Captives of Cheyner Close (11 page)

Briefly left unattended, Tara tugged at her bonds by reflex, even though she knew it was futile. She was even more completely immobilised than in her bed stocks. As her stomach did flip-flops of fear, the simmering heat lower in her loins grew, pumping out a slick wetness that seeped through to the lips of her vulva. She was simultaneously dismayed at the intensity of her arousal yet comforted by its presence. It was her shield and refuge. Through it she would find pleasure in whatever he did to her.

In his bedroom Warwick quickly slipped off his clothes and put on slippers and a robe, very aware of his tumescent manhood as he did so. Tara Ashwell was such a delicious creature, yet so self-centred. He
had
imagined various ways she might be brought to justice, or else forced to cease her vendetta against the Close, but never having her helpless in his house at his mercy. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

He went back to the spare room.

‘It’s unexpectedly satisfying seeing you like this,’ he said, walking round her tightly bound body as she hugged the stool in an unwilling embrace, examining her from every angle. She tried to turn her head to follow him but her face was too tightly secured to the racket frame.

‘You, like your friends, will know what it is like to suffer helplessly tonight,’ he continued. ‘Then you may begin to understand a little of what we went through ever since you started your vile campaign. I should thank you for talking us into this. It’s far better than official justice. Or would you disagree?’

Tara shivered, but said in a remarkably level voice: ‘I chose this, Master. I’m not changing my mind now. Do what you want with me. That’s the deal.’

Warwick squatted down, stroking her bottom, sliding his hand round to cup the fleshy undercurve of her buttocks, testing their warmth and weight. ‘You have guts, girl, I’ll say that for you.’

His fingertips ran down the pouting cleft of her pudenda and he felt her slippery wetness.

‘Your juices came quickly this morning as well,’ he said. ‘Does all this excite you?’

He thought he might have to threaten her with the holly cane to get an answer, but with only the slightest hesitation she replied: ‘Yes … it does, Master. I think it’s the danger. And, in a sick way, the shame of being here like this. It’s perverted but it’s getting me hot.’

Warwick felt oddly slighted. ‘Not the thought of sex?’

‘It helps, but I’ve never had a thing for older men. I don’t like you, Master, but if I can get off on having your cock up me I will.’

The frankness of her reply surprised him. ‘You don’t hold anything back, do you?’

‘You told me to be honest, Master. That’s the truth. How else should I feel about somebody who’s going to beat and rape me?’

‘Not rape!’ Warwick said sharply. ‘You offered yourselves to us, remember. If you really believe this is rape then it stops now.’

‘No, Master!’ Tara said quickly. ‘That wasn’t the right word. But it feels like that. Which is all right because that makes it feel more dangerous.’

‘And as you said, you like danger.’

‘Yes, Master. But what I said about you is still the truth. You wouldn’t believe anything else anyway, so why should I lie?’

Despite her utter helplessness, he realised she was still defying him. She had such a stubborn streak in her.

‘No, I’ve had enough of your lies in the past,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you were honest. At least then we know where we stand …’

His hand had moved to the heavy bells of her breasts, squeezing and fondling, giving them light slaps that sent them swaying and bouncing off each other. Her nipples, already semi-hard, blossomed into full erection.

‘Talking of which, I see these haven’t forgotten how to stand to attention,’ Warwick said.

Tara drew in her breath with a shudder.

He adjusted the angle of the mirror, putting it to one side of and a little in front of her head, then crouched down behind her. He would be able to see her face in it while he used her.

‘First I’m going to give your bottom a good strapping, then I’m going to sodomise you,’ Warwick told her, matching her own forthrightness. ‘Of course I won’t try to be gentle. I want to give you something tangible to remember me by, even if only temporarily. A rosy hot bum and a few bruises round your rear entrance. I think that’s the most undignified way to treat you, giving me the maximum pleasure while putting you in your place. The marks will fade soon enough, but perhaps the memory will linger to some effect. Have you ever had anal intercourse before?’

‘No, Master,’ she admitted, her voice trembling now. ‘I always thought it was – dirty.’

‘I’ll try not to disappoint you.’ He held the tub of vaseline out for her to see. ‘This will make it a little more comfortable, but you’ll have to beg me to use it.’

