Mistress Madonna was intrigued.
“So exactly what kind of entertainment does she put on?”
“The Baroness doesn’t exactly put on anything. She normally starts it off and the guests gradually take over and she lets them get on with it in their own way. Everybody always has a good time and I’m sure that you will too, there’s always a good supply of willing flesh.”
“Hang on a minute. What are we talking about here? Orgies? Is that it?”
“Well, that’s putting it a bit crudely, but yes I suppose you could say that’s what I mean. You’ll love it, I know you will.”
Mistress Madonna was not so sure. Being shagged by The Colonel was one thing but she most definitely was not about to participate in group sex with a bunch of garlic-breathed foreigners she had never met.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not letting all and sundry fuck me. If that’s what I was invited here for, then she can forget it, I’m off back to London.”
The policewoman hurried to re-assure her.
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. What we do is much more in your line. People do get fucked, I have to admit that, but only if they want to. Please accept the invitation and come to the castle tonight. You won’t regret it, once you see for yourself you’ll love every minute.”
Despite her reservations, after thinking it over for a few moments Mistress Madonna agreed and told the policewoman to inform the Baroness that she would be only too pleased to attend her soireé.
“Good. Oh and by the way, bring your slave along as well.”
The policewoman flashed an enigmatic smile and with the policeman trotting dutifully behind her, walked off along a path that led though the pine forest and down to the calm waters of the bay.
“A bientôt,” Mistress Madonna murmured as the policewoman was enveloped by the deep shadows of the trees.
There was no doubt in her mind now, she certainly would be seeing the policewoman later. The sudden inclusion of Julian in the invitation had been most unexpected. If she had been intrigued before, now she was doubly so.
“So, it seems that you’ve sparked a little bit of interest somewhere.”
Mistress Madonna’s tone was disparaging as she turned back to Julian, but deep inside she was consumed by the need to have her questions answered. She had already pondered over the reason that she had been asked to come to this strange castle in Brittany, but now it seemed that Julian was also the centre of some attention.
Very strange.
And it was vital that he did not suddenly become filled with ideas of his own self-importance.
“Listen to me, you slug. Nothing’s changed. We may be in exalted company but you’re used to that in any case, so maybe you’ll just get to be thrashed with a somewhat more aristocratic audience than you’re used to. You never know, it could be that the Baroness wants to give it to you herself. Well, if that’s what she wants she’s welcome, I don’t know what the attraction is but to me you’re still the disgusting little shit you’ve always been.”
Mistress Madonna put down the cane and stood thinking for a few moments.
“I’d like to know what those two are up to though. Something doesn’t ring true here, two police agents spending all their time wandering around a derelict castle, it’s very odd. As soon as I can dress myself in something suitable, I’m going to follow their tracks - and you’re coming with me.”
The Tumulus
WITH HER THIGHS STRETCHED wide over his back and her moist, generously proportioned sex flaps sucking maddeningly at his flesh, Julian crawled on his hands and knees towards the edge of the pine forest. He was stark naked and not having been allowed the luxury of clothing, the loose silver-speckled granite chips dug into his arms and legs as he progressed painfully in her chosen direction. His only accessories were an iron collar around his neck and a small but exceptionally heavy iron canon ball attached by a chain to the ring that still constricted his mercilessly mutilated cock. The chain passed between his legs and dragged the rust-pitted ball along the murderously uneven ground several feet behind his lacerated buttocks.
Even though his wrists and ankles had been freed from their restraints, his penis had not similarly been spared suffering. Every ridge, grass clump or protruding tree root momentarily halted the ball’s progress, tugging along the length of the chain to inflict mind-shattering shards of agony on a prick that had never learnt the lesson of pragmatism. If Julian’s ivory shaft had adjusted to its current circumstance and slackened off, as would almost any other man’s in the same situation, then his suffering would not have continued to be as ghastly as it was now proving to be. As it was, the weighted chain continually pulled back, released and then pulled back his cock again and again as if it were the heavily-muscled arm of a barman coaxing ale from a barrel in a faraway cellar.
