The Choices of Evelyn Ch. 13-15

***

That night they made love until the first rosy fingers of the new day touched the flat roof of the palazzo. Soft silk pillows lay strewn on the ancient tiles. The air had stayed balmy; they never felt the need to leave the roof and go inside. Under a canopy of stars, Mistress bound and blindfolded her darling slave. She fucked her in mouth, cunt and asshole with her favorite black strap on dildo.

"Master," the girl whispered, and came.

The new sun found them exhausted, and with limbs entwined. Their skins shivered from evaporating sweat.

***

Chapter Fifteen – Sandi.

When Eva returned with her Mistress to the big house at the lake, Sandro wasn't there. Looking out for him was the first thing she did. She'd become fond of the shy, sweet boy-girl with the clear eyes and the pouting lips. He'd been there when she'd been at her lowest, hadn't he, comforting her in his quiet way – making up for his lack of language with the sweetness of his embrace. She needed to tell him all about Venice; he'd be the only one to really listen, but he wasn't in his tiny room, nor was he at the stables. The door to the ominous cellars was closed.

Eva didn't dare ask Mistress where the boy might be. It would have been hardly possible anyway, as the blond woman left the very evening they arrived. "Business," she'd said, and didn't bother to tell how long she'd be gone. Gina, the boy's grandmother, shrugged when she asked about Sandro's whereabouts. "Away," she said. Gustav just ignored her.

There was a list of things to do, scribbled on well-known stationary in a well-known, spidery hand. Exercises and chores that pretty much filled her days and nights. Enema's and body-care were followed by fitness and yoga training. There were pills and shakes and very detailed instructions for weird, but always satisfying bouts of masturbation. And then there was fitness again, and training and yoga.

Each afternoon she went out riding the new black horse that had replaced Votan. Seeing it the first time had brought tears to her eyes. Riding it bareback and naked caused a rush, but he wasn't Votan, was he? She should forget the horse, she knew, forget and forgive herself as she'd promised Mistress long ago.

A week passed. Eva increased the exercises, just to clear her mind of old, nagging doubts and ugly memories. Keeping on the move should help her guard the boundaries of her new pink-and-gold sanctuary. Was it her safe place? Was it there at all? In the darkness of her lonely nights, physically exhausted by exercise and a string of automatically induced orgasms, she ran a fingernail around the brand on her ass cheek, muttering words, whispering wishes.

Almost a fortnight later, Mistress returned, and little Sandro was with her. Eva came out of her room, descending the stairs to the great hall when the doors opened and the two of them entered. Things were different, as she saw at once. Not with Mistress, who was her usual cool self. But Sandro seemed taller, his gangly body moving without a care, his bright eyes beaming when he saw her. He ran towards her, wrapping his naked limbs around her, his soft lips opening in a greedy kiss.

"Eva! Evalita!" he cried out, before the words got smothered by their kiss. Eva felt a tear run down her cheek.

***

They lay in the grass, hidden by rustling foliage. Eva held on to the boy as she watched their two steeds grazing in the wood's clearing – the black one and the white; sparkling clouds of little insects danced around them in beams of sunlight.

She listened to Sandro's haltingly told story. Building real English sentences was still beyond him, but on a grid of primitive grammar he weaved the few words he knew, and Eva gradually discovered what had happened to him these last two weeks.

***

He waited for his seventh guest of the night. Or was it still afternoon? Maybe it was morning already. Maybe it wasn't his seventh guest. It might as well be his ninth, or his thirteenth.

Eva's mind reeled as she imagined the boy kneeling, sitting on his oil-drenched calves, his thighs spread. Throbbing sensations of being used thoroughly must linger in his throat, and in the stretched muscle of his ass hole. His body arched back provocatively, she imagined, but his eyes were cast down, like he'd been taught. His puffed nipples stood out on his narrow chest, the left one pierced with a white gold ring. An emerald lily dangled from it, like it did right now.

He said he'd been naked, but for leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles. A tight metal collar clutched his throat. Each square inch of his deeply tanned body shone with ointment, his black curls shining. On his right ass cheek, where it billowed over his ankle, the brand of a French lily marked his skin.

Like hers.

