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She answered with a sassy pout, but said no more, as Miles pushed her toward the mirror. “Put it on.”
Tessa padded to the full-length mirror and began to dress.
“Hector,” Miles called to the photographer, “start filming.”
Tessa’s first look in the mirror was a shock. She’d almost forgotten her shaved pussy, and for several moments, she just stared in wonder, thinking how virtuous she looked
without the symbol of her womanhood, the silky hairs that glistened with her female dew. But there was more than just this first impression—a strange seductive quality appeared before her, as if her body was winking at her naughtily, reminding her of its feminine power. The message was mixed, but the eroticism potent, and the pleasant reverie almost made her forget her anger.
The corset fit perfectly around her waist, as if Miles had it designed expressly for her. Heavy metal stays held her torso firmly in place, and it was joined at the back with crisscrossing laces. As Tessa closed the hooks in front, she could feel the growing constriction.
“Needs to be tighter, love,” Miles said as he came up behind her and grabbing the laces firmly gave them a hearty yank.
“Yikes! I can’t breath,” she cried.
“Relax, of course you can,” he said gently. He pulled on the ribbons with a steady tug, until they were so tight she thought she would surely burst. “It will take some time to get used to, but I think you’ll like the effect. Now look at yourself.”
Tessa turned back to the mirror, blushing as the image of Scarlett O’Hara came to mind—that sassy tart pulling herself into a tiny-waisted ball gown. The hourglass of her own design was breathtaking to behold. The unsuspecting submissive was instantly transported into another time and place, that Victorian era of cruel discipline, and high-spirited antics of schoolgirl like erotic trainings. She had a dozen books of such adventures hidden under her mattress, for lonely nights by herself with her loins on fire and her imagination flying.
Seeing her breasts spill over the edges of the corset, she viewed herself as the voluptuous innocent, being instructed and disciplined in the fine art of submissive behavior. Seeing her hips swell at the bottom of the garment, and her cunt framed by the dangling garters, she knew how it might feel to be the pure young maiden, about to be raped by a cruel but deliciously inventive, wizened patriarch—and his accomplices. It was proving to be a fun excursion into fantasyland, if the reality of the moment hadn’t descended on her.
“Here, your stockings,” Miles said.
With the corset so restricting, Tessa could hardly bend over to put them on. But she had no choice with Miles and Hector standing off to the side, watching her in her awkward task, ready to pounce if she faltered. She managed to pull the first rose-colored stocking over her leg and attach it to the garters front and back. Taking the second, she put it on, too, and then turned back to the mirror to get another look at herself. The impression of those old Victorian novels hadn’t faded away; it only seemed to become more vivid in her mind.
Turning away from the mirror, she looked at the rest of the room, noticing that the choice of furnishings had transformed once again; this time, into the period that she recalled in her mind. Certainly Miles and Hector deliberately planned it that way. The dark drapery and the antique Oriental screens made perfect sense. A glowing stained glass lamp added just the right touch of period authenticity. Had she not been the center of attention, she might have been fascinated by the scene that the two artists were creating. Tessa had a flippant remark about that fact right on the tip of her tongue; but it fluttered away with the appearance of Martine, coming out from behind the screen.
Tessa stood stock still, marveling at what she saw. She’d never seen her roommate looking so ravishing! She was dressed in what looked liked a Victorian ball gown: a flowing garment, with a bodice so low that her pinched-up breasts were almost completely exposed. Indeed, Tessa could see the edges of her aureoles peeking out, though her full nipples were pressed tightly into place.
In turn, Martine looked at Tessa taking note of her attire. “This is quite a mood you’re setting Miles,” she observed. It was a noncommittal statement—no one knew if she was happy with his choice of clothes, or annoyed.
To Tessa, it seemed an unusual choice. Martine was the kind of woman she always envisioned in tight fitting leather. She looked so perfect in modern mistress garb, that this dress seemed too genteel and refined. But then, what a contrast it would be! Perhaps that was why the Victorian period was such an interesting background for such ruthless schemes. It appeared on the surface so elegant and civilized, while underneath, there was a simmering debauchery to shock even the most practiced modern day sadomasochistic devotees.
Martine viewed herself in the full-length mirror, side by side with Tessa, as a stunning picture of opposites—dominant and submissive reflected back to them.
On close inspection, Tessa could tell that Martine’s dress was a period “fake”. No doubt it was specifically designed for this occasion made of transparent lace from the bodice to the hem, with no concealing sheath underneath. As it flowed to Martine’s ankles, her bare skin peeked through, so that it hid, but did not completely conceal. It would tease the untrained eye, and be a pleasant revelation to the astute observer. On one side of the dress there was a deep slit, and when Martine walked, it opened so everything below her waist was dangerously close to being exposed.
To add to the drama, Martine wore long, black gloves and a pair of shiny, patent ankle boots. Her generous brunette hair was piled atop her head in a bun, completing the picture of some mistress from another place and time.
“The first day I met Martine in the lobby of your building,” Miles said, “I decided then, that she would look perfect in this dress. You remember? Her hair was fixed this way, like a genteel nineteenth century lady—I think a perfect clue to her true nature.”
Miles stepped behind the two women, towering ominously over them both, while Hector continued capturing the preparations on film—the banter, the preening, every nuance of this strange trio as they began the transition to the next dramatic scene.
“Her true nature?” Tessa whipped around to look both Miles and Martine in the eye. “You knew that day? Why you hardly talked.”
“I knew instantaneously she was right for the part,” he said. Tessa was speechless. “Shall we get on with things?”
Moving out of their way, Miles ushered the two women past him, pushing Tessa to the platform bed. Martine was given silent commands, and Tessa was powerless to change anything, captive to a woman she hated more than she loved.
“Lie on your back,” Martine ordered her in the same effusive, sultry tones she often used when making love. It was not what Tessa expected, but these welcome niceties soothed her. She wondered why Martine suddenly was so kind. Perhaps the dress and the surroundings had altered her disposition? Or perhaps she was just taking her time before she would pounce with cat claws.
As Tessa approached the platform, she saw that instead of the bed, which had been pushed into another corner of the room, there was a antique lounging settee in its place. The ancient piece of furniture was covered in a paisley brocade to match the period of their reenactment. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she then lay back against the cool, smooth surface shivering with a chill so deep she wondered if any warmth would return to her at all. She was deathly afraid of what was to follow, of a Martine who scared her, and the lash the woman was about to wield in a more harrowing form than she’d ever experienced.
“Bind her hands,” Martine ordered. Miles responded—as if he were a dutiful servant—drawing Tessa’s hands above her head and pulling them tight, binding them with ropes that he then fastened to some unseen device behind her. Tessa’s rear was at the edge of the couch, her legs dangling down to touch the floor.
Martine stood over her with cold eyes flashing. The terms of endearment that she’d uttered before did not appear in her next speech. For that she became the heartless bitch that Tessa expected. “I’m going to whip your pussy, slut. Count yourself lucky to have my attention at all. Every submissive like yourself should revel in this bliss at least once. You deserve this kind of satisfaction; you deserve the bite and sting and the abuse. It will show Miles that you’re willing to do anything for him, to suffer any kind of correction, no matter how severe.”
Martine walked around the bound Tessa, inspecting her, a severe scowl on the hard womans’ face as if she despised her gentle roommate. Tessa stared back with eyes wide and frightened, then watched as Martine dropped to one knee at her side. Taking her chin in her hand, Martine’s eyes bore into the slave with a scorching heat.
