Chapter 20

by Sebastian X

I was surprised to receive an invitation to the new bishop's inaugural garden party. One endorsed, "Be there, Sebastian, or else... " in red ink. An invitation to tea and cucumber sandwiches with the city's genteel elite is not usually accompanied by a threat. Nor are such invitations extended to Organization executives of my humble status. Particularly ones with a criminal record for rape, albeit a record destined to be destroyed on my eighteenth birthday.

Following my recent harrowing experiences at sea, when I had saved a rock-star and his entourage from an assorted bunch of predators, I had acquired a taste for being well thought of. This weakness, a desire to be popular-to be seen as a "hero"-had already caused me to try and make amends for some past misdeeds, to deal leniently with several women who probably deserved harsher treatment, and to limit my robust sexual activities to Theodora and Charity. My two live-in-and thoroughly debauched-lovers, who still thrived on a lick or two from my dog whip before submitting. Even with T and C, I had moderated my taste for rough sex by putting away the heavy crop, and hiding the stock-whip Kim had given me as a welcome-home present.

I did not see how news of Sebastian's changed behaviour could have reached the ears of the city's recently appointed bishop (earning me a place at the episcopal bean-feast) and supposed my still-secret help in putting away four Japanese "terrorists" was the reason for the invitation. Unless the request for my presence, was a mistake.

I phoned the bishop's palace and spoke to a secretary. There had been no mistake. Someone in authority had insisted Sebastian was invited and had, to quote the secretary, "gone to considerable pains to acquire your address." So I accepted, wrote the date in my diary and visited the city library to read up on the background to the new Bishop's appointment.

The scandal had happened while I was sailing the South China Sea. It had involved the old bishop, the choir master, and a handful of boys. The old bishop had been retired, the choir master had fled overseas and the boys had been counselled and compensated from church funds. The affair had blown over with the appointment of a new, heavily married, bishop who, it was reported, was supported by a new dean, also married with a young family.

While I was scanning the old newspapers for a clue as to why my presence at the garden party had been requested, I was stunned to see a photograph of Phoebe Howard, my old English teacher-and the first woman I took against her will-and Rebecca Isaacs, the fence's daughter whose scheming had brought about my imprisonment over two years before. The picture illustrated an article titled, Teenagers' Sex Toy Tells All. It was a review of Phoebe's first novel, Slave to a Harsh Mistress, and contained the news that the author and her partner would be present at Dimbooks book-shop, to meet the public and sign copies of her book, on the 23^rd of the following month - that is the very next day.

All thoughts of the garden party were driven from my mind. The old, bad, Sebastian stirred. I owed Becky Isaacs and was going to pay her back with interest. I began to get an erection just thinking about what I was going to do to the smart-arsed little bitch and whether I would give Phoebe some of the same. My good resolutions were shelved. I went home and dug out the heavy crop and the stock-whip Kim had given me.

I also bought a copy of Phoebe's book and read it. The eponymous "harsh mistress" turned out to be the heroine's obsession with masochism and not the busty and booted, whip-wielding, red-head on the dust-jacket. Nevertheless the book was a good read and it was clear to me-the first couple of chapters at least-was based on Phoebe's introduction to rough sex at the hands of a lusty young schoolboy, namely, me. In her book she calls him,"Bruce".

It is said all first novels are, in part, autobiographical. I can say that Phoebe's book certainly is. At least up until the time "Bruce" was supplanted by "Rebel", a sadistic young Jewess with a taste for body-piercing. In the story, Rebel nailed Bruce with a wooden stake through his rectum, in reality the sneaky little bitch set me up to be arrested for rape and burglary. Well, burglary. To be fair, I have to admit the rape was not planned by Rebecca.

Slave to a Harsh Mistress begins with an innocent schoolmistress, Penny, being persuaded to help raise funds for a major charity supported by the school by becoming a "hostage". She was nervous when Bruce, one of her favourite students, imprisoned her in the old box room, wrote the ransom demand and - she thought - delivered it. She trusted the young man. He was an intelligent boy, well-read, and ruggedly handsome, Phoebe had written. The description was flattering.

Bruce had supplied Penny with a bottle of wine which she drank in his absence. Later Penny pronounced the wine to be spiked with an aphrodisiac. In real life, the wine was fact, but the drug, fiction.

