Taking Flight (24 page)

Deborah smiled and squeezed her pussy walls at the memory. She remembered a beautiful, sensual dream of hands and fingers and caresses and oceans and swimming and floating, then she remembered abruptly coming to just as an orgasm racked her body and soul. A surprising and beautiful way to be woken up. What Marcus hadn’t added was that he’d flipped her legs up over his shoulders and fucked her fast and hard until he’d come deep inside her.

Squeezing her sex in a pulsing motion, Deborah tried to coax desire from the words she’d just read. Her craving for him overwhelmed her, and she clutched her chest as the agony of heartache swelled in her body. She placed the notebook onto the bedside table. It was too hard, too intense for her to remember. He had been so insistent that she take a lover and meet him in the ultimate unity but she felt it all slipping away from her grasp. If she couldn’t be turned on by his words anymore, what hope did she have for finding him on a spiritual plane?

Deborah fell back into the nest of bedding and let the tears drip onto her pillow.

* * * *

“What’s in it for me?” The words went around and around in Deborah’s mind as she wrestled the sheets and blankets off her. The long sleep in luxurious bedding had left her refreshed but with new anger sizzling inside.

The lack of windows in her room meant she had no idea of the time and had to open the door to the lab to make sure it was morning. It was—the sun had climbed substantially and Deborah both cursed and thanked the governor for letting her sleep. Missing breakfast had added to her irritability and she went through to the punishment room to explore further.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and she fumbled about until she found the drawer which held the matches. Something about the pre-noon candlelight made her feel melancholic and she lit as many as she could to brighten the place up and chase away the feeling. In the middle of one of the walls stood what looked like a large wardrobe shrouded in a thick sheet of dark velvet. Deborah shivered with excitement and bent down to take a corner of the fabric. Plumes of dust engulfed her and she rolled her eyes. For God’s sake, how had she missed this?

She gathered the fabric and pulled to reveal a beautifully carved oak wardrobe, like something from a classic novel, looming above her. She tried the handle and yelped in delight as the door swung open. A row of clothes hung in perfect order. She reached in and picked a garment carefully between pinched fingertips, fearful it might disintegrate under her touch.

Jewels, velvets, feathers, furs, sequins—Deborah had never seen such a bounty. She pulled out a floor-length silk gown and pressed it against her body, watching the fabric swish from side to side as she swayed. Laying it over a nearby armchair, she quickly threw off her tunic and replaced it with the dress. It hung lifelessly, drowning her in the swathes of luxurious silk, so she gathered it in her arms and went to the large mirror on the opposite wall. As she let the bundle fall, it didn’t cascade in perfect rolling waves about her, but merely swamped her.
Damn.
She tried holding it in at the back but the straps fell off, exposing her breasts in the flickering candlelight.

Tripping and stumbling over to the wardrobe, she put the dress back in its place. This time she chose a shorter velvet gown. It was the same story. Not just too big, but enormous. As she systematically went through the selection, Deborah began to take notice of her physique in the mirror. In her haste to find something that fit, she cast things off hither and thither, quite liking that the room increasingly looked like a vintage boutique. When yet another piece was discarded, and she stood naked in front of the looking glass, Deborah actually took a good look at herself. Her ribs were showing not only under her breasts, but also at her sternum, and her collarbone shone through alarmingly.

This would never do. She’d been so proud of her strength and muscle definition. Not just because of the look it gave, but the feeling of power, that she could defend herself if she needed to. Now though, this gaunt waif staring back at her would have real trouble if anyone tried to take advantage of her. How had it come to this?

She’d become complacent in the forest. Perversely, something about being on the run had stopped her keeping herself strong. That and the lack of the gym facilities she’d taken for granted in her previous life.

She was even angrier at herself and scoffed at the ball gowns—stupid damsel in distress outfits. No, she absolutely did not want to enhance this look with a flimsy dress.

