The Marquis' Book of Pleasure & Property of the Marquis

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  A bottle of beer was pressed to her lips and she was forced to drink fast, although a little managed to spill down her sweater, a fact that didn’t bother Kafka; he was showing her off, while gloating about the find he’d made in Prague Castle.

  “Cheers, Laney Priestly,” he whispered in her ear, “this night will either be your worst nightmare or the most satisfying you’ve ever experienced.”

  With the one beer gurgling through her system, Kafka took one for himself from a waitress dressed in nothing but wrist cuffs, collar and a leather thong, then he jerked Laney’s chain and moved in through the mass of people, enthusiastically greeting those who were obviously his friends.

  “Don’t you think she’s overdressed,” a man in a leather vest and pants asked him.

  “You want to see her tits?”

  “I think I want to abuse them,” he answered.

  “Then do,” Kafka said. He immediately dropped the leash inside the black sweater where it fell between her naked tits, and then lifted the sweater away to expose her bare chest.

  Laney shriveled under the man’s lurid stare, although she could feel the familiar tightening in her belly that went along with her arousal.

  “Better that they were striped,” Kafka’s friend said.

  “Then do it,” Kafka said, obligingly, “she’s my whipping girl tonight, courtesy of the mighty Marquis.”

  “Oh?” he looked impressed. “He gave you this gem?”

  “More like I lifted her out of Prague Castle, a neat little steal, don’t you think?”

  The fellow stepped back, thoughtfully appraising Laney’s creamy tits, that were, at the moment, free of any sign of abuse. “How should I do this?” He stroked his beard while deciding, then finally grinned. “Would you mind holding her for me?”

  Looking pleased, Kafka moved behind Laney and pulled her arms back so that he had her captured against his chest. The silky feel of his shirt and the warmth of his body were sensations she savored in that brief moment between Kafka’s seizing her and the first strike of the baton that delivered her swiftly into hell.

  The man cut into her cruelly.

  Her head dropped back against her captor’s chest as her entire body seized up in pain. She remained in that position, tight as a bow string. Although she swallowed her screams, she could not hold back the agonized moans that managed to escape her control.

  Seven times the baton struck her breasts. The man was good, leaving a significant mark with each one, and turning hell into a reign of painful terror that did not abate until minutes after he stopped. She was practically delirious when he finished and paid no attention to the conversation that followed. She only barely focused on Kafka when, once the baton man was on his way, he picked up the leash again and led her through the maze of partying leather junkies. There were numerous comments made about the stripes that so nicely wounded her perfectly formed breasts, but her mind felt dizzyingly drunk. She seemed detached from the humiliation she would certainly have felt had she been completely sober. All this drunkenness on just one beer? As her mind free-floated, she wondered if she’d been drugged.

  “When do we get to fuck your spoils of war, Kafka!”

  The shrill voice rang out and suddenly jerked Laney back to life. Increasingly, Kafka presented her to the crowd as stolen goods from the Marquis’ warehouse. She could feel a hot and constant blush on her neck and cheeks, as she fended off the humiliating remarks. At one point, she was delivered up to the crowd and shoved inside a merciless gauntlet of sadists, who were given permission to abuse her. She was spanked, her pussy prodded, her ass cheeks flailed on with slappers, whips and canes until she couldn’t help but flail about in angry frustration. Jostled from hand to hand to hand, an urgent panic gripped her throat. She wanted to scream, but she was strangled by her fear.

  For nearly a half hour, she was paired with a female wearing a dildo, which slipped neatly into Laney’s cunt. The two were roped together at the waist while standing on a small platform that was gradually lifted off the floor about two feet. Their backs were flogged, making every jerking action come back on the other, until Laney’s cunt exploded into a quick orgasm, which was followed moments later by an explosion in the blonde she clung to. The flogging went on, even after their crisis was over. There were more sadists vying for the opportunity to cause them pain and hear them screech. Too often the flogging hurt, with falls of thin leather cutting into their skin and giving them no respite, no chance of finding pleasure in the experience. Even being tied to one another was little solace when the pain seemed to have no end, and they were given little opportunity to enjoy the sensual body softness of the woman who shared their misery.

