Chapter 2
She'd taken him upstairs from the kitchen and he'd turned his back on her, peeled down the remains of his briefs and trousers and had quickly gotten onto the bed, having a feeling that the last thing he should attempt was anything remotely resembling a sexual advance.
But Lydia made no mention of sexuality, despite the fact that she was able to catch a revealing glimpse of that part of Seth Garrick's anatomy which he had then tried to hide. He'd stretched out on the bed and with a minimum of fuss she'd taken care of the cuts, bruises and abrasions across his buttocks and the backs of his thighs.
Though it was perhaps a most perfect opportunity for the two of them to become better acquainted in far more intimate ways than through the medium of speech and interpersonal communication, she acted strictly professional, playing nurse to his wounded patient.
"You'll find some clothes in the closet, kiddo," she'd said after she'd made sure the wounds were now antiseptic and wouldn't turn infectious. "So take a nap. I have things to attend to, and don't worry about the police. I have no intention of calling the coppers on you. I'll tell you what I have in mind for us later tonight."
"Thanks ... I really appreciate what you're doing," he'd told her.
"Oh really?" she had replied, raising her pencil-thin black eyebrows at him in an expression that later on he would grow to fear and distrust. But at the time, he was too exhausted and pain-ridden to even think straight or take the time to worry about interpreting the hidden meaning of her glance.
She'd left him alone and the minute the door had closed behind him, he'd gotten slowly to his feet, checking out the window and his means of escape, should she decide to double-cross him and call the police.
And once that was taken care of, he moved cautiously to the closet, opened it wide and stared inside with a mixture of surprise and lack of understanding. The closet was filled to the brim with a variety of men's clothes, just about all of them -- so he thought at first glance -- almost designed to fit him perfectly.
They were worn but not exceedingly so and he wondered who had lived here before him and why the guy had not bothered to take his things with him. It was a mystery as far as Seth Gar-rick was concerned. But then, satisfied that so far she had not lied to him, he returned to the bed and sank into a fitful and exhausted sleep, dreaming of nightmarish visitations by the police as well as by a horde of slobbering Great
Danes, all intent upon tearing him limb from limb.
He was alone with himself, as alone as he'd ever been in his life. The only other person he'd ever been able to talk to, the only person who had ever seemed to understand what made him tick, was his younger brother, Jeremy. Now, just about a year younger than Seth, Jeremy was working for an advertising agency in Los Angeles, taking theater courses at night and performing various unheralded roles in little theater productions in the outlying suburban townships.
He hadn't spoken to his kid brother in months, but he thought of him along with his fears, wishing he could explain why he'd attempted the holdup, the fact that everything had begun to close in on him and he'd seen the only means of escape as a form of running away, getting ahold of enough money to last him a year or so while he set out in search of adventures, those and his own self, as well.
He was awakened that night by a knock on the door and instantly he was alert, as if he was indeed a trained and hardened criminal, not a young man who had seen too many detective films and cops and robbers television serials. He'd copied his plan right from a television show, only in the show it hadn't gone sour. In real life, however, it had been a complete and total bust, an absolute and disastrous failure from ill-fated beginning to even more ill-fated and abortive end.
If indeed, it was over, and that was something he still didn't know, especially when the police were on his trail and Lydia was still an unknown quantity, having not yet revealed her plans or the reasons why she had been ultimately so blase and nonchalant, so unconcerned about his sudden appearance on the grounds or the fact that he was now lying naked on the double bed in her guest room.
So when she'd knocked on the door that first evening, he'd become instantly alert. "Yes?" he'd called out.
"Dinner's on the table, unless you're not hungry, mister whoever you are. You still haven't told me your name and the police don't have a lead on you," she'd said from the other side of the door.
"I'll be down in a minute. I just have to throw on some clothes," he replied, feeling a little stiff as he slid his legs over the side of the bed and heard the click of her high heels moving from the door.
