Call Of The Deep, Part 3: Bound And Thrashed free porn video

Natalie and Adam lie side by side on the enormous fourposter bed exhausted from their lovemaking. When he has regained his breath, he turns to her and asks about her life.

It is two years since her divorce, three since the stillbirth of her son Matty. She tells just enough, her pain and how Greg had fucked off, literally fucked off with Gaynor Goodwin and left Natalie to face her grief alone. She answers with historical facts but bluffs recovery. She does not share her truth, the knawing emptiness that diminishes her a little more each day. 

Little by little, they circle the edges of each others' lives. 

He has travelled the world as a jobbing actor, has already worked as an extra in two of Eva's films, and she has promised him a speaking part in Candy Bathory. She has told him he is more than just his cock.

"She's an old friend of yours, isn't she?" he asks.

"We were close once."

"How close?"

"No two people could be closer."

"How long ago?"

"It's fifteen years since I last saw Eva. Not a word from her in all that time. And then her email saying she wanted to see me again."

"I can't imagine Eva as a girl," Adam says, a wry grin spreading over his face.

"Neither could I if all I had to go on was the person she presents to the media. I mean, Jeez! All those chat shows. She was such a private person when I knew her."

Natalie slides from the bed, stands up and puts an end to the intimacy they have shared. "Where does the other door lead?" she asks, her thoughts once more returning to the strangeness of the night, the half-hidden door she had found open on waking.

"No idea," Adam replies, standing up and coming to her, pulling back the tapestry that once again hides the door. "Do you want to find out?"

She looks at his enormous limp cock as it hangs from him. It is the plucked, severed neck of a goose. "You'd best get dressed," she tells him.

She puts on walking boots, leggings and a fleece, stands at the mysterious doorway and peers into the darkness that seems to rise tangibly up from the depths on a current of dank air. The stonework of the stairwell funnels the crash of angry waves on rocks from below. The sea is calling to her. It speaks of incomprehensible enormities, of oceans and their unknowable depths and what might wait for her in their mystery. An electric current of fear chills her to the core. 

Adam is behind her now, the beam of his small torch over her shoulder cutting into the pitch darkness.

"I thought electric devices were not allowed," she says without turning.

"Fuck that!"

Now she turns, looks back at him and smiles. He winks and grins and her fear is banished.

Stepping aside, she lets him lead the way down the stone steps. At set intervals during their descent, the gloom that presses all around becomes broken by sharply defined slices of sunshine streaming through a single arrow slit. The deeper they go, the louder the sound of waves breaking on rocks becomes.

They take great care as they descend, each footstep well-considered. The steps are slippery with damp and lichen. Natalie uses one hand to steady herself on the wall's icy stones, wet and soft with moss in places. Occasionally they pass beneath water dripping from the ceiling, splatting on her cheek or forehead.

Soon they no longer need the torch. There is welcoming sunlight around the last bend as the stairs open out into a stairwell. They emerge at the intersection of a wide and stone vaulted passageway. A little to their right is a sea-facing doorway, a broad archway secured by ancient metal grilling that can be lowered and raised — a rusted portcullis of sorts. Beyond its ironwork, steps lead down to a crumbling causeway set among the rocks, accessible only by small boat at high tide.

They stand side by side at the threshold and watch the waves, so lost in their own thoughts that she hardly notices when he takes her hand in his.

"Have you seen what you needed to see?" he eventually asks.

"I was expecting a dungeon," she says, turning to face him.

"If we follow the passageway back, we might find a way down to the dungeons."

"So there are dungeons," she says, quite delighted.

"Sure thing. What kind of castle would it be without dungeons? Eva likes to make good use of them."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll show you."

He leads her back along the passageway, past the stairs that brought them down. After a hundred yards they arrive at a crossroads of passageways. The one they are in carries on, while to the left a wide, stone stairway ascends straight up, while to their left a narrower one descends.

"I think I've got my bearings now," he says. "I usually come down those stairs." He points his torch at the ascending stairway. "The dungeons are on the floor below us. Down here." He goes to the edge of the descending steps and points the beam into darkness, its light hardly penetrating it.

"You said Eva makes good use of the dungeons. What did you mean?"

"You'll have to wait and see," he says, already taking his first step down the stairway. "Follow me."

