Melinda and Sophia

Camille had ordered Melinda to follow her downstairs. On the first floor she had gone into one of the large luxurious bedrooms where the guests were accommodated. Laid out on the double bed was a red lace basque with long ruched satin suspenders. There was a pair of red suede high heels on the floor and a cellophane packet of stockings.
‘Come on, do as I say,’ Camille prompted as Melinda hesitated.
‘You know you must obey me?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Get on with it then.’
Melinda picked up the basque and wrapped it around her body. She started to try to fasten the catches at the back.
‘I’ll do that,’ Camille said. Her accent was French. Camille’s fingers were long and bony. She pulled the edges of the garment together and began fastening it up, starting at the top and working down. It was tight and boned at the waist to produce an hourglass figure. The corset had no bra; two crescent shapes at the front fitting under each breast but leaving them bare.
‘Put the stockings on yourself.’
Melinda sat on the edge of the bed. She opened the cellophane packet and unfurled the black stockings. They were ultra sheer with a glossy sheen that made them shiny. She rolled one into a pouch around the toe and inserted her foot into it, then unrolled the nylon up her calf and on to her thigh. It seemed a long time since she had seen her legs sheathed in stockings and the sight made her sex pulse, remembering how her very first master had liked to have her dressed in this way. Carefully she clipped the darker broad welt of the stocking into the suspender at the front, its metal clip discreetly covered with a diagonal sash of silk satin. She reached around to the side, adjusted the suspender to make it longer, then clipped it into the welt. The suspenders pulled the nylon into two triangular peaks of jet black which contrasted dramatically both in colour and texture to the creamy smoothness of the flesh above them. As she pulled on the second stocking in the same way she was conscious of Camille’s eyes locked on her hairless labia.
‘Very good,’ Camille said. She was not tall but she was slender and curvaceous, her breasts jutting firmly from her white silk blouse. Her hips were plump and her legs, under a tight-fitting pencil skirt, shapely. ‘Stand.’
She took Melinda over to a dressing-table and sat her in front of its mirror. For the first time in days Melinda glimpsed her own face. It had become so unfamiliar she almost found it hard to recognise herself. She stared into her own eyes to try to see if the experiences of the last weeks had registered there, but the eyes that stared back at her gave nothing away. They were the eyes of a stranger.
Camille quickly made her up. She used dark eye-shadow and a thick mascara and painted on an equally dark red lipstick. She brushed her hair and played with it until she appeared satisfied with its shape.
‘Now the shoes.’
When Melinda got to her feet she discovered she was breathless. It had been a long time since she had worn anything as tight as this basque and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She went back to the bed and slipped her feet into the red high heels. Their height tilted her forward, tightening the muscles in her buttocks and calves.
Camille looked her up and down. ‘I should have come earlier,’ she said. ‘I would have liked to have time with you. Sophia said you were special. You are certainly that.’ Her hand stroked Melinda’s buttocks. ‘Wait here. Practise with the shoes,’ she added, obviously making a conscious effort to pull herself away.
It was totally dark outside as Melinda was left on her own. She saw the glare of headlights briefly illuminate the windows and heard the crunch of gravel under a car’s tyres as it pulled up to the front door. She thought she heard a door in the corridor outside being opened and closed. The hostess, she imagined, was going to meet her guests.
Doing as she was told, she paced up and down the large bedroom trying to get used to wearing high heels again. As she had noticed when she had been taken to Sophia, the long period without wearing high heels had left her tottering around on them, especially with the precipitous heights her new mistress seemed to favour. Ignoring the cramp in her calves and the bite of the leather around her feet she practised walking up and down the bedroom.
Oddly, she thought, considering there was a time when she had ached for a chance to see herself, she did not want to face the mirror in the dressing-table again. She glimpsed herself briefly as she walked by, the red basque obscenely exposing her very round, fleshy breasts, the suspenders neatly framing the shaven pubis at the apex of her thighs and the top of her labia squeezed between them, but she did not look again. She looked like a whore, and though that idea excited her she had no desire to stare at herself more intently. Consciously, she picked a route across the bedroom that avoided the mirror.
She heard noise from downstairs, the sound of footsteps and the buzz of conversation and laughter. It soon subsided as the voices moved away, perhaps into the dining-room. She could hear the occasional clatter of crockery. Time passed slowly.
