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From: exdaedalus@aol.com (ExDaedalus)
Subject: {ExDaedalus} Christine's Story (M/F N/C) [1/?]
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I find it more and more perverse to have to offer warning each time I post my
efforts, but for consistency - if for no other reason - I suggest my work would
be quite unsuitable for incunabula consumption. All of the other formal and
formidable caveats apply.
Although this story is advertised upon its own merits, it does represent and
constitute part of the chronicles of Chateau D-, and if the reader has not
encountered those misadventures of another young lady, which I have cared to
entitle 'Claudette's Story', he surely will, outside of some effort, find the
context of this episode difficult to grasp. My advice is to locate the story
of Claudette in this newsgroup, or on Dejanews, or to e-mail me for a copy - a
request which I will gladly honor - before reading how Christine fares within
this edifice of my imagination.
This said, the reader is offered:
Christine's Story
i
"Perhaps not, Christine," the older woman said, looking over the pince-nez at
her young niece disappearing in search of other excitement. "But I suspect you
would care not to exchange places with . . . (she glanced down and into her
lapped hand) . . . Claudette, for tonight."
Christine snorted quietly. Turning her head from her aunt to the lighted,
glass table, she watched the young woman, who had been masturbating and now had
concluded her minor theatrical, slide from its mirrored surface. She watched
her brother's eyes follow the naked figure, his mouth drop vacantly open, his
tongue press against the lower lip. They are going to let Maurice have her,
Christine thought with contempt. ... And just because it's his birthday! She
left the tiny island of light where her brother, her aunt, and her grandfather
sat, and moved away and towards the fireplace.
A large, black rocking-horse rested in front of the hearth. Its wood had been
polished smooth, and it shone like jet in the light of close-by lamps. From
the fire burning in the hearth, the light of flames leaped and reflected in the
mirror ebony of this child's toy, but the horse was no innocent plaything: a
half-dozen guests were enjoying the private spectacle of a girl, naked, young
and beautiful, being tortured in its saddle. Christine joined the spectators,
fascinated by the agony in the girl's face, excited by the sounds of her
melancholy pleas for release, aroused by the lickerousness of what she saw.
The girl was dressed in attire usual for those who entertained at Chateau D-:
a black velvet choker; and stockings encasing her legs, supported by wide lace
filigree near the tops of her thighs. Her patent shoes were unsuitable for the
stirrups, and somebody had placed the heeled pumps neatly on the corner of the
raised hearth. She leaned over the mane of the wooden horse, her hips rising
and falling rhythmically, as if she were riding to some private, melodic call.
The girl's body was lithe, supple - and when it moved it shifted like a sapling
in wind. Christine moved closer.
The girl's hands were behind her back, held there by a simple cord about her
wrists. Her feet rested in the stirrups but her toes had been fastened. As
she moved up and down, in time with the silent measure, her heels left the
platforms then briefly touched again. Her nipples were tied with slim scarlet
ribbons to turned pegs extending from the sides of the horse's head and
intended as supports for the rider's hands. Tears dropped from her eyes and
slipped over her delicately powdered cheeks. Parted lips, that might have yet
not felt a lover's kiss, had been painted rose to resemble her other lips.
Through them the girl whispered prayers for deliverance from her anguish.
Her vagina rode a phallus in metered strokes. When the girl had risen to the
extent her legs would permit, the sculptured head of the intruder barely
showed; when she sat momentarily in the saddle, it was hard to believe her
immature frame had accommodated the entire length of the brutish device. When
she rose, her lips hugged the shaft as if not wanting it to leave her body, and
when she settled the same lips seemed to devour it hungrily. But that was just
impression; the truth was different.
The perverse phallus, which nevertheless seemed to grow naturally from the
saddle, was a perfect likeness of what it represented (it would have been the
proud possession of any female libertine), but it gave no pleasure to the owner
of the maiden vagina it penetrated and assaulted. The girl was copulating
unwillingly - presumably forced into doing so by some unseen management that
Christine could not discover - and causing or augmenting her own grief.
