Chapter Ten

For the first time in weeks, she saw the sun streaming so wildly through a window that she had to squint when she opened her eyes.

Degas was in her room, along with someone didn’t recognize.

“She’ll be in demand,” the other man said.

Delila began to focus on a face that came into view only after the sun momentarily fell behind a cloud and she could see more clearly. A redhead man wearing chaps, and a leather piece covering his genitals stared at her as he stood side by side with Degas, eyeing her.

“I’ll use her for a while to taunt the guests,” Degas told him.

“Perfect,” the redhead replied.

“Cage her, I think.”

“They’ll likely rape her otherwise.”

Degas eyed her with a bemused stare, not so dark as usual, there was a sly joy in his expression. “I want her first, when she’s finally ready.”

Not understanding their conversation, Delila lay against the warm sheets, staring at them petrified of each new remark. She was scared of the evil twists their words took in her mind, as the memory of that unbelievable room with its lights and music and debauchery returned to her thoughts. Had it been real, or a dream?

Approaching her, the redheaded man leaned over enough to take her labia tag in hand and pull.

“I’m surprised you managed this one. The State isn’t letting these beauties get away much anymore. At least not the ones they mark like this.”

“Few are as fine as this one. But the truth is, we all should be wearing tags for our fornication,” Degas joked. “Delila’s problem, she got sloppy. Isn’t that so?” he said addressing her directly. The dark man leaned into her and smirked.

Still dazed, Delila struggled to put the various pieces of bizarre reality into place, though nothing was quite fitting.

“You start her tonight?” the redhead asked.

“Late shift, I think. She’d slept late. Besides, the cage won’t be too hard on her. We’ll tease the guests with her until they’re ravenous and will pay any price to plant their cocks in her cunt. Degas gave her one last artful smile, and then walked to a door at the far side of the room, leaving the redheaded valet to take charge of her.

“Oh, by the way,” he said turning around. “After you clean her up, cane her. I promised her that much.” His grin was ghastly, how it mocked her.

“But you said . . .” Delila cried out at his remark, they were the first words from her lips.

“Hush, my fine one,” Degas said. “Just a reminder of what you’ve left behind. I wouldn’t want you suddenly changing your mind about your new assignment. Surely, you can take Fier’s caning. A bit grim I’m sure, but nothing that you aren’t use to. If you take it in the right spirit, you might enjoy yourself.” Degas looked at Delila’s dumbstruck face and then blew her a kiss. “Give her ten,” he told the valet. “Hard and deep, that should keep our guests intrigued seeing stripes as well as that wicked tag she’s wearing.”

Delila tried to rise from the bed, but she fell back against the cushions beneath her as she heard Degas last remark. Only then did she realize that her arms were still tied behind her and she couldn’t jerk free.

“Oh my, so she’s going to be caned?” a sassy voice rang out.

“Hush, Mira,” the redhead spoke to her harshly.

“Ooo, Fier, she’s so meek, so timid. You don’t have to cane her so soon. Degas is just showing off.”

A naked woman sauntered toward Delila’s bed wrapping a silky black robe around her body, pulling the red sash tight. She stared down at Delila with a sensuous smile. The woman’s ash blonde hair had been wildly teased, and now was all askew from a night of sleep. Her thick make-up was smudged, but underneath all that, there was a genuine face, one that Delila imagined could smile warmly.

“I could cane you for your suggestions, Mira,” Fier snapped at her. “You’d best keep your opinion on Degas to yourself.”

“You’re still scared of him, aren’t you?”

“You should be.”

Mira shook her head. “It’s been years since he could raise a good fright in me. There’s nothing to taunt me with. You should be so lucky.”

“You should feel lucky to still be attractive enough to work here.”

“I love it, Fier, you should try that.”

“So get on with you, aren’t you due on the floor this morning?”

“Yeah, for a while. But be gentle with her,” she said kindly.

“You be gentle with her, love. That’s not my job,” Fier replied.

“Well at least remove those bonds, good god she slept that way. You must be exhausted,” the woman said stroking Delila’s cheek.

Fier shoved the woman aside, lifting Delila to sitting. Undoing the bonds behind her, he helped her stand, and then led her into a carpeted corridor, and to the bath.

“You have an hour to yourself,” he said. “I have things to do elsewhere, just be ready when I return.” The valet gazed up and down her body, though he showed no reaction to his scrutiny. “You’ll fit in here nicely,” was all he said before he left.

