hard myself!” said Masoch, seeing her draw her legs together, on either side of Onan, then pull his feet towards her so that the toes of her boots scored his thighs. Her knees raised high now, her cunt was even more open to him than before, and she played with herself some more, working both hands into her groin. When she leaned forward to wipe the juices from her fingers across his mouth, one foot crept slyly forward to

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nudge his cock. “You want me, Onan? You need me now?” she asked. “Apparently not!” laughed Masoch, as Onan gazed back impassively at his temptress. “You want me!” Synthia insisted, rocking Onan’s head as she slapped him hard across the face. “Subtly, that is what stirs Onan,” Grippina now said, slipping from Mira and striding back to him. Mira reached out after her, Synthia was about to push her away, but Masoch cried, “No! Leave her! Let our guest have another try!”

**** It was the early hours of the morning and people had vacated the room, singly or in pairs, some in groups, many no doubt excited by the evening’s events. Grippina had taken Onan from the rear, filling his ass with her fingers, with the strings of pearls she wore wound about her hair, and finally with a smooth white dildo which was hanging from the girdle around her waist. Synthia, meanwhile, had continued her assault from the front, pinching and twisting his nipples, licking and teasing them, scoring her fingernails up and down his cock which seemed destined to remain perpetually erect. Neither woman was able to draw anything more than a delighted sob from him, let alone a hint of an orgasm or a declaration of devotion or belonging, and ultimately people grew dissatisfied with Onan’s remarkable self control, prompting Masoch to call a halt to the proceedings. Synthia, annoyed at her lack of success, had swooped on the one who had found her failure most amusing, dragging him off to her loft where she would vent her anger on him. Others followed suit, to satisfy their various frustrations, and Grippina, a little lost and bewildered, found herself being consoled by a mightily amused Masoch. Mira observed the courteous attention he paid to his guest, the sly glances he would cast her way from time to time, then finally excused herself. Masoch had not even bid her goodnight. Now, on a lonely cot in a quiet room, she thought back to the words Onan had uttered, when Masoch had set forth his challenge to Synthia and Grippina, whispered softly in her ear so that no one else had heard. “I will come only for you,” he had said. Deciding that all would be asleep, or at least in their lofts, in their beds, Mira rose from her cot and went to the door. The corridor beyond was quiet and deserted, though as Mira made her way stealthily along it she caught slight sounds from doors she passed; the

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sigh of a mattress, the creak of leather, the rattle of a chain. Descending to the floor below, she made her way along to the room where she guessed Onan had been left to continue his punishment. Sure enough, when she creaked the door open she saw his solitary figure, his back to her, his arms still spread behind him, though he had managed to shuffle across to a low divan where he had been able to rest his head. She crossed the floor to his side, touched his shoulder lightly, and as he raised his head he opened his eyes, smiling up at her. “You said you would come for me, Onan, only for me,” she reminded him. He nodded, first in acknowledgement, then over his shoulder to the bar which held his arms spread, said, “Remove it, release my hands, so I can touch and caress you.” “Dare I?” she asked. “Dare you?” he echoed darkly.

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Chapter Seven

Grippina had Masoch bound with soft scarves, his hands tied to the head of the bed before him, thighs fastened to calves so that his legs were bent double and he was on his knees, like a man at prayer facing towards the east. His buttocks were lifted high, between his legs his genitals hung thick and heavy. This, she had said, was the best way for him to appreciate the delights of her string of pearls, the delights which she still insisted had come so close to breaking Onan. They had toyed at length with each other, since retiring from the room to his loft, teased each other with words as well as touch, he light-heartedly mocking her failure with Onan, she haughtily maintaining that ultimately she could beguile any man. On the bed, hands roaming over each other’s body, exploring each other’s unfamiliar dress, Masoch had said that she would never beguile him, but that she might excite him, give him enjoyment, even take enjoyment from him in return, and for all that she had been dismissive of him and his dark kind in the past she found his charm and cocksure humor engaging enough to want to share his company a while. And he really could do such wonderful things with his fingers, his tongue, with every part of his body. “But such a dark master wouldn’t feel demeaned at being bound by the likes of me?” she asked, when he had confessed his interest at the way she had used her pearls on Onan, and she had hinted at the best way the sensation could be experienced. “Not at all,” he laughed lightly, “for though I might be bound it would not mean I belonged. I offer myself willingly to you,” he smirked, rising in the bed and offering her his wrists. So Grippina had him undress, his costume too elaborate for her to be bothered with, with its belts and buckles and gleaming steel zips, now had him naked and bound before her. Kneeling on the bed behind him, she saw him about to turn to look at her, so gave an admonishing click of the tongue, said, “No, Master Masoch, you will find it more enjoyable if you don’t see what is happening.” Masoch gave a low chuckle, but complied, resting his head against the pillows.

