Island Slave Ch 03

Chapter Three

A Deepening Mystery

Carla woke. She was lying in Quinn's bed. Quinn was gone. She wondered how he did that? He seemed to waken before her every day. He must need far less sleep than she did. As she became aware of her surroundings, she realized two things. She was surrounded by the smell of old sex and sweat. Her chains had been removed. For a brief moment, she felt a pang of disappointment at the lack. They had somehow made the sex all the more exciting.

Rolling to her feet, she made her way to the door. It was a sign of how used to her current circumstances she was, that she never thought twice about walking out into the hall in her present state to go to her room. That was where her bathing supplies were and that was where she needed to be. She met no one on the way and didn't even realize what she had done until she was in the tub soaking.

Quickly determining that her clothes were still gone, she padded to the dining room. She knew from the fact that she could not see the sun through her window that it was well after breakfast, but she was hoping to arrive in time for lunch. The dining room table was empty and clean. Peeking her head into the kitchen, she saw Juan fixing something.

"Juan. How long until lunch?"

"Miss Carla. Good morning. Lunch is still two hours away."

"Thank you. Could you ask Bonita to come and get me from upstairs when it is ready. I don't want to miss two meals in a row."

"Yes, miss. I will have her do that."

"Is Quinn in the house?"

"No, miss. He is in the fields."

"Thank you Juan."

Carla walked upstairs to the rooms of secrets, secrets that would hopefully tell her who Quinn was. She went over what she knew so far as she made the short trip. Quinn was a man who believed that he was entitled to whatever he wanted. That was clear from the way he kept her captive. He was also a man in pain. There was an M in his past, someone he apparently lost in some way. Carla was his "second chance." Quinn had loved M, that was clear from the jewelry. The missing piece; what was the significance of the brooch from the set of jewelry that was gone? What happened to M? What was behind the locked basement door? How did Quinn's mother fit in to everything?

Carla had searched only one room of boxes so far, and that was the smallest. She decided to leave the room with the boxes of books for last. Not only did it have the largest quantity of boxes to search, she knew that she would be unable to resist perusing the books themselves. It also struck her as unlikely that a woman who loved to display her books so openly would have a secret that needed to be hidden behind locked doors.

There were seven rooms on the second floor. Two were bedrooms with en suite baths, including the one that she had already searched. One, located in a corner, was entirely glass on every exterior wall. She mentally called that room the conservatory. The fourth room she labeled the gaming room, since it had a pool table, a casino style card table and a dart board in it. The fifth room became known as the exercise room, thanks to several modern pieces of exercise equipment stored in it. The last two rooms were full of boxes. The one with all the books she named the library and the last room, based on the presence of three separate walk in closets (all empty) was christened the changing room.

The conservatory seemed to be the easiest room to go through. It only had five boxes in it. The heavy drapes that had covered the windows were already gone, placed on a shelf in the changing room closets when she had cleaned. Opening the first box, she found clay pots, dozens of clay pots stacked inside one another. Lifting one out, she saw that it had holes in the bottom. It seemed this may well have been a conservatory. Looking around, she saw the numerous shelves along the walls in a new light.

Not certain why, just knowing that it was what she

should

do, Carla unpacked all of the pots, setting them on shelves. At the bottom of the box, under the pots, were shallow clay dishes of various sizes. She quickly put two and two together and recognized the bases for the flowerpots she had just unpacked. In short order these were placed under the pots.

Opening the other four boxes, she found two more full of flower pots, more than the shelves could accommodate. The other two had an assortment of chains, planks and metal in them. Sorting the chains, she realized that they were in triples and must have been intended to hold flower pots. Looking closer at the ceiling, she noticed hooks. "Ah," she thought to herself. "Hanging flower pots." She set each chain hanger and a pot for it aside, unable to reach the ceiling right then.

Laying out the planks and metal items, she tried to make sense of them all. A close look at the planks showed that they all had screw holes in the sides. A memory came to her and she rearranged the pieces she had. There was everything needed to create three sets of shelves, five feet high, three shelves on each. Everything, that is, except for screws. Whoever had packed these things away had not kept the screws. Why keep the shelf materials but not the screws to rebuild them with?