As she slung the garments haphazardly back in the wardrobe, trying to be rid of them quickly, her hand struck something at the back of the wardrobe. It felt like some sort of rhinestone-encrusted bag, and she dropped the last of the dresses, wrapping her fingers around the item. When she pulled it out, she gasped. This was it. This was what she had been seeking. It was a black, jet-encrusted whalebone corset.

Deborah fingered the sturdy garment and laid it down to unlace it. It was small and she thought it might not even fit. Excitedly, she took it to the mirror and opened the fasteners, wrapping it around her back and hooking the eyelets below her breasts. She’d seen these in old Western movies as a child—well, something a bit like this—and had wondered what it must be like to be held in in such a way. In school history class, she’d felt a tremor of excitement when they were shown pictures of Victorian ladies in their bloomers and stays.

With the last fastener done, Deborah reached around and entwined her fingers in the long laces. She watched herself pull the strings out either side and smiled as her waist shrank before her eyes. The more constricted she became, the more powerful she felt—as if the bindings held her up and in her rightful place. The memory of being bound to the tree that time she’d abandoned herself in the forest suddenly filled her being and she pulled tighter, until her breathing became shallow and her breasts swelled along with her hips. When she could pull no more, she twisted the strings together into a bow and turned to admire herself from the back. And admire she did. The tiny waist forced her gaze down to her accentuated ass. Deborah spread her legs and stood on the tips of her toes, leaning forward a little to make it look even bigger. Oh yes, this was good. She was voluptuous and powerful like this.

Unable to resist, she leaned over even further to look into the dark crease between her fleshy buttocks. Craning her neck, she could just make out the ruffle of hair between. Glancing quickly up to her face, she saw how her eyes twinkled and her cheeks flushed. An image of the governor’s well-spanked ass seared itself into her mind and she licked her lips. Far from feeling restrained in these bonds, she felt ready for a fight—or ready to administer a punishment, at least.

A cough from the doorway snatched Deborah’s attention and she jumped in fright at seeing the governor’s silhouette.

“Well, well, quite the little playroom, isn’t it?” she said lightly, trailing a finger down the door frame as she crossed the threshold into the room.

“Sore?” Deborah asked in a hard voice, trying to hide her mortification at being discovered admiring herself in such a shameless way.

“A little,” the governor answered, a slight smile drifting over her lips. “I’m sending Katja soon for her first session. I don’t want you to take it easy on her—she really wants out of here quickly.”

“Are you going to supervise?” Deborah asked, feeling suddenly out of her depth.

“Of course not. I cannot be seen to be sanctioning such treatment of our inmates.”

Deborah rolled her eyes. “Who would know?”

“Let’s just say the less I witness, the better. And besides, who wants someone breathing down their neck while they work?” She looked Deborah over very carefully, seemingly approving of her attire. “I know I wouldn’t.”

“So what’s in this for me?” The question that had been a rumbling mantra all day finally made an appearance.

“I’m not sure yet.” The governor studied Deborah hard, as if really searching for the right thing to offer. “But when I am, it’ll definitely be worth your while.”

In that moment, weirdly, Deborah believed her.

“Fine.” She turned away and began to tidy the disheveled room. “Send her through.”

* * * *

Marcus snapped into full alert and hauled himself out of the tub, sloshing great waves over the sides. Had he heard correctly? His arms flailed around as he tried to breathe through the swirling steam. The flagstones were cold and he hopped on his tiptoes, searching for a towel or something to wrap himself in. Just as he picked one from the floor and pulled it around his hips he heard the unmistakable sound of a key being turned in a lock. He leapt toward the general direction, found the handle, and rattled it violently.

“Hazel?” The name felt wrong coming from his lips. “Hazel. Open the fucking door. I know you’re here.”

A faint scuffling from the other side made him lean in and press his ear to the wood, damp with condensation. The scuffling became soft footprints padding away out of earshot.

The steam began to clear as he straightened up and took in the bathroom. It was far too elegant to be for the farm workers; it must be for the clients. Marcus ran his hand along the colorful rows of toiletries, savoring the simple action of reading. It occurred to him how long it had been since he’d read or indeed written anything—he didn’t want to count the article in the newspaper. It was amazing how quickly you forget things that were once so important.

