by Diana Castle
VELVET
Volume II - Erotic Stories of Domination and Submission
Diana Castle
Table of Contents
The Marquis de Sade’s Daughter
Equilibrium
Blue Kiss
Elementary, My Dear Sir
Other Books by Diana Castle
About the Author
Copyright Page
Disclaimer
This book contains graphic sexual scenarios which some readers might find objectionable, including anal sex, BDSM, spanking, whipping and female submission
This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made this purchase. The author and publisher are not responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from the information and practices described within this work. Please engage in safe, consensual sexual practices only.
Brief Intro
This is the second volume of a collection of erotic short stories that celebrate the joy, frenzy and madness that is sex.
In this collection, I write about domination and submission.
I’ll let the stories speak for themselves.
The Marquis de Sade’s Daughter
The black handle of the whip glided across Philoméne’s erect nipples. She squirmed in her restraints, her breath hitching in her chest. It was going to be that kind of night.
She reverently closed her eyes.
“Look at me.”
She quickly opened them.
The Comte Édouard d’Anglure was still a handsome man despite being near fifty years old. His dark eyes gazed piercingly at her from under his white wig and his full, red lips were still those of a much younger man. Trim of figure he was immaculately attired in a blue silk coat embroidered with gold thread, an amber waistcoat and gold satin breeches. White stockings covered his sinewy legs and the silver buckles on his black shoes gleamed in the light of the dozens of candelabras positioned about his huge, ornate bedroom.
Smiling, he seized one of her nipples and twisted it.
“Ah,” she sighed, her arms, where they hung in the restraints, trembling.
“Shall I suck on them, ma petite?” he asked in a slick voice that coiled around her like the tethers of his whip. “Would you like that? Oui? Would you like me to lick your ripe nipples?”
Desire glided through Philoméne like a snake over the surface of a black pond.
“Oui, my lord,” she whispered. “I would like that very much.”
“I know,” he murmured. “And that is why I will not do it.”
Instead he gripped both her nipples and pinched them. Hard.
Philoméne shuddered, her sight tearing and blurring and burning from the pain.
The Comte released her breasts and stepped away. He crossed his arms over his chest and broodingly rubbed the handle of his whip along his jaw. It was a long-strapped whip with a thick black handle of doubled braided leather.
“They are burning, are they not? Your tender nubs. You would like them soothed, oui?”
He glanced over to where two of his manservants hovered in the shadows. They had helped bring in the contraption upon which Philoméne’s naked body hung.
Many of the servants of the chateaus located within the environs of Paris had already abandoned their duties and their masters to march boldly through the streets, brazenly sporting the tricolores, the red, white and blue ribbons and rosettes on their coats and hats and singing Ah Ça Ira. She wondered how much the Comte was bribing his servants to stay.
“Perhaps I will have them soothe them for you,” the Comte went on. “Would you like that, my sweet? Would you like them to suckle on your tender nipples with their rough, rustic mouths while I fuck you with this.” He waved the black handle of the whip in front of her face.
Philoméne’s throat closed. Usually, only she and the Comte engaged in these debauched games of his. But as more writs for arrests were issued by the Revolutionary Tribunal, and the state of affairs within Paris continued to spiral dangerously out of control, so had the Comte’s demands of her. This contraption of his upon which her arms and legs were bound was something new.
“Well?” he insisted.
Philoméne looked over at the manservants. They were not unhandsome. Both were young, tall, brawny men. She wondered if, perhaps, they serviced the Comte with their bodies just as she did. She did not know for certain, but she suspected he might be inclined toward desires of that nature.
“Oui, Monsieur,” she said softly. “I would like for them to suck my breasts.”
One of the manservants made a strangled sound. The Comte wickedly smiled. He shoved his whip under his arm and, reaching over, took both her nipples between his long, bejeweled fingers. He smelled strongly of powder, perfumed oil and sweat. He pinched and squeezed and tugged her nipples until the tears that welled in her eyes burned as much as her swollen breasts.
The Comte stepped away from her and snapped his fingers.
The two men slipped from out of the shadows. They were dark of skin from the sun, their jaws stubbled with hair, their arms densely muscled. Both were clad in brown homespun shirts and coarse black pants.
The Comte directed them with the handle of the whip to stand on either side of her. Then he stood, his head cocked to the side, regarding them coolly.
Philoméne’s breath quickened and her heart pounded madly in her chest. The earthy scent of the stables from both of the men’s bodies wound around her.
“Suck her tits,” he snapped.
The two men turned and grasped one of her pale, rounded breasts with their dark hands. Lowering they heads, they began licking at the distended peaks of her breasts.
Philoméne blissfully closed her eyes, a hot tide of pleasure surging through her as both men’s warm, wet mouths soothed the torture the Comte had inflicted on her nipples. She lolled her head back, moistness seeping from between the swollen lips of her cunt, the only sounds in the candlelit bedroom the snapping of the flames, her husky, quickening gasps, and the soft, licking sounds of the two manservants as they feasted on her breasts. Hearing the sharp click of the Comte’s shoes on the parquet floor, Philoméne quickly opened her eyes.
