Secret
Societies
…The
carriage arrived at sunset. The driver did not dismount; he did not
even glance
at her as she walked down the front steps of the Villa. The hems of her
cloak
and dress rustled against the flagstones in a secret whisper of cloth,
defying
the pious stillness of twilight when all virtuous women are closing
their
windows and doors against the dangers of the night. Laura managed to
step up
into the carriage without assistance. She had barely settled her skirt
around
her when the horses bolted, eager to be on their way again, and she
felt the motion
directly in her chest where her heart was beating so fast she literally
feared
for her life. She was still clad in mourning black, but her somber
dress was
only a façade for beneath it she was wearing nothing at all. Her
personal maid
had remained discreetly silent as she tightened her mistress’ bodice
directly
against her naked skin and breasts. Christina had been with her for
years, and
it was she who would inform the staff the Signora had received an
urgent message
to visit a sick cousin outside the city. Why she had taken no servants
and
luggage with her would be an entertaining topic of speculation for her
servants
Laura sincerely hoped would not spread to neighboring households.
Where she was going had not been
revealed to her, in fact, nothing had. She was exercising more faith in
her
late husband’s good intentions than she ever had in God. But ever since
she
received his letter from beyond the grave she was able to taste life
again, and
if the acidity of fear was mixed in with the intoxicating warmth of
returning
sensation, then so be it. Having had her life mapped out for her since
the
moment she was born, not knowing what was going to happen to her was as
refreshing and exciting as it was terrifying. Relentlessly schooled in
virtue,
what her body suspected lay in store for her senses was inconceivable
to her
mentally. Such images as she had allowed herself to paint in her mind
during
the long three days and nights since Sandro’s
visit
seemed impossible and therefore unreal, like the medieval fresco of
hell
adorning a small alcove in her villa’s private chapel. She wondered why
Vittorio never had it painted over, until
she examined the
faces of the eternally suffering sinners and realized they were all
smiling. Looking
closely at the nature of their punishments, she had been shocked by the
suspicion they were enjoying them.
When the carriage abruptly came to a
stop her heart followed suit for a
breathless
instant. The door on the other side of
the cushioned seat opened, and a tall man entered the small space with
her. His
gloves, his cloak, his boots and his hair, all were black, as was the
mask that
revealed only sinuous lips and dark-blue eyes. They regarded her
steadily for a
moment before he leaned intimately towards her and covered her own eyes
with a
soft red cloth, robbing her of sight as he tied it securely behind her
head.
Laura bit her lip to stop herself
from whimpering like a frightened child. If she lost her courage before
anything even happened she would only be serving to prove women were
indeed inferior, and worse, that they could
not be trusted to keep
their word. When the nameless man forcibly gripped one of her arms, it
was
harder for her not to make a helpless sound, but she somehow managed to
sustain
a dignified silence as he bound her wrists together in her lap.
As the carriage continued
on its way again she found herself
praying he would speak to her, that he would say her name, at least,
reassuring
her he was a friend of Sandro’s, but he
remained
silent and she experienced the curious sensation of questions crowding
her
throat until it felt hot with the urge to weep and beg to be taken
home.
Sitting perfectly still and silent with her hands clasped tensely in
her lap took
all the willpower she possessed, and it filled her with despair how
quickly she
had squandered her strength. She wondered if the last thing she would
ever see
was a man’s sinisterly masked face. She sensed him looking at her, yet
of course she could not be sure she wasn’t
merely imagining his
intent regard, his invisible presence mysteriously growing in warmth
and
dangerous power the longer he remained silent.
The carriage came to a stop a second
time. Laura clenched her hands even more tightly as she heard a door
open and felt
her companion step out of the carriage. Then the door beside her also
opened
and a hand possessively grasped her arm. She clutched the combined
folds of her
cloak and skirt, lifting them to avoid tripping as she turned in the
seat and searched
blindly with on of her high-heels for the steps leading down out of the
compartment. The hand bracing her offered her no other assistance, and
she was
proud when she made it to the ground without stumbling. Immediately a
second
hand grasped her free arm, and suddenly it did not seem so important
she could
not see were she was going. Her blindness was a weakness, but a
curiously
pleasant one as her steps were confidently directed. All she had to do
was
trust the strong presences surrounding her. She felt both protected by
them and
at their mercy, a combination her feminine soul found perilously
intoxicating.
‘There are nine steps before you,’ a
man announced quietly.
Glad of the warning, and
inordinately grateful for the sound of his voice, she managed to ascend
calmly between
them. So far her regal behavior was worthy of her husband’s faith in
her. It
was not until the brisk night air gave way to the closer warmth of a
candlelit interior
that anxiety began flickering its painfully hot flame so deep inside
her no reassuring
thoughts could quench it.
‘There are now thirteen steps before
you.’
