The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

Chapter 7

She bit her lip, held it with her teeth for several seconds, then looked at her naked friends, seeing their gross sexuality leap out at her, begging her to join them. She let go of her lip and her desire poured from her mouth and breasts, her breathing deepened and her eyes seemed to soften. Her hesitation was a poignant reminder of the fear that encircled the room and the desire billowing from that fear. Still, her anxiety did not keep her from acting on Erik’s order. With nervous fingers grasping the hem of her tee shirt, she pulled it over her head. Unclasping the white cotton bra, her bronze skin seemed to moisten with perspiration as the anticipation in the room magnified.

Ignoring the eyes that stared her way, she continued—as though she had no choice, her body moved beyond her mind. Her crotch tingled as she struggled to get free of her shorts. The eroticism was alarming. Once nude, Laney slumped to the floor and settled in with her knees bent and tucked to her chest, her arms going around them while her head rested at the top as though she were exhausted. It was not entirely a submissive pose, but it was the best she could accomplish at the moment. It did afford the rest of the room a direct shot at her shaved p***y, the pink/brown lips of her pudendum, a swollen purple c******s, and a bit of silky black hair in a tuft at the top.

“Very good, my obstinate chattel,” Erik remarked, then he turned his back on her as he stood.

“Do you suppose we can bring the trunk upstairs?” Erik asked Jason.

“Easily,” he replied, rising, leaving Sandra by the stool.

While their slaves waited in silence for their return, the three men swiftly made their way to the subterranean depths of the old house and minutes later returned with a hefty camelback steamer trunk. Matthew moved the coffee table, and in the center of the room before the fireplace, Jason and Erik carefully let it drop to the floor with a gentle plunk. All six stared at the massive antique for some minutes—it gave off the aroma of damp dust while suggesting that, like Pandora’s Box, there were secrets inside that, once exhumed from the dark, could explode unchecked altering the natural order of their lives. Could it hold such awesome power? Did it contain that kind of force? Or did their fascination have its source in the same numbing s****l spell that had already moved this night beyond the pallid and into the extreme?

Matthew was the first to act. Tired of waiting, he impulsively unlatched the rickety lock—one already breached by Jason earlier that day. Opening the trunk, the dank smell hit his nostrils like a blast of wind. Inside, the reality of the trunk’s contents was quite plainly visible. A treasure house of S&M paraphernalia, there were implements of punishment and bondage, an array of leather harnesses and bridles, boots, chains and most importantly for the moment, a half dozen slave collars.

Matthew immediately lit on a metal one: slim, velvet lined and very snug around Elise’s slim neck. As he fixed it tightly and locked the latch behind there was a tiny but ominous click, signaling the gravity of its purpose. Taking the long tail of his wife’s lustrous chestnut hair in hand, he twirled it into a thick bun at the top of her head, and thread her long hair-pick through the locks to hold it in place. Her hair swept off her shoulders, the diminutive beauty formed a stunning statement of submissive elegance with the metal collar circling the flawless perfection of her pale neck.

Erik made a different choice in collars for his slave, finding one made of black leather, much like Sandra’s, but studded with thick round silver bullets. In the front, a large metal ring dangled a good inch below the leather itself. Around Laney’s neck, the collar was bold, brushed lightly by the ends of the short straight pageboy. She was less elegant than Elise, less indulgently robust than Sandra, and like her plain-stated personality, more abrupt than either woman, harboring a trace of defiance in her attitude that one would expect from a woman so determinedly frank.

Once his slave wife was collared, Erik rose again. “As long as we play our wager, you’ll wear these,” he said.

“And how long will that be?” Laney asked, looking up meekly.

“As long as we like,” Erik replied to her tersely. “Now, I think I’ll read a little more of the book. And this time,” he looked straight at his wife, “no interruptions.”

Curiously, the swiftness of the change took no one by surprise. After three days on the island with their imaginations fueled by the peculiarities of the odd place, it almost seemed to be the natural order of life, the way things should be, an adjustment to the disharmony that had rankled them all since they arrived. As bizarre as it seemed for three women to be naked, collared and subservient at the feet of their men, no one questioned the act—not even Laney could protest with words. She struggled—even Elise struggled. Sandra seemed the most gone. Regardless, however, this was fate, and it would not change. Accepting their collars and their subordinate status seemed far more natural than resisting. In time, they realized that their disquiet would fall away, to be replaced by an effortless surrender none would have attempted anywhere but on Marquis Island.

Moving away from his collared wife, Erik strolled to the fireplace, the book in his hand, and leaning an arm against the mantle, he began to read. There’d been a challenging swagger in his walk and a sharp turn in attitude as though he were allowing what was already inherently dominant in his make-up to emerge more distinctly. His was a cool almost calculating sort of dominance. Jason’s was emotionally hot and intense, while Matthew’s predilection was quick-witted and imaginative. Each man in his own fashion suppressed an explosive energy that waited like a hunting tiger about to strike. The thought of that energy erupting through their uneasy calm held their captive slaves, their prey, enthralled, on edge and wary.