When Bruce returned, after about an hour, Penny had finished the bottle of wine and was feeling, warm and relaxed. The young man took advantage of her soporific state to tie her wrists together, behind her back.

"I'm going to strip you naked and fuck your brains out," said Bruce, according to the book. I'm sure I was much more subtle than that. I remembered, with pleasure, how I had reached around the frightened Phoebe and squeezed her breasts, while asking her whether she was a virgin. She was using poetic licence, I expect.

"I shall report you to the Principal! This joke has gone much too far!" Penny replied, fear and lustful anticipation competing within her heaving bosom as the rampant schoolboy began to remove his clothes. His broad bare chest gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. The dusty window of the box-room admitted a solitary beam. Golden highlights glistened on his well-muscled torso as the smooth-skinned Bruce bent to kiss the trembling hostage." Poetic licence for sure. The box-room didn't have a window and I'm sure I didn't kiss her until she was naked and then it was more of a slobber on her tits.

He started to unbutton her blouse... The book describes this button by button. At the time it took about two seconds.

She begged him to stop. But he did not. Yeah!

Bruce felt the weight of each breast. He stroked each pinky-brown areola and gently pulled at each firm nipple until they began to grow. Penny begged him to stop. Fear lent eloquence to her pleas but her body betrayed her. Her nipples spiked. Her cheeks flushed and her whole being throbbed with suppressed desire. She wanted him inside her.

I remember when I had reached between Phoebe's legs for the first time. Like Bruce does in the book, I had felt a slickness between the cunt lips through the fabric of her panties. Penny's juices, like Phoebe's, were flowing.

She fought against her wild desire to surrender to his importunate demands. She resisted his brusque orders to flaunt her proud bosom. She backed, whimpering with terror and hidden longings, into a dusty corner of the room. She crouched doing her utmost to hide, from his wild-eyed stare, the twin globes that fired the young man's intense desire. True, she tried to cover her tits, but it didn't do Phoebe, or her fictional persona, Penny, any good.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said. "If you do as I tell you, you won't get hurt. Now, get on your knees and push your tits out!"

Penny didn't move.

"I want to see your tits at their very best," said Bruce in a quiet voice, but Penny remained hard against the wall. Her lower lip was trembling. She was about to burst into tears.

"Right! You big-titted bitch," Bruce yelled, "You want it rough? I'll give it to you rough!"

The young man ripped her blouse off and twisted the material into a rough rope. Bruce used the blouse-rope to bind Penny's arms together behind her back so her superb bosom stuck out. He smiled as he smacked each firm breast hard enough to make it quiver. The teacher had never been slapped before, let alone slapped on her breasts. The sensation was unbearably... delicious! Penny sobbed, possessed as she was with bottled up yearning for more pain... part of her wanted him to ravish her in the most brutal manner... while one corner of her mind screamed "No!"... another wanted to tell her lips to say,"Take me Bruce. Make me you slave..."

That's not what Phoebe said to me at the time. As I sat on one of the trunks in the box-room to take off my shoes and socks, she begged me to let her go. While I took off my pants, I spun her some malarkey about how she had encouraged me to rape her by her comments on an essay I had submitted on one of the Bard's longer poems. Shakespeare doesn't get a mention in Slave to a Harsh Mistress. My cock, or rather Bruce's cock, does.

I remember that when Phoebe first saw the size of my erection as I peeled off my underpants, she had made an instant, fearful, dash for the door. In the book Penny does the same but only after a page of purple prose, raving on about being, torn between the desire to submit to being savagely impaled on an un-naturally swollen phallus, corded with throbbing veins and topped with a knob the size of a small, purple, fist, and a perfectly understandable fear of being split.

Like Phoebe, Penny never reached the door before Bruce tripped her, stripped her and, after taunting the confused teacher, ripped her hymen to tatters as he buried his monstrous cock deep into her virgin pussy. In the book the ferociousness of the attack and the pain of losing her maidenhead gives Penny an instant and all-consuming orgasm. More poetic licence.

Phoebe didn't come until later in the afternoon when she had been well and truly fucked. But come she did, and more than once, which is why I couldn't understand why the stupid bitch reported me to the headmaster and got us both thrown out.