by Willow Sears
But oh, to try a cock in private–a really long, silky beauty just like this one between the blades of my shears. At these moments I feel fully possessed, like I am capable of anything. I know that if I don’t act immediately then I will be lost to it. Wiry Dude must have been able to feel the near-mania coming off me. I could see by the way the velvet of the hood was being sucked rapidly in and out of his wide open mouth that his hysteria was peaking, despite his silence. He could not fail to feel my tremble transferred through the shears and into the blades as I struggled to hold off just a little while longer. He could hear the blades at his ear again, rasping shut once, twice, three times. He could tell the next time they went to his prick would be the last. What he couldn’t tell was that I then put the shears down and picked up the metal ruler and my thin cane. It is a game I am now well versed in and have practised to perfection with one particular victim, bringing in Kitty as my accomplice to spice it all up. The hard-edged ruler goes under the cock to represent one blade and the cane on the top, to press down like the shears before. Apparently you can feel no difference.
“It’s coming off,” I whisper as the cane pushes down. “It’s coming off right now!”
I know the victim cannot believe that I will do it but the fear and adrenalin must be pouring through them. And then I actually do it. I raise the cane six inches and bring it down sharply across the width of the prick, sending a burning pain through it both from above and also below as it forces the soft underside of the member into the ruler. Then I withdraw and Kitty steps in, dropping a suitably sized raw sausage onto the floor, ensuring it lands on one of the victim’s feet. She then follows this up by sloshing some warmed olive oil from a little jug onto his thigh, to run like blood down his leg. She has perfected her technique now, putting her fingers into the oil and flicking little droplets like spattering gore onto the ankles and feet of my victim. All that unfortunate soul can feel is a dull throb where he believes his cock once was and the residual sharpness of the pain where the cut was apparently made. Their hysteria and bewilderment prevents deeper analysis of what has just occurred. Wiry Dude was wrenching at the shackles and panting the same muffled word fuck! over and over. I gave him maybe ten long seconds of utter panic before removing his hood to let him stare at his still present, still long and proud prick reaching out towards me, just as before.
His nonchalance had gone. His face had drained of blood and his breath came in fluttering fits and starts. He was trying to appear composed, as any victim of a practical joke does, but the relief was plain to see. I thought it safest to keep his cuffs on but released the chain from the clip fastener on the frame above him so that I could take him from the whipping post. I led him by his pulsing prick over to the motorcycle, where the still hooded Sissy Boy was chained. I drizzled the remaining oil along Wiry Dude’s long cock and gave him a slow stroke to lubricate his tool and lure the spunk back out of his balls so that he was once again more than ready to shoot. He mumbled his protests but couldn’t prevent me from offering his prick up to the Sissy Boy’s undefended anus. I had the cock press forward so that it began to spread the tight ring–not to penetrate more than a fraction, just to open it ready for entry. Wiry Dude flinched at the contact with this other man’s shitter. His jaw tensed at the horror and humiliation of this gay act, but his cock knew nothing but a desire to pour the bottled-up spunk into any hole it was given. There were to be no more luscious swollen cunts for him to sink into this night; if he wanted a fuck passage, it was to be this rectum or nothing.
He was shaking his head slightly and gritting his teeth, desperate not to give in. The elation of still having a cock to spunk out of was ripping at his revulsion of this emasculating act. Sissy Boy was not helping, giving effeminate squeals of delight and trying to push his hips backwards, unable to see but very aware of the blunt end opening him up and promising to fill him in a way he was no doubt well used to. I stroked the rigid length slowly.
“Go on, gay boy,” I taunted, “bury your cock and give your pansy boyfriend a good fucking.”