Carla left the room and headed downstairs. She met Bonita on the stairs.

"Miss Carla. Juan asked me to tell you that lunch is ready."

"Thank you Bonita."

Quinn was there for lunch. He seemed somewhat subdued, less talkative. He was clearly distracted by something. She didn't say anything and after lunch, went outside. She found the man she was looking for outside. Carlos was using a hand trimmer on the shrubbery along the fence.

"Excuse me Carlos. May I ask a favor?"

"Yes, miss. What can I do for you?"

"Do you have any screws and a screwdriver in your tool shed?"

"Yes I do. Is there some repairs that need to be made?"

"No. It's for a project of my own. May I borrow them?"

"Of course miss. Come with me."

Like the other members of Quinn's staff, Carla's nakedness seemed to have no affect on Carlos. The apparent obliviousness to her state was just another of the mysteries that begged to be solved at this plantation. Carla was tempted to walk to the fields and the bunkhouse just to see if that immunity to her body extended to the workers as well.

"Here we are Miss. Help yourself to whatever you need."

"Thank you Carlos."

Carla noticed the padlock on the shed and wondered if the lock was opened by the fourth key on Quinn's key ring. She made a mental note to try it out one night soon. She took four boxes of screws off the shelf, estimating the size she needed and a screwdriver. She made sure she had Phillips head screws in all the boxes so that she would only have to carry one tool.

Back in the conservatory, she was able to quickly assemble the shelves. A careful examination of the floor showed traces of indentations that matched the legs of the shelves. Once they were set up and the last of the flower pots placed on the shelves, she could see how lovely this room could be, if there were any flowers in the pots. Remembering that there had been a step ladder in the shed, she started back outside. The tool shed was unlocked, allowing her to take the step ladder and hang the remaining pots.

Standing in the center of the conservatory, she slowly spun in a circle, imagining all manner of plants in the pots. In her mind's eye, the room blossomed into beauty. Someone had enjoyed this room. So many plants would need a great amount of care. Only someone who loved living things would go to the trouble to maintain such a room. Who was that person? What happened to her? She wasn't sure why, but Carla was sure that a woman kept and enjoyed this room.

Quinn was not at dinner that night. Carla ate alone and spent the night in her own bed. The next several days saw little of Quinn. Carla spent them going through the boxes in the second bedroom. The boxes contained many works of art; paintings, statuary, porcelain plates. Most were of decent quality. Some were, to Carla's eyes, quite good. The subject matter of the art was widely varied. It was on the third day of going through the art (she was using great care, as many of the items were fragile) that she encountered

the

painting.

The painting was clearly meant to be erotic. The woman in the painting was naked. She was bound. Her hands were tied together, over her head, to a ring of some sort. She was painted in a rear profile, her head turned over her shoulder. Her back was covered in red stripes, the kind that might remain after tying a cord too tight around one's arm. The look on her face was what drew Carla's attention. She was in pain, great pain. Yet, Carla was certain that there was pleasure in that expression as well. How could she be experiencing pain and pleasure at the same time?

Even more disturbing to Carla was her reaction to the painting. Her thorough fucking by Quinn a week ago had satiated her lust. Now her desire had returned. That it returned while looking at this strangely captivating picture was disturbing. She knew that she could not possibly be aroused by the thought of being chained and in pain. It hit her then. Those red marks were from some sort of whip.

Carla forgot her arousal. Staring at the painting, she wondered why anyone would want to preserve such an image. What kind of person would wish to look at this, to gaze on a regular basis upon someone in such pain. She looked closer at the painting, searching for something that would indicate who painted it and when. There was a signature on the painting, but it was illegible. The back of the frame has a manufacture's mark indicating a date of manufacture 10 years ago. That would not place the picture then, but did give a ballpark estimate. She carefully removed the backing on the picture, revealing the backside of the canvas. There it was, the artist's mark. "S. Leoni, 1996" 11 years ago.

