Morton's Island Ch. 02

"He examined me minutely. My face, my tits --- God, were my nipples standing out --- my stomach, thighs.

'Zpread leg' he said.

I did. When he was done, d'you know what he said?"

"I'll never guess," Morton managed. "Tell me."

"He said

'Is Ok! Nice feet!'

I mean, fuck! I'm not vain. You know I have a nice body. 'Is Ok. Nice feet' I mean how's that supposed to make a girl feel?"

"Insecure, I would imagine," Morton said, with a hint of sarcasm.

Their entrees were consumed. Jane's monologue gained a head of steam, and was not even interrupted when the waiter appeared to clear away and take their dessert order.

"Crème brulée," she said without thinking. Morton nodded.

"So this guy stands now in front of me, looks me straight in the eye, unflinching, unblinking, really unnerving.

'Here is deal,' he says. 'We play game. Four hour. Me Dom, you Sub. I say, you do. Ok?'

Well I was beginning to find myself again, so I said to him,

'What kind of game?'

He shrugged.

'Just game. Dom, Sub. What game you zink?'

His arm appeared to invite a glance around the dungeon. I'd noticed the cross fixed to the wall, of course, now I noticed the chains, ropes and various other bits of apparatus lying around.

'Not vurry,' he said. 'I make you veel good.'"

"Well I was starting to worry. There was no one around, just him and me. The door was thick and the stairway long. He could do anything to me, I could scream my head off, no-one would hear. I tried to stall. I suppose this was to reassure myself, that this was not some lunatic who got his kicks from torturing women to death.

'You mentioned in your ad 'low rates'. What did that mean?', I stammered. 'Is not important' he replied. 'We play game. You like, you pay, maybe. Or maybe negst time. You not like, you not pay. Is up you.'"

"It was eerie. I had this feeling, just like when you wrote me that first check. D'you remember what you said?"

"Erm No! What did I say?" Morton managed.

"You said if I banked the check and didn't appear for our appointment then you would know I was not the right woman for you. 'A no-lose proposition', you said."

"Did I?"

"Yes! And it was just like that with Igor. 'You not like, you not pay'. As though it was a 'no lose proposition'."

Morton hesitated before muttering,

"Well I can see there may be some kind of analogy, but please continue. What happened then?"

"It was a bit like with the check. I banked it immediately --- I didn't tell you this, don't hold it against me --- but I was really of two minds whether or not to honor the dinner appointment. I tried to stall. But it didn't work, and, well, you know the rest."

"And with this... Igor?"

"The same. I tried to stall.

'But... but....', I stammered. 'What is my safe word. I don't know much about ... this stuff, but aren't I supposed to have a safe word, just in case ... you ... er ... go to far?'

'Is not necessary,' he replied, always in this casual monotone. 'We begin?' His arm stretched out pointing towards the cross on the wall."

Jane took a full swallow of wine and almost choked on it.

"Sorry!" she said, when the cough subsided. "It's not the wine. For sure it's not. This is delicious. What is it?"

Morton picked up the bottle and gave the label a casual glance.

"Chablis," he said, disinterestedly.

"It's quite potent, isn't it," Jane said. "I'm starting to feel a bit squiffy."

Morton refrained from pointing out that the bottle was almost empty. Jane had been swilling it down throughout her monologue.

"Do continue," Morton said. "Though we have plenty of time. Unless, that is, you have...?"

"No! No! My appointment is at 2pm tomorrow. No time constraint on my part."

"So you were saying?"

"Where was I?"

"The .. erm .. cross on the wall."

"Ah yes! I'd run out of excuses, but I couldn't get my feet to work. Igor said nothing for a while. Just stared into my eyes. Eventually he said,

'Lady, you vant, you not vant? Is same me. Door not lock.'

He turned his back on me then and strolled casually across the stone floor towards the cross on the wall. I guess I was still in some kind of trance because I did not even think of leaving. I mean, it would have been easy. He was not restraining me in any way. Grab my dress, slip into it, my shoes, open the door and leave. But it truly did not occur to me to do this. It was like you said before. Fate! I followed him and stood with my back to the cross. 'What do I do?' I asked."

The crème brulée arrived and Jane interrupted her monologue for the time it took her to gobble down her favorite dessert. Morton had ordered coffee, and had not forgotten a bottle of Cognac, Louis XIII, naturally.

"Two snifters," he said, casually. Then,

"Sorry, Jane, please do continue."

Jane needed no prompt. She had begun again even as Morton spoke.