The place was called Bordello, he told Eva. On arrival, an old woman had told him its name. The room had no windows, and red was its only color. Red damask had been stretched over the walls, a huge bed stood covered with red satin pillows, red satin sheets, and red velvet draperies. His knees sank deeply into the red carpet. And even the lovely Japanese lacquered armoire was a shining red. Everything was red, except for the ceiling which was a single, square wall-to-wall mirror.

He'd been in there for days – a week, maybe a fortnight, Sandro guessed. He only left the room to visit the bathroom, where he restored his ravaged body. He ate in this room. He slept in this room. But most of all, he was fucked in this room. Mornings, afternoons and nights a constant stream of men and women visited him.

Often, they came as couples or groups for him to pleasure. He sucked them and ate them. They fucked him with cocks and toys. They filled his throat and the depth of his bowels. At times he got penetrated in both openings at once. He remembered the visit of two lesbians; they used him with huge latex strap-on dildos. His dark hands indicated almost a foot-length. And once, he'd had a session with six young studs that never seemed to end. They left him with sperm everywhere – on his face and chest, his thighs and belly. Eva imagined thin, pale goo leaking from a torn asshole.

Women had tied him down to the bed, Sandro went on. Or they found other ways to submit him to bondage. They tortured his nipples and his innocent little penis. They glazed his bare skin with seething candle wax. And always afterwards, he'd sat on his calves, looking up to his reflection – peering past it.

'God, Eva thought. 'Think of the life he lives: another one's life, not his.' "Not cry," the boy said as they lay in the grass, hiding from the world. "All well. Sandi happy."

Sandi.

He went on, using words like 'happy' and 'right' and 'thankful.' And he talked about Alessandro and how he'd stopped being Alessandro, the reckless boy, eager to impress his friends, but always laughed at and teased because he was the wrong kind of beautiful. Girls liked him with the wrong kind of love. Everything had been wrong about the boy Alessandro. He started smoking and drinking and blowing so he might belong. Then he started stealing to get the money for buying the right clothes, a scooter, girls' favors, drugs. He'd skipped school and had stolen money from his mother to pay for more drugs. He'd found out that older men gladly paid for his favors, so he sucked their cocks. Easy money it had been, buying him more booze, more drugs.

His mother died, so he started stealing from his grandmother and from her woman-boss at the grand house. Then his grandma had sold him to the woman-boss and she made Alessandro disappear. Which was 'good, good thing.' He remembered Alessandro like he remembered his old friends from school or like he remembered his mother now, or like he knew his grandma.

"I not him, not now. Not be him again, ever. I think." He smiled, hugging Eva. "I Sandi, Mistress say. She own me, I hers. I glad think she right. Who else I be?"

He told Eva how he'd sat looking up into the mirrored ceiling. She watches over me, he'd thought, so I won't destroy my life again. "She watch me all time I serve her." Eva knew M couldn't have watched him; she wasn't even there, was she, while all those cocks ravaged his body? She tried to imagine how he smiled upwards into the mirrored ceiling, fat splashes of sperm hitting his face.

"I know this my life now," he said. "My life is right". Sandro went on telling Eva he felt as happy as he could ever be, now and back then in the red room. He'd felt sated, there had been nothing he craved. He just needed to serve whatever entered his little room; no thoughts, no fears as long as Mistress watched him from above. And smiled.

New tears ran down Eva's face. Little brown fingers traced them, and pillow lips kissed hers.

"I happy," he repeated, holding her eyes with his, nodding. "No tear, no worry."

Eva wondered what lived behind those eyes, but all she could see was a clear well, the sun shining through to a bottom that wasn't a bottom, just more clear water. Boundless happiness; no clouds, no pain.

He'd told her about Alessandro, but were they really still his memories? Of course, he must remember the big house where Mistress had trained him, teaching him to respect his grandmother and pleasure the tall, quiet German car driver. She'd given him horses to groom and feed. And now there was Eva – his new sister, Mistress had said.

Eva wondered how clear a presence she was to him. Had he yearned to have her there too, at the Bordello, and share his services on the red bed in the red room? Ever since they'd been forced together at the stables, he as dirty and miserable as she, they'd grown close, hadn't they? Their fate had mingled. They'd shared fears and ecstasies, chasing happiness on the horses' bare backs together. Eva saw her agonies mirrored in Sandro's wondrously clear eyes. At least, that's what she thought she saw.