She raised a high-heel and felt
herself falling into a void. Her two guides steadied her without
comment as she
realized the stairwell lead downwards. The air grew noticeably colder
as they
descended and she heard again Sandro’s
voice in her
head saying, ‘The society’s cellars are very
deep,
Laura…’
At the bottom of the steps her arms
were released and she was left standing alone
at the center of nothingness, yet the inner darkness imposed by the
blindfold was
illuminated by brilliantly colorful memories… Her
husband’s
body lying stiffly across a cold stone bed deep in the family crypt,
his rich
clothing defying the dull lace of ancient cobwebs embracing the naked
bones of
his ancestors… Sandro’s intensely
handsome
face and the look in his eyes when he raised her hand to his lips… She
stood
poised at the dark heart of the experience that for three long days and
nights
she had both dreaded and desired… at the symbolic instant of death when
she
would find out if her soul truly could rise above whatever happened to
her
flesh…
Her wrists were untied so
swiftly she barely had time to
appreciate their freedom before a pair of strong arms swept her up
against a
hard chest, and then spread her gently back across a soft surface. It
was
amazingly easy to cross a forbidden threshold – the death of her old
life
happened in the few seconds it took the man to cradle her in his arms
and lay
her down again. Warm, ungloved hands slipped up her skirt, lifting it
out of
their way while other hands impatiently opened her cloak and still more
hands
carelessly ripped open her bodice. Her arms were forced up over her
head, her
shoes were removed, and a loud ripping sound satisfied her desire to
cry out as
the heavy black dress she had worn for nine months was in that many
seconds
destroyed, exposing all the soft, pale flesh buried beneath it.
In a desperate effort to
stop herself from being afraid, Laura
concentrated on trying to determine how many men were present. She
distinctly
felt two masculine hands sharing her breasts, yet she could not be sure
those
were not the lips of a third man, and the tongue of a fourth, savoring
her
nipples. She quickly gave up; there were too many hands stroking her
legs to
make sense of, especially when her thoughts slipped strangely out of
her grasp
as her legs were spread. Fingertips massaged a slick, warm oil across
her labial
lips before insinuating themselves into her clinging, resistant sex,
yet so
much more was happening to her body at the same time she was stunned
into a
silence that seemed shamefully to scream her willingness to be so used.
A cry
of protest perched on the tip of her tongue, yet it never took flight
in
defense of her virtue as she writhed shamelessly against the divan in
response
to a man’s big strong hand opening her up. Then suddenly a thumb was
thrust
into her mouth and the rising guilt urging her to cry out for mercy was
effortlessly crushed. She found herself sucking fervently on the man’s
slightly
salty hardness, grateful he had saved her from the tense temptation to
resist
being relentlessly penetrated at both ends as fingers slid swiftly in
and out
of her pussy while a second thumb thrust into her mouth, demanding her
tongue
evenly divide its attentions.
The hand between her legs
fucked her until her back arched
in response, then it slipped away and another set of breathtakingly
skilled
fingers slipped deep inside her. She could feel they belonged to a
different
man; there were subtle but vital differences in the way they forced her
open
and stroked her, and the more sensations she was aware of, the more
they all came
together inside her as one overwhelming pleasure. Two other thumbs
insinuated
themselves between her lips, coaxing her tongue to beg for them, and
the more
wantonly she opened her mouth to hungrily suck and lick, the more her
innermost
flesh yielded to the thrust of fingers exploring the shape and texture
and
tightness of her sex; roughly pointing out how wet and deep and ready
she was
for much more. Hands clutching her wrists held her arms up over her
head while
two other hands gripped her ankles and kept her legs spread. She did
not need
to see in order to sense – to suffer the knowledge – that she was
surrounded by
men. The darkness behind her eyelids had assumed the exhilarating form
of
beautiful masked noblemen, one of whom she knew (she fervently hoped)
was Sandro. But none of them spoke; not
one offered her the slightest clue to his
identity. She would never look
at a man’s thumbs the same way again. They were everywhere, and the way
they
worked on her forced the men stationed at her feet to hold her ankles
more
tightly as she struggled to close her legs against the painfully sharp
delight
cutting up through her body. The thumbs dancing with her tongue were
breathtakingly allied to the one brushing the top of her mound and to
the ones
rubbing her nipples until they were so hard they hurt. Smoldering in
response
to the relentless stimulation, her clitoris radiated a rapturous blaze
of
feeling up her body into the burning peaks of her breasts, her twirling
tongue
stirring her senses up into a frenzy of impressions deliciously
possessing her.
