Random scenes Through the Looking Glass

[patrick1]

wr

'Ah, you want me to hurt you then.' How he loves her no. 'You must say yes if you don't want me to do something.'

There's a rip in the silk of the universe for a moment and he almost tumbles through. Ah, it's not that, no - he has torn a great strip from her blouse. Her right breast hangs loose. He takes her own right hand, and places it upon the exposed flesh. 'Don't hurt me,' she repeats. He takes her own left hand, and thrusts it inside the tatters of his clothing, pushing it down to her most secret, darkest place.

She kneels, her ankles bound to each wooden post. She might unbind herself. She might call out some spell that would summon aid to her. Instead her eyes, wide, stare into his and plead for something. Or perhaps that's because he's showing her the whip: nine leather strands, knotted, flowing from a wooden handle.

'Now I shall whip you until you dissolve into orgasm. Unless of course you beg me to continue, in which case I shall stop.'

Don't hurt me. Is that the woman in the mirror is saying? The negative is indistinct. What do her weeping eyes mean?

The scream is loud, though, as the first lash falls across her upper back, slicing through a fragment of clothing. She falls forward. And yet her hands...her hands are busy...

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Through the Manse

Alice made her way through the mansion a shadow amidst shadows looking to avoid any detection by the rest of the staff. Something about her surroundings nagged at her as familiar, but the exact nature of this familiarity simply would not come clear. Shaking such thoughts free, she continues her trek.

Coming to stand before a set of double doors that she’s seen somewhere before. Without realizing it she enters the Lady Alethea’s chambers. Relieved that she has found an empty sanctuary with a lavatory and everything, Alice sets to the task of cleaning herself.

As if shedding her skin, she throws the tattered blood stained mess that was once her favorite dress into a fancy lined garbage can. She would have to find something in this other woman’s room to make do. Grimy, sweaty, and utterly disgusted with her filthy condition she runs a very hot bath, finding some lovely scented oils to ad to the water.

She casually slides into the steaming tub, letting the delicious sensation was over her. As her buttocks come to rest on the bottom of the tub, she is suddenly ice cold and sputtering, her heart racing as if she were in fear for her life. Being in fear for her life was not a sensation Alice had sported very often in her many years in the glass.

Bolt upright in the tub now, she realizes that the feeling of cold water was not her own perceptions but those of another. Who could possibly be trying to reach her, but of course it was obvious. The other in the cold water, drenched in fear, was the catalyst; the one who had taken Alice’s place in the other realm.

This game was really beginning to be interesting. She wondered which of the demented courts had come up with this one.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

at whips end

Chaos and storms of light dance through Alethea, her mind and body no longer one. She feels trapped by the dirty confines of her skin. Her eyes are glued to a thousand dancing images of an illusionary couple involved in a seriously kinky game. The distraction holds her for so long, beguiling and bewitching. She is not aware of the truth all around her.

She feels the stranger moving her into positions that she would never herself have chosen, but unable to control any of it, she is like a doll, a toy for his whims. It is horrifying and electrifying confusing her more. This helplessness was something she was not accustomed too and the fact she could not resist made it all the more stressful.

It did not even register to her that her hands were free, that she might work the knots at her ankles loose and run. She could only hold her breast and hot moist cleft as he had placed her.

Then the fire of the lash strikes, her screams like the cries of the damned, should have shattered the walls and ceiling with their force. The pain so intense her voice cracking at the tail end of her cry. Yet the flesh her hands still held, became as hot as the flames burning her back, and tender. Needy and slick with the moisture of her own lust.

Face to the floor eyes streaming, on her knees Alethea’s will begins to try and reassert itself. Straining to pull her gaze away from the fantasy in the reflection, her head aches and her vision doubles. Turning her face burning with a battle betwixt pleasure and pain, defiance and shame; she speaks.

“Why are you doing this?” her words jitter forth on chattering teeth, and somehow her hands continue to cup and caress herself; though they do so unbidden by her mind.

 

[patrick1]

wr

'Why are you doing this?'

He smiles, for she is helplessly in thrall to her own pleasure, unable to remember that she is free, for what is freedom? The lonely search for one mightier than oneself.

