Confessions of a Dream w***e

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Dreams of Control…

She was suspended by her wrists, tied so her feet barely touched the floor. If she just managed to catch her toes on the tile beneath her, perhaps she could alleviate the agony in her wrists. Her hair, long and blonde, fell over the strained features of her beautiful face.

She was like the movie stars of old, with ripe full lips, high cheekbones, ivory skin. Her eyes were a rich amber, golden like fine wine, and had a slight almond cast to them.

She wore a dress that befitted her glamorous look, a silvery satin sheath that clung to her lush body like a second skin, so that the swell of her soft belly showed.

She groaned, twisted. The pain in her wrists was becoming excruciating. She felt as if she were being torn apart.

There was a soft current of air that cooled her body and lifted strands of her hair. Still, a sheen of sweat covered her face and body.

She looked about the room. It was a chill place, tiled floor of blood red and white squares, chairs, a bar and desk of black, shiny leather, and walls of mirrors that reflected her image over and over again. There was a window that took up the entire wall opposite her. It afforded a view of the city with its sparkling, gay lights, indifferent to the pain she was experiencing.

She gasped, her long red fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She allowed her head to fall back. How long had she been there?

She looked forward at the desk and the man who sat behind it, watching her. “Please,” she begged him, her smoky voice hoarse. “Please.”

He sipped on his scotch, the fiery liquid the same color as her eyes. He was a dark, powerful man. Slicked-back hair reached his impeccable collar, and the navy suit he wore barely concealed the strength of his shoulders. His hands were square and appeared as if they could rip apart a wild bear.

“Please,” he repeated in a cultured voice. “Please what, my dear?”

She tried not to whine, knowing it would irritate him. It was difficult to restrain herself. “Please let me down. I’ve learned my lesson; really, it was foolish of me...” She didn’t know what she had done to elicit such punishment, but would beg forgiveness for anything at this point.

He arched an eyebrow. “My dear, your lesson has yet to begin.”

Oh no. Her stomach turned as he rose in a graceful, fluid movement. He was so beautiful a man, animalistic, godlike. He turned from her, approached the wardrobe that stood against the wall. She saw the reflection of his face; impassive, unmoved, as he opened the door wide and allowed her to view the contents.

She chilled, the burning of her wrists forgotten. Displayed were a myriad of whips, canes and crops, all of black leather. She could smell its distinctive odor from where she hung. All of the stories she had heard whispered about his man came back to her, and she wished that she had listened to them.

He pulled out a thin cane, wrapped in leather. “This will do,” he murmured to himself, turning to face her. He slashed it through the air, and it made a slicing sound. “This will do quite nicely.”

“Please, no!” she begged, horror growing. Hung as she was, she was utterly defenseless. She saw no mercy in his grey eyes. They were as cold as the ocean in winter, and as deadly.

“Ah, my dear,” and with one quick movement from his free hand, he tore her dress from her. Underneath, she was naked. The soft round globes of her breasts trembled, and her n*****s hardened as the cold air struck them. “Ah, yes. You are lovely.”

Then he walked behind her. She could see him in the mirrors, his movements perfectly feline. He traced the cane alongside her thighs, up the cleft of her ample bottom. She shuddered as pleasurable sensations followed his touch and stirred through her. Why couldn’t he just f**k her and be done with it? Why this insane desire to torture her first?

No, thoughts like that were inappropriate. She was not here for herself. She was his to do with as he pleased; her hanging here was evidence of that. She squelched the stray thoughts.

The cane whistled and fell upon the back of her thighs. The pain was unbelievable. She felt as if the flesh had been sliced open. She shrieked, and he pressed his body against her back, the fabric of his suit scratchy against her flesh. He reached forward to capture a n****e, rolling and pulling it as he whispered in her ear, “My dear, we’ve just begun.” He stepped away from her.

Again and again the cane fell upon her tender flesh, leaving stripes from her shoulders to her thighs, twisting her body so that she saw her abused back. Red welts formed neat patterns on her skin. He stepped back to examine his handiwork. He breathed in through his teeth. “My dear, you are so lovely.”

He stepped away from her, returned to the wardrobe. She hoped that he was finished. Her body was a nerve singing with pain that burned like ice left too long on the skin.

He was done. He turned, and in his hand was a cattle prod. Every muscle in her body clenched. “Please,” she whimpered horrified. “Please, you can’t do this.”

“Ah, yes I can, and I will,” he gloated, approaching her with the weapon held before him menacingly. “You are mine to do with as I see fit. I bought you.”

Indignation gave way to rage as he brought the prod closer to her body. He had purchased her for his pleasure, but not to destroy her. That was beyond their contract.

“My dear, you will dance for me,” he leered.

He touched her with the prod, and she almost lost consciousness at the pain that coursed through her. It was unbelievable. She was barely able to shriek this agony; it was unbelievable. He pulled it away and she didn’t care about the pain in her wrists, she just fell forward and let her body dangle. Her legs didn’t work.

He laughed at her, and brought it towards her again. At its touch, her body spasmed thrusting her breasts forward, her body twisting and arced. He drew it away.

