Chapter Four

The bedroom that Vic took Sophie to was even more of a surprise than the dress. No detail of the fantasy had been overlooked, even to a brass plate on the door that read ‘Honeymoon Suite’. Obviously Omar had spared no expense in creating this mirage for his friend ... or was he a client, paying well for this service? Was Omar Rabanne a pimp as well as a pervert, whoring her out to strangers? Vic had said that men paid handsomely to have sex with the pregnant women in the ‘dairy’ - had the party guests and this Tony paid well to have sex with her? The thought disgusted her.

There was a huge heart-shaped bed with crimson satin bedding that was sprinkled with pink rose petals. ‘Congratulations’ cards stood on the dressing table and on shelves and bouquets of flowers were on every available surface. There was a bottle of Champagne in an ice bucket on a silver hostess trolley along with a huge bowl of fresh strawberries and a plate with a slice of wedding cake. There was even confetti scattered about on the pink deep-pile carpet. There was a travel kettle and sachets of coffee, teabags and mini pots of milk and sachets of sugar in a basket on a sideboard, creating the atmosphere of a hotel room. There was a settee, a TV with a combination video-DVD player, and a stereo from which soft romantic easy-listening music was playing in the background.

“There’s a video you have to be watching when Tony arrives - it’s ready in the player. He shouldn’t be long now.”

As soon as she was alone, Sophie tried the bedside telephone but it was an internal line only and a male voice sharply ordered her to get off the line. With a sigh of resignation, she kicked off the silver shoes and went to sit down on the settee. She took up the remote control, switched on the TV and video, and watched disinterestedly, wondering miserably if she would ever escape from this nightmare alive. The video was an amateurish home-video of a wedding and whoever had shot the footage had been careful not to capture the bride’s face - she was always seen from behind or in a heavy lace veil that concealed her features; she might have been anyone and that was just the point.

Sophie jumped with fright when the door was suddenly flung violently open and Tony burst into the room. She leapt to her feet and regarded him with genuine fear. He stood framed in the doorway glaring at her with glazed eyes. Her first observation was that he was old - easily old enough to be her father if not her grandfather. He had a head of silver white hair that was lank and greasy and a huge beer belly. Her second observation was that he was dirty - his faded too-tight denims were stained and the faded grey tee shirt grubby with sweat marks under the arms. When he lunged towards her and caught her wrist, grinning at her leeringly, showing yellow stained teeth, she almost wretched at the strong stench of tobacco and beer and sweat combined. This man was vile and she could not bear the thought of him touching her.

“All alone?” he asked her in a sneering voice. “Where’s the lover-boy groom disappeared to, then?” Vic had instructed her regarding what she should answer to any such questions as he had helped her to dress but now her mind was blank. All she could think of was how disgusting this man was and how desperately she wanted to get away from him. She wrenched herself from him and hurled to the door, screaming, “Vic, Vic, for God’s sake, please ...” but Tony, despite his looking very unfit, moved swiftly and immobilised her easily. He kicked shut the door and locked it.

“No point calling for him, babe. He can’t help you now. I’m going to have you, screw into you, spill my spunk into your cunt and seed your belly even before your darling lover-boy has had the chance to get your knickers down.” He pulled her across the room, away from the door towards the settee and looked at the TV screen where the video was still playing. “Is that him then? Is that the groom whose pretty virgin bride I’m going to despoil? Perhaps he’ll thank me for preparing you for him!”

He gave a harsh guttural laugh and pulled her towards the ostentatious bed. He threw her onto the crimson satin duvet then grasped her hair tightly with one hand whilst with the other he unzipped his flies and pulled down the jeans and dirty Y-fronts. Having kicked them off he then immobilised her with a knee pressed against her belly whilst he removed his tee shirt. He lay over her, pinning her wrists down above her head and crushing the white satin fabric beneath him.

She struggled desperately but it was little more than a symbolic resistance for she was helpless against him. He pressed his mouth hard against hers, forcing her lips apart, and thrusting his hot tongue hungrily into her mouth. She could feel her mouth swelling and taste her own salty blood as his teeth dug cruelly into her lips. At the same time he brought a knee up hard between her legs, pressing painfully against her intimacy, and tightened his grip on her wrists so much that she could feel the flesh bruising beneath his fingers. His mouth travelled from her lips to her neck, slavering over her flesh greedily, then down her bare shoulder and her cleavage.

