The Voyeur (2 page)

Mark wordlessly pointed to the poster for a second time. “Do what you want to me.” The woman smiled and Anya was immediately plunged into darkness behind a black satin mask. After that she felt as if she was in a dream; or possibly a kinky nightmare. She wasn’t sure.

It began with the crack of a whip across her arse. Then came the hands. Hands everywhere; feeling, pinching, smacking, scratching. So many digits assailed her flesh that Anya had no idea how many individual pairs were actually touching her. Her nipples were rock hard as anonymous mouths gobbled at them, and her pussy quivered as tongues lapped over it, and fingers were jammed into it. Each time she showed any sign of coming however, it all stopped, and Anya was left to moan helplessly into her bizarre gag, a foam of spittle gathering at its sides.

Just as Anya thought her arms and legs would give way beneath the constant assault, a new pressure grew against her face. Anya’s jaw clicked painfully as the wedge was used for the first time.

The smell of wet cunt was almost overpowering. The redhead’s brain exploded with pornographic images of the picture she and her attendants must be presenting. Hands and mouths were still sucking, smacking, and licking her to distraction, and now an anonymous woman had impaled herself on the fake cock.

Anya would have given anything to have her tongue free to taste the source of that beautiful aroma. She couldn’t stop pondering exactly how hard Mark’s dick must be as he watched the stranger thrust against her face. Not for the first time, Anya marvelled at her boss’s self-restraint, for she knew he’d allow himself no relief from his condition until they were all at home again and Fantasy 12 was safely complete.

Despite her best efforts, the PA’s exhausted arms eventually slipped against the wooden floor, which had become slick with sweat. There was a muffled shout as her body splayed, and then there was silence.

No one touched Anya as she lay there, motionless but for her heaving chest. She inhaled noisily through her nose, trying to rest her bruised limbs as best she could. A sudden chill came over her as every hand was removed from her heated body; her unsated flesh trembled visibly. Anya was more frantic for an orgasm than she’d ever been in her life.

Minutes ticked by, then Anya’s skin rippled with mute relief as, from out of the silence that seemed to envelop her, something trailed across her arsehole.

Two sets of hands pushed Anya back into the doggy position. She could feel them, roughly calloused, holding her up, supporting her shattered muscles. Then someone slid beneath her and gently nibbled at her swollen tits. Biting into the hard gag, Anya frantically tried to stop herself climaxing until permission was given.

Expert fingers were pumped in and out of Anya’s pussy. Someone was parting her butt cheeks, and even before she could prepare herself for the invasion to come, the thin end of a whip was shafted between her buttocks. The PA gave a silent scream into the rubber guardian as an unknown arse speared itself onto the fake dick, its owner’s weight pulling at her face and straining her neck.

It was too much. Filled, yet left feeling frustratingly empty by the slim nature of each plug being used at every orifice, Anya no longer cared about obeying Mark and waiting for permission to climax. He had created this spectacle; he knew damn well that she’d have to come eventually. Anya just hoped she’d managed to impress him by how long she’d lasted prior to giving in to the inevitable explosion.

Her head filled to bursting with all sorts of swirling shapes and colours, Anya allowed her abused body to stop fighting the fulfilment she’d been denying it. The tongues, cocks, and breasts all blurred into a swarming mass, as she bucked against them. Anya thought she might have heard Mark cry out, but had no idea whether it was an angry or ecstatic exclamation as she sank into exhausted unconsciousness.

When Anya came round she found Clara tenderly washing her sweat-soaked forehead with a damp cloth. The blindfold had gone, as had the gag and lead.

‘You’ve been out of it a long time. Are you all right?’

Clara stroked her lover’s hair as Anya eased herself into a sitting position, peering around, blinking against the unaccustomed light. The club was empty. Its interior was dull, and eerily quiet without its exotic clientele.

Anya winced after registering the ache in her strained arms and legs, and moistening her swollen lips, which were sore from the friction of the gag. Putting a restraining hand on her shoulder, as Anya attempted to talk, Clara said, ‘It’s OK, you rest.’

Smiling at her thankfully, Anya huskily uttered, ‘Mark?’ Clara wasn’t sure if Anya was asking where he was, or if he was happy with her performance, so answered both questions anyway.

‘Mark is with the owner. He is rather pleased with you.’

‘He is?’ Despite all she’d been through, Anya felt bizarrely happy. She lay there, cradled in Clara’s arms, until Mark reappeared.

