Morton and Sarah
by Sir Noble and kyrie eleison

I.

"On your right," drawled the guide's voice over the loudspeakers, "this Creole cottage dates back to 1837." The tour train halted, while the curious on-lookers snapped their camera lenses. Blanched by the morning sun, the house bolted upright from the azaleas, striking a sharp contrast from the flaming blossoms encircling the foundation. "One of the early Acadian settlers, Luc Prejean, built this home for his young bride." The passengers' eyes surveyed the gnarled oaks, evenly spaced, keeping a staunch vigil as they marched along the grassy edges of the driveway. Draped at half-mast with Spanish moss, these ancient guardians dominated the scene. At the back of the house, ancient cypresses dug their aerial roots down into the lazy waters of the Bayou Teche and stretched their fragile arms upwards in search of sunlight. The front porch of the building abruptly changed pitch, as if later added as an afterthought. Sturdy columns guarded its inviting shade, evoking a remark from one of the women passengers, "What a great place for summer parties.!" The typical forest green shutters stood vigilance to protect the occupants at a momentís notice from the sudden vagaries of the Gulf Coast climate. At the center of the building, wide double doors opened their cavernous mouth for a gracious welcome to all who entered. Yet in spite of time and hurricanes, the old homestead still persevered in dutifully protecting generations of family secrets, like a mother hen fluffing her feathers as she squats over her baby chicks. The guide continued, "Folks here in St. Martinville call it Dogwood just as they have for the past 160 years. A direct descendant of Luc Prejean presently occupies the estate."

The tour train ambled away down the winding road, while inside the house Morton Prejean IV scribbled a note to his wife before he left for his office.

Sarah,

Please have everything ready by the time I get home tonight. I want all the toys laid out as I have instructed you. Get your chores finished, too. Be a good girl, and remember to obey all the rules your Master has given you. I trust that your sore bottom will remind you of your duties toward me.

Your Master


Sleeping late that morning, Morton's wife awoke to find the note on her husband's pillow. Ready to carry out her orders for the day, Sarah Prejean-Gauthier put on a loose-fitting cotton dress which modestly concealed the roller coaster curves on her body. Her long blonde hair fell over her face and shoulders, not quite hiding her eyes. "Ah, your eyes," Morton had said to her when he courted her, "....the color of uncut emeralds...of sleepy bayous, mysterious swamps...eyes that laugh, dance, tease and promise. You have those eyes, my pet, that magnetize men, sucking them in, crumbling aristocrats and peasants alike." Indeed, Sarah did have those kind of eyes. Against her Catholic school upbringing, her glances would linger, spawning the most luscious of male fantasies. Once past the eyes, her delicate features and gentle smile proclaimed years of selective breeding among the Southern gentility.

The elephant-tusk ivory of the woodwork, lace curtains and of Sarah's complexion stood out in relief against the watermelon glaze on the walls, adding to the richness of the bedroom decor. Having refinished the antique French furnishings herself, she had laboriously decorated them with hand-painted pastel ribbons and flowers The room whispered of luxury, love, and lust...that would invite a man to dive into that great bed, to roll, to toss, to slide, to heave, to lose oneself in between the freshly ironed sheets, or among the pillows and comforter, plump with down...and of course, with Sarah. Suspended from the top of the high ceiling, a sobering crucifix clung to the wall over their lair. Sarah sat down on the floor and unlocked the bottom of the armoire. Reaching into her secret hiding place, she pulled out a large travel bag, which she kept hidden from curious eyes and snooping servants. Unzipping the bag, she took out the first toy. She fingered the sheepskin and caressed the leather of the cuffs. "They are ready," she thought, "like silent sentinels poised to constrain me, yet release me to freedom."