He released her wrists and tore the dress to reveal her colossal, firm breasts restrained within the ivory lace - he ripped this with his teeth to gain access to her bare skin. He sank his teeth into the huge white milk-globes, leaving bite marks, then suckled hungrily on her nipples and pulled at the rings with his teeth so that she cried out in agony.

He raised himself from her and turned about on the bed so that his fat cheeks were thrust into her face; he grasped the hem of the bridal gown and tore the satin from border to waist, exposing her stocking-clad legs and bare intimacy. He made an animalistic grunt of arousal as he forced her legs wide apart and plunged his mouth to her slit.

She whimpered and sobbed as he gorged himself on her swollen pink lips and small red bud, his erection jabbing against her breasts and his ass in her face. Eventually he ceased his gluttony, turned about once more, and thrust himself into her tunnel with a groan. He plunged and pumped fiercely with no rhythm or pace, his face buried in her hair against her neck, growling and snarling like a beast close to her ear.

At last he erupted into her, spilling his hot vile fluid into her tunnel with a roar of triumph that mingled with her loud agonised cry of shame and horror. He did not withdraw at once but remained inside her for a few moments, raised on locked arms now and gazing with sadistic satisfaction at her distraught tear-stained face as she turned her head to sob into the pillow.

“I’ll be with you forever now. Every time you think of your wedding you’ll think of Tony Scullie buried deep inside you, fucking you, spunking you.” He gave another harsh laugh and lay down on the bed beside her. He groped about on the floor for his discarded trousers and took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket. Having lit a cigarette, he took a few long drags on it then stubbed it out on Sophie’s right shoulder, causing her to scream and then to sob more pitifully still. He then dressed and left.

Sophie remained curled up on the bed crying, wallowing in self-pity and ignominy. She had never felt so humiliated, so used, so disgusted in herself and her own body. Being taken by Tony Scullie had been even more utterly repulsive and debasing than anything Rabanne had done to her so far.

When she eventually awoke from a troubled and dream-filled sleep, Sophie took a long shower in the en-suite and donned a man’s towelling bathrobe she found hanging up in there, grateful and relieved to at least feel physically clean once more. She tried the door of the bedroom but of course it was locked. She sat curled up on the sofa staring into emptiness waiting for whatever was to come. At least there was a degree of comfort in the meantime, she sighed to herself.

Eventually Vic turned up, with a very welcome tray of coffee, juice and scrambled eggs on toast. Sophie tucked in hungrily, having had nothing at all since breakfast at the clinic the morning before. Vic disappeared briefly whilst she was eating and returned with a bundle of clothes, which he threw down on the sofa. At his instruction, once she had finished her meal she dressed. There were red fishnet stockings, a red basque with a hoist-cup top that lifted and displayed her painfully heavy breasts and a slim red leather dog collar for about her neck that bore a small gold disc engraved with the word ‘slave-bitch’. He then escorted her downstairs to a fully equipped ‘playroom’ containing similar toys, tackle and apparatus as had been at the poolside the evening before, as well as other paraphernalia such as bondage chairs, a bondage bed, a fucking-wheel and various hoists, pulleys and swings. Stood waiting for her in that menacing room was a tall, burly man wearing combat-style clothing, and carrying a backpack.

Left alone with this threatening stranger, Sophie stood trembling with anticipatory fear - who was this man and what would he do to her? But surely nothing could be worse than what she had been subjected her to so far, she thought to herself naively ...

“Open your legs,” he ordered; he spoke with a slight American or transatlantic accent. Sophie altered her stance to stand with her legs apart. Although she had her eyes tightly shut now, she could sense him circling around her like a predator, his deep-set eyes feasting on her flesh. She started when he reached out a callused hand to stroke her breast. He pulled roughly and painfully at the silver loops and then proceeded to play with her aching mounds, kneading them like bread dough and twisting and pulling at the dark nipples so roughly that her eyes grew moist with tears once more and she bit her lower lip to suppress a sob.

“Lie down on your back with your legs open and up,” he told her. She obeyed silently, lying down with her legs spread apart and her knees raised. He took the pack from his back, rummaged about in it, and produced some object.

