The Trials of Francesca - Pt. 04

'And now my dear, now you're going to fuck the driver.'

Those were the last words the older man said to Francesca before the car came to a stop, somewhere in the countryside, although from her position in the middle of the back seat she can't see out of either window. Outside is pitch black and freezing cold. She doesn't have any desire to leave the warm inside of the car, but she doesn't think that she'll have a choice. Something else is about to happen, the next stage of the night is about to begin. She wants to prepare herself, mentally if not physically, but for what? To fuck the driver? Is that all?

Her entire life Francesa has found sex an unsatisfactory experience, a disappointingly flat development which would start with something like arousal at the thought -- or reality - of being touched by a man, but once events were underway, she would always cool off. Something was missing. She couldn't sustain her arousal, and even the thought of an orgasm with a man was laughable. When she was alone in the darkness of her bed, she could touch herself to a climax, but touch alone was never enough. She had to think and imagine, picture different scenarios in her mind -- different, but in some respects always the same: men who demanded things from her that she was only half willing to give. Pinning her down on the floors of dirty public toilets, or behind the bandstand in a local park, or in someone's basement. Queues of men with their zips open and their dicks out, long and hard and eager, dicks waiting to use her. She, feeling fragile and helpless, spreadeagled on some mattrass with her arms and legs stretched in all directions so she couldn't move. Sometimes blindfolded. She'd dreamed of herself gagged before she ever learnt that gags even existed. She just knew, instinctively, that what she needed was something deeper and darker than what other women wanted and felt. She needed force and to be made to feel that there was no choice, even though the choice was in reality always hers -- it was her fantasy, and in the daydream she never resisted what the men got her to do. The rooms-full of imaginary lovers who would defile her would talk about her like she's a thing to be passed around and sneer at her confusion and her arousal, but she never resisted her humiliation, never said no. Instead, she felt something exciting and pleasurable which she could never feel when the proceedings were loving, gentle, and calm.

She didn't know why she was wired this way, what it was that had gone wrong with her burgeoning sexuality when she was very young, but she knew that she'd been like this since those first sexual stirrings when she was just ten or eleven. Maybe all girls dreamed of being touched by their teenage heroes, characters from books or comics, the odd pop star. But she dreamed of being violated by them, held down and used, a strong hand over her mouth, clothes ripped from her body, exposed and humiliated, often publicly. She dreamed of being hit, sometimes hard. She wondered what a slap across the face would feel like. Was it still violence if she wanted it? She didn't know. When these things happened to the grown-up Francesca in real life, she didn't find an answer to those questions. All she knew was that there was a longing in her body that only harsh, strict love could ever satisfy.

Now the car has parked, and the men exit, motioning for Francesca to follow them outside. She steps into the freezing night and starts to shiver, almost uncontrollably. She's thirsty and a little bit hungry and needs the toilet. 'Where are we?' she asks. 'I need to pee.'

The men look at her, laughing like she's a cute five-year-old.

'You can pee in a minute. First, I want you to meet the driver,' the man with the gravelly voice says to her with a nod, like this is something that's obvious to everyone except her.

Ah, yes, the driver. The one I'm supposed to fuck, she remembers. Does that mean all three men will fuck her tonight? Her overstretched bladder responds with an uncomfortable twitch.

The house they're standing in front of looks like a typical Cotswold cottage, all yellow stone and picture-perfect garden, the carefully maintained shrubs green and pretty, even in the dead of the English winter. It's gorgeous, she thinks, and would be even more gorgeous in the summer when the hydrangeas bloom and everything's abuzz with bees and butterflies.

But they're not here to admire the house.

Francesca focuses her attention back on the car and the driver who -- she hopes -- will eventually come out, to put her out of her misery. Waiting, knowing that just a few feet from here is the man who will shortly be penetrating her, but not being able to see him -- it's agony, both for her curiosity and her dignity. Finally, the door opens and a man comes out, stretching to his full height by the side of the car.

'Sir!'

Francesca doesn't know why she's so surprised. It makes perfect sense that it's her Master. That he wouldn't have let her go unaccompanied with two complete strangers. Also, that he wouldn't have missed the spectacle on offer in the back of the car.

Master smiles and walks over to her. She's shivering, in her tiny dress and barely-there sandals, but she also shivers from the sight of him. Taller than her, jet black hair, the beard of a pirate captain but the eyes of an intellectual, with big hands used to spanking and caressing in equal measure, the man is irresistible. To her, at least.

'Sir,' she says again, then realises she's looking straight at him, into his eyes, which she's not allowed to do. That's not how they do things, although she knows in her heart that he considers her an equal. He's often said so when no one was listening. But now there were people present, there was protocol.

'Sorry, Sir,' she says and drops her gaze.

He's in a good mood, having enjoyed the show in the back of the car, most likely.

'When my friends told you that you had to fuck the driver, what did you think?' he asks.

'I thought I'll do as my Master requests, Sir,' she says, not looking up.

'Good girl, Francesca,' he says. 'Come, let's go inside before you freeze to death.'

Inside the house is warm and smells of cinnamon, as if someone had been baking earlier in the day. Francesca looks around at the stone floors covered with rugs here and there, the wooden beams, the heavy, mismatched furniture which must have been bought at local auctions. Everything exuded country charm, although not necessarily comfort. Francesca wonders who the house belongs to and whether one of the two men lives here.

The ante room is warmed by an open fire and she can feel herself relax as soon as they step in. There are armchairs, covered in fake animal skins -- or perhaps not fake, she thinks. The men offer her a drink; she goes for Disaronno, the warming almond bringing colour back to her cheeks.

Through a door on the left she can see into a large country kitchen, but the lights are not on and she can just tell the outline of a massive Aga against the main wall. Whoever lives here, they must love to cook, she thinks.

'Francesca.'

Master's voice brings her back into the moment.

'What are you thinking about?'

Master can always tell when her thoughts wonder, which happens a lot. She finds it hard to focus on one thing unless that thing is pressing hard on her or into her body. She tries to make her face look contrite. Being caught daydreaming in the middle of a scene doesn't usually end well for her. She smiles and bites her lip at the thought of what punishment might be meted out for this transgression.

''I'm sorry, Sir. The house is beautiful. I was just wondering what the kitchen looks like, but the light isn't on.'

He knocks his drink back in one and looks at the two men standing opposite him, nursing their own glasses with some syrupy, amber-coloured liquid. 'She wants to see the kitchen,' he says to the men.

'Well, that's just perfect,' says the older man and drinks up, too.

'Come on, then, beauty. Don't say you didn't ask for this.'

The men snigger quietly, and Francesca finds herself staring at her Master's face, trying to decipher what has just happened. Why are they laughing at her? What did she say that was so funny?

Master takes her by the elbow and together they walk into the kitchen, turning the light on as they enter.

The spotlights come on like a nuclear blast and Francesca flinches under the assault of their brightness. 'Jesus,' she says. The contrast with the soft, fire-lit ante room is stark, and it occurs to her that this is the kind of light you'd need if you were planning to interrogate someone.

Just as she thinks this, they turn the corner in the L-shaped room towards the area where, in most homes, there would usually be a dining table.

But this is not that kind of home.

This portion of the room, hidden from view by the main wall, doesn't contain any of the typical furniture you might need during a meal. Instead, it has three black leather armchairs, each covered by a sheep skin and arranged around an object in the middle, which Francesca looks at in amazement.

In the middle of this beautiful, brightly lit country kitchen, there is an old-fashioned gynaecological chair with hard backing and metal stirrups for the legs.