========
Path: news.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!uunet!inXS.uu.net!in2.uu.net!news.sprintlink.net!new-news.sprintlink.net!news.interserv.net!news1.sprynet.com!news
From: 71022.251@compuserve.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: SP fiction: AFFINITIES
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 1996 14:53:04 GMT
Organization: Sprynet News Service
Lines: 502
Message-ID: <4qguha$k83@juliana.sprynet.com>
Reply-To: 71022.251@compuserve.com
NNTP-Posting-Host: ad14-018.compuserve.com
X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82
Xref: news.primenet.com alt.sex.stories:165040
AFFINITIES by Rachel Perez [An Extract]
Copyright (c) 1993 Spectrum Press
from the SP website at http://users.aol.com/specpress
(see info at end of extract)
ADULTS ONLY. ACCESS RESTRICTED TO PERSONS OVER 18 YEARS OF AGE.
================================================================
ILENE [extract]
My name is Ilene. I'm in a crevice at the foot of the
mountain of white rock, huddling in the crevice, naked except for
the iron slave collar that circles my neck. The sun is shining,
but the crevice is in shadow and I'm cold. I've been here two
days and two nights, every moment filled with misery, every
moment unbearable.
I've had enough; I've truly had enough. The rock in front of
me gets wet in the evening, and if I lick the stone I can gather
enough water to survive another day, and maybe another. No, I
don't want that; I want to die. But then as this thought forms in
my mind, I reject it as well. Are there people who accept death
easily? I'm not one of them. I'm not yet thirty and too young to
accept the nothingness of death. The black void of death is a
total impossibility, unacceptable. But yet . . .
Of course they'll find me. They'll find me and they won't
force anything. They never actually force anything because
there's no need for it. They know that.
* * *
I slept awhile, and then I heard a noise. Now I hear it
again. Oh yes, it's them. I hear the chopping sound of the
helicopter. I can't see it but I can hear it. I've heard it every
day, but this is the first time I'm certain they'll find me. Why?
I don't know. It's possible they've looked everywhere and now
this is the last place to look. They know all the places; they
told me that and they never lie. Not about that, anyway.
The helicopter again. I cringe as it passes directly over
me. I'm afraid to look at it, afraid I'll see someone looking
back at me. Instead, I huddle deeper into the crevice and start
shivering again.
Something moves against my foot. It's a tiny grey lizard
with red eyes. The lizard turns its head to look at me. Then it
scurries away and vanishes.
The helicopter is landing.
It settles down like a great metal creature fifty yards
away. The dust flies as it comes to rest on a flat place in the
scrub. The rotor blades stop turning and the dust settles again.
And now they wait for me.
A sea bird passes overhead, turning, gliding over us and
then turning out to sea again.
They wait for me and do nothing. I can make out two figures
in the helicopter, but the distance is too great to see more than
that. I crouch in the shadow of the crevice, but after a time I
know it's useless, finished, and I rise and walk toward them. I
walk naked toward the helicopter.
The two figures are two women, both wearing sunglasses, both
looking at me, their faces flat, expressionless.
They say nothing as I arrive at the machine. I put my foot
on the boarding step and one of them extends a hand to help me
aboard. For a brief instant her eyes glance at my breasts and
sex. Then I'm inside. The rotor blades are whirling again, the
dust rising. I look in the sky for a sea bird, but I can see
nothing. The sky is blue and so terribly empty.
* * *
Michiko sips a glass of champagne as she looks at me. "Why
did you do it?"
She wears a white dress and white sandals. The room has only
one chair in it and Michiko is sitting on it near the open
window. I'm in the center of the room, naked except for my iron
slave collar, squatting on my heels with my back straight and my
knees apart.
Michiko says: "Why did you do it?"
"I'm sorry."
She's not much older than I am, but the difference between
us is as great as that between night and day.
Or between master and slave.
Michiko does not wear an iron slave collar. She wears a
white dress and white sandals, and as I gaze at her knees I can
think of nothing except the terrible need I have to push my face
between her thighs.
Her cunt is thick-lipped, the hair on her mons like fine
black silk.
Now Michiko rises and she walks out onto the terrace that
overlooks the sea. She stands there a moment with her face lifted
to the sea breeze, and then she returns to the room and she looks
at me again.
"They've ordered me to whip you, but I've arranged to have
one of the servants do it."
I fall prone at her feet. "Please, only you!"
"No," she says.
