Star Slave (19 page)

Felicity felt her head being raised. A black velvet eye mask was slipped over her head and adjusted, sealing her in all-embracing darkness. Her heart thudded. She murmured in protest, and felt the springs dip and rise as Magda climbed off the bed.

‘Be good,' the voice whispered, fading towards the door. ‘I know you will be.' There was one last chuckle, and then Felicity heard a soft click as the door closed.

‘Magda!' she called sharply, but she knew she was alone.

She lay there, tied on her back, limbs stretched apart, staring up into the impenetrable blackness. She had never felt more helpless, Or more vulnerable. She was deeply afraid. But she could not ignore it; she was fiercely roused. Her whole body, every fibre of her, quivered for satisfaction. She felt the tug of the velvet cords as she tried instinctively to draw in her limbs, to close her legs, to bring her hands down to touch the centre of her need, the maddening pulse of sexual hunger at her loins. God, this was cruel! She ached with the need to caress herself, to bring the relief her screaming nerves demanded. She began to sob, her body tom by convulsive shudders of grief.

It was a long while before the fit passed. She realised she was cold, despite the heating from the old and inefficient radiators in the room. The cords didn't chafe as long as she lay still. Would they leave her there all night?

Her mind drifted.

She tried to conjure up the faces of those downstairs. She tried to recall previous Christmases.

This was undoubtedly the strangest Christmas Eve she had spent in her entire life; tied naked and blindfolded on a bed in a lord's castle. It was the hot stuff of a teenager's fantasies. Except that no one was there to make her fantasies come true.

She didn't know whether she had actually slept, but suddenly she was jerked to full awareness, straining her ears. There had been a noise. The door opening? She thought she could sense someone's presence. ‘Magda?' she whispered. ‘Is that you? Who's there?' She waited, there was a creak, she thought she could hear a soft rustle, like cloth moving. ‘Who's there?' she called again, beginning to panic. ‘Who are you?'

She whimpered as a cold hand grabbed suddenly at her breast, crushing, squeezing, the thumb brushing against the tender nipple. A man, surely? Another clammy hand seized her other breast, equally brutally, and she gasped in shock as much as pain. Then a naked body was on her, covering her, and a searching slobbering mouth sealed hers, smothering the scream in her throat. A hand scrabbled at her belly, prised open her labia, a finger prodded into her, to the wet sheath of her vagina. Other fingers opened her and brushed across her clitoris. They rubbed until she involuntarily lifted her hips, gasping under the smothering weight and kiss.

‘Who is this?' she wept impotently when she could again speak. She felt the tears soaking into the velvet of the mask. ‘Please,' she sobbed, quieter now, wilting under the onslaught. She could feel an erection resting on her belly, and then the stranger's hips lifting as he clumsily sought to enter her. ‘Untie me,' she begged. ‘It'll be easier...'

She cried out at the sharp penetration, the sudden plunge deep into her clinging sheath. She groaned shamefully, knowing she was already roused to her former excitement.

She fought instinctively to raise her legs, to wrap them around the lunging figure on top of her. She knew she was coming, arched her back, and screamed aloud, her cry dying to a long wail as the orgasm raged through her.

 

Felicity woke, swimming up from the depths of a sensual dream, jerked to full consciousness by the awareness that her wrists were still secured, her arms sprawled out above her head. She moved, felt the unrestricted freedom of her legs, and remembered the relief of someone untying her ankles, allowing her to draw up her knees, lift her thighs, and encompass the rutting body between them. She was aware of the heavy warmth of the duvet which someone - Magda? - had tucked securely around her after the ordeal, and after someone had wiped her sensitive sex with a cool antiseptic tissue.

How many had fucked her? She was still not sure. Five? Six? She wasn't even certain whether it had been the second or the third who had released her ankles, when she begged him to do so, explaining how uncomfortable it was for her. Once her legs were free it had been much easier. In fact it shamed her to remember how excitement had overtaken her once more when one of her invisible assailants, the fourth perhaps, had spent a long time kissing her helpless frame; her breasts, her stomach, her knees, until he reached the puffy lips of her sex, sticky with the discharges previously pumped into her.

