Title Page
THE PLEASURE PALACE
By
Caroline Swift
Publisher Information
The Pleasure Palace
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Caroline Swift
The right of Caroline Swift to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Prelude
Emerging from his shower after returning home from a strenuous game of squash, Mikhail felt relaxed and there was a clear hour before him prior to cocktails and dinner with Claudia, his new mistress. From his study in the palatial apartment on the Quai d’Anjou, he watched the ripples of the sunlit Seine reflecting on his latest acquisition, a blue period Picasso. He always found Paris in the Spring a delight, particularly when his faithful Gemma, the best maid he had ever had to serve him, opened the French windows and the breeze stirred the papers on his crowded desk. He stood still for a moment, clad only in a towel round his hips.
Among the papers, unfortunately, lay the fax received a week before from the dour Principal of the exclusive and appallingly expensive finishing establishment in England for ‘young ladies of high birth and background’, announcing the sudden dismissal of his ex-wife’s stepdaughter for what was described as disreputable and unacceptable behaviour. Apart from frigging herself almost constantly, she had been found fucking behind the cricket pavilion with the ground staff. It added that some psychotherapy might be useful or, better still, ‘stern corrective measures’ which were, alas, not within the purview of an English institution such as hers. The finishing school, for its part, had finished with Verena.
The event could not have come at a less propitious moment. Having installed the vivacious Claudia in his home and in his bed, Mikhail needed time and tranquillity for her to accustom herself to the place. Whereupon, this drama had occurred, encumbering the couple with the abrupt return from abroad of the dark, moody girl just out of her teens already dogged with scholastic failure at the Charlemagne lycee; her heavy presence irritated him and exasperated Claudia. In addition, Gemma was complaining.
In her starched apron and black, mezzogiorno garb of domestic efficiency, Gemma hovered at the study door with whatever was on her mind. Mishka - as most people called him - looked at the woman’s grey hair drawn back into the traditional, tight bun. She resembled someone waiting for confession with a priest.
“Is something wrong, Gemma?”
“It’s the girl, Signore. She’s at it again.” Mishka groaned as he heard the rest. “Yes, Signore, not only regularly at night but frequently during the day,” she confirmed, her gnarled, peasant hands clasped low before the region to which she was referring. “I have to change her sheets almost daily. They’re always stiff with her cum, if I may use the term. As it may have occurred to the Signore, I believe a really sound thrashing would help. With the riding crop.”
Basically, Mikhail had no objection to an idle girl masturbating; at least it kept her busy in her room, out of trouble and clear of Claudia. But evidently trouble was brewing.
“Oh, hell, not again,” he sighed, looking out at a barge charged with gravel chugging downstream towards the Cite. The prospect of losing Gemma’s support was unthinkable. Claudia couldn’t cook an egg. Nor could he. It was clear that something had to be done and quickly.
“I believe,” the domestic went on - the women’s aggregate of beliefs always amazed Mikhail who had precious few, “I believe it is not right for your Signora to be disturbed by the groans the girl utters when discharging in bed - her squeals and yells, I mean, when she pleasures herself. It’s not right,” she repeated solemnly. “Your gracious Signora, and you too, Signore, have the right to rest and calm.”
Luckily, Mikhail realized, as the maid’s bedroom lay at the far end of the apartment, she was spared the moans equally generated by Claudia’s frantic orgasms... But Gemma’s existence centred on service to her employer and on nothing else.
He thought for a moment. Strangely, the attractive if doleful Verena began to provide an enticement, stimulated by Gemma’s proposal. True, he had spanked her a few times but had dismissed the temptation of using the riding crop. After all, she was his ward now her stepmother had run off and left her.
“You think a beating with the crop would solve the matter, Gemma?” As he said it, he felt his cock under the towel stir like a one-eyed ferret disturbed from rest. He did not really require an answer nor the maid’s opinion; his mind had suddenly been made up for him by the thought of the slender crop with its chased silver handle. Since Ellen’s departure there had not been much chance of using it.
“Has the Signora Claudia retired for her siesta, Gemma?”
“Yes, she’s asleep in her own room at the end of the corridor. She needs her siestas.”
Mishka agreed. She deserved all the rest she could get after the orgies in the master bedroom. There was a full hour before him.
“You’re right, Gemma,” he conceded. “A good thrashing might well teach her a lesson. But the Signora must not be disturbed. I’ll administer it in my study rather than in the girl’s room. On the table. So, take her there right away and be so good as to pick up my riding crop as you pass by - the one that used to be in my bedroom but must be hanging with the coats on the hall stand, if I’m not mistaken.”
The woman knew very well where it was to be found. Had the problem been left to her, as it would normally have been back in her village, she would already have used the murderous length of plaited leather twice daily on the degenerate young slut.
She gave a jubilant smirk that was also lethal. Yes, it took a Calabrese peasant to convince these rich, urban sybarites how to deal with a fractious, young masturbator.
Verena assumed from Gemma’s look that another dressing down awaited her, with the usual long, moralizing harangue. Yet somehow, the grey figure at the door of her room, standing like a living indictment, spelled real danger. The culprit pulled the sheet up to her chin, trembling.