Wiry Dude held back but I could feel his resistance crumbling. I had Kitty go behind him and slide her finger up his arse while I maintained my slow stroking. He gasped at the invasion but his cock throbbed in my hand. I told Kitty to use two fingers and his eyes widened, the sweat now beading at his forehead as he struggled to stop the forward slide his cock was begging for. Still he was able to resist. I stepped back and got Black Bitch up to help Kitty, so that both of them were cramming his rectum and wiggling their fingers against his sensitive gland. He was practically crying but still held off, so I beat him, tapping his cock with my cane, making him flinch and jerk so that his glans felt the tingling friction of the tight ring trying to swallow him up. And that was enough. He let out a cry of despair which rose to a roar of shame and gratification as he drove his cock home, right to the balls.
You bitch! he repeated again and again as he pressed his cuffed hands into the small of Sissy Boy’s back to hold him in position while he fucked him furiously. He was referring to me, of course, not to the man who was giving his arse so freely, or to either of the girls cramming and stretching his own rectum so roughly. I watched with anxious fascination as the great length plunged in and out of the sissy’s backside. It had me shuddering. How could it possibly be taken by a human body? Where did it all go? The cock was jammed right in and must have pushed through the intestines, must have pierced the stomach and the organs. There was no way I could have taken this merciless lancing, this metal-hard length of endless meat inside me without being killed–slain by the lead piping in the Scold Room. Just how did others do it?
Despite my pangs of horror I was still triumphant. The look on his face was a wonderful mix of mortification and desire that perfectly encapsulated his utter ignominy and the shameful joy he felt from being made to do it. I could see why Ariadne made her men commit such acts upon each other. It was fascinatingly bestial to witness: the force and the muscle, the lack of soft femininity, the shame mixed with the bitter inability to prevent their selfish cocks from just driving on and on. You could almost smell their masculinity as it was wrung from them to evaporate into the ether. The wiry fuck would have to go back and report this humiliation to his mistress Ariadne and I know that she would feel a grudging respect at what I had put him through. Perhaps she had never been able to break him before this. Maybe it would convince her to become my lover, and we could form an awesome team of all-fucking super-Dommes!
Normally I might have prevented the ejaculation and cut the victim off in his prime to let them crawl off to the corner and suffer a hurtful, mistimed and lonesome orgasm, just to remind them who was boss. In this case I felt it would be far more humiliating to let my wiry adversary flood the bowels of another man, to let him display his undeniable enjoyment of this gay fuck by coming to a yelling, grimacing ball-clenching finish inside his male lover. Even as he was still heaving and swearing and gripping the flesh beneath his fingers I had seen enough and wanted them all to go. I needed my own relief and Kitty deserved one of the private, close doggy humps she so loved before I sent her on her way. I had the girls stop their dirty arse fingering and discard their soiled gloves onto Sissy Boy’s back. I had Kitty go into the bathroom to oil her cunt in readiness. I unshackled the boys and told them to get dressed and leave, neither of them able to offer any vocal response after being drained by their intense fuck.
As I turned I saw him in the corner. I had completely forgotten the fat fuck in his blueberry costume, still obediently sitting on his hands. The mask holes vaguely displayed the brightness in his eyes but his excitement was more obvious in the tiny, blue-netted erection that poked out below his round paunch. It was barely more than finger-sized; four inches long at the very most and thin too. The tip only just protruded from the covering skin and a little blob of goo oozed from his hole. I went right over to him, drawn by the sight of his miniature thing, peering down with a frown in the dull light to see it better. And th
ere it was in all its pathetic glory: the first stiff prick that I had ever clapped eyes on that could possibly fit inside me. It was absolutely pitiful. It almost made me want to crush it under my boot just to obliterate the shared embarrassment. Instead it made me laugh out loud. I know this was cruel but I just couldn’t help myself. It was almost a sense of relief at seeing a cock that wouldn’t kill me mixed with the sheer pointlessness of it and the irony that it belonged to a ridiculous man dressed like a giant fruit.
My laughter made him swiftly pull his hands out from under him and close over his cock as if to hide it. Just that brief grip was all it took though, and as soon as he held his erection the end spat its spunk in thin wads that wouldn’t stop and just kept splatting against my costume just above my boot, then slowly trickling down. My laughter stopped abruptly and I felt the rage rise from my belly. The fat cunt was going to ruin one of my best costumes.
