little hope that a voluntary surrender would satisfy. He would mould her as his fantasy had moulded him He would make her a dream come true.
She felt an erotic excitement.
Terry cam in like a breath of spring. She wore clothes. Not much, but enough to be considered dressed. 'Darling, you look gorgeous! If only we had an artist! That pose should be immortalised.' She did a small dance round and round the tethered girl. Her eyes feasting. 'I say love, you do have a super shape, y’know, Mark’s damn lucky. How about lunch?'
Always to be caught off guard. Expected to be whipped she was given lunch. 'Lunch? Like this?' She was annoyed at sounding shocked.
'Of course not, silly. I’d have to stand here and slip bits and pieces in your mouth. Up on the terrace, where we had breakfast.' The captive’s heart leaped. Hope revived. A moment later her hands were once more free. Gratefully she rubbed the chafed wrists, then held them out questioningly to her exuberant companion.
'Not now, darling. Having you handcuffed makes a lot of work for poor little Terry. Come on, let’s make you devastatingly beautiful.'
The bedroom of a wealthy girl. Closets full of clothes. A bathroom to put the Romans to shame. Pyramids of cosmetics. Suddenly Dorinda knew how naked she had been. How terribly bereft is a naked girl. Robbed of her armour, her secrets and her pride.
But she was not naked now. Terry was a fairy godmother with miracles galore. Dorinda was quite sure she had never before been so expensively bathed or clad. Never had she been given such perfumes of felt such nimble fingers so cunningly enhance her loveliness. When she finally stood before the mirror both girls gasped in approval of a svelte someone, enchantingly feminine, they had not previously met.
'Mark’s a lucky blighter,' Terry was reverent.
Dorinda floated on a cloud of female ecstasy.
Mark’s radiance when he beheld the vision was her victory. Dorinda knew that she had captured him in bonds quite different from those she had so recently shed. She glowed and forgot about whips and handcuffs. Her moment was now. Terry flirted around them like a ray of pure sunlight. She was irrepressible.
Mark still wore only the briefs. On Kyrexos he would need no more. It was his island. His kingdom. Dorinda supposed she could add that she and Terry were his girls. If all he wanted was a slave, he already had a radiantly willing one in his sister. ‘Young Terry’ The way he said it spoke of love. She adored him. They allowed her chatter to envelop them in gaiety. Dorinda wished the moment could last forever, Mark amused and amusing, but faintly preoccupied.
No one of the three of them was anxious to bring it to a close. Each had their won reason to prolong the mood. When, finally, brother’s and sister’s gaze locked and held Terry said, flippantly: 'I suppose it’s schooltime.'
'Yes,' Mark agreed heavily. 'I’m afraid it is.' He turned courteously to Dorinda. 'Do you mind…'
She knew it was not a question but an order.
Meekly, with all the grace she could muster, she followed him from the room. As they left, Terry held out the silver handcuffs. As Mark thoughtfully tucked them in his belt, Dorinda reflected that the shining things had become a symbol of her new life.
The bare stone room had seemed appropriate when she, too, had been bare. Clothed she felt awkward and out of place in it. She felt foolish, not knowing where to stand or what to say. Mark solved her dilemma.
'Strip.' It was an uncompromising word.
Dorinda revolted. Having gained the harbour of clothes, and such glorious clothes! She cringed from the thought of surrendering to him. 'No,' she told him flatly. 'Please don’t make me.'
Mark nodded thoughtfully and went to the big chest. When he turned he was carrying the black whip, or its twin.
'Please…!' Dorinda appealed desperately. 'Don’t spoil it. We all felt something good at lunch. Don’t make me hate you.'
'Terry doesn’t hate me. I whip her often.'
Dorinda had no answer.
'I have explained it to you once,' he continued patiently. 'I won’t do it again.'
Dorinda looked longingly at the closed door and the wide window. But realised, farcically, that she could have run better in bare feet than in the high heels with which she was now shod.
'All right then. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do. I’ll even try and do it well. I’ll try to please you. But if I do that may I wear some little thing… anything at all?' she implored.
Mark considered. 'Very well, your briefs.'
It was a small victory. But it sustained her. She posed in front of him. 'Do you want me to strip tease or just undress?' She wondered if she had anything to lose by provoking him.
'Please yourself.' He was watching her with amusement. She supposed his great experiment was under way.
She had never been a bride, but supposed this was how it was on your weeding night. Not wanton. But very female. The fact that he had seen her naked over a period of hours, strangely enough, in no way diluted the shock of baring herself before him now. She divested herself of each bit of fabric lovingly and sorrowfully. She had worn them for such little time. They made such a sad pile against the wall where she dropped them on the stone. There was nowhere else to put them. The tempo of male breathing told her she had accomplished her task not without skill and artistry. Without shame she turned, in all her glory, and faced him.
'What must I do, Master?' She hoped it was the right note.
'Kiss my feet.'
It was an obvious start. Dorinda performed the slave obeisance with all the grace and willingness she could muster. She felt pleased with herself. If only Mark would play it as a game.. It might be fun. She knelt before him waiting.
'Now wash them with your lips and tongue. Swallow. Don’t spit!'
The game vanished unborn. He had breached her defence right at the start. Mark wore only the skimpiest sandals. His feet were well soiled. Obedience would degrade, perhaps nauseate. Tears came to her eyes. She had wanted so much to excel.
He saunted to the wooden chest. Sat comfortably leaning back against the wall and kicked off one sandal. She knew his searching eyes could read her thoughts. She followed, kneeling at his feet, yet certain she could not do what was required of her. She looked up at him piteously blinking back the tears.
'Would it help if I whipped you now?' he asked kindly.
The incongruity was a groad. With a bitter sob of determination Dorinda blindly and feverishly began the impossible.
But nothing is impossible. Telling Terry of it afterwards she coined the quip that one toe led to another and when a girl had sucked one she had sucked ‘em all. She was amazed at the detergent quality of saliva and the innocent pinkness of each toe as she released it from her lips. She hoped, miserably, that whatever it was she was forced to swallow would not poison her. It was probably just Kyrexos dust. The job was long. By the time her lips and tongue had cleaned both feet she had had time to reflect that a girl can make infinite adjustments if she is sufficiently frightened.
There was no rest. He stood up. 'Remove my briefs. Clean what you find there. Do no more than that. Then replace.'
Dorinda had expected this. She was aware of the importance men attached to this act. The order came as a less of a shock than the previous one. She dealt with her humiliation completely. In handling his swimming briefs she was obliged also to handle her hated handcuffs again. He made no move to help. He had placed them under the belt. She must leave them as she found them. Her fingers on the steel, she wondered how long to would be before she felt their bite again. She knelt back on her heels, hoping for approval.
Mark spat on the floor.
He must want to whip her very much. He would tax her tolerance until it broke. He had not spoken. But she knew what she must do. She bent swiftly and cleansed the spot on the floor with a willing tongue.
'Run and fetch me a drink, slave girl.'
Dorinda looked up aghast.
Mark laughed at her surprise. 'Why shouldn’t a slave fetch her master a drink? Run along now. You know the
