The Staircase
By Michael Alexander 


The light from the window cascaded downward into a thousand glittering fragments, spilling out across the dark stained steps of the staircase. It was the light, and the knowledge that he was at work, that almost gave her the courage to descend into the half-lit darkness below. Her fingers tightened on the carved banister and her knuckles whitened under the pressure. What dark secret did he possess so utterly that the very though of broaching the borders of his sanctum turned her quivering with fear and away?
What does he keep down there? She thought to herself. 

The apple she had been eating was forgotten and it rested in her hand like a pool of blood. Its skin matched the shade of her lips and the small dress that covered her body. She felt a small draft slip up the stairs, caressing her toes through the high heeled sandals that accentuated her legs so perfectly. Her lips turned upward in a small smile at the thought of his eyes widening with longing whenever he saw her like that. 
What does he keep down there?

But secrets were meant to be discovered and her eyes narrowed. What did he keep in that forbidden basement? Why did he have her swear never to descend into that realm? What did he keep behind that door. She giggled nervously. She didn't even know if it was locked! Her eyes glanced round at the fluttering golds of sunlight and suddenly the apple dropped from her hand, thumping and rolling down the flight in a complicated dance of chaos.

Her mouth parted in a gasp, half realizing what she had done and why. Her fingernails dug into the wood as she berated herself.

What does he keep down there?

Her mind pictured an ancient bachelor pad, with faded leather sofa, beer cans rusting in pyramid like piles on side tables, the room smoky from endless cigarettes. She saw in her imagination young girls, runaways, being brought there to be used and discarded like tissue, in an ecstasy of flesh. Her mind turned toward the memories of his hands on her own body as she lay across the couch in his study. No! Her breath became more rapid and she felt herself ripening.

What does he keep down there?

She thought of his demanding presence, his ever conscious control, and she saw in her imagination the maniacal restraints and tools he must keep hidden below. She examined his wooden rack, and the slanted table. Her fingers glided over the polished wood of the open stocks, and her eyes widened as she saw whip upon whip, of every style hanging in its proper place on the wall.

And then suddenly she felt his fingers encircling her arm and he was there. His face an angry mask at her disobedience. With sudden ferocity he ripped her dress from her, baring her chest to his eyes. He flung her forwards toward the open stock and her stomach rippled in fear as he pushed her body downward into the holes. Her wrists and head were caught in the mouth of oak and she felt him kicking her legs apart. Her skin prickled as the leather manacles were strapped around each ankle, high above the last strap of the sandals. 

Her ears heard the metal clinking and as he stepped away she tested the bonds on her limbs, pulling against the links of chain holding her legs apart, and the long heavy beams of wood holding her wrists and head. Her heart fluttered against her chest and her breathing came in long rasps like the sound of dried newspapers being blown along the gutter.

She felt his presence behind her and tensed as the cool touch of metal slipped between her skin and the crimson red lace panties she wore. The sound of the material parting, of thread being severed, was like a hushed whisper in the dark, felt more than heard. The air wafted over her thighs and then she could see them, laying on the floor below her like the fallen flag of a defeated enemy.

The sting of the crop as it landed on her buttocks shot through her like a cannon. She cried out suddenly, filled with shock and pain. She pulled against the stock, feeling the soft touch of the cotton padding on her skin, but she could not move and she felt the second blow more firmly that the first. It had landed with a ringing crack, like the report of a gun, and her body spasmed forward. Her voice broke from her throat, a thin high pitched moaning as the reality of her degradation seeped deep with in. 

The crop came again, and then again, in a succession of biting swings that brought tears to her eyes and the flushed look of hot skin to her buttocks. She felt herself squirming, involuntarily swinging her hips from side to side, trying to cool herself. Then she sensed his hand touching her, up between her legs, exciting her and bringing the cool luxury of pleasure to her ravaged nerves. She ripened, becoming moist and tender and swollen against his light touch.

And then it was gone, replaced by the cold inhuman feeling of leather and she tried with all her might to close her legs and raise her body upward. But the chains held and the crash of the crop against her swollen sex brought a stab of pain that radiated upward from between her legs and swelled upward until it seemed to escape through the tips of her breasts.

He swung again, and the crop landed wetly in the folds of her flower. Her mind began to tremble, closing down against the intense sensations. And then his fingers were there again, touching, caressing, feathering her. She closed her eyes and moaned loudly, full of uncertainty but with the hope of promise. She felt him part her and slip his thumb deep into her body, filling her with just enough to bring a wave of gratification to her nerve ravaged body.
She felt the long nimble fingers of his other hand slide up her body to her dangling breasts, caressing the curves and slopes of her torso as he found the small and tender nub of her breast. She bit her lip lightly, expecting a pinch, but he merely flicked his nail back and forth across her nipple, eliciting a gasp and causing her body to respond with a swelling rise.