“Know what this is?” he asked, thrusting it in her face. She nodded. It was a vibrator but fashioned like a hand grenade and startlingly realistic. “It’s going up you,” he told her and then proceeded to part her lips and force the large vibrator into her passage, stretching her more than she would ever have imagined possible; only the ‘pin’ remained visible to aid removal. “And this” he told her, brandishing a metallic torpedo-shaped dildo at her, “is going up your fanny.” She was puzzled for the briefest of moments before she recalled that in America ‘fanny’ was vernacular for backside not vagina as in English. Using no lubrication and struggling against the resistance her sphincter he thrust the missile into her rear passage. She screamed and struggled but he was easily able to pin her down and force her to accept the alien intrusion. He then produced a special leather girdle that he used to keep the sex-aids in position and a length of plastic-coated wire that he used to bind her ankles together; he used another length to bind her wrists.

“I like to fuck red cheeks,” he told her and for a moment she was confused again; he couldn’t take her with the girdle and dildoes in place. But he meant her face, not her ass and began to smack her again and again until she was sobbing and her cheeks were ruby with harsh slapping. He then removed his defence-green trousers and Y’s and positioned himself to push his erection into her mouth. He shoved his short but thick member in and out of her mouth, causing her to gag more than once. At last he spilled into her, the hot sticky fluid tasting bitter. He withdrew quickly and held a hand over her mouth so she was forced to swallow down the sex juice.

Then he went to his backpack and produced a strong latex full body-sack, with a high collar and a heavy-duty zipper from toe to neck just like the one that Rabanne had used. She could barely even struggle once he had secured her tightly within its confines. Just for good measure he also gagged her before rearranging his clothes, retrieving his pack, and leaving.

It was not Vic who came to fetch Sophie this time but a young woman. She was about twenty-five with cropped black hair and hazel eyes; she was naked, with a ring in her navel and Sophie could not help noticing that her breasts were scarred and disfigured. She released Sophie from the body-sack, removed the girdle and sex-aids and helped her to her feet. Then she rummaged about in a leather-topped ottoman chest and produced yet another outfit for her to change into; this time it was a very short frilly pink baby-doll dress, white frilly knickers, white ankle socks, and black plimsolls.

“Please, I need help,” Sophie pleaded. “I’m a prisoner here. Can’t you help me to ...?” The woman looked utterly terrified and frantically shook her head, putting her hand to Sophie’s mouth in a silent gesture for her to stop speaking. Sophie suddenly wondered if the room was bugged. And most likely this poor frightened woman was as much a helpless prisoner as she was herself. With a disheartened sigh, Sophie took a rag doll that she held out to her and then followed silently as she led her from the playroom and down the hall. She rapped on the door, opened it and nudged Sophie forwards. Trembling with nerves she went in.

The small room was decorated in dark colours and dimly lit. There were two armchairs, a small office desk and chair in a corner, a high bookshelf crammed with books and a portable TV. Sitting in one of the armchairs by a small log fire was a middle-aged man reading the daily newspaper. At her entrance he put the paper aside and glared angrily at her. She stood still near the doorway, nervously clutching the rag doll and fidgeting her feet.

“Come here, Lucy-Anne,” he snapped and Sophie hesitantly went over to where he sat. She kept her head lowered, afraid to meet his gaze.

“Mummy tells me you were a very naughty little girl this morning. Is that right?” Sophie hesitated and the man snapped at her, “Answer ‘yes, Daddy’.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sophie gave a half-whispered reply, still staring down at the floor, her face blazing scarlet.

“What must daddies do to naughty little girls, Lucy-Anne?”

“I don’t know, Daddy,” Sophie replied in a small voice.

“Spank them, of course. Lean over my lap.” Sophie leaned over the man’s broad lap. She could feel his erection jabbing against her stomach even through the fabric of his trousers and underwear. He raised the pink frock and began to stroke her cheeks through the thin cotton of the white frilly knickers. Then he brought his open palm down hard on her ass and she yelped out at the sudden smart; there followed another smack and another, as he spanked her soundly. She bit into the rag doll to stifle her cries. When he eventually ceased the chastisement she was weeping bitterly.

“Now go and lean forward over the desk,” ‘Daddy’ ordered. He grabbed the elastic of her knickers and slid them down to her ankles. “This is another way to punish bad girl’s bottoms,” he told her with a malicious laugh and suddenly rammed himself savagely into her tight rear hole. Sophie shrieked and struggled but she was no match for her abuser, who simply found her protestations exciting. He drummed and slammed against her reddened cheeks as she grasped the edge of the desk tightly and howled. At last he exploded into her with gusto and she screamed out, her body convulsing with the sudden savage spasms. He withdrew, wiped himself on her knickers and pulled them up over her cheeks again.

