The Storyteller (14 page)

“My butt can’t take any more. Do it on my upper legs.”

At that moment, Michael was hauled back to earth and remembered this was just a game. Listening to the suggestion, he started on the spot just below Loretta’s glowering ass, First one leg and then the other, alternating strikes, he continued to beat at her until this part of her body was just as red as her burning bottom.

“Now we’re done with your spanking,” he informed her as he lifted her from the table and pulled her close to him. Their lips locked in ferocious kissing, so divided from the brutality they had created moments beforehand.

“No sex yet,” Michael declared, coming momentarily back to reality. “You have to wait!”

“I’m going to come soon if we don’t hurry,” she informed. “I almost had an orgasm when I was being beaten.”

It was no lie. In spite of her blasted bottom throbbing from all parts, she was feeling the onset of an orgasm.

Michael released her and took a few steps backward.

“Get that top off, too, and go upstairs quick. I think we’re gonna make you shave just like we agreed upon. Turn on the shower and get the shaving cream. Get one of those razors you shave your legs with, and just be careful when you do it, okay! Remember, this was part your idea.”

Loretta was rubbing her ass now, trying to relieve the tremendous burning. Would the water of a shower help relieve it all or just make it worse?

“Hurry,” Michael ordered. “You go now. If you do, maybe my prick will go down and I won’t have it too soon.”

Loretta didn’t have to be told twice. She charged up the stairs, undoing her blouse buttons as she did and letting it fall to the wayside. She nearly tripped on the stairs as she fumbled with her bra, taking it off as well. Michael watched as she disappeared and heard the shower water start to run.

“
Les fetes de la lune
,” he mumbled, looking at the painting. “
Les
…”

He felt like he should take the picture upstairs with him, but that was just too weird. The game they were caught up in was too uncanny as it was.

“Son esprit vit encore.”

Michael started up the stairs and entered the bathroom to find the shower curtains drawn. Loretta was inside.

“How does it make you feel?” he asked.

“Actually it hurts. When these spurts of water all hit my ass, it feels like I’m getting a little spanking all over again,” she answered from within. “You really did a dance on my ass, too. It hurts like crazy.”

There was a sudden cry, as Loretta’s soul left her and the spirit of the woman in the painting came inside.

“Vengeance d’outré-tombe.”

Michael started to shake as he too, felt something enter him. They had been given a brief reprieve from the game to revert back to their old identifies, but now all things were in motion again. That painting was surely done by Satan himself, just as the name of the antique store suggested, yet who were these two mysterious masters of perversion within the canvas? Were they two lost souls trapped there who could be set free if the painting was destroyed? Were they the fabric of a madman’s imagination and never existing beyond the confines of a deranged cerebrum? Were they people who actually posed long ago? He did not know and did not care.

“Alphonse François,
mourut
.”

Michael ripped the curtain away, so he could see his wife beneath the shower. Her body was soaked and so was her brunette hair, both on her head and elsewhere.

“Now for the rest of this,” he ordered. “Now for the rest.”

Reaching inward, he turned the water down somewhat, so it was not as intense, though he and the floor were going to be sprayed regardless. His voice was demanding once more, with the same sinister overtones as on the ground floor during the spanking.

“Turn and let me see your shame.”

Within the shower, Loretta understood and dropped her hands to the side, one of them holding the washcloth and the other a razor. The shame referred to her punished backside which was now turning a purplish color, welted and marked with the severity of the wooden spoon on top of the striking hand. Below her ass, her legs were also welted.

“Here.” Michael instructed. “Use the shaving cream and the razor. Get that pussy shaved. Do it right, or I’ll get a scrub brush and do the deed on you again.”

“Noooo,” Loretta panicked, reaching out for the can of shaving cream with her hand that held the washcloth. “I don’t want my ass paddled any longer! It burns real bad! I’ll do it, I’ll do it. Don’t spank me again.”

The protests morphed into something else, as unrelated French phrases came from both of them, making no sense.

“Sa chair es morte...”

