Melinda and the Countess

Melinda and the Countess
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ISBN:  9781780801506
Author:  Susanna Hughes
Word Count:  64,785
Format:  eBook

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'How pretty you look: so naked, so vulnerable. I'm sure you know that you will be punished if you do not obey my commands without question. Then again, I may have you punished anyway...'

Melinda, the gorgeous green-eyed submissive, is being sent to her new owner. An owner whose home is an exotic chateau to the south of Paris, with all the trappings of a devoted practitioner of discipline. Someone who insists on the very highest standards in her slaves - and has devised rigorous training programmes to ensure she gets them.

Melinda is about to meet her first Mistress, and the Countess is not an easy woman to please.

The dream had been so real that when she woke she looked around the room, expecting to see the Master and the other woman, and the big full-length mirror. But she was alone. Her body was bathed in sweat and her heart was pumping at twice its normal rate.
   Judging from the faint rays of light that filtered in through the window high above the bed, Melinda could tell dawn was beginning to break. There was enough light for her to see her own body. Sweat was running off the curves of her breasts. The black panties she was wearing were damp, but not only from perspiration. The dream had aroused her and the crotch of the panties was set with the milk of her sex. She could feel her clitoris pulsating and demanding attention.
   Of course, there was nothing to stop her running her fingers under the tight elasticated waistband of the panties, down over her belly and on to her clit. She had dreamt she was hairless but in fact it had been some time since she had been made to shave and her sex was covered with a light blonde fleece. There was nothing to stop her moving her clitoris from side to side in the way she used to masturbate so many times in the life she had lived before. Nothing to stop her but the fact that it was not allowed and that she hated to do it for that very reason. That didn't make her need any less, didn't make her body beg for attention any less feverishly, but it prevented her from doing anything about it as surely as if she'd been bound.
   She tried to take her mind off the subject. She looked around the room. Last night, when they had brought her in here, she had been so tired after her long, uncomfortable journey from Spain that she had fallen asleep almost immediately, paying little attention to her surroundings.
   The room was small and rectangular, a single wooden-framed bed and mattress the only furniture. The only door was thick oak with a large mortise lock. The floor was stone and the walls plastered and painted white, though now they were dirty and scuffed. A single clear light bulb hung down from the centre of the ceiling. On the wall by the door were the only other objects in the room. Screwed into the plaster wall above head height and about four feet apart were what looked like two medieval metal gauntlets, the sort knights would have worn. Each gauntlet was angled outward slightly and was hinged so the hand could be placed inside and held there.
   As she looked at them Melinda shuddered, imagining what it would be like to be held helpless in their metallic grasp.
   She had no idea where she was. The journey from Spain had taken two days, two days of confinement in the back of a windowless van. She had been told she was being taken to Paris and knew her new Master was a woman - what they called, in the Organisation Internationale des Maitres, a Maitresse - a countess whom she had encountered in London. But whether this was her final destination or a halfway house she had no way of knowing.
   She lay on the bed without moving, watching the light from the small high window gradually get brighter. It was too high for her to see out of even if she stood on the bed, and in any case she had no real curiosity about the place. Her only true concern was how her new Maitresse would treat her. She remembered her well from the one occasion she had met her before. She was a beautiful woman, slender and elegant with eyes as green as Melinda's and the reddest of red hair, and a haughty look that befitted her aristocratic pedigree. She had treated Melinda with such harshness in the few minutes they had been together, handling her with not the slightest tenderness, that the thought of being hers, of being her chattel, filled Melinda with dread. She could still see her eyes; they were cold and hard and determined. She was a woman who was used to getting her own way, with no compassion or concern. The Countess was interested only in herself. She would be an uncompromising Maitresse.
   The grinding of the key in the lock interrupted Melinda's reverie. A large woman entered, wearing a dirty grey suit which looked as though it might have been intended as a uniform. She was wearing a very cheap black wig that didn't fit properly and her face was layered with fat; she had several chins that made her look like a walrus. Hardly looking at Melinda, she beckoned for her to follow and headed down a short corridor. There was a door to one side at the end. She unlocked it and stepped aside to let Melinda in, then followed her through. The room had a toilet and, in the corner, a shower head behind a plastic curtain with a drain set in the stone floor. The woman grunted and indicated the toilet.
   Melinda had got used to performing even the most private acts in public. She sat on the loo and peed while the woman watched her, though she seemed totally uninterested. Gratefully Melinda showered away the grime and sweat and cleaned her teeth with a brush and paste that had been left on a small wooden shelf with the soap. There was no wash basin, however, and she had to use water from the shower.
