Mistress Domina suppressed a smile. ‘I shall cane you for your sluttishness. When I have reddened your bottoms to a pleasing hue, I expect you to demonstrate to us exactly what you were doing in the stables.’
Mistress Domina turned to the hushed and expectant audience. ‘We shall initiate these supplicants into the mystic rituals of flagellation, transporting them through a threshold of pain to the ecstasy of sensual euphoria. You have witnessed their humble request for punishment. My cane will produce a painfully focused and memorable impact upon both their minds and bodies. Afterwards we shall enjoy their tableau vivant showing us what they were doing when they were interrupted. This time however, I promise no coitus interruptus.’
‘Have them disrobe each other!’ a voice called out imperiously. ‘Let’s see some lusty lewdness!’
Emboldened by the sexually charged atmosphere, Alysha smiled wickedly. She began a slow striptease, divesting herself of blouse, skirt and knickers to reveal the gentle curves of her bottom cheeks and petite patch of silky black hair that stopped above smooth, inviting cunt lips.
Turning to Guinevere, she undid her blouse and slipped it off her to reveal the ripe fullness of her voluptuous, firmly rounded breasts adorned with prominent red nipples that stood out from pink powder-puff areolas. Entering into the spirit, Guinevere placed her hands on her head, raising her breasts in pendulous profile and wiggled provocatively as Alysha tweaked her tits to arousal. There was an envious sigh from the onlookers.
Unbuttoning Guinevere’s skirt, she discarded it and slid her hands inside Guinevere’s tight satin knickers, seeking the heat of her hidden cunt. Guinevere bucked against her hand as a fingernail stroked the slippery moistness of her conch, probing fleetingly for the sweet bud that throbbed therein.
Alysha knelt and sensuously eased down Guinevere’s knickers. Her lips brushed lightly against her downy fleece. It swelled richly thick over the curve of her mound; a dense forest of copper curls. Her tongue flicked a second at Guinevere’s altar of love in silent adoration before she rose and clasped her tightly to her bosom.
‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I shall hold you tightly while Mistress canes us. We shall share the pain and the ecstasy together.’
Mistress Domina admired the raw beauty posed for punishment before her in sensual embrace. What magnificent creatures, she thought as she studied them. She admired the lithe Eurasian eroticism of Alysha’s body. Her sweet pert bottom cheeks would be a joy to spank over her knee, she mused. She took in the long sweep of Guinevere’s back that ended in the voluptuously rounded dimpled spheres she was about to cane.
She wondered irreverently what Guinevere could do with a dildo strapped to such strong hips. She promised herself to discover the answer at a later date as she ran her hand lingeringly down her victim’s body and then over her bottom. Guinevere flexed her hips and rump to the touch, enjoying the feel of Mistress’s finger caressing her cheeks and the erogenous delights of her hidden button.
It was time to sting those buttocks. ‘Hold her tight to your bosom, Alysha. This is intended to hurt.’
Mistress Domina whisked her cane, feeling its whippy springiness and enjoying the whirring sound of rattan cutting through air. Raising the cane over her head, she poised with the rod parallel to the ground as if parrying a sabre thrust to the head.
Crack!
She whipped the rattan down in a circular motion that cracked like a pistol shot to leave a fiery red streak across the tender underside curve of Guinevere’s rounded spheres.
A burning fire shot through Guinevere’s body. She bucked in involuntary reaction to the excruciating pain, grinding her cunt into Alysha’s belly. Her scream was stifled by Alysha’s kiss.
Mistress Domina struck twice more, placing each cut a cane’s width higher than the previous one. Alysha felt each impact pass like a bolt of lightning through Guinevere into her own belly.
Guinevere’s bottom was on fire from the three cuts across the tender lower curve of her cheeks. She writhed with pain, her pubis grinding roughly against Alysha’s pussy as the agony flowed from her bottom to her belly and transmitted itself to Alysha.
Now Mistress Domina drew the cane back parallel to the three crimson stripes seared across the lower curves of Guinevere’s ravaged cheeks. A wrist flick brought the cane sharply back and forward to strike in a whipping flash that bent the rod in its speed of delivery. A brilliant scarlet weal appeared across the centre of Guinevere’s bottom. In strictly measured time, she cracked two more flicking parallel strokes, delivered with devastating speed and accuracy. Guinevere’s breast heaved at the stinging pain, her breath coming in hoarse gasps. Perspiration poured down her face onto her glistening breasts, running in a rivulet between the twin mounds.
