Brought to Heel

by Brought to Heel [Nexus] (retail) (epub)

  The mistress shook the miserable girl violently. ‘Flaunting yourself like a common street girl in front of Herr Kitzler and his important guests. I’ve warned you girl what would happen if I caught you –’

  ‘But, Frau Kitzler, I didn’t –’

  ‘Silence, you little Hungarian slut. I saw you. I saw everything,’ the mistress thundered, unbuckling a dark leather belt from her trim waist. She dragged a stool from beneath a table and positioned it with her foot in the centre of the red-tiled floor. It squeaked, grating harshly. ‘Get across that stool, girl,’ she commanded. ‘I’m going to teach you once and for all. Across the stool, girl, at once. No, leave your skirts alone. I will arrange you and bare your bottom for the lash.’

  ‘Please don’t beat me –’

  ‘Silence. Across the stool.’

  Gretchen’s dark eyes widened in fear. She begged aloud for mercy. ‘Please, mistress, do not lash me. I truly didn’t –’

  ‘Obey my instructions, did you?’ Frau Kitzler snarled. ‘I warned you not to disport yourself before your master.’ She jabbed her finger down dominantly to the awaiting stool and snapped the leather belt harshly.

  Tearfully, the trembling girl lowered herself face down over the seat, settling her belly into the hard, polished wood. She whimpered softly as she felt the capable hands of her angry mistress dragging her skirts up over her thighs to her hips, fully exposing the swollen curves of her calico-sheathed buttocks. Grunting softly with exertion, one hand pinning the wriggling girl across the stool, the other hand gripping the belt, Frau Kitzler used her teeth to tug at the cami-knickers’ laces, pulling them open with a savage toss of her head. Again using her teeth, she peeled the calico down across the plump cheeks. Gretchen moaned as the hot breath of her mistress kissed her bare buttocks. For a brief moment, Frau Kitzler sank her face into the bottom she proposed to beat, eliciting a shrill squeal from her victim squirming across the stool.

  ‘Little Magyar witch,’ the cruel Frau hissed, her words muffled by the soft flesh crushed up into her lips. ‘I’ll make you suffer for your wanton wickedness.’

  ‘No –’ the bare bottomed girl squealed her final protest, instantly squealing her torment as the leather belt whistled down to snap-crack across her rounded cheeks.

  As the belt rose and lashed down repeatedly across her helpless buttocks, pinkish red weals deepened to a purpling shade of pain across their creamy flesh. Gretchen struggled to escape but Frau Kitzler’s pinioning hand was steady – as steady as her unerring aim with the dark hide was sure. Plying the belt viciously in a mounting frenzy of jealous rage, the master patissier’s wife lashed the jerking buttocks relentlessly. As the searing scald of her punishing stripes blazed, Gretchen clenched her fists tightly. Her sobs echoed around the white-tiled walls of the pantry. It was so unjust. So unfair.

  Frau Kitzler paused, doubling the supple length of leather up in her hand. Bending back down, bringing her face to the whipped cheeks, she carefully examined the red stripes bequeathed by the belt across the upturned buttocks. First she fingered, then she licked, each savage weal, dimpling the ravished cheeks with her dominant tongue. Gretchen sobbed aloud, drumming her feet into the red-tiled floor as she jerked her buttocks up into the face of her punisher.

  ‘Keep still, slut,’ the stern Frau whispered.

  Gretchen did not obey the strict command. The mouth at her hot cheeks opened. Seconds later, Gretchen screamed as the teeth of her tormentress bit deeply into the punished flesh.

  Frau Kitzler stood up, rebuttoning the cuff of her right sleeve. She flicked the belt down once more across Gretchen’s bottom, then coiled the suppled hide up into a tight curl. ‘I’ve no time to whip you thoroughly now. There’s work to be done. A special cake to be made. That was just a taste of what you’ll get if I ever catch you at your lewd wickedness again, my girl. Understand? A taste,’ she repeated, bringing the coiled belt to Gretchen’s lips. ‘Taste and remember,’ the cruel Frau whispered.

  Gretchen obeyed, flinching from the harsh tang as she reluctantly kissed and tongued the dark hide.

