The Garden Party

 
The Garden Party:
BDSM Stories
2008-02-05
M/f D/s fem/fem
BDSM Fiction by Lizbeth Dusseau

THE GARDEN PARTY from the Short Story Collection Extremes
© Copyrighted Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.
A tiny tendril of ivy wound its way up the thigh of the naked stone as
if to make this bold woman of granite shy, the way it covered that place
between her legs where-if she were alive-she'd accept the offerings of
men. She held her head high, though her eyes were softly downcast; and
her mouth was turned up as if she was keeping a secret.

It was lush in the garden in the afternoon at tea time. Long seductive
shadows cast against the entangled foliage made leaves and flowers glow,
as though there was a mellow fire dancing in their midst. Gentle folks
meandered like the vines, almost in slow motion, their speech hushed.
Prim suits and polished silk sportcoats attired the well-heeled
gentlemen, while the ladies in demure skirts and fine jackets cast from
their manicured faces half-smiles to the others at Bozart's tea. Cups
clinked. The china rattled. A fly or two buzzed in the thick sultry
air, one landing on Mrs. Peacock's lace-covered arm, her husband
flicking it off. It was the kind of day that even gentle women wore no
underwear, their skin feeling skin between their thighs where it was
damp with perspiration and female dew. There was not one in the garden
that wouldn't have liked to remove a layer of clothes, shed the
confinement in favor of the humid air clothing them with its natural
garments.

"Oooo!"
"Ahh!"
The gasps were muted but plentiful. Bozart having entered with a woman
at his side, everyone stopped to stare at her beauty.

"She will satisfy you, I'm sure," he said lovingly, seeing, as he gazed
on the woman, how her straw colored hair looked like a field of gold as
one shard of sun caught her upper torso and her head. "Please don't
hold back your pleasure." Bozart smiled broadly. His own dark clothes
made an elegant statement about his fortunes. The summer tan, the salt
and pepper hair, the look of complete but subtle control made this
unexpected moment appear sane in a venue where the undercurrent of
insanity is only thinly disguised with a touch of wealthy grace.

Bozart was a man of superb taste and in this statement of his flare for
perfection, he'd found a rare one indeed. Her lips were only faintly
red, there was just a light blush on her cheeks, and hers eyes quite
like the statue of the goddess in the center of the garden looked down
demurely. The same succulent smile appeared on her lips, as if she held
the same secret.

The only thing shocking about her presence-for Bozart regularly paraded
his latest trinket at a gathering of friends-was her nakedness. No
filmy shirt, no short saucy skirt, no leather, no lace, no covering at
all. She was naked in the midst of them, walking cautiously into the
center of the dozen or so guests, on a tether that ran from the chain
about her neck to Bozart's hand.

"Who is she?" Mrs. Peacock asked. The starched brunette was already
unbuttoning her blouse to catch a breath of air in the stifling heat.

"Diandra," Bozart replied.

"And she's your slave, I presume?" a presumptuous guest inquired. With
his nose in the air, he could hardly see Diandra's complete treasures.

. . . Though Mrs. Peacock did. The woman couldn't keep from staring at
the muff of curls about the beauty's blonde crotch. "You might have
shaved her," she commented. "We're used to a little more refinement
from our slaves."

"I like her au natural," Bozart answered back right away. He was too
proud of this one to take criticism. Diandra's thighs were quite ample,
ending at her ass with a reasonable flare. The two orbs behind were as
smooth as a forest pond on a still summer's day. Her breasts, large as
they were, hung from her chest, quivering as she walked. The nipples at
the center were quite pink.

"She wears the chain nicely," one guest suggested, "though I'd like to
see it cut up through her crotch."

Bozart smiled, as if he'd been waiting for that proposal. He drew the
tether down Diandra's back between her proud rear globes, then up
between her legs where it had to catch one side of her clit. Tugging it
taut, he lifted the end-a clasp-and attached it to the chain at her
neck.

"My, now that is stunning," one ample fleshed woman gasped. She was
fanning herself with a rice paper fan. "So did you purchase her, or
did she come to you on her own?"

"Purchased. Though mind you, she's quite willing," Bozart replied.
"Paid top dollar for her on the covert market. Virginal blondes are not
readily available anymore."

"She's a virgin?" Someone was duly shocked.

Bozart nodded.

"Then she cost a fortune!"

There was an appreciative murmur between guests, sighs of wonder and
admiration.

"And will you deflower her?" Mrs. Peacock asked.

"That all depends on whether the desire to make a profit on her, or the
pleasure of deflowering her becomes the greater need. It's all quite a
dilemma, though it's one I relish considering. Perhaps how she performs
today will help me make my decision."

"So how does she give pleasure?" Mrs. Peacock further inquired.