Mark studied his PA closely as she scrabbled to get up and stand meekly in front of him. Anya swayed as he reached out and held her chin, but with more tenderness than he had recently displayed toward her. ‘I am not to be questioned. Even privately. Do you understand?’

She nodded, but said nothing.

‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’ His eyes bored into Anya’s as he placed a red tick on her back next to the words “You enjoyed Fantasy 12”.

‘Yes, Mark, I did.’

And she had.

Later, as the two women lay in their twin beds in the small room they shared, Anya realised that she still had no idea what part Clara had played in the evening’s activities.

‘Did you join in with my task, Clara?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘What happened to you, then?’

Clara turned over and stretched an arm out across the narrow gap that separated their beds, squeezing her lover’s hand briefly before settling down to attempt to sleep. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow, when you’re stronger. Rest now.’

Anya slept.

Clara’s mind, however, couldn’t settle as she mentally relived her part in Fantasy 12 …

Chapter Two

Clara observed the scene with a mixture of horror and lust and, if she was honest, a private touch of envy. Not that the housekeeper wanted to swap places with the PA exactly; she just couldn’t comprehend why Mark had forbidden her to take part in Fantasy 12. After spending the entire drive from the flat to Discreet fondling Anya’s breasts, Clara was in dire need of some physical attention of her own.

Positioned next to Claude, so that she couldn’t be seen by Anya as Mark’s chastisement dream began to take shape, Clara was only allowed to view the spectacle until a basque-clad woman slid herself onto Anya’s dildo gag. It was at that point, when Clara had been torn between wanting to go to Anya’s side to support her through what was to come and the fear of what punishment such an infraction of Mark’s rules would bring, that Claude’s large, clammy hand placed itself on her shoulder. His puffy green eyes appraised the housekeeper hungrily as he tapped on her arm, gesturing for Clara to follow him.

She turned to Mark. ‘Please, I want to stay with Anya.’ Clara could feel her body tighten with the tell-tale signs of increased desire as she continued to watch her lover in action. The idea that the only physical relief she was going to get was from the sweaty man who held her arm was not so appealing.

Mark tore his eyes away from Anya for a second and laughed at the expression on the blonde’s pretty face. ‘Sorry, Clara, I forgot to tell you. I owe Claude a favour. I require you to pay it off.’

Clara was immediately confused. This was not like Mark. He’d lent his slaves out to people before, but never out of his sight; never without him getting some personal kick from the experience. The phrase “Fantasy 12” loitered at the back of her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t only going to be aimed at Anya after all.

Slipping his hand down to Clara’s, Claude grasped hold of her and weaved them both through the crowds of people until they reached a private room at the back of the club. As the door shut behind them, the instant drop in temperature sent goosepimples across Clara’s semi-clad flesh.

Clara was uneasy. She’d never particularly liked this man and didn’t find him attractive. Yet the picture of Anya, and of what she was enduring, was etched into her mind, sending sympathetic shots of arousal through her body. Clara was sure her lover’s arms and legs would be beginning to ache by now, and she could imagine how much Anya longed to be able to sink to the floor and engulf one of the cocks that teased her assaulted body. If Anya could survive Mark’s latest task, then so could she. Her resolve hardened by thoughts of her girl’s bravery, Clara took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to fulfil Claude’s requirements and pay off Mark’s debt.

The room Clara had been steered into was unbelievably quiet compared to the main hall. In its centre was an oak table long enough to sit at least eight people, although only four chairs were positioned around it. Against one wall was a slim side table which held a half-dozen or so candles, providing the room’s only light. Guttering in the breeze afforded by the purring air-conditioning system, they highlighted a selection of buffet-style food. Clara began to get the idea. Mark had used her as a tablecloth many times; perhaps she was wrong to be uneasy.

The housekeeper almost pre-empted Claude when he ordered her to sit on the edge of the table. As Clara moved, the club’s owner unzipped first her right and then her left boot, withdrawing the whip she kept there, running it reverently through his palms. Appearing to keep her eyes fixed on his face rather than betray her trepidation, Clara secretly marked the movements of her weapon.

Tracing the leather tab against the girl’s covered chest and stocking tops, Claude released a sigh of appreciation as he laid the whip carefully on the table. His stubby fingers reached around and unhooked her bra, its stiff cups cracking a little as her tits were freed. With amazing restraint, which, judging by the bulge in his trousers, was a challenge for Claude to maintain, the manager of Discreet leant forward and gave each nipple a single kiss.

