Stephanie's Revenge (3 page)

The
commissionaire ran to open the door of her car. Perhaps as she
slipped into the driving seat and he ogled her legs, he could see
she was now totally naked under the dress. She could not tell and
did not care.

The rest of
the day passed quickly. She had arranged to meet an estate agent at
her flat to put it on the market. She went to see her solicitor and
gave him power of attorney to sell the flat and store her
furniture. She took a huge box of clothes and trinkets to the local
charity shop and discovered there was almost nothing of her own she
wanted to take to the castle. It was, after all, a new life.

By five
o'clock she was back at Heathrow. The chauffeur was waiting at the
kerb, seemingly in the exact position she had left him.

Thirty minutes
later the Learjet took off on course for Lake Trasimeno. Devlin had
constructed a private airstrip five minutes' drive from the
lake.

On board the
jet Stephanie asked Susie, the flight attendant, to fix her a very
dry martini with a twist of lemon, while she showered in the
plane's lavish bathroom. Towelling herself dry, she slipped on a
white satin robe that hung on the bathroom door, and went back into
the main cabin. Susie served her drink, pouring it from a silver
cocktail shaker into a triangular martini glass. Stephanie sat back
in one of the large leather armchairs and sipped at the ice-cold
liquid sticking viscously to the sides of the glass.

She smiled to
herself. With Devlin and the castle there were so many firsts in
her life: the first time she had been in a private plane, the first
time in a Cadillac, the first time she'd driven a big Mercedes and
now the first time she had sat naked in a robe sipping a martini at
thirty thousand feet.

It was
certainly a new life.

The slave
arrived with her breakfast, knocking tentatively on the frame of
the open terrace doors. Stephanie got up from the lounger, still
naked, and indicated for him to come forward and put the tray on
the white cast-iron table. Normally, breakfast would have been
served by one of the white-linen-coated servants who were paid to
work in the castle kitchens. Stephanie, however, had decided she
wanted her breakfast brought up by one of the slaves - a different
slave every day, in rotation. In this way, she could get to know
each individually, get to know who was likely to make trouble and
who she could rely on.

Of course, the
change had another advantage. It meant there was someone on hand
should Stephanie feel the need for some sexual service first thing
in the morning.

The change had
not pleased Bruno, Devlin's chatelaine; the keeper of cellar keys.
The mute servant had, prior to Stephanie's arrival, been given the
sole charge of the cellars and their occupants. But Devlin had made
it clear to him that Stephanie was now in charge, that he must do
as she ordered and that, if he didn't like it, he would have to go.
Since Bruno was born on the island and had never been across to the
mainland, even for a day, he accepted the decision - though with
all the bad grace his body language and dark hooded eyes could
command.

This morning,
the slave was male. He put the large tray down on the table. It was
piled with a basket of croissants and brioche, a bowl of fruit,
slices of melon grown on the island, orange juice the colour of
blood, and a silver pot of coffee, all displayed on a white linen
cloth with a matching linen napkin on top of which was a small
yellow rose. The man turned to leave.

'I didn't tell
you to go. Pour the coffee,' Stephanie said imperiously. The man
was about thirty, with strong well-defined muscles and not an inch
of fat on his body. As with all the male slaves, his genitals were
covered with a black leather pouch stretched over a hard metal
frame and chained like a G-string around his waist.

The man
immediately picked up the coffee pot and poured the hot black
liquid into the delicate white porcelain cup. Stephanie came to
stand beside him. She picked up the blood-red orange juice from the
tray and sipped it. She could see the slave was trying not to look
at her, trying not to feel her naked body next to his. The hard
shell of the leather pouch allowed no room for expansion; getting
an erection was an uncomfortable experience.

Stephanie sat at the table and crossed her legs. The man
waited for instructions. All the slaves wore small metal chains
around their necks; each bore a metal disc engraved with a name.
This disc, hanging on the man's hairless chest, was engraved
Frank
. When Stephanie had
come to the castle the names had all been false. Her orders had
ensured that they would now be real, their real Christian
names.

'Frank?'

