Stephanie's Revenge (12 page)

There was no
need to ask them to watch. Their eyes were rooted to her body. She
turned round so that her cunt was facing them and opened her legs
again. With the toes of one foot, she reached up between their
legs, feeling their balls, each one in turn. She saw their eyes on
her swollen labia.

'Wank for me.
I want to see you come,' she said. Perhaps they'd understand.

Her hands fell
to her cunt. With one hand she held open her cunt lips while, with
the other, she plunged two fingers deep into the hot, sticky
depths. Quite suddenly her mood changed. Up to now this post-coital
exercise had all been a languid experiment, a game of 'what if' and
'just suppose' (just suppose she could make them come again). But
now it had changed to need. She needed to come. The sight of the
cocks, wanking almost in time, wet, hot, ready, was too much to
contemplate in the abstract. She plunged her fingers in and out of
her cunt while her other hand pulled viciously at her clitoris.
This was not the moment for subtlety. She had to reach through the
veil of sensation she had already experienced, to make herself feel
more. She felt the first sign, the first shudder as her body
prepared for another onslaught, like the first trickle of water
through a breeched dam. But she didn't want to come quickly. She
eased up, trying to control herself. She wanted to wait, to hold it
at bay until she saw the men coming, until she saw their cocks
jerking spunk out on to her thighs.

'Do it, do
it,' she cried.

They needed no
translation. Their fists worked faster, their eyes locked on her
body, on the way her fingers worked on her cunt, on her tits, on
her pink clitoris pummelled by the tip of her finger.

Stephanie saw
Carlo's muscles lock. His fist stopped pumping and squeezed
instead. She saw his cock spasm and the white hot spunk jet out
from the little black slit, spitting on to her thighs, hot as tar.
Then she let herself come, or could not stop herself any longer,
whichever; her orgasm breaking the dam, flooding over her,
reminding her of all the sensation she had had already that night.
As she closed her eyes to sink into the darkness behind them, she
felt a hot splash of spunk on her other thigh, like acid burning
her soft flesh, as Angelo spunked too. Her orgasm rolled on, this
last sensation feeding its flow, as she forced her eyes open to see
the last drops of white spunk erupt from Angelo's cock.

She hugged her
cunt with both hands, pressing it hard, then not moving, just
holding it, feeling it, feeling her orgasm die away on her own hard
fingers.

When she
opened her eyes again, she was alone on the bed.

She heard a
shuffling of clothes in the sitting room and some whispered
conversation. She would have liked to get up and go and say
goodbye. But she did not have the energy and she didn't want to end
the little aftershocks of pleasure that still ran through her
body.

She heard the
outer door of the suite close quietly, as though they imagined she
had gone to sleep.

In her mind,
she determined to get up and shower, but her body did not want to
respond. She felt something running down her thigh and realised it
was spunk. She shuddered with a jolt of pleasure, a pale imitation
of the pleasure she had just experienced, but pleasure
nevertheless.

It was a night
worthy of Rome, she thought. A Roman night, her Roman night.

It was no more
than a ten minute flight from Rome to Devlin's private airfield
alongside the shore of Lake Trasimeno. It wouldn't have taken much
longer to drive, but Stephanie had not yet got over the novelty of
having a private plane more or less at her disposal, and was
determined to take advantage of it at every opportunity. On the
plane, Susie the Malaysian flight attendant had served her coffee
and, by the time she had finished the cup, the captain was
announcing that she would be able to see the lake from the left
side of the aircraft.

As the plane
banked to make its approach, the lake lay in the sun beneath her.
The castle, on its island, was virtually in the centre of the
irregularly-shaped stretch of water. A powerboat was cutting a wake
across the lake, no doubt on its way to the jetty to pick Stephanie
up. Its wake curved through the almost still water, creating waves
that rippled out for thousands of feet before dying away entirely.
The castle looked, for all the world, like the site of a fairytale,
where the Prince would come to wake a sleeping beauty from a
hundred years of sleep. And in a way that was near the truth. Her
life had become sort of fairytale, though she was, and would
remain, very firmly awake.

