The Chateau: An Erotic Thriller Page 8

  She positioned herself behind him and started to slowly…slowly…slowly enter him. Too slowly.

  Polly told him to lay flat, to stretch out his legs—however was most comfortable for him. He was under the strictest of orders to tell her the second he felt a moment’s pain. But there was no pain, no discomfort. Fullness, yes. Not pain. Not like he’d known once.

  “You like this, don’t you?” Polly said as she kissed and licked the back of his neck. “Being taken? Penetrated? Used?”

  “Very much.”

  “Say it then,” she said.

  “Say what?”

  “Say you like penetration. You said you aren’t shy, so say it. Or are you shy?”

  He opened his mouth, laughed softly. “You make me feel shy. It’s an accomplishment.”

  “Kingsley…” Polly said as she nibbled on his earlobe. “Say it or I’ll stop fucking you…” Her voice was teasing, but the order was an order. It had to be obeyed.

  “I like being penetrated,” he said. “There. Happy?”

  “So very happy. If I keep doing this,” she said and thrust into him, “will you come?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I would bet my life on it.”

  “You’ve come from penetration alone before?”

  “I have.”

  “High school?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Polly, of course, pinched him for not answering. Pinched him and fucked him a little harder. Her thrusts into him were firm and steady, purposeful but not too hard, deep but not too deep. Every retreat wrenched a moan from his lips and every return thrust sent him panting. The inflexible object inside him stroked neglected nerves with every pass, massaging deep muscles with every welcome invasion. Tethered to the bed and rooted in place, pinned down and penetrated, Kingsley could have stayed there forever. But that was his arousal doing the talking. Or was it? Against the sheets, his cock throbbed. As Polly pushed into him, he pushed back. As she withdrew, he pushed down.

  “Do you like it?” she whispered in his ear.

  Do you like it?

  Kingsley lowered his head with a groan and when he raised it again, he was far away in another time, another world. A shack—rough wood floors and walls. He was facedown, his wrists tied to the bars of a metal cot. A monster with blond hair and a brutal cock was on top of him, inside him. Earlier he’d been beaten with a black leather belt. By “accident” the blond monster had let go of the tip so that the sharp metal buckle hit him with the force of a whip and left a deep burning red welt on his ribcage that he already knew would turn into a black and blue bruise by the next day.

  “Do you like it?” the monster asked as he fucked Kingsley for the second time that night. And because it was the second time, he was open and slick and there was no stopping the cock that pounded him.

  “Yes, sir,” Kingsley answered. Like it? His parents were dead. He was poor as a church mouse. His grandparents had sent him to an all-boys school against his will.

  And as long as that cock kept ramming him, he couldn’t have cared less. The cock made everything worth it.

  God, he was such a whore.

  “You’re not allowed to like it this much,” his monster decreed.

  “Stop making it feel really fucking good then. Christ, do I have to explain everything?” Kingsley demanded. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

  He only talked back like that when he was out of his mind from being fucked half to death.

  Punishment came in the form of the blond monster’s perfect pianist’s fingers finding that throbbing welt on Kingsley’s back and pushing on it. Kingsley’s head came up. He cried out in pain, in pain and in bliss. So much of both he couldn’t tell one from the other.

  “Stupid slut,” his monster whispered into his ears. “You can’t even suffer right.”

  “I love you, you fucking monster,” Kingsley said. “I should be in my Calc study group right now.” Instead he had two dozen welts all over his back and a cock up his ass—which was exactly where it belonged, if you asked him.

  “Shut the fuck up,” the monster ordered. Victory…a dirty word. Kingsley had gotten to him. He would definitely not be shutting the fuck up now.

  “I love you,” Kingsley said again. “I fucking love you. I love your face and your body and your cock and that black hole in your chest where your heart’s supposed to be. I want to die with you inside me I love you that fucking much.”

  “Really?” his monster said. “Every time I’m inside you, I want to kill you.”

  It was nine degrees outside the cabin, ninety degrees inside. Kingsley was drenched with sweat, open and wet as a whore on her last customer for the day, so hard he could have fucked a hole through the mattress. His legs and his beautiful monster’s were tangled up together in the scattered sheets. One hand pushed on the welt. The other hand grasped Kingsley’s long hair and pulled it.

  Kingsley cried out as a muscle spasm rocketed up his spine.

  “Why do I bother raping you?” the monster said and yanked Kingsley’s hair again. “You enjoy it every time. What is even the point?”

  “You want me to pretend to hate it? You want me to fight you off?” Kingsley asked. “I’ll fight you.”

  Kingsley tried to fight him, tried to twist and push him off. The result was…unsurprising. His monster did what monsters do. His monster bit him, bit the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder, the scruff, and Kingsley went limp like a kitten in its mother’s teeth. But one good thing did happen from Kingsley’s brief insurrection. He’d made his monster moan. Kingsley wasn’t the only one enjoying this…

  Kingsley laughed as he went limp on the cot again. His monster bit and licked the back of his neck as their bodies moved together. When Kingsley felt warm breath on his ear, the monster whispered, “Do you like it?”

  “Kingsley?” Polly said again, her tone sharp enough to cut through the memory. “Do you like it?”