Delila: I relished that bath, the water like balm from the gods descended to caress me, so it seemed that days and weeks of grief lifted away, even as I pondered with dread the fearsome possibilities of this strange place. It was truly the most luxurious place I’d seen in months, with carpets and golden wallpaper and fine feeling velvet. The bath ... I could stay there forever ... was a room of elegance, the walls painted with murals of voluptuous bodies engaging in every kind of carnal act. I couldn’t help myself, when looking at two women poised together kissing mouths, I found my hand slipping between my legs to toy with myself. The thought of women pleasing me sexually was as verboten as any sexual taboo in New Victoria, though apparently not taboo in Degas’s world. I climaxed easily, thinking of myself in such an indecent scene, though thoughts of my response to Briel’s affections reminded me of the guilt I bore for such wretched sexual appetites.

I couldn’t imagine my strange fortunes had brought me to this place. I wondered about the dream I’d had before Degas brought me here. I wondered how vastly different that dream was from the reality of this place, and yet . . . I’m not sure it was wholly different since I was awakened just after the dream had turned from pleasant to grotesque, and I didn’t experience the end.

All that I was sure of was that nothing in this bizarre realm was ordered the way the real world was, and yet it was still too new to know how it was ordered. It was clear that Degas’s promises of sexual freedom were likely true, although I remained prisoner to Degas and this place. This must be progress, but there was a ways to go before I’d feel liberated.

***

Finishing her bath, Delila waited in the room for Fier to come to her. She supposed that facing a caning should fill her with dread, but with the luxury of her surroundings and the promised satisfaction she was beginning to fathom, she found the prospects of punishment were once again holding a treasured arousal—an arousal she should surely reject; though like her trysts with Rafferty, her body seemed in charge, not her reason.

When Fier arrived at last, he held a collar in his hand and immediately clamped it at her neck.

“You’ll wear this until Degas orders otherwise,” he said.

Saying no more, he fastened a leash to the collar and led his charge into the corridor again, and down the hall.

“Have you been caned before?” he asked her when they’d reached their destination—a dim lit vestibule that had been carved out of the corridor wall. Perhaps three feet deep and five feet wide, the opening was distinct for the eyehooks, rings and handles that were strategically embedded in the plaster overhead.

“I’ve been caned just once,” Delila answered his question as she stopped in front of the vestibule. “You’ll do it here?” she asked.

“In the open, yes,” he said. “We don’t hide sex or punishments in Outer Island,” he said.

“Outer Island?” she asked. She’d heard Degas say that the night before.

“Yes, that’s what we call this place.”

“Degas named it?” she asked.

“No,” the man replied. “Goes far back, before anyone can remember, even Degas. Now, if you don’t want me to cuff you to the rings grab those handles and hold on.”

“When I was caned, it was in the middle of an open air courtyard,” Delila said, as she turned toward the wall and stretched out her arms to reach the wooden handles. She had to stand on tiptoe to grab on tight.

“Then this should be easy for you,” Fier said, as he took the appropriate implement from its place on the wall. “Degas does this frequently, especially with his new women. Says it teaches them sexual discipline. I think it’s because he enjoys seeing the stripes, reminds him of the power he has over them.”

“He doesn’t use the cane himself?” Delila asked.

“Never,” Fier replied. “But you hush now and bow your head, and don’t cry out. I’m obliged to double your sentence if you do.”

It was quite the spot for a caning, very ingenious. The pose required was rigid and demanding. To grab the handles meant she was standing on tiptoe, and yet bent slightly at the top of her thighs over a gold metal bar in front of her. Her body was rigidly outstretched, her skin taut, making her bottom the obvious target of discipline as she was cruelly struck by the bamboo cane.

Delila closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as the cane swooshed and snapped and a line of excruciating stimulation overpowered her senses. The strength of Fier’s stroke was every bit as fierce as the administrator’s in prison. She squelched her reply, though she couldn’t squelch the tears beginning to form in her eyes; they were only more apparent as the second cut landed.

How she’d endure ten in silence, she had no idea.

Fier was practiced in the art of caning. So practiced he could sense a woman’s passion in her reply to the brutal implement he held. From the moment he saw Delila reach for the embedded rings, he sensed her arousal, a keen eye picking up the mild jerking in her abdomen as she waited for the caning to proceed.

