The Diaries of Syra Bond Page 8

  ‘In the same way that you described yourself sitting in the shower,’ he said.

  He passed me the razor and told me first to shave my pubic hair and then to touch myself. He would judge whether what I had written was a fantasy according to how much pleasure I expressed.

  My pubic hair had barely grown back from the last time he told me to shave. I pressed my ankles as hard as I could against the steel legs of the chair and began passing the blade over my mound. I was not afraid. I knew what I had written was true, and I knew, as I felt the dull pain of the steel legs against my ankles and the bite of the razor against my hairs, that it would not be long before he was convinced I had found the experience incredibly sensual.

  He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, leaning slightly forward in the chair and staring down between my legs. He watched my fingers as I drew them up between my shaved crack, opening the outer lips of my sex and exposing the glistening pink inner flesh. I saw him lick his lips like a hungry wolf as I fondled my freshly shaved labial lips.

  ‘You wrote that word again more than once,’ he accused me abruptly. ‘Cunt.’ Then he got up and left and I made myself come before carrying on with my work.

  I do not quite remember how I got from the balcony into the small bed I found myself in the following morning. When I woke up I did not know where I was, then all of a sudden, like an explosion in my brain, it came back to me and I pressed my face deep into the pillow. All I could hear was my heart beating and the low snuffling sound of my breathing against the soft pillow; the rest of the world was silent. I felt cut off from everything, as if there was only me, and all the things I could see, touch, hear and smell were merely in my head, an incredibly vivid sensual dream. It was as if my mind had become detached from reality. I felt panicky, and sat up hoping sudden physical movement would put things right. My head ached as if I had drunk too much alcohol. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, sniffing. I could not remember having a single drink. I got out of bed, ran to the door and grabbed the handle. It turned easily and the door opened. I had feared it would be locked. I walked out naked into the lower terrace of Galen’s house, and looking up instinctively, I saw him leaning over the balustrade at the top of the spiral staircase.

  ‘Syra, my pet, you’re awake. Good. Come up for something to eat.’

  I knew I was naked and for a second did not know what to do - go back and find something to wear or ignore my embarrassment. Being perfectly honest with myself, I acknowledged the latter scenario was truly my only option, and I began walking up the stairs. He took my hand for the last two steps, and I nodded my thanks to him for the gracious gesture. Everything seemed so normal and matter-of-fact this morning that I dared to smile at him as he let go of my hand. ‘What shall I eat for breakfast?’ I asked.

  ‘Very little,’ he replied, returning my smile as if my question amused him. ‘Perhaps some orange juice, which is very fresh, and a small bread roll with olives. You can dip the bread into some warm olive oil. You will enjoy it.’

  I sat down on one of the chrome chairs. It was cold against my naked bottom, and I liked that. I picked up the small bread roll laid out on a white napkin and dipped it into a bowl of olive oil sitting in the centre of the table. The silky, honey-coloured oil dripped from the bread as I lifted it away, soaking it through and making it even more soft and succulent. I held it above my mouth, allowing several drops of oil to fall onto my tongue before slipping it between my lips. I sucked on it, and the saturated dough dissolved on my tongue. It was warm and chewy and the oil, although not bitter, possessed an astringency that made me wince slightly. I dipped the rest of the bread in the bowl again and felt a warm shiny glow coating my lips. A trickle of oil ran down my chin and I picked up the napkin to rub it away, but I looked at Galen, knowing I should defer to his opinion before I did anything, and he shook his head. So I placed the napkin back on the table and dipped the bread in the glistening pool between us. A glint of reflected sunlight caught the sharply cut facets of the crystal bowl and shone through the golden oil. I felt I wanted to bathe my naked body in it, to cover myself with it and drink it, to let it soak between my legs until I dissolved in a deep, warm orgasm. I took another bite of sopping bread and felt a rush of excitement deep within my pelvis.

  ‘Where’s Eve?’ I asked casually.

  ‘She is here,’ Galen replied as the pet walked up behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders.