The steps emerge directly into a long passageway. Adam shines his torch ahead, its beam flipping from wall to wall picking out stout doors set evenly along the wall. 

"Ta-da!" he says, "The dungeons."

Natalie counts six doors set in the walls to either side of the corridor. Each has a viewing portal. Adam now draws back the shutter that covers that of the first door. "Take a look inside."

She has to stand on tip-toe to see into the chamber. Inside, a single flaming torch set in the far wall offers meagre light. Below it there are two girls sitting side by side, shackled to the stonework. They wear identically sky blue woollen dresses that fall to their ankles. Over the rough dress, they wear cream plain linen tabards with embroidered edges in simple black stitching. Their waists are girdled by a similarly decorated snake-like sash tied in an elaborate knot at the front, the two ends dangling free for five or six inches. The pair sit together on generous heaps of straw, their wrists manacled by leather cuffs, arms stretched high by chains. Their feet are bare and dirty.

All the blood drains from Natalie's face as she turns to Adam and says, "Oh-fuck, Adam! There are two girls chained up in there!"

"It's all part of the Eva Fowler experience. Her guests are allowed to see if they can handle two or three hours down here."

"Is that why they're in costume, dressed like servants?"

"Even you will have to dress up before they allow you to see Eva."

"Oh? No one said."

"Everyone has to. Merricat will come and take you to the seamstress later. She'll sort you out with a uniform that fits."

Natalie is beyond questioning this requirement that she needs to dress up before she can see her old friend, accepts it as just another aspect of the absurdness of Eva's imagination.

"But, why would anyone want to spend even an hour down here?" she asks.

"You really have no idea of the kind of people Eva attracts, do you?"

"Oh, thanks!"

"I mean her devotees."

"I was joking too."

She turns away and looks through the viewing flap. One of the girls is staring at the door. When she sees Natalie at the hatch, she calls out, "Please! Someone. I've had enough."

"One of them wants to come out," Natalie says to Adam.

"Above my paygrade. Someone will be down to check on them before lunch. Which reminds me. I have to get back and start on the midday meal And, oh. I think Eva wants to see you at eleven, so you'll have to change."

As they walk away, the diminishing cries of the girls begging to be let out follows them up the stairs.

                                                              ********

Later that morning.

"Your friend is here, Miss Eva," Merricat announces as she leads Natalie — now all kitted out in tabard and dress — into a bright and far from gothic space situated on the uppermost floor of the castle's keep.

After the gloom of the stairs, Natalie finds the bright sparseness of the chamber overpowering, and she squints as she looks around. When her eyes are accustomed, it's hard for her to make sense of her location. The transition from dark and reeking dampness of the castle's labyrinthine corridors into the spick and span post-modernism of this lofty space makes no sense. She becomes uncertain about the validity of her assumptions, about the natural order of her present reality line, her place in time and space. 

It is the architectural modifications Eva has caused to be made to the once half-ruined corner chamber of the upper floor that causes Natalie momentary disorientation. One entire wall of the room consists of plate glass. It emerges from what remains of a base of six-foot thick masonry. The reinforced sheet-glass is set at an angle of sixty degrees so that the effect is that of an enormous skylight stretching upwards to fill the place once occupied by walls and roof, extending the entire length of this corner of the south-facing wall.

Eva is working at her easel with her back to the glass, her red hair lustred with daylight. To Natalie, it is almost a warning beacon that says come no closer if you value your sanity. It is a moment of panic full of so many memories of hurt and bliss.

Eva pauses from her work when she sees that her old friend is hesitant. But she says nothing, simply regards Natalie with a speculative gaze.

Still a little breathless from her climb, Natalie gathers herself and strives to sound casual as she greets Eva. "I'm surprised you still paint," she says as she walks towards her childhood friend. 

But after taking another two steps into the room, Natalie stalls, stands quite still, stunned by what she sees. It is not just the exertion of climbing two hundred stone steps that have robbed her of words, sabotaged her legs. In the centre of the room hangs a naked girl, her wrist bound with cutting twine, arms strained to their utmost by ropes fastened to a truncated rafter emerging from the far wall. The girl's toes are the only contact she retains with the floor, giving Natalie the impression she has become frozen while performing some perverse relevé. 

