The pain was slowly turning to pleasure.
And it was an insistent, demanding pleasure the likes she had never known before.
"Oh," she said. "Oh God."
Apparently this sort of discourse was allowed. There was no mention of a gag.
He nibbled a bit on her labia. Against her will she was aroused. The fumes of the wine cleared. And she realized that she had been drugged. Drugged and dragged down here to be ravaged.
The handsome American's lips played a bit more, and then his tongue found her center. It darted into her, then stroked up, bring her clit up. And her clit responded, ballooning. She could feel it throbbing, big and full of sensitivity, erect. She could feel his teeth find it--poise--
"No... No... Stop... Too much!" she said.
Bite.
The bite was hard. Pain throbbed through her. Hard, nasty pain.
When she came too, she realized that she'd lost consciousness. The pain was gone... Well not gone so much as, transformed. Far from spitting out her severed clitoris he was now caressing her side, running his fingertips up and down gently, causing waves of sensation to course through her.
And his bright eyes were smiling at her.
"You are enjoying this, I know. We know about you, Janice. Welcome."
"That's right," said another higher-pitched voice from off to the side. Janice recognized it.
It was the sergeant's voice, higher pitched with excitement.
"That's right, Janice," said the voice. "Murat told us all about you. We thought we'd give you a chuckle."
"This is ravishment! Abuse!" she said.
"Would you have it otherwise?"
"I demand to see General Murat?"
"You want him to have a go as well?"
She shook her head, took a deep breath. Now that the drugs were fading, she was starting to realize her surroundings. She was in a dungeon. No question! She was deep in the cellar of the chateau--the old section presumably. Water dripped. It smelled of rot and mildew. It was exactly like she'd imagined a dungeon would be, from dank walls to fetid straw on the floors plus strange instruments--only with some added crespesulent quality, a kind of 5th dimension of weirdness.
She was, she realized, quite simply hung up on a cross.
Not the cross of Jesus Christ, long up and down, short right and left.
No, it was a cross that was more like an X shortened at the top. She'd seen them before in old pictures of sexual perversion. Old time torturers tended to enjoy using them.
Because they were easy? Because they stretched out the arms and legs? Because of the mockery it made of the Holy Crucifix? Who knew? What she knew now though, was that the wood and metal with which it was composed was hard and old and ungiving, and far from the sex toys of her day, this sex toy felt as serious as brain cancer.
"I am sure General Murat erred, sergeant," she said, striking a commanding tone. "Besides, even so, there are private things between the general and myself.
"In the French Army of Napoleon Bonaparte," said Sergeant Debussy. "We share and share alike.
"Something seemed wrong. Something seemed very wrong indeed about that statement. Why would Murat not care what happened to her? This kind of atmosphere really didn't quite jive with her sense of the man. This was basically horror story S and M.
As for the corporal, he seemed a different man. As she looked at him now, Janice saw that his eyes glittered in the flickering torchlight. He looked like some kind of mannequin, a sexual zombie.
"Move aside then, my good corporal, said the sergeant. "The young lady needs some military stripes!"
From out of the darkness and into the light of the fluttering torch, stepped Sergeant Debussy.
Janice could tell it was Sergeant Debussy, not only because of the odd nasal voice, but because of his short stature. He was dressed entirely in leather, from black boots, up to black mask. His black stubby beard poked from the edges of this, like moss from the roof of an old house. There was nothing old, however, about the eyes that gleamed through their holes in the mask.
Nor the gleam of his smile.
"Now then, Janice," said Debussy. "Let's have some fun."
From behind his back he pulled a whip. It was a bullwhip, thick as a jungle snake. Leather, leather, thick and black. He pulled it back, and its twirled ends slid and scraped against the floor. He held it with a surety and expertise that was stunning. With a quick motion of his hand, he brought the whip around and forward...
And down.
The long thing arced up like a striking serpent. Debussy waited, judged, and the pulled it back just so...
Snap...
The ends of it flicked her shoulder.
It stung like a bee--small, sharp and insistent.