  He grinned into the sheets. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Polly shifted herself upward and the phallus in him went deeper than it had gone before. Kingsley arched his back and let out a ragged groan as he took it. Polly held him by the shoulders as she fucked him. Now more rapidly, and rougher, too. It was what he wanted, what he needed and if she’d made him beg for it, he would have.

  The pleasure grew so intense that at one point, he disassociated. His head swam, and he floated off the bed. He hung in the air, suspended by pure sensation. The harder she fucked him the higher he floated and when he crashed back to earth, he crashed hard. His back bowed, his fingers fisted the sheets, his thighs tightened to steel. He buried his face into the bedding and cried out as Polly pressed the phallus into him as far as it would go. Inside him muscles clenched and spasmed, clenched and released as he ground his cock into the bed and came in spurts onto the soft white sheets.

  Done. Over. Kingsley went slack even as he lay sprawled, legs spread and still impaled on the bed.

  “Tell me when,” Polly said softly in his ear. “I’m not a man. I don’t have to pull out immediately. I could stay in you all night.”

  “Don’t leave. Not yet,” he said. “Please.”

  “I’ll wait until you tell me,” she said and kissed his back again.

  She stayed inside him as he basked for the span of a few breaths in the last little flutters of pleasure coursing through his body and blood. It was only when he felt pins and needles in his fingers did he nod the signal that he was ready for her to pull out of him.

  Polly removed the ropes from his wrists. He murmured a grateful “merci” and she only kissed his cheek. He rolled onto his back, stretched like a well-fed house cat.

  He heard her in the bathroom and then heard her in the bedroom again. His eyes were closed in spent exhaustion, but he wasn’t quite ready to slip into sleep yet.

  “My God,” she said. “How much did you come?”

  Kingsley opened his eyes. The wet spot
on the bed was enormous.

  “All of it,” he said.

  “I wish I’d weighed you before and after I fucked you,” Polly said. “I bet you lost two kilos.”

  “I do feel lighter. At least my balls do.”

  “Don’t worry. If they start floating, I’ll tie them down.”

  Kingsley had no doubt she would.

  She returned from the bathroom again with a clean white towel and draped it like a shroud over the massive come stain. “This,” she said, “is why we make the men do the laundry.”

  “I thought it was because you enjoyed making men serve you.”

  “That, too,” she said as she slid back into bed and pulled his arms around her. She was so soft and so warm, he could have fallen asleep against her immediately. “Isn’t it funny? There are men in this world who would say you and I didn’t have sex tonight because you never put your cock inside of me. Wasn’t what we just did so much more intense than standard-issue sex? The liter of semen would be Exhibit A.”

  He laughed softly, too tired to laugh loudly. He was as spent as he’d been in a long time.

  “Do you ever have standard-issue sex?” he asked.

  “Oh, when the mood strikes me. I probably won’t with you. You’re a little big for me. No offense.”

  “I’m deeply offended that you think my cock is too big. Offend me some more, please.”

  She grinned. “Truth is, I usually can’t come from intercourse anyway, so there’s no reason to have it. The head of the cock is much better than the shaft for clit stimulation, as you may have noticed.”

  Kingsley had noticed.

  “Will I have standard-issue sex while I’m here?” Kingsley asked. “Or is that also a privilege to be earned?”

  “It is,” she said. “But I have a feeling you’ll be earning it fairly soon.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because,” she said, “Madame likes you.”

  “Tell me about her,” Kingsley said. “She fascinates me.”

  “You want gossip?” Polly asked.

  “I want gossip,” he whispered.

  “Well,” Polly said, throwing her leg over his stomach. “This wasn’t always a house run by women. Men used to run it just like in the book.”

  “No,” Kingsley said as he stroked her soft thigh.

  “Yes,” Polly said, grinning. “There was a coup. Madame won.”

  “From who?” Kingsley asked.

  “Her husband,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Kingsley’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

  “My mother told me about it,” Polly said. “Madame’s husband was twelve years older than her. She was eighteen. He was thirty.”

  “She told me that. She said she was a virgin when she married him. He gave her Histoire d’O as a wedding gift?”

  “What a gift, right? Gift? Warning? Very kinky man. He had this wild idea that virgins were blank slates and if he got a young and innocent bride, he could turn her into the perfect submissive and slave.”

  “He must have never met a teenage girl before if he thought virginity equals submissive,” Kingsley said. “All the virgins I fucked in high school threw themselves at me. One literally did. Threw herself on top of me from the bleachers. She almost broke my elbow.”

  Polly whistled. “Ouch.”

  “I still fucked her,” Kingsley said, shrugging. He didn’t fuck girls with his elbow anyway. “So was she a slave in this house? Madame?”

  “She was—collared and everything.”

  “Collared?”

  “It’s something some of us do when we mark ownership. Leather collar.”

  “Collars are for dogs,” Kingsley said.