Because the girl is blindfolded, and because she has a ball gag stuffed between her lips, it takes a moment for Natalie's brain to register this is Alice, the girl she met the previous night on the boat trip over to the Island.

The sight of the guileless teenager strung up in such a fashion stirs something long-neglected in Natalie's psyche. Memories of her first viewing of the Dammartin video come flooding back. Alice has become the girl Caroline. No! More than that. She has become Natalie herself during those sweetly thrilling weeks she paid penance for Ruth's death at the hands of Eva. After those interminable hours bound by rope, lashed by Eva's whip, she had thought herself purged, scrubbed clean of all guilt. But now, like some sick near-death life-review, an inner slide-show of those evenings with Eva passes through her mind in fleeting but stark clarity. She too had often hung naked like a freshly butchered carcass awaiting Eva's attention.

With her eyes now stoically averted from Alice, Natalie walks over to where Eva works on her canvas, her inners pulled into a knot of deliciously sordid excitement. 

"Ten years and you have lost none of your beauty," Eva says as she puts down her brush and steps forwards with eyes full of twinkling mischief.

"More like fifteen," Natalie scolds.

Eva kisses her on each cheek. "I wanted to greet you myself last night, but something urgent came up at the last minute. I hope they're taking good care of you."  

"My room — "

 "— Isn't it fabulous?" I just knew you'd love it," Eva says before she relinquishes her hold on her friend and picks up her brush and resumes work on her painting. "You were always one for the gothic."

"You're confusing me with Melody Chambers. I didn't sleep well at all. Is there somewhere else I could stay tonight? I don't mind sharing."

"Oh, I'm desperately sorry to hear that, darling, but I'm afraid it's all we have. The castle is still a work in progress. This time last year it was quite uninhabitable." Then turning to Merricat. "Would you mind hanging on here, darling. The girl will be ready for me soon. I'll need you to apply the finishing touches."

Merricat audibly sighs as takes a seat, one set to the side of the door through which she and Natalie have just entered.

Now, for the first time, Natalie notices a blonde girl reclining on a pile of large silk embroidered cushions scattered harem-like beneath the remaining one intact wall. To her right is an enormous fireplace housing a roaring log fire. The pure white rendering of the wall only emphasis the darkness of the artwork that hangs evenly spaced along its entire length. Six enormous black and white photographic stills from Eva's movies; atrocities, monsters and outlandish deaths. 

Eva has arranged the girl, tableau in which she is merely a cameo figure, a backdrop to Alice who hangs in the centre of the chamber. The blonde supports herself with angled arms set slightly back, her long legs splayed wide in what Natalie can't help but feel is an erotic spectacle put on by Eva just for her.

Natalie's eyes dart back and forth from the blonde to Alice. An incipient need is stirring deep in her sexual core ignited by this unexpected encounter with female genitalia so brashly displayed. It takes all of her will power not to stare at the blonde girl's cunt, its blatant pinkness, its unashamedly raw and perfect beauty.

She turns away and focuses on Eva as she paints, amazed by how her old friend attacks the canvas with wild slashes of the brush. Even after paying careful attention, she can not work out how such a recklessly abandoned technique becomes the beautiful likeness now taking shape on the canvas. 

"Why is Alce hanging like that in the centre of the room?" Natalie finally asks. "She doesn't appear to be a part of your composition."

"You know this lovely creature?"

"We met on the boat over. Alice seemed a lovely person. Hardly the kind of girl —"

"— You have no idea about these girls, darling. They write to me. Beg me to let them come and play."

"But you haven't answered my question: Why is she hanging there like that?"

"Until I'm ready for her, she can play the dead pheasant. I need her to tenderise. But don't worry, darling, there won't be maggots. Only when I consider the moment right will she receive my full artistic attention. There are certain scenes in my new movie for which I need the countess's victims to appear authentically broken. You just don't understand how difficult it is for me. I thought you of all people might have some insight into how exhausting it is tutoring these girls, what an ordeal it is for me to make explicit what my imagination presents me with."

"I take it you're going to make a film version of Candy Bathory?"

"Needs must, darling. Castles don't come cheap. The opening scenes will be set in the castle of Candy's notorious ancestor."