“La seconde vie de Francois...”

“Face a face...”

“Le sang du...”

Carefully, Loretta ran the razor over the cream covered frontal area that was once her bristling sign for womanhood. With each swipe she rinsed the razor in the sparkling waters, watching as bits of foam and hair went down the drain. A step at a time, she pealed the curly brown wires away, being carefully not to cut herself at any point.

“Magnificent,” Michael mouthed as she watched the show. “Wonderful.”

Eventually, only nubs remained and Loretta went over these as well, spraying herself with another dose of shaving cream in order to make her front as slick as an ice patch.

Her ass, however, was anything but icy, continuing to throb from the relentless pounding she had received. This phenomenon made her overheat with lust. She could not wait to finish, so she and her husband might go into the next room and vent the passion that had built from this demented floor show they had played.

“Get by the lips too,” Michael ordered. His voice was again severe.

“I’ll do it this way,” she answered, shutting off the shower. As she bent, her badly disciplined bottom was visible in all its gloom, shimmering dark red and purple.

“
Sans pitie
,” Michael whispered. “
Sans pitie
.”

Loretta went to the sink and started the water running, then as the shower drained, she took the razor, the cream, and the washcloth, looking lustfully at her tormentor as she did.

“Owwwww,” she grimaced as she hoisted herself up on the ledge of the sink and felt the merciless tile against her agonized bottom. The coolness of the counter was in direct contrast with the fire still flickering within her hind end.

“Anne,” Michael muttered. “Anne...”

“Francois,” Loretta answered, again possessed by something from another dimension. Had she been in her right mind, she would have been certain the painting was at fault, but she, like her husband, was fading in and out, caught up in a world that bridged both truth and fiction.

“Let’s put some talcum on your ass,” Michael offered. “That’ll at least help some of the burning. I think I got carried away.”

“No,” Loretta protested as she spread her legs apart and carefully shaved her inner groin, ridding herself of the last of her hairs. “I loved it and I love you.”

Washing and drying herself off, Loretta stood before Michael and sought approval of her new look. With her arms finally stretching behind to rub her backside, her entire front was left exposed. Michael stared lecherously, taking in both her smoothed down abdominal area and her breasts. The nipples were sculptured hard. He was certain, too, that the wetness in her vaginal area was not caused by water from the shower alone.

“Let’s go,” he shouted, grabbing his wife by the arm and pulling her toward the bedroom. “I’m gonna get naked and we’re gonna do it until we drop.”

For what seemed forever, the moans of sexual pleasure vibrated through the house, as the bed squeaked and the two copulating lovers shrieked like banshees. Loretta had so many orgasms she lost track, and Michael came at least three times in the course of their lovemaking. After the pain, the emotion had come, unbridled and unlike anything they had experienced before.

When done, they fell upon their backs and let the darkness embrace them. It was then Michael recalled something from out of the blue.

“We really ought to hang that painting up before Joe and Jolene get here.”

Saturday was supposed to be a dinner party with another couple. In their frenzy, they had forgotten about the same.

“We’ll hang them up where Elvis is on the living room wall,” Loretta mouthed softly. “I’ll find a spot for Elvis later.”

For a moment there was silence, and Michael started to chuckle.

“What do you think Joe and Jolene would say if they saw the change in you? I’ve made you a bad little girl again.”

Loretta didn’t answer, snickering at the thought and continuing to stare into the darkness.

“Are you gonna sleep now?” Michael asked.

Loretta thought for a moment and her soft voice broke the darkness, so contrary to the shouts and cries she had blurted out just a short time ago as her body short-circuited with pleasure.

“Yes, but my ass is killing me. I’m gonna roll over and sleep on my stomach.”

And so the evening passed.

The morning came, and with it, Loretta was awakened by the sound of hammering downstairs. She knew right away that Michael was making a new nail spot where Elvis has been and the sensuous French pair would be gracing their living room in time for the evening gathering. She only hoped she would be able to sit and not give away the tremendous punishment she had taken the night before. Michael, however, put it in a discomforting, but totally logical way.

