Duty bound, p.14
Duty Bound, page 14
Laughing as she replaced her cane, Consuela talked rapidly. “They should be nicely developed by the time we reach your husband. Now come, filthy slut.” Consuela gave the chain a jerk and Pilar found herself led from the room.
Once outside the airy chamber, Pilar stumbled on a step, then slipped on the marble floor. Unable to save herself, she fell awkwardly. The maid merely swore and gave a tug on the chain to encourage the woman, who was technically her mistress and who paid her wages, to gain her feet, then without speaking to her again or slowing her pace she marched Pilar through the house to join her husband on the terrace.
“Ah, there you are!
As Pilar fell to her knees to greet her husband in the required manner, taking his cock into her mouth to show him the reverence due, at the same time Pik was climbing out of the buggy that had driven him from the house to the foot of Draco Cueto.
The air was scented with orange and lemon. The murmuring of the wind in the trees and the almost musical quality of the sea had its usual calming affect on Pilar as she stood beside a spreading almond tree. She turned and, with one hand resting on a branch as she stood against the balustrade and looked along the coastline, her eyes were drawn to the cabin cruiser just off the coast where people relaxing on deck might well be looking across in her direction. If any one of them were able to observe her they would have found it hard to believe that only moments earlier the choppy-haired woman in the diaphanous robe had been a seething kernel of pleasure and pain, her essence entirely sensual.
From where she stood, Pilar could see the upper half of Draco Cueto, and the small car of the funicular railway as it travelled to where the helipad, just past the half way mark, had been constructed on one of the terraces which had been cut into the side of the dormant volcano centuries earlier. Up above, at the very top and almost on the edge of the crater, were two, stone built shacks that had once been used by the early explorers and later, the intrepid tourists on the Grand Tour who had come to look into the crater itself, but were now used as lookout posts by the island’s guards. What she could not see was the lower half of the craggy hillside, where the golf buggy that one used to travel between the house and the foot of the volcano had been left beneath the Dragon Tree which, according to legend, was over 400 years old.
She threw a furtive glance back over her shoulder to where her husband, the man she looked up to as a paragon of domination with coal black hair and even darker eyes, was seated. A mature cherry tree and luxuriant bougainvillaea cast welcome shade across the side of the sunny, Moorish terrace where Alvaro Cortez was enjoying a breakfast of croissants and coffee. Kneeling naked at his feet with her distended nipples clamped and blue-tinged, the young blonde slavegirl who had shared his bed begged charmingly for titbits from his plate. Choosing to ignore her in favour of the new, American blockbuster on the table before him, Alvaro lifted his cup of bitter coffee to his lips and read on.
Pilar turned back to look at the top of the volcano. There was a sadness in her heart as she watched the chopper take off from the helipad, carrying their house guest to whom her husband had played the perfect host. At first she had considered taking up his offer of going along with him, just for the pleasure of the journey and change of scenery, and to see to his needs of course. But because the pilot was paid to follow Alvaro’s instructions and always sought clarification before following hers, she had thought better of telling him that she was taking the place of the girl who had been assigned the task, though she would dearly have loved to accompany their guest, for old time’s sake if for nothing else.
A feeling of pride swelled inside her and set her cunt clutching hungrily at emptiness as she slipped her hand inside her white, transparent robe and ran her fingers over her breasts. She flinched, for the welts that criss-crossed them and were clearly visible through the gauzy material were still tender beneath her fingertips, and she knew the flogging that had erupted across her breasts was a goodbye gift she would long remember….. the flogging and the fucking afterward. Yes, she thought, her husband had been the perfect host and had offered her on a plate to the rich Dutchman in exactly the same way as he had offered the other three sluts, one of which was probably even now sucking him off or bouncing up and down on his impressive cock.
Of its own accord, her other hand slid downward and inside the robe, only stopping when it alighted on her shaven quim. Using her forefinger she began to masturbate madly, using a rapid rubbing motion to torment her clitoris, all the while keeping her gaze locked onto her husband as she contemplated their life on the island.
Back in January and February, the cherry’s blooms had been magnificent, and now its fruits dangled in tempting abundance from its branches above Alvaro’s head, though it was more than even Pilar herself would dare do to pick them without permission. The tree, like Pilar’s family, had its roots here on Guavencia and had been a part of the island’s history for generations as it passed down through the female line, though neither the tree nor Pilar herself could ever rely on being truly safe for both were subject to Alvaro’s whims; the tree could be replaced by a parasol as easily as Pilar herself could be supplanted by another woman whose carnal tastes matched her own.
Her considerable wealth, however, could not be so easily replaced and she was all too well aware that that was probably the main thing holding her marriage together. For though she had signed her life and self-determination over to Alvaro, she had kept control of her fortune, trusting in her family’s Spanish law firm – a firm that had been practising on the Spanish mainland for over three hundred years – and her bankers to keep her millions safely away from her husband’s clutches. He had carte blanche when it came to her body – he could whip her until she could no longer stand, suspend her naked from the Dragon Tree or hand her over to the guards to fuck and whip, and she would love him all the more for it – but he would never gain control of her fortune.