"Elizabeth?"

"You know the story?"

"How could I forget. You used to read the transcript of the countess's trial to me. Remember?"

"How careless of me to forget."

As she speaks, Eva's brushstrokes grow ever more ostentatious. Her voice rising to become ever more theatrical: "As you know, darling, I went to art school. The Royal Academy of course! But I couldn't stomach all that art as installation crap they forced down our precocious young throats. And so — you better than anyone knows — I took to film. The rest is history." 

"And who is the other girl?" Natalie asks, her eyes indicating the blonde, who pays them no attention at all.

"Another of my many followers. Do you like her? What name do you think she suits? While they are here, I like to rename all my girls. The one you call Alice, I have decided shall become Cassandra. But I have not made up my mind about the blonde one. Is she a Beatrice or a Celeste? Maybe an Emmeline? Oh, do be a sweetheart and try to come up with something appropriate." 

Natalie now feels free to study the girl, who she thinks has the air of a Scandinavian backpacker straight off the ferry from Gothenburg, perhaps lured here with the most improbable of promises. Just to amuse her friend, Natalie exclaims enthusiastically, "She reminds me of a girl I knew at Uni named Tindra."

"Don't be ridiculous, darling. She's not a character from one of my books. I think she is more of a Tabatha. Yes! Tabatha."

"And that's not one of yours already?"

"You're thinking of Bewitched, darling. Way before my time."

"Do you often use your readers as models?" Natalie asks. 

"So many beg to sit for me. You should see the messages, the promises. And when they get here! My God, how they cream panties thinking fo me studying their pussies for hours at a time." 

"Alice seemed such a lovely girl. So —"

"— Middle class?"

"Guileless. Trusting. How on earth do you get girls like these to play along?" 

"There are certain girls for which I have a sixth sense. So for God's sake, Nat, don't let their smiles and winsome glances hoodwink you. Don't fall for the lie of their bright-eyed trust. It conceals only darkness."

"Do you really need to have it all set up like this?"

"When I'm working on scenes for a new movie — before we begin actual filming — I like to get what is in here." — She points at her own head — "out into the world and down on paper. It makes things so much easier later."

"Are all your guests as gorgeous as Tabatha?"

"Oh-God, no. Tabitha is a dog compared to some of the little treasures I give shelter to in my humble abode."

Natalie throws another glance over at the blonde girl, notices a slight reddening of her cheeks and chest. Eva's words have obviously cut her. 

"I think she's quite lovely," Natalie says.

Eva raises an eyebrow, "Would you like to play with her, darling?"

Eva's words shock Natalie. They imply she is still the person she was all those years ago when she and Eva explored the boundaries of their sexuality together. But even as she inwardly flinches at being considered still that person, she scrutinises the girl, assessing her without embarrassment. 

Eve has obviously arranged the girl's pose; how she lolls in dissolute expectation. Still, beneath the play-acting, Natalie senses her conceit at being asked to sit for the famous filmmaker/writer/artist, Eva Fowler.

As her eyes examine the girl, Natalie wonders about the everyday world Tabatha might have left behind, asks herself who the inner person is that such beauty belongs and why she has offered herself up like this.

The girl's complexion is fair and unblemished, her facial features clean-lined. She is extraordinarily beautiful in a boyishly handsome way. But any hint of androgyny is soon dismissed by large firm breasts, the curve of her sumptuous hips. 

 When Natalie's eyes finally settle on Tabatha's, she sees in the girl's eyes a tacit understanding, her acceptance of what being Eva's guest commits her to. She holds Natalie's gaze with a look of sly sexual certainty, her eyes brimming with inexhaustible sexual promise. It leaves Natalie with no doubt about her willingness to do whatever Eva requires of her. 

"How old is she?" Natalie asks — the girl's youth the last of her scruples needing to be placated. 

"Just eighteen. — Your birthday was two weeks ago, wasn't it, Tabby?" Eva calls to the girl. "You wrote to me last year didn't you, darling." Then turning to Natalie, "Bless. But I won't have them here until they're of age — no matter how much they plead their case."

Natalie continues to study the Tabatha, sees her lips suppressing the hint of a self-satisfied smile. "What would a girl like her see in a washed-up thirty-something like me?" Natalie asks, even though she can see the girl is now determined to have something to do with her.