On the other hand if what Mistress Madonna was wearing was really her idea of a suitable outfit in which to traverse the depths of a dense bramble-strewn forest, then she was losing her senses. But, of course she was not. Spectacularly erotic, she was looking her tempestuous best in an outfit of matt black leather. A micro skirt was hitched high over her crotch, with no knickers of course, revealing long silky thighs; every time she moved exposing a flash of her enticingly flattened and naked sex.
Although Jean-Paul Gaultier’s biker’s jackets had long been her favourite, she had recently become enamoured with the designs of Roberto Cavalli, whose showroom was to be found only a few minutes away from her Belgravia mews hideaway. Never really intended to adorn the figure of a genuine Hell’s Angel, one of his creations, open and lavishly decorated, now fought to contain the mounds of her breasts; thimble-sized nipples pushing against its smooth inner lining. Loosely fitting folded down, thigh high, stiletto-heeled and wonderfully decorated boots, Cavalli again, and a studded black leather collar around her neck added to the sombrely threatening image she presented. Her hands were slipped into fingerless leather gloves and an expertly cut ruby glowed in her navel, her long fingernails and lips now painted in a matching shade of red. The rounded contours of her hips and haunches added the finishing touches to a perfectly-proportioned body and from the wide belt that was threaded through the top of her skirt hung a coiled, wicked-looking bullwhip.
The ‘pièce de résistance’ however was a pair of staggeringly-spiked medieval steel spurs that were buckled around the ankles of her boots. Spurs that no doubt had been used in ages past by a Crusader or a Knight of the Court to spur his lumbering carthorse of a charger forwards into action. Mistress Madonna knew full well that modern day images of fully-kitted knights on the backs of handsome thoroughbred stallions thundering into battle with the Moslem heretics was a complete travesty of the actual fact; the spines of those delicate interbred mounts would have fractured under the combined weight of the warrior and his armour. Julian however, by no means fell into the same class as the Arab steeds; although he was a weak pathetic wimp where she was concerned, in reality there was nothing of the delicate about him. His body was magnificent, honed to perfection and possessing more than enough strength and stamina to carry her wherever her quest might lead.
But the spurs were an absolute joy and she was not one to let opportunities pass, Julian howling in agony as she jabbed both of them simultaneously into each of his thighs. Wallowing in the sound of his ringing squeals, once more she reflected on how strange it was that any and every instrument of torture she thought of using suddenly seemed to become available, the spurs appearing as if by magic in the now-fabled armoire.
Mistress Madonna’s feet widened on either side of Julian’s thighs and then clamped together, the spikes driving into his flesh with even more vigour.
“Come on, you useless slacking tosspot. Mistress Madonna hasn’t got all year, get a move on!”
With Mistress Madonna swaying on his back, his cock a raging, tormented rod of mutilated thro
bbing gristle, Julian scuttled on at as fast a pace as he could manage without dislodging her. That would be fatal. The retribution would be catastrophic and he knew it.
Once into the forest, after only a short distance the track between the tall pines narrowed and became overgrown with giant ferns and criss-crossed with murderously thorned brambles that tore at Julian’s naked form. What remained of the ancient path was covered with a thick layer of pine needles that at first blessedly cushioned his elbows and knees; but torment soon returned as fallen pine cones, viciously-thorned brambles and loosely scattered twigs stabbed deep into his flesh and flayed his dreadfully-burdened cock. The leather of Mistress Madonna’s outfit protected her from the most damaging attacks of Mother Nature’s army and although Julian made every possible effort to ensure that she suffered not a single scratch, it was inevitable that she would eventually suffer some sort of injury.
And she did.
Pushing through the brambles, one particularly recalcitrant branch sprang back, scouring a bloody line over one of her exposed thighs. The previously immaculate, unblemished thigh of an angel.
