Arcadia Pt. 02

"We are not decadents but rather primitives." (Théophile Gautier, 1862, Goncourt Journal )

We stopped on a tree-lined avenue, in front of a Georgian-style, inner-city mansion. A tepid drizzle caused the streetlamps to shimmer a pallid orange; but a covered walkway extending from the portico to the kerb kept us dry. As we alighted from the cab, Justin said something to the driver but did not pay a fare.

The apartment occupied the top two floors of the building. It was spacious, designed and furnished with the same sophisticated, uncluttered opulence as Olivia's house. In the living room a dying fire crackled in its marble hearth.

Justin kicked off his shoes, removed his coat and arranged it tidily on a side table in the hallway. He told me to undress -- "Everything," he commanded -- and lie on the chaise longue. It was plush burgundy leather, and set at right angles to the fireplace. I obeyed (to my surprise without qualms or hesitation), folding my clothes and leaving them in a neat pile on the coffee table. I placed my shoes beside it and my lace choker on top. The upholstery was cool against my flesh but quickly warmed. Justin crouched in front of the fireplace to stoke the glowing coals until a mist of sparks gusted up the chimney.

From one end of the room a woman descended the stairs. She was wearing a white silk chemise, one strap of which had slipped carefully off her shoulder. She was beautiful, with sparkling sapphire-blue eyes and lustrous, cascading honey-blonde hair. She was statuesque, half a head taller than Justin. In the taxi he had told me that he lived with his sister, who was a couple of years his senior. From their very different appearances I guessed that they were step-siblings.

Lavinia went to the bar and poured sherry into two crystal goblets which she placed on a silver tray. She offered one to Justin who took it without looking up or saying a word. When she came to me I raised myself to a reclining position propped on my left elbow. Our eyes connected. Her face registered nothing; but the very inscrutability of her expression unsettled me. Silently, she set the tray down on the floor beside me. She picked up my discarded clothing which she took with her as she returned to her upstairs suite.

I lay on my side watching Justin as he slowly stirred the embers. Then he rose to his feet and sat on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of me. We sipped our brandy as he explored my body, from my hair to my feet, first with his eyes and then with his free hand. When his fingers slid between my thighs and entered me, I put my glass on the tray and lay down again, on my back. My eyelids began to droop.

My drowsiness was dispelled as Justin suddenly stood erect, went behind the couch and leaned over it to seize me by the hair and throat and thrust my head into the cushion. He forced his lips against mine, and the kiss was so long and so deep that I struggled to breathe. The violence of his action was shocking, but I felt my loins burning. He pulled back to catch his breath but pressed his hand over my mouth and nose to prevent me doing the same. To my surprise I did not fight; but as he assailed me again I managed to gulp in just enough air to stave off darkness. Only then did I start to panic. I tried to push him away, but he clutched my wrists and pinned my arms at my side. I surrendered and went limp. For a moment I wondered when and where my nude, ravished corpse would eventually be found. Yet the excitement within me erupted. As our lips locked together once more, he forced his breath into my lungs. My chest rose and my breasts pressed hard against him. I could feel his heart beating furiously through his silk shirt.

When at last Justin released me from the iron grip of his hands and mouth, I lay there stunned, gasping and sobbing, staring up into the malefic relentlessness of his gaze. I parted my legs; but he grabbed my arms and wrenched them upwards, hauling me to my feet. He brusquely spun me about and shoved me forward until I was kneeing on the couch and bent over its back. I waited, trembling, as I heard the sinister swish! of his belt being pulled out from the loops of his trousers. I felt a sting. The first stroke was light, almost tentative; but as the strength and the tempo of my flogging increased, it was all I could do to not cry out. I astonished myself that I remained so docile. Even if I did not resist the assault on my body, I could have let out a scream or a curse, even begged for mercy. Yet weirdly enough I felt too ashamed -- not reproach for my abject surrender to Justin's cruel, crude passion, but humiliation that his enigmatic sister might hear me, and judge me, in my torment.

