Title Page
SLAVES OF THE BLOODLINE
By
Falconer Bridges
www.silvermoonbooks.co.uk
Publisher Information
Copyright 2008
Digital edition converted and
Distributed in 2012 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 © Falconer Bridges
The right of Falconer Bridges 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.aves of the Bloodline
Prologue
STRUNG UP IN THE gloom of the dank cellars beneath his country mansion, a striped, mercilessly punished Julian was suffering endless taunts from Mistress Madonna. Although he had never fucked her, that was most definitely not allowed, she was nevertheless scathing in her derision of his penile inadequacy in comparison to her favoured cock-wielder and his hated rival; The Colonel.
Unfortunately for Julian, The Colonel fucked like he had invented fucking and Mistress Madonna often invited him down into the cellars to treat her to an animated and noisy shagging in front of her bound, chained, miserable and sexually unfulfilled slave. Although he sprouted an almost permanent straining erection, especially in Mistress Madonna’s presence, Julian had not only never fucked her but he had never actually had his priapic weapon up any woman’s vagina.
He was a virgin.
In contrast The Colonel had fucked more women than he could count, as he was fond of telling Julian. Mistress Madonna did not mind one little bit, so long as he kept on shagging her, in fact he was as useful an implement in Julian’s humiliation as any cane or whip. Torture does not need to be purely physical, the mental agonies that Julian endured watching the old codger mashing his mistress’ twat were almost too great to bear. Mistress Madonna knew that his only consolation was his firm belief that The Colonel was just a silly old sod blessed with a big prick.
However The Colonel was not such a witless old codger as Julian would have liked to believe. He had not only the cock of a god and a well-practised expertise in the sexual arts that drove Mistress Madonna to the brink of insanity, but he also possessed other more esoteric qualities that even she did not suspect. And so it had come as quite a surprise when one day he had told her that although he was officially retired from the Armed Forces, he was still called upon every now and then by the United Nations to help investigate threats to the security of Europe, and in particular, England. In that connection he had been ordered out to the Middle East to join an international team probing a suspected terrorist plot, he was leaving immediately and had no idea when he would be back.
He had been away for several weeks now and another of his surprises was about to land on Julian's doorstep. An authoritative set of knuckles beat upon the heavy front door of the imposing country house. Even down in the cellar it was loud enough for Mistress Madonna to pick up, and as Julian dismissed all the servants from the house while she was treating him to a session of her very special disciplinary talents, it was up to her to take over the duties of the butler. So slicing Julian with one more cutting lash of her deftly administered buggy whip, with the stiletto heels of her outrageously skyscraper-heeled and buckled ankle boots clacking on its steps she climbed the cobweb-bedecked staircase leading up to the entrance hall.
Naked apart from a black ruched suspender belt, intricately embroidered lace-top stockings and the boots, she calmly opened the door. A uniformed army officer stood before her. A quickly flustered, unbelieving Captain who could not decide whether to feast his eyes on her amazing breasts with their staggeringly protuberant nipples or her inviting, succulent heavily-forested sex. Dumfounded, he said nothing, only thrusting into her hand an urgent military communication addressed to her, with the legend 'Top Secret' emblazoned across it. As he handed it over, whatever his rehearsed speech was going to say remained unsaid as his eyes continued to soak in her unexpected, cock-rousing appearance. Flushing with both embarrassment and lust, he turned on his heels and almost running, rushed back to his waiting staff car.
Mistress Madonna closed the front door and wandered into the drawing room, turning the letter over and over in her hands before finally opening it. It was from The Colonel and there was wonder in her eyes as she read it. When she had finished, she clattered back down into the gloom of the cellar. Her legs widely spread, her fabulous sex on clear display, she held the note up to Julian.
"Alright cretin, listen to this. The Colonel's investigation is finished and he's gone to the Continent with a French government official he's been working with. His name's Thierry and he and The Colonel have known each other casually for several years but during the past few weeks, they've got on famously and become firm friends. This Thierry is going to take The Colonel on a sea-fishing trip and they're staying with an acquaintance of his, a Baroness no less. He says she lives in a bit of an eerie place, a part derelict medieval castle buried in a pine forest in Brittany. Apparently it’s really atmospheric and there are standing stones and prehistoric monuments everywhere, and what's more Thierry has told the Baroness about me and she's invited me over to join them."
Julian sulked wretchedly, misery written all over his face. His mistress was going to fuck off and fart about with The Colonel and some rotten Frenchman. The Colonel would have his cock up her day and night; he'd fuck the arse off her and if he asked her to, she'd probably let the Froggie swine fuck her as well.
But the situation was not quite as bad as he had dreaded.
"I can't think why, but he says that if I want to, I can take you as well!"
The Hunting Lodge
THE RAPPING ON THE door of the lodge was loud and insistent.
