The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis Read online

  “Harder, honey?” He slapped her with a brisk-paced staccato until her broad and jiggling cheeks were bouncing to the glorious beat, and turning rosy from his spirited efforts.

  “Hmmm, ouch!” Her bottom burned.

  “More?”

  “Oh, fuck me, Jason.”

  That was what he wanted to hear, the gentle music of her sex urging him on.

  “So, you want it in your ass?” he wondered as he gathered juice from her almost cumming cunt and swathed it high against her anus.

  “Ooo, my,” she wasn’t sure.

  He poked two wet fingers into her ass, hearing her suck in her breath nervously.

  “Ah, Jason, can’t you take my cunt?” she wondered in her sexy reverie.

  “Not today, darling,” he was firm, too exhilarated by his power to stop. It came on intense, surging through his hot veins, a mighty river of untapped need finally discovering its source. He’d have her now and she wouldn’t balk. In fact, he could already hear her throaty cry as she begged for his dick in her ass. A third finger joined the other two, opening the puckering bud wider still.

  “Ah, ah,” she seemed to struggle, but then relax.

  “You like it, Sandy, right here, right in your bum hole, nasty.”

  “Ooo, yes.” She was feeling the penetration, her muscles finally relaxing around the invading fingers, and the physical arousal beginning to swim through her ass end. Her pussy tightened as though it had been filled, but it was an empty squeezing, pulsing sensation. “Gawd, Jase, in my ass,” her hushed whisper seemed to shriek. “Fuck my ass!”

  He didn’t wait. The head of his dick hit the hole with enough force to widen the channel and allow the entire shaft to bury itself until his balls hit her ass.

  Delirious now, sparks were flying through her brain, colors flashing around her, like she wasn’t anywhere any more but in the middle of the fuck. Jason grabbed her hips with fingers digging her flesh, pulling her into his groin while her body stretched itself taut from her bound wrists to her impaled behind. Powerful sensations of lust and surrender joined inside her, and she started to scream as he pummeled with his thrusting organ.

  “Hush!” he ordered her and Sandra shut down her voice. Internalizing the feeling, she began to cum, as Jason began to cum. Then they rocked together until they were too exhausted to move another muscle.

  When he pulled out, he left her for some minutes while gathering himself. He liked the look of her splotchy ass… the sweat, the exhaustion, the strain of her pose.

  “Great pose, Sandra,” he said more coldly than he was accustomed to after sex when they were usually close and cuddling. He wasn’t ready for that now. Instead, he viewed the masterpiece of lusty lethargy until he could see her struggling in the uncomfortable pose. “Hurt, huh?” he asked as he untied the knot at the headboard and loosened the grip on her wrists.

  “A little.”

  He massaged some life back into her flesh and held her some minutes.

  “I think I’ll take a nap,” she said, breaking away from his hold.

  She was feeling satisfied, but not the same as other times when sex had been as rough. Then, too, maybe sex had never been this crude. She’d never been bound, never fucked in the ass so thoroughly. He’d never forced his cock down her throat quite so ruthlessly, nor been so cool and unsettled after she finished cumming. Sex was one thing that often put her restless lover at ease, but not this time. And strangely, the shift in mood didn’t bother her as much as she thought it should.

  “Good enough,” he said, looking pleased. “I’ll be downstairs, don’t let the rats get to you.”

  “There are no rats!” she said, though there was not much force behind her declaration.

  “Whatever you say, darling.”

  He swaggered from the room and closed the door on her with a gentle click.

  ***

  After lunch, with the rain not letting up, the six played cards around a table they pulled into the living room near the fireplace. Though it was hardly cold, the dampness in the air sunk right to the bone, so that the low burning fire dispelled the chill and emptied the air of its oppressive mood.

  At three o’clock the mantle clock chimed the hour. (Jason had discovered that it still worked when he wound the mechanism with its key.) As if on cue, they heard feet stomping on the front porch, the sound of the creaking door, and moments later saw Archibald Devane’s wry expression, coupled with a broad grin.

