Forbidden Reading Page 2

‘I made a promise, and I intend to honour it, but I want you to turn your back to me first. I want you to face the wall.’

  Knowing she had to do as she was told, Justine turned to the wall. She had time to notice that a fresh layer of panelling now stood where she had expected to find the switch, dimly realised that someone had laid careful plans to ensnare her in this situation, and then she was closing her eyes against the shame of being caressed. Cool hands stroked over her back, hips and buttocks. Inquisitive fingers pushed between her thighs and she was chilled when the woman’s fingers stroked the wet flesh of her labia. As treacherous as her nipples, the inner muscles of her sex trembled eagerly as though they yearned for more than mere titillation.

  ‘Beautiful,’ the woman whispered. ‘Truly, truly beautiful.’

  For an instant Justine thought she might know who her tormentor was. Something in the woman’s phrasing sparked a memory at the back of her mind and she could feel herself on the brink of making the connection. Then, when the fingers returned to her sex and rubbed at the split of her pussy lips, all such trivial considerations were cast aside. She had to swallow down another rush of mounting panic and bite her tongue to prevent a moan of encouragement falling from her lips.

  ‘I was right when I guessed what you wanted before,’ the woman breathed. ‘You want a damned good thrashing, don’t you? That’s why you’ve come down here.’

  ‘No,’ Justine said, praying her voice would sound steady. ‘I don’t want a damned good thrashing. I only want you to give me the keys so I can get out of here.’

  The hands stopped stroking her body and for one foolishly optimistic moment, Justine thought the woman was finally going to relent.

  Then she heard the whistle of leather breaking air.

  Before she could glance back over her shoulder, before she had the opportunity to protest, the sting of a tawse seared through Justine’s backside. A blister of agony spiked her rear and she howled at the painful indignity. While she was still acclimatising her body to the discomfort, she heard the hiss of the leather falling again and tried to brace herself for the second punishing shot.

  ‘Tell me you wanted this thrashing.’

  ‘I didn’t want this thrashing,’ Justine wailed.

  ‘Tell me this is what you’ve been needing.’

  ‘I only want the keys so I can get out of here.’

  ‘Tell me what I want to hear, then I’ll give you the keys.’

  The woman delivered a volley of agonising blows, spiking flesh and coming close to stripping the skin away. After less than half a dozen slices of the tawse Justine had stopped squealing and her respiration had turned into a frantic chug for oxygen. Her rear was ablaze with the punishing torment and she felt dizzy and close to collapse.

  ‘Tell me what I want to hear, then I’ll give you the keys,’ the woman demanded. ‘I’m not asking a lot, am I?’

  ‘Very well,’ Justine grunted. She didn’t want to submit to the woman but she saw her options had been skilfully whittled away. ‘If that’s what you want to hear, then yes: I’ve wanted this thrashing.’

  ‘Touch yourself while you say that.’

  Justine stiffened and started to shake her head. It had been traumatic enough undressing, and she still couldn’t believe she was allowing the woman to brutalise her with the length of leather, but the idea of following this final instruction was more than she could bear. She told herself she had to refuse, and that the submission had gone far enough but, because the command was delivered with another searing blow, Justine couldn’t find the will to resist. Sobbing as she revelled in the pain, snaking a hand between her legs and sliding sweaty fingers against the fetid heat of her sex, Justine teased the nub of her clitoris.

  The bead pulsed beneath her touch and she was startled by the pleasure that her casual caress inspired. She hadn’t expected any joy from touching herself and the rush of delight was enough to make her quiver. Greedily, she rubbed harder.

  The tawse slapped down against her rear. ‘Say the words while you’re touching yourself,’ the woman insisted. ‘Tell me that you’ve truly wanted this thrashing.’

  For an instant Justine could almost picture the face of the woman. Then that detail was gone as a surge of pleasure flooded her body. The miserable tears she had shed were forgotten as she basked in a haze of euphoria. The release had never been stronger and she realised the orgasm was continuing in a series of glorious waves. Each time the tawse descended against her buttocks a fresh burst of delight flowed through her and she crested a peak of elation that left her weak and helpless.