She realized she had closed her eyes.
"I am an expert with the whip!" said Debussy. He pulled the thing back and launched it once more. It flew like a rope come to life, and once more snapped at her, this time landing on a thigh.
Snap!
It stung.
But the sting was not so great. It was like a pinch. Pain suffused her, traveling up and down her leg--but it was a thrilling pain.
Debussy pulled the whip back and let it go again. It snapped fully in the air this time, with a loud crack. But it did not touch her.
She felt a frisson of fear.
"Easy does it! Easy does it!" he laughed. "No, there's no call for marks! And goodness, this thing can leave marks. It's left quite a few upon the backs of disobedient soldiers and prisoners of war, let me tell you! But no, if Murat finds you with stripes all over you, he will not be pleased. If they are there, he will wish that he had placed them there himself!
His head reared back and he gave a hearty laugh.
"All right, corporal. Let's see what happens now."
Smiling, eyes glazed with passion, the corporal again walked toward her. She could see that his cock was large and fully erect.
He fell upon her.
"I want your ass. I want your ass," he hissed into her ear as he grabbed at her breasts and squeezed.
With the stings and such still on her body, the added input drove her senses crazy. She arched toward him, her pussy wet.
"But then," he said, seeing her response, "perhaps I will make you beg."
"I... I need it..." she said. "I need it."
"I need your cock inside of me."
A hand found her pussy. "Oh! Yes. Wet! Wet! So wet... "
"Oh... put it in me, please. Please."
She ached. She ached to be filled up with his big rampaging penis. Filled and spilling over with him. He smelled of man, of pure feral male need and lust. She was losing her senses again, losing herself in the pain and pleasure.
"I think she's ready, sergeant," said the corporal.
He stepped aside.
Behind him stood Sergeant Debussy, now minus pants.
He was holding his own penis in his hand, stroking it. It was long and bent. It had spots and pimples on it and scars. Amidst the thatch of gnarled hair, it was the ugliest thing that she'd ever seen.
And then he was on her.
"Your pussy is mine now," he said, mauling her breast with his mouth. "Mine..."
He reached down and she could feel him spread her awkwardly. He arched back and poised himself for an entry.
Snap!
Crack!
Debussy screamed. He fell back off of Janice, stumbled and fell to his knees, writhing with pain.
Standing in the shuddering light of the torch, was an aristocratic looking man, in knee pants and wig. He was perhaps sixty years old, stout but vital looking, with eyes that blazed with almost supernatural intensity.
"Zounds, Debussy. Get away from that poor girl!" said the man. "Even I cannot countenance the idea of your foul self on such a beauty." He had on a three-cornered hat. He took this off and bowed to the astonished Janice. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am a friend of your benefactor, General Murat. I am..." He smiled, as though amu
sed by the name and by what it meant. "I am the Marquis de Sade."
Book Three: The French Marquis
CHAPTER ONE
The sounds of the sea came through the window.
The smell of the sea as well, salt, and yet so much more. Beyond the broad windows that were a captain's privilege hung cumulus clouds above a calm ocean. White and off-white, unreal above the blue-green of the Atlantic. She could smell the dozens of smells of the ship, rosin and oil and male sweat and a hint of the port it carried in its cargo.
"You've come," she said. "You've come for me."
The Admiral nodded. "I hope you are comfortable, madam," he said. "It's rare we have a female passenger."
"Admiral, I can't thank you enough for your thoughtfulness," she said.
She was seated in her semblance of a room, at its desk to be specific. In front of her were open books and her diary, into which she'd been writing. "Will you forgive me?" She leaned over with an exaggerated bow, making sure this dip exposed a nice view of bosom, set up nicely in her Regency blue dress. Oh yes, with frills. What would a bosom be without a few lace frills?
The Admiral cleared his throat. "Well now, Miss Kingsley. Far be it for me to impose upon a woman in the mode of creation."
"Nonsense. I demand as a lady's right that you stay just where you are while I finish this entry, Admiral. I need to speak with you about something quite urgent."
