Slaves to the Bloodline

by Falconer Bridges

  She did not count the lashes as they were delivered, but when Julian was striped to her satisfaction, from his shoulder blades down to the backs of his thighs; she supposed that he had taken somewhere around fifty. Fifty lashes, fifty perfectly aligned stripes and no blood. A very pleasing outcome, it was just a pity that he could not see the results for himself, he would have liked that. She could practically read his mind and knew full well that at that moment he was most probably wishing that he possessed some means of visually inspecting himself. Added to the pain he was experiencing, a vision of his welted, abused body would enormously heighten his appreciation of his well-deserved and admirably delivered punishment.

  Deciding that he had had enough for the time being, she let the whip fall to the ground and pulled off the leather jacket; freeing her magnificent breasts. Breasts sheened with perspiration, the result of the physical effort of delivering Julian’s whipping. Her nipples stood proud in the midst of their surrounding circles of nut-brown areola, commanding the anguished slave’s attention as if by royal decree. She cupped her breasts with her palms, squeezing and massaging them, cooing with pleasure as she did so.

  “This is all your fault. All this whipping, it’s making Mistress Madonna feel all tingly inside again.”

  She dropped her hands.

  “My nipples, look at them. They’re all stiff and excited. They’re like pokers. I need to feel a wet mouth around them, licking and tonguing. I’m so desperate; I’ll even let you suck them if you want.”

  She looked up at Julian’s tightly-restrained form. Incapable of any movement, all he could do was watch with angst-ridden eyes. She gave it a few seconds. She was once again making Julian an offer that he patently was unable to take advantage of and as always it was guaranteed to drive him into a fit of apoplexy.

  Her hands returned to her breasts, this time rolling both nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do this? I can keep on doing it for myself but it would be so much better if it were you.”

  Julian’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he was consumed with maddening frustration.

  “And I don’t just want you to suck my tits, I want you to fuck me. I’ll go mad if I don’t get a great big prick stuck up me soon.”

  Hitching her skirt up over her hips, she widened her legs and slid two of her fingers down the slit of her vulva, then dipped them into her vagina before holding them up before Julian’s face.

  “Look! They’re all wet. Covered in love juice. My cunt’s like a river, flowing with lovely musky juice. Here, smell them.”

  Julian’s wretched countenance as she passed her fingers under his nose was pitiful to behold.

  “These fingers could be your cock. I can’t think why you don’t get down here and fuck me silly. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Still, if you’d rather fool around up there, that’s up to you. You’ve had your chance, I’m not waiting any longer; I’ll just fuck myself.”

  And that is exactly what she did.

  Using two fingers of one hand, with her thighs wide apart, she widened her sex flaps and reversing her grip on the bullwhip, using the other hand she pushed the haft an inch or so into her love tunnel.

  “MMmmm. It feels wonderful. And it could have been you. I think you’re turning gay; why else would a man keep turning down a good fuck?”

  Snorts of fury and muffled, despairing groans were all that Julian was capable of in response.

  Using the two fingers, she massaged her clitoris into full erection and worked on it with increasing intent as the haft of the whip plunged deeper into her love tunnel. Slowly at first and then faster and faster, the leather staff bludgeoned up and down, accompanied by gasps of arousal until in a frenzy of flying fingers, she brought herself off in a shuddering, highly vocal orgasm.

  Julian shuddered too. Or at least the only part of his anatomy capable of a shudder did so. Not only did it shudder and jerk but his unbelievable prick siphoned a fountain of hot spunk from the undrainable reservoir in his bollocks, powered it up through his urethra and shot the sticky mess a foot or more into the air.

  Making sure that her outwardly miserable but inwardly elated slave was watching her every move, leaving the whip stuck immobile into her hole, Mistress Madonna carried on slowly and appreciatively massaging her clitoris, savouring every last tingle and twitch of her satiated vagina; until with a plaintive sigh, as if she were reluctant to release it, she slowly pulled the whip from her still-grasping sex.

  Mistress Madonna felt more than pleased with herself. Wasted and wounded as he was, Julian had received full value for his money. There was just one thing still bothering her. Julian’s appreciation of her efforts would be fully complete if he were to have some tangible memento of his ordeal to look back on; photographs of him hanging suspended between the stones for instance, with close-ups of his mangled, clamped cock and whip-striped body.

  There was no chance of that however, and as they really had to get on and try to catch up with the police persons, she tugged her skirt back down over her hairy bush, picked up her jacket and slipped her arms into it. This time she decided to zip it up; Julian had had his treat, so for the time being it was not necessary to keep her breasts on constant view and she was not going to expose them to the possibility of being again attacked by brambles when they pressed on into the forest. As the silk-lined leather closed over her firm mounds, something hard pressed into her breast meat.

  Instantly it hit her. Of course that was the answer; her mobile phone. No larger than a cigarette packet, it was one of the newer models and besides its obvious use it also possessed the capability to take pictures and transmit them to any device equipped to receive electronic transmissions; such as Julian’s home computer. She had only purchased the phone a few days earlier and although she had tested it to familiarise herself with its workings, she had not actually used the image transmission feature, which was why she had not thought of it immediately. Well, now she would and Julian could have all the memories he wanted; visual images that he could print out or view in perfect detail on his computer screen anytime he wanted.

