Chaste (A One Week Chronicles Story) Pt. 02

As the guests left and Cheryl bowed her head in shame, cum dribbling from her open mouth, Maggi walked up and tutted at her. She wore her usual business suit with towering court shoes and leaned over her.

"You'll learn," she said, her eyes filled with excitement, despite the dawning hour.

The next day Maggi had a new surprise for Cheryl. She held what looked like a hook with a metallic butt plug at one end. The metal hook that sprouted from its base was designed to loop around and attach to Cheryl's chastity device.

"This is an arse lock," said Maggi as she had Cheryl bend over so that she could shove the wide base into her arse. Cheryl winced at Maggi's rough treatment and her eyes widened as she pushed a button at the base of the plug. The sides of the plug immediately opened, much like a flower in the sun, and she felt her arse fill. There was no way that she could remove the plug without pulling the button back out. Maggi pushed a padlock through it to make sure that she wouldn't be able to.

As Cheryl stood, the plug pushed its way deeper into her and she gasped as her body betrayed her, a shiver of pleasure rippling through her as Cheryl's G-spot was tickled by the plug. Maggi saw the gasp, saw Cheryl try to hide it, but wasn't fooled. She used her wand again and enjoyed seeing Cheryl try and stop her orgasm.

After Cheryl's failure to control her orgasm, Maggi pointed to her new outfit, hanging from the wall and she broke a little bit more.

Two years later

Boris enjoyed life in Rome. As diplomat for Russia, he had very little to do so filled his time with theatre, opera and football. He enjoyed them all immensely, but enjoyed the company of women even more. His impropriety was a well-known piece of gossip in government circles, but his wife pretended that it didn't happen and he made sure that she could continue to pretend that.

He was a corpulent man, thick jowls that hung from his broad face and a huge gut that filled his shirt. His hair was thinning and he combed it over in an attempt to hide the fact. He wore a tuxedo and a briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. His meeting had overrun as the Chair had arrived late, so he didn't have time to go home and deposit the contents in a safe. It was against protocol, but he refused to miss the opera for anything.

His eyes were deep set and flickered around the entrance to the opera house. It was a grand building, built two hundred years ago and dominated by stone carvings of all manner of creatures. He loved the opera and frequented the building as often as he could. Two wide staircases branched in an oval in the centre of the room and that's when he saw her as she made her way down the stairs.

She wore her blonde hair loose and it curled over her shoulders, framing her delicate features as she moved with grace down each step. She wore a crimson satin dress, the colour of blood, and it clung to every curve and contour of her body. The back hung loose, showing a tattoo of a phoenix rising from the ashes and, coupled with a scar on her cheek, gave her an air of alluring mystery.

Boris was enchanted. He always had a weakness for blondes and his wife had been struck with a sudden illness that evening. He was fat and ugly, but he had charm, manners, power and money. At least one of the four meant that he was successful with women. For such a big man, he moved with surprising agility and he rushed to meet her as the mysterious woman reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Apologies miss," he said in Russian accented English, his voice smooth and buttery. He had yet to learn Italian. "But it seems to me that you're heading in the wrong direction. Pray tell that you are not leaving. It would shame us all if you did." The mysterious woman smiled and gave an embarrassed shrug.

"I'm afraid that my friend is too ill to come. She has only just phoned me and I didn't want to watch the play alone." Boris held his hands open in a welcoming gesture, loving the lilt of her soft Welsh accent.

"I have a space in my private box seat. I insist that you join me." Behind him, Boris' guard rolled his eyes at Boris' lame attempt, but he knew that his client would be successful. He always was. Charm, manner, power and money.

"Are you sure?" the woman asked. "I don't want to intrude." Boris gave a throaty chuckle and offered his hand, delighted that his wife had fallen ill just as they were about to leave for the opera. This woman seemed so much more delectable.

"My name is Boris," he said. "I am the ambassador for Russia." The woman's eyes widened and he could see that his title had impressed her as did the suitcase that was cuffed to his wrist.

"Gwirionedd," she replied and the ambassador gave her a puzzled look. "It's Welsh," the woman said, by way of explanation.

"A beautiful name," he said. "What does it mean?" She set her green eyes that were freckled with brown to his and gave him a wry look.

