Stephanie's Revenge

by

Stephanie's
Revenge first published in 1993 by Nexus. Published as an eBook in
2012 by Chimera eBooks.

ePub ISBN
9781780802114

mobi ISBN
9781780802121

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Chimera (
ki-mir'a,
ki-
) a creation of the imagination, a wild
fantasy.

New authors
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This novel is fiction - in real life
practice safe sex.

This work is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior
written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published, and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all
characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of
age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely
imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual
happening.

Copyright Susanna Hughes. The right of
Susanna Hughes to be identified as author of this book has been
asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights
Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Stephanie let
the warm water from the shower cascade over her body. The shower
was powerful, pumping needle-jets of water at considerable
pressure. It was one of the many things about life at the castle
that she loved. A real luxury. She turned her back and let the
water wash through her long black hair and down the length of her
spine, until it hit the slope of her arse and funnelled into the
deep gully between the plump cushions of her buttocks. Turning
again, she dipped her face briefly into the hard stream of water to
wash the sleep from her eyes. She shampooed her hair and soaped her
body. The water ran down her neck, down her hollow collar bone,
over her firm breasts - seemingly defying gravity with a distinct
upward tilt, their nipples puckered and hardened by the water -
over her iron-flat stomach and waspy pinched waist, to the fullness
of her hips and into her thick, black, curly pubic hair. Here it
was momentarily trapped. It accumulated, like rain on the leafofa
tree, then fell away in large drops or ran on further down the long
sculptured curves of Stephanie's thighs, over her tight shapely
calves to her delicately pinched ankles.

Shutting off
the water, Stephanie stepped out of the shower. She ran a thick
comb through her long hair to untangle it, and examined her body in
the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the white Carrara
marble bathroom. The three whip marks on her thighs had almost
entirely disappeared. But the one on her inner thigh, the one from
the cut of Gianni's whip that had so narrowly missed the soft folds
of her sex itself, still displayed a slight bruising on her
otherwise flawless tan. The welt across her breasts, from the same
source, was also distinctly visible - an angry red scar across the
top of her breasts in the middle of their soft, opulent curves.

It made her
fume every morning, made her curse his name. It made her think of
that night, three weeks ago, when Gianni had used her and inflicted
these marks.

Pulling on a
white towelling robe without bothering to dry herself, Stephanie
walked through her spacious bedroom to the large terrace outside,
paved in terracotta. The morning sun would dry her hair.

She walked to
the parapet and looked down at Lake Trasimeno. The sun had just
cleared the horizon to the east and hung, a huge fireball, in the
clear blue sky. Two or three small fishing boats were rowing for
shore, their pre-dawn work done. They left long wakes in the
silvery calm water of the lake. Somewhere, a distant solitary
church bell tolled an irregular note. Down beneath the terrace she
could hear the water of the lake lapping at the jetty. No doubt it
had done so since the fourteenth-century castle, in which she now
lived, was built. It was a pleasant, hypnotic noise. A slight
breeze ruffled the over-hanging jasmine intertwined with
bougainvillaea. The air was full of the heady scent of flowers. The
breeze took up the calm waters of the lake too, and corrugated them
into a pattern that glistened and reflected the sun. It was,
Stephanie thought, paradise. And it was hers. For as long as she
wanted it.

Every morning
she awoke with a sense of incredulity at her situation. No doubt
when she got used to it the disbelief would fade. At the moment,
she had to remind herself how it had all happened. The sexual
odyssey she had embarked on had been a voyage of self-discovery - a
sudden and unexplained need to explore her own sexuality, the
desires, lusts and longings she felt so fiercely but did not
understand. It had led her through the faltering and painful first
steps with Martin, to Devlin and to the castle.

Devlin had
brought her to this island castle, on Lake Trasimeno in the middle
of Italy, for a weekend. The castle was more than a beautiful and
luxurious house with every possible amenity. Its ancient dungeons
had been converted into cellars adapted to cater for every
conceivable sexual taste and 'staffed' by men and women who had
been caught with their hand in one of Devlin's many company tills.
Their choice had been simple: come and serve at the castle or face
the police.

Whether Devlin
expected her reaction she did not know, but Stephanie had found
herself responding to the castle in a way she would not have
predicted. She had not been shocked or repelled. She had discovered
that an ability to control and dominate, to play the ringmaster in
a sexual circus - the power Devlin was only too willing to give to
her - had given her feelings she had never even imagined. After
three days of sexual excess, of every sort of sexual experience -
including Gianni's abuse - she had found herself on a sexual high
that was simply beyond her experience.

She had not
asked herself where her odyssey might end. She had no idea it would
end here, with her relishing the role Devlin had cast her in or,
more accurately, the role she had created for herself. She had
treated Devlin to a display of total dominance. She had made the
master into a slave, her slave. And he had told her it was the most
exciting experience of his life. He wanted it repeated. And
repeated. Which is why he wanted her at the castle, and why he'd
offered her the chance to make the castle hers. Stephanie's
Castle.