The thought of all the things he would do to her now that their guest had gone set her cunt aquiver and she began to rub her clit faster. Even though she had done everything at his command, she knew he would punish her for being so filthy because it was just the way things were……the way they were supposed to be.
“Stop it, Pilar.” Alvaro spoke to her firmly in Spanish, though he had still not looked up from his book.
With immediate obedience she withdrew both hands and concentrated on the view. That was the thing about Alvaro, she thought, he always seemed to know what she was doing. She swung her gaze skyward. The helicopter was just a speck in the distance. And it was with mixed feelings that she realised it was unlikely she would ever see Pik again, for his various business interests and sexual pursuits left him less free time than when she had first met him all those years earlier in Monaco’s casinos, when they had been drawn together by their love for diamonds as much as their lasciviousness. She had no idea, of course, which of his interests was taking him to England this time, though she doubted he would give her another thought as he arrived on time and refreshed.
“It’s always been one of his strengths,” Alvaro told her, still without taking his eyes from his book as he turned the page, “he’s always been an expert at exploiting one weakness to fuel another.”
Alvaro’s uncanny knack of reading her thoughts still took her breath away, even after their years of marriage. And what he had said was true, for Pik had exploited them both, which is how she came to be married to Alvaro in the first place, for it was Pik who had introduced them when his own weakness for Pilar’s attractions had began to pale. Then one night in Amsterdam he had met Alvaro, an avaricious man several years his junior but with the same brutal way of using women, as well as with a lust for wealth with no feasible means of acquiring it! And so Pilar, whose need for discipline had always ruled her head, had found herself being handed over as if she were just another piece of unwanted property, the irony being that it was her own wealth that was used to buy not only her unwanted freedom from Pik but also her subjugation to Alvaro.
As both recipient and donor, Pilar was as much a slave in this cruel paradise as she was its sadistic owner.
The diamonds around her throat glittered as brightly as the sea which lapped against sand that was as warm to the touch as her perpetually bronzed skin. While it was indeed an extravagant item of jewellery, it was nevertheless as much of a slave collar as the stark black leather that encircled the slavegirl’s throat. Another thing the pieces had in common was that they both possessed a ring to which all manner of things could be fastened, like the rope which was currently clipped to the slavegirl’s collar and whose other end was tied to the Moorish-style fountain at the other end of the patio, allowing her enough leeway to move around when directed while still denying her freedom. Like the collars themselves, the rings were made of vastly different materials. In the case of the leather, the large ring was set in the centre of the two and a half inch high collar and was made of shiny, silver-coloured metal. But the stunning diamond collar was half the width of the leather one and hanging centrally from the bottom was a diamond-studded platinum pendant to which a platinum ring – smaller than the slave’s but just as effective – was attached and nestled snugly against her collar bone. Pilar had designed the piece herself, though it had been Alvaro who had ordered her to do so and then had it made for her. She was fortunate in that she had several different pieces to choose from, and it was essential to Alvaro that Pilar did not appear without one of them around her pretty neck. The slave was less fortunate; her only collar had been fitted on her arrival and hadn’t been removed since.
Pilar smiled dreamily as she focussed her attention on the glittering seascape, then the beach where a muscular, off duty guard from the lookout post on top of the brooding and dormant Draco Cueto, was swimming naked, his clothes piled neatly at the water’s edge.
At this time of the year the sun’s heat was considerable, and before long she would either have to retreat inside, or find a shady spot in the garden below her, where Moorish water fountains were set among the geraniums, palm trees, myrtle and cypresses, and all manner of colourful plants. As she looked down from the patio she caught sight of a bobbing blonde head among the subtropical vegetation, and recognised it at once as one of the slavegirl gardeners responsible for the gardens’ upkeep. The island must seem a paradise indeed from the decks of the vessels that toured the Canary Islands. The low-rise building which sprawled across the terraced hillside, a former monastery built on the ruins of a Moorish stronghold, was graced with fountains, arched cloisters with roses and other lush vegetation climbing over its ancient walls and could easily be mistaken for a hotel. And the clusters of tiny, stone houses on the rugged, volcanic hillside and other side of the island could just as easily be mistaken for picturesque villages.
The nearest towns were Agadir in Morocco, just one hundred miles away, or one of the closer but hyper-active, over-developed tourist destinations on the neighbouring island of Lanzarote. Yet Guavencia was not the ideal tourist destination it seemed, and the few, favoured guests who visited its year-round hot and sunny shores were a very different kind of traveller indeed. The perpetual sense of calm that hung over the island was far from being a fair indication of the lives of its inhabitants.
Being in private hands since 1890, Guavencia was closer to North Africa than Spain, and although the Canary Islands were owned by Spain, Guavencia was named after some of the island’s early inhabitants known as the Guanches. Later, the island had been appropriated by the Crown of Castille, which had allowed the Hispanic culture and tradition to flourish, until Guavencia was handed over to a religious order during the late seventeenth century. But that had come to an abrupt end when Pilar’s rich and powerful ancestors had seized the island for themselves. Since then, successive generations had equipped the island with every modern amenity and convenience, though it still remained charmingly undeveloped.