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Grippina unwound the string of pearls from her hair for the second time that night, let them fall in the cup of her hand and then worked that hand between his thighs. “So hard, so smooth--” she said, and then, pressing the pearls against his balls, “so swollen.” She circled her hand and surprised Masoch with the sensation, bringing an involuntary gasp from him as he felt his balls rolled around in their sack by the bunch of smaller balls she held in her hand. She pressed harder, his body lifted, and so she rested hers against his, her breasts flattening against his back, her chin on his shoulder to keep him still. “Slowly, softly, with serenity,” she cautioned him, her hand still working in lazy circles, and then a finger poked through the bunched pearls, touching his anus. “And what is this?” she asked. “The tip of your finger,” Masoch knew. “I can feel the beautifully manicured nail.” “And this?” she prompted, adding a little more pressure. “Your finger still.” “Inside you?” “Would be nice,” he agreed. Grippina moved the soft pad of her finger against Masoch’s ass, tugging at the bud, teasing it to open, her nail now scratching at that sensitive strip of flesh between the anus and the balls. “And still my finger?” “Yes—” Masoch began, but then said, “No, not your finger, not unless it has swollen.” “Very good!” said Grippina, holding the first pearl of the string against the pouting orifice. “What a sensitive and discerning ass you have!” Masoch might have been about to answer with some witticism, some smart riposte, but any words were cut short by Grippina’s finger thrusting sharply forward, forcing the pearl inside him and then following it quickly to make sure it was securely seated. “Onan can accommodate the whole string,” she told him. “As he did tonight,” Masoch reminded her, adding, “I feel no discomfort, just a little delight.” Grippina inserted a second pearl, none too gently, said, “But it is when the pearls are evacuated that his resolve is tested, when he is unable to resist me.” “Although he was able to tonight?” “Tut, Milord! Do not present me with a second challenge!” Grippina threatened, her nail scouring inside him as she forced the next pearl deep. Masoch’s body shuddered this time as he felt her free hand snake between his legs, her wrist stroking his balls as her fingers closed around his cock. Her thumb brushed the tip,

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feeing it slick and wet, as she inserted yet more of the pearls, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. “Nice, eh?” she said, her lips a whisper against his ear, kissing it, and slowly she began to stroke his cock. “Quite--quite lovely,” Masoch admitted softly. “You have a remarkable talent. I’m amazed that Onan was able to resist you.” “As was I,” said Grippina, frowning a moment, then began to pump her hand her firmly on his cock, picking up the tempo. “But you won’t resist me, will you Master Masoch?” she asked, her teeth nipping at the lobe of his ear. “No, I don’t believe I will,” he sighed. All but a couple of the pearls were inside him now, filling him, pressing against his prostate, and Grippina laid the flat of her hand against his ass, holding them there, stirring them around. “Ready to come, my lord? Ready to spill your seed for Grippina?” she asked, her hand moving faster. He was, but said nothing, simply nodding into the pillow, feeling the moment build. The sound of the door bursting open was no more than a minor distraction. “Masoch--!” It was Synthia’s voice he heard, but as if from a great distance. “Masoch!” “Come for me, Masoch,” said Grippina, her voice clearer, all he wanted to hear, as her fingers now stroked him at a furious speed. “Onan has gone--!” said Synthia. “Oh fuck!” sobbed Masoch, feeling Grippina rising on her knees and beginning to withdraw the string of pearls. “…and your pet Mira with him!” “Oh fuck!” he cried again, his whole body shuddering as he came in Grippina’s hand, straining against the scarves which bound him.