“You’re wanted in the Master’s study, Signorina. No need to dress. Just come as you are.”
Barefoot, in her silk negligee and flowered nightdress, Verena followed the maid down the long hall into the sanctum. The shutters had been partly closed, darkening the familiar area; instead of displaying the chaos of papers and bowls of peonies, the polished stretch of the table was ominously bare. As the door closed behind her, Verena saw the man.
Mishka confronted her, still with only the towel, as a vision she had never encountered before. The tanned body gave her a shock; it was hirsute, matching the pointed beard, and seemed to be made of brawn and sinews, maintained in perfect trim, she knew, at the Montparnasse squash club and Rolland Garros where he played tennis. What turned her rigid was the thing he took from Gemma: the riding crop creaked between his hands as the braided leather curved. The scene boded badly, particularly as under her shift Verena knew her tiny, lace-bordered panties, no more than a string buried in her crotch, would be stained dark with the residues of the tremendous, thrilling orgasm she h
ad treated herself to just after lunch.
“Strip her naked, please, Gemma,” Mishka said nonchalantly. “I need her flesh fully accessible for what she’s about to receive,” Gemma noticed with pleasure that the towel was jutting out over the erection.
The domestic handled the girl almost as an object and an objectionable object at that. She tore off the diaphanous coverings with determination, the nightdress passing over the long, sable hair with a crackle of silk. The well-fleshed body stood trembling as Verena crossed her arms over the rich, over-abundant breasts. Cold sweat seeped from the armpits.
“Hands behind your neck, Verenka,” Mishka ordered, using the Russian diminutive she hated, while the maid laid the flimsy garments over the arm of the couch. “And take off that disgusting piece of rag you’ve got over your sex. In future, I don’t want to find you wearing things of that sort. They only excite you unnecessarily, especially tight, narrow strings like that. Just look how it saws into your cleft. No wonder you’re drenched down there. I suppose you’ve just pleasured yourself again.”
Verena hesitated a moment, her flesh crawling with fright yet flushed with exhilaration, before inserting her thumbs behind the elastic border riding the hips. Slowly, the damp triangle was peeled off, dredging the gusset out of the viscous slot. Bending forwards, Verena slid the silk down, the heavy hunks of the breasts lurching and swaying from the roots. The man again noted lasciviously how the swollen cones of the areoles were smooth, devoid of pimples which he disliked on a woman; the bulges held the nipples firmly erect. No doubt they were puckered with apprehension as well they might.
“Pick it up, like a good girl, Verenka.”
The girl stooped again to retrieve the rag. Again the fabulous mammaries swung like bells of the Kremlin, the mass of buttock flesh turned towards him; his eyes browsed over the wealth of meat. At first Mishka had found the rump to be out of proportion with the remainder of the body, with its sleek but powerful thighs and narrow waist. But it was not so; the nude was exquisitely proportioned. The rump was merely far heftier than Ellen’s and certainly larger that Claudia’s - that was all. And more attractive than the flesh of most women he had enjoyed.
Verena’s hand had closed over the wet rag where it lay at her feet.
“Give it to Gemma.” Then he turned to the maid: “Gag her with it. We don’t want unnecessary noise out of her. And you, Verenka, stay like that, bent forwards.”
Mishka pressed down on the spine to raise and part the buttocks and then screwed his thumb deep into the anus. The insertion made Verena jerk as she let out a low, guttural cry. At the same time, Gemma seized the rag, held the head back by the hair and crammed the thing, smelling of sex musk and discharge, into the throat.
“I think, Gemma,” her employer remarked casually, sensing the pressure of the girl’s sphincter around his thumb, “this orifice will need considerable enlarging if it’s to be profitably employed.” He withdrew, watching the muscle close. “In my bedroom closet, you’ll find some of the instruments I used on Madame Ellen. I think a Number Five dildo, the rubber one with the internal retention flange, is needed here. Verenka should wear it for a couple of weeks, until her sphincter learns to relax for use. Plug her up tight and remove it only when nature calls. I’ll check her enlargement at the weekend after she’s had a few relaxing flagellations.”
“It shall be done, Signore.” Gemma was elated at the prospect and at the humiliation being visited on the disgusting trollop.
“Now stand erect, Verenka, and let’s see what we have in store for the crop.”
The girl’s eyes widened in terror, her face paling, framed by her long, dark hair. The two onlookers indulged in a close scrutiny of her nudity: Both spectators were fascinated by the sight. The body, to Gemma’s expert eyes, constituted excellent whipping flesh and clearly submissive into the bargain. Santa Maria, how the slut needed flogging!
“Now, Verenka, as you persist in frigging that outsized clit of yours” - Mishka flicked the tongue of his crop over the stump of throbbing gristle, “I’m compelled to whip you, this time with this.” He curved the thing again between his hands. “It will sink deep into your flesh and, I trust, into your obstinate nature. And I just cannot have you bringing yourself off several times a day and god knows how many times a night. Once now and then, Verenka, may well be tolerated. But you must control your lust. Therefore, I’m going to flog it out of you.” He paused, only to add: “And you’ll be whipped every second day until I’m satisfied you’ve grown up. Lay her over the table and hold her wrists.”
