Luckily The Colonel was able to smuggle Mistress Madonna into the house without too much of a problem. Using the tradesmen's entrance, they managed to evade The General's wife, and in no time at all she was ensconced in the room set aside for her. The servants knew what was good for them and they would keep quiet, so all was going to plan. She spent an hour or so preparing herself, first of all taking a good hot, cleansing bath and then dressing and making herself up in the fashion she thought might have the most effect on The General. Finally she was satisfied and The Colonel led her to the door of the nursery, where inside, The General was waiting with growing impatience.
The Colonel wished her luck, took his leave of her and went off to find some diversion of his own. Deliberately not knocking, she flung the door open and stepped inside. The General heard her come in and turned around, ready to tear a strip off whoever it was that had disturbed his privacy without even the courtesy of signalling their entry. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Framed in the open doorway, she stood, legs wide, balanced on high stilettos, dressed to stun a military man and carrying a long fly-ended whip and a riding crop.
It was not often The General was lost for words, but this was one of those rare occasions. She was tall. Much taller than he had expected. And all in black. From her flowing ebony tresses down to the exaggeratedly pointed tips of the multi-buckled ankle boots. And in between! A laced up, underwired leather basque with no breast cups displayed her breasts to their best advantage. Heavy and full they begged for his attention and her broad brown areolae with their nutmeg nipples beckoned his tongue. Long black suspenders disappeared under her silk-thin fine leather knickers. Emerging from their short cut wide legs, they travelled down the long length of her thighs to clip into the wide, deeper black band of her stocking tops. She wore black leather gloves with the fingers cut out, showing her shining black nail polish. Around her neck was a broad, spiked leather collar and on her head a high fronted, peaked cap that would not have been out of place in the SS. Over her shoulder was slung a gun-belt stuffed full of shotgun cartridges and snapped over the leather were two pairs of steel handcuffs.
The General did not know it but he was about to tangle with an adversary of far greater mettle than any he had encountered on the battlefield. Taking a grip on himself, he steadied his rushing pulse. But he could not control the beast uncoiling inside his trousers. Mistress Madonna missed nothing and fixed her gaze firmly on to it. He reddened slightly but made no attempt to hide it. In fact he started to fiddle with his fly buttons.
"Shut the door and come over here."
A straightforward, simple order such as he was used to issuing. But you do not order Mistress Madonna to do anything. It was the other way around and he would have to learn that quickly.
"Shut it yourself." And pointing the riding crop at his opening flies. "And just what do you think you're doing there?"
"I'm going to fuck you. That's what you're here for."
She walked slowly and deliberately up to The General with a look of purpose on her face that saw him cease his struggle to wrest open the stubborn buttons. His hand was still at his fly and with the tip of the crop she moved it away, instantly delivering a lightning, crippling smack, down on to his errant member with the haft. He went straight down on his knees, purple-faced and his hands clutching his injured manhood. It was minutes before he could speak.
"Damn and blast you woman. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
She lifted his chin with the tip of the crop.
"I'm correcting an insolent, presumptuous, bombastic oaf. And no doubt gout-ridden at that."
"Madam, you're an insubordinate trollop. I'll have you horsewhipped."
"I don't think so, General."
And waving the crop in front of his eyes:
"Although I may very well find a use for a horsewhip myself."
"This is not all what I expected and..."
His words dried up as Mistress Madonna stood over him, her crotch close to his face and with two fingers tugged the loose leg of her supple leather knickers over her sex. He could see it all. A forest of thick bushy pubes fell over long wavy, slightly parted labia. And the aroma. It filled his nostrils. Musky and tinged with a fragrance that titillated his senses. He had not been this close to a cunt since he got married. His throbbing cock stiffened despite the pain it still felt.
"Are you sure about the whipping General?"
He wasn't; but of one thing he was a million per cent certain. He wanted his weapon stuck as far into this marvellous mare's hole as it would go. Now!
Mistress Madonna however, had other ideas. Keeping The General down on his knees she told him that this was not the Military and she was not one of his subordinates. But there were still rules to follow, regulations to conform to. But they were hers. And in that one respect, it was the same as the Army, any breaking of the rules would bring punishment. Instant and brutal. Just as it would on the battlefield.
"Now, get up and close the door."
The General did as he was ordered. This was a completely new experience for him.
"Over there, by the window. I want to get a good look at you."
He went over and stood in the light from the huge bay window. Mistress Madonna walked around him, examining him critically and occasionally prodding him with the crop. He was still fairly firm under the jodhpurs but she could not determine properly what his upper body was like beneath the hunting pink of his jacket. She had been quite surprised that he was dressed for hunting and not more casually attired. Or as she had most expected in full uniform. But their appointment coincided with the first day of The Hunt and so he had thought that he would have a quick fuck before he got stuck into exterminating the foxes. When The Hunt was over, and after the Ball, he had intended to spend the night catching up on all the sex he had been deprived of since he took a wife. But he had thought wrong.