He grinned at her shocked expression. Clara hadn’t expected such a man to be either so tender, or so quick to bring her from tentative to total arousal with just two tiny kisses. Instructed to lie back, Clara shuffled her curvaceous arse halfway along the table and got as comfortable as she could, expecting the inevitable hand restraints. They didn’t come.

Claude manoeuvred Clara’s slender arms up above her head. ‘I trust I can rely on you to understand the importance of not moving.’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he took hold of her legs and spread them as wide as the table would allow, before threading a long scarlet ribbon around each knee. ‘Whenever you feel a tug on the ribbon, you will move your leg in the required direction. Otherwise you will stay perfectly still, whatever happens.’

With Clara’s “Yes, sir” ringing in his ears, Claude left the room.

The table already felt sticky beneath Clara’s back, and her shoulder blades were aching; but she had been in Mark’s service for long enough to know how to distract herself from her own discomfort for considerable periods.

Just as she was beginning to feel forgotten, she heard a babble of voices. It was a while before Clara saw any of their faces, but she was aware that three additional people had entered the room with Claude. They hardly paid Mark’s slave any attention at first, simply gathering what they wanted to eat from the buffet table.

Claude, quicker to fill his plate than the others, picked up two candles and placed them each side of Clara’s head. Then, taking two more, he placed them below her breasts. The glow of the flames began to warm Clara as the shadows of the room danced against her porcelain flesh. Only when Claude was convinced that all was ready did he indicate for the others to sit around the table.

To begin with, it was as if she wasn’t there; or at best, she was merely an elaborate table decoration. Claude passed glasses of red wine around the group, and his four guests relaxed into their food and easy conversation.

Exchanging opinions on the various women tied to the rings along the sides of the hall, the advantages of paddles over whips, and ropes over chains, they discussed everything in a lively fashion as they ate. It was only when the conversation turned to the amazing spectacle Mark was providing that Clara became alert, listening more carefully, her whole being responding as they discussed Anya’s debasement.

‘She’s holding up remarkably well.’ The blatantly self-assured brunette on the left side of Clara’s head was speaking. ‘I admit I’m impressed.’ Pride for Anya spread through Clara as she lay there, unmoving and unregarded.

‘Yes indeed,’ Claude joined in. ‘When Mr Parker first explained what he had in mind I wasn’t at all sure I should let him use the main hall. Although –’ he reached out and stroked Clara’s neck ‘– the payment for allowing Mark centre stage should be well worth it.’

He continued, addressing the entire room, ‘I feel I should introduce you all to our project for this evening.’

Already stiffening at the term “payment,” Clara tensed further. The word “project” made her even more uneasy, but she tried to remain calm; this was her job, after all.

‘This is Clara. As you are all well aware, she belongs to Mark Parker, so she is both a willing and professional slave.’ Claude got up and began replenishing everyone’s glasses, before placing a couple of drops of wine on Clara’s lips, reminding her how dry her throat was. ‘I am sure she will not let either us or herself down.’

There was a pause. Four sets of greedy, inquisitive eyes assessed her as Claude announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please begin.’

There was an instant scraping back of chairs, and as they stood, Clara could see the occupants of the room properly for the first time. They all appeared to be lean, executive types and had the confident assurance of people who could easily afford whatever extortionate rate Claude had charged them to take part in the evening ahead.

Leaning close to her ear, Claude warned, ‘Don’t fail Mark, Clara. He’s looking forward to watching this later.’ He gestured to the door, where some sort of digital recorder had miraculously appeared. Of course, Clara thought, he wouldn’t want to miss this.

Next to Clara’s head, semi-shrouded in the subdued light, the brunette woman evidently had a clear idea of what she intended to do. With cool certainty she picked up the candle nearest her, and gestured to her colleagues to do the same. Silhouettes cloaked the table as the candles were all lifted above Clara, throwing the room further into shadow.

The ribbons around her knees clutched at her skin as a black-haired couple stationed either side of Clara pulled at them, forcing her legs wider. Claude and his counterpart at the head end of the table moved their candles closer to the girl. Inhaling sharply, Clara held her breath as heat crept nearer and nearer to her nipples, which, thanks to an expert flick from Claude, were standing erect and eager for attention.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman with such pale tips,’ Claude commented. The candlelight steadied, letting the group study Clara’s nipples more clearly. ‘They are so light, ecru even.’