'Yes,
madam?'

'I haven't
seen you before, have I?'

'Yes,
madam.'

'Have I?'

'In the
cellars, madam.'

'But you
haven't been up here in my bedroom before, have you?'

'No,
madam.'

'So you
haven't been here long.'

'Two weeks,
madam.'

'Look at me,
Frank,' she said.

'Yes,
madam.'

His eyes
reluctantly looked at Stephanie's face: her right, dark brown eyes;
her hair, nearly dry now, falling on to her finely boned shoulders;
her perfectly symmetrical mouth and pursed, ripe lips; her high
cheekbones and delicate, quite sharp nose. Deliberately and very
slowly, she licked her lips with the tip of her very pink
tongue.

'Look at my
body,' she ordered.

'Please,
madam...'

But he obeyed.
It was too late, anyway. His erection was already pushing against
the metal of the pouch. He looked down at her firm breasts, the
nipples not at all hard, down into her lap where her crossed legs
showed only a neat triangle of tight black curls. He moaned with
the pain as his cock tried to swell further and couldn't. It was
agony.

Stephanie
tired of the game.

'You may go,'
she said, standing up and pulling her white towelling robe back
around her body.

The slave
shuffled out of the room, his discomfort obvious in the difficulty
he had walking.

Stephanie
sipped at the coffee and buttered a brioche which she ate hungrily.
As she began to think of what she would wear, the phone rang. She
walked into the bedroom to answer it, and recognised Devlin's voice
immediately.

'Good news,'
he said. Devlin was in London on business, but his voice sounded as
though he were downstairs.

'What?' she
asked.

'Gianni's back
in Rome. I just heard today.'

'Really?'
Stephanie felt a surge of excitement.

'He got back
yesterday. I've just spoken to him on some pretext. He'll be there
for at least a week.'

'Perfect.'

'I'll send the
plane back so you can go this afternoon. You're booked into a suite
at the Excelsior. I won't be back for at least three days, so go
and enjoy yourself. You've got all the credit cards now. If you go
into the safe in my office there's Swiss Francs if you want to take
some cash. Do some shopping...'

'I do need
some clothes. None of my stuff from London is really—'

'Get whatever
you want,' Devlin said. 'Oh, and apparently, if you want to catch
Gianni alone, tomorrow is the best night. His wife always plays
bridge on Tuesday night. Never misses.'

'How did you
find that out?'

'I've had her
followed.'

'You think of
everything.'

'I try. The
plane will be ready about two. I'll get the car to pick you up at
the airport.'

Stephanie was
already making her plans. She could get to the hotel this
afternoon, spend Tuesday shopping and then, on Tuesday night, pay
her long-awaited visit to Giancarlo Gianni. At last!

The tone of
Devlin's voice changed. 'Have you missed me?' he asked.

'What are you
doing now?' Stephanie ignored his question deliberately.

'Getting
dressed.'

'What are you
wearing?'

'Socks, pants,
my shirt...'

She could hear
another change of tone, a slight breathlessness.

'Take your
shirt off again, Devlin,' she ordered, her voice hard and
imperious. She could picture him in his hotel suite; his squat,
awkwardly-shaped body, his bulbous nose and pock-marked face making
him appear brutish and ugly. She could imagine his huge, outsized
fingers - each the size of a banana - struggling with the buttons
of the shirt. 'Hurry up,' she said.

She heard a
rustle of material.

'I've done
it,' he announced.

Stephanie
slipped out of the towelling robe and lay on the bed, the silk
sheets cold against her sun-warmed body.

'Stephanie,
are you still there?'

'Yes. I'm
here. I'm naked now, Devlin. Lying on my bed naked.'

'Are you?'

'You should be
here, shouldn't you?'

'Yes...' His
voice was husky.

'Do you know,
Devlin,' she said, stretching out on the bed, feeling the first
flush of sexual excitement heating her blood, 'I can imagine that
you're here now. What should I have you do to me?'

'I'd do
anything, anything you want.'