  When not drudging in the heat and noise of the kitchens, Gretchen was forced to work as a waitress upstairs in the busy coffee house. There were over sixty white-linened tables beneath the carved oak ceiling from which hung huge bronze chandeliers. The walls of crimson velvet were hung with patriotic prints. Frequented by the cream of Vienna, Otto Kitzler’s emporium was always bustling. Halfway along the teeming Hildburghausenplatz, it was the favourite haunt of musicians, spies, poets, anarchists, clerics, businessmen and the more raffish element of Viennese nobility. Mahler came for his mocha every morning, while Gustav Klimt argued art with von Zemkinsky every night.

  When not eluding the lustful embraces of the greasy patissier, Gretchen was evading the jealous vengeance of his cruel wife. Quick and nimble as she was, the dark-eyed girl was frequently caught by both her tormentors.

  Gretchen despised her Austrian masters. A Magyar from a remote village in distant Bohemia, she had made the difficult journey to Vienna to be apprenticed to the famous Otto Kitzler – whose delicious cakes and confections had reputedly held up the departure of the royal train to Trieste until they had cooled from his ovens and had been sugared by his hand. With Bohemia under the iron heel of the occupying Austrian army, Gretchen had come to Vienna, bringing with her all her impoverished family’s hopes – only to find herself in servitude beneath the Kitzler yoke. They taught her nothing and used her as a mere slave. Denied access to the secret arts and mysteries of cake-making, Gretchen soon realised that her apprenticeship would be a long, miserable trial before she could return to her village to restore her family’s fortunes.

  At nine each night, Gretchen folded away her long white apron and slipped away out into the crisp snow-covered streets. Tonight, it was bitterly cold, with the silver stars glittering up in the black sky above Vienna.

  She trudged along the Hildburghausenplatz, slipping frequently. Glimpsing into the blaze of the brightly lit windows of the shops, she saw the fine silks and satins of her Austrian oppressors, saw the virile lobsters they dined on and the carp-crammed barrels of brine. Cold and hungry, she longed for a slice of the pungent hams and fragrant cheeses displayed on the shelves, averting her shy gaze from the lewd wurst sausages at which black-stockinged schoolgirls giggled.

  To reach her shabby attic at the top of her ramshackle lodgings in Kapellstrasse, Gretchen had to walk through the vast Prater, Vienna’s notorious open-air amusement park. The Prater, as usual, was thronged with people wrapped in furs enjoying the music, lights and fairground rides. By the large wrought-iron bandstand, Gretchen saw the young prostitutes, masked and cloaked, tempting the soldiery and citizens, shopkeepers and noisy young students with their voluptuous charms. Naked beneath their dark velvet cloaks, they would fleetingly display themselves, shivering and smiling, their pale bosoms bouncing invitingly.

  Gretchen scuttled past the gates of the Wahring Cemetery, making the sign of the cross hurriedly, and turned into the meaner quarters of the imperial city. Soon she was in Kapellstrasse. Up in her bleak, unheated attic, she boiled up some cabbage soup before carefully undressing. Naked, she draped the single blanket around her shoulders and drank her meagre bowl of soup, eked out with a slice of sour rye bread.

  In bed, she fingered the weals on her bottom, shivering as she remembered the heat of the leather belt across her naked flesh. A peal of laughter rose up through the carpetless floorboards from the room below. Gretchen curled up in her narrow bed and tried to sleep. Laughter, a shout and the sound of breaking glass from below woke her from the very edge of sleep.

  Sitting up in bed, she sighed. How much had she managed to save? she wondered. Taking her small leather purse from beneath her hard pillow, she emptied the coins on to her bed. Look after the groschen, her parents had warned, and the schillings will take care of themselves. The small heap of coins added up to very little – not even her fare back to her family. A silver schilling spilled
down on to the floor, rolling across the uncarpeted floorboards to a shadowed corner of her spartan attic room. A whole schilling. Lost. Scrambling anxiously down from her bed on to her knees, Gretchen peered into the gloom. There, a soft gleam brought a cry of joy to her lips. She stretched out a trembling fingertip to touch the small coin – but found only a small hole through which the light from the room below glinted. Her left knee found the missing coin. Gretchen winced as she made the painful discovery, sitting back on her heels and clutching the schilling in triumph.

  The hole in the floorboard fascinated her. Kneeling, she brought her dark eye down to its light. Through it, she saw the room below. Unlike the darkness of her own, it was warmly illuminated by five oil lamps. Brooding purple silk coverings dressed the walls, from which four huge sumptuously gilded mirrors hung, their large ovals of silver glass reflecting two naked figures on a single bed.

