The Daughters of de Sade

by Falconer Bridges

  The meal finished, The Headmistress ordered Julian to clear the table. He trotted back and forth to the kitchen taking away the used plates and cutlery and on returning to the dining room for further instructions, he stopped dead, staggered by what he saw. Bang! There it came again. A straining, thrusting hard-on that threatened to tear his foreskin away from the shaft of his cock. With her legs pulled up so that her stiletto heels dug into the cushioned seat, The Headmistress was sitting on the settee, knees wide apart and the hem of her dress around her waist. He could see everything. Forget the pictures. This was real life. It was all there, before his eyes. A real, juicy, available cunt, dripping with the sex juices he had dreamt of and waiting for his cock. The magazines were great. Wonderful, if you had never experienced the real thing. And he never had. But now...!

  "You did well Julian. The meal was excellent by the way. You must be hungry yourself?"

  He was. But not only for food.

  "Would you like something to eat?"

  He nodded.

  Her middle finger pointed downwards.

  "Would this be satisfactory?"

  Shit! For fuck's sake, was she joking? Just give him the chance and he would chew on that succulent piece of pussy until he was bloated. His answer was choked, almost indecipherable.

  "Oh Christ... Yes... Please let me."

  "You know that you've been a really bad boy, don't you?"

  "Y... Yes," he stammered.

  "So why do you think I should let you eat my twat?"

  He did not really have an answer. And she had not really expected one. She was going to let him do it, no matter what. It was time for her to have some fun.

  She beckoned him forwards and he started to cross the room.

  "No. On your hands and knees. I said every dog deserves its day, and I meant it. Crawl."

  He dropped to the floor and edged forward, his knees scraping against the weave of the carpet. With her legs spread wide, his head edged between her thighs until his nose bumped against her labia. Moist, musky, slightly parted and ready for anything, they greeted his novice's tongue with the avarice of a rampant nymphomaniac. She grabbed both his ears and pulled his head full on to her vagina.

  "Suck you little bastard. Suck!"

  He did. Licking, slurping, tonguing, biting and losing himself in a frenzy of discovery. Now he knew what a twat really tasted like. And smelt like. The next time he wanked over a posturing tart in a magazine he would be able to recollect the taste and aroma to aid him in his quest for orgasm. He really felt that he was a depraved little beast. And he did The Headmistress proud. He bit, nuzzled, licked and sucked on her clitoris until in a veritable frenzy she clamped her thighs around his head and dissolved into a shuddering climax. Again and again she thrust her vagina into his face as the spasms hit home. Her actions did not have a negative effect on him. As she thrashed around in uncontrollable ecstasy, he once again ejaculated over the settee. He was a dirty little fucker, as she was to tell him when her passions died down. And just like the first time when she had said fuck, or fucker, his only slightly softened cock jerked into full solidity. Educated, sophisticated women just did not say words like that. He had made her come. He marvelled over that. But he still had not fucked her.

  And he did not know yet that he never would.

  Julian was still on his hands and knees, his head between The Headmistress' legs.

  "You've been a bad little doggie, haven't you?"

  "Yes Mistre..."

  She halted him.

  "No. Answer like the messy little pup that you are."

  She asked the question again and this time his response was satisfactory.

  "Woof, woof."

  "That's a good doggie. Did you like the taste of Mistress' twat?"

  "Woof, woof."

  "And do you want to fuck it?"

  "Woof woof woof."

  "Well you can't."

  And with that, she pushed him over, pulled down her dress and got up from the settee. Julian had rolled on to his back, his legs wide and his cock sticking up into the air.

  "You really are just like a dog, aren't you?"

  She was right. He was.

  "And when a dog's been bad and made a mess, what do we do?"

  She did not wait for an answer but grabbed a bunch of his hair, twisted his head and pushed his face into the sticky sperm he had sprayed on to the settee.

  "We rub his nose in it, don't we?"

  This time she wanted an answer, but did not get one. She kicked him. Hard.

  "Woof."

  "That's better."

  And then she kicked him again for good measure.

  "There's only one way to treat a bad dog... punish it. Beat it until it does as it's told. Thrash it until it howls. And you have been a very bad dog."

  But before she did that, she decided that he might as well look a little more like a dog. What looked like an old travelling chest lay against one wall of the room. It was fairly elaborately overlaid with riveted iron bands and the lid was very heavy judging by the effort that it took her to lever it open. Delving into the chest she pulled out what he later learned was usually referred to as a 'butt plug'. It was a more or less penis shaped piece of rubber with tassels attached to one end. Sliding her hand between the firmness of his buttocks, she located the pucker of his anus and pushed a finger straight in.

  "Christ, what was that?"

  She kicked him again. Hard. On the rump.

  "Speak only when spoken to. And don't forget, you're a dog now, so bark. But for your information it was my finger."