The wicked tongue had teased until she was again straining at her bonds, her body arched, sobbing for release that came, eventually, in the shape of another gliding cock. Even that was a connoisseur's performance. Not exceptionally long but wickedly skilful, it moved in such a way that drew the maximum of sensation from her heaving form, withdrawing until she could feel the very tip between her vaginal lips and she whimpered with the fear that she would lose it altogether, only for the bliss of that steady drive to fill her once again.

The man came even as her own climax was dying its shuddering death. After that she wasn't sure whether it was another one or two that used her. She felt little, and they were soon done. She seemed to lie alone for hours in a trancelike state, feeling strangely proud and somehow vindicated. She had passed the test, of that she was certain, and she lay in an exhausted stupor.

She tried to decide if and when his lordship had fucked her, and was mortified to find she didn't know. Was he the first? She shivered as she wondered if one of her partners had been the venerable judge, the ancient turtle. She couldn't recall any particularly horrendous contact. Surely she would have known such a withered frame? She felt the heat of embarrassment as she mentally relived each bout, thought about the penises that had been driven into her. She could not really differentiate between them.

With such bizarre reflections occupying her thoughts she drifted eventually to sleep, still tied, still blindfolded, in that strange and silent room.

When the mask was removed the light stabbed into her eyes so mercilessly she could not open them for several seconds. When she could, there was her beloved Magda, and the room was bathed in the brightness of electric light. Through the still drawn curtains a dull daylight seeped. Magda at last untied her wrists, and Felicity whimpered as the blood flowed back into her cramped muscles.

Magda picked her up and carried her through to the adjoining bathroom, stood her in the tub, and turned on the shower. The soothing flow of hot water comforted and caressed. Magda had slipped off her robe. She was wearing the black embossed cache-sexe, which she didn't remove as she stood behind Felicity. Felicity could feel the tiny scratch of the metal on its leather as Magda enfolded her in her arms, the large hands slipping round and cradling her breasts in their tender hold.

Felicity revelled in her own surrender, standing inertly while her mistress soaped every curve of her weary body, before lifting her out and drying her. Then Magda sat her on the bidet and allowed the bubbling stream of tepid water to play around the tender lips of her sex, soothing further. Finally, she wrapped her in a long white towelling robe and carried her along to her own room, where she laid her in the bed and curled up beside her, holding her in her arms until Felicity drifted off towards another, more contented sleep.

‘Did I pass?' she murmured dreamily, quivering with joy at the lips that lightly kissed the hollow of her neck.

‘With flying colours, my angel,' the deep voice breathed, its warmth yet another treasured caress.

 

The stabbing pain in Michael's head was his first acknowledgement of yet another night of drunken abandon. He opened his eyes to see John standing there, holding a tray with a mug of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and some toast on it. He was wearing Felicity's flowered silk robe. Michael vividly recalled her in it, how it showed her body with misty enchantment through its sheer darkness. Now it hung negligently open on John's slim frame, revealing his nakedness. Michael's gaze was drawn to the neat dark triangle of hair and the small prick hanging beneath. A consuming shame speared through him at the memory of its throbbing potency, the texture and taste of it in his mouth, and the thick issue that had anointed his face and hair.

His jaw clenched. He wished he could hide, and wished the whole of the previous evening had not happened. He had a childish urge to crawl under the bedclothes and pretend he wasn't there.

‘Happy Christmas,' John said cheerfully, moving to the side of the bed. ‘Here you are, rejoin us in the land of the living.'

Largely because he could think of nothing else to do, Michael struggled up on his elbows, took the proffered glass, and muttered a shamefaced reply to the seasonal greeting. He drank the juice greedily, and sighed with pleasure at its coldness. He was surprised to find that, apart from his throbbing temples, he did not feel too bad, but then remembered how comprehensively he had vomited - after... after...

