Chapter One

Dreams of Beginning...

 

When the war began, no one was truly surprised. It was the results that were unexpected. Weapons that poisoned man and earth were used, and soon the surface of the planet became almost inhabitable, except for a few islands that were uninhabited during the conflict. It was to these islands that the remaining people moved, in order to facilitate living. They brought their technology and knowledge with them. Nothing was lost, except for the ability to live in their home country.

A large island in the Pacific Ocean was the place to which hundreds of former Americans fled. It was tropical, lush, and full of wildlife and beauty. There was a rock quarry.

Man had learned nothing from global warming or polluted water; they longed for the convenience and pleasantries that machines provided them. They built buildings of steel, brought when they came to the island, and concrete, utilitarian rather than beautiful. They saved the beauty for the homes of those who merited them. The rest lived in tenements similar to the walk-ups in New York City. They felled most of the forests, raped the quarries. They called their island the New Republic, but it was no true republic.

White men took control of this country, remembering the days of the South and slavery. There were no slaves by definition, but there were people who did what they were told, in fear of their lives. They developed a council called the Seniors, most of them in their fifties and sixties. The island became a technological miracle; inventions flourished. Without the necessity of wage earning, mankind had the opportunity to explore his ability as creator. Those who didn't rule or create supported those who did with their sweat and muscle.

Citizens of the New Republic were commanded to different tasks, determined when they were children depending on their aptitude. Men ran the government, and women supported them in assigned capacities.

Almost a century after the war, Poul Guarson developed the Monitor. It allowed people to control their dreams and to share dreams with others. Almost immediately, its use as an erotic device was utilized.

Seniors had become men in their eighties and nineties; men whose minds were still lucid but whose bodies were betraying them with age. Through the Monitor, they were able to live out their lurid fantasies, recalling the days when they were virile and powerful in body, not just in title.

Women were selected and trained as dream whores. They learned the subtle art of guiding dreams, of bringing exquisite pleasure to those who ruled them. They were given names that evoked fantasies. After the death of several of these women, it was decreed that the dreams must not involve serious physical harm to them. It was a waste of training and human flesh.

Still, most of the Seniors had dreams of violence, of control, dreams that matched the lives they led. The women were theirs to do with as they pleased, and they pleased to own them utterly, to torture and humiliate them as they desired.

Only the most powerful men in the New Republic were allowed to utilize the Monitor, and they had a wealth of women at their disposal. Few of their dreaming partners were willing, but they had no choice but to submit to the will of those who ruled them.

This was life in 2230.

Chapter Two

Dreams of Control...

 

She was suspended by her wrists, tied so her feet barely touched the floor. If she just managed to catch her toes on the tile beneath her, perhaps she could alleviate the agony in her wrists. Her hair, long and blonde, fell over the strained features of her beautiful face.

She was like the movie stars of old, with ripe full lips, high cheekbones, ivory skin. Her eyes were a rich amber, golden like fine wine, and had a slight almond cast to them.

She wore a dress that befitted her glamorous look, a silvery satin sheath that clung to her lush body like a second skin, so that the swell of her soft belly showed.

She groaned, twisted. The pain in her wrists was becoming excruciating. She felt as if she were being torn apart.

There was a soft current of air that cooled her body and lifted strands of her hair. Still, a sheen of sweat covered her face and body.

She looked about the room. It was a chill place, tiled floor of blood red and white squares, chairs, a bar and desk of black, shiny leather, and walls of mirrors that reflected her image over and over again. There was a window that took up the entire wall opposite her. It afforded a view of the city with its sparkling, gay lights, indifferent to the pain she was experiencing.

She gasped, her long red fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She allowed her head to fall back. How long had she been there?

She looked forward at the desk and the man who sat behind it, watching her. "Please," she begged him, her smoky voice hoarse. "Please."

He sipped on his scotch, the fiery liquid the same color as her eyes. He was a dark, powerful man. Slicked-back hair reached his impeccable collar, and the navy suit he wore barely concealed the strength of his shoulders. His hands were square and appeared as if they could rip apart a wild bear.

