Verena gritted her teeth. She would show them how a nude girl could endure the whip. She looked apprehensively at the half-dressed, middle-aged Italian dominatrix steadying her revolving nakedness. She had been bought and therefore had to be put to the test. And then Venice. And Ashley!
“I shall give you, Verena dearest, fifty lashes from neck to knees.” The Contessa’s soft accent in French scared her more than even Vasa’s commands in Cell III. “I want you to enjoy it. Sex will come later.”
The noble lady, having divested herself of most of her clothing (which revealed a pleasantly harmonious body but fairly desiccated breasts), was in no hurry to lay on her short plaited whip, fashioned from bulls’ penises, an old favourite among experienced floggers.
The woman studied the nude figure, turning Verena round with the handle of her fearsome scourge. She seemed to approve, particularly when the silver haft separated the girl’s rich labia, seeping with the conviction of a highly-sexed whipping slave.
“I see you are dripping, Verena. Well, that is admirable, my dear. As I say, you must enjoy everything we are going to do to you in future, just as Ashley enjoys her nights in chains.” she corrected herself, “You will be whipped regularly and severely, naked, by myself, by Franco and by our servants. Solely during your periods will you be excused.” She paused, caressing the straining breast flesh.
“You have magnificent breasts, which naturally you know.” The jewelled hand followed the generous curve of the rump. “And a sublime bottom made for the whip and cane. Now, you may utter cries here but never at home. I hope this is clear, particularly as I flog hard.”
Verena nodded as best she could. “Si, carissima Contessa Claro.”
And the lash fell.
She was flogged slowly but formidably hard, the woman ensuring the stiff lash curled round the body to punish every area of tender flesh. Claudia had never heard Verena grind her teeth the way she did during the initial twenty strokes from the Contessa’s tiny but vicious hand; but neither had Claudia ever heard shrieks such as those Verena uttered throughout the second half of the flagellation. It seemed the more demented the cry from the beaten, the greater the verve the beater dedicated to her swing and cut across the nude. Rapidly, the flesh turned to crimson, the welts rising relentlessly. The slave heaved and jerked grotesquely for a time and then subsided into the torpor Mikhail and Claudia knew so well. It was then that the Contessa paused. Gently she passed the length of her whip up the sex slit, parting the plump labia to reveal Verena’s famous clit; it stood out straight amid the sombre pubic forest of matted hair, pulsating in its full glory, the hood of dusky skin wreathed back round the base. The woman stared at the thing, prodding it with the doubled-back curve of the lash.
“Dio mio, Franco! Guarda! It’s enormous. You’ll be able to tie her by it, as you like to do. It beats darling Ashley’s! And, look, it throbs, demanding attention. Oh, Franco!”
And with that the Contessa curtailed her whipping, amazed at the size of the stump. Instead, she frictioned the pink protuberance with her whip. Verena responded as she always did in Paris, jolting and lurching, wrenching on her breast thongs. Her breath became deeper, the eyes closed.
“Oh, yes, yes... please! Punish it, hit it, screw it, please! Suck me, please, please!”
“How dare you say that!” The Contessa was appalled at the begging. “That’s Ashley’s business, cara, not mine.” She swung round to summon Ashley to the centre of the cellar.
She knelt gracefully before her suspended lover, spreading her own thighs wide as the Contessa liked them to be; with her thumbs she drew back the labia by the rings until the cunt was totally splayed in all its drenched, crimson breadth, with the clitoris throbbing in erect anticipation, surrounded by its ring. Ashley looked for a second at the oval gash that she had invaded, chafed, sucked and licked so often. No other genitals were as succulent and vivid, even when the vagina was rancid with male sperm after Verena had been raped in Cell III... Even that provoked Ashley into wild passion.
Delicately, Ashley took the proud prong of pulsing flesh into her lips. It felt like gristle that was soft after being left in liquid and deserved a tonguing, a smooth suction along its swart length until Verena was delirious.