" That was one of the first things he'd noticed, the fact that she wore high heels at home, and not even ordinary heels at that. The heels on her boots had been at least five inches long, if not longer and his curiosity got the best of him as he quickly pulled on the first thing he could find, a pair of old faded jeans and a cotton polo shirt.
They don't know my name because I'm not a hardened criminal," he had said when he'd gotten downstairs and found her already seated in the dinning room, eating her meal and not waiting for him to join her. "Sorry I'm late," he mumbled, almost feeling as if he was at home with his mother, years before, forced to apoligize for coming to the supper table late.
"I didn't think so. You don't seem bright enough," she'd snickered with a mouthful of roast beef. "Those clothes fit you perfectly I see."
"Whose are they?" he'd asked, innocently enough.
"None of your business, mister nameless. Just be glad you have a place to stay," she replied, silencing him quickly and effectively.
"My name is Seth," he'd told her then, wanting to start things off on the right track.
"Seth was the third son of Adam, according to the Bible."
"Yes, I know. My mother used to tell me that, especially when I didn't behave myself," he'd laughed, wolfing down his food and realizing that he was hungrier than he'd even thought.
"Well, my dear Seth, you're not going to be misbehaving any longer, not if I have anything to say about it, not when you're freeloading in my house, either."
He should have gotten the hint then, but he didn't pick up on it. She was virtually silent during the rest of the meal and quite naturally it seemed, once he was finished he got to his feet and stacked the dinner plates, taking them into the kitchen to wash.
After all, he was freeloading, though he hoped he'd be able to make up for it by doing odd jobs around the house. He had a feeling she wasn't going to kick him out so soon and the longer he laid low until the heat was off, the safer he felt he'd ultimately be as a result of keeping out of public view.
It was around midnight, however, when things became totally clear to him, even if he didn't understand their real meaning, the psy-cho-sexual motivations behind them. He'd tried to draw her out of herself, to make conversation, but she'd refused to speak much, preferring the movie she was watching on TV to any fitful attempts he made at communication.
It was only when he'd gotten to his feet, deciding that the best thing to do was go upstairs and get some sleep, when she'd emerged from her veil of silence. "And just where the fuck do you think you're going?" she'd suddenly announced, causing him to stop dead in his tracks.
"Upstairs, to go to sleep," he'd said, unable to cope with his mounting fears, the rapidly emerging sense that he was more of a prisoner in Lydia Rinaldo's house than if he'd been locked up behind bars, charged with attempted robbery, a common criminal.
"Not so fast you're not, Sethie boy," she'd laughed. "You have some chores to take care of, to earn your keep around here. You'd like to stay around awhile, wouldn't you? At least until the cops start to give up on you, isn't that correct, boy?"
He winced when she called him boy, but of course said nothing to refute her snide little jibe. "Well, yes, I would. If it's okay with you, of course."
"Sure it's okay with me. But I think it's time certain things became apparent, that's all. You are, after all, wanted by the police. And since I'm allowing you to stay under my roof, technically and no doubt actually, I am now just as guilty as you are, since I'm giving shelter and being an accomplice to a wanted man. Therefore, Mr. Seth third son of Adam, get the fuck over here and get down on your knees. My boots may have been made for walking, as the song states, but they've become rather dusty as a result."
Her little speech, each word enunciated clearly and precisely, had the combined effect of frightening and arousing him. There seemed to be an incredible amount of power and authority behind her voice and he'd found himself moving awkwardly towards her, almost shuffling and, if he'd had a tail, it most certainly would have now been between his legs in an attitude of submission and obedience.
He got down in front of her, resting on his knees and the backs of his legs. His eyes roamed over her body and though she was still wearing the same outfit she'd had on when she'd found him in the clutches of Count, her Great Dane and devoted servant, he still couldn't stop gaping.
"Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? I said my boots are dusty, boy. Start polishing them and make sure you do a good job of it, too," she'd gone on, tapping her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair.