  Gretchen gasped – with surprise at the unexpected splendour of the exotically furnished room in the Kapellstrasse slum, and with shocked delight at the kneeling woman, her wrists bound by black velvet ribbons, being mounted and savagely pleasured from behind by the naked man. Gretchen glimpsed the mask and dark cloak abandoned on a zebra skin rug and suddenly understood. Beneath her, a prostitute from the Prater was busily entertaining a client.

  As Gretchen watched, the naked man, hips pumping and neck arching, groaned as he emptied himself into the kneeling prostitute’s buttocks. The watching girl’s breasts grew heavy, her nipples thickening pleasurably and peaking in a plucking pain. At the juncture of her tightly clamped thighs, a warm ooze moistened her labial folds.

  Blushing with shame, Gretchen silently rose up from the hard floorboards and tiptoed back to her cold bed. Under her blanket, she shivered – not from the cold of her lonely attic but from the dark delights haunting her imagination. Her fingers strayed down from her hardened nipples across her belly to play at her wet pubic fringe. Closing her eyes, she conjured up the scene glimpsed through her spy hole – images of the bound, kneeling prostitute, writhing as she was ridden by the naked man at her buttocks.

  Gretchen peeled her outer fleshfolds apart and furtively sought out her wet heat. Inexperienced, her thumbtip blindly probed to strum and stroke her clitoris. Frustrated and unskilled in the business of self-pleasuring, the village girl from distant Bohemia merely succeeded in tormenting and igniting her slippery slit. An impatient plunge of two straightened fingers into her pulsing heat caused her buttocks to clench and spasm. A low moan broke from her parted lips as her belly fluttered and then tensed. Driving her fingers deeper into her wetness as she squirmed her bottom into the mattress, she pumped frantically – just as she had witnessed the naked man spearing the proffered buttocks of the bound prostitute on the bed in the ornate room below.

  But her joy eluded her. However hard she tried, the girl beneath the blanket in her narrow bed could not achieve the carnal ecstasy she desired. Even though the cleft between her swollen cheeks had become hot and sticky, and her brutally fingered pussy a tingling seethe, something in her subconscious mind forbade the ultimate delight.

  Suddenly, in her simple, unlettered and unschooled way, Gretchen knew why. The naked, kneeling prostitute whose tightly bound hands symbolised her utter submission and surrender was like Bohemia, Gretchen’s beloved homeland. Occupied by the brutal Austrians, Bohemia lay helpless like the girl below, while a stranger took pleasure in her prostration.

  Gretchen snarled with both anger and frustration. Resting her sticky fingers up by her face on the pillow, she twisted and turned over in her bed, collapsing at length into a dream-troubled sleep.

  Gretchen woke. It was bitterly cold. The nearby clock tower struck one. Gretchen had only slept for a few hours. She sat up in her bed, straining to listen. Soft noises rose up from the room below. Voices. The movement of furniture. Curious, Gretchen tiptoed across her uncarpeted floor back to the spy hole in the darkest corner of her bedroom. Kneeling, she peered down at the prostitute’s gilded lair below.

  There was a new client. An Austrian army captain, resplendent in his silver and blue uniform, was undressing with methodical care. His black polished boots and golden sabre rested by the door. In the middle of the floor, a pair of what looked like crude wooden stocks had been arranged. A length of bamboo cane glinted in the lamp-light as it rested on the striped zebra skin rug. The prostitute, Gretchen frowned as she gazed down in puzzlement, was still fully masked and cloaked, making no move to disrobe.

  Her heart thumped excitedly and her dry throat constricted. Gretchen suddenly felt slightly dizzy – and ill. She could not bear to silently witness another example of brutal humiliation and submission. No. She could not stay to witness the cruel Austrian army captain force the nude into the subjugation of the wooden yokes and lash her bared buttocks with the whippy cane.

  Back in her bed, Gretchen pressed her fingers into her ears to stop the sounds of punishment from the room below. But her arms began to ache – and her curiosity became intense. Easing her elbows down on to the mattress, she shuddered as she heard the eerie sound: the thin, terrifying whistle of the lashing cane. Swish, swipe. Then, a heartstopping pause. Another swish, swipe. A prolonged pause. Swish, swipe. It was a measured punishment. Unhurried, signalling the total dominance of the caner over the caned.

