“Pick that up.”
She pointed to the cannonball.
Julian shuffled backwards over the iron chain that hung between his legs and using both hands lifted the heavy ball from the ground.
“Now, over there.”
He was too slow, his reward being a punishing backhander to the balls; his resulting dance of agony looking quite comical as he struggled to hang on to the ball as he hopped from foot to foot, trying to quell the pain.
“I’m fed up with you. I can’t be doing with a slave who doesn’t give a toss for his mistress.”
“But Mistress, I do. You know I do. I worship you.”
“Then why do you take so long to do what I tell you? I’ve seen a slug move faster; but then again, you are a slug yourself, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
In a very quiet voice.
“Speak up. What did you say? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m a slug Mistress.”
“That’s better. You’re a slimy, filthy, squashy turd of a leech aren’t you?”
“Yes Mistress.”
“Come on, say it then. I want to hear you say it loud and clear.”
Julian’s lips quivered and he seemed as though he were about to cry.
“I’m a slimy, filthy, squashy turd of a leech, Mistress.”
“Alright. Now we’ve got that sorted out, let’s get on with it.”
With her palm firmly planted into his back, she guided him to the stone circle, finally positioning him before two of the lintel-connected megaliths. That they did not match the size of the two giants guarding the entrance to the monument was a fact that could not be doubted, but even so they stood nine or ten feet high.
“Right. Throw the cannonball over that lintel.”
“No, Mistress. Please don’t make me do that. What’ll happen to my cock?”
“It’ll probably get torn from your body. But that’s of no consequence, and what do I care anyway? Just do it.”
She had deliberately presented Julian with a real dilemma. He had two choices. If he obeyed and thrust the ball over the lintel, when the chain reached the limit of its length, his already mutilated manhood would halt its fall; and in doing so would be tugged with undeniable force by the chain. Exactly what damage that would cause she did not know, but one thing was certain: it would be horrendously painful. He could possibly even be rendered cockless. On the other hand, he could refuse to do as she ordered and suffer the consequences. Either choice could prove to be equally painful. That he understood that fact fully, she was in no doubt.
The wait seemed interminable but eventually he appeared to have reached a decision. At Eton and later Oxford, he had excelled in field sports; Mistress Madonna knew that, because he had proudly showed her his cups and trophies on countless occasions, so it came as no surprise when he transferred the ball from two hands into the backwardly-bent upturned palm of his left hand. Then, just as if he were ‘putting the shot’ he brought back his arm, concentrated intently for a few moments and in a swift movement, suddenly pushed his palm skywards. Propelled with inordinate strength, the ball cleared the lintel before falling earthwards.
The resulting ear-shattering scream of agony even startled Mistress Madonna. No matter what punishment she inflicted on him, his wails had never bothered her before; even though back in the hunting lodge they had been loud enough to summon the police persons. But now they were threatening grave damage to her ears and seriously concerned she rushed around to inspect his ravaged cock. It was with a great exhalation of relief that she greeted the sight of his mangled but still intact manhood. The cannonball had come to a halt a couple of feet above the earth, the iron chain stretched taut over the lintel. With both arms raised high above his head and his hands clasped around the chain, with absolutely no chance of succeeding, Julian was fighting to haul the ball upwards to create some slack in the chain and so ease the strain on his cock. The chain steadfastly refused to slide back over the lintel and remained cruelly wrenching his prick upwards and tugging him up on to his tiptoes. But although his wails, screams and curses rang through the clearing, thankfully he still remained a whole person.
Her dark eyes pierced his.
“Oh, come on. That didn’t really hurt; you’re just playing to the gallery. But I’m the only gallery you’ve got and I’m not impressed. If I were you, I’d think about that before you land yourself in even more trouble.”
The caterwauling only seemed to increase in intensity, although Mistress Madonna was quite wrong in her assertion that she was the only audience to his histrionics. Up at the castle in the murky gloom of the chamber in which she passed the daylight hours; the Baroness stood peering into the depths of her magic mirror, avidly drinking in the scene in the clearing as it unfolded before her eagle eyes.
Mistress Madonna paused momentarily, overcome with a strange feeling that someone or something was secretly observing her. She turned a full circle, searching the forest for any sign of spying eyes; but there was none and only a few more moments passed before she shrugged off the notion, putting it down to the discomforting effect of her spookish surroundings.
She had work to do and time was wasting. She turned her full attention back to Julian.
“Alright, if that’s the way it’s going to be, see if I care. Don’t you bother about me, you just hang around enjoying yourself like you always do. I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time while you play the fool.”
Just like the floor of the forest, the tumulus was thickly covered in nettles and ferns. Strolling over, with her palms protected by the leather gloves, Mistress Madonna pulled a couple of bunches of well-leafed nettles from its earthen covering. Wafting them slowly back and forth, staring purposefully at his genitals, she positioned herself in front of Julian until at last he opened his tightly screwed-up eyes for long enough to catch sight of the nettles. The wailing stopped abruptly. As abruptly as if his vocal cords had been severed by Madame Guillotine.