He resists answering her: what right does she have to be answered? He raises the whip to lash her again, finally to make her bleed through the tatters of her clothing, to make her shriek herself beyond reason, to send her beyond into dementia, but suddenly he sees -

He sees another. A wise innocent who has met a walrus and a carpenter. She looks at him, unerotically, quizzically, from within the body he was thrashing.

It's only momentary. Then the wild-eyed one inhabits the flesh again, clawing at herself, her open mouth a plea to him to go on, on, on...

What, then, is staying his hand? Why can't he seem to lift the whip? Bewildered, he even tries reason: he answers her question: 'Why am I doing this? A man called de Sade has written my answer. He said, I have supported my deviations with reasons; I did not stop at mere doubt; I have vanquished, I have uprooted, I have destroyed everything in my heart that might have interfered with my pleasure. Do you understand his words?'

She's laughing. The young woman is laughing at him. Or is it at his mirror-image? He looks in the glass above, beside, around him and sees not the malevolent monster he thought himself to be, but a man in a tall hat, blinking madly, wielding a teapot where his whip used to be. No. No. He stamps on the glass, he punches it, but it won't splinter. The young woman is smiling at him mischievously. What's happening to him?

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Sudden view

Being drenched in griffin’s blood is not something one suds off in one sitting. On her second round of boiling bath water Alice was once again jolted from her comfortable soak in the tub. Only this time by an agonizing branding sensation across her shoulders, the pain was excruciating. She could tell from the raw sensation that the lash was being born by one who did not know how to control the pain.

Wincing and cursing she draws her knees to her chest, searching with her mind the trail that will lead back to the catalyst. Traipsing down the firing synapses to her doppelganger now trapped on the other side of the glass. She sees the face hiding behind the façade as the white rabbit grips his whip tight.

She only has time to recognize him before losing her grip on the woman’s mind and slipping back into the waking world. Her tub water already growing too cold, well it was time for her to get moving anyway.

Taking care not to slip she pulls herself from the tub and towels dry; then begins to ransack the Lady Alethea’s room for something to wear.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Attempt to flee

Locked into the pleasure and pain principle chained to it like a prisoner of old, Alethea begins to sob uncontrollably. Her tears are silver rivulets, spilling in streams down her cheeks, yet she makes no sound, they fall silently. Something moves from within her mind, something beyond her control and she sees its affect on the elegantly dressed man.

He reacts as if scalded at first, not afraid but wary. She doesn’t understand any of it, but a name rings out from somewhere outside herself, the White Rabbit. It’s a voice in her head, one she’s never heard before. Again that sense she should know this name.

With this gap in torment and realizing her position, Alethea pulls her hands away from her greedy needy flesh and begins working on the knots holding her ankles. Her fingers are slippery and the knots tight she finds it very difficult. As she fumbles with the ropes, she can hear the man, The White Rabbit, speaking as if to her. But his eyes make no contact, instead falling on some random reflection overhead.

“'Why am I doing this? A man called de Sade has written my answer. He said, I have supported my deviations with reasons; I did not stop at mere doubt; I have vanquished, I have uprooted, I have destroyed everything in my heart that might have interfered with my pleasure. Do you understand his words?”

His words spark further fear as she recognizes the bloody Marquis’ name. Struggling harder now to work lose she hopes the mirrors will keep his attention just long enough. She can feel the sweat pooling on her body, making her fingers slip that much more.

Only a few moments more, please she prays. The terror within her throbs with alien feelings as well. Her desires interfering with her progress.

 

[patrick1]

wr

'I was thinking,' he said very politely, 'which is the best way out of this wood: it's getting so dark. Would you tell me, please?'

He sees her struggling. He sinks to his knees. She doesn't answer him. He is facing her. He wants to touch her. He touches her. An impulse tells him to put his white gloves back on but he resists. What could be so wrong about the simple sensual touch of her flesh through her bedraggled clothing?

He puts his arms round her and she cries out when he touches the wounds on her back. Who could have caused them?

Ah yes. He did. 'Escape,' he wants to whisper to her. They are inside a giant bottle perhaps: that would be why they are surrounded by glass. And he feels time leaking into the bottle again. Time, that feeds the vicious man with his face and body, time that he feels himself gulping down now, like a bottle that says 'Drink me'.