**** “Not here,” Onan had said, when Mira released him. “It might be hours before anyone one comes back but it’s hours I need to spend with you.” “Then where?” she asked. “Come,” he said, taking her hand. At first she had thought that he might be taking her to her cot above; then, when he led her out of the building and onto the street, supposed that he was taking her to his own place. Now she was uncertain, and a little concerned, for dark streets had become increasingly darker, narrower and more poorly lit. It was not a district in which she

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imagined him living, from what she knew of him and his tastes, though he was a frequent visitor to Masoch’s domain, she understood him to prefer a brighter more spacious world, the world of Grippina and her friends. Though the sky was brightening towards morning there were shadows all about them, the buildings to either side were tall and their brickwork intricate, many niches and recesses cut into them to catch the darkness. “Where are you taking me?” she asked him. “You surely don’t live around here?” “We’re almost there, don’t worry,” was all he said, keeping a tight hold of her arm. But Mira was worried, she would have turned and made her way back to Masoch but for the fact that she was quite lost. “Here we are,” he said at last, turning her into a darkened doorway, beneath an ornate porch. “You do not live here,” she knew. “No, it belongs to a friend of mine,” Onan admitted, pushing open the door and ushering her inside. The long hall in which Mira found herself was warmly lit, rose tinted lamps washing everything with their color so that every surface seemed to pulsate. The carpet underfoot was lush and soft, more blood red than rose, and the walls were papered with some velvet material, the ceiling in shadow so that its height was indeterminate; it was like being in something organic, a womb of a place, and the warmth and fragrance only served to heighten the sensation. Despite her trepidation Mira felt almost comfortable, especially now that she was away from the shadowy gloom of the unfamiliar streets. Then she heard a voice, dark, husky, but unmistakably female: “Onan? Is that you dear?” “This way,” he said, before Mira could question him, and turned her towards a door. A bewilderment of candles burned in the room they entered, their perfume thickened the air and stung her nostrils, blinding her with their brightness. Blinking away her tears, the figure before her came into focus through watery eyes, a slender woman with steel grey eyes. She was seated in a high-backed leather chair which seemed to envelop her like a throne, her silk gown making her body shimmer in the candlelight, her bare arms pale but tipped with crimson nails resting easily along the arms of the chair, rings glittering on her fingers. “So this is her, you managed to bring her to me?” said the woman, not taking her eyes from Mira. “Well done, Onan.” Immediately on hearing her words, like a pet congratulated, Onan released Mira and scuttled across to the woman, falling to his knees beside her.

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“Just who are you, and what is going on?” demanded Mira, taking a step back as she saw the woman pat Onan affectionately on the head. Another pace back and she might have turned and left, but then she found the way blocked, a large hulk of a figure pressing against her back, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “I am Lady Haggitha,” the woman smiled affably, “and behind you is Lord Belacqua. Onan you already know. Please, won’t you join us?” Moving to Mira’s side, the man named Belacqua stood a head taller than her, muscular biceps as thick as her own firm thighs, and one hand slipped to the small of her back to urge her forward. “Okay, you’ve told me who you are,” Mira acknowledged. “Now tell me what you want with me.” “All in good time. First sit,” invited Haggitha, pointing with one hand to a low leather stool, while with the other she took a glass of wine from the table beside her. “And drink.” “This early in the day?” asked Mira, but still accepted the glass as she sat, while Belacqua perched on the edge of Haggitha’s chair and Onan remained mute at her feet. “So, Masoch’s new pet,” said Lady Haggitha, regarding Mira over the rim of her own glass and licking her dark moist lips. “You know Masoch?” “Oh yes, I know him alright!” “Then you also know he will be angry to learn that you have me here?” “Indeed he will!” Haggitha laughed brightly, and as she crossed one leg over the other her gown shimmered like quicksilver. Onan, Mira noticed, looked raptly at the polished leather toe which protruded from the hem of the gown and Haggitha, following her gaze, raised her foot a little higher towards him. Immediately Onan began to cover her boot with light reverential kisses. “Sweet, isn’t he?” grinned Haggitha. “Later he will suck the heel, before I fuck him in the ass with it. But first, back to you, dear. You enjoy being with Masoch?” Mira thought only for a moment, though in that moment there was remembered the humiliation he had caused her as well as the delight, before saying, “He has opened up a whole new world for me.” “I’m sure he has,” Haggitha nodded, but now there was a darkness about her gaze, as if she had memories of her own. “And do you know what he will do next, Mira my dear, Masoch’s latest pet? Next he will deprive you of that world.” There was a lengthy silence, as if to give Mira time to consider, but as she was about