'Of course you
would.' She ran her hand down into her thick, wiry pubic hair. The
image of Devlin's enormous gnarled and veined cock, so big her cunt
could not contain it, was vivid. How many times it had driven her
to distraction, how many times her orgasm had broken over it like
waves crashing on a huge rock. The first time seemed a long time
ago now, in the days before she had realised her sexual potential:
before Martin, before she had discovered another world of sex, a
world of fantasy and reality, a world she had come to inhabit,
enjoy and ultimately, here in the castle, a world she had come to
control.

'So what would
I have you do, Devlin? Should I have you lick me, Devlin? Or wank
me? Should I have you spunk over my tits?' Her fingers found her
cunt lips and she pushed two as deep into her cunt as they would
go. There was no resistance. She was not surprised that her body
had responded to the images her mind was dwelling on. The first
time Devlin had put that cock inside her, that was a feeling she
would never forget. She could conjure it up like the genie in the
lamp. An exact picture of where, when and how. She, bent over in
his bedroom, facing an oil painting, a huge canvas dominated by a
woman with a crimson vulva. In those days Devlin could only get an
erection if he looked at the painting. Things were very different
now.

She started to
move her fingers inside her cunt, as deep inside as they would go,
scissoring them apart, pushing against the elastic, satiny, wet
walls.

'You didn't
answer me, Devlin,' she said sharply, the authority in her voice
giving her a thrill of pleasure.

'I don't
know.'

'Are you
erect?'

'Yes.'

'Fully
erect?'

'Yes. You've
made me hard.'

'Are you
touching yourself?'

'Yes.'

'I didn't give
you permission to do that, did I, Devlin?'

'No.'

'No what?'

'No,
mistress.'

'But since
you've started you'd better wank for me right now, hadn't you? If
you were here I'd make you wank for me. Make you come all over my
tits. Are you wanking?'

'Yes,
mistress.'

'I've got my
fingers in my cunt, Devlin. It's so wet. My clitoris is all
swollen. It feels so good.'

'Yes,
mistress.'

'You are not
to come until I tell you to.'

'No,
mistress.'

Stephanie
moved her fingers out of her cunt and on to her clitoris. She
pressed it hard down against her pubic bone and gasped at the
sensation. She could hear Devlin's excitement, hear little
exhalations of breath, little 'ahs' and 'ums'. She could imagine
Devlin's huge hand circling his cock. When she wanked him her hand
barely covered a third of its length. But in his hand, with his
banana-sized fingers making a fist like an American baseball mitt,
the cock all but disappeared.

'Do you
remember when I had Venetia beat you, Devlin? Beat you while you
fucked me?'

'Yes,
mistress.' He would never forget it.

'I've been
thinking of what I'm going to do to you next, Devlin. When you get
back.'

'Oh...'
Devlin's moan of pleasure was involuntary.

'Have you
come?' Stephanie barked.

'No mistress,
but I want to. Please let me.'

'Not yet. You
have to wait.'

'Please let
me,' he whispered.

'I'd love to
have that cock inside me now. I'd squeeze every drop of juice out
of it...'

'Please...'

'I'm wanking,
Devlin. I'm stretched out naked on the bed. I've got my legs wide
apart, so wide, so open. You should be here to lick me, service me.
I have to do it myself...' She was rubbing her clitoris in little
circles, knowing she was going to make herself come. She would have
loved to pinch her nipples with her other hand, but she had to hold
the phone to her ear.

'Please...'

She felt her
orgasm explode. It surprised her. She thought she could keep it at
bay for longer, hold it back, torment herself with anticipation.
But her body had other ideas; it had tricked her, found a way
through her defences, taken its own pleasure, her nerves racked
with sensation.

Devlin heard
her long, low gasp for pleasure.

'Please...'
But it was too late to ask permission. His spunk jetted from his
cock, hot wet spunk flowing over his fingers like lava from a
volcano.

For a moment
the phone-line transmitted nothing but little mewls and whimpers of
contentment from both parties.

Devlin was the
first to speak. 'Stephanie. Darling. You are so wonderful. You do
such things to me. Such wonderful things.'