“Ashley darling! Oh, my God, Ashley, Ashley... bite me hard. I’m pouring with love of you. Flick it like the other night... Yes, yes, yes, darling, that’s it. On the tip. Please ...Now your fingers into my arsehole. Yes, yes! Deeper. Ream it raw, darling... Make me bleed.”
The Contessa leaned against the wall of the dungeon, not so much fatigued but rather taken aback by the silky sound of the cunnilingus and the lovely face of her slave glittering with cum and saliva. The agile tongue worked hard and she watched with rapture. The two girls seemed made for each other. And for her. Indeed, she would have both in bed with her the moment they were back in Venice. Chained together.
Verena came like one of those rare storms over the Lagoon in Venice, heaving herself upwards by the breasts, thrusting into Ashley’s face and screaming her relief.
“Oh, God, Ashley, Ashley ...I’m dying. You’ve slaughtered me again. Can you drink up all my cum, darling? It’s all yours... I love you, love you. Don’t stop... I’m coming again!”
“That will do, girls, thank you,” the Contessa Marisa said gently to call a halt to one of the most delightful orgasms she had witnessed for weeks.
On the far side of the dungeon Marina spat. “The dirty whore!” With Marina it had been solely the cunt that had responded, not the voice. She felt strangely angry, outclassed.
Entirely satisfied both with her new acquisition’s reaction to her scourge and with the cunt’s response to her favourite slave’s administrations, the Contessa curled up her whip and returned elegantly but sweating to her seat. Her husband congratulated her effusively. This was money well spent. The slave was gifted, her nudity was stupendous.
It was Gerda who was sent by Vasa to release the flogged, orgiastic slave whom she lowered until the feet rested on the flagstones, the knees bending with difficulty in supporting the weight of the body. Unbinding the breasts, she let the purple masses drop heavily on to the thorax as the flesh gorged with blood, leaving white and violet ridges where the thongs had done their duty.
The pain induced by the breasts’ return to normal seemed worse than the recent strokes of the whip, for Verena cried out uncontrollably as the blood resumed its circulation. She screwed up her features as the surge continued, swinging the globes across her body as if to rid herself of their agony.
“It’s quite normal, 106,” Gerda comforted her, as she seized the shaking mounds and, as was the procedure at Beaucastel, began to massage them, offering a trace of solace to the trembling nude. Partially and progessively, the breasts resumed their usual form but remained massively marked where the thongs had bitten. Gerda was only too accustomed to the girl’s reaction; she had constricted, beaten, tortured with pincers and released scores and scores of pairs of breasts.
Gradually the areoles and teats lost their tumescence, settling back into the summit of each superb, lush hunk of flesh, the rings hanging more or less correctly.
“That’s what breasts are for, 106.” Gerda offered by way of consolation. “You have to become accustomed to it. For God’s sake, stop blubbering you baby, or I’ll have you over the trestle.”
Almost all slaves at Beaucastel were at some time subjected to the procedure but with infinite care; the discipline not exceeding thirty minutes.
Verena had hung for close on an hour but that was not Mikhail’s concern any more.
Though conscious he was losing her and her flexible, welcoming anus to others, he was proud of her behaviour.
Too bad to discard her but there were always other flesh slaves.
Lalaniere released, one by one, the manacles that held out Marina’s legs, allowing her to stand, h
owever precariously after the extension, on her own two feet, yet with her wrists still bound to opposing walls. The gesture of liberation was not one of clemency but a sign that her debt had been duly paid to Beaucastel.
The release sent arrows of pain through her limbs after two hours of extension; as the muscular tension subsided, Marina was allowed to teeter drunkenly on unsteady legs. While she swayed, uncertain of her fate, the needles remained in place. The abrupt sight of her scourged and skewered flesh sent a shudder of shock through her head but it was mingled with a curious thrill of sexual pleasure and of pride. What more could be inflicted on a sex slave such as she? Had she not attained the summit of her calling? Only a submissive with her personal and explicit commitment to slavery and her stamina could have braved such a night and found a perplexing gratification at the same time. Subconsciously she felt unaccountably beholden, even grateful, and sexually attracted to the Englishwoman who had worked on her body with such vehemence and obvious pleasure. So different from the crude approach of the bitch Claudia.