* * *
And so I'm denied Michiko's punishment. Instead one of the
servants will whip me. To be whipped by a servant here is the
worst of all possible indignities. For the servants here are not
masters; the servants are mere servants. When I first arrived on
the island, I thought all the servants would be Greek locals, but
none of them are Greek; the servants are Malays, brought all the
way from Malaysia, silent slender women with no expression in
their eyes. Sometimes I think their tongues have been removed,
for they never speak. No, that can't be; I've heard them talk
among themselves. Are they cruel? I don't know if their cruelty
is any greater than that of the masters. I've been whipped by
both servants and masters and I think the masters are always more
diligent. The problem is not the cruelty; the problem is the
indignity, the absence of a master, the absence of Michiko's
love. If Michiko would whip me, her love for me would be a
solace. With a servant there is no solace at all; with a servant
there is only the pain and the indignity of punishment by someone
who is not a master.
Two of them come for me and they attach a chain to my iron
collar and they lead me away from Michiko. At the last moment I
turn to look at her, but one of the servants pulls at the chain
and my neck is abruptly jerked forward.
Oh my love!
* * *
This is the way they do it: I'm standing in the center of
the whipping room, my arms raised above my head, my wrists bound
and attached to a chain suspended from the ceiling. The chain has
been pulled to bring my heels up and only my toes touch the stone
floor. My neck is already tired and my head bends forward. The
iron slave collar still has the chain-leash attached to it, but
the chain drags on the floor behind me. I don't want them to lift
that chain. I remember the one time I was whipped with the chain-
leash and the pain was awful.
No, they won't use the chain. I hear them behind me as they
talk in their language, an easy sing-song interchange. They may
not be talking about me after all; they may be discussing their
next meal, or their next trip to the mainland when they have time
off. Then one of them touches my buttocks and I know that
something will happen soon. The only time the servants are
allowed to fondle the slaves is when the slaves receive
punishment from them. I should imagine they want to do more than
merely fondle the slaves, but it's never allowed. I would reveal
it. Or maybe I wouldn't reveal it under the right circumstances.
I don't know because it's never happened; I've never been taken
by a servant and I can't imagine it. Would the masters ever allow
it?
This room is dank, grey, the stone walls glistening with
moisture. I've seen other whipping rooms that looked less
forbidding. Is there any significance in my being in this room
and not in one of the others? I don't know; I don't know very
much. I know hardly anything, and at the moment I'm afraid
because the degree of pain is always unpredictable. Even if they
don't draw blood, the pain can be horrible.
But first the fondling. They always fondle from behind, as
if to avoid looking at my face, as if to avoid my eyes. One of
them now slides her hands around my body, and as she presses
against me from behind she puts her hands on my breasts. I feel
the hands gripping my breasts, a hand for each breast, then the
fingers finding my nipples and twisting them. As I bend my head
further, I can see them, see the hands on my flesh. The hands are
slender, feminine, and the first awakening of desire begins in my
belly.
But then her hands are withdrawn. Whoever she is; the Malay
servant; the unknown. She moves away and I feel the other woman
press against me now. This one wants something different from my
body. Her hand pushes between my thighs from behind, her fingers
pushing forward to find my sex. I feel the fingers parting the
lips, pushing between them, pushing inside the opening. She says
something to the other woman. She slides her fingers in and out
of my vagina a few times, and then finally she pulls her hand
away completely.
Silence now. I hear them moving behind me, doing things, and
my skin begins to crawl, the tingling feeling spreading across my
shoulders and down my back to my buttocks.
I listen. All my attention now is focussed on the sounds in
the room.
One of them speaks in their language. The other one answers,
a guttural sound.
I hear it suddenly, the sound of the whip cutting through
the air, and the next instant an intense burning streaks across
the skin of my buttocks.
What orders have they been given? Will they mark me? Michiko
promised I would never be marked, not like the some of the other
slaves I've seen here. But maybe they were also promised; maybe
the marking is simply another stage in the progression. To where?
Where are they taking me?
The whip strikes again. And again. After the fourth blow the
burning is constant, hot, spreading up the lower part of my back
like a slow fire. And between my thighs. At the next strike of
the whip, I feel the heat in my sex, the first tingling.
And again the whip strikes. I moan. My head hangs forward,
my body slowly turning, a quarter turn to the left, a quarter
turn to the right, only my toes touching the floor, and the ache
in my shoulders intensifying with each movement.
I lose track of the whip, the strikes, the number of blows.
