Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  He was oblivious to everything except his own satisfaction, lying full length now. She was crushed beneath him. Unable to reach the peak she sobbed as she begged him to bring her to completion. He kissed her savagely and his passion roused her, his dominance exciting her as she dug her nails into his back and shoulders, leaving long red scratches.

  He drove his loins against hers, his pubic bone chaffing her love-bud, his balls in their scrotal sac brushing her inner thighs. Angela had never known a sensation like it, her inner muscles clasping him, her clit yearning to be rubbed. She welcomed his possession now, the heat and ardour of him, the masculine intensity that drove him to take her and use her and experience his climax.

  He threw back his head and barked his release. She felt his cock pulse inside her and then the flood of his milky tribute. There was a second’s pause, and then thunderous clapping. The photographer took a final shot of Aidan rising from the prone girl, godlike and triumphant.

  ‘Well done, old chap!’ his friends enthused.

  ‘I say, you were right; she was a virgin. No longer, though, thanks to your mighty todger!’

  Angela sat up painfully. Her thighs were sore, her tender female crack, too. And for what? Was that it then? This act that was talked of as the be all and end all? She had longed for love, or at least fulfilment, and had neither if these from Aidan.

  He looked at her and said, ‘Now you are no longer a greensick girl. I have transformed you into a woman.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she remarked coldly and got to her feet, even though the room was swaying. She reached for her clothes, but Maude was there preventing her.

  Aidan scowled, then gave a sinister smile. ‘Still rebellious?’ he sneered. ‘I can see that you require further training.’ He turned to Valerie, cupped her breasts in his hands and added, ‘I think a spell on the crosspiece is in order. See to it.’

  A cheer arose from his guests, and wild excitement reigned as they followed Aidan into another part of the rotunda where only the closest of his companions were permitted to go.

  Chapter 6

  ‘No… please no!’ Angela cried, as she was lifted by two of Aidan’s near-naked footmen and taken, not to the whipping-post, but to where a tangle of leather and chains hung from a hook in the ceiling.

  She began to tremble, knees turning to water, her thighs bathed in Aidan’s spunk and her virgin blood. The footmen handled her intimately, her cunt was explored and her breasts and she could do nothing but endure. Indeed, she was in such a frustrated and high-strung state that even their caresses were welcome. One bent his head and sucked her nipples, drawing them out to strawberry points. The other smiled darkly and snapped a collar round her neck, fur-lined so that it did not damage the skin, and metal cuffs were closed round her wrists before they were raised high above her head and fastened to the chain above. A rigid bar was placed between her feet to keep them apart. It was clamped to her ankles tightly and she was immobilised.

  Aidan’s friends jostled each other in their eagerness not to miss a moment of this entertainment. Some were intoxicated on wine, but in the main Aidan’s performance and the promise of further examples of his dominance over his latest slave aroused them to fever pitch. The whores were doing a roaring trade, albeit that they had already received a substantial wage from the host for their services that night.

  He swaggered in. He had changed into black leather breeches and top boots, stripped to the waist, the light playing over his magnificent torso and muscular arms. Even the harlots gazed at him in almost drooling admiration, and they were as hard-bitten as they come. He carried a short whip in one hand, striking it against his thigh as he walked over to where Angela stood between her guards. He stared at her long and hard, then gestured to his helpers.

  Before she could protest a ball-gag was thrust into her mouth, her teeth jarring against its rubber surface. The last thing she saw was Aidan’s sardonic smile before a blindfold was settled over her eyes, its ties tangling in her hair. Locked in darkness and discomfort she could not stop the tears welling up. This was a far cry from the wedding night she had once dreamed about. Aidan had treated her like an animal, using her, abusing her, and there was more to come.

  ‘Oh father, father, how could you have left me in such dire straits?’ she mourned inside. ‘What price your gambling against a daughter’s affliction?’

  No answer came from beyond the grave.