Her ordeal was over.
The onlookers sat in entranced silence. For one couple the unfolding scene had been too much. Their skirts were hitched up to their waists and glistening fingers rubbed furiously at each other’s clits.
Mistress Domina moved round to cane Alysha’s tender cheeks. After a lingering caress of her target, she unleashed a similar six cutting strokes upon her rounded curves.
Alysha screamed as the first cut bit. It was Guinevere’s turn to smother her sweetheart’s cries with forceful kisses, her lips stifling her cries as the blows landed in their ordained stinging pattern of six across the quivering softness of her globes.
Mistress Domina finally lowered her cane to inspect her artistry. She caressed the heat of the raised welts with her hand. It was precision caning that left a set of six parallel stripes across each quivering bottom. The livid red welts would soon shade to a pleasing deep purple.
The girls stood immobile; an erotic Canova sculpture marbled in pain.
Mistress Domina clasped the two girls to her bosom and kissed their tearful faces.
‘Now fuck!’ she commanded. ‘The pain will heighten the ecstasy of your orgasm. Finish what that Bullen bitch interrupted!’
Alysha smiled and bent to kiss Guinevere’s perspiring breasts, coaxing their red nipples into excited erection. Her hand descended to caress Guinevere’s taut tummy muscles, stole lasciviously lower to the copper curls of her fleece, fingered open her puffy love lips to find it moistly ready. Guinevere gasped and thrust her pussy to meet the questing finger. The audience heard the unmistakable squelching sound of a cunt being lasciviously frigged before their eyes.
‘Fuck me, darling! Fuck me!’ Guinevere’s voice was husky with pent-up lust. She squirmed to the intrusive finger swirling inside her cunt, massaging her throbbing clit ever closer to its urgent orgasmic release.
‘I love you! I love you! I’m coming! I’m coming!’
Guinevere’s knees buckled as her flooding climax took hold. She collapsed to the floor, clasping her lover’s legs for support.
Alysha thrust her silky black muff into Guinevere’s perspiring face. ‘Suck me, goddess! Suck me! Finish what that Bullen bitch interrupted.’
She clutched Guinevere’s head, pressing lips to her hungry cunt, rhythmically thrusting to the darting, loving, questing tongue slurping at her ruby pearl. A glow began to build, flamed suddenly, and exploded in her belly as Guinevere’s burrowing tongue flicked at her jewel to bring her finally to shuddering climax. She pumped her cunt, thrusting, grinding her love lips on Guinevere’s heated face. Flexing and writhing in ecstatic pain-induced delirium, her taut muscles quivered to the surging waves of orgasmic energy flooding through her body.
The storm was over, energy spent. Her shoulders slumped, head drooping for a moment in sated, perspiring exhaustion.
Alysha sucked her wet fingers, savouring Guinevere’s fragrant come juices. Then, raising her beloved from her knees, she kissed her lingeringly and led her from the salon.
There was silence followed by the sound of many orgasmic moans as Amazon fingers exposed the hidden treasure of their lover’s hooded pearl.
Mistress Domina broke the spell. ‘No wonder the riding mistress was jea
lous!’
The Silken Web
Valet Clarence froze in terror at the sound of Lady Jessica Cleveland’s quiet cough behind him. She had silently entered her dressing room, catching him picking through her lingerie. But why had she returned unexpectedly? She should be taking afternoon tea across the Park with Mrs Herbert, the wealthy New Yorker who had rented the widowed Lady Petersfield’s Mayfair residence for the London season, hoping to snare a titled gentleman for her daughter, Blanche. He had seen her out the front door of Cleveland House, had helped her into the open phaeton and watched as the high-stepping pair of greys had pulled away into Grosvenor Crescent on the drive to Curzon Street. He had not expected her back at 43 Belgrave Square before 6 o’clock at the earliest, when she would change for dinner at the Hughendons. He had been caught in flagrante masturbating into a pair of milady’s satin knickers. Immediate dismissal from service was inevitable.