His fingernails scrape, deliberately, along one of the wounds upon her back.

Are her hands still caressing herself? He feels her arms between them. He licks her left ear lovingly. But then, is his bite at her earlobe a little unnecessarily hard?

'Mmm,' he says, feeling her squirm in his arms, unsure whether she is wriggling with pleasure, or the desire to be free of him...

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Another fleetin glimpse

Pulling some frilly garment left behind by the manor’s previous owner Alice glowers. This sort of thing is not her style but it is the only thing in the giant woman’s closet that comes close to fitting the petite interloper’s frame. Pulling some of the bows and lace free, creates a bit of satisfaction, at least enough for her to endure.

As she makes her way stealthy as a shadow back to the ballroom, she is again stopped by a flash from the catalyst. The distinct sensation of ragged nails on brutalized flesh, illicits Madame Alice’s ire in her response,” Son of a BITCH RABBIT!” The words tear from her lips, unexpected but ring through empty halls. It would appear the staff had already gone for the day.

She had to know what further mischief he was up too; the woman who had replaced her must not be harmed. If that came to pass, then there truly would be hell to pay.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

time in a bottle?

She franticly paws at the tangled knots unwittingly tightening the one on her left foot but successfully loosening the right. She glances up to see him struggling, and slowly slipping to his knees. She bites back a frightened cry as she continues to tug and pull helplessly at the rope binding her left foot; at the same time shaking her right foot free.

So engrossed in her efforts she fails to see the fallen man’s approach and thus misses her chance to escape his lunge. His arms snap round her like a vice and she screams but he does not seem to hear her. Or if he does he shows no sign of it.

He utters fantastical nonsense as he grips her even tighter, his jagged nails tugging at the swollen ridges along her back, where the whip had left its brutal kiss. It is more then she can take and she thrashes against him trying to break free. Even as she tries to set herself loose, she is not strong enough to budge him. His teeth suddenly sink into her earlobe startling her and rousing yet another shrill shriek from her lungs.

She swings her right boot clad foot out at him trying to knock him off balance, her left ankle twisting painfully as she makes the attempt. Cursing she begins to claw at him madly. The random reflections showing a torrid couple locked in a steamy embrace. Another fleeting glimpse shows to fanged monsters locked in combat.

The images drive her harder, the adrenaline filling her system.

 

[patrick1]

wr

'Son of a Bitch RABBIT!'

The woman's voice shrieks from somewhere in the interstices of the world around them. He tastes blood.

There are no mirrors: where did they go? Did the woman's clear voice make them disappear? Or perhaps he has slipped through a gap in the silk of the air again, to find his arms around this shrieking animal, and in every direction, his burrows, his homes, his underground highways

The glorious smell of loam. A worm, above and to their right, big as a snake, but somehow comforting.

He wishes the woman would stop shrieking. He takes off his top hat that seems to keep re-materialising, and uncoils more rope from within its frame. 'Ssh, ssh,' he says, 'Pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain, of course, silly woman,' and when she doesn't stop shrieking he puts a spotted handkerchief in her mouth and ties it there with another spotted handkerchief and only has his paws, I mean, hands slightly bitten.

Then he wrenches her arms behind her because really she's been pleasuring herself for quite long enough and it's time she learnt -

- something-or-other (how enormous the worms are here, another slithers past them towards its fellow-worm), and he ties her wrists together, and undoes her left ankle even though all the thanks he gets is a sharp kick on the shins and a muffled shriek as he heaves her over his right shoulder, and she keeps kicking, and he thinks - does he say aloud? - 'First burrow and straight on till morning.'

Or was that supposed to be another tale altogether? Blimey, it certainly seems, when he steps up into the first burrow, that something has been left behind where the mirrors were, it takes the most tremendous effort to get through the plasma or whatever it is and when he does he seems to be in a long, dark, dank corridor and not in his burrow at all....

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Alice enraged

Her ire rising Alice storms back to the ballroom. Face red, eyes wide and flashing with electricity, she is in a fury. Walking past the still comatose couple, she checks to make sure they are still breathing. She figures they will be like this until the balance is once again restored between this world and the one beyond.

