skull and down over her eyes and ears, shaped to leave her mouth and nostrils uncovered. It was almost a relief not to be able to see. Emily took a deep breath. Anonymous hands led her away; she was too shocked, too lost in her own private fears, to do any more than go where they guided her.
The walk seemed long, turning left and right, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath her bare feet. Finally she heard a key turn in a lock and was led into what she sensed was a smaller room. Her guards guided her onto a narrow bed, fixing something through the wrist cuffs so that her hands were secured above her head, with a little slack so that she could just about turn over.
"Don't try to take off the mask," were the final words she heard before the door slammed shut. Alone she curled into a tight ball and started to sob, great hot miserable tears that clung to the inside of the mask. The chains cooled and warmed as they brushed again the peaks and curves of her body. The pierced places felt hot, bruised and swollen.
Behind the mask she could see the compelling image of Peter Howard. Why had he left her in such a mess? Surely he must have known what sort of men he was dealing with!
Max Fielding had driven down to Deuvar to witness the initiation. He had not been disappointed – nor had any of their other clients who had paid to see the spectacle. He was sorely tempted to put a bid in to be the one to deflower her.
While the other gentlemen and ladies who had watched Emily's preparation had now gone off into other parts of the house to find gratification, he had come to visit what was jokingly called 'The Stock Cupboard'. At the rear of the secluded mansion were three tiers of small cells where the girls of Deuvar were kept ready for their masters' use.
He walked slowly along the galleried landings; most of the girls were out in the mansion, on display, though some of the privately 'owned' girls were still chained up and waiting in their cells. He grinned to himself. Sometimes it felt as if he was running a very private livery stable.
He peered through the open hatches. As a director he had a master key. Not too much was said about what went on in the stock cupboard. The male staff could avail themselves of whatever was on offer and some of the regular members, he knew, bribed the guards to have special privileges with particular girls.
In one cell was a heavy limbed Negress, trussed up on all fours, ready for the attentions of her particular owner. An ornate silver dildo had been skilfully inserted into her anus; apparently she was too tight for the man who regularly serviced her and who preferred the delights which a boy might better offer. Below the dildo Max could see, glittering, almost buried amongst her oily black hair, the row of silver studs that her master had had inserted into her labia. A thin plaited whip hung on the wall above her. The girl was making soft throaty sounds and Max wondered if perhaps one of the guards had used her – the pale lips of her sex glistened like jewels.
In the cell next door was a Junoesque red head, secured spread eagle against the wall. Max knew that she belonged to a particularly interesting female financier, who relished the chance to lay on the whip. He had watched them once, enjoying seeing the submissive Titian giantess crawl on her hands and knees to service her mistress with her long pink tongue. The memory made him shiver with pleasure. Perhaps he ought to make a point of watching them again -
In cell 27 crouched the reason for his late night visit. Emily Lawrence was curled into a fetal ball, her naked sex peeking shyly between the curve of her thighs. The silver ring was just visible under the harsh overhead light. He watched for a few seconds, trying to guess whether she was asleep or awake before fitting his master key into the lock.
Her body stiffened as she strained to hear his approach. On cat-like feet he moved alongside her bed. The thin hood picked out her
The walk seemed long, turning left and right, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath her bare feet. Finally she heard a key turn in a lock and was led into what she sensed was a smaller room. Her guards guided her onto a narrow bed, fixing something through the wrist cuffs so that her hands were secured above her head, with a little slack so that she could just about turn over.
"Don't try to take off the mask," were the final words she heard before the door slammed shut. Alone she curled into a tight ball and started to sob, great hot miserable tears that clung to the inside of the mask. The chains cooled and warmed as they brushed again the peaks and curves of her body. The pierced places felt hot, bruised and swollen.
Behind the mask she could see the compelling image of Peter Howard. Why had he left her in such a mess? Surely he must have known what sort of men he was dealing with!
Max Fielding had driven down to Deuvar to witness the initiation. He had not been disappointed – nor had any of their other clients who had paid to see the spectacle. He was sorely tempted to put a bid in to be the one to deflower her.
While the other gentlemen and ladies who had watched Emily's preparation had now gone off into other parts of the house to find gratification, he had come to visit what was jokingly called 'The Stock Cupboard'. At the rear of the secluded mansion were three tiers of small cells where the girls of Deuvar were kept ready for their masters' use.
He walked slowly along the galleried landings; most of the girls were out in the mansion, on display, though some of the privately 'owned' girls were still chained up and waiting in their cells. He grinned to himself. Sometimes it felt as if he was running a very private livery stable.
He peered through the open hatches. As a director he had a master key. Not too much was said about what went on in the stock cupboard. The male staff could avail themselves of whatever was on offer and some of the regular members, he knew, bribed the guards to have special privileges with particular girls.
In one cell was a heavy limbed Negress, trussed up on all fours, ready for the attentions of her particular owner. An ornate silver dildo had been skilfully inserted into her anus; apparently she was too tight for the man who regularly serviced her and who preferred the delights which a boy might better offer. Below the dildo Max could see, glittering, almost buried amongst her oily black hair, the row of silver studs that her master had had inserted into her labia. A thin plaited whip hung on the wall above her. The girl was making soft throaty sounds and Max wondered if perhaps one of the guards had used her – the pale lips of her sex glistened like jewels.
In the cell next door was a Junoesque red head, secured spread eagle against the wall. Max knew that she belonged to a particularly interesting female financier, who relished the chance to lay on the whip. He had watched them once, enjoying seeing the submissive Titian giantess crawl on her hands and knees to service her mistress with her long pink tongue. The memory made him shiver with pleasure. Perhaps he ought to make a point of watching them again -
In cell 27 crouched the reason for his late night visit. Emily Lawrence was curled into a fetal ball, her naked sex peeking shyly between the curve of her thighs. The silver ring was just visible under the harsh overhead light. He watched for a few seconds, trying to guess whether she was asleep or awake before fitting his master key into the lock.
Her body stiffened as she strained to hear his approach. On cat-like feet he moved alongside her bed. The thin hood picked out her
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