  She stared past me over the balcony into the pastel-blue sky. She seemed lost in thought, detached and preoccupied with something more important than me. She blinked swiftly a few times as though trying to rouse herself, and then, refreshed by her effort, finally looked at me. Suddenly I felt self-conscious of the oil running down my chin. I bent my head to hide it, and a bead of oil dripped between my breasts. She smiled a thin smile, and walking past me draped her long fingers against the oil on my chest, touching it fleetingly as an insect might land on the surface of a pond. I wanted her hand to move down to caress my stomach and cradle my shaved cunt, but she moved past me and walked out onto the balcony. I ate the last bit of oil-soaked bread and studied her as though she was an icon set against the sky to warn pilgrims of the dangers of the journey ahead.

  She wore a loose-fitting, long red dress with a slit up the front ending high between her slender thighs. The neck was cut low in a deep V and the upper halves of the firm mounds of her breasts were exposed. The material of her dress was thin, and as she stood against the light I saw that apart from a tight thong she wore nothing beneath it. The long fingernails she clearly obsessed over were painted red and she wore a gold ring on her right forefinger. Her toenails were painted the same vivid bloody colour and she wore sandals that were merely flat soles tied to her feet with crossed red laces. Her bearing was one of peaceful stillness, of pure self-containment and absorption. I felt uncomfortably aware of my nakedness looking at her, and wanted to hide myself.

  ‘We must get you ready to go out,’ Galen announced, rising. ‘It will be dark soon.’

  I frowned in confusion. ‘But it’s only morning...’

  ‘Syra, my pet, you have been asleep all day.’

  I looked towards Eve and she sneered back at me over her shoulder as though I was beneath contempt. I looked out over the balcony and saw the deep red of the setting sun approaching the misty blue line of the horizon. I felt ridiculous and my cheeks flushed with the burning red of humiliation.

  Galen led me back down the spiral staircase into the bedroom where I slept for so long, and Eve followed. He opened a wardrobe built into the wall and ran his hand across a range of dresses on hangers. I rushed forward; keen to see the clothes and even more keen to cover myself up.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he scolded mildly. ‘We must be careful about what you wear. We are to meet two of my friends this evening. Eve will dress you. Do exactly as she says.’

  The pet chose everything for me and laid it out on the unmade bed. Then she led me to the shower and watched while I cleaned myself. She brought some white nail varnish and told me to paint my toenails. I sat on the floor, pulling my feet up one by one onto the top of my thighs, and did as she said. Then she led me back into the bedroom and told me to get dressed in the clothes she had selected for me.

  As I put them on I felt more embarrassed than I had before, as if the act of concealing it heightened my nakedness. Apparently she had decided I would not wear a bra or panties. I pulled on the white leggings, which were as thin and sheer as tights. The smooth elastic material drew up tightly around my buttocks and the seam at the crotch pulled into the fleshy crack between my legs. I lifted my feet one at a time onto the edge of the bed and slipped on the white strap sandals with built up heels. They fitted perfectly and the smooth leather soles felt cool against the bottoms of my feet. I paraded around the room wearing only the leggings and sandals and Eve nodded her approval. I pulled on a loose red blouse that
buttoned down the front and then painted my fingernails white. There was an awkward few minutes of silence while we waited for the polish to dry. The pet perched on the edge of the mattress studying her own immaculate fingernails while I stood balancing on my new high-heels, getting the feel for them. Finally, I judged it safe to pull on a pair of elbow-length white satin gloves.

  There were no mirrors in the room, but as we crossed the downstairs hall I glimpsed myself in the shiny surface of a large chrome cupboard. I tilted back my head slightly as I saw my reflection, and sensed the pet sneering at me.

  ‘Eve is not coming,’ Galen informed me as he took my arm and turned his back on her indifferently. ‘Let us go. We can walk from here. You will enjoy the lively nightlife, I’m sure.’

  He led me through the bustling narrow streets, and although there was still some light in the sky it paled in comparison to the warm illumination flowing like liquid gold from every cafe, bar and restaurant we passed. Every so often someone acknowledged Galen with a nod or an uplifted hand and I felt like a favoured lover, my clothes radiant in the pools of light we walked between as if sailing from island to island in a dark sea. And the further we went, the more I wanted him to test my innate wickedness.

