Sophie & The Society

Chapter One The man seated opposite on the tube train had been looking at her for some time now. At first the train had been crowded, and his sight of Sophie obscured, but once they passed Baker Street there were fewer passengers. He had stared at her openly, arrogantly even, his eyes moving from her face down over her body and back up again. It was a warm day and Sophie was lightly dressed in a white T-shirt, rather tight, accentuating her breasts, were supported by a natural-line bra which held them in position without unsightly seams showing through. Below she wore a flared skirt, very short, in a flimsy cotton printed with a bright flower-pattern. As she sat, the skirt rode up her thighs, but she was careful to keep her legs close together. On her feet were high-heeled white sandals. Her toenails, painted scarlet, showed through the opening of the shoes. At Paddington most of the remainder of the passengers got off. At her end of the carriage there was only herself, the man and an elderly woman engrossed in a paperback. The man continued to stare at her. He was about fifty, suavely dressed in a dark suit with expensive shoes. His tie had some sort of badge on it, a club or a school she supposed. She didn’t want to look him in the eye, but as she was wondering who he might be, she saw him open the palm of one hand, and with the index finger of the other trace the outline of a letter S. In the pit of Sophie’s stomach she felt a tingling, as if some electric current were passing through her, a sensation caused in equal part by fear and desire. She knew she had no choice; that she must now go with this man and do his wishes. One part of her wanted to run, one part was held in thrall. Was this how the rabbit felt when cornered by the fox? She knew she must respond. She held out her right hand, opened the palm, and with her finger wrote an answering S. She glanced around; no one was paying them any attention. Just then the train slowed and stopped, at Warwick Avenue. The man stood up and got off the train, not bothering to look behind to see if Sophie was following. He had seen her sign of acquiescence and was confident that she would come with him. On the escalator she stood a couple of steps behind him. Once out in the street, the man set off at a brisk pace, Sophie trotting behind, her sandals clicking on the pavement. They arrived at a mansion block and the man entered. He strode across to the lift and held the gate open for her, without looking at her. When they got out of the lift he led the way down the corridor, finally stopping in front of a door and opening it with a key. She stepped through and stood in the hall as he closed the door behind them. “Follow me,” he said. His voice was emotionless. He walked down the hall and into a room with a large window at one end. He drew the curtains across it, and switched on a lamp standing on a small table next to a large leather armchair. The room was expensively furnished in traditional style, with a heavy mahogany dining table and matching chairs at one end, and a large plush sofa covered in deep red velvet. He sat down in the leather armchair and pointed to the floor in front of him. “Stand there,” he said. Sophie did as she was told. “Lift up your skirt,” he ordered. She did so, raising it almost to the top of her thighs. “Right up to your waist,” he said. She pulled her skirt up high, revealing her knickers. They were white satin, very brief, the front little more than a triangular cache-sexe, the sides mere strips of elastic, though the back did cover her bottom. The knickers were decorated with tiny satin bows around the edge. He reached forward and pulled them down just far enough to give him sight of her pubic mound, and through the screen of hair the beginning of the cleft beneath, its framing labia showing pinkly through the dark thicket. “Turn around and bend over,” he said. She bent double, almost touching her toes. The man pushed her skirt up over her buttocks, then pulled her knickers further down, as far as her knees. She imagined him inspecting her, his eyes minutely focused on the tiny-pursed opening of her rear orifice. She thought he would touch her but he didn’t. She looked up and gazed around the room. All down one side was a large bookcase constructed of polished wood. It was filled with old volumes, some bound in leather. It was a very masculine decor, showing no evidence of a feminine touch. He must be unmarried. Then she felt his hand touch her, his finger tips running lightly up the inside of her thigh, over her rump, till his hand cupped around one of her buttocks. He put his hand between her legs, and taking in his fingers the soft folds of flesh around her s*x, he squeezed her hard. She caught her breath and, fearing she might overbalance, shifted her position slightly. “Keep still,” he said curtly. He took hold of her right labia between forefinger and thumb. Now he found what he was looking for, the little steel stud representing