Slave Wife (11 page)

The covers fell to Anna’s naked hips when she sat up, turned and pulled something black and strangely shaped from the bedside table drawer. Delia found herself unable to look away from the delicate curve of waist and breasts and the pale skin. Anna held the “thing” out.

Delia hesitantly reached for it, managing only to grasp the leather straps. Though she knew – guessed – what it was, she’d never seen anything like it. Two black rubber penises, one larger than the other, connected end to end against a leather triangle from which the straps hung.

Anna’s diffident voice penetrated her ferment. “Would you like me to help you put it on?”

For several minutes, Delia looked toward the object, seeing nothing. Ambivalence, anxious and exhilarating, swirled through her. She shouldn’t, she told herself. Something unacknowledged made the decision. She handed the thing to Anna.

“Can you get up? Knees will work.” Delia knelt on the bed facing Anna. “How are your arms? Can we take the sweater off?” Delia’s arms were not as sore as the night before. She hurt but the sweater came slowly off. Anna’s eyes widened. “Oh my God!” She touched Delia’s skin and again Delia felt excitement’s clutch. “You poor dear!”

Delia followed Anna’s gape to see purple bruises blotching her torso and limbs. Anna’s fingers moved again, this time onto the breasts’ swell. She bent her head and tenderly at first then sensually kissed the discolorations. Delia watched the bowed head and softly straying lips with astonished and quickly growing arousal. When Anna took an erect nipple between her lips, Delia lifted her up. “Put that thing on me.”

Anna smiled and offered Delia the smaller penis. “Put this inside you please.” When the rubber penis slipped easily into Delia’s astonishingly lubricated vagina, Anna’s eyebrow’s arched but she didn’t comment. She moved close, avoiding the protruding rubber, and buckled the straps around Delia’s hip. Delia felt the girl’s lovely breasts press against her pelvic bone.

The straps bit into her cleft and hips, pulling the rubber phallus firmly inside her. Again, Delia was aware of the pressing combination of pleasure and pain. She peered downward, amazed at having a weapon giant and even blacker than Sensei’s. Carefully she reached out her hand and touched then stroked it all along its great length. Her hand’s exterior motion caressed, teased her own vagina to its bruised depths. It felt good. And it made her feel – what? Strong? Dominant? Male? Yes, she thought, all of those. And also Right.

She raised her eyes to see Anna watching her. The expression was odd. Eager?

Even stranger, Delia was struck with the desire to fuck Anna from behind, to breed her like an animal. Delia grabbed Anna’s silken hair hard and tight, stretching it from the scalp and tilting her head far back. The lovely girl’s narrow back bowed. Her buoyant young breasts and lithe pelvis curved to touch Delia’s flank.

Anna made a noise, complaint but the no that really does mean yes. Delia kissed her roughly on the lips and forced her around.

Her hand went to the phallus like a man’s would, wrapping it to guide it into its target. Like a man she felt for Anna’s pussy, spread it and pushed several fingers inside. She pressed the rubber head inside the girl and with a hard thrust forced it deep using Anna’s pale rounded hips for leverage. Anna screamed and Delia felt the rubber’s resistance against the vaginal walls. “This,” she understood in a burst of anguish and power that meshed with her forced withdrawal and re-entry and with the sensations in her own vagina, “is what it feels like to rape.”

She beat the girl with her manhood as Sensei had beaten her, her hands gripping the girl’s willowy white waist as Sensei had gripped her own arms. The girl screamed and cried and then the resistance lessened and she moaned and writhed in pleasure as Delia fucked her, fucked herself. Through the penises she felt Anna’s – and her own – arousal increase until the two of them became elemental beings, moving in violent rhythms as old and intoxicating as time.

It was all tumult. Delia experienced the bed heave underneath them with their motion and noise. The door flew open and a stocky young woman in only a big T-shirt came through. Giant pendulous breasts with nipples as big as saucers pressing through the shirt’s thin fabric obtruded into Delia’s awareness. Delia heard her voice above Anna’s cries. “Very pretty. I’m next.”

Monday morning Delia arrived early, before the others. She went straight up close to him and looked up into his eyes. “You are the best and I want to train with you. But if you rape me again, I’m finished.”

She didn’t know what she expected. Yet she was not surprised by Sensei’s response. His even white teeth and the whites of his eyes gleamed in amused satisfaction through the half dark. His tone was neutral and at the same time completely comprehensible – both cool and warm. “Excellent.”

“It’s time to get you up, dear.” The woman was lean and wiry with defined muscles bulging in thin arms. She lowered the protective bedrail with a loud click.

Karen’s eyelids trembled and slowly, tentatively opened. Her throat was dry and her voice tiny and plaintive in her own ears. “But my back,” she whimpered, “and my arms and legs hurt.”

The woman was sympathetic. “I know, dear. But we need to get you moving so you heal quickly.” She put her arm behind Karen’s shoulder and helped her sit up. When the sharp pain she’d experienced on earlier attempts didn’t materialize – only a deep, dull ache – Karen relaxed a little and tried to cooperate. “Now swing your legs over the edge.”