“Stop spunking, you worthless shit!” I bellowed.
He pressed both hands to his crotch to stem the flow, perhaps unsure himself how such a little thing could manage to hose my shins so thoroughly. I was left aghast, glowering at him as he bowed his head in shame. Men are such dirty, uncontrollable fuck-pigs–they just cannot help themselves.
“Get on the floor and lick your filthy mess off me!” I commanded.
To give him his due he complied quickly, but I was far too worried about stains on my costume to cut him any slack.
“Suck it all up, Blueberry, you preposterous spunk-whore!”
He did. I felt the anger drain from me to be replaced by guilt, something that had never before intruded on my punishments. He just seemed so impotent and dismal, a figure of ridicule like a stupid pet, somehow sub-human because of his physical shortcomings. The sniggering derision of the other three still present made me bristle and I snapped at them, ordering their departure. I was actually angry that Blueberry had made me feel sorry for him, as if this betrayed some terrible weakness in me. Whatever it was I felt I wanted it to end. I kicked him off me, bent down and spoke to him slowly, sternly, so that he knew that I meant what I said.
“I want you out of my house, Blueberry. Get out and don’t you dare let me lay eyes on you ever again!”
He nodded slowly, defeated. Then he got on all fours and crawled across the room and out of the door. Somehow I just knew it would not be the last I saw of him.
I sent Kitty away mid-fuck because I was hoping to be alone to dream of the cad James Frobisher, desperate for it to be a real clue to the identity of this thing inside me, and not some fabrication planted by Harvey to ensure that my visits continued. I sent Kitty away because the devil inside me started to come back out and I was worried I would lose myself and hurt her badly, which she really didn’t deserve. It is that desire to maim and bite and consume that grips me, to hurt people when I just want to be tender. In my fantasies I am dirty and harsh, but whatever filth I dish out it usually ends with closeness and tender kisses. This is something I just don’t seem to be able to give in reality, maybe because I am scared of letting my guard down. So although I receive adoration every day, shared love has to be confined to my imagination and private moments, when I can get naked and free, and dream.
I fear my dreams as much as I relish them, because of what they breed within me. They started in my early teens but were rare then, the frequency increasing as I got older. They now come a few times a month and sometimes even twice in one week–more so now, I think, because I will them. I need them now because I am desperate to find out their root cause. I am ready at last to identify the devil that inspires them so that I may drive it out. One or two of my dreams have recurred frequently over the years, whilst some have come only the once. Some are so dark my mind pushes them down where my memory cannot find them. Others like the one with Ariadne as my fellow Highway-Whore, I long to have again and go to bed thinking about it in the hope of encouraging a return. Some baffle me or are just flashes of action that I cannot pinpoint. More often than not, whatever the situation, I understand everything that is going on, the whole background story, even if I do not actually know who “I” am. The first dream I had remains the most frequent, still occurring far more than any other. It is my belief that it depicts the source of my flawed character and perhaps even contains the key to curing it. The dream is this:
I am climbing the spiral staircase in the tower, dreading that each bend will bring me face to face with him. The stone steps are aching cold beneath me but I have to be barefoot for stealth. The shadows are mocking, stretching across the walls and then receding behind corners as the wall sconces flicker. My nipples are rock hard, exacerbated by the coarse fabric of my nightgown prickling against them. I need to pinch them, to squeeze and roll them between my forefinger and thumb–a new trick recently discovered during my long hours alone. My hands won’t oblige me though, pinned as they are to the damp walls, aiding my balance as I inch ever upwards. I can feel the breath fluttering in my chest and escaping in sporadic audible huffs. I need to be quiet but I can’t, the fear and excitement fizzing through my young body. I hear distant sounds, the gasps or sobs of a woman, and then a low male murmur. The smell comes next, seeping into my nostrils, a stench of degradation and closely confined unwashed bodies.