  “Ah! Mr. Devane,” Erik greeted him warmly.

  The old man nodded to the six, slipped off his slicker and moved into the room.

  “I see you’re making yourselves at home,” he said.

  “We’ll put everything back where we found it when we leave.”

  “No matter. I can take care of it.”

  “We wouldn’t think of making you do that.”

  He nodded.

  “Perhaps, though,” Erik continued somewhat cautiously, “you could us tell a little about Mr. Christian Barth—his house…” he paused to find appropriate words, “has some unusual features.”

  “Ah, you’ve noticed?”

  “The O-rings are pretty obvious.”

  “They are conversation pieces, aren’t they?” Devane strolled forward, passing by the marble statue of the bound woman, gazing at her almost wantingly with a parched mouth and haunted eyes. Then, he stared at the six visitors still seated at the table with their deck of cards haphazardly strewn between them.

  “Is there some simple explanation?” Erik asked, baffled by the man’s sudden vagueness.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, though he hesitated to continue until, at last, his gaze met each woman with such an alarmingly erotic aspect that all three seemed to quicken sexually. Moving past the table, he rambled toward one alcove beside the fireplace, reached high to lovingly finger an O-ring, and then dropped his hand and turned back. “What I say will shock you, I’m afraid. Though I imagine you are open-minded …”

  “Yes,” Erik had to prompt him when he paused.

  “As I said, Mr. Christian Barth owns this island… it is, in fact, an independent entity without allegiance to any country.”

  “As I figured,” Matthew remarked.

  “You might say that he created his own world here, free of restraints that modern society would place on behavior. He made up his own rules, created his own laws, and abided by them—as did anyone coming here—almost as though he had a military and the might to enforce his rule. Of course, compliance was voluntary—but no one on this island had the guts to revolt—or reason to, for that matter—except, perhaps, for a few wayward girls…humm women.”

  “Mr. Devane, you’re talking in riddles,” Erik said flatly, sounding peeved.

  “Not so,” the man countered quickly with his eyes sharpening like daggers. “My comments are merely a preface to the bald-faced facts. Mr. Barth was a sentient man of great hedonistic passion. He had a fondness for things of the flesh, for food, drink and especially women—especially subservient women. He was as well a sadist. He established this island principality as a haven for his unusual desires. So that he might practice them in peace, without the harassment of conventional society.”

  “A sadist?” Sandra pondered the word quizzically.

  “Yes, sadist,” Devane’s gaze narrowed on her.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sadist, as in whips and chains,” Jason interjected.

  “Ah, sir, much more than that. In truth, he owned a number of female slaves while he was in residence on the island.”

  “In this century?” Laney exclaimed.

  “I did say the 60’s and 70’s last night, did I not?” Devane seemed to flatten her with his quick barb.

  “Yes, yes, you did,” she replied quietly.

  “And I meant this century. If you’ve heard anything I’ve said, you’ll realize that Mr. Barth was an iconoclast, a depraved heathen in his own century, a throwback to centuries before when owning human flesh was at the very
least tolerated and at the best expected in certain portions of many societies—including your own United States.”

  “You’re saying Mr. Barth owned slaves as any Southern plantation owner might in the 1800’s?” Laney asked.

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. He did believe most avidly in the right to own human females as property, but his intention was primarily sexual in nature—everything he did had a sexual component, or it wasn’t important to him. He hosted numerous house parties and balls on the island where his lascivious inclinations could be played in the grandest form—that’s why the large rooms in the estate house and the many bedrooms. Most of his gatherings were associated with the de Sade Society—as in the Marquis de Sade. Sexual practices of a sadomasochistic nature were openly practiced here. Masters from the United States and Europe brought their chattel so they might enjoy their chosen life without glaring scrutiny or judgment. The galas and soirees were wild affairs lasting many days. The custom was that women were trained to serve, and the men were skilled masters of the extreme sexual arts…”

  “Like bondage…” Matthew spoke aloud.