a snake curled in the form of an S which was the Society’s insignia and which all Subjects had inserted into the labia, just below the c******s, upon initiation. He toyed with it for a while, twisting it, pulling it this way and that. He took his hand away. Leaving Sophie bending, her skirt raised over her bottom, her knickers about her knees, he went to the far end of the room, where there was a round pouf in black leather, matching the armchair. He pulled it to the centre of the room. “Kneel on this,” he said. Sophie had to pull up her knickers to walk across the room. She knelt on the pouf. The leather felt cold on her knees and hands. The man went over to a chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. From it he took a long thin cane. It had a wooden handle with a silver knob on the end. The cane itself was made of some flexible kind of wood; he swished it a couple of times as if to check its efficacy for the task in hand. Then he pushed Sophie’s head down till it rested on the pouf. She was aware of her raised bottom, vulnerable now. He moved behind her, out of her line of vision, and pulled her skirt back up around her waist. He pulled her knickers down again, just below the curve of her buttocks. Something cold went between her legs, the handle of the cane. He pushed it against her s*x, not attempting to penetrate her but just holding the handle, hard and cold, against the soft cleft between her legs, prodding her. “Don’t move. And don’t make a sound,” he said. Then she heard the swish of the cane and the smack as it landed on her rump. There was a sharp, searing pain. The cane came down again, this time a little harder, and in just the same spot. She gasped, and trembled slightly. “Keep still, I said,” the man snapped. The cane landed again. The pain was not quite unbearable, but it would become so if there were many more blows in store. She tried hard to think about why she was submitting to this ordeal. She wanted Roberto to be proud of her, she wanted him to say how well she had behaved, how much she pleased him. But right now she wished the man would stop. She lost count of the number of blows. It must have been ten or a dozen, maybe more; it seemed to go on and on. But at last he was done. He put the cane back in the drawer. Sophie remained kneeling, her naked bottom burning with the aftermath of the beating. The man stood in front of her. In his hand he had a length of black silk. For one awful moment Sophie thought he was going to strangle her. Instead, he placed the material round her head so as to cover her eyes and tied it at the back, not too tightly. She was aware of him standing close in front of her, and she heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened. She knew what was coming. She could smell the unmistakable odour of a man’s erect organ just under her nose. Smell has the power to go straight into the brain, setting up powerful emotions. The scent of a man’s c**k, no matter in what circumstances, always gave Sophie an urgent tug of excitement. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. She did so and he inserted his c**k, pushing it right in to the back of her throat so that she almost gagged. Then he pulled it out almost completely, before pushing it back in, this time not quite so far. He held her head with both hands to keep her steady and began to f**k her in the mouth, in a slow but steady rhythm. She didn’t know if she was supposed to help by licking or sucking. He seemed to expect nothing of her except what he ordered, but instinctively she had closed her lips around him. She knelt there passively, letting him use her mouth, his c**k pushing in and out. She could feel the rhythm gradually increase and he began to breathe heavily. He f****d on, pulling her head more towards him. Suddenly he grunted and she felt his sperm spurt into her mouth, hitting the roof of her palate. His c**k continued to buck and kick in her mouth as the last of his c*m, thick and hot, ejaculated. Then he withdrew. She heard him zip himself up again, then he pulled the blindfold off her. He handed it to her. “You needn’t swallow,” he said. “Spit it out in that.” She did so, the c*m white against the black silk. With an oddly tender movement he took the cloth from her and carefully wiped her lips. “You may use the bathroom if you wish, before you leave. You should find a new toothbrush in there if you need it.” He spoke more kindly now that he’d finished with her. But he seemed to want her to leave quickly. In the bathroom she peed, washed her hands and brushed her teeth. Standing with her back to the mirror, she pulled down her knickers and twisted round to see what marks he had left. Across her buttocks were several parallel lines, red weals that would leave bruises. When she came out he was standing in the hall. “What is your name?” he asked. “Sophie.” “Goodbye, Sophie,” he replied. “Perhaps we may meet again.” He opened the front door and closed it after her without any further word.