“Oh no. Mistress, you wouldn’t.”
“Oh but I would. And I am. Right now . . ”
But she did not. The stinging torture could wait for a few minutes until she had him in a more accessible position. A much more suitable option had just presented itself. Why she had not noticed them before she did not know, but just above head height, fastened into the sides of the two upright stones by metal rivets, were iron wrist manacles.
Ideal.
Julian had by now relinquished his grasp on the chain and with his hands cupped around his bollocks was desperately attempting to shield them from the threatened onslaught.
“Get those hands off your cock this instant!”
“No. Shan’t.”
Mistress Madonna reached for the bullwhip at her hip.
“Would you care to reconsider that statement?”
He would. His hands dropped and laying the bunches of nettles down on the ground, Mistress Madonna clamped first one wrist and then the other into the restraints. His outstretched arms only just reached to the manacles so that when she was finished, the muscles of his shoulder and upper arms were clearly delineated, showing the intense strain she had put them under.
She stood back and inspected her handiwork. Not bad; it was a pity though that she could not shackle his feet off the ground and have him strung up in perfect X.
But she could!
There at the base of both stones were ankle cuffs, about a foot from the ground. Absolutely perfect. Julian was still perched on his tip toes, so pulling his legs apart, she lifted his left foot and clamped the ankle into one of the iron cuffs, leaving just the toes of his right foot scrabbling for contact with the ground. But not for long. The dancing foot was unceremoniously pulled over to the other iron cuff and clamped as solidly as the first had been, so that just as she wished, he was tautly suspende
d in mid air between the two stones; his tortured cock drawn out and lengthened to its limit by the unholy partnership of the chain and cannonball.
And what a cock!
Given the horrendous circumstances, Mistress Madonna fully expected that for once Julian’s overly-active joystick would give up the struggle and detumesce into a slacker state. But Julian would be forever Julian and it was not an obligingly stretched thin, flaccid rod of gristle that was suffering the torment of Hades but a rampant, solid shaft of steel that still refused to surrender, no matter what mutilating persecution it was subjected to. At least he remained constant in his reaction to punishment; the rougher the treatment, the greater the agony, then the more intense his joy. The very obvious thrill and the incredible gratification that he derived from the most extremes of cock torture were almost beyond belief, sometimes even confounding Mistress Madonna herself.
He was a martyr to his cock. And she knew it. And for the time being at least, she was thoroughly sick of martyrs. Stooping, she picked up the nettles, one bunch in each hand and once again stood facing him.
“Take that smile off your face!”
The fact that Julian most definitely had no smile on his face was beside the point.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?”
As a matter of fact, he did not.
“Just because Mistress Madonna’s been so nice to you, you think I’ve gone soft. Well, I haven’t and you’ve got five seconds to stop that sniggering.”
As there was no sniggering to stop, five seconds later his suffering began anew.
Being ambidextrous has great advantages, which Mistress Madonna utilised to the full. Thrusting one bunch of nettles between his wide-stretched thighs, she brushed the leaves over his heavy, bulging ball-sac, at the same time wafting the other bunch up and down the length of his savaged shaft. His bollocks and cock reddened up and blistered at the first touch, his stricken squeals once again ringing satisfyingly in Mistress Madonna’s ears.
Widening the scope of her assault, she turned her attention to the rest of his body. Using both hands simultaneously, she lightly floated the stinging leaves up over his stomach and chest and down the fronts and backs of his thighs. His buttocks, back, shoulder blades and arms came next until only the soles of his feet had escaped the blistering onslaught.
But not for long.
Crouching on bended knee, Mistress Madonna pushed the nettles under both of his feet. Julian convulsed, dementedly alternating hysterical shrieks of agony with screaming oaths and foul-mouthed abuse.
“My my, we are getting tetchy, aren’t we? I’m getting tired of this, I thought you liked me to show you a good time. I’ll just have to try harder, wont I?”
“No, no, no! Leave me alone. Fuck off!”
“If that’s the way you feel, I will. Mistress Madonna’s been really pissed off since we’ve been here. You’re an ungrateful, selfish little prick and I don’t need you or your dirty mouth. Goodbye!”
Turning on her heel, she stomped off towards the forest. Julian’s change of attitude was as swift as she had expected.
“No! Mistress, don’t go. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. Come back, please.”
She did not have far to return. As she actually had no intention of deserting her treasure chest; once she was several feet behind Julian, when she was certain that he could not turn his head far enough around to see her, she had stopped, awaiting the plea that she knew would come. Steely-eyed, she confronted him, idly wafting the nettles over his genitals and cock.
“Give me one good reason why I should stay.”
“You’re my moon and stars. The Queen of my heart. I worship at the altar of your feet. I . . .”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, spare me the crap; it just sounds silly. You’ve been reading those bloody stupid romantic advice columns again, haven’t you? Well, it’s done you no good; I don’t care how flowery you get, it means nothing to me.”
He changed tack.
“I’ll buy you a new car. A Porsche.”