  “And the fine arts of whipping, application of the cane and rod, and the delightful whimsy of crops, pinchers and the variety of apparatus you’ll find in this house designed to torment the female creature into oblivion.” Devane paused. “Those parties were, of course, special occasions. In his normal life on the island, Mr. Barth had at least three female sex slaves and sometimes as many as six or seven. They lived here with him on the island, served his needs, as well as those of his guests. You might be surprised to learn that Mr. Barth even entertained more conventional business friends—those not particularly interested in his unusual lifestyle. Visiting this island, however, his guests accepted his practices as easily as they accepted the strange ways of any other foreign country. Many were shocked when they initially arrived, but most became intrigued and eventually adjusted to the customs.”

  An anxious Matthew had risen from his chair and strolled toward the fireplace, throwing another log on the glowing embers. He stood up and faced Devane, asking casually, “So, what might a visitor see here that would be particularly out of the ordinary?”

  “Probably the most noticeable deviance for an arriving guest was the attire of the female slaves. It was common for them to wear few clothes—only what might enhance their natural naked state. Generally, they were naked. But then, since this is a tropical climate, the nudity was probably the most easily accepted custom. And, except for the obedient subservience of the slaves during the daily routine, there was likely little to find odd—until the evening hour. Unless, of course, a slave required some discipline.” Devane paused, noting the expressions of awe on the women’s faces. Giving them a moment to absorb the information, he went on with his narrative. “There were times when a slave might be punished before a guest—spanked, whipped, caned, or humiliated for her errs. Perhaps that was the most frightening experience for a new guest to Marquis Island, seeing Mr. Barth’s intense disciplinary rites. They could be shocking, though they were rarely protested. A reprimanded slave knew their place, they understood the ritual and obeyed with little objection. Like anything else on the island, because the practice was natural, few gave it much thought after witnessing their first few scenes.”

  “Why would any woman…” Sandra whispered, her voice so soft that hardly anyone heard her speak.

  “You mentioned the nights?” the fascinated Matthew probed deeper. He seemed to speak for the entire six astonished listeners who all seemed hypnotized by the subject, if not a little fearful of the implications.

  “Nights on Marquis Island bloomed with sadomasochistic passions… they were animated by its secrets, scenes with women bound, driven to their knees, collared, leashed, brought to ecstasy with every means of torture imaginable. There is a dungeon in the bowels of this house, an old slave cellar—from the 1700’s—with racks and pulleys and ancient devices of excruciating torment made to cause suffering—and physical rhapsody. While Mr. Barth reigned as king every hour he spent here—he was a master of the nighttime hours. Some say he was a sorcerer, a sexual wizard. Women would naturally collapse at his feet as though they were brought there by the power of his voice and the look in his eyes—not women already slaves, but women so enthralled by his authority that they would give themselves up to his promise of pleasure. They couldn’t stop themselves. What may sound cruel, my fair ladies and gentlemen, was not cruel at all, not when in reality something divine took place—even if the experience lasted only seconds.”

  Old Devane was so enamored with his own speech that he seemed to have journeyed into another world, transporting his spellbound audience with him. When he finally revived, he looked to the stunned group, “Have I shocked you?” he asked.

  No one spoke for several seconds. “You’ve shocked me,” Sandra finally belted into the silence.

  “Ah, does his rattle your cage, darling?” Jason asked her.

  “Of course it rattles me,” she answered as she rose to her feet, clutching her arms across her breasts and moving away from the table and Archibald Devane.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” Devane bowed deep and mockingly.

  “Why so nervous, Sandra?” Erik asked. “That was thirty years ago. You look afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid. It’s just spooky thinking of those things happening here.” She stared at the others, while thinking of her morning with Jason, “Aren’t any of you spooked by this?”

