The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

Chapter 4

Delirious now, sparks were flying through her brain, colors flashing around her, like she wasn’t anywhere any more but in the middle of the f**k. Jason grabbed her hips with fingers digging her flesh, pulling her into his groin while her body stretched itself taut from her bound wrists to her impaled behind. Powerful sensations of lust and surrender joined inside her, and she started to scream as he pummeled with his thrusting organ.

“Hush!” he ordered her and Sandra shut down her voice. Internalizing the feeling, she began to c*m, as Jason began to c*m. Then they rocked together until they were too exhausted to move another muscle.

When he pulled out, he left her for some minutes while gathering himself. He liked the look of her splotchy ass… the sweat, the exhaustion, the strain of her pose.

“Great pose, Sandra,” he said more coldly than he was accustomed to after s*x when they were usually close and cuddling. He wasn’t ready for that now. Instead, he viewed the masterpiece of lusty lethargy until he could see her struggling in the uncomfortable pose. “Hurt, huh?” he asked as he untied the knot at the headboard and loosened the grip on her wrists.

“A little.”

He massaged some life back into her flesh and held her some minutes.

“I think I’ll take a nap,” she said, breaking away from his hold.

She was feeling satisfied, but not the same as other times when s*x had been as rough. Then, too, maybe s*x had never been this crude. She’d never been bound, never f****d in the ass so thoroughly. He’d never forced his c**k down her throat quite so ruthlessly, nor been so cool and unsettled after she finished cumming. s*x was one thing that often put her restless lover at ease, but not this time. And strangely, the shift in mood didn’t bother her as much as she thought it should.

“Good enough,” he said, looking pleased. “I’ll be downstairs, don’t let the rats get to you.”

“There are no rats!” she said, though there was not much force behind her declaration.

“Whatever you say, darling.”

He swaggered from the room and closed the door on her with a gentle click.

***

After lunch, with the rain not letting up, the six played cards around a table they pulled into the living room near the fireplace. Though it was hardly cold, the dampness in the air sunk right to the bone, so that the low burning fire dispelled the chill and emptied the air of its oppressive mood.

At three o’clock the mantle clock chimed the hour. (Jason had discovered that it still worked when he wound the mechanism with its key.) As if on cue, they heard feet stomping on the front porch, the sound of the creaking door, and moments later saw Archibald Devane’s wry expression, coupled with a broad grin.

“Ah! Mr. Devane,” Erik greeted him warmly.

The old man nodded to the six, slipped off his slicker and moved into the room.

“I see you’re making yourselves at home,” he said.

“We’ll put everything back where we found it when we leave.”

“No matter. I can take care of it.”

“We wouldn’t think of making you do that.”

He nodded.

“Perhaps, though,” Erik continued somewhat cautiously, “you could us tell a little about Mr. Christian Barth—his house…” he paused to find appropriate words, “has some unusual features.”

“Ah, you’ve noticed?”

“The O-rings are pretty obvious.”

“They are conversation pieces, aren’t they?” Devane strolled forward, passing by the marble statue of the bound woman, gazing at her almost wantingly with a parched mouth and haunted eyes. Then, he stared at the six visitors still seated at the table with their deck of cards haphazardly strewn between them.

“Is there some simple explanation?” Erik asked, baffled by the man’s sudden vagueness.

“Oh, yes,” he said, though he hesitated to continue until, at last, his gaze met each woman with such an alarmingly erotic aspect that all three seemed to quicken sexually. Moving past the table, he rambled toward one alcove beside the fireplace, reached high to lovingly finger an O-ring, and then dropped his hand and turned back. “What I say will shock you, I’m afraid. Though I imagine you are open-minded …”

“Yes,” Erik had to prompt him when he paused.

“As I said, Mr. Christian Barth owns this island… it is, in fact, an independent entity without allegiance to any country.”

“As I figured,” Matthew remarked.

“You might say that he created his own world here, free of restraints that modern society would place on behavior. He made up his own rules, created his own laws, and abided by them—as did anyone coming here—almost as though he had a military and the might to enforce his rule. Of course, compliance was voluntary—but no one on this island had the guts to revolt—or reason to, for that matter—except, perhaps, for a few wayward girls…humm women.”

“Mr. Devane, you’re talking in riddles,” Erik said flatly, sounding peeved.

“Not so,” the man countered quickly with his eyes sharpening like daggers. “My comments are merely a preface to the bald-faced facts. Mr. Barth was a sentient man of great hedonistic passion. He had a fondness for things of the flesh, for food, drink and especially women—especially subservient women. He was as well a sadist. He established this island principality as a haven for his unusual desires. So that he might practice them in peace, without the harassment of conventional society.”

“A sadist?” Sandra pondered the word quizzically.

“Yes, sadist,” Devane’s gaze narrowed on her.

“What does that mean?”

“Sadist, as in whips and chains,” Jason interjected.

“Ah, sir, much more than that. In truth, he owned a number of female slaves while he was in residence on the island.”

“In this century?” Laney exclaimed.

“I did say the 60’s and 70’s last night, did I not?” Devane seemed to flatten her with his quick barb.

“Yes, yes, you did,” she replied quietly.

“And I meant this century. If you’ve heard anything I’ve said, you’ll realize that Mr. Barth was an iconoclast, a depraved heathen in his own century, a throwback to centuries before when owning human flesh was at the very least tolerated and at the best expected in certain portions of many societies—including your own United States.”

“You’re saying Mr. Barth owned slaves as any Southern plantation owner might in the 1800’s?” Laney asked.

