Alison's Wonderland (7 page)

“Yes, Madame,” he said breathlessly, and lowered his face back to her sex.

Belle cried out as she came for a second time, and a third. Only then did she let him enact the ritual of cleaning her boots, from top to toe to spike heel, before he removed them. And then, with her appetite whetted, Madame Belle took her servant to bed.

As it turned out, she did let Andrew’s cock inside her—and a mammoth thing it was, sliding into her at a variety of angles as she instructed him to raise and lower himself for her exact satisfaction based not on his desires, or his pleasure or even his physical capacity—she pushed his thigh muscles almost to the breaking point, multiple times—but on the
angle at which Madame most eagerly wished to enjoy Andrew’s cock.

Good Lord, she discovered, she really did have a G-spot! And Andrew’s cock hit it perfectly, provided he stood at the edge of the four-poster bed with one foot on the mattress and one on the floor, and Belle reclined with one leg over his shoulder. She used him that way, commanding him not to come, until his face went red and his thigh muscles rubbery. Only then, when she’d exhausted both herself and her slave, did Madame Belle relax alongside her servant, relishing the feel of his naked body against her and the hardness of his cock, still moist from her, in her hand. She stroked it rhythmically and caressed it with her long, slender fingers.

Perhaps it was the very late hour and the long journey and her own physical satisfaction that made her feel so drunk with excitement.

Or perhaps it was the pleasure of power over her servant that made Madame Belle say to Andrew: “I
could
let you come.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice thick with hunger and weak with submission. “If you wished to do so.”

She stroked her fingers up and down his wet cock, alternately caressing and gripping it, showing the extensive skills at manual pleasuring she had gained from her long, long time on her knees. So many times she’d been engaged to pleasure a man with her hands, and she knew Andrew was very, very close. Her habit was, unquestionably, to satisfy the man immediately, per her role in life. But now she felt differently. It would have taken a few firm strokes of her hand, or the permission for Andrew to mount her again and fuck her for his pleasure, or a few quick slurps of her mouth—which was even now watering. She could even just issue a dismissive word that would allow Andrew to satisfy himself: “Stroke,” or “Jerk,” or “Finish” or, most simply, “Come.”

But she did not say any of these words, or pump Andrew’s cock with her hand, or order him back into her or go down to suck him, though she very badly wanted to. It was the first time she had ever been with a man without going down on him. It would be the first time, she decided, that she had ever been with a man when he did not come.

Belle sighed and laughed musically. She removed her hand from Andrew’s cock and stretched her naked body out across the great expanse of the bed. She’d like it all to herself, she decided, and as delicious as Andrew was, she was finished with him.

“I don’t think so,” she told him. “Go now. Wake me in the morning.”

“Yes, Madame,” said Andrew. “May I kiss you goodbye?”

She looked at him pleasantly.

“No,” she said.

“Yes, Madame.” He got out of her bed and stood beside her, his cock erect and pink with effort, still glistening with her. Belle yawned and closed her eyes.

“May I ask a question?”

“What is it?” said Belle flatly, without opening her eyes.

“Did Madame enjoy herself?”

Belle’s eyes popped open; she looked Andrew up and down.

She had enjoyed herself very much; she was almost terrified by the pleasure. She’d had more orgasms than she’d ever been allowed during any other tryst throughout her long life as a submissive, or before, when she’d gone to bed with men on equal footing, when she’d had, in fact, very few orgasms. But the vast physical pleasure she’d experienced was as nothing compared to the overwhelming intoxication of power. She felt ecstatic over the fact that she was being asked—and could answer as she wished, something she’d never been able to do the dozens of times she’d been asked before she became kinky,
when she’d always said yes out of politeness, often elaborating with great vigor despite being vaguely dissatisfied.

Now, her body soft and relaxed with many orgasms, her satisfaction overpowering, she could answer as it pleased her to do so, and she realized she did not know how best to use this new tool for her amusement.

“Not nearly enough,” said Belle coldly. “You’ll have to try harder next time.” She felt a surge of excitement at the look of deep submission on Andrew’s face. His cock remained hard. She closed her eyes.