With strength unbelievable in one so frail she lifts the massive antique mirror and places it back in its niche on the wall. Her eyes pierce the mysterious depths of the mirror silver backed glass. Rabbit was on the move, she could almost hear his rapid heart beat, smell his madness.

Focusing her will into the reflection she seeks the fleeing man and his captive. For Alice can sense Alethea is still within his possession.

He better not do anything foolish, she thinks to herself, knowing the thought to be in vain.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Into the earth

Alethea cannot hear the voice but can see its affect on the strangely dressed man. As she continues to struggle he suddenly stops as if stabbed. Gripping her with hands like iron bands about her arms, she can’t stop screaming as his fingers bruise her tender flesh. She feels as if she has been run through a meat grinder and it’s all too much.

His eyes dilate, nostrils flair and he looks straight at her, through her. Then swift as diving falcon, to fast for her to see, he manages to stuff a silky spotted handkerchief into her mouth, successfully silencing her piercing cries. Her eyes stare holes in him, but he continues his tasks unmoved, once again as if completely unaware of her. She catches his words of pleasure and pain, and feels that horrifying sense of passionate dread once again.

Uncontrollably her eyes begin seep, her body wracked with fearful sobs. He ruthlessly binds her arms, stretching the last fragments of her blouse to their breaking point leaving her upper half clad in only her dusty bra. Scraps of her shirt fall to the floor, a rain of fine linen. Bits and pieces continue to shear off as he easily tosses her over his broad shoulder. His body so difficult to get a fix on, as if in some state of flux; she tries valiantly to swallow back her fear and think of some way to escape him.

But for the time being, such plans offer no hope of fruition as she is tightly bound and being taken off down some long dark tunnel. She tries to memorize each step in hopes of using it as her method of egress at some point. All she would need was an opportunity.

 

[patrick1]

wr

They leave a trail. Her linen and his smell. Any competent hunter might follow them.

He wants to be followed, does he?

He keeps seeing two women, in his future or his imagination, he's not sure which: the one over his shoulder and the one beyond and betwixt the silk that he passes through as he runs, easily, as if floating over the earth.

The touch of her buttocks, of this one's buttocks. He's inflamed without even realizing it. Please may this next turn be the -

Yes it is. The light almost blinds him. He positively leaps the last barrier, the woman is blinded by the light when she tries to look up from his shoulder, the white light from within and the garish neon over the entrance to the burrow of burrows, yes it's -

WONDERLAND!

A paradise of racks and crosses, of chains and water-wheels, of cuffs and hoods, of images of women like this one on racks and crosses, in chains and bound to water-wheels, cuffed and hooded, yes he sets her down and binds the rope that binds her wrists behind her to a hook hanging from the ceiling so she must stand, bent a little forward, where have this doubts gone, into what marvellous potion have his fears dissolved? This is the place for her, this the place the other woman will come for her, especially if...

...there's a fanfare! Yes! Three blind mice, three blind mice, playing the trumpet, playing the trumpet!

And here's the carving knife that the farmer's wife left behind, here it is on a scarlet box, waiting for him, waiting for him to take it and hold its bright, sharp blade beneath the terrified gaze of Alethea, before with a swift cut! downwards, her bra is scythed in two and her breasts, oh her breasts hang loose, free, beautiful, for his blade to rest on the pretty pretty right nipple.

'Wonderland!' he cries out loud. 'Shall I carve an A upon her breast now?'

 

[Sultry_Shade]

reach out and touch someone

Ice fire orbs slip shut, haloed by long sand blonde lashes. Alice lets her minds eye focus into the mirrors shiny darkness. The waves of reflection flow over her as she delves into the hauntingly imperfect glass.

She can sense the vibrations of the Rabbit’s trail, his lust lighting up the shadows with his glowing need. The desire of such sadism is a coal, and Alice knows his victim contains the elements to give that single ember inferno status.

This was a powder keg, and beyond the looking glass there would be repercussions if the mad fool was allowed to take his pleasure of Alethea. She had to find a way to intervene, but being on the outside looking in; she knew this would prove to be very difficult indeed.


His path leads between the haze realms into the heart of the tortured woods. The White Rabbits favorite addiction, fields of crosses for miles, every form of torture under the sun. She had to reach the panic stricken girl somehow, if only they had a connection.