“You clodhopping imbecile! You did that on purpose, I know you did.”
Mistress Madonna never minced words, especially when true or not, they were to her advantage.
Julian spluttered in agonised denial.
“Mistress, you know that I’d never do that. I’d rather cut my throat than hurt you.”
“That’s easy for you to say and I’ll remember it. But I could say that I’ll never kick you in the balls again and we both know that would be a load of shit. If I can lie, so can you.”
And as if to attest to her statement, she leapt from his back and taking deliberate aim, drew back her leg and then throwing her foot forwards, landed a disabling, mind-numbing blow to the bloated bramble-scoured bollocks hanging between his thighs. A screaming, strangulated howl sent the forest’s floor dwellers scurrying away through the undergrowth in search of safety. Seconds later as that same scream died on his lips, the monstrously pleasurable pain of its body-racking aftermath sent Julian catapulting at light speed towards Heaven.
Standing back, Mistress Madonna gave time for the writhing, wretched wreck before her to pull himself together. No matter how long it took, he would still be her slave, of that there was no question; but the whining, moaning and sobbing seemed as if they were set to go on forever. Enough was enough.
“Stop blubbering you retarded fart. Get up this instant, they must be miles in front by now. And from now on you can carry me piggy-back.”
Staggering to his feet, Julian straightened up. Mistress Madonna knew that without any doubt he was totally unable to believe his luck as he grasped her thighs and hoisted her legs over his waist. This was the very first time that she had ever allowed him to actually touch her flesh and as his fingertips dug into the fabulous firm meat of her thighs, she imagined the spicy, tingling and electrifying currents of sexual energy that would now be surging through his being and ravaging his pulsing, wrecked cock. Pulling the two front panels of the jacket to either side to allow her magnificent tits to press against the back of his shoulders, she threw her arms around his chest, clasped her hands together and clung to him tightly. Yves St. Laurent had painted the lips that brushed his flushed neck and scented the breath that whispered in maddeningly erotic undertones into his ears. As always, even in difficult circumstances, there was a method to her actions.
Her rigid bullet nipples dug deep into his well-exercised flesh and even though he was now standing virtually upright, with her legs clamped vice-like around his waist, her succulent twat still sucked clamlike onto his lower back.
“This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Mistress Madonna’s flesh pressing on your flesh. They feel wonderful, don’t they? my tits. Big and hot . . . and my nipples, they’re on fire, like red-hot pokers. And you can feel them as well, squashing against your back, rubbing up and down and throbbing and tingling and getting bigger and harder all the time, can’t you?
“Ooh Julian, I can’t stand it; my nipples are driving me crazy and because they’re getting me all worked up, they’re making my cunt dribble. It’s all wet and gooey and sticking to your back. My clit’s poking out and love juice is running down my thighs. You never thought you’d ever have Mistress Madonna’s cunt juice flowing all over your miserable body, did you? But it is . . and the scent . . it’s heaven, all musky and steamy, just like my twat. You can smell it, can’t you?”
Whether he had deluded himself into believing that he could detect the purely imaginary vaginal lubricator or not was purely academic. It was all too much for Julian and just as Mistress Madonna had expected, in an obscenely erotic reaction her pitifully joyous slave was propelled into juddering orgasm. Stumbling and fighting valiantly to keep his feet, Julian was racked by tremor after tremor as his cock spurted gushers of hot spunk; spraying the ferns, the brambles, the pine cones and the innocent but multitudinous bugs, spiders and slugs that crawled beneath the densely-carpeted forest floor.
Mistress Madonna had no interest in the creepy-crawlies. The spunk was a different matter. Not only had he coated arachnids and polypodiaceae with his beastly bollock juice, but great lumpy globules of the sickening stuff stuck to her boots. Her mission accomplished, it was back to business; with a vengeance.