  Their suffering did end, however. The platform was lowered, the two women freed and the slippery dildo in Laney’s cunt was removed. A moment later, the prick was presented to her lips and she was required to lick off her copious juices.

  About that time, a cry rung from the crowd: “When we gonna fuck da slut?”

  Kafka, who seemed hell-bent on pleasing everyone in the club with his stolen treasure readily gave her up again.

  Still weary from the flogging and the sex, Laney was led to the main stage where public sex acts were nightly performed by exhibitionists willing to flaunt themselves. It had been empty so far that evening, so when a lovely, sexy female masochist like Laney took the stage, most of the people in the room turned into eager spectators.

  Names were drawn from a box and when the winners were revealed, two burly bikers mounted the stage. Laney could smell the stench of beer and body sweat that preceded them, and her clenching cunt immediately responded to the stimulus, letting go a visible stream of sex juice that ran down her inner thigh.

  How had her life suddenly come to this? Why wasn’t she running, or at the very least fighting to regain her sense of dignity? Her mind was ready with an answer, reminding her that dignity doesn’t matter to men with ‘properties’, nor should dignity matter to sex slaves.

  Teetering in her high heels, she stood between the two brutish fellows, glancing back and forth between their faces while wondering which was the most repulsive to her. She liked handsome men with a little polish—even Kafka fit into that category. Even so, something about this pair had her all keyed up and wanting the pricks that bulged from their leather-clad crotches.

  She was pushed to her knees, while their cocks were being drawn from their pants. Back and forth, her mouth worked at the frenzied pace they insisted on, letting one cock go deep into her mouth before she was pulled off and the other stuffed even deeper. They tasted sour, the heads salty with old piss, but the redolent quality of their mingled smells proved a pungent aphrodisiac that had her pussy wanting them banging her to heaven and hell and back again.

  Once the two pricks became fully erect, turning into thick meaty flesh, she was suddenly pulled back to her feet and taken to a bench where she knelt straddling one man; the other would take her from behind. She fell forward over the one man’s chest, while getting use to his cock inside her. Meanwhile, the other man stood back, playing to the crowd that goaded him on. He started to spank her ass, occasionally stopping to pry her ass apart and spitting down the crack. Then as soon as he thought she was ready, he impaled her hind end deeply, letting his erection slide alongside the one that maintained his position inside her cunt.

  The explosion of her physical senses caused her to climax almost instantly. Music blared, lights flashed and the oppressive smog of cigarette smoke almost made her choke. And yet, her inner body tended to both men with her inner muscles bearing down, squeezing and grasping and clenching ever harder in order to please the two at the same time. Her mind clicked off with her body taking charge until at last, she felt both men starting to finish off.

  What the audience saw was worth the price of admission. One female. Two males—a clench of extreme proportions. The two cocks stuffed the female body full, and when they erratically lurched in and out of her liquid pussy and well-stretched asshole
, it would seem they would tear her crotch apart. Some more tender souls might have objected to this distilled display of animal lust, but Kafka’s plundered booty raised no objections; she seemed to remain at a perpetually ecstatic state, her mouth open in a musical scream, her wet lips luring the rest toward her, while her crazed body just kept up the fuck. She might have fucked until the place was sober if she’d been left on her own.

  But there was an end to the exhibition.

  The two men were spent, pulling out of her and breathing hard, finally letting her lay wasted on the bench while they slinked off.

  In that brief moment, Laney’s weary body looked ravishingly beautiful, with a layer of perspiration glistening in the low lights, and her hair falling sexily over her face. And there on the wrist that dangled from the bench, exposed to the crowd, was evidence of her ownership: the Marquis’ shiny platinum bracelet.