  Every time we passed the corner of an unlit alley, I thought, I hoped and I dreaded he would ask me to enter it and wait in the seedy darkness. I imagined how I would stand in the alley, my heart pounding, until a group of men sent by my master arrived and threw me roughly to the ground. He would watch from the entrance of the alley as the men held me down and thrust their hard cocks into my pussy one after the other, violently banging me and pulling out only when they were ready to spray their hot semen all over my face. Then they would all fuck me again, this time coming in my mouth. When they finally got bored with me, they would pull me to my feet and make me bend over so they could beat me. I imagined how hard they would beat me and how painful the lash of the leather belt would be, or the cruel stinging cut of a cane. In the end they would shove me down onto the ground again and leave me, covered in their sticky semen, my white leggings ripped to shreds and my red blouse crumpled around me like dried blood. Galen would come to me finally and throw me a handkerchief to wipe my face, and I would feel degraded and ashamed as he called me a whore and a slut. When he had finished humiliating me with his words, I would crawl over to him on my hands and knees and beg him to bring me more men so it could happen all over again. He would call me an insatiable slut, but he would instruct me to wait and soon return with more men. I imagined it would be sunrise before he decided I had been sufficiently used and humiliated, and as it began to grow light he would drag me into the main square, force me onto all fours, and publicly beat me across the buttocks until I passed out from exhaustion and ecstasy...

  We passed through a dark entrance and entered a smoke-filled club with a low ceiling. A slim young woman dressed in light-blue shorts and a sleeveless white vest showing off her deep cleavage escorted us between a crush of tables.

  ‘Now, Syra my pet, I do not want you to say anything. No matter what happens, you must not speak again until I tell you to do so.’

  The young woman in shorts showed us to a table where two men were already sitting. One of them was attractive, his dark tan a stunning contrast to his silver hair. The other man was dark, square-jawed and swarthy, and was wearing a red and white Hawaiian shirt. I could scarcely believe it, but he was most definitely the man who watched me masturbating from the balcony and the man I saw at the bullring watching the blonde girl with the short dress. I hung my head, dreading he might say something about having seen me before. Both men were clearly Spaniards, but they greeted Galen in English. They shook hands with him, but ignored me. Obviously they had no intention of acknowledging me unless Galen introduced me, and I was relieved to think that perhaps the man in the Hawaiian shirt did not recognise me.

  ‘This, my friends,’ Galen said at last, ‘is Syra. You may not have realised she was here, she has been so silent.’

  Both men laughed, and the one in the Hawaiian shirt glared at me knowingly.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ my new master went on. ‘It seems a pity to exclude her from our conversation.’

  The man with the light hair was introduced first. Gonzalo took my gloved hand in his and kissed it gallantly, and I was excited by my own silent and sophisticated nod of acknowledgement. But when the man from the balcony lifted my hand to his lips, he squeezed my fingers painfully and I knew he recognised me.

  ‘You have embarrassed her, Juan Carlos,’ Gonzalo accused his companion, observing my deep blush.

  Juan Carlos said nothing, but merely smiled and kissed my hand again before releasing it.

  They both seemed increasingly amused by the fact that I did not speak. As I nodded to each of them silently, the feeling of detachment I derived from my silence continued to excite me. I nodded like a doll, like a puppet on a string, and then sat listening to their conversation with wide, curious eyes.

  ‘No, my friends,’ Galen was saying, ‘Espartaco will no longer receive the benefit of approved bulls.’

  ‘Why is this, Galen?’ Gonzalo asked. ‘Surely you have not tired of Espartaco’s victories? Have we not all profited from his courage and daring?’

  ‘Yes, my dear Gonzalo, we have all profited well from his victories, but his courage and daring have not been exposed to the sort of challenges he thinks they have. I warned you at the beginning there would be a point at which I would have to let my experiment face his fear alone. Now, my friends, is the time.’

  ‘As long as there is someone else who can benefit from bulls drugged into submission, then I suppose it does not matter,’ Gonzalo said uncertainly. ‘Espartaco can face his enemy, real or approved, it is irrelevant to us as long as our profits are not reduced.’

