by Kim Knight
“Shall I summon Madame la Marquise to the courtyard for the departure, master?” the slender, leather-coated tart enquired, to which she received a look that Joanne, now standing with her bruised thighs flattened against the slab, felt was that of someone who would not have been averse to bending his concubine back over the stone, descending her breeches and either beating or fucking her. But clearly he was anxious to be gone. “Attend to your duties, wench,” the questioner was told. “There is no need of any adieux. But see to it we have provisions and wine from the kitchens. Our first night’s stop will be at the hostelry outside St. Flour.” All of a sudden, he added, “In the coach, I want the slave to sit with her thighs
well parted, so that I may look upon her ringed crotch and sagging labia which please me greatly...”
The kept paramour gave a jaundiced look but also sauntered off, flaunting her buttocks - as though showing Joanne how a Marquis’s mistress could also seduce her owner - leaving the man for the first time alone with the unclad object of his journey. Thereupon he addressed the slave directly.
“I am indeed pleased, Joanne, to meet up with you again,” he murmured, motioning her forward to stand before him and refusing to let her go to her knees in deference. “We’ll have that fine body of yours shipshape soon enough, once you are out of here. But, mark my words - from now on, you will be under the orders of my mistress, Marie-Félice, whenever I am absent at court. You will defer to her without question, just as you do to me. It matters not whether you’re whipped by her or by me, I now being the sole proprietor of your person and body. You will obey instantly, though you will be relatively free within my lodgings, despite my keeping you stark naked and chained. But when I invite certain visitors of an evening to sup and amuse themselves at cards, you will serve them submissively, as is your way. Knowing you well, that will not displease you, nor will my bedposts and certain other features chez moi that Marie-Félice is well acquainted with and will show you on arrival. And,” he added, after a pause, his eyes on Joanne’s capacious, welted breasts, “our floggings will be frequent and pleasing.” The slave smiled, bowed low and murmured softly her usual “Thank you, Master”.
A moment later, the three figures met up with the coachman in the courtyard just as the sun was rising, and took their places in the sumptuous phaeton. Partially draped in the ragged cloak and desperately trying to disregard the pain besetting her welted bottom and thighs, Joanne was seated next to Marie-Félice who was ordered to remove the slave’s neck flange and attend to some of the more sombre abrasions the lashings had left on the breasts and lower regions. As the horses moved off with a jolt, the coach wheels rumbling over the lowered drawbridge Joanne had so imprudently traversed only some days before, she looked back at the forbidding château. Quite distinctly, she caught sight of Elodie and the anathema of a niece peering down from a lancet in the northern tower at what was taking place before their eyes: the further ‘desertion’ of a prisoner with whom they had, alackaday, far from finished...
Of Bouchard and Melanie there was no sign. Perhaps wisely they would have sought sanctuary, Joanne supposed, in the major-domo’s inviolable, private quarters, preferring a soft bed to confronting the Marquise too soon under the prevailing circumstances. What would now befall the other inmates down in the cellars, by way of revenge, the departing slave did not wish to imagine. She could almost hear the crack of whips and the cries...
The long but delightful journey north in a coach that, emblazoned with the royal arms, passed without hindrance each octroi on the route, was pure rapture for the one cuddled up next to the salacious, if wary, Marie-Félice. The favourite seemed pleased at having a sister paramour to share her days - and particularly nights - and with whom she could gossip in the patois common to them both. However, their owner told them to use correct French, being interested to learn what had become of the attractive wench since that most unfortunate month of June. Joanne was careful to recount only some of the facts and, with Marie-Félice all ears, not her real reason for her ‘romantic’ return to the château. It would have surprised the Marquis.
Little of note took place at the various overnight sojourns at inns and noble residences en route, apart from slurpings and yowls occasioned by the girls who were allowed to share a bed, while their wearied Marquis slept apart. Yet, the nightly indulgences in what he took to be seemingly endless bouts of cunnilingus amused their owner. But once Marie-Félice was asleep, Joanne meditated on what awaited her in Paris, once lodged in the Versailles apartments of the one to whom she presumed she now exclusively belonged. She also wondered if, once deprived of her travelling cloak and obliged to live naked, she would be allowed to keep her six remaining flesh rings and the stud in her tongue in place. For in a way, she would regret losing them.
Unless a further screed in Joanne’s scrawl comes to light, it is not possible to recount the subsequent months of her existence, slogging away as a nobleman’s second ‘sufferer-in-residence’, amid Marie-Félice’s sudden fits of jealousy and pique. Nor can one speculate on the treatment meted out to the ‘parpaillote’ by the Marquis and his associates, ably assisted by the suddenly ‘promoted’ mistress, whose biceps, Joanne found, had lost none of their strength.
One rumour, however, has come down to us, from which it appears that the newcomer was to become the thin edge of the wedge that eventually dislodged Marie-Félice from her privileged status in the Marquis’s entourage. What consequences this had can only be surmised.