"Please," he repeated in a cultured voice. "Please what, my dear?"

She tried not to whine, knowing it would irritate him. It was difficult to restrain herself. "Please let me down. I've learned my lesson; really, it was foolish of me..." She didn't know what she had done to elicit such punishment, but would beg forgiveness for anything at this point.

He arched an eyebrow. "My dear, your lesson has yet to begin."

Oh no. Her stomach turned as he rose in a graceful, fluid movement. He was so beautiful a man, animalistic, godlike. He turned from her, approached the wardrobe that stood against the wall. She saw the reflection of his face; impassive, unmoved, as he opened the door wide and allowed her to view the contents.

She chilled, the burning of her wrists forgotten. Displayed were a myriad of whips, canes and crops, all of black leather. She could smell its distinctive odor from where she hung. All of the stories she had heard whispered about his man came back to her, and she wished that she had listened to them.

He pulled out a thin cane, wrapped in leather. "This will do," he murmured to himself, turning to face her. He slashed it through the air, and it made a slicing sound. "This will do quite nicely."

"Please, no!" she begged, horror growing. Hung as she was, she was utterly defenseless. She saw no mercy in his grey eyes. They were as cold as the ocean in winter, and as deadly.

"Ah, my dear," and with one quick movement from his free hand, he tore her dress from her. Underneath, she was naked. The soft round globes of her breasts trembled, and her nipples hardened as the cold air struck them. "Ah, yes. You are lovely."

Then he walked behind her. She could see him in the mirrors, his movements perfectly feline. He traced the cane alongside her thighs, up the cleft of her ample bottom. She shuddered as pleasurable sensations followed his touch and stirred through her. Why couldn't he just fuck her and be done with it? Why this insane desire to torture her first?

No, thoughts like that were inappropriate. She was not here for herself. She was his to do with as he pleased; her hanging here was evidence of that. She squelched the stray thoughts.

The cane whistled and fell upon the back of her thighs. The pain was unbelievable. She felt as if the flesh had been sliced open. She shrieked, and he pressed his body against her back, the fabric of his suit scratchy against her flesh. He reached forward to capture a nipple, rolling and pulling it as he whispered in her ear, "My dear, we've just begun." He stepped away from her.

Again and again the cane fell upon her tender flesh, leaving stripes from her shoulders to her thighs, twisting her body so that she saw her abused back. Red welts formed neat patterns on her skin. He stepped back to examine his handiwork. He breathed in through his teeth. "My dear, you are so lovely."

He stepped away from her, returned to the wardrobe. She hoped that he was finished. Her body was a nerve singing with pain that burned like ice left too long on the skin.

He was done. He turned, and in his hand was a cattle prod. Every muscle in her body clenched. "Please," she whimpered horrified. "Please, you can't do this."

"Ah, yes I can, and I will," he gloated, approaching her with the weapon held before him menacingly. "You are mine to do with as I see fit. I bought you."

Indignation gave way to rage as he brought the prod closer to her body. He had purchased her for his pleasure, but not to destroy her. That was beyond their contract.

"My dear, you will dance for me," he leered.

He touched her with the prod, and she almost lost consciousness at the pain that coursed through her. It was unbelievable. She was barely able to shriek this agony; it was unbelievable. He pulled it away and she didn't care about the pain in her wrists, she just fell forward and let her body dangle. Her legs didn't work.

He laughed at her, and brought it towards her again. At its touch, her body spasmed thrusting her breasts forward, her body twisting and arced. He drew it away.

"You ... you must stop this," she told him, gasping out the words through a jaw tight with anguish.

For an answer, he returned to the wardrobe, thankfully putting away the prod. She tried to even her breathing. Waves of pain coursed through her, even though the torture had ceased for the moment. Could he have more planned?

He did. He swaggered back, holding something behind him. Because of the mirrors, she could see that it was a knife, a long wide blade with a thick handle of equal length. She chilled.

"My dear," he smirked, showing the weapon to her. "Now your punishment will truly begin. We have only whetted my appetite." His hand struck out, grabbed her womanhood, which was wet with fear and desire. "And yours, I see." He released her.