Transfixed with fear, Clarence stood silhouetted in the long dressing room looking-glass. One of her Ladyship’s silk stockings was knotted tightly around his rampantly rigid cock and smooth balls, which hung out of his unbuttoned breeches like two ripe plums. A shimmering pair of blue satin lace-trimmed knickers dangled incriminatingly from his hand. So frightened was he that he forgot to remove his stroking hand from his blood-engorged penis, which had been about to jerk its urgent load of hot semen into the sensuously smooth and shiny folds of her fragrantly perfumed underwear.
Lady Jessica’s face loomed at his shoulder in the glass’s reflection.
‘Not content with stealing my intimate apparel, you also defile it.’
His stomach knotted in horror. So she knew he had been taking her lingerie! Visions of a prison cell swam before his eyes. He thought of fleeing the room but, even as the futile thought crossed his mind, Lady Cleveland disabused him of that notion.
‘I have locked the door. You cannot escape.’ Her voice was a steely whisper. This was not the benign and charitable Lady Cleveland he thought he knew.
Clarence dropped the knickers, which had suddenly lost their sensual allure, and made an ineffectual attempt to remove the stocking. But he had knotted it too tightly. His blood-swollen phallus stood out like a miniature beacon; a purple-headed protuberance that could not subside gracefully back into his breeches.
‘Leave my stocking exactly where it is! Turn around from your narcissistic fantasies in my peer-glass so I can properly admire that “bouquet” you hold in your hand.’
Clarence turned, not daring to look up. The silk tied about his cock and balls floated delicately, wafting in the draught caused by his movement. A shaft of afternoon sunlight shone through the stained glass of the dressing room’s Burne-Jones window, surreally spotlighting his erection in a fractured rainbow.
‘Shall I itemize the garments missing from my wardrobe in the three months since you entered valet service here?’ The voice was taunting now.
‘Six pairs of stockings, a pink satin camisole and knicker set, a pair of lace-trimmed oyster-coloured French knickers, a pair of long-sleeved satin opera gloves, the blush pink sateen corset from my Parisian corsetiere, Isadora, and a pair of high-heeled button shoes.’
Clarence blanched as Lady Cleveland continued, ‘I informed you I would be taking tea with Mrs Herbert this afternoon because I knew you were stealing my intimate apparel and I determined to catch you red-handed. I had the housekeeper search your room this morning while you were at your duties. I am sure you know what she found hidden there.’
She contemplated the bleak dismay on the valet’s stricken face with gloating satisfaction. Her gaze lowered to admire the spectacle of his exposed balls and still rigid cock neatly tied and held like a bridal nosegay.
Clarence was speechless as his real and fantasy worlds collapsed in humiliation about him. Having been brought to this new life of opportunity from Madam Blanchette’s “molly house”, a discreet male brothel off London’s Tottenham Court Road catering to the unusual carnal lusts of the nobility and nouveau riche industrialists, all hopes of preferment from personal valet to butler now lay on the silk carpet with her Ladyship’s dropped knickers. Prison gates beckoned.
‘Pick them up!’ Lady Cleveland snapped. ‘I will not allow my undergarments to touch the floor, though I shall not wear those again now that you have defiled them with that excrescence protruding so obscenely from your breeches.’
Clarence hastened to retrieve the satin knickers from the carpet and stood with head bowed, his hands ineffectually attempting to hide his exposed pecker. The swollen appendage was beginning to throb painfully from the tight knotting. Its head was now a deep blood-engorged shade; a pulsating purple mushroom that would wait in vain to be stroked to its fruitful outcome.
‘Divest yourself of your uniform and show me that infamously pretty body and anal garden of delight you have prostituted so often for the carnal pleasure of my reprobate husband and his degenerate cronies at Madam Blanchette’s before I bought you from her.’
Clarence looked up to meet Lady Jessica’s gaze, not believing he had heard correctly. He gasped in disbelief., She was no longer wearing her afternoon tea dress. She stood there, a statuesque apparition in a form-fitting black sateen corset, its restrictive grip accentuating the curvaceous contours of her hourglass figure and full breasts. A hand rested imperiously upon the swell of her hip. She wore no knickers and his shocked eyes were drawn to her smoothly shaved pussy, provocatively framed by the curved rim of her shiny corset and its taut suspender straps holding her stockings to her thighs.