Over the centuries there had been many changes and catastrophes to befall the island, including volcanic eruption and conquests. The evidence of Guavencia’s long and turbulent history – both geological and archaeological – was everywhere and was an archaeologist’s dream. But Pilar and Alvaro could not take the risk of the place being invaded, dug up and logged! And so the island was heavily guarded and any intruder was seen as a threat.
Pilar turned suddenly and flung the slavegirl a derisive look……the youngster had been an archaeology student who dared to come ashore. But she hadn’t been allowed to leave with her note books, photographs and finds. They, along with her clothes and other belongings, were safely under lock and key.
CHAPTER NINE
Kent
It was Saturday and the first day of the Saxon Hill Airshow and Rusty set off early from the apartment, at her Master’s insistence naked beneath her leathers. She was thrilled at the thought of openly displaying her welts, but at the same time she wished he had allowed her a T-shirt at least. It was just that she was not always this marked, and she usually had somewhere private to change. But for some reason, Sir had chosen this day for her condition to become public knowledge.
The city traffic was as horrendous as usual, and she was thankful when she reached the motorway.
She made good progress along the M20, swapping from lane to lane and weaving in and out of the traffic heading for Folkestone. But unable to really open the bike up and give full rein to the Fireblade’s awesome power, and suffering the soreness of a flogged vulva, beneath her helmet she was beginning to grow irritable. Virtually lying along the bike’s length rather than sitting on it, she turned off at the junction.
The traffic was already building up as she rode through the Kent countryside. By the time she reached the turning for Saxon Hill, her entire nether regions felt as though they had been rubbed over with an electric sander. To make matters worse, the long queue of traffic for the airshow was at a virtual standstill. The show this year was bigger, thanks largely to the fact that although the teams were sponsored by Charles’ cosmetics company, the two day event itself was sponsored by Charisma’s associate company Galandway Chemicals.
She turned the bend and at last the airfield was in sight. Now that she was this close, her mood began to lighten at the thought of being airborne once more.
A dribble of vehicles was being directed through the main gate by the uniformed security team and the men who were drafted in for the weekend event to monitor traffic and take care of the parking arrangements, which turned the grass into a car park. As she tried to continue straight on past the gate to the flying school’s entrance, she was halted by a more solid member of the security team who showed no fear as he stood in the road, blocking the progress of anyone who dared even to attempt to drive past. Fighting to keep her excitement at bay for just a while longer she showed her pass and then accepted his apologetic, mock salute with grace as he waved her on up the road toward the private car park. It was unusually crowded due to the vehicles of the other four women without whom there would not be a wingwalking team, and the male flyers of the aerobatics team.
She slotted her motorbike in-between Tim’s gutsy, low-slung convertible and her brother’s old van. Allowing herself to relax, she let the adrenaline build. With her heart pounding so much that she barely noticed her juddering nerves, she killed the engine and swung her long, shapely legs to dismount. She loved this feeling of being alive, she thought as she lifted her black visor. To her relief they had a good day for it, with the skies clear and blue, and the wind little more than a whisper that fluttered a paper napkin through the air, and wafted the tempting aromas of hot dogs and burgers. As her stomach rumbled in response, she wondered if there was time to wander off to the spectators’ area to find a van. No, too early for a burger! she told herself resolutely, wishing she had taken McBain’s advice and stopped for a bite of something before she had left Charles’ apartment.
She peeled off her gloves and placed them on the seat before removing her helmet and pulling her long ponytail free. With all thoughts of her Master temporarily banished from her thoughts, she concentrated her mind on the thrilling business of the day ahead. Or rather two days, for it was a weekend event and to her delight she was booked for both. The weather forecast for tomorrow promised much of the same, which meant two perfect flying days! Her heart doubled its efforts at the thought, and for a moment she held her hand against her chest as if she were trying to stop it leaping right out of her chest. She grabbed up her things and, with her special soft, calf-high boots that she wore for wingwalking slung over her shoulder by their laces and her special, lightweight apparel packed into her fashionable hold-all, she raced from the flying school’s car park.
With her pert and naked backside swaying as it was sheathed tightly in leather, she ran through what was still considered a male-dominated area, despite there being one part-time female engineer as well as the other Angels members. The design of her new leathers that Charles had bought for her emphasised her femininity by clinging to her considerable curves and seemed to be drawn deep into her crotch so that the outline of her pubis was clearly defined.
She arrived breathless, dashing into the hangar as if her life depended on it. Immediately engulfed in a world that smelled of oil, aviation fuel and masculine sweat, as always she was aware of other lingering smells……..bravery, and fear too…….of the young men who had been ready to scramble at a moment’s notice. There were no squadrons based at Saxon Hill these days, of course. Apart from the flying lessons and parcel delivery, they were all just a bunch of dedicated enthusiasts, the individuals who cared enough to rescue and restore the planes from both World Wars so they could be flown once more, this time simply for pleasure or to raise cash for charity.