She dipped the quill pen in the inkwell, brought it out and set upon her book with a passion. She spoke out loud the words she was writing as she scribbled.
"I must abruptly end this entry, as I have just had the pleasure of a request for an Audience by no less a personage than Lord Horiatio Nelson himself," she dictated and scratch with flourish and drama. With one final triumphant jot she put in a period and then looked up at her guest.
"Now then, Admiral. Would you care for some tea? I've just brewed some and it's warm, although you'll have to take it with lemon as I understand that all the milk on board has gone quite sour."
Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson looked down at her with bemusement. "Yes. Yes, a spot of tea would do me some good."
"Oh and please do take your hat off."
"Not really hitting the ceiling, though is it."
"You are a tall man compared to the "little corporal".
"Pah," said Lord Nelson, taking off his hat and placing it on the table. "That is nonsense. He's not a tall man, Bonaparte. But he is no midget. He just associates with his Regal Guard, a bunch of bloody giants." He smiled at his vulgarity. "Ungainly tall, those chaps. Now, I am a busy man, Miss..."
She cut him off. "Your tea. How many sugar lumps?"
"Ah--he drummed fingers along his faintly portly stomach. "None. None at all."
She placed the porcelain cup in its porcelain saucer--oh such fine and delicate china, she noted--in front of the Admiral.
He picked it up, sipped at it.
"My, my, perfect. Now what can I do for you, Miss?'
"Admiral Nelson. I know that you are busy man, but we shall be alone together for this trip. And frankly--" She leaned over, exposing her breasts again. "I want you to fuck me."
Admiral Nelson sipped at his tea and turned the page of the script.
"Oh shit. Lost it."
"You lost what?"
"I lost my place."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," said Penelope Woodrow, Assistant Professor of History at Fordham University, New York City. "Fuck! You've spoiled everything."
"Hey! Wait a minute, lady," said the actor. "Look, I'm doing you a favor here!"
"I'm paying good money. Good money for this scene!" said Penelope. She felt a bit faint and sweaty. Good money indeed. It wasn't like she had a lot of that, being only two years into her situation here. And New York! New York City! Sheesh! It was so damned expensive.
"Okay. Just give me a hundred and I'll go," said the actor.
Penelope took a deep long breath, and got control of herself. She was really too much on edge here. She really was going out of her mind here, and she really had to settle herself down. Her dress swished around her ankles as she stalked over to the bottle of vodka on her dining table. She splashed some into a tumbler. Managed to gulp some down. She'd already taken a double dose of her pills this morning to get her ready. It was a Saturday, after all, and Saturday was her time.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Would you like a drink?"
"If it's grog. I guess so, if it's grog."
"Grog. Grog. Oh, right. Navy drink. Alcoholic," she threaded some fingers through her dark, stringy hair.
"Yeah, but usually rum and such." The man sighed. "Look, this is a really unusual gig, and I wouldn't have taken it, frankly, if you didn't sound like a nice lady... and... and..." He smiled sheepish. "If I didn't think you weren't attractive."
"So you're not just a gigolo, hey?
"Please. I'm an actor. You have my CV. I can do the accent you want and--" He stood up. He wasn't a tall man and he wasn't young. But he had a kind of craggy good-looking appeal about him. He was fit, and he totally fit the bill. His only problem, frankly it would seem, was a bill that any other man-whore would surely not be capable of. "--and frankly, you're a good looking woman."
"Maybe you should try and drink something." She poured a few ounces of the vodka into another tumbler and handed it to him. "And don't worry, I'm just crazy. Okay. I've got a problem. Okay? And you do this and you'll walk out of this apartment with four hundred dollars for a couple hours work."
She had tried the Village Voice ads. Oh my god, that had been a disaster. She didn't need any more damned freaks. She was enough of a freak to make do, thank you.
Sydney--that was his name--Sydney Martin straightened out his script. "I'll do my best."
"And like it says, after we get naked--it's improvisation. You did assure me you've been with women before."