Alice extends her will, pushing to touch the worn woman's frazzled mind.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

illusion aside

They seem to travel for hours the dirt walls closing in on them in spots only to open into cathedral sized rooms. She is confused by the constant flux of tunnels and passages. Then just when she thinks they may never stop, they enter a room of blinding brilliance. Her eyes dazzled it takes many long moments before she is able to truly see their final stop.

Draped over his shoulder she can feel the White Rabbit’s heart beat like a timpani drum. His pace quickens as the light builds around them. Then the real perils of Wonderland are revealed. Alethea’s eyes fall open round as saucers, her pupils slightly dilate in shock. Her breath catches in her throat as she gazes upon the fields of torment that unfold before her.

The terror and pleasure that spill through her defy description and she feels as if her head my float away. Her heart dances a fluctuating rhythm of panic and lust it is more then she can bear and as he hangs her like an ornament she cannot scream, her vocal chords paralyzed with fear. Paralyzed with need.

As her body sways against her bindings she watches the White Rabbit draw his blade, she swallows heavily, deep inside praying he does not cut her. She watches the shreds of her bra fall and knows that there will be much in the ways of pain and equally of pleasure.

The ice cold blade falls against her nipple, drawing it rock hard, like rosy pink gum drops. Biting back a gasp, she murmurs. “Cut me, a little.” Hoping that she has learned the way to avoid the rending of her flesh.

Something in the back of her mind tickles, she thinks of Alice.

 

[patrick1]

wr

The heat. She hasn't yet felt the heat, the heat of Wonderland.

Soon she will, he resolves.

He holds the knife, glittering, in front of her.

He lowers it in front of him until, in a deliberately obscene gesture, the blade seems to point outwards, glinting, straight from his crotch.

Her eyes, wide.

Suddenly he thrusts the knife upwards - only through the air, but you wouldn't know it from the scream that erupts from her.

And he sees, behind her, as if through a distorting mirror, the other woman, the innocent within her, called perhaps by the scream. And he hurls the knife, handle first, towards the mirror, like a challenge to the woman to come out fighting...

...while he, his hands free, turns towards the source of the white light and the heat...and lifts, to show Alethea, the iron he's been warming in the fire...the branding iron, white hot, bearing the letter A...

 

[Sultry_Shade]

missed allignments

Cursing under her breath she pushes harder into the rattled woman’s psyche. Her crafty mind a projectile of will, she finds herself looking momentarily through her shock wide eyes. It is in this moment her reflection is cast and caught by the Rabbit.

His recognition of her is fleeting; she can tell he is having trouble grasping at the memory of her. “I’m Alice, dammit!” her mental self projects, “She is not me!” but the glazed look on his face insures he has not heard. It is then he attempts to banish her, his blade flying butt end first towards her glassy image.

Before impact she is expelled from the world beyond and back into the ballroom. Her eyes glowing ragefully red in the dimly lit room, hours have passed and she has drawn no closer to rescuing Alethea and returning the balance between worlds.


Failure is not a concept the Madam Alice handles very well. “Oh your gonna get it when I return Rabbit, “ she snarls under her breath, deciding to take a momentary break from her struggles.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

woman lost

The blade dancing before her eyes holds her in sway like the pipe of a snake charmer holds a cobra. Each intricate move of its liquid silver length makes her tremble, a fresh bouquet of goose bumps erupting on her naked flesh. He plays the practiced tormenter with his gestures and the motions. He lashes out at her and for sure she sees her world ending, the knife flashes and she screams a high pitched cry like the shriek of a wounded wildcat.

The movement is a hollow shell, a game to play her frayed wits. She struggles against the bindings with renewed vigor only to wind up with bruised wrists and ankles. Helpless she is angry and afraid. Yet some core element before had lay sleeping stirs; a trace of restless need, eagerness for experience. Her nipples tingle into tight knots of pink; her legs feel weak as a passionate surge flows through her loins. All she can think, is this can’t really be happening.

Her battered psyche reaches for the image of Alice like a drowning man for a life raft. Then as a glimmer of lightening against a moody gray sky flickers and is gone; Alethea’s thoughts of the Madam vanish like smoke. She watches the White Rabbit’s blade sales past her head to bounce off the wall beyond her view.

