The Daughters of de Sade

by Falconer Bridges

  He peered backwards through his legs as she went back over to the chest.

  The chest did not only contain fairly innocuous items like the butt pug, he was certain of that and he could only wonder what instruments of agony lay concealed in its interior. She rummaged around, pulling out a wicked looking whip. He did not like the look of that. It was evil. He breathed a sigh of relief as she put it down, only to tense up all over again when she withdrew a springy rattan cane which she tested for pliability by flexing it into a tight bow, before swishing it through the air. That looked even worse than the whip. It was going to hurt. He knew it. And somehow he wanted the pain. He was beginning to appreciate the connection between agony and ecstasy, between submission and joy. They were all the same. One inseparable intertwined emotion. And he wanted to taste it to the full.

  She walked back over to him, swinging the cane to and fro. He steeled himself for the forthcoming onslaught. It would be bad; the pitiless look in her eyes left no doubt about that and this time his cock was hanging down between his thighs, so that from behind she could see his helmet, bulbous and purple, dangling invitingly beneath his balls. She stood well back in order to get a good strike.

  Thwack!

  "OOooow!"

  "No blubbering. Bite your lip if you have to, but no noise."

  Smack!

  "Yeeeeoow."

  "Right then, there's nothing else for it, is there? I'll have to gag you again won't I?"

  "No. No, don't do that. I won't make a noise. I promise."

  "See that you don't... On second thoughts, you can. I want you to count the strokes out loud. And because you interrupted the thrashing, we'll start again. Twelve lashes is the punishment."

  The first stroke came flashing down, a vivid weal flaring up on Julian's backside and the first number was shouted out. And then the second. And the third, until they reached twelve. Prior to that evening Julian had not believed in Hell, but now he felt that it was not only a reality but also that he was there - in the flesh. His rump felt as if it had been pummelled with mallets and seared with flames, the pain was more intense than anything he could have imagined but at least the beating was over. And so it was, except for one final embellishment. The Headmistress slipped the cane between his legs, whipped it up between his thighs and smacked him a crippling blow to the scrotum. He collapsed, screaming and clutching his privates, writhing on the carpet in excruciating agony.

  "Good God! There you go again. Pull yourself together this instant."

  That was impossible of course and so she waited several minutes before he was able even to stop writhing. His face was still contorted with pain and tears flowed down his cheeks, but he could now speak.

  "What do you say?"

  "Th... Th... Thank you Mistress."

  "Good boy."

  And that was the exact moment that defined Julian's future.

  He loved pain.

  He had revelled in every humiliation which had been heaped on him during the evening, as well as savouring each flash of agony the various beatings had exploded into his body. He could recall each thudding impact of the ebony cane; each stinging slash of the tawse and finally each burning, slicing cut of the rattan cane.

  But more than anything he had loved that final demonic smack to the balls. It was his favourite as Mistress Madonna was to find out years later.

  Inexperienced as he was, he knew then that he would not always be able to get a shag when he wanted one, but a beating was far easier to set up. And in his case it achieved the desired results. In his heart of hearts he had never really expected that he would ever shag any female, much less The Headmistress. He knew that beneath the authoritative exterior he presented to his fag and the lower school, he was really a wimp. A leering voyeur; a wanker who relieved his sexual frustrations by masturbating over the glossy pages of fetish magazines. And his sperm was always directed at the open vagina of whatever girl was displayed on the page that he was perusing as his ejaculation began.

  He had never shot his load into a real cunt. His sexual requirements could be fulfilled in dreams. Dreams of the blowsy tarts on the pages in front of him. And all those years later when he was to encounter Mistress Madonna for the first time, he had still never ever actually fucked a real live woman, although he had sampled a few of the blow-up variety. And if shagging a woman was the same as that, then he preferred to get his pleasure in a more painful way... Little did he know.

  If he was abused, beaten, degraded and somehow came to an orgasmic conclusion, then he was happy. And The Headmistress was never to know that she had set Julian on such a self-destructive course. As far as she had been concerned that night was an end of term celebration. A short lesson for an obviously submissive boy who was unable to determine his future priorities - sexually that was. Career-wise he excelled. Added to the almost immoral sums that poured into his coffers from his professional success, was the income from his inherited estates. The one thing that he was not short of was money, which was why he was able to pay Mistress Madonna's astronomic fees. But, then again, he was only following in his deliciously depraved, but now deceased father's footsteps. So in reality he was just carrying on a family tradition.

  For Julian the memory of that fateful night had never dimmed. Ever and again he savoured it in his thoughts, especially the end of the evening when the time had finally come when both he and The Headmistress were thoroughly sated and close to exhaustion, and it was time for him to bid his last farewell. As The Headmistress ushered him from her apartments, with his body a striped carcass of welts and bruises, and although he was still suffering continuing agonies from the beatings he had received, he had made a final request:

  "Mistress, before you make me go... will you cane me one more time."

  The Daughter of De Sade

  JULIAN WANTED TO KNOW where he was being taken.