I hear moaning; my own voice. I feel a drenching wetness between
my thighs; that too is my own.
* * *
Michiko lies naked on her belly on the air mattress as I
kneel straddling her legs. Is she sleeping? The window is open,
the warm air carrying the sound of the surf beating on the rocks
below.
I dip my hands in the warm oil and slide my fingers over
Michiko's shoulders. My hands mold the muscles, coaxing them,
urging them to relax.
As I work down her spine, I shift backward. I gently stroke
her flesh with my fingers, rubbing, squeezing, stroking the oil
of her perfect skin.
My sex is wet. I want very much to rub it against Michiko's
leg, but she'd be aware of it in an instant and berate me for it.
Instead, I allow my hunger to continue, daring no more than a
subtle pressing of my knees against her thighs.
She moves. She stretches and arches her back in response to
my touching her. She undulates her body, a lazy rocking movement,
and then she lies still again.
I slide my hands over her buttocks, over the firm flesh, the
sweet globes. Is she breathing harder now? I feel the sweat
rolling down between my breasts. Then her body stiffens as I grip
her buttocks in my hands and begin stroking them with the warm
oil. My palms roam over the twin globes of her ass. Nowhere has
her skin been touched by the sun, but the skin of her buttocks is
a lighter shade than the rest of her. Only in the groove does the
darkening begin again.
I shift backward. I raise my left knee and change my
position so that now I'm straddling only her right leg. She
responds by spreading her legs slightly, and then even further as
my fingers rub deep into the valley between her buttocks. I take
her movement as an invitation, a sign of permission, and now I
lean forward and I graze the tips of my breasts over her ass. I
slide my palms between her thighs and fill them with her warm
flesh. My face pressed against her buttocks, I begin to gently
bite the globes.
My sex is on fire, my cunt ravenous and dripping as I move
my lips over Michiko's skin. The heaviness is unbearable, the
flames of desire leaping through my veins to the tip of my
clitoris. I bite harder at Michiko's perfumed flesh. The musky
scent of her cunt is now in my nostrils as I plunge my tongue
deep into the crevice between her buttocks, searching, then
finding the ring of her anus. I prod the opening, then hold
still, waiting for a sign, waiting for Michiko's permission. She
wriggles gently; her hips move; her ass rises to meet my mouth
and a wave of happiness washes over me.
Now my belly jerks with an unleashed frenzy. My body shakes
as I push my tongue deep into Michiko's ass, my face pressed
against the sticky groove, my chin rubbing her thick-lipped sex.
She suddenly lifts herself against my mouth, and my tongue slips
down past her anal passage to the wet slit of her cunt.
Her taste inflames my senses. Oh, the marvel of it! What a
wondrous feeling it is for a slave to dip her tongue into the
well of her mistress and find the liquid evidence of acceptance
and love!
Michiko writhes as I push my head deeper between her thighs.
She lifts her hips to roll her buttocks against my face. I plunge
my tongue inside her anus again, and immediately she captures it
and cries out, a soft cry, then another, the sounds of pleasure
muffled in her throat.
Later, when I try to rub myself against her calf, she kicks
me away. "No," she says.
My clitoris is a hard marble; my destruction is total.
* * *
These are the Rules of Engagement:
The slave speaks only when ordered to speak.
The obedience of the slave is always complete.
The punishment of the slave is never questioned.
The pleasure of the slave has no meaning.
I first learned them in New York when Michiko wrote them
down on paper and taped the paper to my bedroom mirror.
* * *
The chastisement for my attempted escape lasts three days.
Each day I'm whipped in the morning and then again in the
afternoon, always by two servants, sometimes the same women and
sometimes others. The routine of the whipping is always the same:
first the fondling of my body, fondling of various kinds, and
then the whipping from behind, the blows on my buttocks and
thighs. So far they haven't marked me; they've been careful not
to draw blood. But I cry nevertheless. The pain is awful, and at
the end of each whipping I'm a sobbing wreck, shattered,
trembling, too weak to stand.
Concerning damage:
If the skin is brought to a deep red color by the whip, the
color will fade in an hour.
If welts are produced by the whip, the welts will be gone in
a day or two.
Soreness produced by a beating doesn't last; the tissues
heal themselves within two or three days.
Blue marks are the worst; they last longer and they look
ugly. I don't like them.
