Carrion: A Story of Passion (7 page)

Chapter Six: Midsummer Night’s Eve

We are travelling at speed through Oxfordshire lanes towards Arabella’s country house. She has arranged a Midsummer Night’s Eve party, to which only her most ‘talented’ students are invited. She has joked that it is an end-of-term celebration. She has assured us that is only dinner and dancing – but both Alexander and I know that something magical and wondrous will occur. He has already been to the house and set up the cameras in anticipation. Alexander is trusted.

Our – my – lessons with Arabella have been over for weeks. After the basic education, Alexander wished me to be moulded to his own particular and contradictory tastes. It’s nothing if not equitable. Tonight Alexander is in charge – my Prince Charming. The dress code is Nymphs and Princes. We have been promised a sumptuous feast.

We are the last to arrive – our arrival is an artfully constructed piece of theatre. The last two seats at the table are either side of Arabella; it is clear that they have always been ours – and that they have all been waiting. Her slave is chained to the leg of her chair. He is blindfolded and gagged. A ring and chain are attached to his cock and then to his lead. It allows Arabella the opportunity of being able to yank it every so often throughout dinner, eliciting groans of torment and pleasure.

Arabella doesn’t stand on our arrival – she is our Queen and we, her errant subjects. I follow Alexander’s lead, dipping my head to kiss her hand in apology for our tardiness. All eyes around the table watch the interaction closely. Alexander, I soon realise, is somewhat a cause celebre. I suspect that Arabella requested him to arrive late and play out this little vignette. I look down the table, noting how all the Princes have been placed on one side, opposite their nymphs on the other. Each one, like us, is masked. Each one, like us is rich in their own identity. There is no uniformity of shape or size or mode. They are a glorious mixture of age and form. The effect is as if we are about to dance, rather than feast.

With us finally in position, Arabella calls for service by clapping her hand. She yanks the chain of her pet purely for her own amusement. My eyes fall to the young man on all fours at his mistress’ feet, curious to know if it is Daniel.

Serving girls come in wearing nothing but a thin diaphanous tunic – their hair has been plaited in the Roman style, and each of the fifteen servers, wears little golden slave cuffs; so that their hands are bound in servitude. I watch them flow in, each carrying a silver domed platter in each of their hands, creating the strange impression that they are living, breathing manifestations of Libra.

Each stands between two guests and carefully places a charger in each of the settings. In perfect synchronisation, the girls remove the lids with a theatrical flourish, exposing a tiny roast quail decorated with autumn berries, woodland mosses and morels. I wonder if in reality the servers are prostitutes, or strippers that spend their days painted with red wax lips and cheap PVC. I wonder how cheaply they sell their sex for, and what price Arabella has paid them this evening. Are they mildly afraid of this decadent world?

Our glasses are filled by young, beautiful Adonis’ each gagged with a black leather strap and fully naked except for the straps that force their cocks to stand to attention throughout. When not serving, they stand against the wall, with the Ewers of wine held on their heads. I can only imagine the sweet agony. Once empty handed, the serving girls take up the space between them and, taking a cock in each hand, she strokes her hand up and down the shaft in slow, languid motions. We dine to the background music of muffled moans of ecstatic torment.

Arabella conducts her serving staff like a choreographer. The hours it must have taken to rehearse such synchronicity is almost unimaginable. Our plates are cleared. Our wine glasses filled and the room is full of excited chatter and amusement. Our Main course of rare fillet beef is served. I can barely focus on the bloodied meat in front of me. I am distracted by the sight over Alexander’s shoulder; one of the serving girls has taken one of the wine boys in her mouth. I watch as her head rocks backwards and forwards on her slender porcelain neck. I turn my attention to the slave boy’s blissfully agonised face, which contorts with the discipline of not releasing. The heat blooms between my legs and I feel my oils release and slide over my sex. I press my thighs together and gasp at the little ripple of pleasure that emits from my bud. Alexander has been watching me and a darkling smile plays on his lips. I am slick and full of pulsing blood. How I wish that Alexander were sat next to me so that he could slide his fingers in and fuck me through my mounting agitation. Now, I understand Arabella’s exquisite seating plan and mentally bow down to her genius. I fill my mouth with meat, close my eyes and imagine my mouth replaced with that of the serving girl. I can barely swallow it down. I abandon the task. Putting the knife and fork down. Taking my wine glass in one hand, I slip the other into my lap and under the folds of my delicate lace dress. I fix my eyes on Alexander who is watching with an amused smile as he gorges himself on rich meat and silken mashed vegetables. As he eats, I know he is mentally fucking every mouthful.