“Hey, for all you know, Joe and Jolene do the very same thing we did. Maybe she has a shaved snatch, too?”

Whether this was the case or not was never to be answered, as Loretta and Michael were caught up in their own supernatural world. In the afternoon, before dinner was made and preparations for their guests took place, they even strayed again and did it on the floor. This time, there was no spanking, but Loretta knelt on the carpet on her hands and knees, with the punishment from the last night still highly visible.

“Let me see your shame,” Michael repeated. “Let me see your shame.”

In front of the mysterious painting, Michael then went to town on his wife, bringing her to an unyielding, uncompromising climax while he shouted profanities, only this time he used no French words. Oddly enough, neither he nor Loretta had any recollection of speaking French during their heated escapade that had gone by.

Loretta wished there was some way to cancel the dinner engagement, so she and Michael could continue their newly discovered flaming passion. She even considered sucking it up and taking yet another round of spanking, bent over the sofa before the painted couple who had egged them on from the canvas in such a way.

“I still feel like they’re watching us,” Loretta remarked as she looked at the painting, hanging from its new position above the television. “I wonder who they were?”

“Probably just the product of some painter’s mind,” Michael answered. “You know, I could pop by the antique store after work on Monday and ask if they know anything. They probably won’t have a clue.”

The doorbell rang before the conversation could continue, with Joe and Jolene being let in. They were a couple of the same age and even appearance. Though she kept the thought to herself, Loretta glanced toward the painting and mentally made a query as to what it would be like if an orgy took place in the living room, involving all four of them. Joe, however, caught the motion and commented on the artwork before it could be brought up to either of the Mauros.

“Where’d you get that thing?” Joe asked as he moved for a closer look.

“I got it from the antique store downtown,” Michael answered. “I think it’s two British people, but Loretta insists they’re French.”

“Oh, they’re French alright,” Joe answered in a low tone. “Don’t you know who these people are?”

The Mauros shrugged in unison.

“Alphonse François Donatien,” he replied, looking hard into their eyes. “And the woman is Anne Prosphere, who was his sister in law.”

Again the Mauros shrugged, bringing a sigh from Joe as if he expected his hosts to have his familiarity with French history.

“Francois. Better known as the Marquis De Sade. Anne was a girl he and his wife had a prolonged sexual parade with that drove them all to the brink of madness.”

Chapter Six

Krampus Festival

Laura sat alone on her bed, thinking of how large the bedroom was.

“My heart aches,” she whimpered, holding back tears. Her hair flamed red and her green eyes reflected suffering.

Next to her was a small doll she had owned since childhood. Her uncle had brought it back from Germany long before. The matching figure was on her dresser, a gigantic, rail-thin Santa Claus, dressed not in red, but the robes of an Orthodox priest. This was Father Christmas, who always captivated her, as did this werewolf wearing human clothes who was called Krampus.

Had the legend been real, she might well have expected a visit from Krampus this Christmas Eve. She had, for all practical purposes, been very naughty. This was the source of her emotional distress.

She’d been involved with a married man, knowing him to be such. The only thing was she’d been dumb enough to fall for that old lie about him leaving his wife for her, where once he tired of fucking, he broke off their tryst.

Angered beyond logic, she’d called the wife and told her of the affair, but Roland was way ahead of her. His wife had been advised of the whole series of events and had little room to talk, for she was cheating on him at the same time. Thus, they decided to start from scratch, staying together.

This placed Laura out in the cold.

“I still love him,” she confessed to the doll. Though she was nearly thirty, she was talking to an innate object like it was an old friend.

The doll, however, said nothing back.

It was an image of Krampus.

In German lore, Krampus was a wolf-like monster who followed Father Christmas on his rounds to the houses of good and bad kids. The good kids got presents from Father Christmas and a small bag of candy from Krampus. The bad ones found a pile of switches, which were to serve as a warning as to what could be their fate if they didn’t clean up their actions.