Mistress Madonna snorted in annoyance and stayed her actions for the moment, her right arm held motionless where it was, raised high above her head with her fingers wrapped tightly around the haft of a wickedly-plaited flexible riding crop. The displeasure she was feeling at the unceremonious interruption to the delivery of a well-deserved beating to her worthless, witless slave was written plainly on her face. Suddenly the commotion stopped and tipping her head to one side she listened intently for a few moments. Outside there was now nothing but silence and deciding that whoever it was had gone away she whipped the crop down with all her considerable strength.
Although Julian had been ordered to act like a real man and to steel himself against the pain and remain silent throughout his disciplining, nonetheless a deafening tortured shriek rent the air as the crop ripped into his naked, exposed buttocks. And that stroke was only the latest of many. Other countless scalding strokes had already fallen, but struggling to follow his mistress' orders he had utilised all his inner strength and striven to steel himself against their biting impact. But whatever inner strength he possessed it had not proved to be enough. From the beginning the agony had been unbearable, but this was fiery and sickening, worse than anything she had inflicted before.
"That should teach you to . . ."
What it should have taught him to do was never made plain as her words were interrupted by a renewed assault on the door.
"Ouvrez la porte. Maintenant!"
The voice was loud, female and adamant.
The reply was equally forceful.
“Allez faire foutre, whoever you are."
The response did not surprise Julian one little bit. Not withstanding the franglais mixture of French and English of her reply, his mistress was not going to open the door to a person unknown and telling the intruder to ‘get stuffed’ was nothing more than he would have expected. She was so strong and dominant that he could not have imagined her responding in any other fashion. The intruder however was not going anywhere.
"Ouvrez. Immediatement!"
Mistress Madonna was in no mood to open the door, right at that moment or later. And the worst mistake that anyone could make when dealing with her was to order her to do something. The door remained closed; she was not frightened of anyone and neither was she to be intimidated by unidentified voices in the night.
“Who the hell are you anyway?"
The answer was not really that unexpected. And this time it came in clear English.
"Police. Open up."
The door handle was tried and rattled impatiently.
Sighing audibly, Mistress Madonna instructed Julian to remain still and quiet before unlocking the door and inching it open just enough to enable her to peer around its edge at her unwelcome visitors. Unceremoniously she was bustled aside as two agents de police pushed their way into the room. One was male, heavily built and crop-haired; the other was female and even in her uniform, of striking impact. She was tall, with a well-honed athletic body and looks to match but her lack of make up and short dark hair added a touch of the sapphic to her appearance. Exuding strength of character and authority, the crowd-control baton she was swinging in one hand did nothing to diminish that image.
Two pairs of police eyes immediately took in both Mistress Madonna's fiendishly erotic and intimidatingly vampiric appearance and the hapless position of the slave, the woman's lighting up in instant recognition of the circumstances. Her original tense stance melted into easy relaxation and taking charge of the situation she directed the male officer to close the door.
"Things here are not as we thought. You just stand by the door while I sort things out."
Hesitant but unquestioning, he did as he was bidden, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and watching intently.
It was clear that Mistress Madonna held an instant fascination for the policewoman, the tongue that ran over her lips and the eyes that roamed over every inch of the magnificently statuesque, dark-eyed and sex-laden woman who stood before her betraying her inner feelings. Momentarily she seemed to lose control of her senses as her arm reached out as if she were about to fondle Mistress Madonna's jutting breasts but suddenly she checked herself and wrenching her eyes away turned her attention to the slave.
He was standing in the middle of the main room, bent over with his arms spread wide and pulled outwards towards the sides of the room by iron chains attached to Gothic-looking iron wristcuffs. Chains that were anchored to large iron hooks that had been not too expertly driven into its walls about three feet from the floor. Chains that were so taut that his arms and shoulders plainly showed every painful, strainingly-agonised stretched muscle. His legs were forced several feet apart by a metal spreader bar attached to anklecuffs of similar design and faded mottled matt-black colour to the cuffs clamped to his wrists. A broad spiked iron collar was fastened around his neck, again with an iron chain clipped into the ring attached to it, which was stretching his neck upwards towards the metal bracket to which it was fixed. A bracket that normally housed a heavy pike with a wickedly sharp 'fleur-de-lis' spearhead. The pike lay on the floor, discarded so that a better use could be made of its usual home.
And yet, despite his desperate circumstances he was sporting an unbelievably rigid, straining erection.
And that erection itself was subject to its own restraint. A circular metal clamp had been screwed tight just below his bell end, causing it to swell in a grotesquely obscene fashion. Fastened to the clamp was a much thinner iron chain that cruelly divided his bollocks as it passed between his legs and with difficulty dragged his cock downwards towards its anchoring point, another large hook that had been hammered into a crack between the stone paving of the floor between his widespread feet.
After silently digesting the scene, the policewoman crossed over to him and pointed the baton at his more than usefully-sized penis. She snorted in an exaggeratedly derisory fashion.