"Truth," she said. They both laughed and he led her to his personal viewing box. The hall was huge and housed several thousand people. Gwirionedd whistled as she looked down on the stage below. They were less than fifty feet from where the actors would be and she was clearly impressed.

As Boris took his seat, he eyed the strange woman as she looked at the crowd below. She had a slender figure and walked with such grace that she almost seemed to glide over the floor. She seemed oblivious to the stares she earned from everyone she passed, blissfully unaware of the effect she had on others around her. Boris wasn't sure what he enjoyed watching the most. The woman's rear as she walked or the looks of envy he received as he walked arm in arm up the stairs and down the corridor to his booth.

"It's beautiful is it not?" he asked and Gwirionedd turned to look at him, a rapturous smile on her face.

"It's amazing," she replied. "Thank you for sharing this with me." He gave her a wide smile.

"Right now, I cannot think of anybody else I'd rather share this with." She gave him a sly look.

"Quite the smooth talker aren't you?" she said teasingly. Boris' bodyguard stifled his grin, caught only by Gwirionedd. Boris laughed, a genuine sound that filled the room.

"Years of politics," he replied. "A bad habit to be sure." Gwirionedd gave him a wry grin and pointed to a bottle of champagne and glasses laid out on the table. The bottle was in a bucket of ice, but she could see that it was expensive. More than he could afford on his salary certainly. And so was the private box.

"May I pour you a glass?" she asked and Boris nodded his head graciously.

"Please do," he said. "Opera is so much better with a glass of champagne in your hand. Would you care for some food?" Gwirionedd shook her head.

"Maybe after the show?" she said and Boris grinned. This was going better than he expected.

"I'd love to," he replied. Gwirionedd indicated the bodyguard who stood at the door, hands crossed, face fixed ahead.

"Is he allowed a drink?" The bodyguard turned his gaze to the woman and gave a faint turn of his head to indicate that he wouldn't be drinking. He stood next to the suitcase that Boris had removed as he'd sat down. That was definitely against protocol. Gwirionedd grabbed the bottle and asked him to open it, which he did with a quick twist and pull. Gwirionedd gave him her most dazzling smile as he passed the bottle back and he had to admit that he was a little smitten with her.

He resented Boris just a little more at that moment.

As he glanced at Boris, he missed Gwirionedd slipping some powder into Boris' champagne flute. It was the same powder that she had slipped his wife and also Boris' boss to make sure that he was late for the meeting. She filled the glasses and handed Boris his, the fine powder now dissolved. She chinked his glass in a silent toast and he returned the gesture.

The play started on time, Le Damnation de Faust, and Boris leaned over to explain what was happening, his honeyed tones soft as the players took to the stage. Gwirionedd was entranced by the performance and let Boris speak.

"Faust is one of my favourite opera's," he said. "Though it's not technically an opera, I always seek it out when it is staged as one. It's a story about love that can destroy a soul when pursued to the exclusion of everything else." He didn't notice as his companion suddenly stilled, a tension rushing through her as the words struck a chord. Gwirionedd managed to compose herself as he continued to speak, barely aware of her reaction as he watched the play below.

"Faust will sell his soul to the Devil for love," he saw, a hint of awe in his voice. He glanced sidelong as Gwirionedd spoke, able to do so in the secluded booth and not spoil the performance for others.

"I've read Goethe's book," she said. "It doesn't end well for Faust or Marguerite." Boris smiled.

"Berlioz changes the ending a little," he replied, laying a hand on her leg. "Not so grim perhaps." Gwirionedd gave a wistful look.

"If only we could write our own endings," she said and turned back to the opera. Boris watched her as the half wore on, enchanted by her beauty and enjoying every reaction to the story as Faust was coerced into selling his soul. She looked pensive at that point and he wondered at why that struck such a chord. His thoughts drifted then as he suddenly felt uncomfortable, his shirt too tight, his palms sweaty.

Through the corner of Gwirionedd's eye, she could see that Boris was starting to sweat, a pale sheen on his forehead. Minutes later, he raised a hand to his mouth and supressed a belch. Rather unsuccessfully. His eyes widened suddenly and he lay a hand on his stomach, turning to Gwirionedd with alacrity.