The first thing that had struck Mistress Madonna was the fact that The General had chosen the nursery in which to conduct their first encounter. It was full of the relics of his childhood - they had to be his, because she had done her research and knew that he had never produced any offspring himself. It may have been a nursery, but like almost every other room in the mansion it was very large. And it was still decorated and kitted out to suit a child. Very strange.
A drop-sided crib stood against one wall, its quilt covered in cuddly toys. A giant teddy bear sat inside a playpen. There was a baby's high chair and an old-fashioned wooden school desk with an inkpot set into it. And a child's stool. There was a hobbyhorse. A tricycle. And a rocking horse. But it was no ordinary rocking horse. For a start it was adorned with a genuine leather hunting saddle. And it was big. Almost as big as the real thing. It was big enough for The General himself to sit upon. And looking around the room, Mistress Madonna realised that so was everything else. Every piece of furniture and every toy was a scaled-up version of the genuine article. She had discovered in minutes what his wife had not in several years. The General was nothing but a big baby.
The gun-belt and the whip laid to one side, Mistress Madonna pointed to the rocking horse with the riding crop.
"I'd like to see you on horseback General."
This time he reddened completely. A scarlet flush rushing over his face.
"My dear young lady, I..."
"Oh it's alright, General. I understand. Mistress Madonna doesn't mind if you want to re-live your childhood."
She knew it was more than that. This looked like a genuine full-blown fetish. Something she could really work on. She had formulated her plans before she came - but this offered far more interesting possibilities. Softening her attitude, she cooed like a new mother, or an attentive nanny.
"Come on now, be a good little boy and show Mistress Madonna how you can ride the horse."
Extremely sheepishly and still with s
carlet features, The General mounted the rocking horse. He gathered up the reins, but otherwise sat motionless.
"Don't be shy. Show Mistress Madonna how you ride to the hounds. I'll bet you're very good."
The General set the horse into motion, rocking slowly backwards and forwards.
"I think you can go a lot faster than that. Here, take this."
She handed him the riding crop. The General gathered the reins into one hand, speeded up the motion and tentatively brought the crop down on to the horse.
"Bravo General. You're wonderful."
And in seconds The General was lost in his own world. He rocked faster and faster, his backside rising from the saddle as he furiously lashed the hindquarters of the wooden hunter.
***
In an idle moment The Colonel had calculated that during his amorous career he had had over eighteen thousand fucks, almost as many anal shaggings, and had his cock sucked so many times that the figures were astronomical. And in return he had performed cunnilingus on almost all the willing participants. He had always regarded it as part of his duty. After all he was an officer and a gentleman.
And a gentleman never disappoints a lady.
Which was why, despite his advancing years, most of the female population of the county still regarded him as the best fuck in the universe. A little over exaggerated, but close to the truth. And it was also why at that particular moment, he had his cock stuck nine inches into The General's wife's grateful vagina. Since meeting Mistress Madonna, he had lost a lot of his appetite for fucking the 'good ladies' of his fox hunting compatriots, but it was expected of him. If he had not serviced every single one of them by the time the hunting weekend was over, the next time the ladies gathered in the withdrawing room to compare notes, his name would be mud. He was the only man they knew who would rather spend his time fucking, than racing after the hounds in pursuit of a chicken killer. And they loved him for it.
The Colonel did not really care much about foxes. One way or the other. He was not interested in bringing home the bloodied bush. Shagging was much more satisfying. For him and the ladies. What they wanted to race after was the animal in his trousers. And usually he made sure that they caught it. While their red-coated, jodhpur-clad better halves were leaping fences, blowing horns and churning up the planted acres of the tenant farmers, he was fucking himself silly with the 'little women' left behind.
"Gammy leg, old chap. Can't ride like I used to, but you fellas go ahead. We'll still be here when you come back."
That was his get-out.
"I'll keep the ladies entertained."
And he did. One, two and sometimes three at a time.
The Colonel had a good stroke. Regular, deep and rhythmic, his cock pushed in and out. Up and down. The General's wife squirmed on the end of his cannon, and closing her eyes luxuriated in the masterful stoking he was dealing out. She was plugged tight, he had a big cock. She liked big cocks. And being fucked. By anyone except The General.
She had been fucked by the butler, all three gardeners, the stable boys and all her husband's best friends. But The General himself could not get within sniffing distance of her twat. And he had no idea.
"The old girl's past it," he told The Colonel.
But The Colonel knew better. The 'Old Girl' was in fact The General's third wife, she was thirty years old, an ex-showgirl and had married The General not for love, but for money. Only he had turned out to be something of a miser. He did not give her any of the promised cash. So she did not give him any of the promised sex. The same was not true for The Colonel. He had fucked her so many times he had given up counting. He knew the inside of her vagina better than he knew the feel of his own dick. In fact he had shagged her so many times that it was becoming somewhat of a chore. Where were all the subalterns who in his own younger days would gladly have taken on the task? A word in the ear of The General from a well-fucked wife had been the springboard that had sent many a young officer on his way to greater glory. Or death.
