Gemini Heat (26 page)

Her musings were rudely interrupted when a pair of strong but very female hands took hold of the lobes of her bottom.

'She's very firm, very strong,' observed Vida, her voice detached and professional as she squeezed and mounded and made her assessment. 'Gorgeous muscle tone. She'll take a blow extremely well. And she's obviously very sensitive, so the level of pain should be considerable.' Her fingers dipped briefly into Deana's sexual furrow, starting at the stretched ring of her anus and cruising right down and around to, but not touching, her clitoris. 'I'm really going to enjoy this, Kazuto my love. I couldn't have asked for a better gift if I'd tried.' A single finger slipped deep into Deana's vagina for a second, then all manual contact was withdrawn.

'Show Dee the paddle, Bentley,' instructed Vida, and Jake stepped back to let the maid obey her orders and hold a strange yet familiar shaped object before Deana's suddenly fearful eyes.

She'd been something of a whizz at table tennis as a child, and she and Delia had played many a hard fought game with bats which resembled the object Bentley held out now. The paddle, as Vida called it though, was made out of menacing black leather, not innocuous rubber-backed wood, but in all other respects it was the same shape and size as a table tennis or ping pong bat.

'Have her kiss it.' Vida's voice was flat and steely now, as if she were settling into a deeper layer of her role and all the lightheartedness and fun in her was leeching away to leave only the cruel dominatrix behind. As Deana pressed her lips to the smooth leather surface, she wondered how many others had kissed it . . . then felt it sing across their pale naked rears in the service of Madam Mistry's dour pleasures.

'Do you want her gagged, my Lord,' Vida enquired as the paddle was passed back to her. After a moment, Deana sensed it hovering in the air above her bottom, as the dominant woman behind her did minute calculations of weight and speed and force.

'No, not yet.' Jake's voice was tight with excitement, an anticipation that Deana could unexpectedly empathise quite well. Deep in the heart of her anticipation, her trembling, and her very real fear of the pain to come, she found herself imaging the weirdest of visions. She saw Jake over this very same bar, his firm, muscular, backside quivering as hers was now, his erection standing out like a pole and sticky already with excitement.

It was only an idea in her mind; yet she knew, somehow, that her instinct was true. Jake could give
and
take - he was standing before her now in majesty, but at other times he was just as willing to experience pain as he was to inflict or observe it.

'Very well. We begin.'

Almost before the words were finished, Deana felt a slash of hot agony explode across her taut left buttock. She screamed in anguish and surprise.

It was unbelievable. Unbearable. Beyond the power of her comprehension completely. In a flash all her ideas of bravery and pluck had disintegrated without trace. And it felt as if half of her bottom had disintegrated too, the whole muscular mass of it disappearing in a draft of red fire. She was crying like a child, and babbling unintelligible nonsense after only one stroke had been delivered.

She was gasping, fighting to pull in air, when the second blow landed - if anything, harder than the first. 'No! No!' she moaned, her anus clenching frantically on the cork as she rippled on the edge of control. Some thick molten substance was roiling about inside her, pushing hard at her previous limits. Her bowels churned, her labia stood out like fat, bloated leaves and her clitoris was ten times its normal size. She felt clear juice dripping from her sex, and she sobbed anew with shame when she realised she was wetting herself again.

The pain was intense, and felt eternal, but the most agonising part of it was the need to be touched between her legs. Throwing her body up off the bar, she jerked furiously on the wrist-cuffs, in a frenzy to caress her own clitoris.

'Please touch me,' she croaked, then cried out as two more strokes fell, hard and fast.

Tears were dripping from her eyes in a stream and then suddenly, right in the middle of her misery, a gentle hand was wiping her face with a feather-soft, rose-scented handkerchief. In a world of raw, blank pain there was also an angel to cherish her.

'There, there, sweetheart,' whispered the quietest, kindest, most heavenly voice in the universe. The cool fingers that went with it smoothed her face and hair tenderly, then touched their soft pads to her lips. 'Be a brave girl for me, Dee,' Jake whispered then replaced his fingers with his mouth and kissed her, like a priest giving unction to a heretic.

He sucked her tongue between his lips and kept sucking on it, deeply and wetly, holding her head between his hands as Vida laid blows across her bottom. Deana cried harder than ever, her tears drenching both her face and Jake's as the paddle rained down on her buttocks and desire gnawed her sex from within.

The pain of her beating was far worse than she had expected, but the horror of frustration was worse. She was suffering terribly, her bodily control all gone, but she would've offered to take a thousand strokes more for the touch of one fingertip on her clitoris.

'Please touch me,' she begged Jake when he released her mouth and started kissing her hot sweating face. 'Please! Please bring me off ... I can't bear it any more. Please touch me!'

'I can't, my darling,' he said, talking quietly as if to a dull-witted child, then licking at her fresh flood of tears. 'You have to suffer. And needing to come makes the punishment greater and deeper. Smacking your bottom is only a
small
part of your penalty.' With that he reached beneath her and delicately touched each of her pebble-hard nipples in turn. She moaned, and he smiled like a saint, his tiny caressing of her breasts only increasing the distress between her legs.

'Please . . .' she whimpered.

'No, Dee, you must be a good girl,' he said quietly then started kissing her again, on her face, her hair and her lips.

And Vida resumed her dark endeavours too, employing every nuance of her undoubted skill and craft. Deana felt she was living in a surreal, multicoloured universe of pain and aching, unquenchable desire.

A corruscating triangle seemed to form, with three distinct nodes: the agony in her buttocks, the grinding tightness in her clitoris . . . and the soft, loving pleasure at her lips where Jake continued his kisses.

She lost count of the strokes of the paddle. It was some time before she even realised that the beating had finished. All she did perceive was that after one particularly tender kiss on her forehead, Jake's lips left her face and his presence left her sphere of awareness.