  She gave a muffled cry, swaying in her bonds as someone hauled on the chain, lifting her so that only the balls of her feet touched the floor and there was a fearful ache in her stretched arms. Someone’s fingers were on her pussy, steadying her, then whoever it was started to rock her. She hoped it was Aidan, but there was no way of knowing. Hands were crawling all over her now, sweaty hands or dry ones, male hands, maybe female. They toyed with her nipples, pinching or caressing, and slipped into her cleft, finding her clit and rubbing it till she was on the brink of ecstasy. She moaned into the gag and writhed in her restraints, and voices murmured encouragingly or taunted her maliciously. Someone trailed his penis over her thigh, leaving a wet smear.

  ‘Stop that!’ Aidan shouted angrily, and the cock was withdrawn.

  So he cared if she was molested, she thought. Or could it only be done at his command? Was that the power he wanted over her? She sensed his presence and felt his body positioned between her splayed legs. His hands, and she was certain they were his, fondled her intimately. No part of her was safe from his examination. The crowd had fallen back and the silence was absolute. It was as if she and Aidan were alone on a mountaintop. He left her and she sobbed. The stillness was intense, her hearing extra keen because she could neither see or move. There was no way she could know what was going to happen to her.

  Then she heard a swish and he struck the first blow.

  She gasped at the impact, agony firing up from her lower belly where he had chosen to begin her torment, the lash biting into her mons. The breath rushed back with the burn of agonising pain, and her bound body arched and her limbs twisted but she could not escape. Groaning into the gag and waiting in fearful suspense for the next stripe she heard him behind her. There was the sound of something hitting the air, not the whip. Then what?

  She did not have long to wait. The implement disturbed the space in front of her. He held it under her nose. She could smell the freshness of the outdoors, and it transported her back to the country where birch saplings awaited man’s need to transform them into means of punishment. Love juice seeped from her and her clitoris throbbed, joining the scalding heat of her welts. As if well aware of this her master pressed the switch into her labial folds, concentrating on that swollen nodule. She could not resist seesawing against it, begging for more with each telltale lurch of her hips. She heard him chuckle, and there was no doubt that it was Aidan. He stroked the rod up and down her delta, softly at first, then harder and harder till she was gasping her passion, unable to cry out in pain and rapture.

  He moved round to her backside. With a whistle the birch cut the air and she gave a strangled scream as it connected with her tender derrière. The unseen audience could no longer contain themselves, breaking into wild whoops and cheers. Aidan picked up speed, the sapling rising and falling till she was sure there could not be an inch of skin left unmarked.

  Then, just when she felt her senses slipping away, he stopped. His hands removing the ball-gag and others were releasing her bonds. She would have fallen had he not held her firmly against his chest. His fingers were at the back of her head, undoing the blindfold. The light dazzled her. There were leering faces all around and couples at every stage of fornication. Aidan’s face blazed above her like a dark comet and she was shocked by her desire to fondle his body and kiss his lips after he had abused her so savagely.

  ‘Well, Lady Angela Bayswater, I think you enjoyed that almost as much as I did,’ he mocked. ‘My cock is hard as a broom handle. Look.’

  She stared at his leather-covered crotch and cou
ld see the shape of his erection straining against the fastening. She yearned to spring the buttons and take it between her lips, tasting the salty flavour of him, sniffing his testicles and the wiry hair coating his pubis. Most of all she wanted his fingers to bring her off, then his mighty weapon plunging into her vagina. ‘Why are you so cruel to me?’ she sighed, and could not help rubbing her palm over that solid bulge. ‘I would have loved you for ever, Aidan.’

  ‘I’m demonstrating that there are depths within you that you didn’t know you had,’ he answered, and she felt his cock twitch. ‘As for love? I think you still love me. Which is your greater emotion… love or hate? Both are opposite sides of the same coin.’