‘Come on.’ The overseer had opened the bedroom door after what must have been two hours. He waited in the hall for her, then took her by the arm and guided her along the main hallway to a wide wooden staircase she had never seen before. At the bottom they faced the double doors at the front of the house, a large chandelier, with droplets in sparkling crystal, hanging from the high ceiling above the vestibule.
They turned down along the side of the stairs and into a short corridor hung with antique tapestries. They came to an imposing double doorway, its oak door carved in relief with hunting scenes.
‘Wait here,’ Aldo commanded, walking back the way he had come.
The noise of the dinner party seeped through the doors. It was obviously not a large-scale affair as the voices were muted and indistinct. As Melinda stood waiting to be presented to the guests, she remembered her first master, Walter Hammerton. It was Walter who had recognised her secret needs, needs that, until he had faced her with them, she had barely acknowledged herself. He had introduced her to the Organisation Internationale de Maîtres. He had presented her to his guests at a dinner party too, but on that occasion she had been in bondage and under strict supervision. It was a measure of the distance she had travelled in her acceptance of her own nature that now, though free to run away, to get into one of the cars outside and flee everything around her, she stood calmly awaiting her fate.
She wondered if, beyond the doors, the master would be sitting at the head of the table. Sophia was a challenging substitute but like every slave she longed to meet her new master. It was him, after all, who would ultimately determine the course of the next three months of her life. She was convinced, however, that he was not inside. Over the months she had developed a sixth sense when it came to her masters. Their presence in the house was like a change of temperature and one she could detect easily.
She was right.
‘Take this in,’ the old woman in the black dress said. She had appeared from a door on the other side of the corridor carrying a silver tray on which stood a Georgian silver coffee pot. ‘Serve the coffee.’ She opened one of the double doors and closed it again as soon as Melinda was inside.
The dining-room was impressive, its walls decorated with original eighteenth-century frescoes, a marble and granite floor and an oak dining-table and chairs from the Empire period that could have seated thirty. Only one end of it was laid out with white napery, silver cutlery and crystal glasses and only four chairs were occupied.
Sophia was wearing a tight black silk body with a neckline that plunged to her waist, her large unsupported breasts billowing against the material. Over the body she wore a short figure-hugging skirt, a tube of white Lycra covered in tiny white sequins like fish scales. The skirt was so short it left most of her long nylon-sheathed legs on display.
Camille, on the other side of the table, sat in an equally clinging red dress, its strapless bodice of tight satin like a corset, its skirt only marginally longer than Sophia’s.
‘Good evening, Melinda,’ Sophia said. ‘Pour the coffee for us, please.’ She indicated the small white coffee cups that had been placed to the side of each place setting. The dessert, a confection of chocolate and cream, was still being consumed. Melinda moved to the table and poured the steaming hot liquid into Sophia’s cup first.
The other two guests were a couple; the man in an evening suit and black bow-tie, the woman a brunette in a dress of dark rich mauve. The man was balding with a horseshoe of brown hair around his shining pate. He was deeply suntanned and more than a little overweight and had a small-featured, chubby little face with a dimple in his chin. His eyes were a light brown and set very deep so that they appeared smaller than they were.
As Melinda poured her coffee the brunette got to her feet. She said something to the man in a language Melinda did not understand. Her eyes were looking at Melinda’s naked breasts. Melinda walked around the table and filled the other cups.
‘Put it down over there,’ Sophia said, pointing at a small table on the other side of the room. Melinda tottered over to it, only too aware of the eyes staring at her buttocks.
The man spoke in the same language the brunette had used and his wife, if that was who she was, laughed. The mauve dress had a halter neck which fastened around the woman’s throat and left her back completely bare. Its long skirt dipped to her ankles but was split on one side right up to the top of her thigh. Her legs were encased in sheer grey tights with a diamond motif printed into the nylon.
‘Now back here,’ Camille said.
Melinda returned to the table. The man pulled his chair out and turned to get a better view.
‘She is the new one?’ the brunette asked.
‘Yes, Alessi, brand new.’
‘I haven’t even had her yet,’ Camille said.
The attention of the whole table was focused on Melinda now.
‘I like the Arab girl,’ the man said.
‘Oh, I like the American,’ Camille commented. ‘Those long legs.’
‘The American’s got no tits,’ the man said, his accent heavy with some middle-European dialect.