He saw her face in the mirror. Her pupils were huge now, as though trying to take in every detail of what was happening to her. She licked her lips. ‘Use the strap on me first, Master. Make me beg.’

‘I see,’ Warwick said slowly. Now he understood perfectly. ‘Well, if that’s the way you want it …’

He stood up and slipped off his robe. His penis was harder and angled higher than it had been for many years. He’d never felt so potent. He coiled the end of a strap round his fist. ‘I’ll stop when you beg to be greased,’ he said.

The strap swished through the air and smacked crisply across Tara’s smooth posterior hemispheres.

Tara yelped as the blow made her flesh jump, and a broad crimson strip flared across her backside. The strap cut less deeply than the bamboo he had used on her the night before, but it stung nonetheless fiercely. In the mirror he saw her face pinch into a grimace of pain. Good … He drew back his arm and laid down another stripe parallel with the first.

Tara yelped and moaned and whimpered freely as he systematically chastised her, jerking and squirming in her bonds and holding nothing back. She’d contained herself better when she’d been bent over the Close sign. But then her gang had been watching. Now she was free to wallow in her shame and suffering.

Her bottom was a solid blaze of red, though her flesh was not broken anywhere, and she was sobbing and gasping loudly. Her vulva was swollen with excitement and her glistening inner labia pouted from her cleft like an impudently stuck-out tongue. His chosen goal, the starburst-ringed pit of her anus, was contracting and gaping with every clench of her abused buttocks. Warwick thought he had never seen anything so primally desirable.

He was wondering how long he could hold on when she suddenly cried: ‘Stop, stop! Please stop … I can’t take any more. Have me, Master, I beg you. Use the vaseline, please, shove it up my bumhole. I’ll be good. I’m hot and tight. I’ll try to please you … I’ll do anything, but don’t use the strap again …’

Warwick had already dropped the strap. Scooping up a dollop of the clear grease he rammed it into her anus, twisting his stiff fingers round inside her rectum.

‘Yes, yes, thank you, Master,’ Tara sobbed. ‘Now put your cock up me … I want it in me, all the way. I’m so empty inside!’

Was this part of an act or was it genuine? He didn’t care …

Warwick took hold of her hips and jabbed his straining erection into her anus, forcing open her guardian ring of muscle, which slid up the length of his shaft as it plunged into her hot elastic depths which pulsed and contracted about him. He thrust into her so that the stool rocked, slamming against
her
haunches and driving a harsh grunt from her lungs each time. Then he hunched over her back and clasped her heavy swaying breasts, squeezing and kneading them, feeling their hard points pressing into his palms.

She came before him, bucking and straining at her bindings, her face in the mirror contorted in a strange rictus of pleasure, and then her eyes going wide in unfocused astonishment. He spouted inside her seconds later, pumping himself dry in an effort to fill her depths, then slowly collapsed over her, letting her bear his full weight.

A timeless interval passed. Eventually Tara felt Warwick stir and rise, drawing his now flaccid penis from her rear. A trickle of sperm followed it and began to run down the inside of her thigh.

He took a glass of water from the bedside table and held it so she could drink, which she did automatically. Then he threw a blanket over her as one might a horse after a hard race.

‘I’ll rest for a bit, then I might come back and use you again,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps I’ll try your front passage next time. I haven’t decided …’

He walked out, closing the door after him, leaving Tara alone with her throbbing anus, simmering bottom and tumbling, confused thoughts.

Five

WARWICK PULLED THE
blanket off Tara, then drew back the curtains to let daylight into the spare room.

Tara groaned as he freed the straps binding her to the stool and feeling began to return to her numbed limbs.

‘We said all we needed last night,’ Warwick told her. ‘While you are ungagged you will not speak a word. If you have to express yourself, you will do so in animal noises, as a dog might. Do you understand?’