  ‘Tell me that you’ve truly wanted this thrashing,’ the woman repeated.

  ‘I’ve truly wanted this thrashing,’ Justine agreed.

  The tawse bit viciously against her upper thighs.

  Justine pressed wet fingers into the folds of her sex and groaned as the escalating pleasure swept through her in a debilitating rush. The feral musk she had caught before was stronger now and much more intoxicating. Its dark flavour added to her excitement and she had no qualms about giving herself to the next surge of delight that took her in its embrace.

  ‘I wanted this thrashing,’ Justine screamed. ‘I needed this thrashing.’

  ‘Too damned right,’ the woman agreed.

  Justine heard the clatter of the tawse being thrown aside and then she was being pulled away from the wall. She didn’t know what was happening until the woman embraced her, and she was being held by a naked stranger. Bare breasts jostled against her own nude frame and the woman’s roving hands smoothed against her aching backside and explored the curves and swell of her body. A tongue pushed against her lips as the woman’s mouth met hers and, still giddy from her unexpected enjoyment, Justine allowed the kiss to continue. She let the tongue probe her mouth, daringly allowed the woman to writhe against her, before finally stepping back and snatching a breath.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that since you first started working here,’ the woman confessed. ‘I’m glad we got the opportunity. You truly were satisfying.’

  For the first time since she had entered the vault, Justine recognised her tormentor. She didn’t know why she hadn’t identified the woman before, blaming panic and her own nervousness on the oversight. But, now she knew who it was, she stepped away and pressed her back against the wall. Even when the woman handed her the keys she had promised, while flexing a reassuring grin, Justine could only think of the embarrassment that now held her after surrendering so easily.

  ‘Mrs Weiss!’ Justine exclaimed. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’

  ‘This is my vault,’ Mrs Weiss reminded her. ‘I can do what I like in here.’

  Justine took the keys that were being offered and then began to snatch her clothes from the floor. ‘Maybe you think you can do what you like down here,’ she agreed haughtily. ‘But you’re not going to get away with treating me like some sort of sexual toy.’

  ‘I wasn’t treating you like a sex toy,’ Mrs Weiss corrected. ‘I was simply testing your suitability. I have a little job that needs doing and I had thought you might be the ideal candidate.’

  Justine shook her head as she retrieved the last of her clothes from the floor. ‘I don’t do little jobs for sadistic perverts,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t even work for your library any more. I shall forward a letter of resignation through my solicitor.’

  ‘There’s a manuscript that’s long been missing from my collection.’ Mrs Weiss spoke as though Justine hadn’t said anything. ‘I’ve heard this precious document is finally being made available. I want you to acquire it for me.’

  Still seething, Justine wouldn’t allow herself to be won over by the pull of intrigue. ‘There are others in your library better suited for acquisitions. Employ one of them. I’ve just told you: I shall be tendering my resignation.’

  ‘I’ll double your salary.’

  Justine stiffened her back and sniffed indignantly. ‘Do you think I’m a whore? Do you think you can buy me wi
th a measly increase in wages?’

  ‘I think we’re all whores,’ Mrs Weiss said solemnly. ‘We may not all share the same price but I’ve yet to meet the woman, or man, who puts virtue above personal gain or the realisation of their own ambitions. Such perverse morality goes against the grain of human nature.’

  ‘I’m not a whore,’ Justine said with quiet dignity. ‘I do put virtue above personal gain and I’ll be telling that to a competent lawyer for the industrial tribunal.’

  Mrs Weiss laughed. ‘Surely, you won’t leave today?’ she purred. ‘You won’t throw away your career on the same day you’ve been given a chance to single-handedly acquire La Coste.’

  The final two words were delivered like a killing blow.

  Justine heard them and reeled as though she had been struck. She stopped walking toward the vault door and turned to see the earnest expression on the older woman’s face. A hundred questions rushed to the front of her mind, each more important than the last. If she had found the breath to speak she knew she would have stammered in excitement. But the one thing she would not have done would have been to repeat her intention to leave. The idea of declining Mrs Weiss’s offer was no longer an option. Justine wanted to get her hands on La Coste.