Verena put up a short, feckless fight that earned her a sharp, mezzogiorno slap across the face. Then her superb body slammed down on the table like raw meat, her crotch allowed to jam up into the angle of the mahogany surface - a concession Mikhail decided to grant. The vast breasts flattened, surging sideways on the table top, the head turned in profile between the extended arms. The victim braced her toes against the base of the table legs, the whole erotic length of nudity shuddering in expectation.
Suddenly, Mishka stripped off the wet towel and freed the enormous length of stiff cock, making sure Verena saw it. Gemma nodded to herself; yes, grazie a Dio, that was the way a man should be to deliver a scourging. Stark naked, like the victim.
Before raising the crop, the man ran his hand over the girl’s sumptuous buttocks.
“Verenka, you must learn not to clench your arse cheeks when you’re going to be beaten. They must hang flaccid and slack. By all means let the flesh quiver when the welts start to rise,” he authorized her. “But I want you limp. Otherwise, I’ll have to double the ration of strokes. Do you understand?”
The victim nodded desperately between her taut biceps. It was poignant to behold.
To increase the tension, Mishka drew the square tip of the crop down the girl’s anal cleft, past the puckered rosebud, to the fluttering labia of the vulva. The perfidious flap of leather explored the mouth of the cunt carefully, unclogging the umber lips and flicking the clit. Mishka noticed the fleshy pinnacle standing completely free of its protective sheath of skin. She had a prodigious stump and it was in full erection. Evidently, the girl was nicely excited by the prospect of flagellation. The prods he distributed over the labia and clit caused the quivering nude to heave upwards and fall back with a slap of the sweating belly.
Already she was grinding the crotch into the corner of the table. Mishka withdrew the crop to peer at its extremity. It was coated with pre-cum. The girl’s totally nude body was sexually ready for punishment. Mikhail also was ready.
The crop rose suddenly and sliced into the crown of the buttocks. Six strokes followed rapidly, with extreme accuracy, bringing the welts up in parallel lines, the girl bit hard into the rancid rag gouging her throat. The stifled groans began to fill the study.
Then the crop began to fall less impetuously but more at random, with pauses between the strokes, to allow the effect to penetrate well into the nerves. The unintelligible moans told Mishka he was taking the girl to the limit of her resistance; the rest would be the pure pain a slave body always experienced during its first real thrashing until it was taught to orgasm under flogging. In time, Mishka knew, the girl would grow used to it, and handle the climax as it gathered and exploded. While lashing into the upper thighs, he ran a fist down his cock, lubricating it for penetration.
The strangled, guttural yells behind the gag then drove him to scourge harder, as the head lifted pathetically only to thud back to the table.
“Keep yourself open, Verenka,” Mishka ordered her, his breath beginning to shorten. “Don’t keep jerking ...like that.” Shlack! “You’ll come... only when I say you may.” Shlack!
Still far from placated, the man lashed again and again into the butt,. The girl’s body began to shudder spasmodically, recalling to Mishka the scores of females he had seen mounting to crescendo as he put them to the whip, Verenka wa
s obviously no different.
Then the flagellation ceased abruptly. Thirty-five strokes - Gemma always counted - seemed to have devastated the victim but without sapping all her energy. Although the trunk lay almost immobile, the loins continued to convulse. The flogged body was on the brink of coming, the stupendous clit grinding away into the protrusion of the table, dribbling with juice. The man fingered the outsized stalk; it was throbbing in total erection and ready..
“I think that... will do for today, Gemma,” he grunted, as the maid hopefully began to roll the body over to present the breasts. “No, I’ll take her as she is. Hold her still.”
As the huge Cossack prick approached, the maid moved round to splay the girl’s labia, separating the hot flesh for the penetration. Her diligent fingers opened the girl’s vulva and, admiring with pleasure the thick, blue veins on her employer’s cock, guided the shaft into the congestion of bright sap. Mishka went in deep. Verena lurched as if struck by lightning. The cock slammed in for a long moment and then withdrew to thrust its way into the anus. After dozens of plunges, it was back in the vagina. The cock was sliding smoothly in and out, the man’s hands hooked round the girl’s pelvis, as he sank in up to the hilt, his belly slapping against the flogged butt. To Gemma’s amazement and despite the exhausting flagellation the girl had received, or maybe on account of it, Verena had reached the final slope before the Everest of her orgasm. Mishka was now holding the thighs braced over his own, lifting her belly off the table to fuck faster. Her fists white with her grip now on the table edges, the girl had locked her ankles behind the table legs as Gemma watched the wet, matted head of hair bobbing distraughtly, the chin jarring against the polished surface of the table with each thrust of the cock. Gemma hoped it hurt.
Suddenly a muffled yell filled the room as the orgasm shattered and destroyed the flogged loins. Mishka let her writhe and come freely several times and then sent her to float into outer space where fucked, whipped females disintegrate when they have no more to squander.
The Pleasure Palace Page 1