In any event, Paris proved to be no Garden of Eden. As the preacher in her earlier days in Geneva was wont to say, ‘no one can enjoy eternal peace and pleasure in this evil world’. That was an utterance a beautiful, sexually-gifted country lass, wearing nipple and genital rings and nothing else, found to be true enough.
Much of the above was taken from a tattered MS marked ‘Versailles, the 16th of November, 1702’. Caroline has also written;
Eliska
Beaucastel
Castle of Torment
The Sufferers
Silvana’s Quest
Puritan Punishment
Parisian Punishment
Slave
By
Sean O’Kane
Sean’s erotic fiction typically features strong plots and strong characters. Here he offers the reader an atmospheric piece and a very alluring heroine.
“What’s her name?” James asks.
“She doesn’t need one,” Mcloud replies. “I usually keep her close enough that clicking my fingers is adequate.” The older man takes a deep draw on his cigar.
“Make more drinks, you useless slut,” he says, settling back on his sunlounger and holding up his now drained glass of Pimms.
James watches the nameless slave as she curtsies to her master, takes the glass from her master and then approaches him. He holds up his own glass. She takes it and for a moment their fingers touch. Her bones feel slight and delicate, her skin smooth and soft. Suddenly he has doubts.
“Last week, at the club, you said she could take anything a master could throw at her.............” He lets his doubts hang in the summer air as he watches her walk back into the house. Her back is slender and graceful - he has to admit that the shoulders look quite adequate for withstanding the whip, but her waist is so trim he feels his hands could encircle it. Her hips and buttocks are sensational, almost out of proportion in their luxuriance, at every step in her high heeled sandals the buttocks tremble temptingly beneath the thin fabric of her teal shift dress.
“I did. And I meant it. If you’re a seriously interested buyer then you’re welcome to try her out here and now. Anything you like. Clamps, needles, any type of whip, wax, humiliation, objectification, fuck, buggery and fellation. All yours my boy........if you’ve got the money.”
“I’ve got it,” James assures the older man. The blonde slave is returning, holding the two repl
enished glasses. James notes her legs; long and well-shaped - not catwalk perfect but possessing the two most important elements of all - they are here and they are available.
He notices that she has a charming dusting of freckles on her cheeks beneath her grey-green eyes.
“Why are you selling her?” he asks.
“As I said old boy; even the best slavemeat gets boring after a while. Now, if you’re serious, it’s time we got down to work.”
The blonde has placed the glasses on the table between the two men and now stands a few feet back, eyes demurely downcast, hands clasped in front of her at her groin. James notices her chest heaving as she breathes nervously. The dress is not daring but it does hint at broad, full swells of breast. As he watches he smiles. Her nipples have suddenly started to peak, she must know that she will be required for service shortly and is responding quite correctly.
“You are to do exactly what this gentleman tells you until I tell you differently, do you understand you worthless lump of whipping trash?”
James notices the slave’s nipples swell into even harder prominence as she registers the invective from her master.
“Yes, Master.” Her voice is gentle and cultured.
“Kneel before your master and worship him with your tongue until I tell you to take him into your mouth,” James orders.
“Nice one,” Mcloud acknowledges and unzips his flies to pull out his semi-tumescent cock. “That’s pretty well the only thing the daft bitch is crap at, so I always do it for her,” he says, settling back again as the blonde kneels beside him and leans forward.
Her pink tongue darts out, almost cat like and flicks at the shaft which twitches and throbs in response. Again she leans in, steadying herself on the edge of the lounger. Now she takes long slow licks and Mcloud’s cock straightens, throbs, fills, until it stands proudly rigid, dwarfing the girl’s face. Now she cups his scrotum through the material of his trousers and continues her long sensual licks, her tongue roving across the shiny dome of the helm, lingering at the slit that divides it.
“Now suck him and finish him,” James orders and watches closely as the girl leans farther in, her pretty lips stretched wide, slowly she manages to encompass the impressive bulk of her master’s penis and goes to work. Her hand clenches around the shaft and begins to slowly pump it. Her head sinks down, and then down again. James knows he can rival Mcloud for size of cock and is impressed with the smoothness of the blonde’s technique. After he has whipped her and played with her, he will see what her mouth feels like. Mcloud reaches down and holds his slave’s head tightly against him then bucks his hips urgently. Her rhythm doesn’t alter at all. Calmly she continues to milk him with her hand while her throat works steadily at containing the thick fluid being jetted hard into her small mouth.
James clicks his fingers and stands, hurriedly the slave cleans her master’s helm and stands up too, still swallowing, her tongue flicks at her lips tasting the final traces of sperm. He picks up her collar and lead from the table and holds them out. She takes them and buckles the collar on tightly, shakes her hair out and then resumes her submissive pose.
“She’s a well trained bitch, James,” Mcloud’s voice is distant and content after his orgasm. “Use the summer house for a whipping if you like, she’s fairly quiet. I’d use the playroom indoors if you want to pierce her and clamp her though. She can get noisy if the session goes on for long enough.”
James picks up the riding crop lying on the table and uses the keeper to toy with her nipples now pressing urgently against her dress.
“Strip,” he says.