  Gretchen strained eagerly as she listened. No sound, no cry of anguish or grunt of satisfaction, accompanied the strokes of cruel wood across naked flesh. A warm bubble silvered at Gretchen’s sticky labia. She clamped her thighs together, denying this treacherous betrayal of her body over her purer spirit. The action merely caused the bubble to burst silently. The warm scald dripped down, soaking her cleft. Gretchen, appalled at her own powerlessness over her Judas flesh, whimpered. No. She would not crawl back to the spy hole and peer down upon the scene of domination and discipline. No. Memories of her beloved Bohemia ravaged by Austrian sword and flame forbade it. No, Gretchen thought, pressing her fingers back into her ears.

  But the images behind her eyes burned deeply into her brain. As if in a trance, she unstopped her ears once more and listened. Eagerly. Anxiously. There it was again. The haunting swish and slice of the punishing cane. Out of bed, as if drawn by the mesmeric rhythm of the unseen – but understood – strokes being administered below, Gretchen crawled on all fours to the spy hole. Swish, slice. Her nipples grazed the rough wood as she bent down to the gleam in the darkness before her. Swish, slice. Her breasts bulged as, crouching intently, she crushed them beneath her.

  Gretchen’s cry of joy almost betrayed her presence to those she spied upon. Down below, straining in his yoked bondage, the Austrian army captain writhed as the prostitute, dressed only in his black boots and her concealing mask, viciously plied the stinging bamboo. Treading dominantly down with her booted left foot, the masked nude pinned her helpless victim into utter submission. From time to time, between the searing strokes across his severely caned buttocks, the whipper brought the toe of her polished boot to the lips – and then up between his thighs to the dangling balls – of the whipped.

  Gretchen came immediately, without having to use her fingers at her seething heat. Grinding her breasts and pubis into the rough floorboards savagely, she hammered her hips as her first orgasm ebbed then exploded into the climax of its successor.

  The prostitute was bending down now. Gretchen blinked away the crimson blur from her drunken eyes. She watched the masked nude carefully threading the oiled lash of a dog whip around the thick cock and sac of her yoked victim. Gretchen moaned and held her breath, fearing that it would take only the slightest of sighs to trigger off yet another savage paroxysm of sweet ecstasy. The army captain, commissioned to proudly bear the Austrian black eagle, fluttered like a ragged crow in his subjugation. The prostitute rose up, gripping the ivory shaft of the dog whip in her left hand. She jerked it. Her naked victim groaned – Gretchen thrilled to the sight of his hands, protruding from the wooden stocks, splay in agony. She knew that under the controlling
tether of the dog whip at his cock, he could not release his hot seed. Gretchen blushed but savoured his anguish – just as she savoured the justice of the red weals across his cheeks and the oiled lash tied tightly around his churning balls.

  The yellow cane glinted as it rose. Swish. Another thin red line blazed across his whipped buttocks. The masked nude lashed the cane three more times then, kneeling, probed the tip of her bamboo rod into the cleft of her victim. The army captain yelled; his protest was silenced by the polished boot at his lips. He kissed the boot then licked it, like a whipped cur licks its wounds. Back at his buttocks, the kneeling prostitute inserted two, then four, inches of the cane between the whipped cheeks.

  Gretchen came again, threshing and gasping aloud as her naked body writhed in ecstasy on the hard wooden floor. On the hard wooden floor – above the spectacle of surrender, submission and savage suffering below.

  Gretchen slept heavily, awaking to the clear chime of the nearby clock tower striking seven. She was late. Without washing, she dressed and ran, slipping twice in the snow, all the way to the Hildburghausenplatz bakery and coffee shop.

  In the kitchen, she diced cherries and peeled vanilla pods, her fingers clumsy with both tiredness and the cold. Otto Kitzler returned from the bank and toured his kitchens, inspecting every worker. At Gretchen’s wooden table, he gazed down at the shining red cherries piled up in their white porcelain bowl. He nodded his approval. In the blue Dresden dish, stripped and diced vanilla pods met with his satisfaction. Gretchen was washing apricots, one by one, before thumbing their soft flesh open to extract the dark stones.

  The master patissier paused, sniffing inquisitively. The air was richly perfumed with the cloying aromas of sachertorte ingredients, but through the sweet miasma his nostrils caught the feral tang of Gretchen’s unwashed pussy.

  Standing directly behind her, his hot breath on the nape of her neck, he clutched at her hips with his fat hands. Drawing her dominantly back into his rough embrace, he raked her buttocks with his engorged prick. Her soft cheeks squirmed, enflaming the twitching shaft at her cleft. Imprisoning her firmly, his cruel fingers digging into her shoulders, he once more forced her soft bottom on to his bulging white apron.