Freedom....the word distracted her. "Flight to Freedom." That's the name Sarah gave her painting that she entered in last year's Junior League Art Show. The natives who attended the exhibit didn't understand the struggle depicted before them. It mattered little to Sarah. It was her personal struggle, one that only her Master understood. A naive painting in its simplicity of subject, trompe l'oeil chicken wire covered most the canvas, except for a torn gap in one upper corner. Frozen in flight, an exotic bird headed toward the opening, brilliant orange feathers trailing behind it. As it seemingly fluttered its wings on its upward journey, far in the distance a winged speck disappeared into the cobalt night. "Take care, my soul, my heart! Don't snag your feathers on the frayed wire," she mused. "Go! Hurry! Join your lover while there's still time!"

Sarah returned from her daydream to focus on the cuffs and chains. She set them out on the chaise lounge, following the prescribed pattern demanded by Morton. Her belly quivered with sparks of excitement, yearning to surrender, allowing herself to feel, to enjoy, to exult in full-blown lust. "Take me, Master! Please take me where Mama can't find me," she had often begged Morton. "Take me to a place where Mama and the nuns can't punish me any more." Her eyes narrowing, she imagined her Masterís hands as his firm hold grasped her wrists and ankles, anchoring them to the bed, while he stretched her into an "X." "Open up, Sarah," he would always command, "Open for your Master. Let go! Give it all to me, baby."

Next, Sarah took out the paddle, slick leather to punish her on one side, sheep's wool to comfort her on the other. As she anticipated her husband's return home that evening, her excitement increased. Questions filled her mind. "When is the next paddling coming?" How long between blows? How hard? How soft?" She knew that he would always follow up each strike with a caress, his sturdy hands softly rubbing her stinging flesh. "Oooh," Sarah murmured aloud, bending her body forward as waves of desire spread throughout her lower body. She could almost hear Morton's deep voice. "Kneel, Sarah!"

Sarah imagined herself on her knees before him, her head bowed, as she waited for his next command. He would look deeply in her eyes, saying, "And now, my pet, assume position for your spanking." Naked and vulnerable, she would obey. She would have to bend over, placing her forearms and head upon the floor, elevating and exposing her ass in preparation for the punishment to come. Embarrassed, she would wait in humiliating suspense for the sudden hot smack of his hands, as he solemnly reminded her of his authority, his power and his love. Sarah's thoughts continued to drift. "How many will he give me tonight? Will he make me count them? Will I have to thank him and ask for another? Or will he make me be silent and still?" Awakening from her reverie, she placed the paddle in its designated position.

As she removed the English leather riding crop, Sarah remembered how Morton's face would grow stern as he grasped it, tapping, stinging enough to tame your wild spirit, my woman with the heart of a Mustang mare, who loves to run before the wind, mane and tail flying behind, he would say. "No-o-o! Please, Sir?" she would beg. "Please! No! I hate that crop, Sir. It always leaves marks on me." And he would just smile, ignoring her pleas. A wise Dom, he knew her limits, knew the discipline that she needed and craved.

When she took out her training collar, leash and belt, all dripping with silver rings and chains, she slipped off her dress. Buckling them around her naked body, she stood in front of the full-length gilt mirror. "Is this really me? Here I am, a head-strong woman, full of pride, educated, yet I humble myself before my Master, pay homage to him, give myself over to him completely. Why is this?" she addressed the image in the mirror. The image answered back, as a sly smile and lowered eyelids tattled on her intentions. "Ah, if Morton were here now, I would know just how to excite him. I would entice him to master me, control me, as I pretend to resist, before I most meekly surrender to his will." Sarah watched her hands move down, fondling herself and spreading the dripping wetness over her clitoris.

The bottom of the bag coughed up the last items. Sarah displayed them as directed, making sure everything was in its proper order. "Now, let me see...next to the crop comes the ostrich feather, then the clothespins in a circle...the nipple clamps in the middle of the circle..." Sarah knew what her Master would do next, rolling and pinching her rose-petal nipples until they stood erect. "Now, Sarah, be still! Donít move! Take a deep breath!" She would always let out a scream from the burning pain, as it pushed and shoved her over the edge toward orgasm. He would whisper to her, "Relax, my pet. Let it all go. Cum for me." Taking her middle finger, she started making little circles on her swollen clitoris, and the yearning increased.