“You ... you must stop this,” she told him, gasping out the words through a jaw tight with anguish.

For an answer, he returned to the wardrobe, thankfully putting away the prod. She tried to even her breathing. Waves of pain coursed through her, even though the torture had ceased for the moment. Could he have more planned?

He did. He swaggered back, holding something behind him. Because of the mirrors, she could see that it was a knife, a long wide blade with a thick handle of equal length. She chilled.

“My dear,” he smirked, showing the weapon to her. “Now your punishment will truly begin. We have only whetted my appetite.” His hand struck out, grabbed her womanhood, which was wet with fear and desire. “And yours, I see.” He released her.

“This cannot continue,” she told him. “I never agreed to this.”

For answer, he drew the blade of the knife lightly up along her inner thigh. He turned it, inserted the hilt of it into her. She cried out as he f****d her with the knife, driving it up and down, holding the bottom of the hilt so that his hand slammed again and again against her. Despite herself, she felt an orgasm building. She shook her head, her body trembling.

“Ah, my dear, I can see how much you truly enjoy being in my power,” his voice was a silk ribbon drawn over gravel. His assault continued, the blade of the knife gently kissing the soft flesh of her thigh, raising tiny, bloodied scratches, even as it moved her closer and closer to an explosion. His breath grew faster, and she knew that he was excited by his manipulation of her. “You are mine, you are utterly mine.”

“I am yours,” she repeated, numbly, afraid to incite him further.

Finally, she peaked and voiced the terrible pleasure that had been forced upon her. He withdrew the knife, which was covered with her delicate, white juice. He sniffed it.

“Delicious,” he whispered.

She panted, still in pain from the cattle prod but also being accosted by winds of pleasure. Perhaps now he would be finished with her. Somehow, she didn’t believe that he was.

He wasn’t. He flung the knife from him in a smooth motion and it stuck, quivering, into the back of the chair. If a snake could smile, it would have the same expression that he wore.

Maybe now he would f**k her. Maybe he was ready for her.

He wasn’t. He returned to the damnable wardrobe, and when he turned she gasped. He held a whip of wire strands, supple but obviously capable of inflicting great and irrevocable damage.

“Now I will mark you, my dear,” he told her. The bulge in his pants evidenced his great excitement at inflicting pain upon her.

She struggled. “You can’t!” she cried. “You know that this is against the rules!”

“And who will stop me?” he mocked.

Enough. Her manacles snapped off, and suddenly she was dressed in a red leather bodice and pants. She wore boots of the same material with high spiked heels. As he gaped in surprise, she plucked the whip from him and broke it in half.

“What are you doing?” no longer was his voice commanding; it was shrill and frightened.

She didn’t answer him, heading towards the door. He followed, somehow becoming smaller and older. His hair thinned and his mouth pooched. “M-My dear, what do you think you’re doing?” He tried to recapture his sense of command. “You must come back, my dear.”

She spun on him, glorious, eyes like molten gold. He cowered before her power. “My name is Tempest,” she told him.

She awoke with a jerk, the electrodes detaching with her abrupt movement. She gasped as if she couldn’t breathe, but of course she could. It was just the usual disorientation.

The door to her room slammed open, and Madame stormed in, followed by two matrons. Tempest was pulled from her bed, thrown to the floor. She wore a thin cotton shift, and it hitched up around her knees.

She looked up as Madame approached the other bed with deference. The elderly man upon it flailed weakly, pulling at the electrodes. Madame gently helped him, removing the hardware and helping him to sit up. He wore a suit similar to the one in his dream, but it hung loosely upon his frame. Trembling, he pulled the semen guard out of his pants, dropped it on the floor.

“What – What happened?” he asked dazedly. “It was going so well, then she...”

“I am so sorry, Senior Marvus,” Madame placated him. He was in his eighties, spindly and sparse-haired. Only his gray eyes seemed vital, although now they were confused.

Madame continued, “Senior, please let me offer you the services of Wind. She’s lovely and docile.”

Marvus nodded, and Madame motioned to the matrons. The stern women in gray gently helped the Senior to rise, and led him from the room, the door closing behind them.

Madame turned. She was an impressive woman – tall, stately, with dark red hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her ample figure strained at the seams of her tight, dark purple uniform. Her face was mottled with fury.

Tempest looked up at her.

“Madame, it wasn’t my fault,” she immediately defended herself. “He violated the ‘no destruction’ clause...”

“Silence.”

“But Madame,” Tempest imprudently continued, desperate to plead her case before she was judged and punished. She knew that Madame and the Matrons had followed the course of the dream on their own monitors. How could they not realize the damage that the Senior threatened her with? Had she not been patient and docile? What about the knife?

Madame’s mouth thinned, the only expression of her displeasure at the w***e’s protest. She had been trained well.

They had all been trained well. Tempest recalled the long, painful months of her education at fifteen, learning to be a dream w***e.

She was one of the best. In the seven years she had been working, she was one of the most sought after in her profession. Only Seniors were allowed to utilize this service, and they were charmed by her exquisite beauty and fiery temperament. Tempest, she had been named, and it suited her well.