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There was the murmur of voices for a time, a few quick glances their way, and then Essex spoke first. “Present yourselves.”
Present? How was that? They had no instructions and didn’t know what to do. Waiting hesitantly for one of the others to make a move, their hesitation made them blush with embarrassment.
“Present yourselves!” Essex repeated.
They still didn’t move.
“Oh my? You’re not familiar with that command?” He chuckled. “Does this surprise me?” he mocked them gesturing haughtily as he strut in front of them. “How about if I suggest that you bow at my feet? Would you understand that?”
Answering his question without speaking, the three bounded toward the man and humbled themselves in a semi-circle at his feet.
“That’s better,” he gibed, “now, someone have at their asses.”
There were a few guests who seemed interested, but it was Darius who stepped forward with a long razor strap dangling from his hand. “Asses high!” he ordered.
The crouched three were already kneeling with their heads bent forward and resting on the floor. To answer Darius’ command, they raised their behinds, holding an uncomfortable position that would soon strain their thighs. Hopefully, this punishment would be brief.
Brief it might have been; but that hardly mattered when Darius drew back his muscled arm and began to pelt their asses with the thick strap. He gave them a vigorous workout until the three behinds bobbed and jiggled as a glowing crimson blush colored their skin, and each slave struggled to swallow the cries that threatened to escape beyond their mouthpieces.
When Darius ended the punishment, Essex returned to them. “Go to the posts and show off your buttocks until you’re ordered otherwise.”
Obeying quickly, they presented their asses, facing three pillars in the dining room, raising their hands high, and spreading their feet wide. The impact of the strap still stung, though the burn was beginning to melt into their flesh, leaving a lush and erotic charge of energy they’d not yet felt that day. They imagined more insult, now so accustomed to that treatment; but that was not the result.
Archibald Devane’s voice rose clearly about the background conversation, “My apologies for interrupting, but the boats will be arriving in a half an hour. They are scheduled to leave Marquis as soon as you’ve boarded.”
With their minds turned elsewhere, the houseguests moved rapidly out of the dining room to elsewhere in the house as they prepared to leave.
Having been the center of attention for these festivities, the three slaves found it strange to have the room—once so filled with sexual energy—now empty. No one paid a lick of attention to the trio, and in time, they wondered if even Erik, Jason and Matthew would return for them.
***
The house fell silent. No more voices, no more footfalls on the stairs, no more energetic commotion of friends chattering, and no more reverberating cries of lust.
Still in their costumes, still waiting, Sandra, Laney and Elise remained facing the tall fluted columns, noting how their bottoms had cooled and the effect of Darius’ punishment had vanished. For the first time in days, the sensually magic spell that had wrapped around the house and all their strange activities seemed to lift—at least for a time—like clouds parting to reveal the sun. A few worried thoughts paced through Laney’s mind. With her anxiety rising, she wished she could whisper her concerns to the women on either side of her. They must be as apprehensive as she was, although there was no way to communicate but through their weary eyes.
Just as Laney was about to pull out of her pose, there were shuffling sounds behind them. All three tensed, not knowing who was entering the room; then they eased when they felt their master’s familiar hands draw them away from the columns. Laney’s gag, and Elise and Sandra’s bridles were removed, along with the most intense of the clamps on their nipples and clits. Their binding attire remained, as well as the anal plugs and high heels, but with the physical tension of the more extreme tortures absent, the three were able to relax.
As soon as they moved into the living room, it was immediately obvious that it had changed—yet again, almost as though it shifted shapes when no one was looking. The room now appeared much as it had before the onslaught of guests arrived on the island: a few scattered couches and chairs before the fireplace, even the deck of cards sitting on the table they used frequently in the first few days. And the book—Christian Barth’s missal of S&M treachery—lay on the mantle next to the clock.
Devane was in the room when the six entered, though he was on his way to the front door. Hearing the rustling of feet behind him, he turned back as if he had something to say.
“The boats have left, taking all but my personal friends back to port.” No one replied to his remark, so the old man added smiling, “Well then, I’ll leave you be.” He started toward the door again.
“Barth!” Erik suddenly exclaimed.
The old man hesitated but he didn’t turn around and he didn’t stop.
Unfazed by his lack of response, Erik called again, “Christian Barth.” His voice was louder and the timbre of his message more commanding.
Devane stopped, turning to him slowly. “I am Archibald Devane, Mr. Priestly.”
“No, you’re Christian Barth,” Erik said, quite sure of himself.
“What makes you say so?” Devane asked.
“What my gut tells me,” Erik replied. “Do you deny it?”
The old man considered for a moment, while his eyes filled with a mirthful rapture. “No, of course I don’t deny the truth.”