Down on the
ground Stephanie could see little figures working in the orchards,
vineyards and gardens behind the castle. At the landing strip she
could see the black Mercedes waiting to take her to the castle, its
driver leaning on the bonnet reading a newspaper.

As soon as
they had landed, Susie unbuckled herself from her seat in the front
cabin and came through to open the pressurised door.

'You're going
to London now, to pick up Devlin?' Stephanie asked, in case there
had been a change of plan.

'Yes, miss,'
Susie replied. 'Back tomorrow morning.'

'Tell him I'll
be waiting.'

'Yes, miss.'
Susie's Malaysian accent struggled with the 'ss'.

The results of
Stephanie's shopping spree had been packed away in the empty
suitcases, most still in their shop bags. The cases were
transferred to the Mercedes. After a short five minutes' drive the
car arrived at the jetty where the powerboat, its wood varnish and
polished brass shining in the sun, waited for her. The boatmen
helped her abroad, cast off and drifted a little way from the jetty
before gunning the big engines of the boat out across the lake.

Sitting in the
transom, Stephanie enjoyed the sensation of wind in her hair as the
boat sped over the water, cutting through the almost mirror-like
calm of the lake. The sun, not as high in the sky as it had been
when Stephanie first came to the castle, was shaded by a few white,
fluffy clouds. But to the west she could see the leading edge of a
bank of cloud, broken ragged cloud, mackerel cloud, the first
precursor of a storm, she thought.

At the castle
jetty she told the boatmen to be ready to pick up a guest that
evening. She had arranged with Jasmina that the Rolls would pick
her up and drive her to the castle, as the plane had to go to
London.

A servant
helped her ashore. She climbed the narrow stone steps, worn in the
centre by four centuries of use, and draped in a canopy of climbing
flowers. Her cases were unloaded, the boatmen and the servant
making a stack on the wooden jetty.

Inside the
castle she ordered lunch. She was hungry. She had drunk a great
deal of champagne last night but had not eaten anything. The
morning croissant had not slaked her appetite. In sudden glee she
thought of Gianni, chained to his living room wall. She imagined
his wife coming home, finding the front door open, the servants
gone, calling out her husband's name, wandering into the living
room and finding him there, the pretty red ribbon decorating his
cock. It wouldn't be easy to unchain him either. She'd left no keys
to the heavy padlocks. She giggled to herself as she danced
upstairs. That's what you get if you mess with me, she thought.

She determined
to swim before lunch. In her bedroom, she pulled on a black,
one-piece bathing suit - of a very practical design, except perhaps
that it was cut high on the hips - a black chiffon wrap, and a pair
of high-heeled sandals. She wrapped her hair into a chignon at the
back of her head and pinned it there.

As she came
downstairs, one of the servants was bringing the first of her cases
up to her room.

There was a
duty to perform before her swim and lunch, however. She pulled
aside the corner of the large modern tapestry that decorated one of
the walls at the bottom of the staircase, to reveal the thick
wooden door that led to the cellars. As she stepped inside, she
felt a cool rush of air.

Stephanie
picked her way carefully down the stone steps, worn by the passage
of time just as the jetty steps were. She walked across the
brick-vaulted cellar used for storing Devlin's extensive collection
of wine, to the heavy door that was the entrance to the more
unusual feature of the castle.

Bruno, the
keeper of the keys, answered her double knock immediately, swinging
the door open. Here the brick-vaulted cellar - once a dungeon for
the enemies of the duke who had built this impressive fortress -
had been divided into cells, each with its own thick wooden
door.

'Any problems
while I've been away?' Stephanie asked.

Bruno answered
by shaking his head. Dressed like a mediaeval executioner, with a
black tunic and breeches, and a ring of keys and a sturdy whip
hanging from a wide leather belt at his thick waist, Bruno's face
betrayed no other emotion. As he had, apparently, suffered an
accident which had deprived him of his masculine attributes, he was
ideal for his job in the cellars.