“Madame, am I allowed to masturbate?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to ask, “Is that my decision to make?” but stopped herself before she uttered the question.

Instead, she looked at him pleasantly, so she could feel the hot wave of his submission when she told him:

“No. You may not masturbate. And have my clothes sent up.”

“They’ve been confiscated,” said Andrew.

Belle frowned.

“Then clean my boots,” she said. “For real this time.”

“Thank you, Madame. I shall wake you in the morning.”

“Just try.” Belle laughed, and went to sleep.

Belle slept deep and long, and refused to be roused when Andrew came to wake her in the morning.

“The Master wishes to lunch with you, Madame,” said Andrew.

Belle sighed, yawned and cast aside the blankets. She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, spread her legs and crooked a finger at Andrew.

“Madame, he’s waiting.”

“Let him wait,” she said, and grabbed Andrew’s hair. She pulled him onto her, then threw him on his back, riding him
with excruciating slowness. Each time he bit his lip and struggled not to come, it made Belle’s excitement sore higher.

Three hours later, she still had not granted Andrew leave, and she laughed as she bade the poor man lace her boots up, seeing his trembling from head to toe as his desperate sexual need pulsed through him.

“Just a stroke or two of my hand, wouldn’t it?”

“Madame?”

“That’s all it would take.” She sighed. “Just a soft little stroke, and I could give you everything you ever wanted. Or maybe—” she bent down low and ran her fingers over the back of Andrew’s neck “—I could use my mouth. Would you like to come in my mouth, Andrew?”

The servant let out a faint, desperate squealing noise before he finally managed to rasp, “As…Madame…wishes.”

Belle laughed.

When she finally let Andrew lead her into the banquet hall, it was very late in the day. Sitting at the head of the table was the man whom submissives from France to Russia called the Beast, his face red with anger.

Entering the room ahead of Belle, Andrew announced her. Then he said, “I’m sorry for the delay, sir, Madame Belle—”

The Beast cut him off with a savage wordless growl and slammed his fist down on the table. Andrew paled and stood stock-still. But then Beast rose as Belle entered the room, and his face was transformed into an expression of gentleness.

He hurried to greet Belle, going down on one knee and kissing her hand as she extended it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame Belle,” said the man they called the Beast. He was not a bad-looking man, though Belle had always preferred those without the long bushy beard the Beast favored. Her own Master was clean-shaven. In just the last twelve hours, she’d come to very much appreciate the long hair of Andrew—
it provided quite a useful handhold when she wished to direct the location of his mouth. Beast had the same long hair, though he was not nearly as blond—gray shot through his hair even more than through his beard.

Belle took a long moment to savor the Beast on his knees; were she to remain here, it would be the last time she saw it for quite a while. She did not withdraw her hand or respond for a time, and the Beast remained on one knee looking up at her in growing irritation.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master. Your servant has been showing me quite evident hospitality.”

She saw the color come quickly to Beast’s face, and felt a sudden charge. She took her seat and the Beast returned to his, his eyes shifting nervously back and forth, as if he were stealing glances at Belle’s naked body. Certainly a Master like him had to be quite accustomed to taking his pleasure with a slave, both visually and otherwise. But here, before the final negotiation had taken place, the Beast was like a sneaky schoolboy, stealing clandestine looks at Belle’s perfect tits. Not a week before she was nothing more than a slave whose breasts were on display whenever her Master wished them to be; now, this Beast seemed almost ashamed to look at them.

Belle felt a great thrill of power, and did not wish to give that up.

“Shall we eat?” asked Beast.

“Of course,” said Belle. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

Beast’s lips pulled back and he glared at Andrew with a savage fury. The servant retreated from the room.

Unseen hands served the meal, with the great silver domes of the serving dishes receding at the wave of the Beast’s hand. Underneath were steaming plates of roast beef and vegetables, and Belle had only to look at something and desire it, and invisible forces would seize utensils, slice or spoon her up what
she wished and carry them unbidden to her plate. The same was true of wine; each flagon was poured whenever she noticed that her glass was getting partially empty, and when the main course was finished she enjoyed the same magical dispensing of rich sweets and coffee.