Before the pain had subsided the room went dark, as black satin descended over my eyes. Justin tied the sash in place, then drew my hands behind my back. He bound my wrists with what felt like silk ribbon. After that, he put his arms around me to clasp my breasts and pull me off the sofa. Immediately I was on my feet he pushed me downwards to kneel on the floor. Fingers fondled my neck and shoulders, caressed my blindfold and tenderly brushed the tears from my cheeks. They were soft and slender with long nails that tickled my skin. Lavinia's breasts touched mine. They were warm, the nipples hard.

I stayed still, tried to remain silent. Justin pulled me back until I was recumbent on my bound arms. Lavinia's hands prised my knees apart. Her lips pressed against my neck, against my breasts and my belly until they rested between my thighs. I moaned as the tip of her tongue and then her teeth played with my clitoris. I felt it stiffen and rise, clasped in a long and sucking but gentle bite.

I heard Justin whispering something to his half-sister, who mewled a feeble protest. Without warning he pulled me once more into a kneeling position but leaning back against the sofa, my body arched over the cushion. My knees were spread as far as they could, parting my labia as an offering to him. But instead of invading that part of me, he grabbed my hair to wrench my head backwards. He straddled my face, and when I felt his penis hard against my lips I opened them and he plunged into it, the suffocating gag of hot, rigid flesh seeming to swell ever more as it thrust ever deeper. As his pleasure reached its climax and his semen spilled into my throat, it took all my effort to resist clenching my jaws. As he revelled in me, I wonder if he knew how close he came to emasculation. And when he withdrew I was tempted to spit, to defile the exquisite carpet with his emission. Instead I swallowed. I licked the residue off my lips. It was sticky, the taste oddly fruity.

And just as I was wondering how far Justin and Lavinia would go, to how much more I would allow myself to submit, they helped me to my feet and guided me up the stairs. It was Lavinia who took me to a room, removed my blindfold and untied my hands. Without a word she left me. My quarters were tiny, and not just by the standards of the rest of the apartment. The room could have been a converted closet, hardly big enough for a bed and a small nightstand on which were placed a jug of water and a glass. The window was ajar; the crisp night air blew in past fancy brocaded curtains, but no rain. I hadn't had the chance to wash but crawled gratefully between the sheets...

I viewed the pale glow of a dawning day through bleary eyes. A mist was gathering on the window pane as beyond it a pitter-patter on the awning heralded another rainy day. Tired and still sore, I rolled over to face away and go back to sleep. I awoke once more after several hours, but when I got up and peeked into the hallway it was empty and everything was quiet. My clothes were missing and the bedsheets were too large to wrap around myself. So I crept along the hall to the bathroom naked.

Before getting into the shower, I checked my reflection in the mirror. Pink stripes criss-crossed my back, my buttocks, the tops of my thighs. I was still finding it hard to believe that I had allowed myself to be subjected to that thrashing. The welts were no longer painful but were slightly swollen, and they stung a little as the hot water streamed over me. I dried myself with a towel that had recently been warmed and fluffed. I found a toothbrush, hairbrush and moisturizer ready for my use; but there was nothing besides the wet towel for me to put on, so I wore nothing.

As I left the bathroom, the corridor was still clear. Two bedroom doors were shut; a third was open and the room was empty. (So it was not for want of space that I'd slept in closet-sized quarters.) I went downstairs to wait in the library, which was located near the foot of the staircase. The only sound was the ticking of an antique clock, the only movement the delicate fluttering of damask drapes across two large bay windows. In the silence and the solitude, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

After a while, I followed a short passage which led to the living room. The curtains here were furled and the French doors opened onto a balcony. There a table was already set, with Wedgwood china and Sterling silver, scented tea and strong coffee, viennoiserie pastries and brittle fette biscottate. Although it was mid-morning, the atmosphere was cool and clammy beneath an overcast sky. A chilly breeze wafted across my bare body. The marble tiles were frigid under my bare feet. The balcony overlooked a tree-lined avenue, though to my relief there no buildings nearby tall enough that my nudity was on display. But a woman came out from the living room bearing monogrammed napkins tied with silk ribbons. She was middle-aged, with mousy brown hair and cheerless eyes, and dressed in a conventional maid's uniform of black frock and white apron. She gave me a look that was part disapproval and part pity. I just pouted, in mute defiance. She went inside.