"Damn!" she thought to herself. "No title." She needed some clue to who this was, why she was and who wanted this remembrance? Was this something of Quinn's? Was this the mysterious M? Why was she like this and why did she seem to derive pleasure from the pain? As Carla continued to look at the painting, she realized there was a third emotion in the woman's expression. There was a longing. There was no trace of what, but she was longing after something or someone.

Carla had never given much stock to ghosts and psychic phenomena. She would later swear that some instinct told her to hang the painting instead of repacking it. All during her cleaning and search of the upstairs, she had the impression that she was being watched; watched and encouraged. It was as if someone or something wanted the secrets of this house found.

With her desire renewed, Carla was not going to let herself suffer like she had before. She bided her time until Quinn was at dinner again, three days later. By that time, her physical need had grown significantly. Even more, her psychological need had grown as well. In addition to her body's desire to be fucked, she wanted to feel Quinn hold her and caress her. As was his normal habit, Quinn retired to his study after dinner. Carla followed him there.

"Quinn?"

"Yes, Carla?"

"Would you fuck me tonight?" Carla was a little surprised at how much easier it was to ask him the second time.

Quinn put down the pen he had been writing with and looked at Carla. He took in the hint of moisture on her pussy and the slight blush of her body. "Yes, I would like that, on one condition."

Carla took a breath, nervous about what he would want this time. "What condition?"

"Give me cart blanche. I want access to your body for sex anytime the fancy strikes me, not when it strikes you."

Carla let her breath out in relief. Truth be told, she thought she had already done that. "Fine. You may fuck me any way you wish, anytime you wish."

"Very well. Expect to be used often. Go to my room. In the drawer of my nightstand you will find some lengths of rope. Use them to tie yourself to the bed."

Carla's breath caught. She had not expected this, though, in retrospect, she should have. She had made it clear that she would submit to his advances as a sex slave, not as a lover. She nodded without a word and left the office. In his room, she found four lengths of rope where he said they would be. She pondered how to bind herself. She didn't know how long he would be and wanted to be comfortable, or as comfortable as possible when tied.

She rejected spread eagle. She could not think of how one would do it to one's self without using slip knots. She had a vision of her hands turning purple with the circulation cut off that she did not want to see come to pass. She tied two of the ropes to the corners of the bed and tied her ankles on the other ends. This forced her legs apart with her cunt exposed and open. Using the small rings that he had used the last time with the chains. She tied her hand to her collar by one foot lengths of rope. Then she lay back and waited.

Over the next half hour, Carla became sure of one thing. Bondage turned her on. Laying there, legs forced apart and hands mostly immobilized, her arousal grew with leaps and bounds. She could feel lubricant forming in her pussy and her nipples hardening. Images of being ravished flooded her mind, causing her to feel the caresses of her mind. He began to writhe in the silk sheets. By the time Quinn entered the room, Carla was practically incoherent with lust.

As Quinn watched Carla walk out of his study, he smiled. "She's made herself mine," he thought. He believed that she would never leave now. She had not mentioned being freed in weeks. Her obsession with the rest of the house had seen to that. That thought brought a moment of pain. He had boxed all those things up because they reminded him too much of Melanie. He kept them because he could not bear to part with any of her. He could still see her, standing on the dock, waiting for the boat that would take her away from him forever.

A tear leaked from the corner of one eye to flow down his cheek. He could see her on the post as well, bound, marked and pleading with her eyes for more. He knew why Melanie had left him, he just refused to think of it. He told himself that would not happen with Carla. She was different. He was different. They would not make the same mistakes again. As he thought of Carla, his pain faded and he smiled again. Rising, he went to use his slave.

When Carla heard Quinn enter the room, she turned her head and tried to extend her hands towards him. She was unaware that her face had the same expression on it that the woman in the painting did. Quinn saw that look and his breath caught. His memories careened upon him and he was no longer in 2007. It was 12 years ago, and the woman bound on the bed was not a brunette, but a blond. She was reaching out to him with longing and fear. His whisper of, "Melanie," was barely audible.