At the house, they'd taught each other to accept their fate. They'd shared their nightmares, fighting their doubts and disappointments. Together they'd found the courage to enter a new world forced upon them – Mistress's world.

In the woods, as sunlight dappled her pale skin, Eva wished it to be true.

***

One memory of her and Sandro's rose from the fuzzy edge of shadows around her. It shone with remarkable clarity, bringing back sounds and smells. It even echoed the passion she'd felt at the time – an unexpected, humiliating passion.

The lovely Summer Room at the house took shape before her mind's eye. The light came from a golden afternoon sun. As always it shone straight through the huge windows at the end of a cloudless day. It painted their naked bodies, hers and Sandro's, in stark contrasts of golden skin and deep dark shadows.

Eva remembered the cool slick leather of a whip against the palms of her hand. She stood very straight and held the instrument behind her back. Watching Sandro, she saw how his narrow wrists had been pulled up by a hook on a chain from the ceiling, only the tips of his toes touching the floor. Eva remembered now that the boy had not been blindfolded, nor gagged. Inside the circle of his black, curly hair, his face was composed. He even smiled. It was a trusting smile that drove Eva's heart up against her throat.

It was a while ago, after her baptism, before Venice. Mistress had not been there. She'd not even been at the house. But she'd left a note that morning. It showed an antique etching of two girls, both naked. One was chained up at the wrists, the other wielded a whip that touched the right nipple of the captured girl. In M's spidery handwriting, only a time and a place had been jotted down below it: 1700, Summer Room, it said.

Eva had taken the note and visited Sandro in his tiny room. They'd kissed and fondled each other as they often did of late. She just loved to feel their bodies' touch; to feel the warmth, the comfort. It was soothing to be together with him, with someone, anyone – to belong. They usually helped each other groom their bodies. They shared showers and took each other's enemas. They dressed each other's hair and applied make up. The first time she did that to him, his breath had stuck in his throat as he watched his painted eyes in the mirror, sparkling out of smoky clouds, and the shining red on his lips. All the while they'd touched and caressed their bodies to a level of arousal.

For a while they'd discussed the notes (Sandro had received a similar one). They decided M wanted them to join in the illustrated activity.

"I watch my sweet little brother dangle. I feel the sting of my fresh brand. The whip I hold is a gift from Mistress; she calls it Angelthorn. There is horse's hair braided into it, Votan's hair, she said. She used it to thoroughly flog the rebellion out of me, and she fucked me with its smooth leather handle, widening my cunt, as she called it – and my asshole. Then, later, she handed it over. She told me it was my new Master. I should thank him for what he'd done to me.

So, forced by the steel in her eyes and voice, I sank to my knees. I kissed the leather and the hair with trembling lips. I thanked him for teaching me and bringing me to orgasm. Mistress then told me I should always sleep with my new Master. The handle should be between my nipples. The braided hair should cover my shaven slit.

Ever since that day I hug my Master between my breasts before I go to sleep. I present Angelthorn to Mistress whenever I imagine she might think I deserve to be punished. I beg her to use him on me to improve my attitude with his fiery kisses. The same Master now rests in my hands as my eyes roam the fragile body of my little brother."

"Are you comfortable?" Eva asked. Sandro only nodded and widened his smile.

"Please, you honor me, Eva," he said. "Eèwa," as he pronounces it. "Mistress want my skin blush."

The words made Eva gasp. A surge of mixed horror and affection rose inside her. She displayed Angelthorn on her open palms. Its dark tail dangled. Sandro just stared, his eyes beaming trust. Eva felt a tear leak down her cheek; her lower lip trembled. Somehow the air closed in. She stepped forward and cupped his face. They kissed deeply, their tongues wriggling like fat pink worms. Then she took a step back as he'd seen Mistress do. She made the tip of the Thorn flick the boy's nipple at the end of a perfect arch.

"I close my eyes. A shiver runs the length of my spine. I remember the rush of power in my veins. I see the boy's knees buckle under the impact. But more than that I remember the squirt of hot moisture running down my own thighs when I repeat the onslaught.

I etch pink welds on his sun-tanned flesh."