  “And very pampered little slaves,” Polly said with relish. “Back when my mother was here, this house had male and female dominants, male and female slaves. But Madame’s husband ran the show. Until something happened. Mom never told me, only that one day her husband was king of the castle and the next day, there Madame was, like Jesus tossing the moneychangers out of the temple. No more king of the castle. He’s in exile. She’s in charge. It used to be a Roman orgy around here. Now it’s all quiet and peaceful and orderly. The men serve. The women are served. Madame likes things genteel and refined. She’s very civilized. For a sadist, I mean.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Oh, he’s definitely still in love with her.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “She’s forty-eight, which means he’s only sixty. I’ve seen his letters to her. They come once a week, sometimes twice. That’s a man in love.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “She won’t tell us any details. Says it’s for the best if we don’t know. But when she talks about him, you can tell she still loves him.”

  “If they’re still in love, why aren’t they together?”

  “Iron striking iron,” Polly said, punching her two fists together like goats butting heads in battle. “Two dominants. Neither one will submit to each other. They’re at an impasse.”

  “So tragic,” Kingsley said. “So French.”

  “True. If they were Canadian, they would have apologized and made up years ago. Instead they find new ways of torturing each other.”

  “That’s bizarre.”

  “Even more bizarre, they never got divorced. And she’s still faithful to him.”

  “What?” Kingsley said. “She doesn’t fuck the men here?”

  “The men serve her but not in that way.”

  “That’s either true love or madness,” Kingsley said.

  “Same thing sometimes,” Polly said. “They’ve been playing this endless game for fifteen years.”

  “Should you be telling me all this?” Kingsley asked.

  “I could be making it all up,” she said, her eyes bright and laughing.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  “That I won’t tell you.”

  “I thought you liked me,” Kingsley said, pouting.

  “I do like you. You always torture the ones you like,” she said.

  “I like you, too,” Kingsley said. Then: “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “You don’t like me?”

  “It’s my bad English,” he said, as he slid her nightgown up her thighs. Polly rolled onto her back and opened her legs. “I meant, I lick you.”

  14

  The dream is different this time. He is standing in the same winter woods where his dreams always take him. He sees the door standing in the clearing and he passes through it, because he knows he must if he wants to see the boy and play the game of ice chess he never wins.

  He opens the door and steps through.

  The boy is not there.

  Though it is a dream and Kingsley knows it is a dream, he is still bereft. If he could weep in a dream, he would weep until he woke himself. There is no stone table. There is no chessboard made of ice. It’s darker in the dream than he remembers from last time. This is not a forest for playing games. This is a dangerous place.

  Behind him, Kingsley hears a twig snap.

  He turns. Among the shadows, he sees eyes. Bright glowing gray eyes. And teeth. Large long white teeth.

  A white wolf steps into the clearing.

  The wolf is not white like snow, but baptismal white. It is massive, larger than any wolf he’s ever seen in photographs or zoos. When it raises its head, Kingsley and the wolf are eye to eye. He has never known terror like this in his dreams, nor his waking hours. There is nothing for him to do but retreat. He steps back and back again. Back once more and he is through the open door. He knows if he can slam the door shut and lock it, the wolf will be trapped on the other side. He slams the door shut but he is too late. The wolf has already pushed opened the door.

  Kingsley runs.

  He runs though he knows there is no hope for escape. The white beast is hard on his heels and Kingsley can feel the heat of the animal’s breaths on his back. Kingsley hears the wolf’s huge paws striking the snow
and it sounds like the galloping of a horse’s hooves shod with iron behind him. He weaves in and out of trees, hoping to shake the creature off his scent, but there is hunger in the wolf’s eyes and there is no other prey in this forest but Kingsley.

  He races up a hill, but the wolf is too fast for him, too much. If he is going to die, it might as well be this way, killed by this impossibly beautiful beast. He runs into a snowy glade and lets his pace slow. In an instant the wolf has leapt up and slammed him to the ground. Although he wants to surrender, Kingsley can’t let himself give up that easily. He tries to claw free of the creature, but he feels himself being dragged back, toward the jaws, toward his death. He cries out for help.

  “Hush,” comes a voice from behind him.

  Before Kingsley knows what is happening, he’s been thrown onto his back in the snow.

  On top of him is the boy.

  There is snow in the boy’s dark eyelashes and snow in his white hair. There is snow on his cheeks and snow on his hands. There is fire in his eyes.

  “You,” Kingsley says. “There was a wolf.”

  “Only I’m here.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Kingsley asks the boy.

  “Not yet,” the boy says and smiles. It is a wolfish smile.

  Kingsley is panting now in the snow, and though he should be cold, he burns. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “This.”

  The boy kisses him. The kiss is such a kiss that it could melt the snow. And it does. When Kingsley opens his eyes, he is lying in a late spring forest, where winter is nothing but a memory. The ground beneath is soft and wet and warm. Kingsley wraps his arms around the boy, and then his legs, too. The boy forces him down and onto his back again and in a few seconds of tearing and pulling, Kingsley is naked in the forest. When the boy pushes Kingsley back onto his stomach, he smells the fresh living earth underneath his nose. His body sinks into the fertile earth as the boy enters him from behind, his teeth digging hard into the back of Kingsley’s neck, his arm around Kingsley’s stomach, holding him in place, immobile.

  This is a much better game than ice chess in the snow.