The first cut he laid on was always the harshest, except for the last one, which was worst of all. He picked up speed after the initial one, laying them on faster, and with a sharp snap of the wrist. Three, four, five, six.

“Degas was right,” Fier said. “You’re a natural for this.” As Delila held back her cries with every ounce of strength inside her, the redhead valet continued with the cane, pausing only to watch the red marks rise: six distinct places where the skin was marred and blistered. Then seven and eight. In some places where the lines began to crisscross, her skin was breaking slightly, a bead of red blood appearing, and then another.

She was trying hard, trying not to wriggle, trying to endure, trying to squelch screeches that Fier could still hear coming from her belly even if she was completely silent. She wanted to slump to floor after the ninth cut landed, but she remained in the awkward stance fighting all her instincts to flee. Yes, it was power they held over her. Fear and desire, easy companions, made her remain there even though she was enduring the worst kind of agony. It was a fine thing, that the girl feared the sweatshop and an eternity of nothingness more than she feared this pain. It was a fine thing too that she knew enough about pain to realize, on the other side of pain was bliss.

Ten.

Fier drew the bamboo back and brought it down with a savage snap of the wrist, with power behind the cut that hadn’t been there before. She couldn’t help the shriek that escaped unheeded, and the valet couldn’t help but sense the erotic quality of his charge’s present agony.

In the days to come, Fier would ram himself between her sweating thighs afterwards, and take his pleasure while she remained strung up. However, Degas would take nothing for himself; she hadn’t been properly initiated.

***

“Give her something to soothe her wounds,” Fier announced to a honey-haired woman in a long purple robe.

“What have you done to her?” she said annoyed.

“Degas’s orders,” Fier explained. “It’s not for you to quarrel with, Lexia.” He gave her a sharp-eyed look. “He wants her in the cages tonight.”

“Tonight!” Lexia protested.

“Don’t argue.” Fier walked from the room leaving the two women alone.

“You’re new,” the woman said, sauntering toward the defeated looking Delila as she stood before her naked in the entry of her room.

Delila shook her head, trying to shake away the tears, but the kindness in the woman’s eye was too much to behold without breaking free in a raw emotional sob, with lust and pain and fear and hurt all combined in a reckless commotion.

“Here let me help you,” the woman said. With Lexia’s hand on her arm, the crying Delila collapsed into the comforting bosom of the woman’s generous embrace. Lexia was statuesque, a strong woman with enormous breasts, a tight torso, ample flaring hips and finely shaped legs. In her arms, Delila felt warm and protected, as the women helped the distressed initiate onto the bed.

The candlelit room was Lexia’s private boudoir; something about her forceful presence in this unusual place suggested that the room was a haven of her own design. Here she was the mistress. Would even Degas bow to her in this place? Delila would later wonder.

“The bastard, he broke the skin,” Lexia exclaimed as her hand slathered Delila’s wounded behind with a rich warm cream. “I hate it when Degas tries to prove a point like this; he’s such a villain.”

Delila listened impassively to the woman’s talk and the silent sound of her own private places responding to the tender ministrations. Like Briel, she was soothing, but unlike Briel, she was as interested in the sexually arousing aspects of this as Delila was.

“You’re Delila Armand,” Lexia purred in the prone woman’s ear. “Your crimes have been duly noted here. We’ve been waiting weeks for you to join us, and let all these immoralities you dearly love have a place of expression.”

“Waiting?”

“Of course. You were targeted weeks ago for this assignment.”

Delila wanted to challenge the woman, but what was happening between her thighs took charge over her brain. When Lexia’s fingers dipped low into the crack of her ass, she parted her legs wide, so wide the woman knew exactly what she desired.

“You’re quite a whore before the party’s begun, little slut,” Lexia said. “How wet, how warm, you could climax in seconds.”

Delila murmured and then Lexia slapped her hand fiercely against Delila’s cut bottom.

“Learn something quickly here: your pleasure will be yours, but you serve your masters first.”

The honey-haired woman jerked Delila’s shocked body about so that she was on her back. Climbing over her torso, Lexia moved her sinewy parted thighs over Delila’s face, her womanhood descending over her charge’s mouth.

“Bring me off first,” she ordered.

