“Right. Let’s get on with it, shall we? Or have you got any more pathetic whinges before we start?”
He had not.
Untying the rope fastening the pulley, Mistress Madonna lowered the T-bar.
“Now. Hands above your head.”
After spinning the bar around to make sure that it moved freely, she fastened Julian’s wrists to the cuffs on the bar and began hauling it back up to the ceiling. Julian was balancing right on the tips of his toes, his arms stretched tautly above him before she was satisfied and finally tied the rope off on the wall hoop. His savagely abused love gun was drawn out to double its normal length and half its circumference by the taut iron chain. He certainly had something to whinge about now.
And he did.
And not quietly either. His screams, pleas and whines would have sent a decibel meter into meltdown, his squeals rising so high in pitch they were reaching the point where they could only be heard by dogs. But then, he was an animal himself Mistress Madonna told him and animals of whatever kind had to be trained to obey their owners, that was the nature of things.
“And Mistress Madonna owns you, doesn’t she? All of you. From your feeble brain to your tiny excuse for a willy. You’re mine, body and soul, and don’t you forget it. But you’re not like other animals, they need discipline just like you but all other wild things from dogs to donkeys can be taught to behave through patience and consideration. But not you. You don’t understand kindness, the only thing you understand is pain. And more pain. So you’re going to get it.”
“But Mistress, please . . . my cock . . .”
“Yes, I’ve seen it and I wouldn’t fuss about it if I were you. Any self respecting man would try to keep a winkle like that out of sight, he wouldn’t go around flashing it to all and sundry like you do.”
“I didn’t flash it. It was you. You put that rotten iron ring on it and it’s killing me. Take the fucking thing off right now or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll be WHAT?”
Her voice was steel, her tone measured and her contempt unequivocal. Julian had gone too far and the haunted look that suddenly glazed his eyes showed that he knew it.
“I’m sorry Mistress, I didn’t mean it. I’ll be good, I promise I will.”
“You’re not sorry at all. But you will be; in fact Mistress Madonna is going to make you sorry that you were ever born.”
When she was travelling, Mistress Madonna carried with her in a specially constructed flightcase a veritable armoury of instruments of discipline and it was to this that she was about to turn for inspiration when suddenly her gaze was caught by a huge medieval armoire standing close to one of the walls. Where had that come from? She could not recall seeing it the previous night and it was certainly of a size that commanded attention. Very strange! However she immediately dismissed her doubts, telling herself that she had just been too intent on disciplining Julian to take proper notice of her surroundings.
The flightcase was driven from her thoughts as she was overcome by an incontestable compulsion to explore the interior of the armoire and pulling open its single carved door she was astounded by what she saw. It was unbelievable, an Aladdin’s cave filled with very weird and wonderful ancient devices of correction that presented far more possibilities for inventive fiendish torment than did her own equipment. She knew without question that it was all there for her benefit. And Julian’s, of course. She did not need to be told that someone, the Baroness possibly, had provided her with a storehouse of the most perfect devices of discipline. There was basically nothing there that was not in her own armoury back in England, but it was just all so old and wonderfully crafted.
Whips and canes of all thicknesses and sizes were there in abundance. There were ancient leather-strapped ball gags, with the balls being of solid tooth-shattering iron, much akin to small canon balls. There were iron handcuffs; wrist and elbow clamps of the same metal; spreader bars, thumbscrews, cock and ball clamps, iron-spiked leather paddles and cod-pieces. Multi-thonged martinets, scourges and genuine cat-o-nine tails lined the back and sides of the giant cabinet along with pincers, rasps and sharpened pokers.
Mistress Madonna had suffered enough of Julian’s inane, childish and pathetic behaviour and now was the time for a reckoning. A painful reckoning. And here were the perfect instruments with which to subject him to a lesson he would long remember. It was a great pity that The Colonel would not be present to witness the event; he enjoyed the sight of Julian getting his come-uppance. As that thought flashed into her mind, Mistress Madonna felt a twinge of resentment. The bastard. Why did he mean so much to her? When many much younger suitors constantly assailed her with protestations of love, obedience and offers of untraceable offshore bank accounts.
The answer was easy. It was because he was The Colonel. The man who possessed the biggest, fattest, most satisfying cock in the universe. And he had buggered off and left her to go waltzing with shit. How could he? The wound would never heal, she would never forgive him.
But she had other things to think about besides him. Julian was her bread and butter and she had to concentrate on him. Her attention reverted to the task in hand. She had a job to do, a function to perform. Julian was rich beyond belief, if need be he would throw away his entire fortune on her, she knew that but that was not what she wanted. It was true that she revelled in the lavish lifestyle that his wealth afforded her but she relished even more the power that she wielded over him; the physical pain to which she subjected him and the mental pain she made him suffer. She held complete dominion over him and with the ease that she tore it apart, his heart might just as well have been made of paper.