"Pray excuse me," he stammered and snapped a command to his bodyguard who hesitated a moment.

"Now!" yelled Boris and fell from his chair, the bodyguard rushing to pick him up.

"Toilet," gasped Boris and the bodyguard, visibly struggling under the weight of the obese man, dragged him from the booth to the nearest toilet.

Louise smiled and watched the play for a few more minutes. She checked her watch and judged that, by now, Boris would be playing the age old game of working out how to vomit and defecate at the same time without making too much of a mess. Glancing quickly around, she reached into her bra and pulled out a tiny earpiece. She flicked her long earring aside and put the earpiece in, the sound of static greeting her. She tapped the piece and Guy's voice came through, clear as a bell.

"Report," he said and Louise stood up slowly and casually and lifted Boris' briefcase from the floor. She slid it onto the table and appraised the lock. She reached to her hair and pulled out what looked like a hair pin but had another, more sinister purpose. It was a lock pick and she had the briefcase open in moments.

Inside, she saw several sheaths of paper and a thin laptop. She pulled it out and plugged in a tiny USB that she kept in the locket of her necklace.

"I'm in," she said, reaching for the champagne and pouring herself a glass.

Half an hour later a dishevelled Boris returned to the booth, ready to apologise for his absence. He'd had a torrid time in the toilets, but now felt much better, even if he didn't look it. He gave a disappointed sigh as he found the box empty. He looked around and saw his briefcase on the floor, exactly as he had left it. He'd forgotten all about it and his eyes widened at his lack of discipline.

He wasn't in the mood for any more opera and so picked up the briefcase, had his bodyguard cuff it to his wrist once more, and left the theatre. As he waddled down the steps, a figure in the shadows watched him from above.

He knew nothing of this. Nor did he know that his laptop had been compromised, his hidden hobby of trafficking now revealed to Louise and Guy. Louise, her expression hard, was getting closer to Jade.

Chapter 8 -- Cheryl.

Cheryl had been captive for two years and had long given up hope of escape. As she lay in bed, waiting for Maggi to enter the room and torment her, she reflected that this was the only part of the day when she could gather her thoughts, rebuild her defences and find her centre. She slept little, often made to lie in bed in humiliating clothes or gagged and plugged. She was always chained to the bed, sometimes the floor and she had grown used to that.

Maggi thought that she had won, that she had broken Cheryl so completely that she could only think of herself as Doll. To an extent that was true. Her body was broken. The thought of wearing heels, especially ballerina shoes would send ripples of pleasure through her. Just the idea of putting on her corset and frilly, sissy dresses could give her a ruined orgasm. Maggi's wand had conditioned her body perfectly. She still used it now and then, the vibrations rippling through her pink chastity device, causing her cock to try and stiffen, but its work was done long ago and she was merely making sure the conditioning stuck.

Her mind was sound though. Every morning, she would recite her name, whether mentally or verbally, she would cling to her name.

Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl.

She pictured herself at home with Mary, happy and wearing simple jeans and a top, a leather jacket complementing the outfit. She would imagine going to the cinema and would replay entire films in her mind, listen to albums and imagine that Mary was next to her, listening to the music and sharing a bottle of wine with her. She knew that Mary would have moved on, that she probably would have forgotten all about Cheryl, thinking that she had simply run away, abandoned Mary and made a new life without her.

She pushed such thoughts aside and focused on the image of Mary, beautiful as they walked to a nearby restaurant. She used the thought to strengthen her will and steel herself for whatever humiliating task Maggi had planned for her. She didn't have to wait long to find out as the scrape of a deadbolt being pulled through its protesting socket punctured her blissful fantasy.

"Good morning Doll," said Maggi as she entered. She wore a long black satin dress that had a high neck and long sleeves. The skirt reached to her ankle and caressed her figure. She was beautiful in a cold and detached way. She enjoyed the pain and humiliation she caused and Cheryl had often seen the lust in her eyes at her degradations.

The first time she had noticed it had been a week or so after she had woken from her feverish sleep two years ago. Ava Maria had played loudly through some speakers embedded into the wall of the room as Maggi had brought into the room a black dress and matching heels. She gave Cheryl a gentle smile and said that she deserved a break.

