Alice - In Bondage

Alice - In Bondage
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ISBN:  9781780802763
Author:  Surreal
Word Count:  74,858
Format:  eBook

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Soft footfalls on the carpeted stairs told of his approach. He would turn at the bottom and see me, posture speaking defeat, bowed head and clasped hands before the groin demonstrating acquiescence. He would appreciate that. He would see the juvenile, and he would beat her rigorously, for her own good...
 
In Bondage is the sixth in this tense S&M series, and penned by Alice herself in her own individual and earthy style. Set in 1957, the teenager is drawn to Southport and Richard Barker, a changed man, a man who has turned his back on God, a man with a secret agenda. There a forgotten threat awaits her, an associate of Barker's, a name with a reputation in a world of wealth and illicit business.
 

There amidst the lap of luxury, and sexual adventure, Alice suppresses doubt and conscience, adopting bravado and conceit to bolster a new life. She drives for a world beyond her, a place where her religious past would wilt. But nothing lasts. Her new life snatched away, the redhead finds herself between a rock and a very hard place. A place where pain is never trivial, the body is the only earner, where love long ceased to exist and manipulation is the name of the game.

With friend and lover, Dulcie Waters, Alice shoots for the moon but finds only heartache, and the severest physical discipline she ever endured. Lessons are taught and deterrents ingrained in a world where the Don rules, and law and order are left in the dust. A world where anything can happen - and often does.

