Vesta - Painworld (3 page)

‘I don't usually do commissions,' Clarissa said, her antipodean twang now muted by a few years of globe-trotting, ‘but your offer definitely intrigues me. Tell me more about it.'

‘There's not much I can tell you at this stage,' the other woman said. ‘It's my husband's idea really, and all I am is the messenger. He felt you might be more sympathetic to a fellow female.' Her accent was impeccable, every word betraying an expensive education and Clarissa, although pecuniary considerations had never yet swayed her decisions, imagined that the husband in question would be a very wealthy man indeed.

‘All I know is that Stanley has purchased this island in the Caribbean, a remote and very barren little place, which comprises one mountain, one very small village and a landing stage,' the woman continued. ‘Stanley seems to think that his mountain would be the ideal place for one of your works, and he sent me to sound you out.'

‘And exactly just what does Stanley envisage this work being?' Clarissa probed. The dark girl smiled, revealing a perfect set of small, brilliantly white teeth.

‘I don't think Stanley has the faintest idea,' she confessed. ‘Stanley is, shall we say, somewhat different from most men in his position. His grandfather and father made all the money and Stanley became something of a rebel. He had artistic leanings himself, but they were stifled by his family and, although I would never dream of suggesting so to him, he was not quite as talented as he might have liked to believe.' She spread her hands in an effusive gesture.

‘I hope you don't think I'm being disloyal in saying that,' she smiled. ‘I love Stanley very dearly and would never dream of doing anything to hurt him, but I think you're entitled to know the truth. Stanley is and always has been, a dreamer, a man of visions and ambitions, who seeks to better the lot of his fellow man. He has given millions of dollars to poor countries and invested three art galleries on three different continents, although always anonymously.'

‘He sounds like a thoroughly decent guy,' Clarissa murmured. The dark head bobbed enthusiastically.

‘Oh, he is,' the woman agreed, readily. ‘An absolutely darling man. You really must meet him and see for yourself.' Now it was Clarissa who was nodding.

‘I reckon you're right,' she said. She reached for the wine list, noting the bottle between them was nearly empty. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, peering over the leather-bound card, ‘you'll have to excuse me, but I can't remember your first name, Mrs Brooke-Read.' The woman inclined her head slightly to one side, her smile as brilliant as ever.

‘So like Stanley,' she sighed. ‘But please, I take no offence. It's Marika, and I'm so glad you agreed to see me.'

 

Lianne Connolly stood in front of the tall mirror and preened herself, revelling in the dull sheen of her rubber covered body, the neck-to-toe catsuit and the stiff over-corset, laced until her already attractive figure had taken on the sexy hourglass shape that so many of their readers and surfers found impossible to resist.

She breathed deeply - as deeply as the corset would allow, anyway - savouring the heady aroma of warm latex, and smiled at her reflected self. If anyone had told her, only a few months earlier, that she would find the mere act of dressing herself into one of these exotic costumes a sexually stimulating experience, she would have laughed them out of the room, but that was then and this was now.

Now she could assume the role of Mary Lou, inept rubber-clad sidekick of the slightly scatty private detective, Della de Linkwent, on a daily basis, get paid a handsome salary for her exertions and enjoy some of the best sex she never imagined could exist. Her hand dropped slyly to her crotch, her gloved fingers stroking the velcro-sealed opening, closed to cover the slight bulge made by the flanged base of the vibrator that lay embedded deep inside her, silent and motionless at the moment, but ready to burst into tempestuous life at the touch of its button.

‘Stop playing with yourself and help me lace up this bloody suit, will you?' Ellen Sanderson's brunette head bobbed into view behind Lianne's left shoulder, her brightly carmined lips parted in a broad smile. Ellen had been the one to introduce Lianne to Nadia Muirhead's operation, when another model had been taken unexpectedly ill. Nadia was head of the Darius Publishing Company, owned the estate and huge old house that served as the base for all their creative activities and was, according to Ellen, fabulously wealthy.

‘Anything you say, Miss Della,' Lianne said, adopting the Southern Belle accent she had taken up when the animated version of their cartoon strip adventures had been launched into cyberspace. A natural mimic, Lianne dubbed on the voices for several of the series' other female characters, though Ellen, with her chirpy cockneyesque accent, provided her own voice for Della de Linkwent. Ellen grinned and turned her back to her friend.

‘Sometimes I wish they'd find a way to make this catsuit easier to get into,' she said. ‘I mean, your rubber outfits simply zip up the back and, at a push, you can get into it by yourself.'

‘I don't know what you're moaning about,' Lianne laughed. ‘It's me that has to fart around with all the laces.' Ellen's catsuit was fashioned from gleaming white leather, the legs ending in boots, the arms in gloves and a high collar enclosing her throat when it was finally in place. However, because the leggings/boots had to be laced the full length of their backs, the sleeves the full length of the outside of each arm and the back laced from the top of Ellen's buttocks to the neck, it did indeed require a lot of patience to fit and could not be managed without assistance.

For a real life private eye, the suit's design would have been impractical in the extreme, for once all the laces had been fully closed it restricted Ellen's movements and reduced her to little more than a stiff-legged marionette, but then the readers and viewers had no way of knowing that. All they saw was a beautiful leather queen, an obvious dominant, except that Della usually found herself trapped into the submissive role by a series of nasty and increasingly more inventive villains and villainesses.

And that worried Ellen about as much as it worried Lianne, who regularly found herself sharing her ‘boss's' plights and, more often than not, was on the receiving end of even worse treatments.

‘You know,' Lianne murmured, stooping awkwardly to begin at the bottom of Ellen's left leg, ‘if this gizmo of Marlon's works the way it seems to so far and if Nadia brings off this idea of coupling it to the internet, all this will be a thing of the past.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Well, there'll be no need for us to go through all this rigmarole, will there?' Lianne pointed out. ‘The whole thing will be done electronically, or by silicon chips, or whatever.'