  Doing a very credible David Bailey; from every angle, sometimes crouching, sometimes standing, she recorded the evidence of his beating by loading a string of images into the phone’s digital memory and then sent them to his computer. That done, thinking the matter over, she decided to give him an extra-special treat; after all, when they got back to England he was going to give her an extra-special treat: his house! Once more easing her skirt back up over her hips, she opened her legs and widening her wavy sex lips to show the open hole of her vagina, took a close shot of her minge; an unexpected bonus that he would no doubt wank over time and again in the future.

  With her clothing back in order and the phone safely stashed back into her pocket, Mistress Madonna set about freeing Julian. Firstly his feet and then his wrists were unclamped; Julian immediately falling to his knees, cupping the cannonball in his hands and raising it higher, attempting to ease the intolerable strain on his cock.

  “Drop that this instant!”

  In a conditioned response, without thought of refusal, he obeyed the order. The iron ball still stuffing his mouth muffled the hideous shriek that ripped up from the very depths of his being; tears streaming from his eyes as the ball dropped and his wretched cock transmitted searing agony to his every nerve end. As he sobbed and shook, Mistress Madonna ran his current situation through her mind. If they were going to stand any chance of catching up with their quarry, they would have to move as quickly as possible. With the iron ball still dragging between his legs, their progress would continue to be slow; so it had to come off. But he would have to release the cock clamp himself; she was not about to soil her fingers on him, not even if she had the surgical gloves that she wore when she had originally tightened it under his bell end.

/>   Removing the clamp proved somewhat of a struggle, but eventually Julian eased it over his bell end and with a great, but muffled sigh of relief, allowed the iron ball to drop to the ground. Giving him no time to recover or rub the use back into his numbed wrists and ankles, nor even to comfort his wretched cock, she ordered him to move out.

  “That stays where it is.”

  She indicated the iron ball lying on the ground.

  “And so does that for the time being.”

  This time it was the iron ball stuffing his mouth.

  “We’ve got to get a move on if we’re going to catch up with those police persons and your piffling little dick’s too puny to drag the cannonball at any more than a snail’s pace. And the gag’s staying because I don’t want you giving the game away if we get near them and you decide that want to have a little tantrum.”

  Re-coiling the bullwhip, she clipped it back onto her belt and with Julian stumbling in her wake, still cradling his diabolically mashed manhood, set off at a brisk pace, circling the tumulus and heading for the far edge of the clearing. The path they took back into the forest appeared to be far more well-used than the one that had led them from the hunting lodge to the tumulus and although brambles and ferns still flourished in great abundance on either side of it, the track itself was relatively clear of obstacles to their progress. After a couple of hundred yards the path took a steep descent, the trees thinning out to reveal low, ancient lichen-covered stone walls and beyond them, the first glimpse of the bay.

  The sun was bright and high in the sky, the tide was on the ebb and the shallow water alive; ripples, swirls and small whirlpools of silver dappling the cobalt blue of its surface as it flowed out towards the sea; the reflected images of tall pines for a moment falsely giving Mistress Madonna the impression that the water was as deep as the trees were high. A sardine trawler was keeled over in the middle of the bay, stuck there until the sea once more returned to re-float it at high tide; unidentifiable figures jumping from its deck into the water. The figures lined up and began wading through the water towards the shingly patch of beach that lay at the end of the path. A series of distinctly audible and instantly recognisable ‘cracks’ rang through the air; someone else apart from Mistress Madonna had obviously found a use for a bullwhip.

  As the party neared the shore the figures became recognisable as a group of young women; accompanied, or rather being shepherded by what at first glance she took to be three olive-skinned men, one of whom every now and then lashed at them with what Mistress Madonna had correctly identified as a whip similar to the one she was carrying on her hip. Suddenly the two agents de police came into view, drawing their batons as they hurried across the strip of beach towards the incoming straggle of girls.

  “Well, well. What do you make of this Julian? . . . Oh, you can’t answer, can you? Never mind, I wouldn’t have been interested in any case.”

  Mistress Madonna had forgotten herself, and the ball gag, for a moment. In normal circumstances she would never have sought Julian’s opinion about anything, it was just that the situation intrigued her. And that intrigue heightened considerably, when, as the girls reached the beach, she realised that their guards, whom she had initially taken to be men were actually women. As the captives were lined up in single file, it was with a start that she saw that they were all linked together by chains fixed to collars they wore around their necks. The girls were all dressed in simple east European peasant clothing and counting under her breath, Mistress Madonna made them ten in number. Then, even more fascinatingly, with the three women standing guard, the policewoman and her partner began securing the girls’ hands behind their backs with handcuffs that she pulled from a satchel hanging from her shoulder.

  When all the girls had been cuffed, the woman with the whip exchanged a few unheard words with her two accomplices, who duly waded back into the water and headed for the boat. Urging the girls into motion with stinging lashes of her whip, with her bringing up the rear and now guarded by the two agents de police, the coffle shuffled across the sand towards the path.