* * *
After my three days of punishment, I'm allowed to rest for
two more days, and then Michiko tells me I'm to be used by the
masters again. "You'll be called in a few hours," she says. "Make
yourself ready and come back to me."
The room where I sleep is in a wing added to the main
building some years ago. The stone walls are whitewashed and the
wooden floor is covered by a worn rug. I sit at the small
dressing table and prepare myself for the evening. I work a long
time on my makeup, my eyes and lashes, my cheeks and lips. When I
have the coloring of my face just right, I apply rouge to my
nipples and then just a hint of it to the outer lips of my sex.
After that I pin up my dark hair in a chignon and I clip pendant
earrings to my earlobes. I turn my head from right to left and
back again in front of the mirror. Yes, it's fine; it's the look
that Michiko favors. After that I rummage through a dresser
drawer to find a red French cache-sexe. It takes but a moment to
put that on, to adjust the thin strap in back between my buttocks
and the triangle in front so that it completely covers my pubis.
I find a pair of red shoes with spike heels, and I put those on
and inspect myself in the mirror.
What I see is a naked woman wearing a black choker necklace.
Except the necklace is made of iron and it's a slave collar.
* * *
"Yes," Michiko says.
She has me stand in front of her as she looks at me. She
wears a white evening dress and her beauty is so exquisite it
makes my hands tremble. She tells me she's flying to a party in
Athens this evening. She won't be on the island while I'm being
used. The idea frightens me, makes me desperate, but I do my best
to conceal it.
One of the servants is waiting to escort me.
"Don't misbehave," Michiko says.
She waves a hand and I'm dismissed.
* * *
The fact is I feel alive only when Michiko is angry with me.
If Michiko is not angry with me, then she must be thinking of
other things and I'm not the center of her existence. When
Michiko is angry with me, all she can think about is me. Nothing
else is on her mind. I adore that; I adore Michiko's anger.
But this evening, Michiko is in Athens.
* * *
This master has not told me her name.
The room is sparsely furnished, but a thick lamb's wool rug
covers the floor, and in the center of this I squat on my heels
in the usual position, my back straight, my knees apart, naked
except for the red cache-sexe and the red heels. She manacled my
hands as soon as I entered the room, and now I'm finding it
difficult to maintain the posture without discomfort.
Against the far wall is a bed, the mattress covered by a
white embroidered counterpane. I know the riding crop is on the
bed, but I don't want to look at it. I don't want to look at
anything, least of all that.
So far she hasn't said much. She speaks English with a
British accent, but I don't think she's British. She's been
sitting in that chair for the past ten minutes and all she does
is look at me. She's about forty, strong looking, wearing a dark
blue suit, a red string tie, a white shirt with a bit of lace at
the sleeves. She has short dark hair and green eyes and a cruel
mouth. I suppose if I saw her on the street or at a party I would
say she was beautiful. Here that doesn't matter; the only thing
that matters here is that we both know she'll soon be very nasty
to me. Michiko says I can always trust them to go only so far,
but I'm never certain of it. Maybe this one will be an exception.
Finally she speaks to me. As she sits with her legs crossed,
she tilts her head to the side and she says: "I like your
breasts."
Is it my rouged nipples? I feel the heat in my face as she
gazes at me. I'm afraid to look down at my breasts for fear I'll
see my nipples erect. I want Michiko. I feel abandoned, lost,
unwanted. Will my love return?
Now the master rises and she begins to undress. She does it
slowly, methodically, removing each piece with care, her jacket
draped over the back of the chair, her tie untied, pulled out,
draped over the jacket. She continues to gaze at me as she
removes her clothes, no expression on her face, no way to read
her, a great threat because when they don't talk you never know
what to expect.
But then she says: "I'll flog you first. And then we'll try
some other things. Have you had any experience with alligator
clips?"
"Yes."
"That's why you've painted your nipples, isn't it? You want
them attended to."
"Yes."
"That's fine."
Meanwhile all her clothes have been removed and she's now
naked. She has square shoulders and small firm looking breasts,
the brown nipples unusually long. Her pubic tuft has been clipped
to a narrow triangle. She walks to the bed and she picks up the
riding crop. Now I'm forced to look at it, forced to see my
punishment rod.
"Over here," she says. "Kneel on the bed."
It's not easy to rise from my knees with my wrists manacled
behind my back, but I try to manage it without being too clumsy.
When I'm on my feet, I walk to the bed while avoiding her eyes.
Climbing onto the bed while not using my hands is not easy
either, but I manage that too.