"Her mouth is quite heavenly," Bozart answered, "and she's become very
accomplished."

"Not her ass?"

Bozart smiled, and turned Diandra about. Parting her bottom cheeks with
his hands, he pulled them wide with firm fingers digging into the
flesh. Grabbing the chain, he jerked it to one side to show off her
anus. "Fine one isn't it?" he said proudly. "But it's unavailable."
The puckering hole was quite closed, though the collective imagination
of Bozart's guests could imagine it otherwise, opening like the bud of a
tulip.

"So how long has she been a slave, if she hasn't been deflowered or
sodomized?"

"You can see for yourself," Bozart answered. Returning his maiden to
her upright position, he motioned to the mark at her left heel.

"Twenty-three, five years a slave," the guest read the branded
inscription.

"There was never any question about what she was bred for," Bozart
said. "Trained from her innocence. Show them, my love." He only had
to give Diandra a tiny shove. She was as willing as Bozart claimed. On
her knees, she crawled to the first waiting crotch, Mrs. Peacock's, one
of the women who was too hot to wear panties. Lifting her skirt,
Diandra's barely red lips found the soft pink ones between Mrs.
Peacock's thighs. Her tongue found dew and the smell of musk, like an
autumn with dust and heat, though it was still summer, still the middle
of July, and there wasn't even a trace of autumn in the heated breeze.

Mrs. Peacock gasped as her hands went for her own breasts, as a man in
the crowd helped her undo the pearl buttons of her blouse until the lace
atop her teddy showed above her full bosom. The flesh there jiggled.
Mrs. Peacock let out just a little cry, then she shivered and fell back
into the man's arms as her body fairly flew over the orgasmic edge. It
had taken so little time for satisfaction.

Diandra sat back on her haunches for just a moment to gather fresh air
into her lungs; then she crawled to her next lover arriving at the legs
of a man reclining on a lounge. Her hands moved up his thighs, her
fingers like cat paws with a little scratch to them. Not taking his
eyes off Diandra's green ones, the connection between them began
instantly. All through his pants to start, the blonde slave girl worked
this lover more slowly. Mrs. Peacock had been far too easy. Even
though the woman now lay in a faint on a lawn chair basking in the
ripples of feeling that had not yet died away. No, the man was looking
for something more lingering. And knowing that, Diandra's hands, her
eyes, her tongue and her mouth were riveted him on him as if he was the
only one that she had to please this afternoon.

Such graciousness. And accommodating. Her mouth was like warm satin,
her tongue embellishing the act of cock-sucking with its languorous
meanderings around the engorged male flesh. Her hands clawed at his
flesh almost as if she wasn't getting enough for herself. The way her
hips behind her gyrated as if they were begging a man to take her, it
was a wonder that she'd kept her body pure all these years, yes years.
How unusual for any slave to keep their purity beyond a few months.
That was considered an interminable time. But then, few were like
Diandra.

There were a host of languishing bodies after she'd been through them
all, taking each cunt and each cock in turn and loving them with her
eager mouth. And yet, it was a pleasant exhaustion. It was much too
hot an afternoon to do anything but drip sweat and lounge about the
summer garden half-naked, fanning away flies and letting the last
remaining traces of orgasm ripple through limbs and loins. Diandra did
not disappoint, not one. She lived up to her reputation as a first
class sexual possession. Bozart had made quite a purchase.

"My, that was almost worth what you must have paid for her," Mrs.
Peacock said as she finally pulled herself from her chair and began to
rebutton the tiny pearls at her bodice. She'd hardly been naked. No
one had ever seen the diva naked except her husband; but she did have a
good garden party cunt, and she was always the first to have hers
mouthed by a hungry slave. She understood good slave flesh too - having
owned enough herself.

"She's only beginning to pay for herself," Bozart said.

"Then you plan to use her up or not?" another mellow guest inquired.
"I'd like to be there if you're planning a debauchery."

"As I've said, I'm not yet sure," Bozart replied. For an instant the
now mellow Diandra shivered where she lay against the green grass in the
shade. Her eyes that had not been the least bit watchful for the last
few minutes now perked hearing her fate discussed. She'd been close to
being deflowered before, in fact probably close every time she performed
her duties with such diligence as she had this day. And still, the
quality of Bozart's consideration was different than the other masters
that had owned her.

"But ..." her elegant owner continued. He spoke in a lazy drawl. He
too had been satisfied by her efficient tongue just minutes before.
"... But, after this afternoon's fest, I'm leaning towards a complete
defilement." His guests were attentive hearing his plans. "After all,
it would be criminal to take her much past her age, since any slave
isn't good for anything but a brothel past twenty-seven."