"I ... I don't see a cloth, or a shoe brush," he muttered, hating himself for blushing, but unable to prevent it from happening, either.
"Of course you don't, boy. Because you're going to use your tongue on my boots. After all, saliva is so much better for good leather than any other preparation. Or didn't you know that? No, I guess not. No doubt you've never been called upon before to lick a lady's boots. Well, now's the time when you're going to start," she'd gone on, lording it over him as he knelt before her.
"Hey, I mean ... let's be reasonable. That's ... that's absurd," he'd said, hoping she was merely joking around with him.
"Absurd did you say!" she'd yelled with anger. "How dare you say anything I do is absurd, you little piece of trash! You'll do what I say in this house and like it, unless you want to take your chances with the cops. Because if you don't start licking these boots, little man, I won't hesitate to call the police, so get that straight, once and for all!"
He didn't doubt the sincerity of her words after that.
With his cheeks stinging from her verbal abuse, a blush of anxiety and self-disgust suffusing his face, Seth had lowered his head and had extended his tongue. He thrust it out from between his lips and began to lick and slobber across the upper surface of each gleaming patent leather boot.
They were adorned with stiletto heels, tightly laced up the front so that each boot fit her leg revealingly, snug arid tapering, highlighting and accenting the splendid proportions of her calves. Her mini skirt slowly rose up around her thighs and he was pleased to see that she wasn't wearing stockings.
He glanced up at the revealing expanse of creamy-white thigh flesh and even though he hated himself for doing this, for putting up with what he saw as her malicious and kinky ways, he was nevertheless becoming rapidly aroused by the sight and close proximity of her body.
Seth could even feel the heat of her leg permeating the leather boot and his tongue skidded up and down across each instep, licking off the dust which covered her boots. She said nothing for a minute or so and then pushed him back with a sharp kick of her foot.
He gasped as the blow sent him flying backwards until he had landed painfully on his can. "Did ... did I do anything wrong, Lydia?" he'd whispered, realizing how increasingly frightened as well as aroused he was fast becoming.
"Everything," she'd said. "You're too slow boy, so get it through that thick skull of yours that when the lady says lick, she means it, not dainty little motions, boy. Now just sit there and wait while I attend to something. And don't move, either!"
He hadn't, despite himself. He was still kneeling there by her chair when, a minute or two later she returned to the living room. And what an awe-inspiring entrance she made, he remembered later. He'd looked up at her, determined to control his temper, knowing that he shouldn't bite the hand that was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, feeding him and safeguarding him from the police, no matter how painfully self-debasing he felt as a result of obeying her orders.
But when he'd looked up at her, he no longer cared half as much about licking her boots as he had a few minutes earlier. For now she had shed her cashmere sweater and though she still sported the black swede cowgirl vest, it was opened wide, rubbing up against her body and allowing him to see what he'd only ogled the outlines of before.
For her breasts were all but naked, just the nipples hidden from sight, half of each wide ruby-red areolae revealed, as well as the expanse of white and winsome tit-flesh. Her rounded boobs bounced hotly before his wide and staring eyes, buoyed up by their own firm resilience, proportioned according to the classic concepts of feminine beauty.
She snickered when she caught him ogling her jugs, returned to her chair and once again tapped her heels impatiently. He'd gulped loudly, unable to tear his eyes away so that when he'd lowered his head once again, he'd stared up at her tits, wishing he had the nerve to reach out and fondle them, stroke them and devour them with his lips and tongue.
Perhaps soon, soon she'll let me, he'd thought to himself, his tongue slurping quickly and heatedly across every inch of her boots. He wanted to prove himself to her, sensing that she would never be satisfied with him nor would she ever allow him to take liberties with her person, unless he demonstrated his willingness to obey and follow her orders, no matter how abusive or degrading he felt them to be.