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to speak Haggitha held up her hand to silence her. “Hear me out, I speak from experience,” she insisted, leaning forward so that her full breasts filled the gown, offering a pale inviting cleavage amid the ripples of grey silk. “I was once in the position you find yourself in, enthralled by him, abused by him, delighted by him. I fought against it at first, but eventually I softened, succumbed, gave myself to him heart and soul. It was then that he cast me aside, discarded me like a bored child tosses away a toy. It is a perversion of his, that when a woman wants him most he turns his back on her. I think he gets as much enjoyment from that as he does from beating her or fucking her.” “Well thanks for the warning, it’s very kind of you,” said Mira, when Haggitha finally fell silent. “But still I don’t see what you want of me, what reason you had for bringing me here.” Haggitha had moved even further forward in her seat, and now she slipped from it, to the floor before Mira, silk falling in pools and eddies all about her. She reached forward and clasped Mira’s hands, clutched them tightly in her lap. “What I want is to save you the same pain I suffered,” she said. “What I hope is that you will help me exact revenge on Masoch, for that pain he caused me, for that pain he would want to cause you.” Her face had moved closer, closer still, until they were only inches apart, and Haggitha drew Mira’s hands up to her breasts, craned forward those final few inches to kiss her on the mouth. “You will, won’t you, Mira? Help me?”

**** “Bitch!” said Masoch, lashing out, and Synthia sobbed as she hung limply from the frame, her bare back covered with vivid red welts, her skirt in tatters about her buttocks and thighs. “Fucking bitch!” “I think you’re causing the poor woman more pain than pleasure, my lord,” remarked Grippina dispassionately, safely out of reach of Masoch’s whip, though she herself was deriving a certain amount of pleasure from the scene, her fingers working slyly between her thighs as she sprawled on a low settee. Pitifully Synthia looked over her shoulder, her flame hair in disarray, licking at her damp brow and cheeks, but she saw no sign of compassion in Masoch’s eyes, just fury and anger. She cried out loud, her body rocking viciously under the force of the next blow. “How dare she!” Masoch continued to rant. “To go off with him! And how dare he betray my friendship!” “Perhaps your spending the night with me had something to do with it?” Grippina

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suggested. “We women are notoriously fickle creatures. Spurn us, turn your back on us, and we will find our revenge.” “But Mira was mine, to do with as I wished,” said Masoch, almost petulantly. “She knew and accepted that.” Wearily his hand fell, the lash held loosely at his side, while the other raised and reached out to touch the marks on Synthia’s back curiously, as if only now aware of the damage he had caused her. She flinched at his touch and he bent forward, said, “I’m sorry to have taken my anger out on you, Synthia dear, and I promise you this, that once I have finished with Mira and Onan you may have them, to vent your own anger on them.” But would this be enough for her? Grippina wondered, seeing the cautious glance with which the beaten woman acknowledged this promise. Somehow she thought not. She did not know Masoch well but guessed that he might be losing control, of himself and those he was accustomed to having influence over. Cautiously she rose from her couch and approached him, twined her arms about his waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Perhaps we should soothe poor Synthia, my lord? Her back is raw and burning,” she said, her hands slipping lower down his belly, fingers working into the curly matt of his groin. “And then perhaps do something to soothe your own scalded temper?”

**** Masoch was trembling as if with a fever, shudders coursing through his body, and it was much from the rage which still simmered inside as from the orgasms he had enjoyed in the arms of the two women. Synthia had yelped with pain as he drove his cock furiously into her, the soft silk of the bed linen still abrasive against her back; Grippina had cooed with delight when she had taken her turn, adopting a more comfortable position astride him, first making him hard again with her mouth before drawing a second orgasm into her cunt. From above and below, from the front and from behind, over a period of hours Masoch had spat his bitter seed into their bodies. Now, in their arms, he dozed, though his sleep was light and disturbed, their embrace affording him little peace. “Well what a touching scene!” exclaimed a voice, bright with amusement. “Domna? What are you doing here?” asked Masoch, recognizing the tall blonde who stood in the doorway, flanked by two muscular, swarthy men. “I might ask the same of Grippina,” grinned Domna. “Been having fun, dear? Tasting the delights of Masoch’s dark domain?” “I... he...,” Grippina stammered, trying to roll away from Masoch, but Domna silenced her with a dismissive wave of the hand.