Tara nodded meekly, for the moment not wondering about the oddity of his instructions. The memory of his hard cock in her rectum was still strong, the ache where he had pounded deep into her lingered. It had been an act of domination both real and symbolic. Until she recovered her normal independence responses, she told herself, it seemed easier to obey without dissent. Besides, she had nothing more she could think that needed saying. They really had little in common, except for the most intimate and peculiar understanding a master and slave could share …

She started, mentally pinching herself. She had actually thought of herself as a slave! Well, for all practical purposes, much as she detested the idea, she
was
a slave; at least for the next week. Temporary slave, then, she amended.

Warwick cuffed her wrists in front of her. She did not know why but it was a relief, as she doubted she could have bent her arms behind her back at that moment. Her neck felt like a board and her legs were so stiff they hardly supported her as she shuffled unsteadily though to the bathroom. Being flushed out with the hose was both balm and torment: her vagina felt almost as sore as her anus. Warwick had used her a second time the previous night, this time sampling the delights of her lovemouth. He had not needed to use the strap on her again. Being broken once in a night was enough. She had pleaded with him in the most degrading terms to use her, offering up the intimate delights of her pussy to him, and he had accepted. Her shameful words and the sensation of his pelvis grinding against her tender bottom had been quite sufficient to bring her to a second orgasm.

Tara was next made to stand in the bath. A chain and hook had been added to the mounting of the shower head. Warwick secured her wrists to the hook and then gave her a brisk wetting down, soaping over and rinsing off. While she stood there he also had her open her mouth wide while he cleaned her teeth. She felt like a child not yet being trusted to brush properly, yet at the same time receiving such considerate attention was oddly reassuring. It was followed by a vigorous towelling dry.

Warwick then wrapped repair tape round her hands, binding her fingers and thumb to her palm into one paw-like extremity. Then he released her handcuffs and led her down to the kitchen. There Tara saw her named bowls were laid out in a corner on a sheet of newspaper.

‘You’ll stay on all fours until I tell you otherwise,’ he said.

Tara ate resting on her knees and elbows, cradling the bowl between her forearms but not touching the food with her taped hands. Her red-raw bottom stuck up in the air. Warwick sat at the kitchen table reading the Sunday paper and munching toast.

Halfway though her cereal Tara was struck by how weirdly peaceful, even routine, everything felt at that moment. How normal for a bachelor to eat his breakfast and read his paper on a Sunday, with his dog for company. Except she was not a dog, only for the moment playing the part of a dog; a pet, an owned thing. Was that the reason for binding her hands? Was this another of his psychological tricks?

Tara finished, licking her bowl clean, then looked round at Warwick. He appeared to be engrossed in his paper. What should she do now? Lie down in the corner or defy his order and stand up and face the likely consequences? Shame or pain? But direct disobedience was not her chosen course … and her bottom still stung. Very well, if he wanted her to act like a dog she would do so. Dogs got bored, didn’t they?

Moving in a half-crouch, careful not to actually stand, she padded over to the table on her taped palms and toes. Reaching Warwick she laid her head on his knee and made a dog-like whimper for attention in the back of her throat.

Almost absent-mindedly, Warwick patted her head and ruffled her hair. What sort of game was he playing now? Tara wondered. But having begun to play the role she could not simply abandon it, so she whined again and contrived to look up at him with soulful eyes.

‘Do you want to go outside then, girl?’ Warwick checked his watch and then looked out of the
window.
Mist shrouded the garden, though a brightening in the sky suggested it would turn into a fine day. ‘I think we can walk over to Number 2, rather than use the wheelbarrow. Would you like that?’

Without thinking of the implications, and pleased to avoid the discomfort of the wheelbarrow, Tara nodded her head and even threw in a couple of eager panting breaths with lolling tongue.

‘Then fetch your leash. It’s on the chair in the hall.’

Crestfallen, Tara shuffled though to the hall, suddenly feeling ever more closely trapped in her perverse role. The leash was neatly folded on the chair. She knew what was expected of her next. Still, it was better than a holly-caning. Carefully she picked it up in her teeth and took it back to Warwick, sitting back on her haunches, splaying her knees, and offering the leash to him with another whine.

‘Good girl.’ He patted her head, took the leash and clipped it onto her collar.

There was a carrier bag resting by the back door. Warwick took something from it and held it out to Tara. ‘Open wide,’ he ordered. She obeyed without thinking and found a red rubber toy bone thrust between her teeth.