Looking at Verena, Marina felt a swelling need to do precisely the same to her. Take her to tears and then to screams. She wondered again if she herself could be two persons in one, a docile submissive and a dominatrix. Verena’s stretched body had attracted her in just that way. She had learnt much about the whip over the last months. Time would tell.
Yet, with a twinge of remorse Marina recalled Verena’s lusty, extended clitoris at the apex of the magical, soft cunt, the black triangle of luxuriant hair, damp with those incessant oozings from the rose-hued vagina, which now the arrogant Ashley would supervise... Marina switched her recollections off and programmed renewed venom. Somewhere within her, a distant voice encouraged her to hope some perverted dominant one day would slice into Verena’s udders and whip her senseless and... She squeezed her eyes up tight to kill the merciless image.
Chapter Sixteen
The guests shuffled and chatted among themselves as the Verena sequence came to an end. They were more than pleased with what the Master was always able to arrange to satisfy their lust which made their journeys well worthwhile. Many other institutions were far less attractive, employing worn-out whores or members’ capricious spouses or dull, gullible mistresses who restricted life to the sobriety of plastic or velvet whips. Beaucastel at least had the mettle to provide sumptuous flesh and torture chambers. Expensive maybe but good value.
There was again an exchanging of sex slaves during the intermission. Among the servicing females, Katia had to be replaced in view of her exhaustion - for which Vasa would give her on the morrow thirty lashes in the terrible Cell VII, a mere routine. She was dragged out and her replacement, Renee, entered, full of anguish.
The audience began to thin out. The hour was late and fatigue was taxing the hardiest among the onlookers. Some, however, among them Mikhail and the indefatigable Claudia, now deprived of her lover’s wilting cock, stayed on for the final act.
The procedure - slave branding - was short and crisp, far more expeditious than the long floggings dedicated to Marina and Verena. It lasted barely ten minutes but to Claudia’s mind was worth waiting for. One of her deepest yearnings lay in precisely that: to possess, like Juliette in Paris, a reliable sexual slave and to mark and scorch her as her own.
To the far end of the dungeon - the Master insisted that his guests should not be incommoded by fumes - the brazier was being stoked up by the squat Roscoff, masked and wearing a leather apron which, unfortunately for Claudia, concealed his thick cock and hirsute set of testicles the size of billiard balls, luggage that Claudia admired, mainly because they resembled Mikhail’s, one hanging lower than its neighbour, and which she prided herself she could roll around together in her mouth.
To the right of the dungeon, the victim hung, spread wide in total extension on the Beaucastel branding grid. The naked woman had her breasts passed through the rods of the grid, bound and sagging beyond. And they were weighted with steel Morgenstern spheres to add joy.
She was the precise type of experienced, middle-aged slave so popular among younger dominants and dominatrices. Despite her age and the punishments she must have endured, to judge by the state of her body, Claudia had to admire the wealth of the rump; bound tightly above over the waist and below round the thighs, the posture and presentation of the massive lumps of buttock meat made them perfect for what was to be done to them. Roscoff first checked and adjusted the direction of the video camera situated in the corner of the dungeon, for Beaucastel to retain complete records.. Lifting his apron, the man took hold of his massive cock - to Claudia’s delight - and slicked back the foreskin before separating the woman’s voluptuous volumes of arse flesh. The anus was bared, already partially open, surrounded by its dark brown, sepia ring, bearing testimony to long-standing, hallowed usage by male erections.
The overseer pressed his vast weapon on to the hole and then bored inwards, tightening his own buttocks, penetrating easily as the sphincter relaxed obediently. For a long moment he shafted the anus with slow, determined thrusts, working diligently and with precise force while the woman jerked, unable in her bondage to respond more freely. Not a sound came from her mouth but the muscles reflected the stimulus of the penetration.