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“That’s okay, don’t fret love, you’re not the reason I’m here.” “Then why?” asked Masoch, extricating himself from the embrace of his two bed companions and sitting up. “I’m here wondering what you are doing here, why you aren’t...” She smirked as she shrugged, held out a hand to accept a folded sheet of paper from one of her escorts and handed it to Masoch, saying, “Here, this might explain better.” Masoch unfolded the paper, his eyes quickly scanning its text. “Public performance... humiliation... Masoch’s pet Mira...?” he read aloud, his expression darkening. “What is this?” he demanded, crushing the paper in his fist. “A performance you were putting on, I first thought,” said Domna, “but rumors reached me that perhaps it was not you, as is now confirmed by your presence here with your slut and my friend.” “No, not me,” Masoch muttered. “Then who?” Domna wondered, though a sly smile betrayed a suggestion that she already knew. She laughed wickedly as Masoch hurled himself from the bed, gathering together clothes and hastily pulling them on, held out a hand to Grippina saying, “Come, dear, this might prove entertaining.” As Grippina dressed more simply and more quickly than Masoch and his kind, she and Domna were waiting by the door while he was still fastening buckle after buckle on his boots and Synthia was struggling to tighten the laces of her corset. Safely shod at last, Masoch strode across the room, the tails of his long coat flapping behind him to give him the appearance of some dark avenging super-villain. Storming through the door which Domna held open for him, he stamped down the stairs from his loft to the street, ignoring Synthia’s pleas for help with her laces. “Don’t rush, slut, there’s no hurry,” Domna told her. “I think this is going to be recorded for posterity for all to see, so that all might witness Masoch’s humiliation.” “Master! Master!” Synthia cried, but already the room had emptied, Domna leading Grippina down to the street, her two escorts following. Masoch was already some distance ahead, but easily seen, followed with no trouble, cutting a swathe through the crowds on the pavement as if to clear the way for them. Despite his haste, his progress was hampered, for frequently people plucked at his sleeve, caught him by the shoulder, so many having words for him. And so many of these, when brushed aside by him, would turn and follow in his wake. “What is happening?” asked Grippina, noting this crowd he was now drawing after him.

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“Be patient and you will see,” Domna answered, with a wink, then said, “Tell me, dear, was Masoch a good fuck?” “Passable,” Grippina conceded. “Well now you are about to see him well and truly fucked.” They had reached the park, skirted the lake, climbed the rise towards the public stocks to see crowd assembled there, smaller than the one which followed Masoch and noticeably more quiet. So quiet that the only sound to be heard was the unmistakable slap of leather on flesh. Masoch slowed, falling to a crouch as if the gentle gradient of the hill was too much for him, as if he hoped to surprise the people just beyond the crest. “Who did you give yourself to?” asked a voice, rolling down towards them. “Masoch,” came the answer, followed by a loud “thwack”. “And what do you regret?” Another loud slap of leather brought the reply: “I regret giving myself to Masoch.” “And did he cause you pain as I do?” “Pain, but not as you do, for the pain you cause me is a delight, Mistress.” “Mistress?” Masoch bellowed, launching himself forward, charging like a bull through the people who circled the stocks. “You have a Master, not a Mistress! And that is me, Master Masoch!” He skittered to a halt, heavy boots gouging the earth as he saw Mira’s bared and reddened buttocks turned to him, Lady Haggitha stood beside her, a thick leather strap hanging loosely by her side. There was a challenging smile on Haggitha’s lips as her eyes met his, then flicked slyly at Mira’s bent body. Slowly Masoch approached his pet, reached down to rest the flat of his hand lightly against her bruised flesh. “Who touches you, Mira?” Haggitha asked. “Masoch,” was the reply. “His touch is coarse and without feeling.” Masoch glared at Haggitha and clenched his fist, raising it towards her, and as he did, she touched her palm where he had touched his, pressing it against Mira’s flesh. “And who touches you now, dear?” “My Mistress, Lady Haggitha. Her touch is firmer but kinder, more to be obeyed and more to be enjoyed than Masoch’s crude caresses.” There was a low ripple of laughter among the onlookers as Masoch said, “That slut is not your Mistress!” “Slut or siren, I have a greater hold over Masoch’s pet than Masoch himself could ever have hoped for,” Haggitha smirked, and as if to prove her point struck Mira across the