"God, Nat, from the way you talk, anyone would think to have sex with you is a chore. You may not be as young as you might wish, but what girl in her right mind wouldn't want to make love with a mature woman as gorgeous as you?" She gives Natalie the look of a mother exasperated by her gifted child's self-doubt. "Really! Who the fuck wouldn't want to bed you, darling? Just tell me that!" She puts down her brush and wipes her hands on an oily rag and then takes Natalie by the hand and leads her to Tabatha.

 "Tabby, darling, we're done here for now. It's time for you to be nice to Natalie."

Tabitha rises to her feet with the liquid ease of a cheetah, comes to Natalie and gently takes her in her arms. The pair remain quite still for a moment, Natalie feeling a little unnerved to be thrust into the embrace of this strange and beautiful naked girl quite so precipitously. She finds the situation utterly decadent. Tabatha's eyes have become the sole focus of Natalie's reality. Such large brown eyes, such beautiful eyes. Eyes that remove all doubt. 

Then Natalie can't deny her need. Tentatively at first, she leans in to taste the girl's neck. It is fragrant and delicious, ever-so-palatable. Natalie sends pecking lips working their way up Tabatha's neck, over her chin, her cheeks. Now she licks hungrily with great laps of her tongue and feels no shame. There is a scented residue, a patina of unrinsed soap to the girl's skin. Among her tussled hair lingers the redolence of sandalwood, a shampoo memory suffusing dandelion-pappus. Natalie's pussy is playing up now, is full of need, the gusset of her panties sodden by it.

In her wild days with Eva, Natalie saw herself as a creature of the night, sex with other girls her very own dark secret. This midday arousal disconcerts her. And yet it thrills her just to think of what is happening. Tabatha's biddability has captivated her. The girl's limber arms and legs, her girlish-smooth flesh and sparkling eyes have bewitched her. And now, as they start to kiss, truly and deeply kiss, she finds such a youthful, sensuous and expectant mouth quite exquisite.

 As their kissing deepens, Natalie runs both hands slowly over the girl's naked back. They travel up to her shoulders and then all the way back down to her smooth, softly convexed haunches. She lets her fingers linger, squeezes each cheek before languorously tracing the fissure of her buttocks downwards. The digits of her right-hand delving between the girl's casually parted legs, one palm curling and sliding over Tabatha's perineum, three fingers forging ahead to find the moistness of her deliciously wet teenage cunt. The flat of Natalie's palm seals off Tabatha's pussy. As she presses, its warmth and moistness leach out to oil her palm. 

Before she sends her fingers further, she applies pressure one last time with flattened hand, milking Tabatha's pussy of sap. Her painted nails tangle among the girl's fuzz-down, hands rubbing back and forth, the pressure applied varying. And while Natalie fingers her, the girl breaks from kissing and gathers her long dark hair in both her hands. She bunches it into a tight ponytail and looks intently into her eyes, gasping with pleasure from Natalie's fingers at play below, before she returns to kissing her with unhurried sensuality.

 The familiar crack of whip-leather on flesh cuts the air and Natalie surfaces from the depths of kissing. The response of her body to the familiar sound is Pavlovian, though it is not saliva she secretes. She turns and sees Merricat with a whip in hand.

The woman is naked apart from thigh-length black boots. Her body, once exquisite, is tending to over-ripeness, that of a voluptuous middle-aged woman. She has taken the stance of a mistress, wields the lash with authority and determination, striking Alice repeatedly with theatrical yet restrained determination. There is a glint of genuine sadism in her eyes, a villans sneering rictus to her mouth. With each swing, the pleasure she takes in Alice's growing discomfort becomes patent. Each time the leather finds its mark, Alice's body flinches, her torso arching in awful rigour.

Natalie finds it impossible to draw her eyes away from the spectacle. Neither is she able to break away from Tabatha's, embrace, the comfort of her breasts and swaddling arms.

With a determinedly placed finger to Natalie's jawline, Tabatha turns her so that they face each other. Lips to lips, a seal is formed through which a tongue travels to curl and twist inside Natalie's mouth, mustering skills not newly learned. 