II.

A knock at the door snapped her back to reality. "Sarah!" the familiar voice called out. Wide-eyed, she jumped up, slipped her dress back on, smoothing wrinkles. She ran barefoot across the thick carpet to the entrance hall, across the antebellum floors, dimpled from use and partially covered with an antique Aubusson rug. Recognizing her neighbor's voice, she paused a moment, regaining her dignity. "I'm coming, Joyce," as she twisted the knob of the polished door lock.

"Joyce Lynn!" exclaimed Sarah, always happy to see her best friend. "Come on in! How about some cinnamon rolls? When did you get back from your trip to New Orleans?" Joyce sniffed, enticed by the blended scent of spice, yeast and coffee that wafted through the hall and grew stronger as she neared the kitchen. "We got in late last night," said Joyce. I'm just dog-tired. I canít think of a thing I would like better than your home cooking, girl." Joyce plopped her marshmallow body into one of the high-back chairs beside the massive old farm work table. She had always loved to sit around that family heirloom, scarred by generations of devoted Southern cooks and mischief-making children. This room always brought back memories of their childhood: ample space lined with glass-paned cabinets, oiled cypress counter tops, a cast-iron pot rack hanging from the high ceiling, and a great walk-in fireplace. Once a separate building, the kitchen now joined the main house. "Sarah, when I am in this room, it brings back such happy memories. Do you remember when we were little girls, during the summers, how we'd sit in here, giggling and chattering, while we waited for treats from the cook?" "Why, yes, of course I do, Sarah said.

She noticed Joyce's eyes, nosy as ever, lighting upon the new brass inserts installed around the apron of the old table. She knew that her friend was about to ask her about them. To avoid having to lie to her about the dungeon aspects of her kitchen, Sarah quickly set one of her Quimper cups in front of Joyce, pouring the steaming brew as she talked. "Look at these cups, Sarah. My mother-in-law brought them to us from her trip to Provence." She then slid down into a chair across from Joyce, a sheepish smile spreading across her face. "Sarah? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary! What have you been up to?" Sarah, distracting Joyce from her train of thought, asked, "How do you like the coffee? It's Southern Pecan..from Macy's." Joyce knew her friend well. She knew that Sarah's question was a signal not to pry. She let the steaming, cream-tinted liquid linger a bit as she explored the new taste. "Oh, it's fabulous.! I must get some of this myself," she cooed, and the two women began to catch up on all the latest social activities and misdeeds among their circle of friends.

The familiar crunch of tires approaching along the gravel driveway brought a look of apprehension to Sarah's face. She listened at the back door hinges squeaking, and the clicking of her Master's leather soles against the linoleum. The noises served to warn the two women that the time for gossip had ended. A stern look from Morton Prejean told Sarah, "You just shorten your visit. Now!"

Joyce's eyes widened, afraid of the Prejean family scion. She wasn't exactly sure why. Only last week she had remarked to her husband, Ted, "Morton really scares me. He has such a peculiar reputation, such an air of mystery about him. I do worry about Sarah."Ted asked, "Why, Joyce? Why, he's one of our most upstanding citizens." "It's h is eyes," she said. "He has such a burning intensity in those piercing blue eyes, like polished steel." Her husband merely laughed at her, amused by his wife's lusty imagination.

"Well, Sarah, thanks so much for the coffee and sweet rolls. I really must be running along now. I...I..I'll just let myself out," Joyce stammered, embarrassed, as Sarah and Morton greeted each other with a lengthy kiss. She made her way to the back door. Bound by genteel courtesy, the couple followed, saying their good-byes.

Standing at the door, alone now with Morton, Sarah turned to look at her Master. She adored this man, with his somber expression and his smile that could quickly illuminate those deep turquoise eyes. She thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen, with his rusty hair and beard that fringed his rugged face. She stared at him now, questioning herself silently, "What have I done wrong?" Instinct warned her of the reprisal awaiting her. Because of her daydreams, she had forgotten all about the housework! "Ooooh, I've displeased my Master!" she thought. She turned and led the way back to the heart of the kitchen, where she stood waiting, her back straight, looking down as she nervously wrung her hands.