“Thank me for your punishment and tell me you’ll be good now, Lucy-Anne,” he told her.

“Thank you for punishing me, Daddy. I’ll be a good girl now,” Sophie replied obediently, her voice choked. He pulled a bell-rope near the fireplace, sat down in the armchair, and resumed reading his newspaper. Moments later the voiceless young woman appeared once more and led Sophie from the room.

The silent slave girl showed Sophie to a small bedroom, prettily decorated with soft pastel colours, but with a barred window and a bondage bed accompanying the usual furniture of a wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table. Yet another change of clothing was already laid out on the bed.

The outfit proved to be a pervy version of the traditional French Maid’s outfit - a very short but full black rubber skirt with frilly French knickers to wear beneath; a brief white rubber apron; a white maid’s cap; a pair of black fishnet hold-up stockings; and a pair of black stilettos with ankle straps that had tiny padlocks to prevent removal. Sophie changed into the sexy garment; the cool clingy rubber actually felt strangely comforting, which confused her. To Sophie’s further surprise and horror the woman now produced two pairs of handcuffs, a ball gag and nipple clamps from the bottom tray of the bathroom buddy. She swiftly fastened the nipple clamps in place beneath the rubber apron, causing Sophie to squirm and bite back tears, and then she fitted the ball gag. Still holding the handcuffs, she signalled for Sophie to follow; she took her downstairs to the kitchens where the Victorian image of the house was dispelled by the ultra-modern stainless steel environment. A chef and two assistants did not even bother to glance up at their entrance. She handcuffed Sophie’s wrists to the handle of a silver hostess trolley.

“When the bell rings, push the trolley to the dining room. It’s the room right opposite,” she instructed her briefly in a half-whisper before leaving the kitchen.

Sophie stood in mute and humble silence, her heart racing, the adrenaline rushing, as one of the chef’s assistants began to stack the trolley with hors d’oeuvres - Carciofi, Giardiniera and Acciughe in Salsa Verde. Just as the last dish was laid upon the tray a bell rang out and the assistant held open the door for Sophie. She teetered slowly on the high heels, grateful for the support of the trolley, to the small but elegant dining room where Rabanne was seated with his handful of guests around a large round walnut dining table. A young man stood near the table in a sexy rubber adaptation of a waiter’s outfit complete with bow-tie, having just served a light, dry Pinot Grigio and now ready to serve the dishes from the hostess trolley. Schubert’s Symphony number five was playing low in the background.

The meal was a relaxed and leisurely affair with Rabanne and his guests taking time to enjoy the food and the conservation in a laid-back and unhurried fashion. They seemed barely aware of the presence of the sexy rubber-clad waitress hovering nearby as small talk ranged from politics to sport to tentative plans for a Goth Wicked Hallowe’en party.

One of the guests was showing an open interest in the waiter. He touched the young man’s hand each time he placed a new dish on the table in front of him or poured him more wine - once he slipped his hand to his crotch and gave a playful squeeze; the youth, Sophie observed, was playing it cool but polite, his hand completely steady as he poured the wine.

An Il Primo of Risotto con Porcini followed the antipasto, served with Frascati that Rabanne described as ‘fruity with a vibrant sweetness’ when he tasted it. The final course was Focaccia with a selection of cheeses - Pecorino, Caciocavallo and Taleggio; the choice of wine was now Chianti. Then everyone sat back with a mug of coretto - expresso with a dash of alcohol.

Sophie was silently praying that she would now be dismissed - her feet were aching dreadfully after spending so long standing still or journeying to and fro twixt kitchen and dining room in the stilettos and she was longing to sit down at last. Rabanne must have Italian as well as middle-eastern blood, she mused dismally; surely only a Mediterranean could make lunch last nearly two hours - a wonderful concept if you were eating but a nightmare if you were serving.

Over coffee the waiter’s enthusiastic fan leaned forward to mutter something to Rabanne, who chuckled amusedly and then called him over. A protracted, whispered conversation ensued before the waiter, apparently with some reluctance, left the room in the company of his admirer. Two other guests, a portly middle-aged man and a woman who wore far too much make-up, thanked Rabanne for his hospitality and departed together. That left just Rabanne himself and two other male guests. As the company dwindled and she had still not been dismissed, Sophie began to feel alarmed.