His heart might have possessed some similarity to paper but his prick most certainly had not. Despite all she knew about Julian and his permanently active dick, she still found herself marvelling at its pulsing, twitching refusal to admit defeat. His iron-hard poker having been tortured beyond belief was mangled, shredded, bloody and without doubt was agonising him as if it had been thrust into the heart of a fiery brazier. But still it was as hard and solidly erect as a column of granite.
Once again she found herself regretting the fact that she could not turn such an impressive and useful appendage to her own advantage. Alright. If she could not benefit from it, then neither would anyone else. Not for the immediate future anyway. A diabolical thought had formed itself in her mind.
He was strung up and primed and so it was unthinkable that she would not take advantage of the opportunities that that offered. But now that she had thought of it, she was anxious to put her new plan into operation and so in the event she treated him to what was for her a somewhat perfunctory thrashing. A particularly whippy cane cut and striped his buttocks. A plaited, knotted whip bit into his thighs and the backs of his calves. Pushing on one of his shoulders, she set him turning slowly on the end of the pulley and lashed his back, his chest, his arms and shoulders as they presented themselves to her in turn. In truth when she threw down the whip, he did somewhat resemble a skinned carcass. He probably felt like one as well, but he showed genuine surprise when she lowered him to the floor, released his wrists and allowed him to stand upright with no restricting shackles of any kind. Even the chain stretching his cock was released.
But like the floor, her heart was made of stone. The iron chain had been unclipped, but the clamp screwed tight around his cock just below his bell end was left in place. The second that the chain had relinquished its restraining influence, his cock had sprung upwards in an attempt to reach for the sky. And so there he stood; naked, feet wide apart, arms by his side, and a jerking rock solid and metal-clamped severely ravaged cock rearing up in front of his belly. He looked down at it with gleaming eyes.
Mistress Madonna looked down at it with malevolent eyes.
Rolling her palms over her magnificent breasts, she smoothed them down her body over her hips and betwee
n her legs. Deliberately widening her stance, she slipped a palm over the top of each thigh, and delved the fingers of both hands into her succulent, juicy sex. Julian’s burning cock swelled to even greater proportions, the agony plainly showing on his face.
“Mistress Madonna is going to show you now exactly how caring and kind she can be. She knows that you want to fuck her brains out, but she’s told you time and again that that is never going to happen. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care about her little cuddly-wuddly baby because she does; very much. So she’s going to let you wank yourself off while she watches, she knows you like that, but because your little tiddly-widdly looks so sore she going to give you something to put on your hands while you do it. So you just be a good little boy and wait there while she fetches it.”
Julian perked up considerably at that and looked even happier when she returned from the bedroom with a jar of expensive cooling skin cream. Screwing off the cap, she dipped her fingers into the jar and scooped out a fair sized globule of the thick white cream. Transferring it to both her palms, she massaged it into her breasts and shoulders with rolling circular motions.
“Uhmmm . . that feels really good. Cool and smooth, and look at my skin, not a sign of a wrinkle anywhere. Not like your cock, that’s all horrid and disgusting. In fact now that I think about it, this cream is far too expensive to waste on that stinky thing.”
Julian’s face dropped as she screwed the top back on the jar.
“But never mind, Mistress Madonna knows something else that’s far better than cream anyway.”
This was it, Point Doom for Julian. Something bad was coming his way.
Mistress Madonna dipped again into the mysterious armoire and once more her exact requirements fell immediately to hand: a pair of metal gauntlets of the type that the Knights of old wore as part of their combat armour. Pulling them out, she handed them to Julian.
“Put them on.”
He made no move to obey her, standing turning them over in his hands.”
“Come on, get on with it. What are you waiting for?”
He was hesitant, obviously not wanting to raise her ire any further. He held them out and presented them to her, palms upwards. There was a marked difference between this pair and the ones used for fighting; it was not uncommon for the gauntlets to be spiked, but the spikes were usually on the back of the hand, this pair had the spikes on the palms and underneath the fingers.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“The spikes Mistress, they’ll rip my cock to shreds.”
“Don’t be silly, they’ll just make it feel more wonderful. That’s why I’m letting you wear them, even though you have been bad and don’t really deserve a treat. Now be a good little boy and put the gloves on.”
He still made no move to obey.
“Now look worm, I want to see you wanking yourself good and hard. And I want to see you doing it now! PUT THE GLOVES ON.”
Very, very reluctantly, Julian pulled on the gauntlets.
“Now, get going.”
This really was something new. Forced masturbation. She had never needed to order him to wank before, given the slightest opportunity he could not keep his hands off his cock. And they were not really on it now, his thumbs and fingers were circling his rigid erection very loosely indeed, something that she did not fail to notice.
“Mess me about and you’ll be even sorrier than you’re already going to be. Clench those fingers tight and start tugging.”
Fighting back the tears, Julian did as he was told. One spiked hand gingerly stroked upwards over his tormented babymaker, the spikes digging into his turgid cockflesh and rasping over the iron ring that was still clamped tightly just beneath his bulbous pleasure dome.
“Yeeooooww!”
Julian’s tortured scream was glorious music to Mistress Madonna’s ears. His hand flew away from his dreadfully abused manhood.
“I can’t do it Mistress. Look, it’s leaving bloody great grooves in my dick.”