  Angela’s senses swam. She was so confused she could not answer this riddle. In that mad moment she did not care what he did with her. He glanced round at his panting, eager guests and gave an ironic smile, then he gathered Angela to him and picked her up, one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees.

  ‘Oh, ah!’ she moaned, her bruised body aching.

  He looked down at her, supporting her without effort. ‘Are you sore, little one?’ he murmured, then moved towards a door. ‘Don’t worry. I have salve to soothe you.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Angela said, nuzzling against his bare chest.

  ‘To my bedroom,’ he replied.

  ‘Are they coming?’ She indicated his quests.

  ‘You ask too many questions. Wait and see,’ he teased

  He left the rotunda, using a private way that included a spiral staircase leading to the upper floors and his private apartment. Angela marvelled at his strength, for he bore her as easily as if she was made of thistledown. They encountered no one on the way, and arrived at last at a corridor leading to a panelled door set in an architrave carved with acanthus leaves and vines, with the Green Man’s face peering between them. Aidan set her down momentarily and inserted a key in the brass lock. The door swung open and she was enchanted by the dim lighting within and the gorgeous smell of incense wafting towards her. He kicked the door shut, swept her up again and carried her across the thick carpet into the bedroom.

  It was the most extraordinary chamber she had ever seen; the first impression was one of sombre grandeur. The walls were draped in purple and black, interspersed with large paintings of nude, big-bosomed woman and well-endowed men locked in obscene embraces. Not only males with females, but every other combination, too. The furniture was heavily embossed and gothic in style, the fireplace a monument to the architect who had designed it to rear ceiling-wards, made of black marble with columns and cornucopia, the mantel upheld by statues of Hercules and Atlas. Coal burned in the ornamental basket and gleaming fire irons reflected the glow.

  Aidan did not put her down until he’d reached the bed. This in itself was daunting, with its extra width, length and towering posts, its ebony curtains and coverlet. To Angela’s embarrassment she saw that the tester supported a mirror that reflected everything taking place below it.

  He laid her on the soft mattress and smiled at her consternation, saying, ‘We shall be able to watch ourselves in the throes of love.’

  She shuddered and attempted to draw a portion of the silk quilt over her. ‘Have you no shame at all?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘None whatever,’ he rejoined, and the whole situation seemed to be according him a great deal of amusement.

  ‘This room!’ she exclaimed, and noted that, as in the rotunda, there were copies of those scandalous photographs everywhere. ‘It’s monstrous! How can you sleep peacefully in such a place?’

  ‘Easily. I sleep like a babe,’ he answered, and poured himself a snifter from the cut-glass decanter on the nightstand. ‘What’s worrying you? The photographs? My dear, those taken of us this evening will soon join them, I can assure you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t…’ she countered.

  ‘I do anything I fancy,’ he remarked, and the mattress sagged as he sat down beside her and kissed her neck, his breath faintly tainted with whiskey. ‘Those pictures will make me a handsome profit, too, when I offer them on the underground market. There are plenty of gentlemen who would give their eye-teeth for a copy.’

  ‘You have no heart… no conscience…’ she said, trying to pull away from his arm that circled her waist, but he would have none of this, putting down the glass, and with a toe against the heel, removing his boots. His breeches followed and he stood there, legs astride, staring at her in all the fine glory of his masculinity, his cock jutting forward proudly. Its size was daunting, even though she had already experienced it inside her. She wanted him to do it again, but he had other ideas.

  ‘Look up at the mirror,’ he said, and laid her back. ‘Open your legs. Watch as I pleasure you.’

  She raised her eyes and saw the astonishing spectacle of herself lying there with her legs spread. Nothing was sacred any more. Under the tangle of damp public floss her sex stood out blatantly, the lips pink and swollen, the slit engorged and the clitoris looking like a small version of a penis, and equally hard.

  ‘I’m sore,’ she complained, attempting to cover herself.