'You've done a fine job, Vida,' Deana heard him say with genuine admiration; then realised - with a struggle - that her master and mistress were studying her bottom.

'I want my reward now, Kazuto,' said Vida in reply, her voice slightly frayed at the edges.

'Of course, my love, and where do you want it?'

'On the
chaise,
please, my Lord . . . And I'd like this creature to watch us.'

'As you wish, my love. But do you think she's up to it?'

'She is,' said Vida more firmly. 'This one's made of tempered steel, my Kazuto. She's noisy, but she's taken far more than most others. You chose well here . . .'

The sense of detachment and distance was even more intense than before. Deana felt as if she were listening to the dialogue of a film, and when she was released by Bentley, held upright and turned around she fully expected to see the action on a huge silver screen.

Numb, she allowed her wrists to be fastened behind her in the same steel cuffs she'd arrived in. She felt a sick, precarious moment as the cork was eased from her bottom, but it was quickly over and she felt almost relaxed as the surprisingly strong maid lifted her bodily in her arms and laid her face down across a pouffe. She rested there motionless for a few moments. With her eyes closed, and her breathing still heavy, she listened to Bentley's soft-footed retreat, and let the pain of her various torments recede.

When she looked up again, she almost believed she
was
watching a film.

A man and a woman - both of astounding, almost supernatural beauty - were pulling off their few scanty garments and kissing and caressing each other as they did so.

Curiously enough, Deana felt no jealousy as she watched Jake and Vida making love. In a diffuse and turned-about way she was grateful to both of them, and the pleasures of physical love seemed a fitting reward for their trouble. She also felt strangely privileged to be
allowed
to watch, even though the glorious sensuality of their entwining was a thorn in her own deep frustration.

At some time during Deana's moments of darkness, Vida Mistry had let down her coiled red hair. Loose now, it trailed across the
chaise
like a curtain of flame, and rippled as Jake moved above her. The beautiful authoress moaned long and plaintively as she was first mounted, then opened and taken completely. It was plain that the beating had aroused her as much as it had Deana . . .

Crying out fiercely, Vida arched her slim body upwards to meet Jake's powerful thrusts. There was no doubt she was climaxing continuously, and had been since the instant he entered her. He too was visibly moved, his dark face contorting as he clenched his firm, brown buttocks and rode his squirming, shouting lover in a rhythm that was smooth but frantic.

Aroused and frustrated, Deana wept tears for the beauty before her. But even as she sobbed, the clear thinking artist within her applauded. Watching the heaving and bucking of Jake and Vida, she planned a canvas she would paint sometime soon - a work for her own satisfaction, an immortalisation of two truly exceptional sensualists with their bodies bound together in sex.

I might even sell it to Jake himself! she thought suddenly, wryly realising that she
could
think at last. She was hurting and befuddled, and still desperately frustrated, but at least she'd recovered her faculties.

Mercifully, the embrace didn't last too long. With another great cry, Vida reared up again, her limbs flailing crazily while Jake found release in her body. He moaned himself, like a wounded bear, as his brown buttocks jiggled and pumped. Through a thick blur of tears, Deana watched the two of them slump down together, their obvious fulfilment a torch to her still-burning need.

But as she drooped forward over her pouffe, a chain of small sounds made her rouse and look up again.

Vida was curled up foetus-like on the
chaise,
her expression soft and silly and her beautiful eyes closed tight. She was quite obviously superbly satiated and insensible . . . but the man that had loved her wasn't!

Jake was on his feet. He was shaky, quite pale, and almost cross-eyed with fatigue; but even so he was walking slowly and carefully towards Deana where she lay on her pouffe. When he reached her, he knelt down behind her, and pulled her body backwards against his.

'Sweet brave Dee,' he murmured in her ear as he pushed himself hard against her.

Deana moaned, for reasons various and potent. His long, wet penis was nudging at the back of her thigh and his bushy pubic hair was a painful caress against the aching skin of her bottom. As was the hardness of his flat, sweaty stomach as he reeled her in tightly to his body. As best she could, she straightened her constricted fingers behind her and fondled all the flesh she could reach.

But as she touched him, all her torments faded, went vague, and were forgotten.

All memory of pain and frustration disappeared when his long, flexible fingers crept down over her belly and inveigled their way into the sticky-soft mat of her pubis.

And when a single one of those fingers - a brilliant bright genius of a finger - pushed inwards, found its target, then tickled it gently, Deana sobbed.

She sobbed, as her clitoris bloomed like a flower of love and her sex, her body and her mind all dissolved in a white ball of bliss . . .

Chapter Eleven
Come into my Jacuzzi . . .

D
oes semen have any special nutritional qualities? wondered Delia as she sipped her mid-morning coffee.

She was being whimsical and silly, and she knew it, but the aromatic fresh-percolated flavour had made her think of something quite different . . . but just as delectable.

The orgasmic juice of a man.

She'd had more than her fair share of
that
last night, she observed, grinning in a smug sort of way that she'd never had cause to before.

Nectar of the gods, she thought, remembering how she'd taken it, direct from Peter's long prick. She could almost believe that it was semen that was making her feel good this morning. Fit and feisty. Bursting with naughtiness and energy.

It was funny though, but man's stuff was a bland brew in itself. She licked her lightly-glossed lips and imagined them salty. Salt was the only distinct flavour she could remember; that, and a touch of bitterness. But it wasn't the flavour that made semen memorable, only the source.

Anyway, last night, after she'd bade a gentle
'au revoir'
to Peter, she'd had one of the best night's sleep of her life. She hadn't had a single sleepless moment about her promise to 'talk tomorrow' with Peter, and she hadn't even heard Deana eventually come home -sometime in the small hours of the morning.