Anticipatory fear was thrilling through her; her cheeks became flushed and her palms sweaty. She kept her gaze lowered, anxious not to make eye contact at all, but knew all the same that they were looking at her, talking quietly together about her. One, whom she had heard addressed as Cliff, was in his forties with greying hair and rugged features; the other, Gary, was in his late twenties or possibly early thirties with fiery red hair and a Viking physique to match, well over six feet, broad, muscular and fit. Their eyes were hot, hungry and devouring. Sophie could hear her heart pounding, feel the blood coursing through her veins and feel the sweat trickling between her breasts and down her spine. This could not be happening to her.

It was Gary who approached her first. Rabanne and Cliff sat casually drinking coffee and chatting whilst Gary went over to Sophie, stood behind her and lifted up her rubber skirt to reveal her frilly French knickers. He pulled the panties down to her ankles and spread her legs apart, forcing her to lean forward over the trolley to which she was still cuffed. He unzipped his flies to release his manhood, already erect, and - grasping her tightly by the hips - drove it savagely into her lust tunnel without foreplay or ceremony. She shrieked in agony and terror and struggled but to no avail. He was well endowed, a generous nine inches and very thick and Sophie moaned and sobbed pitifully as he rhythmically thrust in and out. She grasped the trolley for dear life, teetering dangerously, a fire rising rapidly inside her. She bit onto the gag and screamed throatily behind it when he exploded into her with force. Zipping up his flies, he spoke briefly to Rabanne and then left, not once having spoken to her.

She had barely recovered from the force of his ejaculation when Cliff was upon her, standing behind her and reaching around to maul her throbbing breasts through the taut white rubber of the apron. The nipple clamps biting into her nubs were dug into the flesh of her creamy rounded mounds and she struggled to fight back tears once more. Having manhandled her breasts for a while he then moved back to stroke her firm globes. He obviously wanted to take things far more slowly than Gary had done, wanted to take as much pleasure as he could from this firm young nubile before coming to his ultimate purpose. He went down onto his knees and pressed his face against her rear, nuzzling against her crack and flicking his tongue at her tight rosebud. Then he suddenly sank his teeth into her fleshy globe, drawing blood and Sophie cried out from behind the gag. He bit her again and again, leaving bleeding bite marks all over her cheeks and she sobbed hysterically. He stood, leaned forward over her and drew his nails firmly down her back from collarbone to waist, again drawing blood and Sophie howled in unbelievable agony. She watched through a mist of tears as Cliff then went to the table and picked up a red candle; but Rabanne caught his wrist.

“The dye in coloured candles can cause blood poisoning,” he advised his friend. “Use one of the white ones. Or better still there are some bees’-wax candles in the sideboard drawer - that has a much higher melting point so that the wax really burns.” He threw the terrified Sophie a malicious smile as Cliff went to open the sideboard drawer and took out one of the yellowish handmade beeswax candles.

He lit it on one of the table candles and then proceeded to drip the hot molten liquid onto Sophie’s cheeks. He varied the height from which he dripped the wax so that the temperature too varied and Sophie never knew just how much pain to anticipate. She was biting against the gag and crying bitterly, silently pleading for this torture to cease.

At long last Cliff blew out the candle and discarded it on the hostess trolley. But her ordeal was far from over, for now he removed the leather belt from his trousers, positioned himself carefully and brought it down hard across her back. She screamed out and struggled, the trolley teetering; if it had not had a brake it would have careered forwards, as it was it nearly toppled over sideways. Cliff threw a questioning glance to Rabanne, who nodded his consent, and then released Sophie from her restraints. She at once fell to her knees, too shaken and aching to stand unsupported.

Cliff nudged her in the small of the back with his booted foot, indicating that she should lie down. She obeyed in tearful silence. Once she was lying down on her front he proceeded to administer the beating, slashing the belt across her back again and again. At long last he threw aside the belt, removed his trousers and Y’s and lay himself down on top of her. He pushed her legs apart, grasped her hair tightly in both hands and rammed himself into her tight rear tunnel. He rode her furiously, slamming against her tortured flesh, until at last he climaxed, spurting into her with force. He withdrew, manhandled her onto her back, removed the gag and pressed his mouth firmly against hers in a painfully passionate kiss that made her lips swell; she could taste her own blood in her mouth. Then he dressed, shook hands with Rabanne and left.

Rabanne rose languidly from his chair and strolled almost lazily over to the naked, bleeding and weeping young woman sprawled out on his dining room carpet. He stood astride her, gazing down on her with malevolent amusement on his face. Then he spat at her and left the room.