Justin and Lavinia came out together, soon after. He was clad in dark grey slacks, a crimson lounge jacket and gold-embroidered bordeaux slippers. She was wearing a flowing, diaphanous negligée, without panties. Her sleek undulations shimmered a fuzzy pink through the translucence. (It was still more than I had on.) I awaited Justin's lead before sitting; and I thought it a little odd that he paused until Lavinia was seated. It was not politeness I discerned but rather a degree of deference. The chair was slightly damp from the humidity and felt slippery, almost slimy, against my skin. Lavinia appeared not to notice, although her lingerie was gossamer-thin. She was, in all likelihood, used to it.

Despite the various offerings, Lavinia and I ate scarcely anything. She sipped peppermint tea. I noticed that she did not hold the cup by its handle, but rather cradled it in both hands. She nibbled a croissant. Buttery flakes dropped onto her chest and into her cleavage, and she didn't seem to notice, or care. I savoured my espresso macchiato while pecking at a dry biscotto. No one spoke until Justin had finished off a pâte feuilletée and then glowered at me through tendrils of steam rising from his café crema.

"Have you always wanted to be a slave?"

I stared at him, glanced at Lavinia. I stammered something, fumbling to collect my thoughts.

In truth, for years I had fantasized being a slavegirl -- the fictional, romantic, magical version of course. I daydreamed about the bold buccaneer making me his booty, the handsome dark-eyed sheik carrying me off to his harem, the brawny barbarian gladiator making merry with me on the night before the big show. Yet it remained a fantasy. It was not just that I lacked any prospect of meeting actual pirates, sheiks or gladiators, but the very idea of submitting to a man, to depend on him to fulfill my needs, to derive my pleasure from having to please him, seemed to go against everything in my nature and my upbringing.

But when Emily told me about the Arcadia Club, I figured that this was my chance to explore the suppressed part of me which still harboured that desire for submission. It was an opportunity to join a community of like-minded souls, with similar yearnings but expressed in transparent, respectful and reciprocal negotiation, setting and maintenance of personal goals and boundaries. The more I learned of the Arcadians, the more I understood and appreciated their philosophy. I saw them as perhaps a chance, maybe my last, to translate fantasy into reality and emotions into sensations, to open avenues to otherwise forbidden and inaccessible pleasures, to channel my erotic energy into a safe, consensual yet transgressive lifestyle, to achieve sexual liberation and empowerment by embracing my femininity and conceding my vulnerability. Most importantly, the Arcadians honoured and extolled female strength and sense of self -- for giving up control did not mean surrendering power. But on a perhaps less exalted note, they offered a chance for sexual experiences and relationships free of guilt and long-term commitment.

To my astonishment, I found myself revealing all of this to Justin and Lavinia. I was afraid they might laugh at me. Instead they listened, without interruption, with interest and sympathy. I could not help but notice that Lavinia's nipples, clearly visible through their gauzy veil, had risen and stiffened as I spoke. So had mine.

Sometime afterwards the maid returned to begin clearing the table. She didn't seem bothered that most of her breakfast preparations had been in vain. Leaving the woman to her task, the three of us went inside, to the library. Justin sat on the leather chesterfield settee. Lavinia took her place next to him, with one leg tucked under the other. Her negligée had ridden all the way up her thighs, giving a glimpse of flaxen wisps of pubic hair. This time both shoulder straps had slipped down her arms.

I remained standing, awaiting an invitation or a command.

"Caress yourself," Justin said calmly, almost languidly. His very equanimity was unnerving.

I just stood there, dumbfounded.

He did not raise his voice, but his tone was firmer. "Play with your breasts."

I might have refused but felt a compulsion to obey. So I fondled the flesh and tweaked my nipples. It turned me on more than I expected, no doubt because I was being studied so closely. I could feel the blood gushing through my arteries to swell my boobs and teats. They quivered as I sucked in each quickening breath. My hairline bristled and my loins became wet. I had begun to tremble. It was such a strange sensation, to be so aroused with no one else touching me. And I dreaded what was sure to follow.

"Now masturbate."

It was such a blunt, brusque command; and I complied. I stroked my clitoris, spread and massaged my labia. I pushed my fingers into my vagina and made circular motions around the soft, moist walls. I began to puff and pant, stifled a moan. Justin gazed intently, almost squinting, but he did not leer. Lavinia's eyes glittered.