He stood in front of her, his dark eyes staring into hers, while his manservants lustily suckled her nipples and fondled her breasts with their big, coarse hands. Then he smiled, a thin, razor-edged smile. He moved the handle of the whip along the cleft of her mound. It was bare of hair. He insisted on it. He had told her that when he dined on her cunt, he did not want hair between his teeth. He slowly moved the handle back and forth along her mound then slid it up and leisurely rubbed her clit.
Philoméne cried out, her back arching, her pelvis rubbing frantically against the whip handle. The two servants, as if in response to her cries, sucked harder on her breasts, their tongues thrashing her stiff nipples. The Comte burnished the handle of the whip around her clit then, slowly, ever so slowly, pushed the handle up between the quivering lips of her sex.
Philoméne tilted her hips upward, the thick handle of the whip sliding smoothly, wetly, inside her.
“One of you,” the Comte ordered. “Finger her clit.”
The man on her left, his mouth still wrapped about her breast, slid his hand down her stomach and onto her hairless mound. She had no doubt that her pleasure bud was protruding based on the position of the whip handle in her sex. The man slowly rubbed his thick finger around it.
Philoméne bucked hard against her restraints. The sensation of the Comte fucking her with the whip while his manservants sucked her breasts and one played with her clit was more than she could stan
d. She was about to climax when the Comte jerked the whip out of her cunt.
“Stop!” he commanded.
The two manservants pulled their mouths away from her breasts and stepped back.
Philoméne shuddered weakly against the contraption, sweat trickling down her neck, her nipples throbbing. “Please, my lord.”
“Please, what, my dear?”
“Please. I beg you. Let me come.”
The Comte shook his head and smiled teasingly at her. “Not yet.”
He glanced at the two manservants, both of whom she could see were eager to get back to what they’d been doing. She also saw that under their breeches they were erect.
She inwardly shivered. She did not put it past the Comte, as part of her service to him this night, to order them both to fuck her. One in her cunt. The other in her ass.
The Comte moved closer. He placed the handle of the whip against her face and rubbed it along the line of her jaw. She could smell her scent on it.
“You will come. But only on my command. Do you understand, my dear?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He lowered the handle from her face and stepped back. “Proceed.”
The two manservants went back to licking her breasts, but now it was the one on her right who fingered her clit. He was rougher than the other, but that only added to her pleasure. Pain had never been an issue with her.
The Comte thrust the whip handle back into her sex. The manservants forcefully sucked her nipples, each muscular lick of their tongues sending sizzling tendrils of heat deep into the core of her body.
She twisted helplessly against the contraption, the whip handle driving deeper and harder into her sex, the dark pleasure swelling inside her so that she was unable to stop herself from wantonly rubbing her breasts against the menservant’s moist, busy mouths.
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered. her wide, staring eyes taking in the ruddy light from the candelabras scattered about the Comte’s ornate master bedroom, along with the luxuriant tapestries, the gold inlaid ceiling, and the thick damasked curtains surrounding the massive bed upon which he had fucked her so many times these last few months.
Then there was the Comte himself, dressed in powdered wig, satin doublet, white stockings and gleaming black shoes, an elegant contrast to the crude, peasant coarseness of his two burly manservants, their work-toughened hands squeezing her breasts and caressing her sex.
Philoméne’s mind was lost in a dizzying maze of wild, licentious, animal lust, her body nothing more than an instrument upon which the Comte performed his cruel concertos of pain and pleasure.
The manservants continued to ardently suck her swollen breasts, tugging at her tender nipples with their strong teeth then soothingly licking the burning nubs with their tongues. The Comte thrust the whip handle up inside her, mercilessly stroking her to her peak while her pleasure bud was on fire from his servant’s deft fondling of it.
“Now, Philoméne.” the Comte whispered. “Come.”
With that single word, her body exploded. He had primed her well over the months she’d been his. She twisted wildly in the restraints about her wrists. The menservants bit and sucked her nipples while the Comte did not cease his thrusting of the whip handle into her cunt.
She came; again and again and again, until finally she could do nothing but scream as the hammering ecstasy of her orgasms overwhelmed her.
Philoméne slowly raised her head. She must have lost consciousness at some point. The servants were gone. The Comte stood at a nearby table, drinking from a gold and ruby goblet. He looked over at her and smiled.
“Ah, you have resurrected yourself from le petit morte. For a moment, I feared you would not return from the abyss of your ecstasies. You surprised even me, and that says quite a lot.”
He placed the goblet on the table. He walked over to her, shaking a long, bejeweled finger. “But shame on you, my dear. Your wanton display of unbridled passion, though delectable to watch, put my servants in quite a state. I had to order them not to rape you while you were unconscious. Though, I will confess, I was tempted for a moment to let them go ahead and do so.”