Arabella leans in and whispers sharply in my ear, “Don’t touch yourself at the table, sweetie.”

My hand shoots back onto the table and I blush with shame. I look down the table to see if my indiscretion has been witnessed, but all I see is a row of nymphs kissing and pawing at each other – all similarly driven by the sights of the slaves around the room. Alexander is quietly laughing at my admonishment, and Arabella turns to him and says, “I take it that you will suitably punish Charlotte for her heathen manners.”

He flicks her a charming smile and replies, “Of course. It will be my pleasure to ensure she is appropriately disciplined.”

I squeeze my thighs together and wiggle them, desperate for the pressure. Arabella bends down and unclasps her slave, untethering various bindings and offering him a set of whispered instructions that are just out of my hearing but which Alexander has full knowledge of. He puts his cutlery down and sits back in his chair, raising his glass in salute.

“Spread your legs, Charlotte,” Arabella instructs, and I feel a blush creep up over my cheeks. The introduction of a third party into Alexander’s world and mine is alien, but thrilling. After a momentary hesitation, I pull my thighs apart and wrap my ankles around the chair. I fix my eyes on Alexander and we lock looks, a silent potent energy runs between us. I feel hot breath on my ankles, the feel of a small darting tongue, kissing my calves and up to my thighs, where the licks become longer and more pressured. The feeling of his tongue is slightly rough against the delicate flesh of my thighs. His teeth graze the flesh teasingly. His nose nuzzles into my oiled down, and he uses it to seek out my sex, nudging my bud deliciously with his nose. I grip onto the sides of the table and try to control my upper body so that it doesn’t betray the riot of sensations that are happening below. I thrust my hips forwards, demanding more. The wine slaves have been freed of their wine ewers and are now using their free hands to bend the serving girls over and fuck them from behind. Some of them have been summoned to cater to the needs of those at the table, and the whole scene is slipping into a sumptuous movement of flesh.

Only Alexander and Arabella sit gazing at the scenes with an iron discipline. The slave slaps my bud with his tongue, eliciting small muffled squeaks from my mouth. Alexander is daring me to surrender. It is a complex game of stare down. The slave pushes his tongue deep into my cleft and I sigh, unable to keep Alexander’s gaze any longer. I throw my head back and give myself over to the rhythm the muscle stabbing me, of the sensation of firm cartilage hitting my bud hitting me over, and over, and over until I can hold on no longer and I come with a moan that is raw enough to disturb the nymphs next to me. My body jerks, sending the red glass of red wine spilling across the white table linen like arterial spray. Sensing my crisis, one of them extends her arm behind her and holds my face still in the palm of her hand, stilling me until it passes.

Arabella clicks her fingers and one of the serving girls efficiently tidies the carnage around me. Covering the stain with a fresh white linen napkin, taking my plate away and resetting my glass, refilling it. Another girl wipes my brow and neck with a warm cloth. All this is done whilst I swim in post orgasmic bliss. Through the haze, I see Alexander, and I dare him. But rather than take up the challenge I offer, he pushes his chair back and strides around the table, commanding me to stand.

“Charlotte,” he tuts and sighs theatrically, “really?” He forces pushes me towards the table, so that its edge bites into my thigh, and grabs my arm with one hand whilst sweeping the table free of glasses and flowers, not caring if the wine spills or the flowers crush.

“Lay on the table,” he commands. I glance down the table to see that the whole room ripples with an excited whisper before falling into silence.

Arabella has pushed her chair back for a better view and has held her wine glass out for a refill, which some serving boy scurries to do. She says in a clipped voice, “I believe sir would like some disciplinary tools? Boy,” she says indicating that she is need of service. The slave scurries from the room.

I am mortified. Humiliation spreads through me, jangling my nerves.