Thus, he concentrated upon doing a good job. And when she ordered him to suck on each five-inch spiked-heel as if he was sucking on a cock, Seth hadn't hesitated to do the job, all eyes to her hot lush melons as he lifted one of her boots and held it lovingly in his hands, his mouth opened wide so that he was able to stuff the length of heel right between his lips.
The dirt encrusted on them made him gag, but it was far too late for him to stop. Never before had he done this kind of thing, had he taken orders from a woman, especially such disgusting orders as these. But it ultimately seemed worth it if he'd be allowed to have sex with her.
He hoped that would be the case, unless of course she had removed her sweater only to tease him, to turn him on and then leave him panting and horny while she went off on her merry and malicious way.
He hoped things would turn out more positively and believe it or not -- and he could hardly believe it, either -- the more he licked and slobbered over her boots, sucking each heel sparkling clean in turn, the more he got into what he was doing, actually getting off on the strong taste of the patent leather.
She snickered all the while, watching him with narrowed and staring eyes, delighted with the way things were progressing. He was making a good start, about as good a start in fact as she could ever hope for, and she couldn't have been more delighted or turned on by his willingness to obey her orders, even orders as loathsome as these.
"Not a bad first job, little man," she'd complimented him, a rare compliment, at that. "Just keep going, a little higher now. The tops are still filthy, boy."
Obediently he'd raised his head, extending his tongue up along the crisscrossing black rawhide laces, chewing them slightly and then licking with long lapping strokes of his wide raspy-edged tongue. He could feel her trembling, her leg moving gently against his face and he smiled to himself, sensing that she was pleased.
And if Lydia was pleased, he felt that soon he'd be pleased, as well. He licked with outward devotion, still not happy with his odious chore, but realizing it was certainly a helluva lot better than being penned up behind bars, forced to walk back and forth like an animal in a cage.
His tongue scaled the heights of her boots and she made no move to stop him. So he took the liberty of licking up along the flat bony cap of her knee, concentrating on one leg at a time. It was then that she'd made the first of what was destined to be many many moves of a similarly punishing kind.
Without so much as a word of warning, not fending him off as he slid his tongue up along her white and supple thigh, she reached out and grabbed a hank of his thick curly black hair, yanking his scalp to such a painful degree that he was forced to cry out and try to pull free of her abusive clutches.
"Who gave you permission to touch the goods, boy?" she'd giggled then, delighted with the pain he was obviously feeling. She held onto his hair securely, refusing to let him move out of her grasp.
"Please, don't, come on, Lydia, don't do this to me," he'd whined, feeling more like a little boy than a man. And that, needless to say, was the emotion she wished to draw out of him, to bring out into the open.
Clucking her tongue scornfully and sarcastically, she'd finally flung him away from her, rising haughtily and imperiously to her feet. "You must learn one thing, Seth my boy, and that is to never never touch the lady until she asks you to. Now follow me, boy. It's getting late and you'll have more than enough to do around here tomorrow morning."
He'd followed her like a docile and obedient puppy, out of the living room and up the stairs to the second floor of the house. Then, keeping behind her, led on by the alluring and jutting swell of her luscious and succulent looking behind, he'd followed her right into her bedroom.
It was a perfect reflection of her tastes, a room of black and red, stark and almost foreboding. And commanding the entire room was a magnificent modern chrome bed with four high square chrome posts that rose up at each end, as well as adjoining chrome bars linking each square post to the other. The whole gave the effect of a steel skeleton, a canopy bed without the overhanging cloth covering.
He stood by the opened door, afraid of making a move unless she gave him permission. Although he was yet to come to grips with what was happening, there could be no doubt of his sexual excitement, the fact that he was more turned on to her than ever before. She knew it too, for one glance at the front of his skintight dungarees told her everything she needed to know.
Now, she was ready to put into action the plans she had made for the evening, the plans which centered about Seth's initiation into the strange world of bondage and discipline, the world of savage sexual conquest and female domination.