  Aidan pulled the quilt off so that she lay on the black satin sheets, the paleness of her body starkly emphasised. Nowhere to hide. He opened a drawer in the bedside cabinet and took out a jar. ‘Be still,’ he said, ‘and enjoy the view,’ and he took off the lid and commenced applying a sweet-scented ointment to her bruises, beginning with those on her belly and mons.

  She wanted to protest but his touch was magical, the salve a potent spell that removed pain. She went limp as he massaged it into her skin, not only on the bruises but other parts as well. She sighed deeply and relaxed, even peeked at herself in that unbelievably abandoned pose, with a man’s hands roaming all over her. And such a man, too! His penis was growing bigger, if that were possible, astounding her with its length and girth.

  He sat at her side, careful not to block her view of the mirror, continuing to apply the salve and spread it even further. He reached down and let his slippery hand enter her cleft. He parted the outer and then the inner lips, and the sensation of those agile, slippery, experienced fingers palpating her was nothing short of bliss. She wanted to watch now, and could see her sex, shiny and pink and wet, glistening like some exotic jungle flower, her love-bud, her labia, the entrance to her vagina.

  His eyes met hers in the mirror, the little laughter lines deepening at the outer corners, his sensual lips parting over even white teeth. That arrogant smile angered her. It was as if he was sure of victory, confident that she would be his creature forever. It was degrading to watch herself responding to his caresses, but she could not resist it or stop her hips from rising a little, pressing against his fingers. There was no time now for loathing or hatred. She wanted him, for good or ill. The mirror threw back a vision of his muscular shoulders and taut hips, the hollows in his flanks, the long thighs. And then she could no longer see her pubis as he lowered himself between her legs, his face buried in her mound, his tongue licking her clitoris.

  He reached up and rolled each nipple between thumb and forefinger, tripling the acute sensations of pleasure. And all the time he kept up a relentless nibbling and sucking, and she buried her hands in his hair and murmured incoherent love-words, unaware of what she was saying. Her orgasm rose, higher and higher and she peaked, crying out, and then clinging to him, trembling. He raised his head, slid his body upwards, threw a leg over her thighs and dug a knee between them. Watching the couple in the mirror she brought up her legs and rested them on his shoulders while his cock-tip rubbed against her vulva. Then, with a push, he thrust his prick inside her.

  This time it did not hurt, though it felt warm and huge and she wriggled against it, taking it even deeper. Because he had satisfied her she was willing to accord him the same pleasure, her passage fully lubricated, her muscles demanding this large object to clench round. Even the pain of her birching was no longer significant. If anything it added to her desire to subject herself to
this forceful man. She wanted to belong to him through all eternity, delighting in her slavery. She would indulge him and, in the end, he would love her as she had once thought and make her his wife. Whether this was true or a result of the aphrodisiac she had drunk there was no way of knowing, but whatever it was, Angela was in heaven.

  She raised her legs, digging her nails into his back, hugging him closer to her. By now he was no longer in control, bucking wildly as he chased his climax. He reached it, grunting and thrusting, his libation spurting from him. He fell on top of her and she revelled in his weight. It made her feel complete, conquered and enslaved.

  She was utterly replete, cuddling him in her arms when he finally rolled off, and pulling the quilt over them both. He slept, his eyes hidden beneath thick, curling lashes, the lines smoothed from his face, making him look almost boyish. The house was now silent, the revellers either having taken their departure or snoring where they had fallen in the rotunda.

  They could still be happy together, she thought, then it would all seem like a bad dream, and worn out by their excesses, she dropped into oblivion.

  Angela was in the Lairdland Manor grounds, running across the lawns and into the little copse, making towards the lake. She was happy and light-hearted and her father was not far away. He had gone fishing and she was to join him. She could hear the sound of water and splashing and laughter. He wasn’t alone, then? She became anxious, pushing her way through bushes and undergrowth that clung stubbornly to her skirt. It was as if they were trying to stop her reaching him.