Stephanie's Revenge

Stephanie's Revenge
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ISBN:  9781780802114
Author:  Susanna Hughes
Word Count:  65,046
Format:  eBook

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Stephanie's CastleStephanie's Castle
Stephanie's DomainStephanie's Domain
Stephanie's TrialStephanie's Trial
Stephanie's PleasureStephanie's Pleasure
The Slaves of New YorkThe Slaves of New York

Stephanie stepped out of the shower. She ran a thick comb through her long hair to untangle it, and examined her body in the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the white Carrara marble bathroom. The three whip marks on her thighs had almost entirely disappeared. But the one on her inner thigh, the one from the cut of Gianni's whip that had so narrowly missed the soft folds of her sex itself, still displayed a slight bruising on her otherwise flawless tan. The welt across her breasts, from the same source, was also distinctly visible - an angry red scar across the top of her breasts in the middle of their soft, opulent curves.

The beautiful and sensuous Stephanie is settling into her new role as mistress of Devlin's castle. She has everything she could desire: money, luxury, a lover who can satisfy all her erotic needs and a bevy of slaves over whom she has complete control. But being mistress of the castle is not enough: she has a score to settle with Gianni, the Italian businessman who humiliated her.

But the wily Gianni has more tricks up his sleeve and Stephanie finds herself entrapped and enslaved. She has to use all her skills to teach him a lesson he will enjoy - but never forget.

She was not dreaming. As far as she could tell it was not a dream that had startled her awake. It was a noise. She opened her eyes and looked around the room, trying to remember the sound. What sort of noise? The room, still bathed in moonlight, was perfectly silent now. Jasmina had not moved; she slept soundlessly at her side. She closed her eyes again, the adrenaline rush caused by her shock suddenly draining away. Her eyes felt heavy with sleep again. Just as the edges of consciousness began to soften, she realised the terrace door was open. She could have sworn she'd closed it when she came in to shower. But what did it matter? It wasn't cold and she usually slept with the doors open anyway.
   The sharp edges blurred again. She felt herself falling back into the blackness of sleep as she heard Jasmina's regular breathing beside her.
   She woke again, jerked awake with a much bigger rush of adrenaline, her heart pumping blood, violently reacting to whatever unconscious alarm signal her mind had heard. She looked around the room. Whether it was a minute or an hour since she had woken before she could not tell. She could see nothing but the familiar objects in the room and dark shadows where the moonlight could not reach. She tried to look into the shadows, but they were too deep. But something was wrong. She couldn't tell what, but something was wrong.
   As quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb Jasmina, she pulled away the sheet—
   Everything happened at once. A man sprang from the floor alongside the bed, caught Stephanie by the shoulders, pushed her back on to the bed, and jumped on top of her to hold her down with his body. A thick leather glove over her mouth gagged her scream. At the same time a second man leapt from the shadows and, in the instant Jasmina awoke, stifled her screams with his hand, jumping up on the bed too, kneeling over her to hold her down.
   Stephanie's heart was beating like a wild bird trapped in a cage. What did they want, who were they, how did they get in? They must be robbers. The castle had immensely valuable furniture, antiques, paintings. Even in her panic she found herself wondering how on earth they would get the stuff off the island. They'd need a huge boat.
   Jasmina started to buck her powerful muscles, pushing at the man. Fortunately for him, her arms and legs were trapped under the sheet. She tried to roll her head to get his hand off her mouth, but it held firm.
   A third man stepped into the pool of moonlight. He held a small black case, like the case of a geometry set.
   The man on Jasmina hissed a question in Italian to his companion. Jasmina had wrestled a long black arm from the bedclothes. The man caught it by the wrist, but Jasmina twisted it out of his grip and, in a flash, raked his cheek with her blood-red fingernails. Real blood appeared instantly from three parallel scratches on his face, as though he had been mauled by a tiger.
   'Lupa!' he snarled, catching her wrist again before she could repeat the treatment.
   Stephanie did not struggle. There was no point. Whatever these men had come for they were going to get it, no matter what. They would not care if they left casualties. Stephanie had read about the Italian banditos, and cursed Devlin for not taking better precautions. If she could have spoken she would have told Jasmina to stop her struggles.
   The third man had put the little case down on the bedside table and opened it. He drew out a large hypodermic syringe and filled it from a vial of colourless fluid. He put the vial back in the bag and pushed the plunger of the syringe until fluid jetted out from its tip. Then he moved to Jasmina's side.
   'Lupa!' the man on top of her repeated.
   Jasmina saw the man coming and redoubled her efforts. The bedsheets had worked down to her waist and her naked breasts quivered with her efforts. The arm that was not trapped in the man's hand was under his knee. She concentrated on trying to worm it free.
   'Do not move,' the third man hissed. The needle was inches from the top of Jasmina's arm. 'If it breaks, is bad for you,' he whispered, in a heavy Italian accent. Jasmina's eyes filled with fear and she stopped struggling. The needle jabbed into her arm.
   'Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque...' the third man counted quietly. By 'cinque' Jasmina's eyes had rolled up and her body went completely loose.
   The man climbed off her. He pulled the sheet off the rest of the body and looked down at her long-limbed nakedness. The third man came round to Stephanie's side of the bed.
   'You are more sensible,' he said, still whispering. Stephanie looked away as she saw the needle approach her arm. The gloved hand over her mouth would not let her head turn far, but she could see Jasmina's naked body and see, to her relief, that she was still breathing normally. The man who had sat on top of her was running his hand over her navel and into her sparse pubic hair. He started to open her thighs. He wants to see what she looks like between her legs, Stephanie thought. Never seen a black woman's cunt. It was at that moment the needle went in. She could feel fluid pumped under her skin.
   How were they going to get away with it? How were they going to deal with the servants, how were they going to get the stuff in their boat...
   'Une, due, tre, quattro, cinque...'
   Stephanie did not hear the word 'cinque'. The moonlight disappeared, everything disappeared: images, thoughts, sounds. There was only blackness, a blackness so profound, so perfect, it had no seams, no corners, no edges and no end.