"What's the matter, kitten? You seem nervous," his deep voice asked, knowingly, as he paced back and forth behind her. "Ummm, well, umm...S-Sir, I think I might be in trouble, Sir," she responded meekly. Morton eyed the copper-lined sink full of dishes and the clothes hamper stuffed with dirty clothes "And what makes you think that, little one? You know I wouldn't punish you for having friends drop by. But I do expect you to keep your chores caught up." "But, Sir, I was busy arranging all the toys for you." "Come, now, Sarah, that didnít take much time, did it?" Pleading, she begged, "Please don't spank me, Sir. I intended to do them, honest I did. She just dropped in. I couldn't be rude, could I?" She hoped this would save her. Then, thinking quickly she added, "Sir, I was fantasizing about what you will do to me tonight." "Ah, my sweet Sarah, daydreaming again? No, I would punish you sooner for being disrespectful than I would for being unclean. However, you could have honestly let her know that you had a lot of work to catch up on, couldn't you?" Morton's face glared at her coldly now. She raised her head to meet his gaze and then quickly bowed her head again. "Sarah, you know you are in very serious trouble. You can't get away with this." She squirmed in her stance and gingerly glided her hands across her bottom, remembering yesterdayís spanking and how much it had hurt. She winced at the memory as she touched the bruises.

"Please, Master! Sir! Master...," she stammered nervously. " I'll be good...oooohhh...please donít punish me again." Whimpering and crying, she hoped that the old female trick would work. Commanding, Morton raised his voice, which snapped Sarah back into reality. "Silence! Fetch me the strop!" Her sentence passed, she went to the hall closet. An ill-fated hope grasped her, and she pretended that she couldn't find it as she rummaged through things. She waited to hear, him say, "Oh, never mind," but it didn't come. Smiling to himself, Morton prolonged her suffering by waiting quietly. Sarah stomped her bare foot, retrieving the strop from its usual resting place, reluctant to return to the kitchen where her Master waited patiently.

She moved in baby steps now, buying time, hoping something would save her. Finally reaching him, she knelt, kissed the strop and respectfully presented it as expected. He pulled one of the sturdy old chairs over to him, and reached for her wrist. Still hoping for a reprieve, Sarah reached down with her other hand and unzipped her husband's pants, rubbing his cock. This distraction failed to work and Morton pulled her over his knees. Reaching down, he pressed his hand against the hem of her dress, sliding it up the back of her thighs, gliding it up over her bottom. She wiggled as she felt the fabric caress her skin. His thumbs lifted up the waistband of her panties as he worked the silk over her ass, down her thighs, her legs, to her ankles. Exposed and vulnerable, she wanted so much to stop this, but any attempt would make matters worse. She started crying very hard. "Please, Master, please don't....please...please," she sniffled. "Please don't give ma a..a..ah whippin," Her words trailed off, lost in a stream of tears.

At last, Sarahs strategy worked. "All right, Sarah, this emotional display is too much for me to bear." He reached down and pulled her up to him, cuddling her on his lap. Her panties slipped to the floor as she curled up close to him. "Oh, thank you, Master. Iíll be good. I promise. I am so sorry I disappointed you." Morton kissed away her tears, holding her firmly as he placed a passionate kiss on her sweet lips. "I know you will, my precious, but you have not escaped your punishment. You have merely postponed it." That worried Sarah, as she wasn't exactly sure what that meant. Suddenly she felt Morton lifting her, carrying her to the bedroom, where he gently placed her down on the bed, resting her head on the downy pillows.


III.

He left her and walked into the bathroom. Just as Sarah was thinking, "He must be bereft of his senses," he returned with a roll of gauze. Unrolling a three-foot piece, he cut it and bound her wrists together, tying them to the headboard, but leaving her legs untied to squirm at will. He began kissing the bottom of her bare feet, continued around her ankles, up her legs, making a complete circle around one thigh, and headed up toward her pussy.