  Only her finger! But for him, it felt as if she had rammed a drainpipe up his arse. So when she lodged the plug at the entrance to his sphincters and gave an almighty push, propelling the rubber shaft deep into his anus, his scream was ear splitting. The result for The Headmistress was very satisfactory, however, he looked more like a canine now he had a tail. But although he was naked from the waist down, he was still wearing his shirt. It was an open necked, cotton casual garment and slipping all her fingers down the back of his collar she gave an almighty tug and ripped it from his back. That was more like it.

  "Stay."

  The order was firm and sharp. Exactly as would be given to a dog. Julian did as he was told, watching as she went into the bedroom, only to return seconds later with a pair of French knickers in her hand. She made a great show of putting them on, sliding them sensuously up and over her thighs and hips and running her fingers beneath the loose gusset to fondle her sex for a few languorous moments. But she had not only returned with the knickers, she also had a spiked leather dog collar, a plaited leather lead. And a tawse. She fastened the collar around Julian's neck, clipped the lead into the steel ring attached to it and tugged him towards the door. But not before shrugging herself into the protection of an all-enveloping cream Burberry that completely hid the explosive body beneath it.

  "Walkies."

  That was all she said.

  Julian was horrified. She could not be seriously intending to walk him naked and striped on a lead through the corridors of the college.

  "You must be fucking crazy."

  Before the words had left his mouth, he realised that he had made a big mistake. A very big mistake. Exactly the mistake that she had wanted him to make. The lead tugged his head upwards and the tawse slashed down over his back. Long red fingers of pain splayed out over his flesh as the leather thongs struck home, laying one stripe over another as more and more endless slashes rained down. She was merciless.

  He howled.

  She hit him harder.

  He begged.

  She was deaf to his pleas.

  He cried and she called him a wimp, a shit, a waste of her time.

  From his shoulders, over his rump and down
the backs of his legs the blows bit into his meat. When she finally called a halt to her frenzied thrashing he was crying piteously and glowing like a beacon.

  He also had another erection.

  It was unbelievable. His reaction to pain was instantaneous and eager. He was an enigma. A one-off. And as such, so very pliable in the hands of a woman such as The Headmistress.

  "I told you what we do to bad doggies, didn't I?"

  He could not answer. He could not even think.

  "No walkies now. Bad doggies have to stay locked up."

  He did not give a toss. The flesh over all his body pulsed with pain. And still his cock stood rigidly to attention.

  "But I'm sure you didn't mean to be bad. Should Mistress give her little puppy a reward to help him be good next time?"

  His head moved up and down like a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of a car.

  The Headmistress knelt down beside him, her chin laid on his shoulder and slipping a hand under his hips began to wank him exactly as if she was milking a cow. It did not take long. His pain dismissed itself as he lost himself in his very first real sexual experience. The sperm boiled in his balls and his urethra swelled against her fingers as it raced to freedom, spurting all over her hand.

  "Clarke, you always take advantage of a situation. Did I say you could do that?"

  Of course she had not. But for fuck's sake, what could he have done about it? He would have to be punished. She was firm on that point. And if it ended up with another wank, or if Heaven allowed, a fuck, he would willingly undergo the whole ordeal again. But that was not what she had in mind. And he never got another wank. Or a fuck. However he did get another thrashing. And she did show him the same kindness that a loving owner shows to her pet. Going into the kitchen she had brought him a dish of water and a bowl of crushed dog biscuits. The water he craved, the biscuits he could have done without. But now he knew better than to antagonise his Mistress and so he lapped up the water and chomped on the hard biscuits.

  "Good boy. You are a good boy, aren't you?"

  He did not feel like a good boy. He felt like he had been mauled by a lion, but he kept his lip well buttoned. And he still had to atone for coming all over her hand. She had made him lick his sperm from her fingers but that was not enough. Not nearly enough. She picked up the lead and tugged him into the bedroom. His senses reeled. It was luxurious. The boudoir of a Mata Hari. There was a wonderful carved wood four-poster bed, heavy draped curtains and every wall was lined with mirrors. She parked him, facing one of the mirrors.

  "Sit up and beg."

  He fell back upon his haunches, his hands dangling in front of him. A perfect imitation of the real thing. Standing behind him, her crotch several inches higher than his head, she lifted the hem of her dress. Reflected in the mirror he saw her slip a hand beneath the waistband of her French knickers, her knuckles pushing out the silk as it slid down towards her sex. A dog's cock when it gets a hard-on is a long, thin rod of pink flesh. That is where Julian differed from his canine counterpart. His cock erupted into a thick, white shaft of throbbing gristle. In seconds pre-ejaculate fluid was leaking from his meatus. His reserves of spunk were phenomenal.

  Using both hands, The Headmistress sensuously pushed the knickers down over her thighs, allowed them to drop around her ankles and stepped out of them. Then, slipping one of the thin straps of the dress down over her shoulder, she exposed a heavy, voluptuous breast. It was magnificent. A tit that would have done Venus proud. And her nipple. Hard. Like a bullet. A hand roamed over her mammary and her fingers tugged and tweaked at the erect nut-brown thimble. At the same time the fingers of her other hand that were now buried in her sex, opened up her love tunnel and massaged her unhooded clitoris. Julian could see all of this and it was driving him insane. His hand clamped around his cock and he began to masturbate. And in the same way that he could see her in the mirror, she could see him. Although she was now well on the way to orgasm, she smiled. He was so predictable. Closer in his behaviour to Pavlov's dog than any normal canine, he reacted to her every action like a trained laboratory specimen.