Her body seemed unbearably unstable and vulnerable. She expected intense stabbing pain to strike at anytime, but it didn’t. Only the throbbing malaise she’d experienced incessantly, waking and sleeping, in stillness or with every small motion, for more than a month. She looked hopefully at the physical therapist. Maybe it was time to move again. She sincerely wanted to.

The woman lifted her to her feet. Again Karen expected intolerable pain and again it was deep but bearable. She took a tentative step, leaning heavily against the therapist. “Very good!” The woman observed her with intense solicitousness and, Karen was certain she saw it, well-disguised pity … and disgust. “Today you only need to take a few steps – let’s see how many. Once you can walk down the hall we’ll start working on teaching your back to be flexible with one less vertebrae. Then, when the bones in your arms and legs have solidly re-knit we’ll do some strength training.”

She managed ten steps forward, turned, and was almost back to the bed when Michael entered the room. He strode quickly to her side and displaced the therapist, helping her to stand straight while his eyes travelled painstakingly up her body barely camouflaged by a thin long sleeved pink gown. He looked into her face with an expression of unparalleled love. “My darling, you are exquisite! Perfect!” He helped her gently back into bed.

Tenderly he adjusted the pillows at her back and pressed his full lips to her pale ones. She fought to restrain a wince at the pressure on her still-fragile spine. He was too enthusiastic to notice or didn’t see fit to. He took her chin between his fingers. “Aren’t you pleased with the surgery?” He held her chin too firmly for her to nod or speak but no response seemed required. “Not only are you the perfect height now but you lost the rest of the weight.” His smile stretched unnaturally wide before her and with a hidden shiver she remembered the beast.

“I brought you a present in honour of our success.” He pulled a square blood red box from his inner jacket pocket and set it on her lap. Gingerly she lifted it and tried to snap it open. Even that small exertion was too much, so he opened it for her. She gasped then gave a small cry at the many stabs of pain. On a black satin pillow lay a narrow white diamond necklace with a huge, pendant, emerald-cut pink diamond at its centre.

He lifted the necklace and laid it above the gown’s low neckline. He waved his fingers for the therapist to bring a mirror and held it in front of her. “For you. To wear when I take you dancing at the Rainbow Room.”

She stared at her thin pale face.

Ward watched Michael shepherd Karen between tables in the discreetly lit old restaurant, hard in the slight but remarkably formidable maitre d’s wake.

The restaurant had never aspired to any fad nor, in this age, to even the semblance of modernity. It none-the-less remained one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in
Washington
DC
. Through its gilded old-fashioned interior every DC decision-maker passed at some time during the various cycles of the Federal Government and the organizations servicing it.

Monsieur Paul’s choice of a path through the dining room’s congested centre rather than its sparsely populated periphery piqued Ward’s interest. In the several minutes Le Grand Monsieur took to guide the couple across the human sea, Ward examined the ornate, dimly lit banquettes running along the walls. Many contained a sole occupant – each a man, each a pale, puffy antiquated candidate for gout (if gout still existed this close to the 21
^st
century), each otherwise non-descript though clearly affluent, and each rigorously undisturbed.

His eye travelled to the more populous banquettes and stopped. Two men sat looking in his direction, heads inclined together.
Ward recognized one, a long-faced man with glasses who he’d met briefly at the FBI. “One more of the city’s invisible personages,” he wryly ruminated. His brow lifted fractionally. “Not at all like his companion.”

The second man could have been a dark angel in a Renaissance, or perhaps even more appropriately Goya, painting. He was beautiful and sublime, almost inhumanly so, with great, rapturous black eyes and black curls slightly longer than the convention. He, and his companion also, caught Ward’s gaze and nodded congenially before again plunging into discussion. Ward nodded and turned his attention.

Michael looked exceptional, as always. He towered above the diners, his intense smoky eyes fixed solicitously on his wife from under an elegantly unruly mop of thick sandy hair as he guided her with a large, manicured hand placed gently on her fine neck’s nape. Though no doubt richer than most of the room, in this realm he was just one of the crowd and, thus, ignored.

With a flash of realization Ward recognized the restaurant’s unique standard of celebrity. Monsieur Paul applied an identical lofty standard to each diner. Again Ward glanced at the banquettes. Only Paul’s regulars – the only distinction he required – received higher attention.

It was Karen, Ward knew, who caused the slightest turn of heads and the smallest exchange of quizzical looks when the couple passed – eye-popping scrutiny in this milieu. He was, himself, astonished by the transformation Michael had effected.

Though still voluptuous, her body had become lithe and refined. Her features, her wide almond eyes, narrow patrician nose and full clear red lips, exhibited their perfect regularity in her newly narrowed face and her long pale brown hair shimmered like softest mink in the muted light. With an extraordinary but strangely burdensome grace she glided through the room, her simple Geoffrey Beene dress, coloured identically to her hair, flowing flawlessly over supple limbs. And with an engineer’s discrimination, Ward examined her. Yes, she was certainly shorter.

In his vision’s periphery Ward inventoried the diners’ meticulously discreet but uneasy responses. He smiled cruelly.