  One

  For one brief moment Justine found herself wondering what she was doing.

  She sat at the back of the church, innocently admiring the grandiose frescos and architecture, marvelling at the beauty of the stained glass and smiling approval at the ornate carvings on the pulpit and chancel. With the onset of twilight, candles had been lit around the chancel and within recesses in the broad stone pillars, and she was bathed in the warm glow of their guttering light. A memory of incense perfumed the air with a sultry cinnamon tang. The excess of detail around her was more than Justine was used to observing and, as she gazed with awe on a vividly sculpted crucifix above the altar, she tried to understand why she was troubling herself with Mrs Weiss’s acquisition. The library’s patron had bullied and abused her, subjected her to the most disquieting ordeal in the vault, and only stopped Justine from tendering her resignation by giving her the chance to acquire a mere manuscript.

  Yet, going against her better judgement and flying in the face of common sense, instead of telling the library’s patron to hand the job to someone else, Justine had eagerly returned home, packed an overnight case with her passport and a few essentials, then set off to attend the rendezvous that Mrs Weiss had organised. There had been a taxi ride, a train journey, the purchase of a pocket-sized phrase book to help surmount the language barrier she anticipated facing, then a short flight out of the country. That had been followed by another train journey, a second taxi ride and a short walk to one of the lesser-known churches in rural Provence. Everything happened so quickly she supposed it was only within the tranquillity of the church that she had found the chance to contemplate her actions. But it still struck her as bizarre that she was willing to do so much after suffering Mrs Weiss’s sadistic abuse.

  ‘I’m doing this to get La Coste,’ Justine told herself. Her whispered voice was like a prayer in the stillness of the church. The reverential tone was replete with pious righteousness. ‘That’s why I’m doing it. I’m doing it for La Coste.’ Strangely, she thought, the answer sounded right. Content that she knew her motivations, even if she didn’t fully understand them, Justine settled back in her pew and continued to reflect on the church’s majestic interior. She told herself it was better to think about anything other than the pleasure she had received beneath Mrs Weiss’s cruel tutelage. Memories of the diabolical excitement continued to plague her with a guilty charge that she didn’t want to revisit. The black arousal of exposing herself, being touched and then being striped, had left a mark that lingered longer than any of those weals that had been sliced across her backside. Justine shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat of the pew, trying not to acknowledge the discomfort that still lingered in her behind and reminding herself that it was unseemly to be recalling such a licentious episode in the hallowed sanctuary of a church. The internal censure was enough to make her turn her thoughts back to the splendour of the church’s decor but not quite enough to stop her nipples from aching with an unfulfilled need.

  ‘You must be Justine.’

  She blinked in surprise when the man spoke to her. There was the inflection of a strong French accent in his flawless English but, other than that, he was nothing like what she had expected. Mrs Weiss had said she would be contacted in the church but she had given neither name nor description. Justine hadn’t known if she would be approached by someone older or younger, black or white, or even male or female: but she had never expected her contact to be a priest.

  Too startled to respond, she simply gaped at him.

  ‘Am I correct? Are you Justine?’

  He stood before her wearing brilliant white vestments over his long black cassock. The addition of chasuble, stole and pectoral cross made it look as though he had just finished preparing for the early evening mass and Justine searched his face to be sure he was really her contact. Mature and darkly handsome, he would have, she supposed, the air of a dependable, trustworthy cleric to his congregation. Yet she detected something less attractive in his thin-lipped smile. His black eyes shone with a wicked glint and, if she had been of a paranoid nature, Justine could have believed he was glowering at her with concealed distaste.

  ‘Is Justine your real name?’ he began. ‘Or just a germane identity to hide behind for the purposes of this transaction?’

  She started to reply but he was already shaking his head and taking hold of her wrist. His hands were large, the knuckles brushed with hairs as dark and wiry as those on his head. ‘No matter,’ he decided. ‘I have only one question for you and, as you are in my church, I expect an honest answer.’