  Not until the fucking was over did Laney understand that the scene was being photographed, that the lights that flashed around her were cameras, and that the resulting pictures would later that night, or in the wee hours of the morning, be sent via email to the Marquis’ private email address. Only a traitor, with some firsthand knowledge of the man, would know that address.

  Kafka told her this as he led her away through the same door she arrived at hours before. When they stepped into the alley behind the club, she was completely naked, except for the high heels, the collar and her bracelet. She shivered slightly in the cool evening air, but felt safe with Kafka, and not as self-conscious as she expected she might feel. She sensed that she had accomplished something in the nightclub, although she wasn’t yet certain what that was.

  “Then the Marquis will see me…?” she ventured.

  “Oh, in living color…or grainy black and white,” he replied with a pleased sneer. You can never tell how pictures like this will turn out but there were enough of them taken of you getting screwed to deliver a strong message to the man who owns you.”

  Laney didn’t know what to think of this information. She had no idea how her missing master would respond to what she suspected was a flagrant act of war between sworn enemies. Why else would Kafka feel such triumph tonight—was that what she’d been primed for when he had her snatched from Prague Castle?

  She knew that their war was not her war and she could be no more than a pawn in whatever complaint they had against the other. Her one hope was to be delivered to the man who owned her, and finish the journey she had begun.

  The alley was strangely quiet now with the din from inside fading as the nightclub closed its back door. She heard a few cars swishing by in the streets beyond, but otherwise, she and her captor were very much by themselves. She could feel her feral desires surround her pleasingly. And then like an extension of this strangely romantic moment, Kafka’s lips met hers, his passion wet and palpable—but all too brief. “Well, Laney,” he said, as he stepped back, “some men would thank a slut like you for giving them so much pleasure in so short a time, but sluts don’t need to be thanked. It’s what they do.”

  He had such a sexy, charming sneer that Laney couldn’t help but feel it all the way to her worn-out crotch, nor could she help but forgive him for his deliberate cruelty—she sensed it was an act put on for a submissive’s pleasure. She imagined them returning to the cottage in the country where she could sleep off her drunken sexual stupor in the falling down shed. Her body ached enough now to enjoy diving into the luxury of that lumpy mattress.

  She smiled in reply to his comment, knowing that she didn’t need to be thanked or respected. She just wanted to know that she was safe, and hoped that assurance would be forthcoming.

  “So, I guess it’s time we split, huh?”

  “Now?” she looked aghast.

  “Yeah, now. I got what I wanted; my need for revenge has been satisfied. Your photographs will be all over that bastard’s email by morning. They’ll be on the Internet by nightfall tomorrow if he doesn’t pay my price. Either way, I’ve won.”

  Won what? she wondered silently.

  “So, slut, that means I’m not gonna be needing you for anything else.”

  She looked at him bewildered. Any ease she’d felt in the last few minutes instantly vanished as she realized what he meant.

  “But, I did make a deal for you with one of the guys in tonight’s crowd,” he went on. “He’ll be taking you off my hands.” The chain leash attached to her iron collar was fastened at the end to an eyebolt in the brick wall about six feet from the nightclub’s back door. He smiled again as he walked off, “It’s been a thrill, slut. You wait here, they’ll be coming for you soon, I suspect…or not.” He shrugged, then turned toward his car, which had been parked just a few feet away. He climbed in and drove off, leaving her choking on exhaust fumes.

  “Kafka!” she screamed.

  But her cry came too late, long after he was out of earshot. Almost an afterthought.

  Naked and crying, panic gripping her body once again, Laney waited alone and terrified for someone to rescue her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The three men were drunk and stoned, falling all over her and each other as they walked Laney through the Prague neighborhood toward a small hotel. At least one of them had loaned her his jacket to wear, although it was too short to cover anything but her breasts. Her naked ass and cleanly shaved pussy were bare for the curious eye to see. Thankfully, it was the dead of night when they came for her, so there were few people who would see the pretty, wasted brunette stumbling along half naked with her drunken friends.