Breathing heavily, his cock and kissed her dripping clitoris. Taking three fingers, he shoved them into her hot cunt. As he held her down with the pressure of his body, she thrust her hips forward to greet the assault upon her. She turned on her side, writhing, squirming, wanting more. "Ohhhh...! Harder! Faster! Ohhhhhhmmmm!!!" she moaned. Morton continued to suck on her clitoris as he reached around and gave her unprotected bottom a sharp slap. "Hold still and be quiet!" he commanded. Out of breath now, she complied, straining to control her animal impulses. And then, Sarah felt the first wave of climax approaching. She wanted to cry out but she did not dare. She could hold her voice back no longer. "I have to, Master. I can't wait. No, please don't do this to me. I can't take it another second without cumming. Please let me have a climax."

Without uttering a word to Sarah, Morton suddenly stopped, got up, and quietly left the room. When he returned, he fixed his eyes upon Sarah. "Oh, Master, please let me have an orgasm." He simply laughed. "No, not yet, my pet. He untied her gauze bindings. "Hold up your arms, my sweet, sweet Sarah." Obedient, She lifted them up in loving surrender to her Master. He put on her cuffs, buckling them and snapping the rings to the chains at the corners of the bed. As she sprawled spread-eagled over the bed, Morton slid her training belt under the middle of her waist. "Ohhhhh!" Sarah gasped, as the cold metal chains shocked her body. "Bend your knees, Sarah," he said. He fastened her ankle cuffs to the rings on her belt. Gripped in a taut steel embrace, Sarah could only move her head. Fear and panic rising, she yelled aloud, "Let me up from here, Morton! Now! Don't you do this to me.!" Morton's expression remained steady as he continued. Lifting her head, he slipped the blindfold over her eyes, and she began her descent into a world of darkness. She cried out once again, "Morton, stop wha..." Her voice trailed off into muffled sounds as he slipped the ball gag into her open mouth Suddenly she ceased fighting against her restraints and she surrendered, slipping into a dream world in another place and at another time, where only beauty resided, where troubles vanished, her very own place of freedom.

Her consciousness in an altered state now, she waited without moving, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Her Master's strong hands began to stroke the curves of her body, exploring, probing, savoring. Gathering his fingers together once again he slipped them into her wet pussy as his mouth latched onto the knobs of her nipples, licking, nipping, sucking, stretching them away from her heaving body. He watched as her head swayed from side to side. Tiny pearls of sweat formed on her face. Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings, and her moans increased to a feverish pitch. Her frenzy signaled him that he needed to change the pace. "Ooooooooh eeeeeeeeeez," she begged. He said, "Hush, my pet! Not yet! Hold still!" With that, he withdrew his hand, stood up, and went into his closet, all without making a sound.

Sarah listened, waiting in her state of motionless captivity. Other than fresh rain dripping off the eaves of the old house, she heard nothing. In her mind, five minutes stretched into what seemed like a hour. "Noises? Someone approaching? Is it Morton? Is someone else present?" she thought. Her heart skipped beats. Her body twitched in fear as he touched her A sigh of relief escaped her as she felt his familiar hands. He gripped her knees, spreading her legs wide apart. Suddenly she drew in a deep breath as she felt an object expanding her cunt as it entered, violating her body. As soon as she adjusted her body to the pushing and pulling rhythm, she felt his fingers lubricating her anus. She knew what to expect next, and tightened her muscles in fear of the pain to come. Morton eased a butt plug in, assuring her as he applied pressure. "Relax, Sarah, fighting it makes it worse. Let go, my pet, you can take it." She let out a stifled scream as he stuffed her body with pain and pleasure. While he moved the bigger-than-life dildo in and out of her cunt, her muffled moans and cries gurgled in her throat. He then turned on a vibrator and applied it in a circular motion upon her clitoris. "Show me, my pet. How bad do you want it?" Sarah's hips surged, twisted, lunged forward, begging for release. Morton insisted, "Wait, little one, hold it, until I give you permission. I will know when you are ready."