But despite that, as he ceaselessly reamed her vagina The Colonel had to admit that she was a tasty little morsel. They were in the stables. She was bent over a bench, with her skirt thrown up over her waist and her knickers around her ankles. He was stoking her into a frenzy; mews, purrs and grunts of pleasure signalling her appreciation of his efforts. Every eye in the place was on them, but as they were all equine, then they were not committing any indiscretion. The mares peering out from their stalls provided as appreciative an audience as if they had been performing for The Hunt. And The Colonel gave them a good show.
The General's wife was building up to her climax. Her legs twitched uncontrollably and she backed on to The Colonel's cock, trying to get every last inch inside her. His balls slammed up against her rump as the speed of his thrusts increased to meet her demands for fulfilment. The sperm raced up his urethra at the same moment that she went into a frantic, jerking spasm as she reached orgasm and he hung desperately on to her thighs to hold her in position as he fucked her into the stratosphere. The erupting sperm burst through his meatus and flooded her vagina. Squealing with the thrill, she bucked and writhed on the end of his weapon, orgasm after orgasm sending jolts of tingling, numbing current coursing through her body.
Gradually she calmed down, but The Colonel kept his cock jammed deep into her vagina until every last tingle and throb had subsided.
"I'm alright now Colonel, you can pull out if you want."
"Just as you say m'dear."
"Christ Colonel, you fuck like a god."
"Nice of you to say so. I do my best."
"And I'm going to do my best for you."
And so saying, she straightened up, turned around and dropped to her knees in front of him. His cock was shiny with their combined juices and she took hold of it and guided it into her wide-open mouth. The taste was magic. She licked and slurped, cleaning off every last drop and then bobbing up and down along its length she started him on the path to ejaculation. Actually he was in rather a hurry, he had an assignation with the wife of the Master of the Hounds very shortly, but he could not deny her the pleasure of tasting more of his seed. She was good with her mouth and The Colonel was very soon spurting fountains of semen over her appreciative tongue. She did not spill a single drop, gulping every last delicious jet down her throat.
"Colonel, that was nectar from Heaven. You taste as good as you fuck. I don't usually drink before lunch, but for you I'll make an exception. How about another?"
He had to think quickly.
"Ah, sorry m'dear. There's nothing I'd like better, but there's someone I've got to see. Business you know."
He did not say what kind of business. He did not really have to. The General's wife knew full well that she did not have the only frustrated fanny that was begging for his attention. Giving his de-tumescing penis a final suck and planting a goodbye kiss on his bell-end, she started to return her own somewhat unkempt appearance into an acceptable normality.
***
In the nursery, The General was sitting behind the primary schoolboy's desk dipping his pen into the inkwell and finishing off the last of the five hundred lines Mistress Madonna had awarded him for filthy behaviour. He was still wearing the red hunting jacket but his riding boots and jodhpurs had been removed. As had his underpants. And his buttocks were striped with darkening red weals. In addition to the lines she had also given him six strokes with the riding crop, before sitting him down on his flaming backside to commence his written punishment. And he was not finding it easy. In all her prick-teasing glory, Mistress Madonna strode up and down in front of the desk swishing the whip and occasionally bending over him to check his progress. When she did, she made sure her breasts brushed his cheek, thereby strengthening the pulsing erection that pressed on the underside of the desk, threatening to lift its legs from the floor.
But The G
eneral had brought the punishment upon himself. He had been naughty, very naughty, and upset Mistress Madonna. When his moment of madness had passed and his fevered thrashing of the rocking horse had begun to calm, he had attempted to regain control of the situation. He was helped by the sound of horns and the excited barking of the dogs floating into the nursery from outside. Dismounting from the horse in a markedly sheepish fashion he went over and pulled up the large sash window.
"All set General. We're just waiting the word."
The Master of the hounds' voice wafted in through the window.
"Jolly good. Be with you in a jiffy."
"General..."
Floating to his ears, Mistress Madonna's voice was not its normal brusque authoritative self, but a sexy honey-laden silk. The General turned, and as she had known they would, all his thoughts of joining The Hunt evaporated in an instant. With the riding crop trapped between her upper arm and her body, Mistress Madonna hooked her thumbs into the waist of her knickers and wriggled the soft leather over her hips, halting them halfway down her thighs. Once more she presented him with a view of her enticing sex. But he could see all of it this time. With her legs opened wide, the knickers were stretched tight below her labia and as he watched she ran her hand down over her stomach and slipped her middle finger down the slit of her labia. It was too much. She could almost read his mind: Bugger the foxes. Somebody else could slaughter them.
He turned back to the window and leaned out.
"Sorry old chap. Just had a bit of disturbing news. Seems like the saboteurs are out and about. You carry on and I'll call in the constabulary and haul out some extra stocks of ammunition."
"As you say General."
"And make sure you get some good people up front to lead the action."
"Will do."
And The Hunt was on.
The Daughters of de Sade Page 11