"Igor said not one word more. He motioned. His instructions were clear. I followed them. Every movement he made was so slow, so deliberate, I had the illusion I was in control even when my ankles and wrists were fixed to that cross so that my limbs took on its shape. So far, he had not touched me, but he did now. He stood in front of me and began to stroke the nape of my neck, my tits, my stomach, my thighs. His fingers were so gentle, so amazingly gentle. He did this for quite a while, repeating, until my arousal was palpable. I was begging those fingers to brush my cunt, to rub my clit hood.... God! I could not imagine how any man could resist."

"But he didn't go there. Close, but not there. I almost said 'For God's sake, do my cunt, finish me off', but of course I didn't, though I swear it would only have taken a few strokes of those magic fingers to get me off. Instead, he disappeared, presumably to a dark corner, but not where I could see. He left me there, fixed to that cross for, well, it seemed like an hour but it was perhaps five minutes. When he returned there was something in his hand. A shock went through me when I realized it was a whip. He held it loosely in his left hand and used his right to stroke me again, concentrating on my tits, and rubbing my nipples between forefinger and thumb. He kept on doing this until it near drove me crazy. I could feel juice drooling out of my cunt and tried to hold it in by contracting my cunt walls, but this only drove it out. My cunt lips began to feel cool as the liquid evaporated. I was so focused on my cunt, it was a while before I registered that he had swung the whip. The tails landed on my left tit. It was weird. I'd always thought a whip landing on my tits would hurt, but the sensation was more like a caress."

"Of course, as he continued, it did begin to hurt. But not that much. The whip had many tails and they were broad and of soft leather. They did not bite into the flesh the way one imagines. The pain accumulated gradually, through multiple blows. When I looked down I was amazed at how red my tits looked, first one then the other, when he started on that. He used a forehand, backhand stroke, so that each blow landed on the one side, and the next one on the other side. He seemed to do this casually, as though it didn't interest, or arouse him at all. I suppose it didn't really. But you never know, with Igor. His expression was impassive no matter what he was doing to you."

Jane paused for breath. She looked at Morton, wondering what his reaction was. What did she expect? Surprise? Not there. Amazement, also not. Morton's expression was as blank as Igor's had been. That's because he did not know what to think.

"Please continue," he said, at length.

"You're not bored?"

"By no means."

"Ok then. But tell me if you get bored, because I can expound on this at any length. In fact, it's good to talk to someone about it. This is the first time, you know, that I've mentioned it to a soul."

"I'm honored," Morton said. "Please do continue."

"Ok, but only if you insist."

Morton poured Cognac reverently into Jane's snifter, then his. He swirled the golden liquid around in the glass.

"I do insist," he said.

"OK," Jane replied, taking a sip.

"So Igor keeps this going for an age and a day. And my tits are getting seriously sore. And I begin to recall that I have no safe word. He starts putting some real force behind the strokes. I could feel my tits recoiling as the whip tails struck them, forehand, backhand. The blows came harder and harder, and their frequency increased until the pain was scarcely bearable. My tits felt like they were on fire and I could see looking down that they were now brick red, even though my eyes had begun to mist up, my breathing had grown irregular. I was sucking air now, and I could feel my stomach pull in every time the lashes landed. It was all I could do not to cry out my agony, but somehow I managed to resist until it reached a point where I could no longer."

"But just before I gave in and screamed out for Igor to stop, he did. I swear, one more blow would have been enough. He seemed to sense I was at my limit and retired again and left me there, tits glowing like lamps, aflame, my breathing heavy and intermittent. He just left me there, head hanging, for ages. It took that long for me to regain composure. But I did, and the fire in my tits began slowly to evolve into a mere ache."

"Then he was back again. Same whip, but now applied to my stomach. The same sequence, forehand, backhand. Before long I was fighting again for air. My stomach began to catch fire, a yell welled up in me. But again he pre-empted it and stopped just as I was on the point of yielding. He disappeared. But I knew he'd be back, and I had a fair idea where the whip would land next."

"And of course, it did. My legs were spread wide, my thighs exposed. He did them as he'd done my breasts, one by one, and he kept going, steadily, increasing the force of the strokes, until my legs began to buckle and only the restraints that held my wrists prevented me from crumbling to the floor."

"By now I'd been too preoccupied trying to maintain composure to think about my cunt. So it was a shock when the whipping suddenly stopped and fingers probed between my legs. I swear I came instantly, my body writhing this way and that in its constraints. I came again, and again as his fingers stroked my cunt, darted inside, then out and up to my clit. He must have given me five or six orgasms before his fingers withdrew. My entire body was shaking from the sheer force of orgasm. My thighs quivered. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life."