The sun was
already hot. Stephanie slipped off the robe to let it dry her body.
She lay on one of the loungers, waiting for her breakfast to
arrive. Looking down at her body, she caught sight of the marks on
her breasts again and a wave of anger returned, spoiling the peace
of the moment.

Her instinct
had been right. She had intended to go to Rome to take her revenge
on Gianni immediately, the day after he had abused her so wantonly.
But when Devlin, on her instructions, had called to make sure
Gianni would be at home, he had been told that Gianni was away. And
so far he had not returned. If she had been able to get it out of
her system, repay him for what he had done to her, Stephanie would
have been able to concentrate and enjoy all the considerable
delights of the castle and her new position. But while it still
lingered, while the marks on her body remained, however faded, the
idyll was flawed. The only advantage to the delay was that she had
thought long and hard about exactly what she was going to do to
Gianni. She had developed an elaborate punishment to fit his
heinous and elaborate crime against her. As soon as Devlin
discovered Gianni was back home in Rome she would take her
revenge.

Two weeks
earlier Devlin's private jet had landed at Heathrow. Stephanie was
the only passenger. The black Mercedes coupé was waiting to meet
her, its driver ready to take her luggage. But there was none. This
was a day trip to clear up her affairs in London, put her flat on
the market, and give in her resignation at work. She had told the
pilot of the plane to be ready to return to Italy by five o'clock
that afternoon. It was, she thought, definitely the only way to
travel.

The driver
brought the Mercedes round to the front of the terminal and got out
to open the passenger door. But Stephanie had other plans.

'I'll take the
car,' she said. 'Be here at five to pick it up, will you.' It was
not a question.

Walking round
to the driver's door, Stephanie slipped into the deep leather seat,
adjusted its position with the electrics provided, and pulled into
the traffic, leaving the hapless driver standing on the kerb.

She hadn't
wanted to be chauffeured today. Firstly, she wanted the feeling of
driving a big, powerful car. Secondly, she wanted to be alone. She
intended to enjoy herself. She soon felt at home in the cocooned
double-glazed interior of the big car. Its engine accelerated
effortlessly as she cruised past other cars on the motorway into
central London. She turned the radio on and let it search the
airwaves automatically until it found Radio Three and a concert of
English baroque music. The sharp, crisp, brassy sound suited her
mood. She adjusted the air conditioning so it blew colder. It was a
typical English late summer day, hot and stuffy, and the cool air
from the vents was welcome.

She wore a
short sleeveless yellow dress that clung to her figure, curving
into her slim waist and emphasising the richness of her full hips
and the taut firmness of her bust. Apart from a pair of pure silk
tanga cut panties and her matching yellow high heels, she wore
nothing else, unless a pair of gold-framed Cartier sunglasses count
as clothing. Her black hair was pinned up to the back of her head,
revealing her long graceful neck.

When Devlin
had asked her - begged her, would be a more accurate description -
to stay at the castle, she had phoned her boss to say that she was
ill. After a couple of days she'd got a friend to tell him she'd be
back in a week. Today the week was up. Apparently, her boss had
been most concerned about her welfare, sending good wishes for her
speedy recovery.

It was
fortunate that Stephanie intended to give her notice, because there
was no way her boss would ever have believed she had been ill. With
the almost continuous sun at the castle, with slaves to massage her
with sun screen, she had an almost perfect tan. She looked and felt
better than she had ever looked and felt in her entire life. She
was relaxed and, most of all, she was in control. That was the
feeling Devlin had given her, encouraged in her, created in her.
She was her own woman now.

She parked the
Mercedes in the curved driveway in front of her company's office
building, next to the managing director's rather smaller model. The
commissionaire scuttled out of the building immediately, his arms
waving in agitation.

'You can't
park there, Miss,' he said, coming round to the driver's door. He
hadn't recognised her.

Stephanie
opened the door of the car and swung her long tanned legs out, her
knees together. The shirt of the dress had ridden up on the leather
seat. She could have sworn she heard him gulp.

'I'm sure I
can for a little while,' she said, slipping a fifty pound note into
his hand.

'Miss Curtis?'
he said, looking at her as though she were wearing a mask.

'Look after it
for me, Cyril. I won't be long.'

Not waiting
for his reply, she left the keys in the ignition and walked into
the building.

On the sixth
floor she acknowledged the 'How-are-yous?', 'Are-you-betters?' and
'Good mornings' of her colleagues. After her experiences at the
castle, after flying into London on a private jet, the office
seemed particularly dim and unreal. The person who had worked at
her desk in this large open-plan office was very different from the
person she was now. Her life had changed irrevocably; she did not
want her old life back.

At her desk,
she sat down and went through the drawers, looking for anything
personal she might want to keep. There was very little. She looked
around her. The other people in the office were staring at her as
if she were a ghostly apparition, as though trying to reassure
themselves that it really was her. She smiled at them
angelically.