In the early hours of the morning, after a steaming shower, Michael had stood for long seconds in Felicity's bedroom, staring vacantly at the bed. Then a great weariness overcame him. What did it matter now? He was a queer, a poof, a queen - he broke off the litany of self-abuse, climbed into bed, and listened to the sound of John's ablutions.

With his usual matter of fact manner, John came in some minutes later, climbed in beside him, and switched off the lamp. Michael lay with his back to him, and once more he felt that smooth form fit around him, adapting to his curves. He felt the small prick nestle against his buttocks.

He swallowed hard and fought the sudden urge to weep again. ‘I don't - I'm not a bugger—!'

‘Neither am I,' John had interrupted. ‘Not tonight, anyway.' The warmth of spearmint-scented breath tickled Michael's ear as John chuckled softly. Michael felt the fumbling hand reach round and delicately pick up his limp penis, which stirred at once to the still-alien touch. ‘But it's your turn for a bit of fun. That was wonderful back' there. You don't mind if I toss you off as a little thank you, do you?'

His hand was already moving, gently, rhythmically, and Michael's traitorous prick stiffened. Mortified, he made a strangled sound, then whispered, ‘I can't... I haven't - got anything.'

John chuckled again. ‘You don't need a condom for this, you know. You won't catch anything off me.'

‘No, the mess, I mean—' Michael stammered, and John tutted patiently.

‘Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll wash the sheets tomorrow.

Now lie back and think of Santa.'

 

That afternoon, after an excellent Christmas lunch cooked by John, and many more drinks, they were both drunk again. ‘Let's have a fancy dress party!' John exclaimed, and pulled Michael by the arm through to the bedroom. He flung open Felicity's drawers and wardrobe, and selected a variety of articles, from the flimsiest of G-string briefs, to the slinky bodies, the camisole vests and cotton panties, and the plethora of tights and embroidered stockings.

‘Christ, you'll ruin them!' John sniggered happily, watching a transformed Michael as he struggled with a bra which would not fit his broad chest, and a pair of navy blue tights which he hauled on somehow, over a pair of her red lacy knickers. John was wearing a shiny satin body-shaper of a delicate pearl shade, when they went back into the fire-lit living room. They sprawled on the rug, with freshly charged glasses of brandy.

Michael's prick was hard. It stuck out, stretching the thin material of the knickers and the tights. He stared across at John, whose own genitals could scarcely be seen under the hugging grip of the high cut garment.

‘You know, you look bloody sexy,' Michael said solemnly, and John flashed him a come hither look, and pursed his lips in a kiss.

‘Why, thank you, kind sir.'

‘You - you did last night,' Michael went on, clumsily. ‘I really thought you were Felicity. You look good - in her gear.'

John smiled. ‘So did you, in a different way.' He stared pointedly at the shape of Michael's bulging prick. He knelt, then crawled over, lying in front of him on his stomach, his narrow feet waving in the air. ‘Let's have a peep, shall we?' With a hooked forefinger, he pulled at the elastic of the tights and the red knickers, and succeeded in dragging them down a little at the front. The engorged head of the penis leapt into view, red and gleaming. ‘Hello...' he purred in mock surprise, ‘what's all this then?' and, leaning closer, he took it gently between thumb and forefinger and kissed the weeping tip. He flicked out his tongue, tasting the slimy liquid at the slit. ‘Yummy...' he grinned. He pulled a large cushion off the sofa and pushed Michael back onto it.

The taller figure made no attempt to stop John as he eased the tights and knickers down, carefully drawing the clinging articles off the long legs and feet. Then he parted Michael's legs and knelt between them. He massaged the tight scrotum that hung between Michael's thighs and gently pumped the impressive erection that spear up from his groin. Still a little concerned about pushing Michael too far too quickly, John squeezed an experimental fingertip between his firm buttocks and pushed gently against the tight opening that hid there, and noted that the only reaction he drew from the form stretched before him was a sharp intake of breath. Thus encouraged, his head dipped, his mouth opened, and he greedily swallowed the throbbing prick entrapped in his fist. As the tight anus opened just a fraction for his gently persistent finger, he savoured the promise of what he now knew was to come.