“You filthy, slimy slug. Look what you’ve done to Mistress Madonna’s lovely new boots. Do you know how much they cost?”
It was a purely rhetorical question. She knew that he did; as usual it had been he who had settled the enormous account.
“Now look at them. They’re ruined. And all because you can’t control your horrid little boy’s cock. Well, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done, believe me and it’s going to hurt; your pocket as well as your cock because when we get back to England you’re going to buy me some more. Not just boots but everything Roberto Cavalli’s got in his showroom that appeals to me. And almost everything in there does.
“And then we’ll go round the corner to Agent Provocateur and you can set me up with a whole new collection of lovely, sexy underwear. We’ll start with see-through camisoles, all silky and smooth; you know, the ones that let my nipples stick right through and get you all excited. And then we’ll buy half a dozen basques; basques that show my tits and are nice and short so that you can see my curly twat hairs. And just in case I should ever want to wear any, lots of matching French knickers, with wide legs and loose gussets so a big prick can get inside them without me having to take them off. And tight waspies. And embroidered suspender belts. And lace-topped stockings. . . and . .”
She did not need to go any further. As her tongue reeled off the shopping list of seductive garments from one of fashion’s most erotically creative designers, his cock reared like a startled stallion, unbelievably and agonisingly dragging the iron ball forwards and once more showered the flora and fauna with thick sticky white effluvium.
“You filthy pervert. Put me down this instant!”
Very reluctantly, Julian lowered her to the ground, Mistress Madonna shaking herself free of his grip and making an exaggerated show of avoiding the thick spunk clinging to the ferns and brambles.
“You’ve been a bad boy. A very bad boy and Mistress Madonna can’t let it go. What do you think she should do about it?”
No reply.
Only silence. She waited but no words were forthcoming. The interior of the forest was silent, shadowy and somewhat forbidding in any event; the canopy of branches high overhead permitting only a smattering of light to permeate through to the ground below; but now the hushed stillness began to trouble her. No birds sang, there was no breeze to rustle the ferns; of the buzzing of bees, there was none. The only discernible sound of nature was the rasping chirping of crickets; and suddenly it stopped.
The silence was complete, overpoweringly oppressive; the gloom seemed to int
ensify and she felt a strange foreboding, as if the trees were crowding in on her. Julian’s own silence somehow added to the eerie, menacing atmosphere that enveloped her and although it was not even chilly, she shivered and crossed her arms tightly across her breasts. Mistress Madonna was not of a nervous disposition, nothing frightened her in the normal scheme of things, but now she could not deny that she was becoming increasingly unsettled. Julian had to be disciplined, but not there, not now; she had to get out of the forest.
To her comfort, some distance ahead the trees appeared to thin out and rays of golden sunshine pierced the timber barrier. Of course none of her unease could be communicated to her slave, so steeling herself into her most formidable persona, she rounded on him.
“Right! If you want to play dumb, it’s up to you. You’re still going to get everything you deserve, but you’ll get it where I can see properly. Now, get going!”
A full-blooded kick to his arse got Julian started on his way and suffering hideous scratches to his naked flesh, he pushed his way through the thorny barrier in the direction that his mistress had indicated. Following close in his wake, Mistress Madonna sighed inwardly in relief as they stumbled from the edge of the forest into what was obviously an ancient man-made clearing; in the centre of which was an impressive tumulus. A well-worn path led between the two giant standing stones guarding the granite-pillared entrance of the huge fern-covered prehistoric mound and although she could see nothing of its dark interior, she was certain that rough stone steps led deep down into its dank underground chambers.
Mistress Madonna was fascinated by the thousands of megaliths and dolmens crowding Brittany and was sorely tempted to investigate this one, having to give herself a serious reminder that she was there for business not pleasure. Looking around for inspiration, she found it almost immediately. The mound was surrounded by a circle of smaller standing stones, some connected together across their tops by lintels, making it look somewhat like a small version of Stonehenge. It would do very nicely indeed.
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