‘Oh,’ Alessi told him, ‘the Arab’s definitely got the sort of tits you like.’ Her voice had the same accent.
‘Where’s Giorgio incidentally?’ the man asked. ‘Shouldn’t he have droit de seigneur?’
‘He’s in Bologna on business.’
‘Funny,’ the man said, ‘I thought I saw him at Sabattini’s.’
‘No,’ Sophia said. ‘He’s away.’
Alessi put her hand out and stroked Melinda’s shoulder. ‘So, is she available or isn’t she?’
‘You know the rules,’ Camille said.
Alessi’s hand moved to Melinda’s breast. ‘Lovely tits. Well, Boris, what do you think?’ she said to her husband.
‘We can wait.’
‘Oh, Boris, and now I’ve got myself in the mood.’ Her hand squashed Melinda’s breast back against her chest.
‘You can have either of the others,’ Sophia suggested.
‘Come on, Boris, you’ll have a good time.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ he agreed.
‘Take her to the red room then.’
‘I should have her first,’ Camille said petulantly.
‘I thought you were spending the night with me,’ Sophia said sharply.
‘And Amber?’ Camille asked, brightening at the idea.
‘Of course.’ Sophia patted Camille’s hand on the table.
‘Take her to the red room then,’ Sophia said. ‘Just remember the rules, Boris. Giorgio has to take her first.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see he’s good,’ Alessi said. ‘I’m sure I can find something else for him to do.’ She smiled wickedly.
‘I’m sure you can.’
Alessi took Melinda by the arm and guided her out through the double doors, with Boris following in their wake. They walked down the corridor back to the front hall then turned left into what was obviously the main sitting-room, a large salon dotted with a big modern sofa and leather wing chairs. At the far side of this room Alessi led them through into a small square room decorated in red. It was furnished with an antique desk and a swivel chair, a small red leather Chesterfield and a large leather footstool with buttoned upholstery that matched the sofa. There was a marble fireplace, the grate of which was filled with a huge display of colourful dried flowers.
The room was lit by a table lamp perched on the corner of the antique desk. Apparently not satisfied with this, Alessi went to a switch by the door and turned on the overhead lights, a bar of rather incongruous spotlights. The room was flooded in bright light.
Coming back into the centre of the room where she had left Melinda standing, Alessi cupped her cheeks in her hands and kissed the semi-naked girl full on the lips, plumbing the depths of her mouth with her tongue. Boris stood behind them, pushing his body against Melinda’s back and stretching his arms around both women, making Melinda the filling in a sandwich of bodies.
‘Is it on?’ he asked.
‘She’ll turn it on,’ Alessi said. Melinda had no idea what they were talking about.
Boris said something in the language they had used in the dining-room.
‘You must speak English,’ Alessi chided. ‘You know that.’
Alessi dropped to her knees. As Boris’s hand fondled Melinda’s breasts, tweaking her nipples and kneading the flesh like bread dough, his wife’s tongue snaked into the furrow of Melinda’s smooth hairless sex, her hands pulling her thighs apart. Instantly Melinda felt a shock of pleasure as the stranger’s tongue locked on to her clitoris.
‘Down,’ Boris ordered. He pushed the footstool to the back of Melinda’s stockinged legs and forced her to sit on it. As soon as she had, Alessi pushed her back so she was lying flat on the buttoned leather. The stool was not long enough to accommodate her head and it projected over the edge uncomfortably. The brunette picked up her legs and hooked them, one by one, over her shoulders, then renewed her assault on Melinda’s now open sex, her tongue moving from her clitoris to the puckered bud of her anus, pushing into it and then into her vagina. Melinda felt her juices flow as the woman’s tongue strained to get deeper into her sex.
Almost directly above her head she saw the man unzip his trousers and strip them down to his ankles with his briefs. He was anxious to get in on the act. He knelt behind Melinda’s head, his erection fully grown.
‘Is she giving you a good time?’ he asked, watching his wife’s head bobbing between Melinda’s legs, the suspenders of the basque strained taut across the top of her thighs, pulling at the black welts of the stockings.
‘Yes, master,’ Melinda moaned. The feelings Alessi was creating seemed to be intensified by the tightness of the basque.
Boris pushed forward, forcing her head down until it was bent back at right angles to her spine, her hair brushing the carpet. He positioned the tip of his erection against her lips. ‘Suck on it,’ he said…