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ass so hard that it made the crowd start and gasp, while all it brought from Mira was a deep sigh of satisfaction. “You conniving bitch!” Masoch cursed, launching himself at Lady Haggitha, but before he could reach her Onan had caught him by one arm, Belacqua by the other, pulling him back. “Violence, you see?” said Haggitha, not to Masoch but to the crowd of onlookers. “Masoch does not bewitch or enchant, but rather beats and enchains. He is too much of a barbarian to beguile. There is no compassion or creativity in his cruelty, just his own selfish satisfaction.” Masoch fought against the hands which held him, his body writhing, his head tossing, his mouth almost foaming in his fury, and his rage required so much energy that when Haggitha caught him by the hair he was suddenly too exhausted to resist. Slowly Haggitha led him around the stocks, some feet beyond them, then turned him so that they both faced Mira. “Let me prove my point,” she said, and nodded to Belacqua to release Mira. A wonderful weariness suffusing her body, Mira drew her head and hands from the opened stocks, but then could only fall to the ground. On hands and knees, head bowed and her hair spilling about her face, she panted heavily like a beast which had been driven to exhaustion. “Now, Mira, yours is the decision, yours is the proof,” said Haggitha, tightening her grip on Masoch’s hair, lifting his head so that the girl could look into his eyes. “Come, show me, show us all. Whose pet are you?”“ Raising her head, her lips parting in a smile, Mira began to move forward on all fours, her hips swaying, her breasts swinging, her eyes switching from Haggitha to Masoch and back again. The crowd closed in as she slowly advanced, silent, breathless, and Masoch looked at her with an unspoken plea in his eyes, Haggitha with a confident smirk. “Yours,” whispered Mira, giving Masoch a brief, cutting glance before touching her lips to the feet of Lady Haggitha. “Yours Mistress.”

**** Life was tedious, work was a duty rather than a joy, and his only respite from this boredom, his only entertainment, was in visiting the chatrooms each evening. Yet even these were less interesting than he remembered, there was little that was stimulating about the conversation and little that was engaging about the people. Once they had been so engrossing, so real. Hadn’t they? He shrugged, memories were as vague as his life was aimless, as if his whole being was becoming blurred at the edges, and like a bored voyeur he logged on. No one greeted him when he entered the chat-room, he did not announce himself,

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not even with a simple “hi” let alone with the jaunty false bonhomie that many affected. Quite simply he just slipped into the room, quietly and unobtrusively. “Like it is a room, like I could slip into it!” he mocked himself, and sat back to watch the inane chatter unfold on the screen before him. Someone with love problems, being counseled by a group of women with improbable sounding names... others arranging to meet, looking forward to a weekend gathering which would be the sad drunken highlight of their social season... the usual chat-room gigolos pestering women for their photos and the sorry lonely females who responded... “Nothing ever changes,” he sighed, getting up from the desk and going through to the kitchen for a beer. When he returned to the computer he saw the private message waiting for him, no identifiable name to it, just a confusion of consonants and beneath it the question: “Cat got your tongue?” “Eh?” he typed. “You just sit and watch? You don’t take part?” And what of it? he thought. Who wanted to be a part of that sorry world on the screen? “Shy?” He declined to comment. “Scared, perhaps?” He clicked on “ignore”, blocking any further messages from whoever it was, and turned his attention back to the chat-room, scanned down the list of names but found none corresponding to the sender of the messages. No doubt they had logged off, when he failed to respond. Then the invitation came: “You are invited to a private chat. Click here to enter.” “For fuck’s sake!” he cursed, deleting the invitation only for it to appear again immediately. “Will you piss off and leave me alone?” “No,” he heard; though the screen before him remained unchanged, he heard the refusal as clear as day. “No!” It came from behind him, he was aware of a presence in the room and turned to see shapes slowly forming out of the shadows. “I didn’t accept your invitation! I’m not here!” he said, seeing that the room was not his room but an alien one. There was more than the one voice now, more than the one person, sing-song cadences drifting towards him as their features became clearer. “You remember us, you who once used the name Masoch and called himself

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Master?” “You remember Haggitha and Domna?” “Synthia and Grippina?” “And Mira who you thought you could treat as a pet?” “No! I’m not here! I don’t belong here!” he said, shaking his head. “Where you belong is a state of mind rather than a location in time or space,” said one. “We shall not cease from exploration,” said another, “and the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” “You are back where you started, darling, and now you know your place,” said a third, pointing to the floor at her feet. “Come to me, pet.”

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About the Author

Severin Rossetti studied fine art and taught the subject in Liverpool UK for a number of years before turning his back on the career to work part-time in a museum in that city, allowing him to devote more time to writing. He turned to the erotic genre quite recently, after an editor posed the challenge that his work, though good, lacked passion. As impressed as the editor was with his response, she was of course unable to publish his work! Others have had more courage, though, and Severin's stories have appeared in a number of magazines and ezines, both in the UK and the USA. Recent publications include Forum UK (March 2005) and Wicked Words: Sex at the Sports Club (Black Lace Books, Virgin Publishing UK (August 2005)