Christine saw the rhythm of the girl's hips increase. She sees their purpose
intensify, hears the child-like entreatment spill from her lips, watches her
body attain its climax then, make two- three- four- urgent, pain-wracked
thrusts before every muscle in her slim, silk-shimmering legs seems to spasm,
then become rigid. The girl lets out an animal scream that makes the entire
ensemble of the Salon pause and turn. The scream escalates slowly down the
cadence of a dying, sobbing diminuendo; and finally accompanies its creator
into oblivion.
The girl's body draped like an alabaster mantle over the horse, only the
subtle heaving of her narrow shoulders evincing life, the sudor of her effort
covering the naked skin and glittering like a thousand tiny diamonds. Beneath
her, the dead ebony rocked quietly back and forth.
In the ensuing silence, Christine stood spellbound by what she had just
witnessed. For her, the torture of the girl had been a supreme exhibition of
eroticism, and the vision of that final, unrestrained writhing had allowed her
to accompany the girl over the mitigating precipice of orgasm. But after, as
her body refilled with the sober aftermath of sexual abandonment, she recalled
with horror that for a few moments she had imagined herself upon the horse, and
not the girl. While the girl had begged for release, and had been impaling
herself lewdly, atrociously upon the phallus, Christine had seen herself
astride the saddle, doing those things. But worse, in her fantasy, Christine
had purposefully aggravated the appalling agony in her vagina; she had not
needed to be driven to copulate with the fashioned penis, she had wanted it to
hurt her. She tried to rid her mind of these thoughts, but they hung on the
edge of consciousness like unwanted relatives. She felt a hand at her elbow
and turned to see a tall, distinguished man, thirty years her senior, standing
at her side. The unwelcome thoughts fled.
Christine had often played Jacques' game. Perched naked by his side, she had
watched him work alone, apart from her silent presence, at an ornate desk in
his administrative suite. Or, while he entertained friends: she, seated upon
his lap - the top of her dress about her waist, the straps of her brassiere
slipped, the cups lowered; he, fondling her like a man might a favorite lap-dog
while delivering one of a bottomless store of anecdotes to his guests.
Christine was never embarrassed by the obvious effects the fondling had upon
the exposed tips of her breasts; in fact, she gleaned pleasure from watching
the guests' gazes flick surreptitiously to the aroused nipples, and then
deferentially back to their host. Jacques never allowed his guests to touch
her, but not infrequently, he would have her sit upon the edge of his desk
while he stood apart, talking with his guests in tones too low for her to hear.
Faces would turn in unison in her direction, eyes taking in her semi-nudity,
lips whispering remarks (about her body, no doubt). She found these distant
perusals more distracting than the brief looks Jacques' tactile attentions
drew.
As Jacques escorted her away from the rocking-horse and its spent rider,
Christine wondered if she and the superintendent of Chateau D- would be alone
that night. They walked in silence through the chateau's dimly lit corridors
until they came to a door leading into the administrative quarters. Instead of
stopping to unlock the door, Jacques ushered Christine by.
"Where are we going?" the young woman asked. Jacques said nothing and
Christine remained silent, following, waiting until they reached the entrance
to a large, brightly lit, balconied ballroom before venturing: "Are we going
to dance?"
"No," Jacques replied, "we are going to eat." This enigmatic answer was
resolved when Christine noticed a long dining table set in the middle of the
otherwise empty floor. A dozen chairs surrounded it, and chandeliers
illuminated it. There was a place setting for each chair, and a candelabrum
sitting upon the dark, polished wood. Jacques took Christine to the table and
sat down, but the young woman was not offered a seat. She stood in front of
the man, waiting for him to speak.
"Would you mind undressing?" he asked. He was not mandating to her: it seemed
to Christine that he had put a proposal.
"No," she replied without any hesitation. She reached back for the clasp of
her gown, but Jacques touched her arm, forestalling her.