  Justine nodded. His fingers were warm and strong around her wrist. Despite the comfort that came from seeing a man in ceremonial robes she got the impression of cruel power from his grip. Stifling her nerves, trying hard to disguise her apprehension, she said, ‘Ask what you will, Father. I shall answer as honestly as I am able.’

  ‘Are you worthy of acquiring La Coste?’

  She swallowed.

  Mrs Weiss had warned that the manuscript’s seller would want to make sure it went to a worthy recipient, sneering her contempt as she complained about this clause in the sale. ‘Marais is selling because he needs the money,’ she had explained. Unconsciously her tone slipped into a monologue of vitriol. ‘So Marais plays these petty games – as though he’s giving up a first-born child – yet I could be outbid by a recycling plant if the offer was more lucrative to him. I’m only glad I was the first one to get the money in an escrow account this time, although I had to filter it through half a dozen agents to keep my identity from him. But it’s still insulting. If I didn’t want this manuscript so badly I wouldn’t even demand that you submit to the bastard.’

  ‘I believe I’m worthy of acquiring La Coste,’ Justine told the priest. ‘But you’ll want more than that admission from me, won’t you?’ Remembering the instruction Mrs Weiss had given her, reciting the words as accurately as she could recall, Justine said, ‘I believe you’ll want me to prove my worthiness.’

  The priest sneered. ‘You’re quite the eager little bitch, aren’t you?’

  The words stunned her, almost as much as the shock she received when he pulled her out of her pew. Justine had been brought up with a strong faith in religion and an ingrained respect for the clergy. To be called a bitch by a priest was the most cutting condemnation she could imagine. She stumbled after him as he walked down the aisle, her heart pounding as she tried to guess what test he had in mind.

  ‘La Coste was written by a great man,’ the priest grumbled. ‘It’s almost unthinkable that it should ever end up in the hands of an English girl.’

  The disdain in his voice made Justine feel nauseous. If she hadn’t been out of breath from trying to maintain her balance and keep
up with him she would have protested that his insults were more severe than she deserved.

  ‘You have a lot to prove if you think you’ll get my consent for this purchase,’ the priest growled. ‘And I should warn you before we begin, you’re not going to win me over so easily.’

  ‘I’m worthy of acquiring La Coste,’ Justine said indignantly.

  ‘Then you’ll prove that to me,’ he snapped.

  To the left of the chancel, facing the pulpit, stood a life-size statue of the virgin and child. Their beatific smiles watched blindly as Justine was dragged to the altar. Above her the gaze from the crucified Christ figure stared down as she was forced to her knees. Justine could only feel her shame intensify when the priest pulled his erection from the folds of his vestments. The long length of flesh was hard and obscenely pink. It struck her as being a disgusting and unholy sight in the sanctuary of the church. Unable to contain her response, she sneered with revulsion and tried to back away from him.

  He caught her by the shoulder and dragged her closer to his hardness. ‘Touch my cock,’ he demanded. ‘Stroke it. Wank me. Bring me off. Make me come.’

  Each word was like a slap across the face and Justine recoiled from the shock of hearing a priest utter such ungodly instructions. She tried silently to implore him for leniency but the hard set of his jaw told her he would show no mercy. His gaze was devoid of compassion and he looked unable to do anything except repeat the more offensive of his instructions.

  ‘Touch my cock. Wank me. Make me come.’

  As she noticed the pearl of pre-come that glistened over the eye of his glans, then caught the salty scent of his arousal, Justine realised she wanted to obey his instructions. Although they were in a church, and even though she knew her thoughts were deeply sacrilegious, she was desperate to do as the priest demanded. Tentatively at first, then with growing eagerness, she reached for his erection and circled him with her hand.

  ‘Praise be to Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what I need.’

  His shaft thickened as her cool fingers pressed against his boiling flesh. The bead of pre-come grew distinctly larger and the strong pulse of his arousal beat steadily in her palm. When she stroked her hand along him, pulling the rubbery flesh of his foreskin over his purple glans, the priest sighed. His exclamation of approval turned into a groan when she tugged the skin back and tautly exposed his swollen dome. Holding him firmly, she could feel the desire for climax shivering through his length.