“Charlotte,” he says coldly, “Do as you are told and lay on the table.”

“Yes, master,” I mummer.

I scramble up onto the table, pulling myself along until my cheek is pressed against the white table linen and my nostrils fill with the smell of starch and washing powder. I am looking at Arabella, imagining we are back at the academy, and we are merely in class. I feel Alexander’s hands sweep up my thighs pulling my dress up over my thighs and buttocks.

He leans over me and I feel his stiff cock through his trousers resting against my thigh. “Turn your face towards the party.”

I whimper, and shake my head. I don’t want to face their hungry, curious eyes. I think about using the safe word – it would only be the second time in all of our teachings. But I don’t – something stops me, because as much as I’m humiliated, and scared, and fearful, my body is screaming for the performance to begin.

I turn my face and see that the candlelight has spread a million stars shimmering through the room. The faces of my eager audience are softened by the light so that they look like creatures from another, more beautiful world. I sense Alexander’s movements and brace myself hard against the table, my breasts full of dull pain as they press into the unforgiving wood.

The leather paddle slams into my yielding flesh, eliciting a deep groan from my throat. Tears pool at the side of my eyes, and snake lazily to the cloth. The heat spreads rapidly, snaking its way into my loins and into my sex; sensitive from the orgasm that was still playing out its ripples. My sex tightens and contracts, the muscles spasm. Alexander’s knuckles brush my exposed mound, sending shivers bumping into the pain, so that the sensations jangle and dance. He smooths his hand over my buttock and raises the paddle once more. With its impact, my hips bounce from the table and slam back down. Despite my desire to retreat from the offending article, my hips betray me, and thrust my buttocks out, inviting more.

“Put your hands on the back of your head,” Alexander commands. I do as I am bid. I feel Alexander’s hands raise my hips firmly off the table as he manoeuvres a small velvet cushion under them, exposing my sex. Out the corner of my eye, I see him take the thin, cream, riding crop, a particular favourite of Arabella’s, and hand it to her. She stands, smiling and takes it from Alexander ceremoniously, before he retreats to the other end of the table, where a space is immediately cleared for him, as if a true prince has surely arrived. I look down the tunnel of masks and crystal to see Alexander perched, like carrion crow, over the end of the table. His gaze is fixed on me. The air splices as Arabella skilfully brings down the little leather strap onto my engorged bud. Scolding heat runs up its core and suffuses into my hips. Ripples of pain and pleasure intermingle and I cry out.

The audience claps delightedly, blowing me kisses and breaking the roses apart so that they shower me with petals like a Roman Empress. I think about what an achingly beautiful film-scene this would all make, and despite my humiliation, I hope that this
moment
and
I
– am to be immortalised forever; turned into a beautiful artifice – always young and full of exquisite feeling.

“Again!” Alexander bellows down the table.

Arabella strokes my slick sex with her fingers before raining down another delicious blow of the whip. This time my cries turn to a deep-throated groan of pleasure and I feel her soft, cushioned mouth on my skin as she kisses the delicious lines of fire. Tenderly she smooths my dress back over my buttocks and helps me from the table. She reaches out, gathering a glass of champagne from one of the slaves and puts it to my lips in an almost motherly fashion, before turning to the staff, clapping her hands and ordering desserts to be brought in. A ripple of wide-eyed excitement travels down the table, and I follow it until I see Alexander. His eyes are fixed on me and his mouth is whispering, “Bravo!” as he claps languidly and blows me a kiss. He leaves, disappearing into the dark tunnels of the house.

As I walk bare foot and alone through the many rooms of Arabella’s world, every surface is covered with nymphs and princes pleasuring each other and themselves. The overall effect is dream-like, soft. The wine has softened both my reason and responses, so that I have become nothing more than a walking vessel of feeling. At last I find Arabella: the Minotaur at the centre of some surreal labyrinth. Her slave is still crouched on all fours by her side, and I wonder what possible pleasure he can garner from being so removed from all the touching and indulgence. Alexander has not returned, but here, that does not matter; each is free to do as they please. On seeing me, Arabella smiles and beckons me to sit on the stool. Lower than her throne-like armchair, but higher than her slave. She strokes my hair, tenderly.