"That pathetic thing is what you Englishmen call a cock, is it? Here in France you'd be laughed out of any self-respecting woman's bedroom. Even a whore wouldn't do business with that."
After studying him closely for several seconds she suddenly whacked him smartly with the baton over the crimson weals striping his pale rump, following it up with a swingeing wide-armed strike to the chain anchoring his cock to the floor.
"Yeeoow!"
The strangled scream that tested his vocal cords to the limit was not in the least quieter than those that had summoned her in the first place.
"Shut up you wretch, how can you make so much fuss over a little discomfort such as you are suffering."
She paused to cast a glance at the policeman guarding the door, before continuing. "Men are all the same, wimps and whingeing poofs. A woman would never allow herself to crumble into such an outburst of gutless caterwauling just because she had been dealt a little pain. Women can take pain, soak it up and laugh at it . . . And maybe perhaps, love it. But men, they are nothing but worms, insects to be crushed under the feet of women."
She directed Mistress Madonna’s attention to the policeman.
“Look at him. He is my superior officer but sexually he is a wimp. He will ignore orders, debase himself and do anything I ask just to be within sniffing distance of my vagina. Yet I have never allowed his nose, never mind his cock anywhere near it.”
And then turning back to Mistress Madonna, she added, “And that is the same with your slave, is that not so Madame?"
Astounded by the turn of events and also by the policewoman's perception and perfect use of colloquial English, for once Mistress Madonna was at a loss for words, taking several seconds before she stuttered out an answer.
"Yes . . . yes, you couldn't be more right."
Even then, unsure of the policewoman's motives, her reply was hesitant, almost questioning. The policewoman seemed eager to enlighten her.
"Madame, I have some experience myself in these matters and this useless specimen seems more vocal than most, although I have to say that with a little forethought you could have avoided my having to call on you. The noise that he was making was so loud that it could be heard in the castle itself and the Baroness and her guests were convinced that someone was being attacked or murdered. They were mistaken, that much is obvious, but if you intend to continue take my advice and gag him."
Gag him? The slave's instant reaction showed that he did not like the idea of that at all.
"No Mistress. Please don't do that. I'll be good, I won't scream again I promise."
Promises from a turd such as he were worthless. At least that was the policewoman's opinion.
"I didn't gag him because I wanted to hear him scream, he's such a wimp and he squeals just like a stuck pig. I enjoy the shrieking, it tells me that I'm doing a good job on him."
The policewoman agreed that Mistress Madonna’s explanation had great credibility but added that in the circumstances it was not really wise to allow his cries to echo resoundingly around the otherwise silent countryside.
"Here. If you have nothing suitable, use this."
And what she handed over to Mistress Madonna was very suitable indeed. From the depths of a jacket pocket she pulled out an instantly recognisable object - a leather strapped ball-gag. A question formed itself on Mistress Madonna's lip
s but quick on the uptake, the policewoman provided an answer before the words could be delivered.
"Ah yes, you're wondering about the gag. Let's just say that it comes in very handy sometimes if a suspect gets awkward and decides not to be co-operative."
To emphasise her point, she smacked the baton into the palm of her hand.
"Keeps them quiet while I work on them, if you get my meaning."
Mistress Madonna did get her meaning. And so did Julian. He also got the ball-gag. But he did not want it, clamping his jaws tight shut to prevent her getting it between his lips until the policewoman came to her assistance, digging her thumb and forefinger deeply and painfully into his cheeks until he was forced to open his mouth. She pinched even harder and as his jaws opened wide, Mistress Madonna pushed the hard rubber ball into his mouth and held it there with her flattened palm as the policewoman buckled the leather straps tightly at the back of his head.
"Voila. Now he will make no more trouble."
The ball was hard despite being formed of rubber and wedged between his teeth it stretched Julian's jaws to the limit and laying heavily on his tongue its bitter taste assailed his cultured taste buds. Almost ripping it from his scalp, the policewoman grabbed a handful of his thick professionally-styled hair and pulled his head towards her as much as the restricting chain would allow so that she could look him straight in the eyes. Her own eyes took on a menacing look, dark and piercing, they became suddenly hard and cruel and a shiver of dread shook his limbs as he withered under her stare.
Mistress Madonna punished him when he'd been naughty it was true and there was no denying that she often hurt him quite badly, but never more than he really enjoyed. And she did it for his own good, to keep him from straying too far from the straight and narrow and he understood that and made the best of the situation. This woman however was frightening, the sort who would no doubt delight in inflicting pain merely for the sake of it. Bad pain. His throat dried and his heart thumped into his ribs as a tide of panic surged over him. Was it possible that Mistress Madonna might let her loose on him? Surely not. But what if she did? He closed his eyes, shuddering at the prospect of such an action and so his obvious relief when she disentangled her fingers from his hair was overwhelming.
Slaves to the Bloodline Page 1