There is just the dress and once she has stepped clear of it, puddled on the ancient flagstones of the terrace, she is wearing only a thong and her high heels. Her body is every bit as good as James had imagined and Mcloud’s asking price seems now quite reasonable. She has obviously tanned topless and her breasts are the same dusky gold as the rest of her, the straining nipples a pleasing dark red on tawny, smooth areola.
“Cup them,” he tells her. Her small hands immediately rise to support the neat breasts, he notes that she keeps her fingers well under the curve of flesh, making no move to hide or shield the nipples, just offer them up. Well trained indeed.
He steps back and lands two crisp strikes with the keeper across the nipples. Two charming intakes of breath follow on the slave’s part but she still makes no move to shield herself. James taps his thigh with the crop and she drops to all fours, crawling to come alongside where the shaft is tapping his leg.
In the hot summer afternoon James strolls across the grass, towards the cedar trees, loosely he holds the loop of the leash and the crop in one hand. Sometimes he stops and looks down. The slave is magnificent from this angle, the wide hindquarters swelling dramatically from the slender waist, the buttock cleft, emphasised by the thong, beckoning to the crop to introduce itself to the seat of her femininity and her slavery. James jerks on her lead to stop her, then bends down behind her and wrenches the flimsy thing from out of her crease, tearing the waist straps and ripping it off.
Sarah holds herself steady, entirely comfortable with the knowledge that a master has the right to inspect, beat or fuck his slave’s cunt at any time. The grass is cool under her knees and palms, the cedars make shifting veil-like patterns on it as they sway in the light breeze. Somewhere down in the village, hidden by a wooded hill, a motorbike snarls but cannot disturb the peace. She can almost feel this new master’s breath on her hot, tingling vulva, she likes the look of him and is quite content to move on from her current master. She knows that every master is an adventure and she is keen to experience another man’s mastery. In this new master - she hopes that is what he will be - she has detected an intriguing mixture of cruelty and sensuality. Very different to her present master’s unsubtle and overbearing approach.
Suddenly she feels fingers stroking her labia and effortlessly slipping between their moist softness, she bites her tongue against the urge to mew with pleasure as she feels her inner tissues stroked and rubbed then tested by fingers being clenched. Similarly she fights against the urge to wag her bottom, she knows her cunt well enough to know that it will be doing all the talking that’s needed and the new master’s hand will exit her body with plenty of evidence of her submission to his examination. Suddenly the fingers are gone and she feels the warm wetness of them wiped on her left buttock, immediately the breeze begins to chill it on her skin.
“You’re a fine looking creature, whatever your name is,” Sarah hears him say from above and hides a smile beneath her thickly cascading blonde hair. He will find her name out soon enough - her master is just having his little joke. He bends down and grasps her right breast. It is the grip of a real master - not a lover - his hand weighs her tit, moves it, squeezes it. Between the fingers the nipple engorges even further and she cannot restrain a gasp of delicious pain as the rubbery tube is cruelly compressed. She knows from experience that her nipples are good ones for a slave - her previous master stretched them, then her present one took advantage of their length to introduce her to the delights of needle play. What will this one do if he buys her?
He clicks his fingers and smacks her bottom with the crop. They resume their progress towards the summerhouse and the whips and restraints it contains.
“The perfect position for breast whipping is when the slave’s body cannot mitigate the lashes’ effectiveness by any backward movement,” he tells her once her back is up against the chill stone and her wrists and ankles are securely shackled to the steel rings set in them. She glances down and proudly notes that, although the air is warm, her nipples have hardened even further at the prospect of the whip. While he has been rummaging through the contents of the punishment box, an old oaken chest standing in the far corner, she has luxuriated in the tight bondage of the restraints and the movement of the air against her nakedness. She especially revels in the way the
air caresses her between her wide spread legs, the exhibitionist in her writhes in delight as she glances out of the open French windows, across the lawn and towards the old wall that runs along the foot of the hill that hides her master’s house so perfectly, and which allows her to be enjoyed nakedly and openly.
The new master approaches her with a heavy flogger. Her blood pounds as she studies the familiar, flat bladed lashes. It has always made her tits dance and swing with the clubbing weight of its blows, sending spears of excitement coursing through her. But best of all has been the look of wild delight on the master’s face as he savours the sight of the havoc it caused on his slave’s helpless body.
After twenty lashes, Sarah knows she wants this man to buy her. Her chest is burning, her breasts are hot and stinging - her nipples straining ever harder towards the next lash and the next. But then he stops and plunges his hand straight up into her. His thrust is arrogantly sure of itself, there is no conception of any possibility she might not be ready for him. He simply slams his hand straight into the hot wetness of her vulva. His fingers clench and she arches her back, thrusting her pelvis forward to meet the thumb that now grinds her clitoris and sends her headlong into orgasm.
“Your master’s right.” From a distance Sarah hears the new master’s voice as she surfaces from the depths of masochistic heaven. “You don’t need a name, you’re just a body for anyone to use. Slut, whoreslave, bitch on heat, whipping meat.”
She groans her pleasure at hearing the insults from a master.