Jane paused, took another sip of Cognac, and eyed Morton.

"It was just like you said. A new sensation. I mean, one thinks an orgasm is an orgasm, but it isn't true. I had thousands with you, and I thought it could not get any better than that. And it wasn't, Morton, don't be offended. It was not better. I haven't forgotten. It was just a different sensation."

"I know what you mean, Jane. And I did tell you this, I think."

"You may have done, Morton, but at that time I was not receptive. I think it was because I resented that what we had going was not enough, for you. Now, though, I know exactly what you meant. New sensations. Marvelous new sensations."

"And it didn't stop there. He left me tied to that cross for an age. It seemed like hours, again, but I suppose it may have been ten minutes or so. When he eventually did re-appear, and began to free me from the restraints, I wanted to thank him, to kiss him, to express some kind of endearment. But this he did not seem to need, or want. Just went about the task of freeing me as though I were a machine. That made me resentful, but he didn't give me time to brood. In no time flat, he'd moved me over to some kind of trellis, or horse, or whatever it was, spread me over it with my stomach resting on soft material, my tits hanging down, and tied my wrists to the floor. Then he spread my thighs and applied restraints to my ankles. Always with this deliberateness, lack of haste, that was beginning to annoy me."

"Get on with it, I was saying to myself, but when he did I regretted it immediately. The whip he used on my tits, stomach and thighs had soft leather tails. The one he used on my arse was different. Hard leather, and knotted. Even the lightest of blows hurt like hell, and this time he didn't spend so much time softening me up. He laid that thing on my arse, switching from cheek to cheek, and to the backs of my thighs until I could hold it in no longer. A particularly vicious blow elicited a scream, and every blow thereafter another. My body bucked over that damn horse, but there was nothing I could do to escape."

"I suppose in the end I must have sort of blacked out because when I came to there was this buzzing sound, and a sensation in my cunt I had never felt before. Something pressed into it, vibrating, then it receded, then returned somewhere else. And my body was responding. I'd thought I was done with orgasm, but how wrong can a girl get. That thing --- he showed it to me later, a fancy vibrator with a round head on a pivot --- teased my cunt, my clit even the cleft of my arse. I felt the orgasm build --- he did it very well, by the way. Quite the artiste."

"I can imagine."

Jane missed entirely Morton's tone of sarcasm.

"When it blew, it was a beauty, and stop? Didn't occur to him. Just kept on pressing that damn vibrator into my cunt, moving it about, pushing its head between my cunt lips, pressing against my clit. I came again, and again.... To tell the truth, I lost count. It was like with us, when we'd been fucking for hours. It was just one continuous orgasm that went on and on until my body went on strike."

Jane took a hasty sip of Cognac before resuming.

"I was vaguely aware that he'd released me from the constraints and eased my body back into some semblance of the vertical. He led me across to a bench by the door and sat me down. He handed me my dress. Four hours already?

'You like?' he said, nonchalantly.

I could not speak. I tried to nod and I suppose he got the message. Well, only an idiot would not know I'd come in no trumps, many times. And Igor is no idiot, that's for sure. I'd stuck some money in a pocket in my dress and rummaged around for this. I handed it to him, mumbling something like 'Hope that's enough.' He didn't look at it, just set it aside.

'Negst time is bedder, ok?'

Better!? Holy Moses!"

"When I got home, I threw off my dress with every intention of heading for the shower. Instead, I lay on the bed, opened my thighs and began to frig myself off. I counted three, each one more intense than its predecessor, then passed out. I suppose you could say I frigged myself to total exhaustion. When I awoke it was noon next day. And I was already regretting that we'd agreed to meet same time same place the following week. Why not tomorrow? I thought. Or, for Christ's sake, today! It was that intense, that exhilarating."

Morton was looking pensive. He swirled Cognac around in his glass, sniffed its aroma then raised the glass to his lips and took an appreciative sip.

"Hell! Telling you that has made me .... Look, are you sure...?"

"What?"

"You want only ... er ... dinner?"

"Quite sure, Jane."

"I mean, I know ..... on the phone, I was a bit off-putting, but....."

"I'm quite sure, Jane," Morton interrupted. "My mind is on other things, as I believe you know."

Jane groaned inwardly. Beneath her dress was only her, and she was sure the dress was already stained with juice that had drooled out of her as she recounted that initial meeting with Igor.

"But the story does not end there, Jane," Morton was saying. "Please do continue."