Most of the
slaves were out in the fields working. There were only two in the
cellars, both women. One was cleaning the suite of rooms at the far
end of the corridor, a set of rooms lavishly decorated and
comfortably furnished. Devlin's guests could take the slaves there,
or to what was called the bondage room, where those with more
active imaginations could indulge their whims for more unusual
sexual tastes. Everything, in fact, the heart might desire.

The other
slave was chained, naked, to the corridor wall where all
punishments were carried out. Though all the slaves were at the
castle as an alternative to prison sentences, and therefore rarely
caused discipline problems, occasionally they forgot their
situation and rebelled. If the rebellion persisted, they were
returned to the mainland and prosecuted for whatever crime against
Devlin's empire they had committed originally, but generally it did
not. Generally, they realised that life at the castle was a great
deal better than life in prison.

Stephanie
walked over to the woman for a closer look. Bruno followed.

'What exactly
have you done?' she asked. The women had short fair hair and,
though not fat, was distinctly plump around her waist and her hips.
She had heavy, sagging tits. In two weeks, Stephanie thought, she
wouldn't recognise herself; a controlled diet and regular exercise
would do wonders for her figure. She hadn't been at the castle
long.

The woman's
arms had been chained to a metal ring above her head. Her legs were
spread and chained apart and she was facing the wall, her
overweight arse bearing the marks of Bruno's whip.

She did not answer Stephanie's question. Stephanie pulled the
chain that hung around her neck. The disc bearing her name was
jammed between her ample breasts and the stone wall. Stephanie
pulled until it was up by her throat and she could swing it round
her neck and read
Fran
inscribed on the metal.

'Answer my
question, Fran.'

Fran turned
her head and looked Stephanie in the eyes. The expression on her
face was surprising; it was quite clearly an expression of
lust.

'You're very
tasty,' the woman said.

'Answer my
question.'

'If I don't
will it get me whipped again? I can still feel my arse. It's still
hot. Why don't you feel it?'

'Answer my
question,' was all Stephanie could think to say, trying to ignore
her own nascent sexual excitement.

'I refused to
dig the bloody garden.'

Almost without
thinking what she was doing, as a reaction to the woman's
insolence, Stephanie slapped her hand across her wide buttocks.
There was a resounding 'thwack' of flesh on flesh. The woman's eyes
flared with excitement.

'Couldn't you
use the whip?' Fran said, still looking straight into Stephanie's
eyes. 'What do I have to do to get you to use the whip on me?'

Stephanie,
again almost without thinking, pulled the whip, a short crop, from
Bruno's belt, and slashed it down on the white flesh of the woman's
arse. A red welt appeared. The woman moaned, but it was not a moan
of pain.

'I never knew
it would turn me on...' she said, almost to herself.

Stephanie ran
her hand along the woman's spine and round her plump arse. She was
astonished at how much heat it seemed to be generating.

'Feel how wet
you've made me,' Fran said. 'Feel it.'

Stephanie's
hand dipped between the woman's legs. Her pubic hair was wispy and
sparse. Her labia were wet. She moaned at Stephanie's touch.

'Do it to me.
You know you want to, I can see it in your eyes. Please...'

The woman's
words hung in the air. Bruno stood impassively, his arms folded
over his chest. With an effort of self-control, Stephanie pulled
her hand away. In her mind she could see herself pressing into this
woman's soft body, feeling it envelope her, her fingers finding no
resistance in the pliable, plasticine flesh...

'If you dig
the garden when you are told to dig the garden, then you might get
what you want,' she said. Discipline was a mixture of the carrot
and the stick. The stick had patently failed with this woman;
perhaps the carrot would work.

'I want it
now,' the slave replied.

'Good.'

This time her
movement was deliberate. She ran her hand down between the woman's
legs again, found her labia and then her clitoris. She caressed it
wantonly, provoking a moan of delight from Fran, her body arching
with pleasure.

'Do as you're
told and you get more,' Stephanie whispered, taking her hand away,
denying the woman what she so obviously wanted.