He then turns to the fire pit, something she had not noticed before. He draws the “A” shaped brand from the fire, and once again her screams echo through the vast caves of wonderland.

 

[patrick1]

It's as if there's been a storm raging. He sees it still whirling and swirling around him. In the bound woman's fear, and need. In the heat of the whiteness around him.

But inside him a calm has come quite suddenly. Perhaps it was when he threw the dagger and hurled it at the mirror, perhaps then he released something wild and swirling in himself.

The A-shaped brand sizzles in his hand. It's already cooling. Her eyes are transfixed on it. He smiles. He thrusts it back into the fire. 'It must be hot for you,' he says. His fingers, that have just released the branding iron, touch her most intimate places - her cunt - with tenderness that surprises him, let alone his - victim, is she?

'If you do not come to orgasm for me when a count from 100 ends,' he says, his thumb and finger at the seat of her pleasure, his other fingers pushing inside her, 'I shall brand your belly, between your navel and your pubic mound. 100. 99. 98. 97. 96...'

His fingers. His eyes, transfixed now by the look in her eyes. Fear? Desire? Horror? Wonder? Of course, she must be thinking, this could be another trick of his. There could be another answer, that he's not revealing.

Is that his own voice? Can he really already be saying, '89. 88. 87...'

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Rise and shine

Strategy had always been Alice’s strongest ally whether it was here in the waking world or beyond the veil of the looking glass. So again she must rely on her cunning to discover the catch and release the mechanism that caused her expulsion from wonderland.

She glances about the ballroom in irritation, her mind racing a mile a minute. Finally her eyes come to rest on the sleeping couple, Hyacinth and Winslo. She wonders if there is a way to wake them that will not cause them permanent harm. Perhaps this could activate a change in her current situation and if nothing else supply her with some more information about the lost lady of the house.

Flinging the table cloth she used to cover them back, she gazes down at the sweat soaked couple still engaged in an embrace, completely comatose. Leaning over them, her slight frame bending like a willow in hurricane she begins to sing the song of slumber, to recall them from their dreams.

Her ice fire eyes beginning to glow an unholy red, her hair rising like a golden halo around her head, lifted by the currents of power building around her. The song taking on a life of it’s own as her lips come to rest, and the couple at her feet stir as if in fits of nightmare.

“Awake sleepers of the gateway, Awake and give to me that which I seek.” Her command is steely and leaves no room for question.

Winslo feels as if he was hit by a bus, his head pounding eyes blurry. Hyacinth shudders in his arms as they both rouse. Exhausted and depleted they find themselves in a nearly naked state lying at the feet of a young woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Madame Alice, the magic mirror’s former owner.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

purgatory or paradise

Her screams fall on immune ears, and shortly her exhausted lungs fail, and only a last few mewling sounds escape her lips. Transfixed, she watches a change begin to manifest in the White Rabbit, where before he seemed so disjointed he now has taken on a renewed vigor. As if some inner scale within his madness has temporarily come to balance. His presence shift from one of flighty illusions, to controlled insanity, his eyes cast an inner light that makes Alethea’s world tilt.

The brand in his hand is rapidly cooling, Alethea’s body running with the sweat of fear and another essence, perhaps that of lust, she dares not explore it too far. Brain at battle twixt the parallels of terror and masochistic delight; she shrinks back against her bindings, her wide staring eyes a mute appeal for reason. This silent appeal fails to be noticed by the elegantly garbed man who is now to far immersed in fantasy.

Watching as the Rabbit checks the brand, apparently not finding its heat to his satisfaction he places it back into the fire. Ever so slightly he stirs the coals with it, to insure an even disbursement of heat. Alethea breaths a sigh of relief, but it is a very short lived moment; for quickly his attention returns to her, and her slatternly flesh.

His hands move lightening quick and yet with supple gentleness. It is a shock of pleasure she was not expecting, and her body responds instantly. Yet she struggles to maintain a veneer of calm, to hide the turmoil within. He speaks.