She moaned as the torture continued, his finger grazing the swollen nipple and his thumb moving imperceptibly inside her body. The stocks creaked as she stressed the wood, pulling on it with more and more force as he continued his pleasuring. A breaking snap filled the air and the top of the stocks came askew, freeing her hand.

He growled loudly and pinched her nipple hard, bringing streams of salt-laden tears to her eyes. He took her wrist and she felt the cold encircling bite of handcuffs and then she was free and he yanked her up, his fist entwined in her dark hair. She teetered in his grasp, balancing on her heels, still locked to the floor. 

The steel cuffs clinked loudly, chinking their way tighter on her other wrist, locking her arms behind her back. He held her upright, letting her find her balance and then moved in front of her, frowning deeply at her attempts at freedom. She glared at him rebelliously and he snatched at both of her nipples, yanking her creamy mounds outward in anger. She cried out, pulling backward, and she felt her skin pulling, almost tearing as he held on tightly. Her back arched and suddenly she was falling backwards. She screamed as her world toppled.

She slammed down hard onto the slanted table, the cuffs digging into the small of her back. Her breath exploded out of her and she sucked air back into her lungs. His footsteps sounded loudly in the room as he walked to the side of table and tilted her to her side. She felt the metallic embrace of the cuffs releasing one tender wrist and then her hands were drawn upward by his strength.

Her arms were stretched outward, drawn so far up she thought they would pop from their sockets. Each tendon in her shoulder was taut and tight, tuned like the high string of a harp. Her feet had come up off the floor, held down only by the clenching of metal and leather. She saw his head bend downward and the tension eased. She pulled herself upward onto the slanted table, her sandals scrabbling for a hold on smooth end. But then her legs were yanked apart again and she felt her master locking each ankle restraint to the extended eyebolts on each side of the table.

He returned to the wall, eyeing the numerous whips and crops that hung like the strange tableau of a maniacal jockey. He pulled a murderous looking whip from the wall, its long knotted cloth strands dangling like the yarn hair of a child doll. He flung it over his shoulder with a flick and the sound of its passage through the air swished through the room.

She tensed. Her legs pulled upward at the knees and her arms tightened. She held herself ready, wondering what part of her was to be subjected to the fierce bite of the cloth whip. Her warmly stung bottom snuggled against the cool wood below her as she closed her eyes.

The sound of the whip was not enough warning to prepare her for the spurt of pain that shot upward from her breasts. A wave of cool air brushed her face from its passing, unnoticed in the overwhelming juice of sensation that flooded into her mind. Her body danced on the table, jumping with the overload of feeling, not even settling enough to prepare for the next blow.

Over and over the strikes came, pounding into the soft flesh of her bosom like an unrelenting rain. Her breasts ached and stung and her skin steamed hot and swollen. He dropped the whip and returned into view with a dripping rag. He swung it through the air, whirling it madly as tiny droplets of water spun from it, sprinkling her skin. Her body spasmed and then he slapped it downward over her breasts, coating them with the cold and dripping cloth.

She arched her back upward, feeling the intense coolness sear into her inflamed flesh like ice. Her mouth opened and shut, trying desperately to give voice to a feeling she could not describe. But as she writhed against the table's bonds, the pent-up heat of her beaten breasts warmed the strip of cloth, quickly relieving the frigid temperature.

Suddenly she felt the soft touch of his thumb between her legs, pushing upward into her body, rolling her tender flesh from side to sire with his forefinger. She moaned loudly, feeling the exquisite feelings of pleasure surge forward through her loins like the fire that had fed upon her bosom. She arched her hips upward into him, surging forward.

And then she opened her eyes and saw she was still standing at the top of the stairway. She looked downward and realized that she had pushed her sodden panties aside and slipped her own fingers into her body. She quickly removed her hand, unconsciously straightening the pulled up hem line of her dress. Her mind flashed back through the memory of her day dream and she looked back down at the fallen apple core as it lay against the wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. 

Her head jerked upward at the sound of the garage door opening and she knew his footsteps would be echoing down the hall in moments. Her heart fluttered and she took a single step downward. Her mind screamed out in question and she set her mouth firmly, steadily descending the steps toward the fallen core. She picked up the apple at the base of the steps and she looked at it, dusty in the golden sunlight. She started back up the stairs. Just as she stepped onto the main floor she felt the strong grip of his fingers encircling her arm, his face a strong mask of anger at her disobedience.

And she smiled.

The End