I stared at the beige carpet, shag pile. And I guessed that wasn't far off. But he had found about the most painful manner to hold me, the agony complete, debilitating. So as he stroked the inside of my thigh, fingers dallying about the stocking top, I could do nothing to stop him.
   I could hear my heart. My breath rasped slightly each time I expired. The cold digits climbed higher, me thinking he was a cunt man, straight to the centre of things. But no. He strayed from that path, lifting my skirt, driving it over my bottom, laying it on my back. Still he held my arm. Still the pain surged and crippled.
   My buttocks took his attention, those red silk, black-laced panty-covered dunes kept him amused. Where my mind was then, or come to that my sexual inclination, I wasn't sure. Would I be complicit in his ardour? Again, I didn't know. Alice then, was one mighty mixed up bitch, who was capable of doing just about anything. So you see, I grew, and I changed, as people will and must sometimes do.
   At that time though, at that moment in my history, I was complicit in nothing. He took his advantage. He did what he wanted. And I, for various reasons could not, and would not deny him.
   "Remarkable," he finally said, his examination of my arse finally at an end. "Such a beautiful behind. I feel honoured. This rump should be revered by all bum loving mortals. Then he hit it. At least it took my mind off the pain in my arm and shoulder. He struck with a wickedly heavy hand, the sting unusually severe for a first.
   "It will be a week before our first party," he informed me. "Plenty of time to heal."
   My other cheek suffered.
   "Time to settle in."
   Again.
   "Time to get to know the locals."
   And again.
   "Time to think on our bargain."
   And yet again, my teeth grit, eyelids squeezed tight.
   "Time to draw the only conclusion."
   He let my arm go, me barely able to move it. "Yes?"
   I nodded. The flow of endorphins was quite wonderful. That hurt just melted. My body flooded. I floated. I was ready.
   My pants travelled to the ankles, that spread of bottom, thigh and calves laid out before him like Christmas dinner. His. His to do what he wanted. I was the meat. I was the stuffing.
   Then it began, a light rain of pats, Carl pleasured by the ripple of flesh, the slow colouration of meat, the fire he guessed drilled deep. I slumped. I immersed myself in that wonderful feeling. That enervating smothering, the fire of life lit, my body its shrine, Bael an instrument.
   So it went on, neither of us tiring. As my body's natural painkiller swamped the hurt, so he sensed it, and upped the anti, each intensified salvo met by a pre-orgasmic grunt. Backside stoked, he knew I was ready for more, and not for consummation.
   The black and white sixteen millimetre whirred on, the room decorated by the flickering images, the crisp sound of whip on flesh, a stir to our libidos. Had someone told me I would dive headlong into a sexually deviant session with a man like Carl, a year before, then I would have not only scoffed at the idea, I would have felt scandalised . One thing I learned that day, recalling the Mae West adage of "it's not the man in your life but the life in your man", age is of no great importance, though physical fitness and some remnant of good looks probably is.
   Carl was rugged in looks, rugged in passion. He asked no favour and did what pleased him, which suited me. I sometimes wondered how such a mouthy cow in everyday life could be so subservient in the bedroom.
   He was rough and tacit, glowering eyes passing the message, ready hands pushing and pulling, his use of my hair and any other place he deemed sensitive, his means.
   The playroom, which was very much a one-sided term, contained many pieces and weapons galore. Money had obviously been no problem, but the question entered my head: who governed it before? What happened to her? What was she? The moment to ask wasn't then. My knickers left in the bedroom, Carl dragged me by the hair to the play/games room.
   I found myself face down, polished floor hard against the chest. He had an apparatus, something I had never experienced before, a piece where he had to fetter my ankles. He sat on me, bum to bum, though both still togged, and strapped my ankles separately with heavy-duty leather shackles. He stood, hit a button, an electric motor humming into life. My legs lifted, a cable dragging me, my torso across the floor, feet rapidly rising. I went up. Upside-down. Stupidly I grabbed at the hem fearing the baring of my lower half. But of course he had viewed it, been there, had nothing new to see.
   There I slowly swung, wondering what the hell came next. Blood hit the brain under pressure, my nose blocked and I struggled for some stupid reason to breathe. For all the discomfort I watched him take a short stumpy whip from a rack. My breathing became a rasp. Apprehension jingled every nerve, my body lit by fire, skin chilled, bottom twitching with lust.
   As he ran the weathered tail through a hand, feeling its sinewy strength, its potency, he told me about my predecessors. "Suzie went two months ago. Nice looking woman. Ash-blonde. Tall. Willowy. Nice tits and arse. Long legs. She worked this place for about two years. In that time she made enough to set herself up, palatial pad, picking and choosing, doing who she wanted to."
   He moved slowly toward me. "It would be better if your hands weren't there." He smiled. "For you that is."
   I lowered my reach, let the hem go, the descent of hem and exposure of hips a truly sensual sensation. I don't believe he held much back, that leather cutting air with a sharp whistle and my buttocks with a hefty whack.
   "So I have been without a representative for some time."
   My bottom meat danced to another, the smart flooding my rear, gripping the flesh with a wicked tenacity. I didn't want to listen. I wanted only to immerse myself in the savagery of the whip.
   I writhed. Regardless of indulgence, it still hurt ferociously when the hardened tip of leather struck off piste, shall we say. When it reached beyond the buttock and was accelerated by the acute angle of the hip. Then the bite came close to unbearable. A wretched sting that would cling like a leech, pinching the mind. And there I lingered on the edge of my Shangri-la.
   Gradually my blouse came clear of the skirt waistband, the cloth falling over bra-covered breasts and eventually my head, leaving me blind, unable to guess. It also offered Bael new hunting grounds. Fresh unmarked and very tender flesh flaunted its exposure. Carl raised me and the tempo. He lifted me higher, my back level with his whip hand.
   He studied me a while before releasing the bra catch, my back fully revealed. Tits lurching down and free. "You're better put together than any woman I have seen before," he complimented. "Very nicely shaped. Better even than Suzie. Shame you upset the man, else we could pull punters in from just about anywhere."
   I bit. I clenched my teeth until the enamel ground. It came. It hit with a wicked velocity, Bael holding little back. Oh I bucked. I twisted and threw my hands to soothe the explosion of pain. It was there right between where the hands can't quite reach. There in the middle of my back, the lash slashing to the side. He enjoyed that. Carl stood back and wallowed in my gymnastics, fingers encouraging or calming a lump in his pants. And what a lump it seemed to be. For a moment I forgot my hurt, that was until he reignited the fire.
   To me there are erogenous areas and parts that don't fare well under flagellation. To Carl, anywhere that drew the right reaction was where the leather should hit.
   He did however give me time to gather my wits, to let the hurt die a little, to let mother nature nurse her injuries. But, that was not all he thought should be nursed. Height adjusted I found out just how big he was, the dome pressed to my lips.
   I refused, turning my head away. Why? Why? I thought, do I always get donkey hung? Big is nice. Thick is pleasing. Long is penetrating, teasing, eye popping. But huge is just uncomfortable.
   He had another adjustment on that rig. My legs were held by separate cables and fetters. He had the means to part them. And he did.
   Fingers ran the length of my gorge, tip just delving the lips. "Imagine," he coaxed, "a lash right here."
   I did.
   His tip pressed to my mouth again, and I refused.
   He said no more and stepped back, my breath held in anticipation. I gazed at his cock. That stupendous eight-and-a-bit inch goliath. Two rapidly successive lashes hit and changed my mind. The first hit with precision, parting the pussy lips with its ferocity. The second, before the enormity of the first took its toll, cut further, whipping my arse hole. I took as much of him as I could on his return.
   The hurt hung, stinging for some five minutes before it waned, his shaft happy to lodge in the welcoming warmth of my mouth. He didn't merely linger, imbibing of my oral antics, no, he played with me, the whip lash stroking my stung vulva, the handle eased into the wet orifice. His lips petted my thighs, kissing close to the hirsute mound. For a while streams of pleasure pulsed the course of my torso, twanging the sex strings, screwing the loins. Then his stem pulsed and shot his lot without warning.

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