"You've spent the last week bound and gagged and plugged and you need to learn a very important lesson tonight. If you behave, if you do as we ask, there may yet be hope for you." She handed a nervous Cheryl the dress and asked her to get changed.

"Do you need any help with your make-up?" she asked, a look of concern on her face. Cheryl replied that she would be fine. Jackie had taught her how to make herself up and be presentable. Maggi gave a curt nod.

"Be ready in half an hour, we are going out."

With shaking hands, Cheryl picked up the dress and held it high. It was made of a shimmering fabric that sparkled in the light and she almost cried. Holding her emotions in check, she lay the dress down and struggled out of the maid uniform that she had been made to wear. Maggi had put a gag in her mouth with a dusting brush attached to the end and made her dust several of the larger rooms in the complex. It had been tiring work and she was exhausted, but the prospect of leaving the complex filled her with hope. There may be an opportunity to escape. Better yet, she wouldn't be bound and gagged. She may be able to convince someone to help her.

She took her time with her make-up, remembering the lessons that Jackie had given her and smiling at the thought. She, along with Mary, were the only happy memories that Cheryl now had. She gripped them tightly.

The dress was a little tight, but, with a corset to pinch her thin waist even more, she was able to zip up the side. It was sleeveless and the front rose above her false breasts so that she could keep them hidden. It had an A-line skirt and whipped down to her ankles on one side and up to her thigh on the other. Her heels were high and the make expensive, their grip firm yet soft. She slipped them on just as Maggi entered.

"You look amazing," she said and presented her with a box. "These are for you to wear tonight." She opened the box and all manner of expensive jewellery were presented to Cheryl. She reached in and took the necklace, lifting her hair so that Maggi could fasten the clasp at the back. The necklace had a large diamond in a golden clasp and a bracelet, watch and earrings matched the design. Cheryl put them on and felt a weight lift.

Maybe they've done their worst, thought Cheryl. Maybe they just wanted to show me who was boss.

She knew it was a falsehood even as the voice in her head told her it was probably a cruel trick.

Maggi led Cheryl through the maze of corridors and they arrived to the main entrance. Cheryl had never been here before and was impressed with the view as the Mediterranean stretched out before her, the sun setting low over the horizon and casting long shadows over the rippling ocean. They were on a high cliff, a gentle breeze coming from the ocean, and the view took her breath away.

"Where are we?" she asked. Maggi gave her a smile.

"Morocco," she said and told her to get in one of the cars that waited in line by the grand entrance. Cheryl, sad to step away from the refreshing wind, stepped into the closest car and Maggi followed her in. They waited in silence for a few minutes as Karl exited the building and made his way to the second car of the convoy. Once he was settled, the line of cars all drove off at a gentle speed. Maggi said nothing in the car, focusing on her iPad. She was clearly working, swiping through emails and replying to the urgent ones. Cheryl wondered what her role was in Karl's organisation. Maggi only ever spoke to her when she was taunting her or commanding her.

They eventually arrived at their destination, a complex much like Karl's and Cheryl's heart sank. She had hoped that they were going somewhere public. Maggi slid from her seat and asked Cheryl to follow. As they stepped from their car, Karl was being greeted with formality by a tall Italian man who clearly held Karl in the highest esteem. Karl gave him a friendly greeting and they walked side by side through their host's abode.

Unlike Karl's, this complex was suffused with warmth and life. Plants and wonderful carvings populated the living space and the guards were less obvious in their hostility. They entered a large banqueting hall and were asked to sit wherever they pleased. Karl and the Italian host sat at the top table and spent the next hour deep in conversation. Cheryl sat next to two Greek men and they spoke to her as if an equal.

She found herself relaxing and sipped from the glass of wine at her place. It had been a long time since she had drunk any alcohol and it went straight to her head, making her feel slightly dizzy. She'd not eaten much for the last week, Maggi only giving her the bare minimum, so the feast laid out before her was a panacea to her fevered stomach. She wolfed the first few bites in a most unlady like manner and laughed as the Greek to her right made a comment that he would have to eat quickly lest the food be gone.

The main course was replaced by a wide variety of fruits, cakes and pastries and Cheryl's eyes widened in delight. She was a little drunk and completely relaxed, barely noticing as Maggi approached her and leaned down to whisper in her ear.