She shuddered at his words then stared at him from between the damp strands of her hair. “Are you not afraid? Afraid that one day you will go too far?”
His dark eyes were sphinxlike in the dimly lit vastness of his bedroom. “Afraid?” He tilted his head as if he found the concept of fear some kind of puzzle. “No, my dear Philoméne. I am not. For you see, I have already gone too far.”
A discreet knock at the door drew his attention. “Enter.”
A house servant, spotlessly dressed in wig, stockings and livery, entered the room. He did not even glance at Philoméne where she hung on the contraption.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the servant said, his gaze on the floor. “But there is someone here to see you.”
“Really? I’d assumed everyone I knew had fled the city. Who is it?”
“The Vicomte d’Ermenonville.”
“Séverin? What is the dear boy still doing in France?” The Comte looked over at Philoméne. “Take her down and see to her needs. She’ll be staying tonight. Make certain she is dressed properly for dinner.”
He turned and left the bedroom.
Philoméne released the breath she’d been holding. She had feared that the Comte was done with her for the evening. With the Revolutionary Tribunal having imprisoned or lopped off the heads of most of her clients, the Comte was the only one who still asked for her and she desperately needed the money.
The servant removed the restraints from about her wrists and ankles and helped her down from the contraption, his eyes discreetly averted from her face.
As she rubbed the circulation back into her wrists she wondered who this Vicomte d’Ermenonville was and what he was to the Comte.
* * * * *
Séverin d’Ermenonville nervously paced the rug in the Comte’s library. He had fond memories of the many days and nights he'd spent here with the Comte discussing Plato, Aristotle, Voltaire.
Now all that was coming to an end.
The Comte entered the room. “Ah, Séverin. It is so good to see you.” He strode across the floor and took Séverin’s hands in his, gripping them powerfully. “It had been so long that I’d assumed you’d left France.”
“Left France?” Séverin shook his head. “I have no intention of leaving France.”
The Comte released his hands. “You should reconsider that thought. The world we knew has upended itself and things are not as they once were.”
“I’m aware of that,” Séverin said. “But I still believe that reason will once again rule the hearts and minds of men.”
The Comte arched a narrow brow. "Ah, so you have come to discuss philosophy? I will have some wine brought in and we will talk as we used to.”
“Those times are long gone.” Séverin released a heavy breath. “A writ is to be issued for your arrest.”
“Really?”
Séverin stared at the Comte. He was acting as if he’d just been informed that it was going to rain that day.
“And what is my crime?” the Comte went on.
“Were you not listening when I read the Law of Suspects to you last September?”
The Comte merely shrugged.
“Any and all are suspect,” Séverin went on. “A person can be arrested merely for addressing someone as monsieur instead if citoyen or for saying vous instead of tu.”
The Comte mournfully shook his head. “We truly live in an age of barbarism.
“It is not a joke.”
The Comte patted his arm. “I know, dear boy. Forgive me. But seriously. What is my crime?”
“Does it matter? Does anything remotely resembling judicial procedure matter to the Revolutionary Tribunal? Just the mere hint of an impropriety or counterrevolutionary activities is enough.”
The Comte’s eyes widened. “But I am not a counterrevolutionary. I did not support the revolution, but tha
t does not mean I want to destroy it.”
Séverin moved close enough to the Comte so that only a hairsbreadth separated them. “It doesn’t matter. Every citizen has been empowered by law to seize conspirators and counterrevolutionaries and to bring them before the magistrate, and the magistrate is required by law to denounce them as soon as he is made aware of them. Do you recall my reading that particular clause to you?”
The Comte shrugged again, sill unfazed by Séverin’s news.
“You must leave,” Séverin urged him. “And soon. My informant said that the writ has not yet been issued but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Leave? No, I can’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?
“I'm entertaining a guest.”
“A guest?” Séverin barked a laugh. “Are you deaf? Did you not hear what I just said? You are going to be arrested. And you will, most likely, be sentenced to death. ”
“I am not deaf. At least not yet. I have a guest and I do not intend on sending her away.”
“Her?’ Séverin laughed again, but this time out of utter disbelief. “One of your whores no doubt. You’re going to risk your life for a putain?
The Comte shook his head. “This one is not just any whore. This one is very special. Stay for dinner and you can meet her.”
“I have no desire to meet her.”
“And that, my dear boy, is exactly what is wrong with you. You have no desire. Stay for dinner. Please. If you are right, and I am to be arrested then this may be our last meal together.”
Séverin was tempted to grab the Comte by the arm and drag him from the chateau, but his informant had assured him that the writ for the Comte’s arrest had yet to be issued. The comités de surveillance was backlogged with all the accusations that had come forth since the passage of the new law.
There was still time. Or so he hoped. He was well aware of how stubborn the Comte could be.
“After we have dined?” he said. “Will you then make plans to leave France?”