Tasting cunt was a new experience, so like the smells of autumn outside these walls, Lexia’s fragrant snatch was a stunning reminder of other worlds. Delila’s thoughts could instantly retreat to some sumptuous time distant from this moment, but she wasn’t given time to ponder these things. Lexia wanted satisfaction now. Taking the ripe hot cunt in her mouth, her tongue probing, her lips pulling at folds and labia, a steady sucking motion produced jubilant sounds from the woman above her. It took only minutes to satisfy Lexia’s lust. When she finally drew away, Delila’s face was wet, a dampness that would dry on her skin because she wasn’t allowed to wipe it away.

“You’ll smell like sex with my juices on your mouth,” she said. “In Outer Island, that’s an advantage.” She smiled, and then without saying more, Lexia turned about and buried her mouth at Delila’s cunt. Returning the favor, she had the initiate in the midst of bliss mere seconds later.

Delila watched the statuesque beauty drift across the room. Her silky clothes created a cloud of luscious color about her dramatic form. Her hair, once piled wildly atop her head, was now strewn about her shoulders, dancing around her face in wisps and ringlets. The savage mane cast shadows across Lexia’s face, clothing her in mystery.

Delila watched impassively, not knowing how she was to respond to the last few minutes. She was nagged by apprehension and fear. The lust driving through her was the highest carnal sin she could imagine, a blot against attempts to cure her adulterous passions. And yet, such a joy to her body!

“So, you’re Degas’s new prize,” Lexia exclaimed, as the woman wound her way back to Delila’s side. “That ring at your puss certainly makes your value soar.” She spoke with both admiration and contempt.

“I have no idea what’s happening to me,” Delila replied. So meek, so exhausted, so bewildered, it was no surprise, her comment.

“Of course, he’s told you nothing. Probably filled you with flowery words, terrific prose with a rose-colored interpretation of this common brothel.”

“Brothel?”

“Yes, brothel, whore house, house of ill-repute . . . before the overseers drove them out there were places like these where sex is an act exchanged for money. You’re a whore now, my darling, surely you know that term?”

Delila looked at her puzzled.

“Your body is a commodity for purchase, of course only when Degas finds you ready.” Lexia looked down at her knowing that a thousand thoughts were traipsing through the poor girl’s mind. “Surely your walk through the main chamber last night, you sensed the purpose of our enterprise?”

“It astonished me,” Delila replied.

“Well, it will not be the last time you’ll be astonished, I assure you. However, if it would offer you some comfort, I am the mother hen of this large brood of sassy chicks. In the colloquial old days commonly known as the “Madam.” You have a need, you come to me.” The reclining Delila looked as if she comprehended Lexia’s words, though it was a little soon to tell. “And, Delila dear, just between you and me, Degas thinks he has the power in this place, but he’s wrong.” She let a smirk creep across her red stained lips. “I do.”

She said it with such confidence and amusement, Delila was certain she spoke the truth.

***

Delila: In my first meeting with Lexia, it all made sense, disparate things falling into place in my mind so befuddled to that point by this Outer Island. What Degas said was true, half-true perhaps. What he implied though was far different from the present reality. I saw the truth written in clear bold strokes. For the next two years, my body would be sold for cash, the property not of the State, but of this carnal ground. For committing the most heinous acts known in my world, for having shared mere love with another lonely soul, my body would become the vessel of more sin, compounding the error.

Every time I moved in those hours after the caning and my meeting with Lexia, I was reminded of Degas cunning: how he must have picked me out from the crowd of offenders, zeroed in on me and snatched me away from the real world to his, like a predator stalking its prey and devouring it in seconds. I had no recourse against his treachery, any more than I had recourse against anything that had happened to me these horrifying weeks. Yet deep in me there was indignation, and a steadily mounting rage that had Degas as its focus. I would have dearly loved to have pummeled the man, caned him as I’d been caned. I killed him in my mind a dozen times that day, as I freed myself from this fate in my fantasies.

How twisted was that fate! If I were to free myself, what freedom could I purchase? Only to be cast back into a land that condemned me. And Degas, yes Degas. I was so in awe of him in a female way, and so profoundly lusting for what I suspected must be Degas’s ravenous sexual appetites, that as much as I wished some terrible revenge, I wished to be his lover.

Living in this tangled reality of convoluted reason and perverted virtue, I faced years of servitude to sexuality, the very thing that condemned me to this place.

I remember lying back on Lexia’s bed looking at that lustrous face of wantonness smile before me, as I listened to my rage mount, and for a brief time, take all my passions away.