“Well, then—it’s time,” said the Beast when steaming mugs were before them. “Shall we talk business?”

“Most certainly,” purred the very naked Belle. “I like nothing at all so much as I like business.”

“Yes, well—as you know, you were sold to me by your Master, or your
former
Master, since at this very moment you are in transition—”

“Yes, of course,” said Belle. “You’re stating the obvious, Beast.”

The Beast bristled. “Must you call me that?”

She smiled. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense. You must know the submissives all call you that.”

“For what reason?” he said bitterly, as if he already knew the answer. Belle could see the sadness in the Beast’s eyes.

She felt a heady thrill of excitement, and with her new-found candor she just began talking: “They say you’re very rough, Sir. Quite a savage fuck. They say you’re like a mad wild animal, that you’ve claws and teeth and a cock not at all shaped like a normal one—a human cock. Some say you’ve four or five of them secreted at different parts of your body. They say you love to do horrible things—to pull a slave’s hair, to slap her face, to spank her, whip her, cane her, to fuck her ass with a wicked ardor—”

Beast rose from his seat, the heavy chair tumbling back and crashing to the floor. He smacked his palm against the table.

He bellowed: “Is that not what she desires? Does a submissive not beg for such treatment? Each girl begged—”

“Please, Sir,” purred Belle, her soft voice cutting through the Beast’s very loud one despite his excitement. “I meant no
offense. I’m merely telling what I’ve heard about you…if I’m going to kneel before you, Sir, I believe frankness is called for.”

The Beast looked ashamed. He righted his chair and sat again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are,” said Belle with a soft smile. “You were saying something, I believe, Sir?”

The Beast stared at his coffee. “No, not at all, Madame…if the lady wishes to speak, then—”

“I’d prefer to hear what the Beast has to say for himself,” Belle told him. “Such a bad, bad man…frightening submissives from Tuktoyaktuk to Timbuktu…you’re like the bogeyman that Masters tell their girl slaves about. And here you’ve purchased me, and so soon I’ll be on my knees before you…sucking your cock, Sir, and begging you not to spank me.” She made sure she had his eye, and gave him a dirty wink, brushing her hand across her bosom as she did so. “But secretly hoping that you do, Sir. Why should I relish this?”

The Beast went red, hot, his breath coming short. He tried to look at Belle, but could not; her beauty had frozen him. He tried to speak, but no words came out. Finally, he stammered, “W-we met,” he said. “I fucked you.”

“I’m sorry?” Belle said, puzzled.

The Beast’s words came in a torrent, his nervousness showing. “It was at the New Year’s party at your Master’s house,” he said. “He…he provided you to me. You were hooded, I was masked. Your hood did not have eyeholes. You were bound on your back, with your arms over your head and your holes—forgive me, Madame… I used you quite savagely…as you say, befitting my reputation. You seemed to like it.” The Beast could not look at her; he stared into his coffee.

Belle caught her breath; she remembered it well—very well. She felt her nipples stiffen almost painfully. For a mo
ment she could not speak. She covered her discomfort with an imperious air.

“I did,” she said. “I enjoy everything my Master orders me to.”

“Your
former
Master,” the Beast said coolly.

“Of course.”

“Your…your body, Belle—
Madame
Belle—it was…it was exquisite. I had never seen a naked slave so beautiful, bound as you were…but it was more than that, Madame. The way you reacted, the way you relished the sensation. The way you answered to my hand and my whip and my cane and my cock—not just your body, Madame, but your mind. I…I believe I fell in love with you that night, Belle.
Madame
Belle.” The Beast stood up again, quite unexpectedly, and his chair again slammed into the ground with an explosive sound. He slammed both fists into the table, tipping his wine flagon.

He cried, “
Madame
Belle—I hate that word! God, but I hope you’ll come and kneel before me so I can stop calling you
Madame…
and call you things that make you wet—whore, slut—”

“Stop!” cried Belle, her head spinning. She felt drunk; she had not consumed nearly enough wine to make her as intoxicated as she felt. She breathed hard, looking at the Beast and feeling her own sexual needs pulsing hot in her naked body.