“'If you do not come to orgasm for me when a count from 100 ends,' he says, his thumb and finger at the seat of her pleasure, his other fingers pushing inside her, 'I shall brand your belly, between your navel and your pubic mound. 100. 99. 98. 97. 96...'”

At first his words seem jumbled in her head, like a puzzle from her child hood. Orgasm, in 100 counts, she squirms against his invading fingers. The idea of excruciating pain if she fails in this task sends her into a fresh horror. Inexplicably she can feel her pleasure centers responding to his touch, its subtle insistence coaxing a response from her she would never have dreamed possible in such circumstances.

Now no longer driven by fear of the brand, but more by the fear of what she is becoming she thrashes like a women possessed. Despite it all her body begins to ring with the White Rabbit’s countdown, the passionate dissolution of her desires eminent. She strives to meet the countdown while another part of her psyche battles to prevent the inevitable.

 

[patrick1]

wr

It's as if her body and his right arm, as his fingers tingle as they play with her sex, as if they become connected, his limb and her cunt, while a voice that sounds like his own is saying numbers.

'Twenty-seven,' he's saying. 'Twenty-six...'

He's saying the numbers to the whorl of her left ear. Her body curves into his and he closes his eyes, feeling naked to her despite his clothing, surprised to feel almost tearful.

'Twenty-five,' he's saying. 'Twenty-four....'

He moves a little to her right, biting her lobe, opening his eyes to see her, not the fleshly woman close to him but the woman in the looking-glass that seems to be everywhere around them. How beautiful she is, in her naked wild surrender, in her bonds.

'Twenty-three,' he's saying, 'twenty-two...'

It's as if he's already branded her, he can see the mirrored A marking the flesh between her navel and her cunt as if he had already burnt it into her, as she writhes in her lust, helpless, crying herself.

'Twenty-one,' he's saying, 'twenty...'

Wonderland, the whiteness that was all around them seems to be emanating from her now, her tongue licking air, her eyes wide as he bites her earlobe again...

 

[Sultry_Shade]

frustrations of communication

The world reassembles itself very slowly for Hyacinth and Winslo, despite the brevity of their rest they both feel as if they have slept for months. The cobwebs still cling to their weary minds as they try desperately to understand what the wild eyed girl is telling them.
Alice finds herself locked in a trial of frustration getting through to them.

“Listen, and listen well this is not so hard,” she draws in a deep breath before continuing. “The mirror is a door that leads to an alien land. Your mistress is there now, having taken my place. Someone or something wanted me out and her in. It appears she has been chosen for a reason, I must find out what that reason is. I need to know more about her, this Lady Alethea.”

Both set of eyes though open pin here with glazed expressions and it is all she can do not to tear them limb from limb. Shaking her head she turns her back to them, to gaze out upon the grounds. It is then that she hears Winslo stirring; he stands on uncertain feet and approaches Alice, cautiously. His simple existence never left much room for situations like this one.


”Miss, she uhm…” he stutters talking to this eerie beauty sets his teeth on edge. “She, uh the Lady Alethea that is, kept a notebook. She always had it locked up in her study, so I knew it had to be something private and personal. Maybe that would help.” He looks for approval for some reason craving it from this frail woman, unable to fathom why.

“Excellent, my good man,” she smiles it is a sharp and cutting expression that fails to reach her eyes. “Take me to her private study.”

 

[Sultry_Shade]

tantric terrors

As the countdown commences unbidden, the Lady Alethea weeps and trembles. Her volition erodes rapidly under the skillful manipulations of the White Rabbit’s dexterous finger play. Again a film of sweat coats every inch of her skin, giving the sensation that she is boiling from the inside. She gleams like ivory in the blinding brightness that surrounds them. An angel without wings, she has become both pale and tragic in her position on the rack.

Her eyes dazzled she can no longer clearly see the classic dressed man, only his silhouette, against the snow glare lighting. Her world reduced to the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice, commanding her fears. His tone demands that she sacrifices this small part of herself to the lusts of wonderland or risk agony. The fear brews deep within adding a bizarre spice to her racing heart and throbbing pussy. An edge of shame her only other sense.