Turning to face him, she smiled nastily and slipped out of her vest, letting it drop to the floor. Her lush naked jugs stared him in the eye and his mouth dropped open at the tasty sight. Each ruby-red nipple stood taut and firm, at rigid attention. They were tingling with the anticipation of the pleasures soon to come and he held himself steady and unmoving, almost afraid to blink lest she see that as a form of insubordination, motion that had not been granted permission.
"Tell me, Seth," she'd announced then, her hands on her hips and her ripe melons swaying gently and excitingly from side to side, "what would you most like to do, right now, right this very minute?"
He'd hesitated for only an instant. And then he'd said, "Fuck you. I'd like to take you to bed, Lydia."
"Oh really?" and she'd giggled uproariously as if the very notion was absurdity personified. "But you're not half the man I need, dearie. You probably wouldn't know anything about what to do to turn me on. Unless of course ... why certainly," although she'd known it all along and was now merely playing with his ego and his masculinity. "You can ball me, little man, but only after I've taught you one of my favorite little games."
"Which is?" he'd asked, still somewhat naive and innocent of her highly treacherous and untrustworthy nature.
"Monkey bars," she'd snickered, pointing to the open-sided chrome bed. "Ever swing from monkey bars when you were a kid? These are designed to support a pay-load of two hundred and fifty pounds and I daresay, you weigh considerably less than that. Are you up for it, boy? Or are you chicken?"
"Not a chance," he told her, cocky once again, despite the fact that he had no idea of what her little "game" entailed.
But that, needless to say, would soon enough be explained.
She went over to her dresser, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out what at first glance appeared to be a set of iron rings. Then, not saying a word to him, she pulled over a chair and climbed up on the wooden seat, opening the rings and attaching them to the top bar by the foot of the bed.
Once this was accomplished, she moved over to him and took hold of one of his hands. He flinched when she opened another iron ring and slid it like handcuffs around one wrist and then the other, clicking them shut. "Now get up on that chair, open them up again and attach them to the other rings. I'll tell you what to do after that, little man."
Although he was growing more and more suspicious of this game, as she insisted upon calling it, he was nevertheless more interested in balling her than anything else. And if he had to perform in a kinky manner as he had done when he'd licked her boots, well, he was willing to go through with it, thinking that the ends justified the means, so to speak.
So it was with a mixture of sexual excitement and inchoate fear that he got up on the chair, opening the iron rings and clicking them shut around the rings on the chrome bar, linking one to the other. He held onto the square post and looked down at her as she suddenly laughed uproariously and kicked the chair away so that he was swinging, his feet no longer having support or something beneath them.
He gripped the iron bar and swung back and forth as if was on a high-wire or a trapeze, glancing down at her as he moved like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. "Is this all there is to it?" he'd asked, still naive and innocent of her true plans.
"Almost, Seth dear, almost," she'd assured him, moving back to her dresser and retrieving something else, something he couldn't see until she put it to good use.
With swiftness and self-assurance, she suddenly grabbed hold of one of his feet and lashed a length of stout hemp rope around his ankle, pulling his leg apart, spread-eagling it and then tying the free end of rope to the base of one of the posts at the foot of the bed.
"Hey, what's the big idea!" he'd yelled, trying unsuccessfully to kick himself free. He was afraid of attempting to undo the iron rings lest he lose his balance completely and hurtle to the floor.
And before he had a chance to figure out a means of escape, she succeeded in spread-eagling his other thigh, once again tying the rope around his ankle and then connecting it securely to the bedpost. When she was finished there was absolutely rib way for him to escape unless he undid the iron rings and lost his balance completely.
As it was he was somewhat afraid of heights and he was at least eight feet, if not more, off the floor. His legs tied and pinioned securely, iron rings around his wrists and thence attached to the rings she had clicked into place over the upright steel post, Lydia now got ready to begin in earnest.
This was, after all, only the start, as poor Seth Garrick was almost immediately going to learn ... if he hadn't figured it out already.