"There isn't really much to say. I found out, of course, what he meant by 'bedder'. Using a thin tailed whip on my nipples and a thicker one to flog my cunt, that's what. Jesus! How that hurt. I thought I'd die. But the orgasms that followed ... Well, I don't need to tell you. New sensations."

Morton maintained silence, so Jane continued.

"We have a session now at least twice a week. No two are the same. Igor has a fertile imagination when it comes to tying me up and laying into me. My favorite so far is the 'ballerina position'. I stand on one leg with the other restrained so the two make a vertical line. Dear oh dear, does one feel exposed. He uses every which kind of flogger on my thighs and my cunt and he can keep it going for hours --- by now I can take much more than I could on that first meeting -- before plunging his fingers into my cunt and finger fucking me until I can't stand it any more. Then he'll lie me on that horse, facing upwards, tie my hands and legs so my cunt is fully exposed, beat the hell out of it, and get to work with that vibrator. Holy Moses! I come instantly, and it just does not stop --- until I pass out."

Over Morton's silence, Jane continued, in a matter--of-fact tone,

"I can handle six hour sessions now and my next goal is eight, three times a week. God knows if my cunt can stand it ---- that gets the lion's share of the whip, I can tell you --- but so far so good."

Jane looked across at Morton, her eyes sparkling.

His eyes were down. He said nothing.

"I do remember what I told you, Morton," Jane continued. "No way anyone was getting near my cunt with a whip, right? I did mean it then. But now, well I can't seem to get enough. Igor's very inventive, you know, and attentive. He soon stopped wasting time on my arse, and, well, most of me actually. I suppose he began there to start me off, warm me up. Maybe to find out what turned me on most. And he sure did that. He starts straight out on my nipples. MiGod! He has this whip with a long, very thin tail. It whistles as he swings it through the air, and I brace myself in anticipation, thrusting out the nipple it's going to land on. I have to be still because if that thing were to land anywhere else on my tit, it would cut the damn thing right through, I swear. Cheez, does it ever hurt. He just goes on and on, ignoring my screams, switching from one nipple to the other, ten lashes apiece, then twenty. He'll stop, I know, when I pull back. It's what my head tells me to do, but my body has a will of its own. My tits thrust out more and more, as if dragged by my nipples. It's never them that gives way, but some other part of me. My legs maybe, or my lungs get tired catching breath between blows. Quite amazing, really. I never would have believed it possible to take such pain and -- well -- enjoy it. In a weird kind of way."

Jane paused. Morton was twirling Cognac in his snifter. He seemed pensive. That's because he was. He said nothing. So Jane continued. She was enjoying herself. Her arousal was palpable. Sharp points threatened to break through the fabric of her dress. Her thighs closed and opened. Her eyes shone.

"When he's done with my nipples, he leaves me panting for quite a while. Then maybe he'll put me into the ballerina position with my leg held up by an ankle restraint and my body resting on a bench --- so it don't get tired so easily. He'll wipe off my cunt with a towel --- he has to do this fairly often so the juice does not stain his lash --- and gets going, usually with a thick thong-like whip that bites into my cunt lips, softly at first, then harder and harder as they spread out and swell. Of course, I'm screaming my head off by now, but he takes no notice. Just keeps on thwacking away at my cunt. God knows what it looks like by the time he gets done."

Jane paused. She wondered what Morton was thinking. Whatever this was, there was no sign of it on his face. He sipped his Cognac impassively.

"I've no idea how long anything lasts in that dungeon. Time has no meaning. By now, every organ in my entire body is forgotten except the raging pain in my cunt. I'm close to passing out before he gives it a breather, though that's not really the sensation. It's more a kind of trance, a plateau, an acceptance that this is the way you want to be. It does seem to be the way my cunt wants to be, because it's straining to begin the next round even as the rest of me is heaving and catching breath from the last one. He wipes me off and gets going with another whip, not very thin, but thinner, drawing it briefly along the crack between my cunt lips before swinging it. He'll start so the thicker part of the whip's tail strikes the back side of my cunt while the tip strikes my arsehole. A whetting of the appetite, I suppose. Slowly the lash moves forward, each blow a bit harder than the previous one until the thick part is striking right on the tip of my clit hood and the tail whips round into my vagina. Of course, I'm screaming blue murder by now and my cunt is pouring out juice like a tap. He just wipes me off and keeps on going. On and on. As I said, you lose all sense of time, but I'd be surprised if it's less than an hour, maybe more. Seems to me longer each session. Maybe because my cunt get's hardened. What's the word you used? 'Trained'?"