The reaming lasted only a few minutes before the man withdrew, holding back his spunk. He pulled out with a wrench, extruding with his cock the inner anal lining of mucous membrane and circle of muscle, exuding liquids. The aperture, Claudia reflected, was like a mouth blowing out a candle; it remained agape, throbbing for a moment before the overseer released the surrounding meat and the buttocks closed, to clench together with twitching spasms.
To Claudia’s dismay, the apron fell back to cover the still rampant cock; she always relished the sight of an erect penis during Mikhail’s work on Verena’s behind. But, as compensation, she watched Roscoff extract the first of the two irons from the incandescent cage of coals. He tapped the rod against the torture grid by the side of the oiled body to shake off the ashes. With deliberation, he planted the sparking face of the iron’s head firmly into the upper slope of the left buttock. The epidemis sizzled with grey smoke. The female screamed once, grinding her nude carcass into the grating and then sagged. Whether she had fainted Claudia could not guess but when the second iron scarred the right side of the great butt, the naked figure did not react. The peculiar odour of scorched flesh was remote but gradually wafted down the dungeon. The initials, Claudia presumed, of an adored and adoring owner stared out hideously in black on the blanched flesh that glimmered with oil and sweat.
Roscoff then doused the charcoal brazier, removed his apron, to Claudia’s relief, and returned to the body. Again he split open the cheeks in order to bore into the anus once more. To take a branded slave was evidently for the man more exciting than to fuck a whipped female; his orgasm came promptly, after only a couple of dozen potent thrusts - a gratifying reward for efficient work. Amazingly, the pallid woman seem to revive with the distension and vigorous reaming of her rectum, for which she was rewarded with the generous ejaculation the eminent Beaucastel overseer had reserved for her and which he deposited in her bowels as if to endorse the branding, in line with Beaucastel procedures.
When the marked woman had been taken off the gridiron and revived with a bucket of water, Gabrielle, clad only in black stockings, came forward. Lethargically, she first attended to the scars on the drooping masses of rump flesh, smearing in ointments and then turned to Marina, drawing out the collection of needles from the numbed breasts and cunt and medicating the perforations and fissures. She returned the fine steel spikes to their antiseptic receptacles and subsequently, with an air of lassitude, cleaned up Verena, treating the lacerations and welts casually with dressings.
All three nudes were by now linked by their throat straps into a coffle to be led stumbling out of the dungeon towards their beds in the Slave Hall, towards well-earned respite; they would rest as best
they could, nursing their damage gingerly.
The night with all its daunting ordeals appeared to the slaves to be over. At last.
It was at a turning in the last stairwell leading up to the Slave Hall that Lalaniere halted the procession.
“I’ll take this slave over, Gaby, thank you.” The warder unhooked Marina, handing the throat chain to her senior without a word. One slut less to deal with.
Marina found herself being led to a region of the castle that was foreign to her. The corridors were hung with rich tapestries and at equal intervals candles burned in sconces giving off a strange aroma of verbena, or some aromatic herb Marina did not recognize. Under her bare, toughened soles the carpets yielded like silk, the incredible luxury of the place only serving to exacerbate the fear clawing at her throat.
They passed through a cloister into a large, well-furnished chamber.
While Lalaniere locked the door, the trembling slave glanced round the room; it was relatively Spartan but in excellent taste. The furnishings consisted of a large table, chairs and a pleasant four-poster bed to one side; to the other, however, festooned with chains, stood a stout oaken flogging stake, reaching to the groined vaulting above and obligingly facing the end of the bed. Behind on the wall hung a row of flesh scourges, neatly arrayed by order of their toughness. Marina at once concluded she was to be lashed to the blood again in an eminently private session to satisfy the overseer’s appetite, even before her welts had been given the chance to heal; accordingly she braced herself, her womb clenching, her nipples puckering with fright and yet the clitoris rigid.
The Pleasure Palace Page 18