After a number of strikes, the climax built strongly inside Eva, no touching needed. A long thread of clear slime dangled from her pulsing slit. She wasn't able to aim anymore. The Thorn fell from her powerless hand and she stumbled into the hanging body. Coming hard, her arms closed around the boy who shook with his own silent orgasm. She remembered screaming Sandro's name at the top of her lungs.

Things had changed then, she knew, yet again they changed. Did they change for him, too? Eva remembered untying the boy. They'd both sunk to the cool floor and gasped for air, holding each other in a tight embrace. She recalled Sandro declaring his love, but Eva had closed his mouth with deep and endless kisses, cutting off his words, scared to let them out and hear them. They'd lain there for at least an hour. Then Eva carried the boy off. She'd bathed him, and after that she'd dressed his bruises with soft oil and tender fingers.

For three days and nights they'd repeated the ritual, changing positions. They'd punished their skins and flogged their sexes into a rage of hurtful climaxes.

When Mistress returned, their skin was a spider's web of welds, each bruise a humming memory of alien lust. They flung their naked frames at M, kissing her and thanking her in a mindless rush of words. M had smiled. She'd picked up Angelthorn and buried it deep inside the black trunk. She closed the lid and took the key.

"No more of this for a while, sweet children", she'd said. "I must fear for your lives." Then the three of them made love on the huge bed. They didn't sleep before the first daylight.

***

Back in the wood's clearing, Eva's body tingled as the memories infused her mind with helpless lust. She leant forward, taking the boy's drooling little penis between her lips, hearing him suck in his breath sharply as she felt his hands on her head. Receiving his quick, salty release, she rose and kissed him, sharing the slimy treasure. They smiled and swallowed. Then Sandro resumed his story.

"Many days go on," he said. "I waiting, knees spread, eyes down, see door open again." Then he told her how two well-dressed and heavily built black gentlemen stepped into the room. One of them kicked him. He growled at him to take his mighty black cock and suck it into his white-trash, dirty throat. Eva's mind saw the boy crawling up against expensive slacks, opening a fly with trembling fingers.

***

After a week Sandro could stand nor walk anymore, he told Eva. He could not even kneel and straighten his back in the desired position. His throat was raw, his tongue swollen. The skin of his boy-tits was tainted with cloudy bruises, the nipples bled. The inside walls of his anus screamed with pain whenever a new cock or dildo was ramming its way into it. But the number of guests didn't diminish. Nor did the frequency of their visits or the urge of their needs.

The boy kept exposing himself. He was available to anyone who passed the threshold of his cell. He presented his ass and opened his throat to the onslaught. His red-rimmed eyes filled with tears, but he kept fixing them on the mirrored sky of his tiny, blood red world. From that sky he knew his Mistress must surely look down on him and smile her approval. Eva cried as his little voice went on.

"I love Mistress. I know she care for Sandi. She come and take me with her. She see my bruises. She caress and kiss with her lips. Soft lips. She come for me. I know. Her smile fill me with pride. Her fingers touch my wounds. I love Mistress. I never betray. I ready when she comes.

I be perfect."

When the fever came, he was taken from the room and tucked between cool, clean sheets. Needles slipped under his tortured skin. A soft woolen blanket of oblivion wrapped itself around his tiny universe. He slept for two nights and the whole long day between them. When he woke, he found himself in a white world of sheets and curtains. The feverish clouds lifted, leaving him aware of a raging hunger. He ate three plates of pasta and drank a gallon of water. Then he started feeling the assorted hurts all over and inside his healing body.

In the afternoon he left his bed on crutches. Walking the corridors of the mansion, he found the place was totally different from Mistress's elegant house. It was like a medieval fortress, looking bare and forbidding. Straight stonewalls loomed everywhere. Unadorned wooden beams and pillars had been placed with utilitarian gracelessness. Then he at last came to a small room, where a nice, crackling fire warmed the air, shining with a sweet reddish light. He sank down in a leather club chair next to it. Hugging himself inside the wool blanket he found, he tugged his bare legs and feet under his body and stared into the flames.

After a while the door opened. The old woman that looked so much like his grandmother, brought him a plate of sweets and a steaming pot of tea. Her name was Anna and although she was Italian, she said she could not answer even one of his many questions. But she fed him and took the sweetest care of his ravaged body and soul.