I reach the final bend and peer tentatively around into the vestibule of the chamber. It is empty, the thick wooden door at the far side closed. From behind it come the noises: material being ripped apart, hushed pleas, stifled cries of fear. I pad into the open space at the top of the staircase, my heart clattering. I sense the scratch of straw under my feet now, a covering to help soak up the filth and possible gore. Everything is yellow-orange from the glow of the torch flames around the cold walls; everything dances and keeps me on edge. To the left lies the dark corridor that leads past the cells. I know this without even looking. It is a black passage leaking only the quietest whispers, with all those hidden down there silently straining to catch the fate of the one so recently plucked from their midst.
I am at the door, reaching up to see through the small barred aperture into the gloom beyond. There is a wooden table where he sits to take his meals but now a woman is laying bent across it, her head down and her hands gripping the edge. Her grubby white gown has been ripped apart right down the middle, exposing her completely, her back showing the lines of a whip-strike, her bottom stuck out and opened up in front of me, fearing its turn as well it might. She has a full rump for one no older than me, too meaty for any peasant. She must be the daughter of one of the Prince’s many enemies, one of the rich, false barons, perhaps betrayed in turn, his treason condemning himself and his whole family to death. Despite the titillating view of her vulnerable, lush arse, I cannot keep my eyes off him. My heart is skipping as I watch him move around her. He is huge, his size magnified by the elongated shadow cast across the chamber. He wears some kind of knee-length riding boots, not quite distinguishable in the half-light (strange how my dream doesn’t complete this minor detail). His leggings are dark brown or black and fashioned from animal hide, weathered smooth across the defined buttocks beneath so that the surface shines and you see the movement in his muscles as he paces. I get the flashing image of a horse’s hind quarters. He is stripped to the waist and has his back to me. His shoulders are broad, the arms so large and strong as he goes back and forth in semi-circles around her rear end, gently swinging the whip he holds, sizing up his target.
I can see the little conical humps following the ridge of his spine, formed I know by splitting the skin and pushing limpet shells beneath. It was a painstaking business, if memory serves; only a few could be done at a time and had to be held in place by straps around the body until they had fused into his flesh to become a part of him. I remember him stroking me and telling me it didn’t hurt, that it was his honour to carry the spine of the dragon. Because that’s what he was: if the black mask with the slits for eyes and cut-away for the mouth didn’t give the game away then his ridged spine told you without question that
he was the Draco: head of the Prince’s personal bodyguard, his chief gaoler, his executioner. The mask hides his identity but he cannot hide from me. I know him innately, every inch of him, because he is my guardian, my guardian. He is all I know. He is the one who secretly took me under his wing and made me his own when my real family were all killed. I am more like him than anyone. I even look like him. I study him always and breathe in every detail, because I worship him. Everything he does mesmerises me and I wish to copy what I can to be more like him and bring us closer still. Somehow everything about him has oozed into me now, every trait and manner, as if it was in my blood from the start. In my head he is never the Draco but my dragă, my sweetheart, and he is everything to me.
He picks his spot and delivers another lash to the victim’s back. She jerks but manages to stop her whimper escalating into a yelp. She needs to be quiet, she cannot risk enraging him. He speaks in a low flow that is curt and commanding, yet somehow soothing because of his delivery and utter control. The language is incomprehensible, my mind’s interpretation of some ancient eastern European tongue, its harsh sounds and pronunciation totally alien to me and yet I understand everything he says. His words send a shiver sweeping over me, thrilling me to my centre, bringing a smile of delight to my face because they confirm what I have come here to find out for sure. The rumours it transpires are true and, far from making me recoil, this revelation fires a surge of excitement that has me pressing my crotch hard to the door. He is telling her that she is about to die and that before he finishes her she must give him his rights as the Draco, the favours that persuade him to deliver her to the next life cleanly and quickly. I scrutinize her closely, staring at the puff of cunt poking out between her thighs, watching for involuntary signs of her worming her groin against the table edge knowing that she is going to be taken by him, that before her last breath is drawn she will be filled by the heaven of his great prick.