As they approached, Ward stood, pleasantly noting the small tremor that ran through her when she saw him. “How are you, Karen, my dear?” He covered her cold delicate fingers with his warm strong ones, squeezing a little too hard, and kissed her cheek. Of its own volition his index finger found the point at the thumb’s joint and pressed.

Her features compressed into a silent twitch of pain. She forced a smile, pallid and barely perceptible. “I am well, Sir.”

Ward realized what he’d done. He examined his almost overwhelming impulse to hurt her. She was Michael’s property not one of his “girls”. Instantly he removed his hand and looked toward Michael. It was not the fear of an employee stepping out of line with his boss that motivated his quick withdrawal. Actually, Ward had no doubt of the security his utility – and friendship – entailed. He simply avoided rudeness at all cost.

Her husband’s expression did not shift – still bore the stamp of loving (obsessed?) solicitude – yet Ward knew he’d seen. Michael helped her tenderly to her chair.

Unexpectedly Ward’s regard was jerked across Michael’s broad bent back to the dark man. The man observed him with complete comprehension and sympathy. Kinship inexplicably welled in Ward’s breast. Again he nodded. This person definitely bore further investigation … later.

One of the multitude of fanatically trained straight backed waiters approached. “Would you care for wine?”

Michael glanced at Ward. “
Non, merci.
Seulement de l’eau minérale non gazeuse,” to Ward, “No bubbles? … S’il vous plaît. The gentleman and I will have
Le Carre D'agneau au Poivre Vert.”
Authoritatively he closed the tall menu. “And please bring my wife a small Salade Niçoise with very little dressing.” The waiter gave a modest bow. “Thank you.”

Michael smiled at Ward. “They do a wonderful peppered rack of lamb but it’s for two. I’m glad of the opportunity to order it.” He patted Karen’s hand and a spot of pink appeared on each cheek below her lowered lashes. “It’s of course much too much food for Karen.”

The waiter returned almost immediately with a large bottle of mineral water, filled glasses leaving a second full bottle near Michael and, once again, disappeared into the refined hubbub.

Ward allowed his consideration to linger abstractly on Karen, his subtle cognitive modes observing and accumulating information. “Michael,” he exclaimed to cover his appraisal, “I’m astonished by the transformation!” As he said it, he wondered, “Is she truly submissive or has he broken her?”

Under her husband’s concerned gaze, Karen carefully, intently raised her water glass to her lips. “Isn’t she magnificent!” Michael glowed with achievement. “I knew she could be from the moment I first saw her.” The flush spread across Karen’s face and her head dipped lower.

“I’ve been contemplating where to go from here.” A vertical crease formed in Michael’s noble brow. “Is it possible to create an apparatus that operates remotely under water?”

Ward raised his glass and pensively examined the clear liquid. “Water is a poor conductor of electricity though other impulses can move through it unhindered.” Ward paused deliberately, “I could probably come up with something workable. What do you have in mind?”

“Karen began swimming as part of her post-surgical therapy. I’ve had her continue because it’s excellent exercise and I can keep,” Michael’s face was consumed with passionate devotion as he patted Karen’s hand, “my dearest wife close to me.”

His own burst of shock surprised Ward for the few seconds before it shifted to macabre respect for the breadth of Michael’s obsession. Of course! He’d had her surgically altered.

“I think it’s made a major contribution to her grace,” Michael smiled warmly, “and I’ve been enjoying watching her so much I’ve created a glass-walled office next to the pool. I’d like to be able to give her encouragement,” the statement was devoid of irony, “while she’s swimming. I was thinking of something more minimalist than your suit. I’m also finding her breasts a distraction.”

Michael noticed Ward’s quizzical glance. “Yes, she’s required to swim naked for maximum neurological effect.” He continued, “So, do you think you can create something both utilitarian and constrictive for her breasts?”

The image of Karen swimming laps – endless laps, Ward had no doubt – while Michael intermittently added to her torture with neural stimulation rendered Ward’s cock rock hard under the damask tablecloth. He glanced at Karen, whose pale face had reddened. “I’ll give it some thought.”

Monsieur Paul arrived, a small plate in his hand. Several waiters followed carrying a covered silver tray, serving table and implements. “
Madame
.” With a flourish he set the diminutive
niçoise
still-life in front of Karen. The waiters arranged the serving table then hovered while Monsieur separated the lamb’s ribcage into individual chops and served onto two of the restaurant’s golden lion embossed plates along with choux de Bruxelles sautés. “
Bon appétits
,” he intoned and shooed away his flock.

“So, I hear you’ve made the Feds very happy. Right?” Michael cut one of the delectably browned Brussels sprouts with a large chunk of dripping lamb and popped them enthusiastically between his sensual lips.

“It’s nice having access to a large country’s resources.” Ward smiled humorously across the table. “Not that you’ve deprived me,” he smiled again, this time including Karen with a slight nod, “particularly for your special projects.”

Ward decided to test the waters. “Give me a month. Shall I come and visit Karen or would you like to bring her here?”

Again Michael patted Karen’s hand. “Why don’t you come to
Berkeley
,” he beamed proudly, “then you can see first hand how well she’s doing.”

Karen stared fixedly at her plate but otherwise did not move.