At that moment, to my horror, the maid came into the room, to announce that she had finished her chore. She did not knock nor ask permission to enter. I cringed, and reddened with shame. Her only reaction was a sly smile. Justin and Lavinia did not react at all, except that he nodded and whispered "Thank you." And even before the woman was out the door, he growled:

"You were not told to stop. Taste yourself."

I licked and sucked my fingers. This was something I hadn't done before. There was no scent, but it was salty (unlike Justin's semen) with a slight metallic tang.

Justin watched but remained expressionless, his voice and manner torpid. The fierceness he'd displayed a few hours before had atrophied into what appeared like a strange lethargy. The only telltale of his true state of mind was the tautness of his trousers at the crotch. So it seemed to me that his coldness was a charade, and I began to understand. For Lavinia was playing with herself as if mimicking me. But it was not a mockingbird perched there on the settee, but rather a bird of prey. This was when I realized that my performance, directed by him, was put on for her. Lavinia, it now occurred to me, was the mistress of their house as much as -- if not more -- than her step-brother was its master.

"Come closer," she ordered, and I moved in towards her until she could reach out and stroke the pink ridges on my body with cool palms. She turned towards Justin and they nodded. I knew what they were thinking, how they approved, and I tried not to let my indignation show.

"You should be whipped more often," Justin said. "The whip triggers receptors, brings passion to the surface."

I had to agree, although it did not escape me that it was I and not he who had endured its bite. But Lavinia pursed her lips; and only then did I perceive the faint pink marks on her thighs, and more (I discerned through her negligée) on her belly. I was in no doubt that there were no such traces to be found on Justin's body. I tried to say something; but an anguish of dread and excitement constricted my throat. My mouth was parched and my lips felt glued. I wanted to shut my eyes, but dared not.

We were close enough that Lavinia could put her left arm around my waist, pulling me in even more. With her right had she began probing my thighs. I flinched when the fingers entered me, and again when her lips pressed against my labia.

"You're an impudent little slut, aren't you?"

My glare of affronted dignity merely amused her.

"Kneel!" she barked.

Although I thought I'd done so immediately, Justin was displeased (or perhaps he was feigning irritation, for his entertainment).

"Obey! On your stomach!"

He gestured to his sister with a wave of his hand, and she rose, went to the bar and poured him a whisky. This mixture of subservience and authority which she displayed was something I found hard to fathom. Theirs was a peculiar, baffling dynamic. All I really knew was that while I remained in their apartment, I was in thrall to them both, perhaps not equally but unequivocally. And I had no clear understanding of why I was going along with any of this.

I was once again curious about how far I willing to go -- or rather, how far into submission and degradation I was willing to let them take me. And for that reason I felt oddly aloof, almost numb. It was as if I had left my physical form, was floating near the ceiling and gazing down upon my body prostrate on the carpet. Everything seemed blurry, the colours washed out, except for my stripes which now glowed a lurid red.

With one foot Justin prodded me until I swivelled around to backside and splayed legs to him. I felt his slipper nudging between my thighs.

"Hump it," he ordered.

Surprising myself once more, I obeyed. I heaved my pelvis with thrusts, gyrations and undulations until the toe of his pantoufle burrowed into me and a shudder grew to a tremor, and a guttural moan to a full-throated squawk before subsiding to a snivelling whimper as my body went flaccid, the slipper still inside me. I felt ashamed that it felt so good...

I spent the rest of the day and evening in Justin and Lavinia's apartment. The games (for that's what they were) continued without relent, recess or respite. I was whipped again, and there were other sublime torments. The orgasms were unceasing and enervating; the pleasure was endless and exhausting.

It was just after midnight that Lavinia escorted me home in the same taxi which had brought Justin and me. On the way she explained more about the Arcadia Community. She did not mind that the driver could hear her words, though she never spoke to him (at least while I was there).

"Give it some thought; don't rush; it's a big decision," she advised; but I had already made up my mind. It was now Monday morning, and before the sun had set I had completed my application for residence. And you know that slightly queasy feeling you get as you press the "send" button or push the envelope through the mail box slot to send your message irredeemably on its way? I felt none of that... only impatience that I would have to wait for an answer.