Green eyes like murky seas fill with tears even as her bright whites bite into swollen ruby lips. As the numbers roll through her head, her mind and body again split, she thinks to her diary safely locked in her private library. She thinks of the dark brooding secrets, her diabolic fantasies detailed within. Suddenly her consciousness and flesh are meshed once again and she is very aware of the earth shattering climax brewing within her.

His voice comes in again clear as cathedral bells, tripping into her essence, the numbers a sexual mantra. Dizzy she fights an already lost battle with herself. The memories of her journal and all of her lustful longings contained within, a focal point for the storm of need burying her in its power. His mouth takes a penetrating taste her flesh, his body heat blistering her side.

His words whistle through his teeth now clenched on her tender earlobe. “20…19…18…” she throws herself with renewed vigor against her bindings they bite viciously into her tortured wrists and ankles. Denial of what she wants and what her mind thinks twists her tight. His count drones on “15…14…13…”

Gasping, slightly chocking her eyes clamp shut, her mouth falling wide, as the numerals ring out with final authority, he is down to five, and her no longer in control. The orgasm is more then the Lady Alethea had ever experienced in her life, no man had ever triggered this kind of release within her.

Her screams of terrorized pleasure fill the void eggshell white of wonderland with hastily composed colors. A Technicolor climax that leaves her shaking and loose as a marionette cut from its strings. Too exhausted to ponder what may happen next she hears him murmur “2…1…” His hands covered with her wetness. His command met as required.

 

[patrick1]

wr

Unbound, on all fours, nude at his feet, the Lady Alethea trembles. She seems unsure of where she is, what she is, who she is. He crouches, his left hand at her chin so that he looks into her eyes. 'You climaxed at the climax. It's all very puzzling.'

He is pretending not to desire her. He is searching for his old character, the flippant, clever-clever rabbit.

His right hand strokes her back, soaked with sweat. He caresses her hair. His longing permeates the air around them. Exhausted, she keeps trying to slump, to lie down, but his determined hands keep lifting her up, at either side of her waist. He wants her to be an animal, four-legged, glistening, tired but still alive with lust.

Where are my white gloves? I shouldn't be touching her so - so intimately.

He strokes her buttocks, and the backs of her thighs, and lifts her again as she tries to rest. His hands tingle whenever he touches her, and the tingling shimmers up his arms, along his nerves.

He takes hold of her hair, entwines it in his right hand. He tugs upwards until she is forced to look into the looking-glass. 'Look,' he says. She sees, all along the corridors and back up the rabbit-hole and out and into a mansion somewhere she sees where she might have come from. Where she did come from. Where she might return. There are three figures poring over a book. His left hand touches the glass so the image gets clearer. It's the book itself, in an unfamiliar handwriting. Or is that her style?

And what will I do if I ever meet such a figure? Will my screams of terrorized pleasure fill the void eggshell white of wonderland with hastily composed colors? What if he brings me to a Technicolor climax that leaves me shaking and loose as a marionette cut from its strings. What then, when he offers me freedom again...?

'How beautiful,' he says, crouching to her once more. He kisses her eyes, her nose, her lips quickly. His own eyes betray him. 'Did you really write a notebook that dreamt of this moment? Or are we somehow conjuring it up? Look...look...this way...'

Behind her, as his hand in her hair turns her, is the whiteness of wonderland. Or is it another kind of looking-glass? She sees a woman half-crawling away from her, only, as the woman turns, it's her - the Lady Alethea - masturbating with one hand - the woman raises herself to show the A branded on her belly - and then there are screams - beyond there are more dazzling images - of a woman with her face - suffering and pleasured - horror and ecstasy - no, please -

She is sobbing. He is more tender than he has ever been. 'It's probably a trick,' he says out loud to her, holding her to him, letting her weep against his shoulder, 'don't trust me for a moment.'

He lets go. His hand in her hair again, with her on all fours, the animal Alethea, he turns her slowly. At one moment the horrors and joys of Wonderland are all around her; at another, she is in that mansion, oh so familiar she could touch and smell it and hug the people and -

'There are more numbers,' he says. 'It isn't a trick.' Meaning, it probably is, of course. 'After thirteen you must jump. One way: up out of the rabbit hole and back to - to somewhere safe. The other way: down. With me. Into the inferno of Wonderland.' He lets go of her hair, and begins: 'One. Two. Three...'