Her piercing blue eyes bored into him like an angry cobra that hypnotizes its prey before striking.
‘Obey me this instant! Or I shall have you inside Newgate prison before the sun goes down.’
Clarence moved with alacrity at this tiniest hint of reprieve. Within a trice he had discarded his valet uniform; the white cotton shirt, hunter-green velveteen breeches buckled below the knee, matching hose, and silver buckled pumps. Would he ever wear the Cleveland household uniform again?
Clarence was not to know it, but Lady Jessica knew more about him than she would ever admit. The Clevelands owned a swathe of property in North London, including Madam Blanchette’s infamous establishment of rent boys. It had been a simple matter to pressure the bawd to part with a suitably attractive boy for her particular esoteric pleasures. Madam Blanchette had assured her, as she gratefully pocketed a handsome purse of guineas, that Clarence would suit her purposes nicely. His proclivity for sexual fantasy and pleasure in cross-dressing for the brothel’s distinguished patrons marked him as the perfect choice for restrictive training and sissy grooming.
She had monitored her quarry’s popularity as a rent boy for some months before persuading Madam Blanchette to part with him. His physique and Adonis-like looks had been much in demand. His sweet cheeks and the hidden flower that nestled between them were the object of desire for everyone who gathered to play Baccarat there on Wednesday evenings. Her rich clientele would play for high stakes to win his body, the jackpot prize offered at the conclusion of the evening’s play. Blanchette would lead Clarence through the blue haze of Havana cigar smoke into the gaming room. He would be presented naked but for a pair of her silk knickers which she had wet down to cling to his youthful buttocks in near transparent sensuality.
The delighted winner would rise to claim his prize. To expectant hush, he would pull the clinging garment down to expose Clarence’s wetly glistening and pertly rounded cheeks, dangling twin jewels and long penis with its turned-up knob that awaited the caress of milking hand or lusting lips to arouse it. The rampantly excited squire would lead Clarence to a large ottoman to debauch him before the assembled players.
Some winners liked to bugger “rough”. General Chalmondeslay, lately returned from India where he had earned the soubriquet of Leatherdick in the barrack rooms of the Bengal Lancers, would bend Clarence brusquely over, parting his buttocks to expose the target of attack. Without bothering to reconnoitre the terrain, he would
cry “Huzzah!” Taking his lance in hand, he would advance unchecked into the valley of the undefended opening splayed invitingly before his lustful gaze. His frenzied onslaught would culminate in a copious discharge before he withdrew from the fray.
Lord Cleveland, on the other hand (so Lady Jessica’s informant had whispered), preferred a more leisurely frontal congress; enjoying the feel of Clarence’s lithe, warm body while creaming his butthole with a languorous rhythm before going down to suck his cock to creamy come.
Lady Jessica also knew about Clarence’s regular “specials”; robed as the abbess to cane the bared buttocks of the Bishop of Yarmouth when he was in town; dressed up as schoolgirl Doris for an over-the-knee spanking by Judge Trevose. She was aware also of Clarence’s penchant for dressing up in Blanchette’s own lace-up corsets and billowing petticoats to receive a noble butt-fuck. And he was not averse to assuaging Blanchette’s own demanding clitoral urges on those frequent occasions when a jaded client required visual titillation before creaming his glory gape.
The long awaited moment had come for Lady Jessica Cleveland to discard her blushing English rose image and emerge as the domina that had always slumbered within her breast. She would transform Clarence into the submissive slutmaid she had secretly desired for her personal boudoir slave. He would be the felicitous foil to her hitherto suppressed sensuality.
Knowing his latent transvestite desires, she had arranged to leave temptation open for him to steal her intimate apparel. It had taken just three months to ensnare the fly in her silken web.
‘Here are my garments that the housekeeper found in your room. Since you so obviously enjoy wearing them, you will entertain me by donning them now.’
Clarence could not believe his ears or eyes. His head swam. He watched in fascinated awe as she unpinned and shook the mass of silver locks to cascade over her shoulders and the proud expanse of her corseted breasts. Was this really Lady Cleveland? Were his most secret sexual fantasies about to be played out in her private dressing room before her gaze?
The Collaring of Camilla Page 2