"Oh, but some of the older ones are choice for household duties," Mrs.
Peacock chimed in. "Why my Ellie is a good stable whore even at nearly
thirty-two."

"Yes, I see your point," Bozart agreed. "But Diandra will never be a
stable whore for me. Once she'd been breached, she'll be a fine pony to
ride hard. She'll be prime for showing for at least a few years, even
if she won't bring top dollar. It would be my plan to let some old fart
buy her then." Bozart looked down at her lying still on the ground.
Something affectionate was in his eye, almost as if he regretted his
last statement.

"My, Bozart, you are a blackguard," one guest observed.

"It's the times we live in," he replied with a kind smile. "Who here is
to cast their judgment on how we live?" There was no one who'd answer
that statement. "Come here, fair one," he ordered the girl. She
crawled up on her knees and came to sit as her master's feet. Her skin
was rosy from the sun that had beat down on her as she'd paid sexual
homage to Bozart's guests. It glistened now from sweat. And the chain
that had been pulled tight between her legs and then clamped at her neck
remained, undoubtedly quite uncomfortable after nearly three hours
time. Her only good fortune was that the day was slowly ebbing away as
the sun fell lower in the sky about to dip behind the hedge that framed
the manicured garden..

Bozart grabbed the chain in his hand and then twisted it. She gasped
almost inaudibly.

"If you had your preference, my sweet, would you live the remainder of
your life a virgin, or prefer to be rent in two and given the full
benefit of your station?" He looked at her sincerely, waiting for a
response.

Diandra not accustomed to offering opinions, turned her head away unable
to reply. To her reticence, Bozart jerked the chain harder in his fist
and with the other hand he slapped her squarely in the face. "Answer
me, or I shall rip your cleft apart with my cock this instant," he
ordered her.

She cleared her throat as if speaking itself was tortuous, and in a
throaty voice, she finally spoke, "I should be pleased with however you
wish to use me, because I am yours. But if it was mine to choose, I
would be pleased to have my body feel the same pleasures that your
guests have felt today, and pleased to find myself filled full by your
erection between my legs."

How touching and how melodious her voice, Bozart thought. Perhaps he'd
like to hear it more. Bozart smiled at her kindly. "Good, that's very
good," he said, while his guests sat back astonished that he would even
ask. There was a grin in his eye, merriment in his smile. He pulled
the chain still tighter in his hand and eyed the slave thinking for just
a second of the first moment he'd laid his eyes on her at the private
auction. So innocent for her years, so pure like the first snows of
winter, or a lush untouched beach. There was much, so much to her, it
was hard to understand the feeling he'd had when he realized what he had
purchased with her. That day the spotlights on her, the sweat on her
brow, the inspections of her genitals, the authentication of her
chastity - how proudly she'd withstood the demeaning rituals. It had
made his lust for her greater than any he'd had for any slave. Lust,
that he feared might become something even more than sexual.

No, he was sure now that he wouldn't barter her for a whole harem of
lovely torsos and firm thighs. No, when the time was right, he'd use
her without restraint. He'd defile her, train her, give her away and
then take her back. He'd make up for all her virginal years with years
more of relentless copulation. In her ass, her cunt and her beloved
mouth, she'd become renowned for her body's many talents. And then
maybe, just maybe when she was no longer worth a pittance for her age,
and the wrinkles that had begun to show, and her skin was slightly
flaccid, he'd even keep her in his stable of beauties like a mistress to
them all. Then he might enjoy her for the sweetness of the tangy
perfume that comes with age. He could pick her brain of thoughts that
rattled behind her wide-eyed intelligence. He could see what kind of
woman she'd become, unlike the fainting matrons like Mrs. Peacock, but
what a woman of her substance might become at forty and beyond. It
wasn't likely that she'd even be a slave then. ow interesting the
thought.

Bozart would often think too much-though usually not at garden parties.
But then, this one was about over. The guests were reluctantly
preparing to leave or retire elsewhere with another of Bozart's more
than adequate slaves. It had been a good one. His poor chained Diandra
was exhausted, he could see that in her eyes. It was time for her to
retire too.

The next garden party would be the best. He was already making his
plans. As he led the fair blonde maid from the lush garden, as he
admired how the fading light made her slave skin glow a luscious hue, he
thought of the next one as his finest scheme. Next time her blood would
be spilled in the company of his friends, and she'd be on her way to
paradise-made to go from virtue to ruin in a matter of seconds ... and
then required by the nature of her lowly station to crawl back to the
pinnacle again on her knees offering her slave ass and her slave cunt to
all he gave her to.

What a marvelous fantasy. It was truly Bozart's finest dream. And a
lofty one that he'd revel in for its inspiring possibilities.

He so loved his afternoon teas. END
 



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