Shaking his head, Quinn stepped up to the woman on his bed and traced a finger down her shoulder and along her side. Carla shuddered at the contact. She closed her eyes and tried to absorb the feelings washing over her. His hands caressed the outside of her legs with feather light touches that made her twitch and strain against the ropes holding them apart. He reversed course and caressed the insides, stopping short of her pussy. These teasing touches had her in agonizing need. She had tied her legs far enough apart that she could neither open nor close them.

Carla's breath increased in rapidity as the sense of helplessness grew. She had never thought that helplessness would be so erotic. She knew of bondage sex games, but had never felt drawn to them before. It hit her that she really could not stop him from doing whatever he wished to her. This level of vulnerability had been her nightmare for so long. Yet, with Quinn, she was aroused by it, not frightened. No, that wasn't quite accurate. She was afraid of what he might do. There were things that she did not like and there was the painting. The fear, however, seemed to reinforce the arousal, not quash it.

After torturing her legs for almost ten minutes, he moved to her torso and arms. His touches were just as light on these regions and, again, he ignored her obvious erogenous zones, her breasts. Carla soon learned to not make use of what mobility her hands had, after he responded to her hands touching him by pulling away and waiting a minute of two. By the end of another ten minutes, she was moaning and writhing, her hands grasping at nothing and themselves.

Her face was the next center of attention. He brushed at her cheeks and hair. He caressed her lips. When she tried to kiss his hands and fingers, he pulled away. Amazingly, with all he did to her, Quinn had yet to remove a single stitch of clothing. Carla was forced, by his actions and her desires, to remain passive under his caresses. When he had finished, he started all over again with his mouth.

Every inch of her skin was treated to kisses, wet kisses that left traces of moisture to cool her body as the attention heated it. Each toe was taken into his mouth and given a miniature blowjob. His tongue washed the soles of her feet. Part of Carla wondered just who was serving whom. Except for being bound, Quinn was lavishing sexual attention on her that she had only dreamed of. Later, she would remember thinking, "I could get used to this."

When he reached her torso again, each finger was treated to the same attention that her toes had been. Her palms were licked with lavish, sensuous strokes. He even tongued her armpits, causing her to giggle at the tickling sensation. As he began to kiss her face, Carla was trembling with more need than she had ever felt before.

"Quinn, please, fuck me."

Quinn put his finger to her lips. "Shhh. You're my sex slave. That means you exist for my pleasure. I will fuck you when

I

feel like it, when

I

need it, not when you do. Your pleasure is an afterthought to mine. You may go the night with your lust unsatisfied."

Carla started to cry at the thought of being left unsatisfied. She had never considered that she might be treated that way. Her legs strained to close, to open, to generate some sensation on her cunt. The empty ache had grown to monumental proportions and was almost painful. Her nipples were harder than she could remember them being. It felt like they were itching and she could not scratch them (she could reach them, but her own touch only inflamed her need for his touch).

Quinn, smiling, licked her tears away and kissed her. His tongue probed into her mouth and captured hers. Carla responded with an intensity that shocked her. She felt as if his mouth, his skin, was food that she could not survive without. Her hands reached up to grasp his face, pulling him closer. When he pulled away, he stood and began to remove his clothes. Each revealed part of his body was like a feast on sliver platters being uncovered one by one, while she was tied to the bed, unable to help herself to the bounty being displayed to her.

When Quinn's cock was revealed, hard and the tip shining with precum, Carla could not help but to lick her lips. Quinn chuckled at her reaction. Holding his prick, he waved it at her. "Do you want a taste of this?"

"Oh yes. Please, Quinn, let me have it."

"Scoot over to the edge of the bed."

Carla did, though it was not easy. When her head was on the edge, he placed his cock at her lips. Carla's tongue snaked out and licked the moisture of the tip. It pushed itself closer and she took it in into her mouth. Her hands reached up and cradled his balls, massaging them gently. She could feel desire flare up in her jealous pussy. She engulfed his cock, taking the entire length into her. Her tongue swirled around it. The taste of precum filled her mouth.