  After climbing three flights of stairs, with Laney faltering in the red stilettos, the four finally landed in a tiny hotel room and fell onto the bed in one great heap, laughing—at least the three men were laughing, but not Laney, whose ever-present fear had almost made her numb.

  They were eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty years old, barely legal, but full of themselves, and with enough vigor in their youth to sprout healthy erections, even at this hour, even with the liquor and drugs pumping through their veins. They laid her out on the bed, cuffed her wrists to the headboard, and took turns with her, using her sore cunt, until they exhausted themselves. They thankfully ignored her ass, which she thought would be far too sore for another round of abuse. The three young men collapsed for several hours, passed out on the bed beside her, while Laney let her head fall back against the pillow and tried to sleep. The odd quartet created a tableau of satiated bodies that might be perfect inspiration for a latter-day Botticelli painting.

  The gangbang began again when the sun finally came shining through the window curtains and continued long enough to satisfy the three morning hard-ons rising stiffly from the horny youths. Their naked bodies groveled over Laney’s languidly sleeping one, finally waking her from a dead sleep. Their breath stunk and their body sweat almost made her choke. Then, suddenly, something in the air sounded an alarm that all three men heard clearly, and before Laney could react fast enough, the three were out the door, zipping up their pants and grabbing for their jackets.

  “Wait! Please! You have to let me go!” she cried.

  But they paid no attention to her cries and were in the street, dancing for the fun of it, leaving the whore to fend for herself as whores are known to do.

  Abandoned in the hotel room, Laney called out from time to time, knowing that she had no other choice if she expected to ever be free from this journey to hell. Finally, someone heard her and peeked in the door.

  “Oh, thank god, please, I need help, please!” she tried to draw them in, but the woman looked at her in shock and immediately closed the door.

  A few minutes later, a man and woman came into the room, and again, she pleaded with them to free her. She went on for several minutes while they turned their backs on her and spoke privately. Either they didn’t understand her English or they were determined to deal with her in their own way. They soon left, too, turning her cries into a rain of sad tears.

  Perhaps an hour passed, it was h
ard to tell, when suddenly the door burst open and several policemen entered the room. At first they just stared down at her shaking their heads, then they removed the cuffs that had her bound—although they did not remove the iron collar. She was led away, wearing nothing but an old brown sweater someone handed them. This covered her breasts and nearly covered her bottom. But it was scant protection from the dozens of eyes that peered out of their rooms as she was led through the hotel, and no cover at all from the curious glances of a crowd that gathered in the street to watch.

  Her cell was cold and dingy, but at least she was given something to wear. The grey muslin prison dress was as welcome to her as the chance to pee and the drink of water to wash away the bad taste of the previous night. A little food followed, a dry biscuit, a piece of meat and an apple that went down as easily as a gourmet meal.

  When she had the chance, she pleaded her case with the arresting officers, but none of them understood enough English to explain the charges. Hours later, a woman who spoke passable English was led into her cell.

  “I’m a lawyer. I represent you.”

  “Yes, I’m a lawyer, too,” Laney wryly replied.

  The woman didn’t quite understand and that was just as well.

  Indecency, prostitution, failure to pay the hotel bill, by virtue of the fact that she had no purse, no clothes, and no means of identification. The litany of her crimes sounded pretty grim.

  Laney tried to explain her position, but for this court, the case was cut and dried, and the woman offered no defense when two days later, they stood together before the judge. He mumbled something in Czech that Laney didn’t understand.

  “What did he say?” she asked her counselor.

  “You’ll be fined and released, but first you must see him in his chambers.”

  “What for?”

  The woman avoided Laney’s question, saying under her breath: “You go there and do what you have to. There’s no getting out of here until you do.”

  “What do you mean?”