He thought casually of the notes he used to make in his little leather book and smiled. Why had he kept the book hidden from Deborah? He had a theory at the time but it eluded him now. Blood froze in his veins as he thought of his love. Deborah. What if this forgetting the familiar extended to love?

His stomach lurched as he tried to picture her face. He couldn’t see her in his mind’s eye. He could sense her, form a feeling of her, but he couldn’t remember what she actually looked like. Rubbing the steam off the wall mirror, he frantically searched his own face, committing it to memory and seeing if it brought back the visual image of Deborah. It seemed like he’d suddenly lost something so precious.

He slumped onto the wicker day chair and tried to take stock. The last time he’d felt her was when his body had been in complete submission at the hands of the farm women carrying him back to captivity. That’s what he would do—offer himself up to their dominance. If he could conserve the energy he usually used in servicing these women and use it to channel onto the meeting point, surely that strength would go a long way. He pulled the towel more tightly around him and waited for someone to come and take him to his quarters.

* * * *

The hairs on the back of Deborah’s neck stood up as she waited in the muffled silence of the punishment chamber for the prisoner she was supposed to beat. The room seemed to be alive with static energy, and Deborah shivered with the palpable anticipation. Was it nerves? Excitement? Horror? She’d managed to convince herself that she would go through with this plan of the governor’s, still not sure why or what her reward would be, but something in her gut was urging her to do as she was bid.

At last the door creaked open and Jane spoke.

“Prisoner for rehabilitation, Doctor 222D.” Her official authoritarian voice was pitch-perfect, but as she urged Katja through the door she couldn’t resist winking at Deborah, who merely nodded curtly once.

Sullen-faced, Katja did not look too enthusiastic to be there as she shuffled into the center of the room, but then, reasoned Deborah, who would?

Deborah took a deep breath—well, as deep as she could in a corset which had cinched her waist so small her hands could almost meet around it—and composed herself. The only way she would be able to get through this was to play her part accurately without wavering from her role.

“You will speak only when instructed and you will address me as ma’am. Understood?”

The woman nodded, her eyes cast down.

“I asked you a question. Kindly answer unless you want things to be harder for you than necessary.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“Do you know why you are here?” Deborah had to be sure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Elaborate.”

With eyes still hooded and head bowed, Katja spoke in a controlled monotone. “I want out. This will do that.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“It already does.”

Deborah swallowed down the sudden feeling of empathy and led Katja to one of the devices—a waist-height, suede-covered padded bench, much like those in a college gym. She smoothed out the nap and positioned Katja at one end, pulling her wrists and sliding her down over the bench’s length. Taking a long swathe of silk strapping from the dressing table drawer, Deborah bound the woman’s wrists and tied the ends under the bench and around the sturdy legs.

She stood back to take a good, long look at the sight. Katja was beautiful, stretched out and helpless like this, and Deborah couldn’t help but notice the arousal pulsing between her legs. Picking up the paddle she’d used on the governor, she slapped it on her own palm and Katja abruptly twisted her head to see the source of the noise. Deborah slapped again and Katja’s body reacted with a delicious tension which ran from her blinking eyes all the way down to her tight calves and tippy-toes.
Very nice.
Deborah couldn’t resist walking slowly around and admiring her prone body.

Something about the way the clothes were stretched across Katja’s frame made Deborah’s mouth water. Coming closer, she put the paddle down and laid her hand on the woman’s shoulder, pressing the fabric even tighter into her flesh and stroked down toward the small of her back, stopping just short of her waistband. She pinched the shirt but it was taut to Katja’s skin and kept slithering from her grip. Trying again, she nicked the flesh this time and her prisoner yelped.

“Shh,” Deborah hissed so ferociously that the sound pierced her own ears. Plucking the material securely, she tugged the shirt gently free from the skirt and was pleased when she didn’t need to tell the woman to lift slightly to allow the garment to be pulled off. “Where’s your tunic?” she asked, feeling a little put out that Katja hadn’t been made to suffer the indignity of wearing burlap.