"Oh sure. Before my accident and after. Lots of sympathy fucks! New York City rocks, I've gotta say, in many ways."
"So happy you like it," said Penelope. "Now can you find your place in the script and let's start again?"
"Sure." He flipped the page and cleared his voice. He assumed his British accent again. And damn, it was a good British accent. He sounded just like Peter Finch in that ‘Lady Hamilton’ movie.
"I want you to fuck me, Lord Nelson!"
With this statement, Dr. Penelope got right back into character. Not only was this fellow gifted with a good British accent, he wasn't bad looking either. She was already feeling herself get wet between her legs.
"Fuck you, madam?"
"Oh, Admiral, you don't have to be coy with me!" she winked at him, and started to divest herself of her costume. Carefully, yet still contriving wantonness, she started unbuttoning the top of her blouse. Button. Button. Button. Soon the lace of her bodice showed through, with fleshy moons of her breast tops showing. "I know you enjoy a roll in a hammock from time to time."
"True. Or hay, if I happen to be on land." He cleared his voice. "You realize that I love my wife and my mistress--and more than anything else, I love the Royal Navy and my country."
She was all undone by now. Her beautiful dress was shrugged off in a trice. It dropped down to the wood floor of the cabin, and she kicked it aside.
She stood there before him in her hot Jane Austen Unchained underwear. From bodice to bustier down to frilly drawers she was simply hot. Sometimes when she dressed up like this, all she had to do was to look in the mirror to come. Oh man, she felt so sexy...
"Now then, Admiral," she said in a husky voice. "You have the advantage of me. You merely have to cry ravishment, and your seamen will come to the rescue."
"My dear, my semen has other ideas."
"What I mean, Lord Horatio Nelson, is that it is your turn to disrobe similarly."
"I confess there will be not such remarkable results."
"Allow me to be the judge of that."
He smiled broadly and began taking off his uniform. First the top, showing his bl
ouse. Oh my, how his pants ballooned nicely in all the right spots.
Soon he was down to his underdrawers.
She moved over to him and teased his face with a finger.
"Now then. Before we go any farther, I want to see it."
"See, madam?"
"I want to see this tool of love I have heard so much about. This cannon that has blown apart so many ladies!"
Admiral Nelson raised his eyes.
"Ah, I am but modestly endowed, Madam. You--"
"You know what I mean, Admiral. Your auxiliary cannon. She stepped back, and slipped off her drawers, showing her naked, moist pussy.
"Very well, madam. If you insist." He took off his shirt, slowly, revealing his right arm.
Or rather what was left of his right arm.
Up to above the elbow the arm was gone. What was left was whittled down to a remarkable and smooth item indeed.
"I warn you, I am good with this stump."
She went back to the bed, and lay down, spreading her legs and throwing back her head, smelling her own heat and lust.
"Kiss me."
CHAPTER TWO
"I am the Marquis de Sade," said the new arrival in the room.
Normally, if she had found herself in a dungeon strapped to a cross after being drugged, the last person she would like to see was the Marquis de Sade.
However, under the circumstances, Janice was thrilled.
She was all for a good time. And frankly, this whole affair was merely whetting her appetite for sexual adventure. And getting chocolate licked off her by the gorgeous corporal was rather interesting, once she'd recovered her senses.
But, frankly, the sight of Sergeant Debussy’s crooked, brown-blackish erect penis, perhaps with pustules, had dampened things down a bit, and her natural born fears and anxieties were returning. That huge hook on Debussy's left hand did not help one darn bit.
"M’seur! I thank you!" she said. "I fear there is a huge misunderstanding. Yes, I am a friend of General Murat. Indeed I am of lover of the General, and happy of it. But I have not condoned this... this... situation!"
Sade's eyes rolled a bit.
"Idiots," he said. "Idiots?"
"But Murat told us she liked getting drugged, tied up and fucked!" whined Debussy. He had already tucked his detumesced penis back into his pants, Thank God!
The French Affair Boxed Set Page 11