Sweet agony raced through Sarah's body. Animal sounds gurgled up from her throat, making no sense. "I'm getting close," she tried to say, but Morton only heard "awh geeeeeng cohhhhhhhs". And just as the first wave of orgasm began to burst forth, he stopped again.

Her thighs quivering and tears streaming down her face from the tension, Sarah slumped down into the bedcovers. Morton moved away from her, laughing and teasing. "Not yet, my love, you must remember not to break my rules. Only when I think your peach ripens, no sooner." Feeling akin to a fly caught in a spider web, Sarah, the victim, waited as the throbbing drumbeats inside her vagina slowly subsided.

For what seemed like an eternity Sarah waited. Then the buzzing and circling of the vibrator began again, alternating with the pushing and pulling of the dildo. Sarah's heavy breathing announced to Morton that she could not hold out much longer. He said, "It's now time, Sarah. Hold still. I have to hurt you now. Don't move. After I finish, little one, you may cum." He reached for the nipple clamps and placed them on the peaks of her twin volcanoes. Lifting and pinching the skin in a wide circle around her breasts, he attached the clothespins. Sarah focused upon the searing agony, and her stifled words turned into high-pitched screams. "I know it hurts, love, but relax, give in to it. It hurts good, doesn't it? The pain is good for you, love, it's what you need, what you want. I'm here for you." He moved his naked body up against her now, his stiff cock pressing into her side. Her fists gripped and twisted the sheets as Mortonís assuring voice tilted her over the edge, the point of no return. "You may cum now, cum for me, my angel, my pet.

And Sarah slipped over. Life stopped for her, suspended, as her body convulsed. Her repeated screams kept time with her spasms, as that most incredible of human pleasures radiated throughout her body from limb to limb. Quickly Morton removed the clamps, clothespins, dildo and butt plug. As her wilted body relaxed, he scattered gentle kisses over the breasts and body of his beautiful submissive wife.


IV.

Morton was now ready to take his wife. His eyes burning with a new intensity, he slipped off the blindfold and removed the gag and cuffs. Sarah stretched, smiling at her husband. "Up on all fours! I'm going to take you deep and hard. Now!" he commanded. Awash with the afterglow of orgasm, a wild woman now lifted and thrust her ass to greet his cock. He slammed into her hot, wet abyss. As the two bodies began crashing into each other, she sang a strange primeval melody of lust. The fire in her flared, roared.her pussy muscles grabbed, twitched, and sucked at his sturdy shaft. "Take it, Sarah, take it all. All! Take! Take it!" Her hands freed now, she reached back toward him, trying to push him away....no....trying to pull him back....trying to hold him there, suspend him, freeze him forever in this state of liquid motion never letting him go. "Oooooh, Morton, don't stop! Don't ever stop! Fuck me forever..and ever and ever" She felt his cock swelling inside her now. His time had come. Suddenly his steady rhythm changed. Lurching forward, his cock spurted forth hot cum into Sarah.. He clutched at his wife's ass, jerking her toward him. This epitome of a refined Southern gentleman uttered guttural, spasmodic groans from the very bottom of his chest. And it was all over.

It was now complete, this culmination, this celebration of their love, this dance of life. Morton cradled Sarah, his arms encircling her, surrounding her, as if to keep her safe, keep her forever his. "You're mine, Sarah Prejean-Gauthier, all mine, now and forever more. Never forget that. I will love you throughout eternity." She snuggled her naked body closer to him. She took both his hands and cupped them over her breasts. Morton said, "There the long-wandering bride shall be given again... and again to her bridegroom." "What?" Sarah asked. "Hmmm. From Evangeline...Longfellow," he explained. "Wadsworth!" she giggled, and the two of them drifted off to sleep.

January 1998
Copyright 1998 Sir Noble and kyrie eleison


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