Chapter 7: In Which Alice is Fucked Again

I took her upstairs after that, and filled a sunken marble tub for us. I kept the jets on low. Candles and bubbles, warmth and sweet, spicy scents, a cornucopia of new sensations to both comfort her and keep her just slightly off balance. The kiss and the whip, that’s the way to mold a captive woman, to make her truly yours, body and soul. We sipped wine and we unwound, neither of us saying much.

She rested her head on my shoulder. “I never thought this could come true,” she said, her lovely accented voice lower than a whisper. “I never dared believe it.” I’m not sure which of is she was talking to. I kissed her on the top of her head.

When we’d soaked enough to relax ourselves, I allowed her to bathe, dry, and dress me, although of course I kept her naked. I cuffed her to a hook in the tiled floor in my spacious Italian kitchen and let her watch as I cooked us a marvelous supper. That arrangement afforded me the pleasant view of her pink and naked charms as I worked, and it gave her a chance to learn where things were kept. She’d need to know that to be an efficient servant.

When finished, I unchained her and had her serve us both. When the table was set, I bound her hands behind her back again. She knelt by my feet as we ate. That must have been difficult; her red bottom was still quite sore. But she made no compliant and I was proud of her. I fed her from my own plate, and let her drink wine from my own glass. Her nipples were proud and tall, and her areolas were puffed and swollen. I ached to take them in my mouth, and I indulged myself rather frequently. She sighed and whimpered with delight.

We didn’t talk much. For the most part, we simply smiled and enjoyed.

For desert I painted her body with chocolate and licked it slowly clean.

I fucked her again that night, her cunt tight, wet, and welcoming, her hands bound to the headboard of my own bed, her feet wrapped tight around me, my mouth suckling and biting her tender breasts and neck as I moved in her. She cried out when I thrust especially hard—as I mentioned, her bottom was still magnificently sore—and her screams, pain and ecstasy, blended together into a passionate melody, the very sweetest of symphonies.

I alternated my rhythms, moving in her slowly, gently, and deep, and then hard, hard as I could, and fast. She cried with pain, with passion, and with joy, and I fucked her harder, and harder still. After the day’s activities, it took me a long time indeed to come.

I let her sleep in my own bedroom that night. Not in my bed, of course, but chained by her collar to the floor of a gilded cage—like an oversized birdcage—that I kept close by. It was the perfect size for holding a lovely female captive, and its lines matched the tasteful décor of my bedroom. I’d had it made specially, of course. The floor of the cage was lined with cushions and furs, and I gave her a blanket, although I hated the idea of covering her nubile, naked body, with its soft but magnificent slopes and curves, even for the hours I slept. But a gentleman must be a generous host, after all. Besides, I wanted her to sleep comfortably. She would need the rest.