But the girl's tenderness will no longer not suffice for Natalie. The crack of leather on soft flesh draws her attention with its promise. Her mind swims in darker needs. 

Tabatha must know, must be left with no room for doubt. But Natalie cannot ask out loud. And so she sends her eyes to do the begging. And for what seems an eternity, Tabatha's eyes question Natalie. The girl needs complete certainty. 

Natalie is like an addict, one who has been free of her habit for over a decade but can no longer take a stand against her own backsliding. The words will not come, and so she steps back, beseeches with her eyes, holds out her arms with wrists crossed begging to be bound. Just this one last time she tells herself. I promise.

She implores the girl with irresistible eyes. 

Natalie's rational mind will not save her now; the call of the lash overrides every good reason.

Then Eva's voice: "Do as she asks, Tabby, darling. While Natalie undresses, you may go and chose something from the wall rack." 

When she is naked, Eva and Tabatha attend to Natalie. They bind her wrists and raise her by ropes so that she hangs next to Alice while Merricat circles, occasionally reaching out with the lash and running it lightly over first Alice's flesh, her buttocks, belly and breasts, then Natalie's. 

The three women arrange their captives so that their bodies are pressed breast to breasts, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. Merricat pinches each girl with eager fingers, their nipples and buttocks.

Tabatha has found more ropes, binds the legs of both girls together in three places: ankles, calves and thighs. She has a fourth length of rope for their midriffs, encircles them there and pulls tight so that they are squeezed together, made fully conjoined sisters. The heads of the two captives rest against each other. They will dance their way through this ordeal cheek to cheek. A double collar is fetched and fastened to their necks so that neither can turn. They can only look directly ahead. 

The first strike. A searing pain that makes Natalie's entire body sing. The pain fills her hollow need, assuages the ache that has festered like a long-neglected bad tooth. 

And then It's Alice's turn. Natalie feels the girl's body grow rigid as it anticipates each blow, and then unwinding in an instant after delivery. Merricat has ceased her play-acting, and as each blow finds its mark, the girl is frantic to avoid her punishment. Her efforts to twist away from the blows send the pair swinging, their feet momentarily leaving the ground. 

And then the pain ceases. The silence of the chamber becomes laden with expectation. They wait for what seems minutes on end but is hardly forty seconds. Natalie anticipates it will be she who receives the blow that is sure to come any time soon. But there is no predictability in this place. It is Alice the lash finds again, her buttocks tormented by an incessant thrashing, too many blows delivered in manic succession. Her body reacts despite her resolve, her flesh fleeing from the sting of leather in the most absurd of wriggling. 

For Natalie, the strange intimacy of this union has a peculiar and never before imagined sweetness. She senses how all the spirit has left Alice as she bears her beating with a sham fortitude that hardly masks her growing distress. And despite her unease at being a party to such ostentatious cruelty, Natalie finds the girl's suffering a source of sublime and intoxicating pleasure. 

At last, Merricat turns her attention to Natalie. One blow to her calves, another to the back of thighs, quickly followed by successive swings to her buttocks. Tabatha has returned, now sporting a long cane. Her practise swings hiss with its song. The sound thrills Natalie, and she hopes the girl will not be coy, be bold enough to realise the full potential of what she wields.  

They take turns to strike: Merricat with her lash; Tabatha her cane. It's not so bad. In her sessions with Eva, Natalie has suffered worse. How often was she a witness to the inner dark her friend sheltered from the eyes of the world? But still, each blow she now receives assuages her hollow need, if only a little. 

And then the punishment ceases. The two women are left to hang conjoined in the bright midday sunshine that streams down on them through the enormous glass panes. Natalie feels Alice breasts crushed against her own and is forced to time her breathing so that she exhales just as the girl inhales. As they hang, their two bodies are baked by the amplified heat of the sun magnified by thick glass, their beautiful female flesh made stark in its rays. They are no longer persons: they have become individuals reduced to base sexuality. Sweat drenches their bodies, each girl adhering to the other. 

At a distance appropriate for the task, Eva stands with a sketchpad scribbling frantically the blackest of lines. Two naked female forms rendered in rough on pure white parchment.

Later that day, the hour before an evening meal is served, Tabatha comes to Natalie's room bearing ointment and tenderness.

TO BE CONTINUED.