“I’ve got two already.”
“A Ferrari then.”
“Alright, that’s a start. What else?”
“I’ll double your money.”
“Oh, you’ll do that anyway if I decide to stay. Carry on.”
“That house you live in, in Belgravia; I’ll buy it for you.”
“It’s mine anyway. Think of something else.”
Seconds ticked by.
“I can’t. You’ve got everything. Tell me what you want.”
Mistress Madonna made a pretence of giving the matter some thought, although she had actually been waiting for a situation like this to present itself. Even knowing Julian’s utter dependence on her, it was a big risk to take but she was fully prepared to chance it.
“I suppose I wouldn’t mind another house. You didn’t know that I’ve got three, did you? The other two are investments, in Chelsea, but compared to yours they’re all small. A house like yours, the country house, would be wonderful.”
“You can have one. As soon as we get back, I’ll find one.”
“That’s not quite what I meant. When I said I’d like a house like yours, I meant exactly like yours. If you promise to sign your house over to me, then I’ll stay.”
Julian’s country house was not just a house, it was practically an estate; a huge, rambling building with any number of outhouses and acres of rolling lawns. Mistress Madonna had purchased the SW1 properties with the proceeds of her liaisons with Julian and several other vastly rich clients, each one of whom mistakenly believed that he was her one and only slave and knew nothing of the others’ existence. Rapidly escalating house prices had elevated the value of each of those properties to upwards of two million pounds, but Julian’s country house was worth several times their combined value; so the seconds that passed as he hesitated over his reply were the longest that she had ever experienced.
“Alright, I’ll do it. It’s yours. Now, promise you won’t leave me. Ever!”
Mistress Madonna’s exultation was such that her self-control was tested to the limit as she fought to reply in cool, severe tones.
“I don’t know about for ever, but I’ll stay for now.”
Inwardly she marvelled at how, given his horrendously painful circumstances, Julian had managed to carry on a conversation at all; even if his words had been somewhat strangled and blurted out with great effort. It all went to confirm that he was unique, a definite ‘one off’. A true slave with absolutely no bounds to his submissive obeisance. And she knew that however much he might come to rue his foolhardy acquiescence to her demands that he would never renege on his promise to her. In the cutthroat world of business, he could lie and cheat with the best of them; but where she was concerned, his word was his bond, just as it had been in the days when stockbrokers could still be relied on to be trustworthy: the house would be hers.
“Right. Back to business. But because of all the fuss you’ve caused and the time you’ve wasted, you’ve gone off the boil. Look at yourself, you’re as white as that albino blues player you like; Johnnie Winter, is that his name? At least he’s good-looking, not an ugly runt like you. There’s nothing for it, I’ll just have to start all over again.”
In truth, Julian’s flesh was already fully prepared for what she had in mind next. From head to toe, cock and bollocks included, his skin glowed a livid red; but he got a full repeat of the nettle treatment anyway until despite his renewed resolve to take his punishment in silence, once again his wails rivalled those of a police siren.
“I’ve had enough of this. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll shut it for you.”
Although his screams were very satisfying, the racket was getting out of hand and as they could not be too far away, she was somewhat surprised that the two agents de police h
ad not turned back to investigate. And that was something that she did not want. The solution was simple, he had to be gagged and the scarf she had stuffed into one of the pockets of her jacket, if not ideal, would at least do the job.
However, digging into the pocket, her fingers encountered not the smooth feel of a silk scarf but something round, rough-surfaced and hard as iron. In fact it was iron. Pulling it out, it proved to be one of the leather-strapped ball gags she had discovered in the armoire; she must have absent-mindedly slipped it into the pocket, ready for use if it were needed. Congratulating herself on the fact that she was so well-ordered that without consciously thinking about it, she had equipped herself with what was now proving to be a vital disciplinary item, she silenced his screams by stuffing the iron ball between his teeth and buckling the straps tightly behind his head.
Now she was ready for the next stage. Before that however, just to give him something to think about, she took a hold high up on the chain and planting both feet on the cannonball, with her riding on it, set it swinging to and fro. It was only a few seconds before she jumped off, but with all her weight having been taken by his cock, he was absolutely demented; the iron gag, stifling as it was, failing to prevent the hideous shrieking escaping from his stretched jaws.
She unclipped the bullwhip from her hip, shaking it out to its full length.
“I’m glad you liked that . . . but you’ll like this much better.”
Standing well back, with a practised arm and a quick flick of the wrist, she delivered a well-aimed lash across his buttocks. The first of many; each one producing an audible ‘crack’ as the plaited leather snapped through the air before its tip bit into his muscular flesh. Expert tuition from an acknowledged master in the art of wielding a bullwhip had equipped her with an enviable skill; in the hands of an inexperienced flogger such a whip could cause untold and very bloody damage, but judging every lash to perfection, Mistress Madonna ensured that every one struck its intended target with most of its force expended; so leaving a gratifying welt but never actually cutting the flesh.
Slaves to the Bloodline Page 8