Now my head and shoulders are down on the counterpane, my
ass up, my knees spread. Of course she can see everything. I've
seen Michiko's photographs of me kneeling like this and I know
what I look like.
She says nothing. Then I feel something graze the inside of
one of my thighs. It's the tip of the riding crop. It moves up
and down slowly, and then it moves upward to make contact with my
sex. She gets the rod between my labia and she spreads them. Is
she looking at me? When I first arrived here, I thought they
would shave me completely but they didn't. Only the lips are
shaved, and I'm thankful for that because I think having some
hair in front is attractive. I've seen several slaves here who
are shaved completely. All of them are blonde except one English
girl who's a brunette.
The master is still prying my cunt open with the riding
crop. Now she moves it again and I feel the tip entering the
outer rim of my vagina. She holds it there, moving just the tip
of it to produce a tickling sensation. It's almost like the tip
of a finger, but not quite. Am I wet? I suppose if I'm wet she
can see it clearly. But she says nothing. It's maddening. I feel
my belly quiver and I try not to move.
Now she withdraws the tip of the riding crop from my vagina
and she slides the length of the rod between my buttocks.
"You've been flogged recently," she says.
"Yes."
Then she pushes the tip of the riding crop at my anus. "And
what about here? Do you like it here?"
"Yes, if the master wishes it."
She chuckles. "I'll draw some stripes first."
My belly is quivering again. I feel the riding crop sliding
in the groove between my buttocks, and then a moment later it's
gone. I remain motionless, waiting.
"Now," she says softly.
And the next moment I hear the sound an instant before I
feel the stinging pain across my buttocks.
"You're a lovely bitch," she says.
She hits me again. And again. She whips me with a measured
pace, each blow causing a great burning pain across my buttocks.
She continues whipping me until I groan.
She says: "Yes, that's better."
She whips me again.
Then three more blows with the riding crop and she stops it.
I hear her toss the riding crop away, and then I feel her fingers
unlocking the manacles that bind my wrists together. When she has
my wrists free, she pulls the manacles away. "Turn around," she
says. "Sit on the edge of the bed."
I turn my body and take the position she wants, glancing at
her, fixing my eyes on her sex, on the dark narrow triangle. Will
she be rough with me? I gauge my vulnerability. She comes forward
with an easy stride, approaches me close enough so that her legs
touch my knees and the dark tuft sways only inches from my face.
"Go on," she says.
I touch her mound with my mouth, stroke the triangle of hair
with my lips, exciting myself. The smell of her sex fills my nose
as I lean forward to lick her. She arches her back, pushing her
pelvis forward, pushing her cunt against my upturned mouth.
Michiko likes to tease me about the way I suck a cunt. She
says I have a gluttonous mouth and I look whorish when it's
covered. Oh my darling, where are you?
The master remains motionless as I move my head from side to
side. I forage in the groove with my nose, find the stiff
clitoris and begin rubbing it as my tongue flaps against flesh
below.
Suddenly she begins to move. She takes control of me. She
holds my head between her hands as she moves her loins back and
forth. Her wet cunt slides over my mouth. Her thrusting becomes
more determined, more brutal.
Will she come? My mouth is filled with her. She holds my
face in her hands as she slams forward again. I hear the noise of
it, the slurping noise of her cunt on my wide open mouth. The
pace increases, her pelvis ramming, ramming again, and then
abruptly she stops and groans and she begins coming, coming into
my open mouth while she grips one side of my head and my chin
with her strong hands.
She strokes my throat with her fingers as I swallow her
thick syrup. "Thirsty little whore, aren't you?" I suck her dry,
and when it's finished she pulls her cunt from my lips.
"Stand up now," she says.
When I rise, she lifts my breasts in her hands and she looks
down at them. Then she takes hold of my nipples between her
thumbs and forefingers and she pinches them. "How much can you
take?"
"I don't know,"
I'm afraid now. She's a total stranger and I have no idea
about her capabilities. I have to trust them; I have no choice
but to trust them...
================================================================
AFFINITIES by Rachel Perez [An Extract]
Copyright (c) 1993 Spectrum Press
Spectrum Press disk edition ISBN 1-57138-125-2
For info on the complete ASCII text, see the catalog at:
http://users.aol.com/specpress
Or request an email catalog at 71022.251@compuserve.com
ADULTS ONLY. ACCESS RESTRICTED TO PERSONS OVER 18 YEARS OF AGE.