  “I am,” Elise said. “But then it’s terribly erotic.”

  “You think so?” Matthew turned to his wife with a look of surprise.

  “Laney?” Sandra polled her.

  “I’m dumbfounded,” she answered.

  “We all should be,” Sandra stated. “And the three of you, too,” she said focusing her remarks on the men. “The man was obviously crazy.”

  “Why?” Erik asked. “Seems to me he found a means of living out his fantasies in a safe way… no one got hurt, I assume.”

  Sandra didn’t agree. “How do you know that?”

  “Well, we don’t,” Matthew said. “But purely theoretically, there’s nothing wrong with what consenting adults do in their personal lives.”

  “Seems I’ve challenged you,” Devane interjected.

  “Not at all,” Sandra snapped a little too forcefully to be believed.

  “I’ve heard it said,” Devane leered at them all, “that what makes you fear carries with it the suggestion of desire behind the fear. Perhaps you should explore what you fear now.”

  “I fear nothing,” Laney stated flatly.

  “I’d call it arousal,” Elise managed.

  Sandra said nothing.

  “If you’re interested in knowing more, there is a book, authored by Mr. Barth himself. Let me see if I can find it.” Devane transmuted himself from an astute charmer into a shriveled old man as he made his way to the library door. Disappearing inside for a few minutes, he ambled back to his baffled audience minutes later with a small leather-bound book in hand. “A good night’s reading,” he said handing it to Erik.

  Erik thumbed the pages absently for a few seconds, and then looked up as the others did, watching Archibald Devane shuffle away.

  The silence following began to pound in all their ears. As had happened before—when the six were exploring the house together—a gentle rise in energy seemed to animate the room—all in a muted, pent-up, erotic fashion.

  “Well, I guess we have our answer,” Erik broke through the quiet. “Simple enough. I think we could have guessed as much.”

  “Simple! You think that is simple?” Laney seemed quite close to exploding. “It’s perverted.”

  “Better not condemn yourself, Laney,” Jason said. “You heard what the old man said about fear and desire.”

  “This has nothing to do with my fear and desire,” she said.

  “Well then, you won’t have any problem hearing what it says in this book,” Erik said, snickerin
g at her amusedly.

  “I don’t see any reason why we have to pursue this,” she sniped. “Soon as the rain lets up, we’ll get the boat fixed and be on our way. Mr. Christian Barth and Archibald Devane really aren’t any concern of ours.”

  “But they are an interesting diversion while we’re marooned here,” Jason interjected.

  “Oh, I think so,” Elise agreed positively.

  “And why would you think so?” Laney asked her.

  “I don’t know. Some core root thing just joggles in me hearing about all this. You know I once did a paper in college about the Marquis de Sade.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I was so titillated I was embarrassed,” Elise almost blushed now. “Matthew, hon,” she looked toward her husband as if remembering the night before and feeling that same sort of feral power right now. She looked for something sexual.

  “Maybe,” he said, absently. “But maybe later.” Odd that he would put her off. “I’m more interested in hearing what’s in old Archie’s book.”

  Erik stepped back, massaging the black leather cover of the old volume as though it were something precious, “The Marquis’s Book of Pleasure.”

  “Wonder who the Marquis is?” Jason mused aloud.

  “I’m sure the title belongs to Barth,” Erik replied without a second thought. He opened the cover of the book, paged through to the beginning, and began to read … “The Care and Training of Human Chattel.”

  “What?” Laney interrupted.

  Erik looked up. “If you’re going to interrupt every time I say a word, we’ll never hear any of this.”

  “That book can’t be serious!”

  “Why not?” Jason asked her with a laugh. “After what the old man said, I’d believe anything. Read on Priestly.”

  Erik gave his friends a nod, and began again with a bit of haughtiness and disbelief in his tone. “The Care and Training of Human Chattel. Chapter One, the Slave Decision.”