The feeling was like being steamrollered by cotton wool clouds. The blackness cleared a little, enough to allow billowing whiteness to roll in, and pass over, as if it was going to suffocate her underneath it. Then more blackness. Gradually longer periods of white cotton moving like clouds, almost rolling in and over her, knocking her down as she struggled to come round, every effort her mind made to grip on to something that wasn't black or white, defeated by the clouds that pulled her down again into the numbing edgeless void.
   Eventually, after hours, or minutes, or days, the whiteness turned to grey. Only at the edges at first. But now there were edges. There were shapes, even straight lines for a few minutes, before the clouds returned and whited everything out. With the greyness came nausea. Something, somewhere in her mind, told her nausea must be a good sign. She felt her gorge rising hot and acid in her throat. Then she was back in the downy whiteness again.
   It was the nausea that woke her up. The clouds cleared and she sat up, convinced she was going to vomit. The feeling passed, replaced by a dizziness caused by sitting up too quickly. She had a pounding headache, its rhythm in time with her pulse. She opened her eyes and closed them again, not believing what she saw. She must still be dreaming.
   She took a deep breath and felt a little better. She opened her eyes again. Her first thought was to wonder how on earth they had managed to change her bedroom so drastically and completely in such a short time. It took quite an effort of mental reasoning before she worked out that this was not, and never had been, her bedroom. Her mind took it on from there, normal thought restored. The men had not come to the castle to rob it. They had come for her.
   She looked around slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements to exacerbate the hammer that appeared to be driving a nail into her forehead. The room was small, not much bigger than a double bed. The walls were of unplastered brick, two looking as though they had been recently built, two looking old, the mortar crumbling. There was a heavy wooden door but no window. The floor was paved in large flagstones. She was sitting on a wooden-framed single bed, covered with a thin mattress. There were no sheets, no pillow, no bedding of any sort. The room was lit by a single light bulb hanging from the wood beamed ceiling. In one corner of the room there was a bucket. Beside the bed, incongruously, was an English Windsor chair. On the seat of the chair was a glass of water.
   Seeing the water, Stephanie realised she was desperately thirsty. It was probably the drug they had given her. Slowly, she swung her legs off the bed and tried to take the two steps to the chair. She only managed one before her legs buckled and she sank to the floor. But at least she could reach the glass now. She took it in her hand and drank the whole glass.
   She felt nauseous again, as the cold water drained into her system. She also felt cold. The room was damp and chilled. Getting back on to the mattress she tucked her legs up to her chest for warmth. There was absolutely nothing else she could use to cover herself. They had left her as naked as they'd found her.
   Examining her body, she found a small, sensitive bruise where the needle had been injected into her upper arm. Otherwise, she appeared to be untouched.
   Her feeling of disorientation was beginning to lessen. Her mind formed questions. How long had she been here? Where was Jasmina? What time was it? Automatically she looked for her watch and, as she stared at her bare wrist, remembered it was sitting on the bedside table back at the castle. Where was this room?
   One thing she didn't have to question. There was only one person who could be responsible for this: Gianni. It had to be Gianni. It was the only explanation; his vengeance for what she had done to him. She cursed herself. She should have known better, she should have been on her guard, she should have realised that a man as powerful and egotistical as Gianni wouldn't simply ignore the humiliation she had meted out to him. How stupid not to have taken precautions...
   And he'd probably taken Jasmina too. Taking her was one thing, in a sense she accepted she was fair game. But not Jasmina. Jasmina had nothing to do with it.
   She rolled herself into a foetal position, more for warmth than anything else, and closed her eyes. The headache was pounding less and, curiously, she began to feel a sense of euphoria. She felt lightheaded, the feeling of having had just a little too much to drink. Despite her situation the world began to look rosy, she was smiling to herself. She felt good. It was puzzling, but her mood meant she had no desire to question it. She lay back on the bed, grinning.
   She heard the key turn in the lock and saw the door open. Gianni walked into the cell, his face creased in a grin that matched her own.
   Stephanie tried to pull herself off the bed, tried to summon up her anger, fly at him in rage, claw at his eyes, knee him in the balls. But nothing worked. Her body would not respond, nor would her mind. Her muscles refused to work, her anger would not rise. She couldn't even wipe the foolish grin from her face.
   'Come on then, English,' he said. 'You don't want to beat me again, eh?'
   She wanted to say that he had got what he deserved, but instead she continued to grin.
   'No? Well, that is good.' He sat down in the Windsor chair, pulling at the knees of his trousers so as not to spoil the crease in his Gucci slacks. The tone of his voice changed. 'You really think I let you get away with it? Ah? You think you can do that to me? Lupa! Bitch! Well, now I teach you the lesson. A longer lesson. I learn quick. I learn from Devlin. From your castle. I think I start my castle here. All my friends come here. You will entertain them, no? Give them a show. Like at the castle. They can have what they want, my friends, like at the castle. Anything they want. And you are my star attraction, I think. You'll be very popular.'
   Stephanie tried to say something, she wasn't at all sure what, but couldn't form the words.
   'You think this is good? I teach you, Giancarlo Gianni cannot be treated like a piece of meat, hung up like a piece of meat.' He was getting angry. He stood up. She thought he was going to hit her, but instead he reached into his pocket and tossed a ball of material on to the bed. 'Here, these will keep you warm.'
   He slammed the cell door and Stephanie heard the key turn in the lock.

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