  “Quick Julian, into the forest. We don’t want them to see us.”

  Clambering over a pile of tumbled stone blocks, Mistress Madonna and her slave crouched behind what remained of an ancient wall.

  “Keep down and don’t make a sound.”

  She had no idea what was going on. If it were not for the presence of the police officers she would have suspected that it was something decidedly untoward, probably criminal; slave trafficking or something of that nature. But with the law on hand that could not be the case. So who were these girls? The most likely explanation seemed to be that they were illegal immigrants trying to slip into France by a back route and that they had been caught and were now headed for jail. Whatever it was, she determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Almost afraid to breathe lest she should be heard, Mistress Madonna waited in confused anticipation for the approach of the girls and their guards up the steeply sloping path. The suspense seemed to last an eternity although in reality it was only five minutes or so before they came into sight and then to Mistress Madonna’s consternation, shuffled to a sniffling, miserable halt only yards from her hiding place. Immediately she recognised the whip wielder as the striking but somewhat daunting-looking gypsy girl that she had seen in the village bar a couple of days previously. Seemingly drawn to her like bees to honey, she had been in the midst of a bustle of gesticulating, fawning Gallic admirers; the focus of almost every man present, the exception being Julian. He had eyes for no one but Mistress Madonna.

  Around thirty years old, she was strongly built for a woman and her dark, prematurely silver-streaked hair hung in waves down to her shoulders. Eyes that were black and penetrating searched the forest, causing Mistress Madonna to crouch even lower behind the wall; the fear of discovery generating a flurry of missed heartbeats. She looked every inch the classic Romany of fable, but there was something uncomfortably sinister about her and Mistress Madonna could not help but feel that her outwardly romantic appearance veiled a cruel, heartless personality; it was hard to believe that a woman such as she would have any legitimate dealings with the police.

  Turning her attention from the forest to the path along which they had come, the gypsy woman appeared to be looking for someone, or some thing, and when it ambled into sight, Mistress Madonna could not have been more taken aback. The girl’s voice rang out, commanding and impatient.

  “Djali, there you are! Come here this instant.”

  Things were getting ever weirder by the second.

  First a gypsy girl and now a goat name Djali. Before the policewoman even uttered the girl’s name, Mistress Madonna knew without doubt what it would be. She cocked her head, half expecting the sound of tolling bells to come ringing into her ears and the sight of a shambling, red-headed one-eyed hunchback to fill her vision. However although in ancient elder days the interior of the dense forest had undoubtedly served as a cathedral for some now long abandoned religion, it was no Notre Dame and it was not the pealing of bells but the policewoman’s voice that drifted over to Mistress Madonna’s ears.

  “All right Esmeralda, Donatien and myself will take it from here.”

  “If you say so. I’ll get the men and bring up the other baggage.”

  The gypsy turned to leave but was halted by the policewoman.

  “Yes you do that. But before I deliver these baggages, you’re sure that they’re all virgins?”

  “Of course I’m sure. They’re all still intact, I tested every single one of them myself. As I always do!”

  “OK, OK. There’s no need to get prickly. You know as well as I do that this is the final batch and the Baroness needs every one of them. She usually has a few in reserve, but this time there aren’t any spare and these new ones will just make up the exact number she needs for the Ceremony. God help us if you’re wrong.
”

  “Well I’m not! You look after your business and I’ll look after mine. I’ll be up later to collect my reward. Make sure it’s waiting for me.”

  “I will. And you can leave the whip with me. You can have it back later, but in the meantime it’ll come in useful for keeping this lot in order. And watch your tongue; remember I’m not just a lackey like you, a few words in the Baroness’ ear and you’ll be back in chains where you belong.”

  Handing over the whip with a derogatory snort and the goat trotting behind her, the barefoot gypsy flounced back down the path. As she disappeared from view, Mistress Madonna’s last thought before she lost sight of her completely was that tangling with her was definitely something that she would not relish.

  Seemingly resigned to whatever fate awaited them, the string of miserable, downcast girls was urged into motion once again. With the occasional crack of the whip continuing to ring out, after giving them time to build up a fair lead, Mistress Madonna ordered Julian back out on to the path and stealthily followed in their wake. As Mistress Madonna and Julian neared the edge of the forest, she abandoned the path and keeping well out of sight, they both took cover behind a couple of the broader-trunked pines. The coffle was being marched across the clearing towards the entrance to the tumulus and with the encouragement of Anna’s whip and Donatien’s police baton was herded between the two giant standing stones; the girls finally disappearing down into its forbidding depths.

  Mistress Madonna’s already intense curiosity notched up several levels, she just had to know what was happening, finding the temptation to follow them below the earth almost impossible to resist. But resist it she did, very soon thanking her lucky stars that she had done so as the murmur of approaching voices presaged the arrival of Esmeralda, her two female compatriots and half a dozen unkempt, but somewhat picturesque, rough-looking men. With long black hair and heavy moustaches, their baggy trousers tucked into high boots, by the look of them, the men too were gypsies.