And so it was.
Good.
“You do want to please your Mistress, don’t you?”
“’Course I do.”
“Well, in that case put your hand back where it was and this time use the other one as well. And put some effort into it, you weren’t trying before.”
And just as they would have done if he really were a naughty schoolboy, the tears rolled down over Julian’s grimacing cheeks as he scraped, pulled and punctured his rigid cock, for despite everything it still reared skywards, straining and granite hard. The pain must have been horrific, Mistress Madonna knew that, his manhood had been well and truly shredded and battered before but now it was rapidly beginning to take on the appearance of something that would usually be thrown into the offal bin in an abattoir. Perfect! He deserved nothing less. And when it was all over, she knew that he would be thanking her for her inventiveness. He liked something new and different every now and again, and for him this was certainly new.
It was also new for her. She had toyed with the idea of palm-studded gloves for some time but had never found any and suddenly there they were. In fact she found it more than puzzling that everything she thought of using seemed to be on hand, whether she had noticed them before or not; the ceiling pulley for instance, and even the armoire full of goodies itself. It was all very odd. Odd but extremely fortuitous, so why worry about it? Taking her own advice, she dismissed any such thoughts from her mind and concentrated on her demented slave.
And demented he most certainly was, growing more so as every second passed and the spikes inflicted ever greater mutilation to his poor, abused cock. It was a masochist’s dream. He was submitting himself to self-torture and enduring unbearable agonies on the orders of his mistress. He was suffering to please her. There was no greater sacrifice that he could make to prove his devotion to her. Mistress Madonna knew that these were the kind of thoughts that would be running through his mind, in fact he probably thought that he was in Heaven.
But it could not last and Mistress Madonna was not at all surprised when suddenly, with an anguished scream he threw his hands from his bleeding, wretched penis.
“I can’t go on. It hurts like hell and I can’t stand it any more. Please Mistress; you’ve got to let me stop.”
She had actually been becoming quite concerned about the damage he was causing to his weapon and so was relieved that he had stopped of his own volition. She could not show it of course.
“Well, things are coming to a pretty pass, aren’t they? You won’t do as your mistress wishes when she’s being kind and generous and wants to watch you wank. You like wanking, she knows that, so what’s the matter? Are being disobedient just for the sake of it?”
“No Mistress. My cock hurts too much. Have mercy, please.”
“Mercy? For a wretch like you? A insubordinate little oik who deserves a good spanking. Well, you’re not going to get away with it, no matter what you might think.”
She had him exactly where she wanted him now. Physically and mentally wrecked. And more was to come.
“Give me the gauntlets.”
Julian tugged off the gloves and handed them to Mistress Madonna, who with a derisory snort threw them contemptuously into the armoire
“Now, arms up above your head.”
“Oh no Mistress, not again. Please.”
“Oh yes. Again. I told you that I wouldn’t let you get away with it. Disobedience has to be punished.”
“But I can’t take any more.”
“So now you’re a wimp as well as everything else, are you?”
“No Mistress.”
“Right. Do as I say and get those arms up.”
Julian had no spirit left in him and very quickly Mistress Madonna had him strung up to the ceiling once more, a thin, whippy cane clasped in h
er hand.
“OK, let’s get on with it!”
When the Policewoman and her male sidekick arrived at the hunting lodge, Julian was still chained in agony, receiving the thrashing of a lifetime. Mistress Madonna did not pause in her assault for a moment when the heavy knocking came upon the door, merely calling on whomever it was to come in.
“Ah, I thought it might you two. What can I do for you this time?”
But if she did not pause, the policewoman expressing false surprise, did.
“Mon Dieu Madame. You have not been beating him all through the night, have you?”
“No, he’s had a nice long rest and now it’s time for him to receive some more punishment. Naughty boys have to be taught to behave you know. Especially this one, he never learns.”
“Madame, I’m impressed. You have stamina, of that there is no doubt, but him, he is made of tougher material than I would have thought from his pathetic exhibition last evening.”
“Don’t go flattering him. It’ll go to his head and then I’ll be forced to discipline him even more harshly. Anyway, like I said, what can I do for you this morning? And more to the point, when do I get to meet the Baroness?”
“That’s why I’m here now. To deliver an invitation from The Baroness to a little gathering at the castle tonight. She’s really looking forward to meeting you.”
"In that case, perhaps I could wander up there and introduce myself to her this morning.”
“Ah. That won’t be possible I’m afraid. The Baroness is strictly a night person; she keeps to her own rooms during the daylight hours and she only comes alive when the sun goes down. But when it does, the castle comes alive with her and whatever guests and friends are present are guaranteed an extremely enjoyable night in her presence. There’s always plenty of good food and wine but more often than not her guests are only interested in the entertainment she provides and quite often, the partying goes on until dawn. She usually retires herself before the sun comes up, sunlight’s bad for the complexion you know; or it is at least if you have a delicate pale skin like hers. But everyone else is welcome to carry on until they drop, and believe me some of them do.”
Slaves to the Bloodline Page 6