“To subjugate the ego of a human slave it is essential they have no self concern, self-consciousness or modesty. They must have no thought for propriety. Indeed, they should have no concerns at all. Their single task is to obey the rules set for them by their master, and in so doing dispense with any idea of self and the conventions of society they may have adhered to in their past.

“In order to attain this selfless state, it is imperative that they undergo efficiently administered beatings on their buttocks, thighs and even their shoulders—all places where punishment can be dealt and not produce permanent damage. For such acts, humiliating poses of surrender are required with asses raised lewdly, genitals splayed wide, and the flesh worked harshly. This kind of treatment, regularly imposed, imbues the slave with a sense of their degraded and worthless state.

Should they find themselves in a masochistic revelry because of such beatings, that fairs well for the master—he knows then that he has less to punish with a slave who finds s****l, physical release in the act. Be sure, however, that the abuse is not laid on too lightly in order to achieve an erotic outcome. This can come later. Instead, the intent at this early stage is to instill a state of surrender and to suppress the ego until its effects are abolished altogether in the mind of the slave.

“Should the process of abuse raise the erotic desire of the master—which it commonly does in such a highly charged environment, feel free to use your beaten slave in any s****l manner you choose. The indignity of such physical violation only enhances in the slave the servile state of abdication.”

Erik paused to gaze at Jason and Matthew, as this message from the Master Christian Barth became clear in their minds—he might as well have been writing a script.

“I thought we might draw lots to see whose slave is abused first,” Jason suggested. There was something particularly unnerving about these words coming from that source. Jason, normally the least somber of the three, seemed to be as much the ringleader for this scene. But make no mistake, the fervency in all three men drove the bargain to these inevitable ends, as much as the island, the house, Christian Barth’s crude missal, and the scorching fires ignited in the loins of these three astounded women.

“Fair enough,” Erik said. Opening the deck of cards on the table, he turned them face side up and pulled three queens from the stack. “Jason’s slave will be the Heart, mine the Spade, and Matthew’s b***h the Club.”

“Last time they’ll be thought of as queens,” Matthew chortled from his own dark space. He took the cards from Erik, shuffled them on the table, then laid them flat so no one knew which was which. “Draw our lucky slave, Jason,” he said.

The smirking master strode forward, considered all three cards, then quickly whisked one away, holding up the Queen of Spades so everyone could see.

Laney shivered silently in her collar as Erik stared her way. What protest might have appeared inside her throat was cut short by fear; and more importantly, the desperate desire that seemed to have replaced her sanity and arguments with an unexpected lust she could not squelch. Some vein of passion, like a vein of pure gold, seemed to have been tapped in her, and now mined, held forth an unending supply of rare desire from which to see this through.

“And will you do the honors with the slave?” Erik asked his friend.

Jason’s eyes burned with fire as he nodded his agreement and moved swiftly to the trunk of treasure, plucking from inside a short leather spanking strap. In his hand, the hefty two-inch leather almost brushed the floor. Laney’s gaze focused on the horror, though the look of the leather and the intensity of Jason’s firm fist gripping the thick handle lured her entire body. Her life had taken this twist without her conscious mind grasping—no thoughts seemed to get through now, no reason seemed to have any sway; there was no logic guiding her. Just lust. That pure vein of molten passion.

“On the table, ass end up,” Jason ordered.

Looking at him meekly, Laney crawled on hands and knees to the coffee table, slinking like a stalking animal, her ass swaying as though this were an invitation; though Jason hardly needed the seduction to lure him to her. He came on with the full power of a master’s lust guiding.

“Put your head on the table and raise your ass,” he ordered. Laney complied. “Spread your knees.” She did that, too. “Wider,” he commanded grimly as though he were displeased. She obeyed, though the position was difficult to manage and disgustingly lewd—just as Barth would have demanded.

Her ass was high, the two orbs tight, the tawny skin stretched, her thighs quivering and her exposed p***y wet with female c*m. She flexed and clenched while pretending to relax, though there was not a muscle in her body that was not tense and teeming with anxiety as she awaited the first strike.

Jason stood back to appraise his target while all eyes focused on the show. The two waiting slaves watched petrified, while the two men witnessing were moved by the same strong hunger for domination. Their fingers were as itchy as this new master’s, but their appetites were on hold. A degree of patience seemed to breed in them along with their lust.

The first smack of the spanker fired hotly across the expanse of Laney’s ass.

She shrieked aghast as a surge of sensation splashed against her skin.

The second smack came down as damagingly; and the slave’s ass churned uncomfortably as another and another and another rain of sharp thwacks shot painful arrows through her. Though the heat of the spanking grew intense, her shrieks died off as though she unconsciously knew she should not protest with any venom. Her discomfort doubled and redoubled. But, her lust didn’t die, nor could she squash the crude sensuality barreling through her in great waves, choking all her senses.

Soon, an even rhythm grew between the slave and master as the beating on Laney’s ass proceeded. Her body caught up with the pain and used it to her advantage. “Ah, ah, ah, yessssss,” she was seething quietly under her breath, even though the whole room heard her when her distress changed to pleasure. Even with Jason coming on more strongly, she bore the pain with grace. Her mind swam with pictures, as if Christian Barth’s slaves were sending her images from the past, of ecstasy and untold pleasure inside the depths of pain.