Ignoring the observation, a fact she had heard many times, Clara tried to raise her head for a second to ease the strain that was gathering in her muscles, but Claude shot her a “don’t you dare move” look, and she sank back against the table. Her tits already felt sore, and she was becoming afraid they’d start to cook, when abruptly the heat from the candle was removed, to be replaced by a supple female mouth full of red wine, which was gradually dribbled all over her left breast. Claude must have approved as he hastily followed suit on the right side. The housekeeper had almost forgotten her previous discomfort as she revelled in the delicious feelings their tongues were producing as the droplets of wine were gently licked up.

Distracted by the blissful sensations whizzing within her, it was a few seconds before Clara realised that a new source of heat was being used to examine her. Her pussy was now experiencing the same treatment her chest had done, but this time a light was also being used to observe her reactions.

‘Fuck, she’s so damn horny.’ As he spoke, the previously silent man at Clara’s feet stroked a finger against the neatly shaved triangle, producing a shudder of cold throughout her, despite the proximity of the candle. ‘You were right, Claude, the liquid is literally running out of her.’ He laughed. ‘Some like it hot, I guess.’

Taking his hand away, the businessman addressed his companion. ‘Are you still hungry?’

‘A little.’ The second female’s voice was sharp, giving the impression that it would be unwise to argue with her. ‘I think perhaps I’ll have a breadstick with my wine; possibly with dip.’

Clara had no idea what flavour dip was smeared across the end of the breadstick, but she pre-empted what it was going to be used for; after all, this was hardly an original fantasy. Her bum rose off the table as the freezing cold, dip-covered stick was angled up inside her. If both of the ribbons at her legs hadn’t been yanked firmly then Clara would probably have bucked higher than she did, especially as she was very aware of how close the black-haired man’s candle was to her now occupied opening.

The breadstick was unsatisfyingly narrow, and as the woman expertly twirled it around inside her, Clara found herself having to stop from begging to be filled by something more substantial. Her breasts were still being licked, and Clara’s mind was full of images of Anya, and of how she must be feeling. Even after all Mark’s training, it was getting too much, and as the makeshift mini-dildo was pulled out, and a mouth began eating the dip from her, the sighs and moans which Clara had been stifling escaped. Shrieking, unable to stop herself, Clara’s juddering body came rapidly against the unyielding surface.

‘Oh dear, Clara.’ Claude sounded grave. ‘I realise I didn’t forbid you to come, but I had assumed you’d have more staying power than that.’ He picked up the whip he’d taken from her boot earlier, trailing it through his fingers. ‘Volunteer?’

The black-haired woman who’d been feasting on Clara’s sex-sodden breadstick stood up, showing Clara her face for the first time. Dark-skinned, with a ferociously short bob, she was exquisite, but at the same time everything about her was sharp and strict, with a stance which proclaimed her status as a mistress. As she took the whip from Claude, Clara tried and failed to sink further into the table.

‘Perhaps you would all be so good as to pick up a candle again.’ Clara could only watch, half-terrified, half-fascinated, as the mistress figure addressed Claude. ‘I think one should be held over each of those beautiful tits, and one over her stomach.’ She looked directly at her prisoner’s face. ‘Hey, Clara, the wax is beginning to melt quite nicely now, isn’t it?’

Claude held up his light carefully, so that Mark’s slave could observe how uniquely the candlesticks had been designed. Each held its cream cylinder securely, with the melted wax collecting in a small tray around its girth. What Clara now noticed was that a section of the tray had been cut away, so the excess wax could drip out, avoiding the hand of whoever was holding the candlestick, but hitting whatever was beneath it. In this case, her.

Clara’s heart thudded in her ears as the mistress spoke again. ‘If you can keep still I’m sure all will be fine. If you can’t, then you may just find you’ve been booked in for a hot wax treatment.’

Snapping her eyes closed, Clara took a sharp lungful of air, only to rapidly open them again as her own whip cracked against the top of her stockings. Despite her best intentions, Clara’s left leg twisted, and was instantly wrenched back into position by the ribbon.

‘I think I told you to remain motionless.’ Speaking calmly, the mistress gestured to Claude, who tipped his candle to a slight angle, not enough for anything to happen, but enough to make Clara want to stay as still as possible.

With her breath snagging in her throat as the whip hit the other leg, Clara somehow managed not to move as a second sting shot through her calf. Then her left arm was smacked, her right arm, her thigh. Each time the whip hit, four sets of eager eyes observed, barely blinking; each hoping she’d fail and move again.