She could not see, but she could taste and feel and hear and smell
everything
intensely… the uniquely desirable flavor of male flesh… every
imaginable
quality of touch, gentle and rough, squeezing and caressing… the
embarrassingly
distinct sound of her juicing sex parting around two, three, and even
four
thrusting fingers… the delicate yet heady perfume of her arousal
scenting the
air mingling with the mysterious musk of men’s growing lust… robbed of
sight,
her remaining senses were sharpened almost unbearably, so that it came
as a
shock and yet as no surprise when she climaxed.
The thumbs slipped out of her mouth
as if their owners wished to relish her cries as countless hands
continued
caressing and pinning her down until she completely relaxed against the
velvet
divan, then they all slipped away at once. She was left alone again,
but this
time she did not feel poised at the center of nothingness – her body
was the heart
of tantalizing possibilities. Whatever happened now, her willingness
had been
established beyond a shadow of a doubt. The searing ecstasy she was
capable of
experiencing was a light in the darkness showing her the path she had
to take
for the rest of the night, or for however long her initiation might
last. Her body
grasped the key before her mind did – that she must submit absolutely.
She was
utterly naked, a condition she suddenly felt applied not just to her
flesh but to her very soul. No gold rings
claimed her fingers, no
heavy gemstones weighed down her earlobes, and no necklaces burdened
her heart
with their precious weight. She was purely herself clad only in the
gifts God had
wrapped her spirit in when she was born – lustrous black hair flowing
down to
her waist and flesh so smooth and cool to the touch on the outside yet
so warm
and wet on the inside.
When two hands firmly grasped hers, Laura
sensed they belonged to one man as she obeyed their silent command to
sit up.
But that was not enough; apparently, he wanted her on her feet, so she
slipped
her legs off the edge of the divan and stood up, grateful for his
bracing grip.
Then it slipped away and once more two hands grasped her upper arms,
guiding
her forward between them. She walked tentatively in her bare feet
across the
cold stone floor, increasingly afraid of bumping into something
sinister, and
how large the space was where she found herself blind and lost began
making her
nervous again. Finally her escorts stopped
and raised
her arms over her head, spreading them open as they had her legs. The
unmistakable feel of supple leather embraced both her wrists, and she
suppressed a whimper of terror hearing the cold clink of chains hanging
above
her. A moment later, her ankles suffered the same fate as her legs were
forced
open as far as possible while still enabling her to stand. She had
suppressed
all sounds of weakness until then, but she could not stop herself from
gasping
when her blindfold was yanked off. Blinking against the light that
seemed
bright after so much darkness, after a moment she was able to make out
torches
burning in sconces on dark stone walls. She closed her eyes again for
an
instant, returning to the safety of not knowing how many masked
strangers her
loving husband had willed her to.
Before her stood three
men, and turning her head from
side-to-side she glimpsed four more men flanking her even as she sensed
even
more men standing behind her. Yet all that truly mattered was the fact
that Sandro was one of the tall figures
her erect nipples were
pointing towards with shocking eagerness. Like his companions
he was dressed entirely in black, but his mask was slightly different,
rimmed
in a glimmering thread flashing a deep violet in the torchlight. She
was so profoundly
relieved to see him it was a moment before she noticed he was holding
something. Once, when she was a little girl, she had witnessed a man
being flogged
in public, and she had never forgotten the sight of his bare back
ravaged by
vividly bleeding welts. She could not believe her husband’s friends
meant to
hurt her in such a terrible way, leaving
her
permanently scarred, yet it was definitely a flogger she saw resting
menacingly
in Sandro’s gloved hand. She would have
said
something then – she would have begged for his mercy as a surge of
visceral
panic broke the sophisticated damn of her control – but a tightly wound
cloth was
suddenly forced between her lips, gagging her and making it impossible
for her
to speak. What she experienced then had to be dread, but the feeling
had a
disturbingly similar affect on her as the pleasure which only moments
ago had
blinded her; her heart began beating so fast her knees weakened as if
they were
actually running to keep up.
Sandro stepped forward. She
prayed he
would speak to her, that he would have the good grace to offer a
civilized explanation
for why he was about to brutalize her, but a faint whistling sound
immediately
followed by a resounding smack was all she heard before the silent
scream of
her flesh. She discovered a flogger was like a brood of serpents all
biting her
at once, and it amazed her how much of the perversely invigorating
venom of
pain she could absorb without fainting. The elegance of Sandro’s
movements mesmerized her as he walked slowly around her, making sure to
strike
every inch of her body from her breasts all the way down to her thighs.
She was
not bleeding; the wide leather bands did not break her skin. How much
she
suffered beneath each lash was excruciatingly real, but it appeared she
would
not be scarred. She reminded herself she was not a condemned prisoner
being
publicly humiliated. She was a beautiful woman being privately
initiated… a
beautiful woman being challenged and aroused by a group of noblemen
mysteriously
instructing her in the dark, secret ways of her flesh thrilling to the
brutal
kiss of leather with an even deeper excitement than to a tender caress…