“No, I’m not saying that at all. He did believe most avidly in the right to own human females as property, but his intention was primarily s****l in nature—everything he did had a s****l component, or it wasn’t important to him. He hosted numerous house parties and balls on the island where his lascivious inclinations could be played in the grandest form—that’s why the large rooms in the estate house and the many bedrooms. Most of his gatherings were associated with the de Sade Society—as in the Marquis de Sade. s****l practices of a sadomasochistic nature were openly practiced here. Masters from the United States and Europe brought their chattel so they might enjoy their chosen life without glaring scrutiny or judgment. The galas and soirees were wild affairs lasting many days. The custom was that women were trained to serve, and the men were skilled masters of the extreme s****l arts…”

“Like bondage…” Matthew spoke aloud.

“And the fine arts of whipping, application of the cane and rod, and the delightful whimsy of crops, pinchers and the variety of apparatus you’ll find in this house designed to torment the female creature into oblivion.” Devane paused. “Those parties were, of course, special occasions. In his normal life on the island, Mr. Barth had at least three female s*x slaves and sometimes as many as six or seven. They lived here with him on the island, served his needs, as well as those of his guests. You might be surprised to learn that Mr. Barth even entertained more conventional business friends—those not particularly interested in his unusual lifestyle. Visiting this island, however, his guests accepted his practices as easily as they accepted the strange ways of any other foreign country. Many were shocked when they initially arrived, but most became intrigued and eventually adjusted to the customs.”

An anxious Matthew had risen from his chair and strolled toward the fireplace, throwing another log on the glowing embers. He stood up and faced Devane, asking casually, “So, what might a visitor see here that would be particularly out of the ordinary?”

“Probably the most noticeable deviance for an arriving guest was the attire of the female slaves. It was common for them to wear few clothes—only what might enhance their natural naked state. Generally, they were naked. But then, since this is a tropical climate, the nudity was probably the most easily accepted custom. And, except for the obedient subservience of the slaves during the daily routine, there was likely little to find odd—until the evening hour. Unless, of course, a slave required some discipline.” Devane paused, noting the expressions of awe on the women’s faces. Giving them a moment to absorb the information, he went on with his narrative. “There were times when a slave might be punished before a guest—spanked, whipped, caned, or humiliated for her errs. Perhaps that was the most frightening experience for a new guest to Marquis Island, seeing Mr. Barth’s intense disciplinary rites. They could be shocking, though they were rarely protested. A reprimanded slave knew their place, they understood the ritual and obeyed with little objection. Like anything else on the island, because the practice was natural, few gave it much thought after witnessing their first few scenes.”

“Why would any woman…” Sandra whispered, her voice so soft that hardly anyone heard her speak.

“You mentioned the nights?” the fascinated Matthew probed deeper. He seemed to speak for the entire six astonished listeners who all seemed hypnotized by the subject, if not a little fearful of the implications.

“Nights on Marquis Island bloomed with sadomasochistic passions… they were animated by its secrets, scenes with women bound, driven to their knees, collared, leashed, brought to ecstasy with every means of torture imaginable. There is a dungeon in the bowels of this house, an old slave cellar—from the 1700’s—with racks and pulleys and ancient devices of excruciating torment made to cause suffering—and physical rhapsody. While Mr. Barth reigned as king every hour he spent here—he was a master of the nighttime hours. Some say he was a sorcerer, a s****l wizard. Women would naturally collapse at his feet as though they were brought there by the power of his voice and the look in his eyes—not women already slaves, but women so enthralled by his authority that they would give themselves up to his promise of pleasure. They couldn’t stop themselves. What may sound cruel, my fair ladies and gentlemen, was not cruel at all, not when in reality something divine took place—even if the experience lasted only seconds.”

Old Devane was so enamored with his own speech that he seemed to have journeyed into another world, transporting his spellbound audience with him. When he finally revived, he looked to the stunned group, “Have I shocked you?” he asked.

No one spoke for several seconds. “You’ve shocked me,” Sandra finally belted into the silence.

“Ah, does his rattle your cage, darling?” Jason asked her.

“Of course it rattles me,” she answered as she rose to her feet, clutching her arms across her breasts and moving away from the table and Archibald Devane.

“My apologies, ma’am,” Devane bowed deep and mockingly.

“Why so nervous, Sandra?” Erik asked. “That was thirty years ago. You look afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. It’s just spooky thinking of those things happening here.” She stared at the others, while thinking of her morning with Jason, “Aren’t any of you spooked by this?”

“I am,” Elise said. “But then it’s terribly erotic.”

“You think so?” Matthew turned to his wife with a look of surprise.

“Laney?” Sandra polled her.

“I’m dumbfounded,” she answered.

“We all should be,” Sandra stated. “And the three of you, too,” she said focusing her remarks on the men. “The man was obviously crazy.”

“Why?” Erik asked. “Seems to me he found a means of living out his fantasies in a safe way… no one got hurt, I assume.”

Sandra didn’t agree. “How do you know that?”

“Well, we don’t,” Matthew said. “But purely theoretically, there’s nothing wrong with what consenting adults do in their personal lives.”

“Seems I’ve challenged you,” Devane interjected.

“Not at all,” Sandra snapped a little too forcefully to be believed.

“I’ve heard it said,” Devane leered at them all, “that what makes you fear carries with it the suggestion of desire behind the fear. Perhaps you should explore what you fear now.”

“I fear nothing,” Laney stated flatly.

“I’d call it arousal,” Elise managed.

Sandra said nothing.

“If you’re interested in knowing more, there is a book, authored by Mr. Barth himself. Let me see if I can find it.” Devane transmuted himself from an astute charmer into a shriveled old man as he made his way to the library door. Disappearing inside for a few minutes, he ambled back to his baffled audience minutes later with a small leather-bound book in hand. “A good night’s reading,” he said handing it to Erik.