Deceived and Enslaved
by
Deceived and Enslaved published as an eBook in 2012 by Avid eBooks.
9781780801605
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This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Leo Barton. The right of Leo Barton to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Lillian Arrives at Forte Dei Marmi
Lord Willingham Punishes Magda, the Polish Girl
Sonia, the Maid, Tells Her Story
Sonia Shows Lillian the Evidence
Lord Willingham Punishes Sonia for Her Insolence
Everton Gives Lillian a Lesson
Lord Willingham Takes His Pleasure
Inspector Grimaldi Pays a Visit
In Inspector Grimaldi's Office
Deceived
Prologue
The dream is always the same. The room is dimly lit by black candles; their flames flicker on the whitewashed walls. It is a large, but low-ceilinged room, cold and damp, windowless. She is lying on some kind of stone slab; her stretched arms and legs are tethered to perpendicular metal rods positioned at each corner. She knows that she cannot move, so it is futile to try. And the worst thing of all is that she is naked.
When she is conscious she cannot always say how the dream starts, what piece of quotidian fact sparks such wild, nocturnal fiction. She only understands that at some stage, before it all begins, she is completely alone. It is terrifying, for she never knows if they will come, if anybody will come. Like a child who bawls as soon as their mother leaves the room, she fears that she has been left forever.
That is why when they first enter she is relieved. There are always at least four of them before the woman enters. They wear leather masks that completely cover their heads, two slits for the eyes, one for the mouth. But when she tries to look at them, to denote the recognizable shape of a mouth, or the color of their eyes, she can see nothing but blackness, as if they have no eyes, as if there is nothing behind the mask. Their bodies are similarly covered in black leather, down to the extremities of their hands and feet. They stand erect like soldiers on a parade ground, waiting for their orders, waiting for her.
The woman always comes last. Her skin seems luminous, as if lit from within. Her eyes are big and wide, but cold like cats' eyes. She also wears leather around her breasts and crotch, and below, her shapely legs are sheathed in thigh-high boots; on her arms, black gloves reach past the bend of her elbow. She would be beautiful if the eyes that peered through her mask were not so chillingly cold, and if the face did not wear such a
mien
of contempt.
She should know from the way that they are dressed, from the steel cool of the woman's eyes, from the fact that she knows that she has been in the same position, in the same place, a hundred times before, that they mean to do her harm; but this is the part that she always forgets, and always there is the deep sigh of relief that they have come. They must surely untie her!
There is a desire to say something to them. She tries to speak but the sound is muffled by the gag that is wrapped around her, tied at the back of her neck in a tight knot that adds to her general sense of discomfort.
'What are we going to do with it?' one of the leather figures asks.
'We will treat it as it deserves to be treated,' the woman replies.
At first she wonders what they are talking about; but then comes the terrible and sudden realization that the '
it
' they are referring to is herself.
For the first time, she notices that on the wall there are several large whips, their shadows, cast by the candlelight, grow enormous before her. Strangely, she knows, even before the woman speaks, exactly what she is going to say.
'Bring me the whip!' she commands in a sinisterly impersonal voice.
One of the men, for Lillian assumes that they must be men from their size and shape and posture, goes to fetch the largest whip. He passes it to the woman. The woman cracks the whip against the stone floor, a clean, hard, violent noise. As the leather lashes against the stone, the woman glares at Lillian with a terrible malicious glint, the mouth twists, distorts into horrendous, gleeful mockery.
'You know that you want this!'
Lillian nods her head. It is involuntary. She doesn't want to be whipped at all. The whole idea terrifies her. She hates pain, but why if she hates it so much does she nod her head?
The woman starts laughing, a horrible, shrill cackle, then the men join in, their laughter sinister like the mechanical laughter of fairground clowns.
The woman cracks the whip again against the floor. The sound reverberates in Lillian's head as she imagines the lash striking her tender flesh. She visualizes it in her mind, anticipating the searing sting of hot leather. She looks at the thin frayed end of the lash. It has been used many times before. She sees how the woman holds it, so firmly that she imagines her hand whitening at the knuckle.
Suddenly the laughter stops as the woman reaches the whip handle above her head. Lillian closes her eyes, clenching them tight. The anticipation is terrible. It's going to happen, when is it going to happen? She awaits the flash of pain. Where? On the top of her thighs perhaps? Around her middle? Or worse, across her chest? Imagining the excruciating pain that the whip would cause if the leather fell on the ruby tips of her breasts, her eyes clench tighter shut. And in the darkness of her mind, her whole body tenses in anticipation. There is this terrible heavy stillness. Nothing happens and it is agonizing. The fear grows inside her until she wishes they would start; bring this terrible interregnum to a close.