"I would like you to remove everything. I want you completely naked," he
said. Christine studied the empty chairs before answering.
"Will there be others?"
"Yes. Friends of your grandfather."
"Do . . . I know them?"
"I would expect so." Jacques waited for Christine's response.
She lay upon the dining table, on her back, staring into the crystal
chandelier. A hundred lights cascaded onto her unveiled skin. Footmen came
and went, dropping plates and dishes around her, stealing furtive glances at
her from beneath lowered brows. Still the chairs remained bereft of occupants.
Jacques had left bearing her clothes, after saying what he wanted of her, but
not saying he would return.
Christine had been apprehensive when she reclined - and let the cold, smooth
wood come into contact with her back. Somehow, the empty room wore more eyes
than it should. Then there came over her an incongruous relief. She heard
someone approach and, shifting her focus, saw a servant, bearing a tureen,
staring at her unclothed body. Her gaze met his, and he lowered his head.
That was an event of moment for Christine.
Gradually she had become amused by the footmen who looked at her, but could
not touch what their hands came so close to touching as they carefully
deposited their loads around her. She raised a hand and placed it under her
head, a gesture intended to disarm the servants more than provide a pillow for
her head. She bent one leg, but keeping her knee pressed against the tabletop,
until her foot brushed the opposing calf. Her free hand rested over her navel,
the fingers suggestively splayed. She heard voices and then footsteps. The
diners were arriving.
Hands played constantly with her breasts. Fingers explored her vagina, were
removed, and replaced by others. She identified different ways in which the
men touched her; the different pleasures they sought. She refused to look at
their faces in case she recognized one. She continued to keep her gaze fixed
on the chandelier, filling her eyes with nothing but light, although for a
brief period convinced that a face looked down at her from the balcony above
the chandelier and above the table.
Ruby wine dribbled from a decanter over her nipple, and lips retrieved it.
Something warm poured onto her belly then ran downwards, through her pubic
hair, into her folds and around her clitoris. Fingers massaged the fluid into
her and she became aroused. She felt her lower lips being opened and something
pressing to enter her vagina. Gentle hands on her legs suggested she keep her
thighs parted. Christine imagined the phallus from the rocking-horse, urgent
to invade her, waiting impatient at the little constriction to her entrance.
She let the protecting muscle surrender, and her vaginal cavity was suddenly -
and shockingly filled. A pain coursed through her belly, overwhelming her.
She cried out. A hand pressed her body down. Then the tips of her breasts
seemed to flower - as if they had been petalled open. She raised her head and
saw other hands holding metal jaws closed tight over the areolae, the
extremities protruding rudely. She began to fight. Her wrists were grasped,
her ankles held. Needles descended into her nipples and agonies erupted there.
Christine's back arched, and for a few moments she knew pain. Then something
touched her clitoris and the pain melted. The pain became pleasure. The pain
was pleasure. Her clenched fists opened; her fingers extended in supplication;
and she suffered a joy.
Later, Christine sobbed. She cried - not because of the pain, not because of
the humiliation but - because her masochism had blossomed and she was sickened
by it. She was aware of this kind of libidinal energy in others: she had seen
it released in her aunt, and even, upon occasions, in the young women who were
immured at the chateau, but it was anathema to her that her own pleasure might
be expressed in the realization of carnal agony. Jacques had carried her from
the ballroom to his apartment and there she shed her tears. A theme from a
Bach cantata - the Ariosa - played softly.
"Why?' she had asked.
"I don't know," he confessed. He told her: "It is part of your sexual
condition."
"Must I enjoy it only this way?"
"I suppose," he said.
And later still, she inquired: "The young girl. The one upon the horse, the
one whom we watched. Do you know why she went on doing what she did - why she
went on hurting herself?"
"Yes," he told her. "You would like to know why?"
"I would," she replied. Jacques took her hand and led her back to the Salon.
--
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