   She had taken the black panties off and hung them over the top of the shower rail but the fat woman had taken them and stuffed them in her pocket. There was no towel with which to dry herself and Melinda was returned to her cell still wet, a set of footprints marking her passage on the stone floor. A tray of fruit and a jug of water had been left on the bed while she had been away and the fat woman stood impassively while Melinda ate. As soon as the tray was empty she took it away and locked the cell door after her.
   Time passed slowly. The water drying on her body left Melinda feeling slightly chilled. She lay on the mattress and curled herself up into a tight ball to try and keep warm.
   At what she took to be lunchtime the fat woman with the walrus chins returned with a tray of bread and cheese and water. Again she stood watching Melinda eat and again she took the tray away as soon as she was finished, leaving the slave alone.
   It was deliberate, of course. Melinda knew this was how members of the Organisation Internationale de Maitres worked. This was all part of the way slaves were treated, all part of the intricate means by which they established psychological dependency. Endless hours stretching ahead, with nothing to do but think about what was awaiting you; your nakedness a constant reminder of your prime function and duty; your inability even to have a drink without it being arranged by them; all were tokens of your subjection. Melinda had experienced it before with her other two Masters. She no longer existed as a person, no longer harboured hopes or desires or expectations. She was there to be done to, but not to do. That was all she had to remember.
   But it was difficult. It was difficult not to want, especially as her position - her submission to the will of the Masters - was an expression of her most profound sexual desires. The dream she had had the previous night had aroused her and she couldn't stop her mind filling with images of the things that had been done to her by the Masters. She couldn't stop her body remembering - like the muscle memory of an athlete - how it had been used. Her sex seemed to be a thing possessed, irrepressible, forcing its attentions on her. It had exercised so frequently it refused to accept inactivity.
   Her mind dwelt on her first meeting with the Countess. She remembered her precise, cut glass voice, her perfect, though accented English.
   'I would have her whipped every day.' Melinda shuddered as she heard the voice so clearly in her mind. 'She has the arse for it. And the belly. And the breasts.'
   Melinda had been bound against a wall, her hands high above her head, so high she was forced on to tiptoe and the short skirt of her dress had ridden up above her thighs. The Countess had examined her, exposed one of her breasts so it stuck out of the dress obscenely, and fingered her labia. Then she had pinched her clitoris so hard that a wave of pain, on the same frequency as extreme pleasure, had coursed through Melinda's body, and the Countess had watched eagerly for her reaction.
   Melinda had been left there, one breast out of the dress, the skirt around her hips, squirming against her bonds, every nerve aching for release; the fact that release would never come had made the desire for it worse.
   Melinda felt her clitoris throb now as she remembered and quickly tried to pull herself back. It was only one of a thousand occasions, a thousand times when she had been used, when her body had been subjected to the whim of another with no concern for her needs. What was happening to her at this very minute was, she knew, another subtle form of torture, a test of her obedience. There was no need to watch her, to have cameras trained on her, or to use two-way mirrors. If she broke the rule it was herself she would be punishing because the rule of obedience was absolute. Though, after hours alone, her body cried out urgently to be touched and caressed and fingered, to allow herself to do anything about it would be to break the rule and exclude herself from what she cared for most.
   That was the essence of her submission. It was pain and at the same time pleasure. What she was experiencing now, as in the past, was the mental equivalent of being whipped. Just as the pain of the whip was translated to hot, pulsing pleasure, so the frustration, the inability to satisfy her body's demands, led to another sort of excitement. The pleasure did not make the whip less painful; nor did excitement reduce the frustration. Somehow, in a way she did not understand or want to understand, the two went together like hand and glove. It was not possible to have one without the other. The Masters knew that and so, now, did she.
   As the light faded the cell grew dark. The electric light was not switched on. By the time Melinda heard the key being turned in the lock again the room was black, with only a thin wafer of light spilling in from under the door. This became a wide triangular shaft as the door swung open. A woman stood in the doorway. She was short and stocky, her black hair cut very close to the scalp, her face rather chubby and her eyes protruding slightly. She wore a black riding jacket over a white blouse, and beige jodhpurs with brown, highly polished riding boots. Her hands bore matching brown leather gloves and she carried a riding crop.
   'It is time,' she said, her voice heavy with an accent that was not French.
   Melinda felt her pulse race. Was she being taken to her Maitresse?
   'Follow me. Do everything I say without question,' she said unnecessarily...

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