  But no one in the car would tell him, it was a surprise. Several weeks had passed since his encounter with Mistress Madonna and The Colonel in the cellar of his country house. And following that session she had been quite concerned, because upon examining Julian closely she realised that he really was in a sorry state. So she had cancelled all his appointments with her until such time as his desperately abused body had recovered, and the weals and bruises had faded. That time had now come and because it was also his birthday she had laid on an extra special treat. However if he was not a good boy and did not do exactly as he was told, well then he would have his bottom smacked until he could not sit down. And then he would be sent home to bed and would not be allowed to open his presents or have any birthday cake.

  Julian had seen the cake. It was huge and covered in fruit and cream and had a specially modelled figurine of Mistress Madonna standing on the top. And because she had never allowed him to so much as touch her, he saw a way to fulfil his lustful desires in her direction using the confectionery doll. The cochineal tips of her nipples beckoned to his lips and after sucking them dry, he imagined himself licking up the black icing between her legs that represented her pubic bush. He could taste it, musky, as it would be in real life, not sugary sweet as it would be on the doll. So he promised to be good. Very, very good. He crossed his heart and hoped to die, and Mistress Madonna said there was every likelihood that he would do just that if he did not keep his word.

  Due to the importance of the occasion and the privacy that needed to be applied to it, The Colonel had dismissed his chauffeur and was driving the Bentley himself. And that was not such a simple task as it might seem because he was sporting an absolutely giant erection, the tip of his penis pushing up through his trousers to almost touch the rim of the steering wheel. Every time he attempted to corner, or deviate from a straight path his throbbing cock got in the way of his hands.

  It was pure murder. And the reason for his discomfort was Mistress Madonna. Sat next to him on the front passenger seat
she was displaying almost every inch of her immaculately dressed, Venus-proportioned charms, she had allowed her short skirt to ride up her thighs so that her stocking tops were clearly on display. Her legs were parted in such a provocative manner that The Colonel had opted for driving with one hand and he thanked his lucky stars that the car was automatic. That freed his left hand to slip over the creamy flesh of her thighs, follow the suspenders and then dip into the moist heaven of her sex. Two fingers slid up and down the soft fleshy slit of her labia, getting wetter and wetter as her juices flowed, until there was a definite parting between the lips. His fingers found their way into the hole of her vagina, prompting a juddering twitch in his cock and a sigh of appreciation from her that surprised even him. He began to think that maybe they would not make their destination without him having to stop the car and fucking the arse off her.

  It was a nice thought. And he would have loved to have done it, except that he had made a solemn promise to Mistress Madonna. A promise to continue assisting her in the disciplining of Julian. And the more he helped her, the more he shagged her. It was as simple as that. So for the moment he concentrated on the task in hand, which was transporting her and her charges to their destination.

  Julian was sitting on the rear seat, dressed in his favourite school uniform: a schoolboy's cap, a blazer with his house colours sewn around the edge, a white shirt and school tie, short trousers that finished halfway down his thighs and long woollen knee-length socks. And he was blindfolded. Crushed up on either side of him were two of Mistress Madonna's closest associates. Her sisters. Julian was in for one hell of a birthday treat - and for one monster hole in his bank balance. He had one hand clamped on the naked flesh of each of his companions, just above their stocking tops where the meat of the thighs gets smoother and more prick teasing. But his instructions were firm. That was his limit, no higher. Not one inch. And so his cock throbbed, his fingers itched to slip just that little bit further towards the two juicy cunts that were so tantalisingly close, and his eyes watered in blinkered blindness.

  She had done it again.

  Mistress Madonna had set up a situation guaranteed to drive Julian to the brink. He hated her for that, although he did love the punishment and the humiliation that were always the focus of her sessions with him. She knew how to punish him and tease him and leave him screaming for a fulfilment he would never get. Not with her anyway.

  And so she had arranged something very special for that day.

  An outing with her and The Colonel. And two staggeringly Amazonian women whose overwhelming power and stature were later almost to cause him to ejaculate at the mere sight of them. In addition, she had told him that if he was a really exceptionally well-behaved little person, then there was a chance that he might get to do much more than just lust after the two female warriors' vaginas. In so many words she had said that not only might he get to sniff a red-hot cunt, but also he might be allowed to taste it. To lick it. To roll his tongue over a tasty, musky sexhole and sink his teeth into a rock hard bullet of a clitoris. He really wanted to do that. And the thought of it all projected his grown man's penis into an erection that pulsed down along the top of his thigh to poke out below the bottom of the leg of his schoolboy's short trousers.

  But there had also been a hint at an even greater possibility. He might actually get to dip his wick. To sink his cock deep into a real female orifice. Not hers of course; not Mistress Madonna's, but one, or maybe even both of the six-foot tall sisters' sexes. He was in no doubt that they were his birthday present. And The Colonel and the three women were in even less doubt that he was mistaken.

  The day had started off in a pretty extraordinary fashion, even for Julian.

  "Forgive me Mistress for I have sinned."

