Chapter 40: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Forty
My Master leads me through the long hallway, to the back of the house, past the kitchens, and to the
rear staircase.
Once of a day, this staircase would have been for the use of servants only, so that their lords and
masters did not have to pass them on the main, and much more morous, front staircase. Dark and
dingy, it leads up to storerooms, utility areas and the rear servants’ ess to the upper hallway. Also, I
now realise, it must lead down too.
An oak door blocks the way, the timber ancient, and looking capable of holding off the Hordes of
Genghis Khan.
Content ? N?velDrama.Org.
My Master winks at me with an air of mystery, then produces arge skeleton key. “This is our private
area.” The lock sticks and then grinds open. “I must get some oil on this.” he mutters.
The door swings back, and cool damp air wafts out. Cers?
Of course, cers. A house like this would have had butteries, cold storage rooms, the butler’s pantry,
laundry areas. And they would all be in the basement areas, where the gentry would never go.
We descend a flight of uneven stone steps, dimly lit by a single bulb, to a long, arched hallway. Stone
gged and chilly, also badly lit, it leads perhaps fifty yards before ending in what looks like a small
chapel. Looking up, the barrel-vaulted ceilings are quite beautiful. Severalrge wooden doors lead off
the corridor to right and left. A glimmer of what my Master intends begins to dawn on me.
His mouth twitching at the corners, he waves me forward. “Want to explore?”
Do I! Yes indeedy!
The first door to my left creaks open, and specks of rust fall off corroded hinges. It seems to be an old
laundry. Stone troughs, with hand pumps, sit side by side with an enormous washing machine straight
out of the 1950s. A smell of oil suggests there is a boiler room somewhere beyond. I pull the door
closed and move on to the next room.
This is the boiler room. A maze of pipes, valves andplicated machinery weaves through cobwebs
draped with the dust of years. A couple of drying racks for washing, hang from the arched roof, their
ropes filthy, and pulleys rusted with age.
My Master, behind me,ments “All of this downstairs area needs refurbishing. We’ll get in the
builders and decorators when you have decided what you would like to do with them.”
Do with them? I hadn’t got that far. I am still goggling over the immensity of what my Master has given
me. But it urs to me that these dpidated rooms, for all their dust and cobwebs, would make
wonderfully atmospheric dining rooms for dinner parties. I move on to the next room.
I detect a change in my Master. Expectation? What is he up to?
As I push open the door, instead of the chill damp, which has greeted me from the previous chambers,
warm air washes over me. The room is warm and glowingly lit, with dozens of fat candles, their light
reflecting from polished brass sconces and holders. A fire burns in a huge hearth at the far end of the
room, its mes casting shadows, that dance and y over stone walls cleaned and polished to a
gleaming finish. Thick rugs scattered over the stone g floor absorb the chill thrown up from the
ground.
I nce back at my Master. His eyes are gleaming. Then I step into the room, taking in more of the
detail.
The chamber has been, I think, a dairy, or perhaps a meat store. Long stone bs of shelves, some
with boxes and containers, line one wall. Huge metal rings embedded in the vaulting suggest that
whole carcasses might have one hung there, ready to butcher. Then I see the huge embedded meat
hooks alongside them, confirming my thoughts. Now, knowing my Master’s……. inclinations…. I know
there is another use for them.
Centred in the chamber, there is a huge bed, a four-poster. Only just fitting under the highest point of
the arched stone ceilings, it must have been brought into the room in pieces. It looks old. Solid timber,
perhaps oak, posts, dark with age, spiral up from the floor to cross-bars which support heavy velvet
curtains, currently pulled open from the bed itself. Silk cords, attached to the posts at one end, drape
across the bedspread.
Before I am able to fully explore this wonderful room, my Master is behind me, holding me close by the
waist, controlling me.
“Now Madam. About my wedding present…” From behind his fingers slide into the front of my blouse,
and pull, hard. Buttons fly in all directions and the delicate silk fabric rips apart as he pulls the remains
of the garment down from my shoulders and off. My skirt is harder for him, but my Master is a strong
man. Seizing the waistband, he tears it apart and the shredded garment drops as my Master
methodically strips me.
I wonder how much of my wardrobe will remain by the end of our honeymoon. When I have protested
his treatment of my clothes in the past, my Master has simplymented that it is one of the privileges
of wealth. What do I think he works so hard for? And then he has increased my allowance to buy
recements.
Stripped to my leather corset and stockings, he marches me to the middle of the room, centred
between two of the ceiling rings. “Arms up.” he instructs, not smiling now, but intense, concentrated.
I raise my arms. “Stay like that.” he orders, before going to one of the stone shelves and taking
something from a box.
He brings shackles, heavy, solidly made, chains with metal cuffs. Holding my eyes as he does so, my
Master clips one end to a ceiling ring. The other is snapped onto my left wrist. The cuff is padded with a
soft suede and it won’t dig in, but never would I escape these. The snug way they fit my wrists
suggests that they are custom made for me. My Master clicks the cuff closed, and then shackles my
other wrist.
Stretched skywards, I am not ufortable, and can stand easily enough. But my Master pushes my
ankles apart, spreading me and knocking me off-bnce. I stagger. Were it not for the support from my
restraints, I would fall. He revisits the box, returning with a spreader bar. Dropping to his knees, he fits it
to my ankles, and then winches it a little further open, spreading my legs more widely apart.
Still kneeling, his face level with my moistening crotch, he pulls the satin of my panties to one side. He
scents my red curls, my warming sex, then sys my lips with delicate fingers, probing with his tongue
for my clit. Teasing it from hiding, he licks it softly, manipting it. My heated thighs and groin a-
trembling, I start to pant and groan. Then again, he rips, and the panties drop to the floor.
My Master ceases his gentle torment. Standing again, he whispers close to me “Not too much yet. You
have to be good first.”
Now supported from my wrists, my stomach muscles taut with tension, my arms straining as they semi-
support my weight, I stand disyed.
My Master circles me, wearing an almost predatory expression. His fingers curl through my long red
hair, caress my shoulders and waist, stroke my breasts before he stands back, surveying me,
devilment in his eyes.
“Feeling horny Elizabeth?” he asks, before dipping his fingers between my thighs, running them
through folds warm and wet with arousal, probing my swelling pussy. “Ah yes. I thought so.” He sucks
his fingers clean. “As wet as ites, and horny as Hell.”
He returns to the box on the shelf, returning this time with one his favourite toys; a flogger that I once
gave him as a birthday gift. Red and ck leather, soft and supple, it snaps across his fingers as he
tests it, experimentally, on his own hand.
He trails the pliantshes over the tops of my breasts, their lower halves encased in the leather cups of
the corset.
“Mmm…” he muses. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all.” And slowly, locking eyes with me as he does
so, he uces the top few strands of the bodice, releasing my breasts.
My breasts arerge, and normally a little pendulous, but straining upwards as I am, they are raised
high on my ribcage, nipples puckering hard with arousal. My Master trails the tails of the flogger over
the stiffening nubs, sending tingles down through my stomach to my fluid pussy. He smiles in
satisfaction as I moan and tremble, teasing at my nipples, flicking them gently with the leather tresses. I
quiver, helpless in my constraints.