  "Don't be filthy. Stop that."

  The wanking ceased. But his hand still clasped his penis.

  "Let go of it. This instant."

  He did, and his solid pulsing erection reflected itself back at him from the surface of the mirror. He was not allowed to wank, but she was. And she did it in an exaggeratedly lascivious fashion, moaning, whimpering and theatrically over-emphasising her rising passion. A lot of it was for Julian's benefit. But not all. She really was arousing herself and the fake sighs became true moans of ecstasy as her orgasm neared. Her fingers became a flurry of movement and Julian's hand grabbed his cock once again. He did not care what the retribution might be, and she did not stop him as he wanked frenziedly, keeping pace with her own frantic manipulations of her sex. She collapsed in a shuddering orgasm that saw her knees buckling and her body trembling as her climax hit home. It was awesome. At least Julian thought it was. His own jerking, spurting orgasm followed immediately, the glass of the mirror dripping with sperm.

  The Headmistress did not forget herself and though still gasping for breath, she admonished him.

  "You dirty filthy beast. Did I give you permission to shoot spunk all over my lovely clean mirror?"

  Julian was still wringing the last drops of that spunk from his cock.

  "No, I did not."

  The pointed toes of her stilettos sliced into his back as she delivered a flurry of fierce kicks.

  "Now the little doggie won't get his treat."

  Through the pain Julian wondered what it might have been.

  "Watch."

  He found out very quickly. She picked up the knickers, pushed them deep into her soaking vagina, and then held them out at arm's length.

  "I was going to let you suck the gusset. It's lovely. It's soaking with all the juice from my vagina. And you've blown it."

  Lowering the knickers, she dangled them close to his nose.

  "Here, have a good sniff and see what you've thrown away."

  Julian did. And then as they were whisked away and thrown into a corner, he cried.

  He cried again shortly afterwards. He was not going to get away with his disgraceful behaviour she told him. He was going to pay. And in full. He had been guilty of deliberate, gross misconduct and he had to atone for it. Julian burst into an instantaneous sweat. Perspiration flooded down from his armpits to his ankles, droplets ran from his scalp and trickled over his face. What did she have in store for him? He could not think of anything worse than what he had already suffered. But by now he knew full well that she could.

  On the wall of the bedroom was a rack, holding whips, canes and other items of torture. The Headmistress stood in front of it, contemplating. What should she use? A cane? A paddle? A quirt? She chose the riding whip - the quirt. With a short handle and two short braided strands of leather it was ideal. Fire slashed across Julian's flesh as the tongues bit into him. She was demonic, slashing him over every inch of his body. Pushing her foot into the back of his neck, she flattened him to the floor and beat him from head to heel. He writhed and whimpered under her foot while she laced his flesh pitilessly with thin lines of bright red agony. He was pulp when she finally stopped. But she was exultant. She had taught him a real lesson and she was replete, tired and in need of another drink.

  And he had another hard-on!

  Julian was absolutely unbelievable. The Headmistress thought that she had beaten the lust out of him. But she was obviously mistaken. How he did it she had no idea, she never would have believed it possible for a man, or in his case a boy to maintain so many continual erections. All right, she would have to think again.

  Although Julian had cleared the dining table after her meal, he had not washed the pots. And so a short while later, The Headmistress st
ood in the kitchen with a glass of wine in one hand and a long handled feather duster in the other. Nothing of an instrument of correction in itself, but it had its uses. Julian was still naked and as he bent over the sink, pulling soapy plates from the sink and stacking them in a rack, she pushed the feathers between his legs and titillated his balls. It was driving him crazy. The light tickling touch of the feathers swept up and down the insides of his thighs and then wrapped themselves around his bell-end. That was it. It did not hurt of course, it was a weird tickling sensation and in reaction he dropped the plate he was washing. Just what she had been angling for and it smashed into pieces at his feet.

  "Are you trying to destroy all my possessions, you oaf?"

  "No Mistress. It wasn't my fault. It was you."

  "What did you say?"

  "It was you... The feathers..."

  He got no further. Dropping the duster, she grabbed an ear lobe and twisting it viciously steered him from the room.

  "It wasn't me miss. I didn't do it miss."

  The sarcasm in her voice was biting.

  "I've heard it all before, you buffoon. A naughty boy does something wrong and then tries to blame someone else. For a young man of your age, it's pathetic."

  She tugged him into the middle of the dining room.

  "Bend over and touch your toes."

  He was slow to comply and a ringing slap reddened his cheek.

  "Don't dawdle. When I tell you to do something, do it immediately not half an hour later."