  The words themselves were not too unusual, Julian had begged for mercy many times before. But never quite so ardently. He was on his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back, the handcuffs themselves being tightly chained to the collar looping his neck, pulling his head back and projecting his Adam's Apple into a solid visible lump beneath his chin. Mistress Madonna's scornful eyes surveyed his pathetic figure, knelt as it was in the Augean filth of the cellar. She spent a few moments contemplating the utter squalor of her surroundings. The cellar had not been exactly pristine before, but now after the huge pipes passing through the wall close to the ceiling had burst and spilt their obnoxious contents all over the walls and floors, the atmosphere was positively nauseating. If a man's home is truly his castle, then in Julian's case his castle was now his pigsty. Hercules himself could not have diverted enough rivers to clean up this particular mess.

  But Julian would have to. Mistress Madonna had made her mind up on that point. Birthday or not, 'His Naughtiness' would have to make an attempt to restore his realm to some semblance of order. The level of the dirty water, made blacker by all the coal dust it was soaking up, rose to her calves, and with Julian sitting back on his heels his whole bottom half was submerged. His backside, balls and cock were all being lapped by wavelets of effluent as the pipes continued to disgorge their contents. But whereas his other intimate parts were all at or beneath water level, his cock was straining skywards.

  It was her again.

  Mistress Madonna.

  He was immovably bound, up to his arse in filthy water and yet he still sported an erection. And why? Because she stood legs astride with her naked, bushy mons only inches from his salivating mouth. Added to that, his nose was working overtime, the musky aroma of her sex being sniffed into his nostrils with all the vigour he could muster.

  Whack! The cane fell across his shoulders, biting and painful.

  "Stop that, you dirty little beast."

  Julian bit his lip, flinching with the hurt. But he did not stop sniffing. So far, the pleasure being generated by the intimate aromas of her sex as they wafted up his nose was much greater than the pain occasioned by the cane. She widened her stance, ensuring that he got a full view of her long, wavy and slightly parted labia. His prick jerked in response, just as she knew it would. And the cane slashed down once again, just as he knew it would. It was a little game they played: Mistress Madonna provoked him into misbehaving, he responded and she punished him. She controlled him like a puppet and he danced on the end of her string... more than happy to be her undeserving slave.

  The end of the cane prodded his throat, prompting his Adam's Apple to bob up and down as he swallowed nervously. She fixed her eyes on his straining cock poking up through the murky water. The cane made little rippling circles as she stirred its tip around his bell-end and Julian tried to look down to see exactly what she was doing. He always got a little nervous when she started to wave the cane in the vicinity of his dick, because more often than not it was the precursor of some exceedingly painful savaging of his private parts. But he could not look anywhere except upwards at the beaver's nest that was now within licking proximity of his mouth, the tight chain binding his neck to his wrists saw to that. He could not help himself. His tongue darted from his mouth, but she was too fast for him, her honeypot moved away from his face and the cane slashed agonisingly on to his twitching purple glans.

  "Naughty, naughty Julian. What has Mistress Madonna told you?"

  It really did not matter what she had told him, the searing pain in his cock was blanking out any other consideration.

  The cane fell once more.

  "OOWhoo!"

  Julian tried. He really did. But it was impossible for him to formulate any response whatsoever. His poor, abused cock reeled in shock as he tried to soothe the agony by dipping its whole length down into the water. Cutting bites of the cane rained down on his shoulders and his back.

  "You horrid, nasty boy. Get your dick out of that dirty water this instant."

  "But you hurt it."

  Smack!

  "Don't answer back."

  "But..."

&nbs
p; One word was as far as he got. A flurry of vicious strikes from the cane lacerated his arms and abdomen. He was beginning to glow, as he always did after she had got to work on him. Glow on the inside as well as out.

  Nothing could rival the thrill of this treatment. He loved her to thrash him and stripe his flesh, and beat him into submission. Often long after she had departed, he would stand naked, admiring his abused body. Every slash of the cane or whip that had bruised, cut or marked him being recalled as he masturbated frantically. Mistress Madonna was right... he was a dirty little pervert. And a guaranteed source of income.

  "If you don't stop being naughty and be a good little baby, Mistress Madonna will have to cancel your birthday treat."

  "Oh, please don't... What is it anyway?"

  That was for her to know and for him to find out, she told him. And he would not find out until he started behaving himself and doing what she ordered.

  "I'll do it. Anything, you know I will."

  She did. She was just testing him.

  "Good. So, get to work. Clean up the cellar."

  "What!?"

  "You heard, you little shit. Clean up the cellar."

  "But I can't. The pipes have burst. It's full of filthy water."

  Julian was right of course, but she was not going to stand for her insolent charge answering back.

  "Don't be silly, of course you can."

  And with that, she pressed one stilettoed heel into his back and tipped him head first into the water. With his hands cuffed behind his back he was unable to push himself up, thrashing around snorting and choking until he managed to turn on to his side, and supported on his shoulder he was able to lift his head clear of the water.

  "You fucking rotten tart, you could have drowned me."

  "Forgotten ourselves again, haven't we?" She laid the cane along the side of his cheek to emphasise the point. "Now, say sorry to Mistress Madonna."