‘You sound disappointed,' Ellen replied. Lianne sighed.

‘Well, yes, I suppose I am,' she admitted. ‘I've just about got into really enjoying all this, and then...'

‘Along comes Marlon and deprives you of your favourite fetish,' Ellen said. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean, but then there'll still be the ordinary cartoon strip to pose for.'

‘I doubt it. From what Marlon said, his precious VESTA can produce hard copy from the various sessions, and even better than either Sonia or Naylor.' Sonia Hughes was the dark haired artist who had taken over the job of producing the finished artwork from Nadia's original artist, the treacherous and vicious James Naylor. She was also a born masochist and passionate bondage freak, often joining in and playing one of the roles she would eventually depict on paper.

‘That's as maybe,' Ellen said, ‘but no machine can reproduce what a true artist can convey. Even Jimmy bloody Naylor had the right feel, arsehole or no arsehole, and Sonia's a mile better.'

‘We'll see,' Lianne said, turning her attention to Ellen's other leg. ‘All I know is that if Marlon's machine can convince me I'm really being strung up and having my lights screwed, it shouldn't have much trouble turning out a cartoon strip.'

 

‘Very nice indeed,' James Naylor whistled appreciatively, staring down at the naked form on the bed. ‘I've only ever seen her in magazine photographs before, and she always struck me as a scruffy little sort.'

‘She wasn't exactly an advert for Harpers and Queen,' Christina grunted. ‘The bloody dress she was wearing when Marika brought her in looked as though she'd bought it from the local Oxfam shop, and I doubt whether she even owns a makeup kit.'

‘The basic material's pretty good, though,' Naylor asserted. Clarissa Beaumont's deep red mane was spread out about her head, the matching red bush between her thighs seemingly glowing against her pale skin. ‘I think I might enjoy keeping her from getting bored during her little stay with us.' His lips, visible beneath the leather mask that now covered the top half of his head, twisted into a salacious leer, but Christina ignored this.

‘First we need to get her ready for her little screen test,' she said, levelly. ‘I've put a little something together which will show her off to the best advantage, so, if you wouldn't mind excusing me, I've got work to do.'

Reluctantly, Naylor retreated towards the door, fingers loosening the laces at the back of his mask. It seemed unlikely that Clarissa would regain consciousness for some while yet, but he believed in being cautious. Unfortunately, more especially so since he'd seen the sculptress in the flesh literally, she would have to be released ultimately, though he consoled himself with the thought that, by then, they would at least have access to a virtual Clarissa.

Left alone with her prisoner, Christina lost no time in getting down to her task. She began with a small pair of sharp scissors, clipping away the little bush of pubic hair and slipping it into a plain white envelope. Then, with practised fingers, she used a small spatula to coat the shorn area with a depilatory cream. Ten minutes later the recumbent girl's mound was as smooth as a billiard ball. Christina grunted and fingered the tangle of head hair.

‘I'll have that off you, too, before you leave here,' she promised her unhearing victim. ‘By the time I'm through with you, the world really will think you're mad; you'll be babbling like a lunatic and incapable of stringing two coherent sentences together. After that, who knows, we might even get you back again. No one will miss just one more crackpot arty-farty.'

She reached down and fingered the narrow cleft beneath the freshly shaven area. The labia seemed thin and tightly pressed together, but Christina persisted, prising the lips apart to reveal the dark pink mouth behind them.

‘We'll find plenty to keep this full,' she whispered. ‘Give me a month and you'll be able to accommodate a gorilla up there - or my biggest dildo. I reckon you'll look perfect, squirming on the end of Christina's largest cock, sweetie.' With an effort, Christina dragged herself back to the task in hand.

She unfastened the heavy trunk in the corner of the room and lifted the lid back, standing stooped over for several seconds examining the contents, before deciding upon her first move. When she straightened up again, in her hands she held something that resembled a narrow-waisted corset, from the top of the back of which extended a wide, curved plate. However, unlike the leather and rubber garments that were the norm in this place, this creation had been moulded from a thick, rigid perspex, and was completely transparent.

‘Perfect,' she whispered to herself. ‘Just perfect.' She stooped again and detached the strange key tool from where it had been taped to the underside of the lid, and then turned to study her intended victim. ‘Just about the ideal size.' She smiled down at the unconscious Clarissa.

Christina rapidly released the five catches that ran down either side, separating the two halves of the corset. Then, discarding the front piece temporarily, she eased the other beneath the limp Clarissa, adjusting its position until she was satisfied it was exactly right. The curve of the design, added to the curve of the extension plate, lifted Clarissa's lower back several inches clear of the hard mattress and left her upper back and head lying at a downward angle, supported by the perspex extension, which ended at the nape of her neck.

Now, taking the front section, Christina lowered it down, mating it with the first and drawing Clarissa's ample breasts through the two rigid cut-outs, settling them against the near half cup sections that would hold up the helpless girl's bust when she finally returned to an upright position. It then required simple strength, of which Christina had plenty, to force the two halves tightly together and compress Clarissa's waist into the hourglass shape into which the perspex had been sculpted. A few seconds additional work with the key and the corset was locked in place, immovable by its wearer, or anyone else, as Christina held the only key.

Returning to the trunk, the powerful Dane selected the next pieces to the intricate jigsaw, laying them out on the bed alongside the still motionless Clarissa. She took the hinged collar first, wrapping it around the artist's neck and clicking it into the locking mechanism at the top of the extension plate. Now, when Clarissa finally did come around and get to her feet, she would be forced to walk with her spine bent cruelly backwards, the sharp raised point at the front of the collar ensuring that she had to keep her chin well elevated as well.