  ‘One bet against Espartaco should set us all right,’ Galen declared wryly, and all three men lifted their glasses in an amused endorsement of the plan.

  ‘And Mora is in agreement?’ Juan Carlos queried soberly.

  ‘Yes, of course, of course,’ Galen assured him.

  I listened attentively as they continued elaborating their conspiracy. It had been for the purpose of Galen’s experiment that the bulls Espartaco faced were drugged. The matador had sought Galen’s help to conquer his fears, but he had no idea what had been done to the bulls he fought. Galen wanted to see if Espartaco would become convinced of his invincibility and grow fearless. The fact that his co-conspirators could make money from the knowledge the fights were fixed helped Galen finance his perverse psychological work. And now it was time for him to see how Espartaco faced a bull no longer made docile by drugs. Now it was time to see if the courage the bullfighter had developed over the last few months, falsely based though it was, would be real enough for him to claim a true victory.

  I felt a shiver of fear as the story unfolded. I saw a ferocious bull in my mind, heard its fierce snorting, saw its taut muscles and sensed its focused anger and brittle temper. I imagined Espartaco parading towards the animal filled with misplaced boldness and convinced of his invincibility, and shivered again. This time the chill travelled up through my whole body, capturing Galen’s attention.

  ‘I hope you did not speak, Syra my pet?’

  I shook my head and smiled, pleased by his renewed interest in me.

  ‘Your Syra smiles, Galen,’ Gonzalo observed. ‘I hope she takes your instructions seriously.’

  I smiled again as a thrill of expectation ran through me. I pressed my thighs together and the seam at the crotch of my leggings pulled insistently up into my pussy. I squeezed my buttocks to bear down on the seam, and felt the moist lips of my labia parting around the pressure.

  Galen scowled at me, just as two female dancers with long black hair ran onto the stage. Their red and black skirts were parted up the front in a swathe of heavy, oyster-lipped frills, and their bod
ices were laced tightly over their ample breasts and held closed with shiny black buttons. They pranced to the front of the small stage like horses, clapping their hands in front of their faces, stamping their feet and turning like ponies caught at the limits of a leash, shouting in breathy voices. They picked up the fronts of their skirts and revealed their knees for a teasing instant, leaving only an image in the mind of slender legs. They stood back-to-back pressing their bare shoulders together, leaning on each other, clapping and stamping in a frenzy of unbridled excitement. My ears filling with the rhythmic din, I stretched my legs out further beneath the table and touched Juan Carlos’s knee.

  I looked at him. He was staring at the dancers, enthralled. I laid my hand on his knee, but he did not respond. I squeezed his thigh and he shuffled his leg slightly, but he still did not look away from the captivating performance. I nodded to him as though he was looking at me, and lowered my gaze modestly as I curled my hand around the top of his thigh, nearer his crotch. I stretched my gloved fingers out and moulded them around the shape of his fleshy cock through his trousers. I felt the roundness of his heavy balls as I cupped them in my hand, holding them more and more firmly until I was squeezing them. His testicles filled my hand and I felt their warmth, even through his slacks and the thin material of my gloves. Lying beside his balls was the thick length of his cock, and when I pressed my fingers against it I could feel it throbbing, waiting like a sleeping monster. It grew in my palm, swelling beneath my light touch. I stroked it, pinching the material containing it, pulling his trousers away from his body and easing a space for his pulsing member to swell to its full length.

  The dancers stood at the front of the stage and stamped their feet swiftly and fiercely, almost as if enraged. The audience was caught up in their frenzy as they clapped frantically and mimicked the music with their melodic shouts. I unzipped Juan Carlos’s trousers and eased out his rigid penis. I slid my gloved hand along it and felt the bulging veins pulsating on its surface. I caressed the swollen end, feeling around its flared edges and sensing the subtly penetrating heat emanating from it. I could not hold back; I clasped it tightly in my hand and felt the rush of blood within it. I squeezed it more firmly and imagined I could see it beating beneath the strain of my grip. I felt it hardening even more and swelling at the tip as he lifted his hips slightly and climaxed in my grip. I held him as semen poured in a stream onto my gloved palm, hot and sticky, and I did not let go until I was sure I had wrung every last drop of pleasure from him.