The lash does not come. Instead she feels something tickling her abdomen. She opens her eyes. It is the whip, the leather moving up her skin, the woman manipulating it, holding it high above her head as if she were working a puppet. This always happens in her dream, and yet it is always a terrible surprise. This woman is an expert in torture, the way she delicately moves the flimsy end of black leather so it glides so lightly over her body, tickling her. The leather sweeps up her stomach, between the crease of her breasts, along the swollen tips of her nipples. The lash would have been quick, the sharp clinical pain suffusing to a burning, tingling glow, but this, in its way, is much worse, is inexorable.
The whip is touching her stomach, serpentining across the surface of her skin, so lightly, so delicately that it makes her feel that she is on fire. Then the lash flicks between her splayed thighs. She wants to close her legs to protect herself, but she can't fight against her binds. It grazes her labial lips, traces along the engorged ridge of flesh, the contact so light it sends a shiver through her. She knows that the woman is going to settle here.
Lillian looks into her eyes, imploring her to stop. The woman is smiling but it is a cruel smile. She knows, too, that the more her eyes stare at her, silently pleading for mercy, the more the torture will continue, but she can't stop. It seems endless, an intense burning tickling caused by the slight contact the leather makes on her, the callous deftness of the manner in which the woman flicks her wrist to maximum effect.
It is a relief when the lash at last descends onto the top of her thighs. She can face this, grit her teeth over the distinct crack of pain. It is localized, not amorphous as the tickling has been. The pain stings her. She angles her head to look at the red mark that has spread in a horizontal line across her alabaster flesh.
The laughter has started again and it is against this background that the woman continues to whip her. This time the lash catches her on the flat of her stomach, across the hollow of her navel. She can still feel her skin stinging the top of her thighs as the lash falls, but this pain is obliterated by the violence of the new stroke.
Another lash exactly where she feared, across her breasts, stinging her nipples with its bright heat. Her breasts throb violently. The pain she visualizes not as merely white, but almost radiant, a pain that scorches through her mind so that everything else is wiped out and all she can hold on to, can contain, is its sheer force.
She is lashed again and again but nothing hurts as much as the lash across her heavy breasts. It is a different pain now, an accumulation of pain that surges through her with keen insistence, each lash adding to the last.
She tries to scream through her gag but no noise comes out, and even if she could scream, she knows she cannot be heard through the manic, monotonous laughter of the four men.
Suddenly the whipping stops. The woman steps back into the shadows beyond Lillian's view.
The men are talking about her, but in a language that she doesn't understand. It is not European, nor does it sound like any Asian or African language she has ever heard. All she understands is that it is a language of contempt. Its very vowels and consonants seem an affront to her. And in this fearful language she understands that they are talking about her as if she is a piece of human dirt, as if she is something only to be used. The leathered men cast glances back at her, dismissively shake their heads, their voices are cold, and filled with the steely threat of violence.
They are approaching, walking towards her with a funereal slowness, adding to her fear and disgust; the tension mounts inside her, fuses with the aching of her beaten body. She closes her eyes again. She does not want to see what they will do to her. She is so vulnerable. She is passive. There is nothing she can do.
She feels their hands sweeping across her trembling body. After the thrashing, the sensation is surprisingly pleasant. One hand trails up from her knees to the inside of her white thighs. Other hands are on her now, her breasts are gently stroked, and at first this feels like balm to her burning skin. A hand softly brushes the cheeks of her face, arcing across to the lobe of her ear. Fingertips drift across her abdomen.
It is arousing to feel like this, to feel so weak against them, to see how gently they touch her, caress her like first lovers caress after making love.
Yes, it is arousing. She is shocked to discover that she is responding to them. Even through her pain and humiliation. Where her body had trembled in pain and fear it now heaves with pleasure. She wants it to last. She wants the hands that are stroking her thighs to go further, to find the hub of her sexual heat, to stroke the hot, wet folds of her inflamed sex.
Nobody has ever touched her like this before, has ever flicked their fingers so expertly over her labial lips and then gently slipped them inside her. It is so sensual. Two other hands are now cupping and then gently kneading her breasts. She feels a mouth on her nipples, a long tongue furling around the extended tip. A hand is reaching up under her supine body, a finger traces along the cleft of her bottom.
They are so tender with her, so caring, so attentive to pleasuring her, and her body is responding, even though she instinctively knows that it shouldn't. She should resist. There should be too much dread in her soul to be so aroused. She knows, too, that something else is going to happen and it is going to hurt her. They would never be allowed to simply bring her pleasure.
Where is the woman? She can no longer see her, but she senses she is still in the room. She will just have to wait for her next command.
Eventually it comes. 'Now is the time!' Her voice, a clinical monotone, comes from the dark shadows of the room. The woman steps forward into the candlelight.