The Daughters of de Sade

by Falconer Bridges

  And of course the first person who was going to taste its bite was its owner, General Willis St John Smitheringale, Bart. Knight Commander of The British Empire etcetera. But in the cupboard where she had discovered the baton, Mistress Madonna had also made another discovery, stumbling upon the absolute extremes to which The General went to satisfy his fetish. It was filled with baby clothes. Nappies, rompers, bibs, in fact everything that a tot would be dressed in by a doting mother. And all in adult sizes. Adult enough for The General to wear.

  And so it was, that with the cartridges now pulled from his bottom, he was sitting in the playpen, a dummy in his mouth, hugging his teddy bear and surrounded by toy soldiers, and accurate scale models of armoured cars and heavy artillery. And with a very noticeable erection bulging inside his nappy. Mistress Madonna was sitting on a high stool, legs wide and now without her knickers. The General's eyes were stuck firmly on her pube-framed sex as she read him a story. But the words that came out of her mouth were not those printed on the pages of the child's book she held in her hand. The words were dirty. Erotic. And came straight from her fertile imagination.

  She told him a story about a grown-up man, who in his dreams was still a little boy with a big cock - just like him. And although he was all grown up, his nanny still looked after him. And when he was bad, then his nanny used to take down his trousers and thrash his bottom. And that made him cry, although underneath it all, he really liked it. But when he was good - very, very good, then his nanny would take his great big cock and suck it. Suck it until it was stiff. And keep on sucking it until he got a wonderful feeling and creamy sticky stuff spurted from his willie.

  The General's free hand had been gradually creeping towards his rigid weapon and when Mistress Madonna came to the part about the sticky stuff, he clamped it over his nappy and wanked himself furiously, shuddering as his own sperm jetted into the soft cotton towelling.

  Mistress Madonna snapped the book shut.

  "You dirty, filthy little beast. What has Mistress Madonna told you?"

  The General sucked harder on the dummy, his hand still clasped around his cock.

  "What happens to naughty little boys who do that?"

  The General sucked even harder.

  "Take that dummy out and answer me!"

  Still hugging the teddy bear, The General let go of his dick and slowly pulled the dummy from his mouth.

  "They go blind."

  "Yes they do. And we don't want that, do we? So Mistress Madonna is going to have to spank your bottom all over again to make you remember."

  And The General would remember. For a long time. The thrashing she gave him was pretty brutal by any standards. With his nappy removed, she had him bending over clutching the sill of the open window with both hands. Anyone looking up from below would have seen him clearly, just another humiliation on her part. She used his Field Marshal's baton. It was perfect, just as she had known it would be. Holding the silver knob, she slashed it through the air with an ear pleasing zippy whoosh, and it smacked on to his buttock with a distinct thwack, rippling the flesh and leaving a long, scarlet weal. The General howled in agony. Right out of the window. Luckily for him, The Hunt was long gone and the only interest he aroused was from the peacocks prowling the lawned grounds.

  "Stop Mistress. For mercy's sake. I've had enough."

  "General, you know your history. What was it that Mussolini said? Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't it something like: 'Compassion is weakness, ruthlessness is power?'"

  It was.

  "And you know by now that Mistress Madonna is not weak."

  He did. And so his plea was dismissed.

  Smack! Thwack! Strike after measured strike landed on his backside, until there was not an inch of unmarked flesh for Mistress Madonna to work on. His rump was a grid-work of purple bruises that were rapidly merging into one solid mass. Although his hands were still gripped tightly onto the windowsill, he was writhing in pain, his face contorted and flushed. The veins stood out on his neck and the pulse at his temple was rapid and visible. She was a severe Mistress and he had to learn his lesson. But she had shown a little compassion. After the first strike, when he had howled so piteously, she had allowed him to put the dummy back into his mouth.

  And he was still sucking on it for all he was worth when the nursery door opened and his wife, followed by The Colonel, stepped into the room. The Colonel had fucked her again and again. Every which way possible. But after every orgasm, she had returned to her quest to find her husband. He had never missed a hunt and she thought that there was some monkey business going on. So returning to the house, she searched for him, room by room. And to delay her The Colonel had shagged her in every one of those rooms. But in the end, it was too much even for him, and as she had approached the nursery he had given up.

  Mistress Madonna gathered all her formidable resolve and stood waiting for the inevitable explosion. It did not come. The General's wife was stunned. No question. Her eyes swept back and forth between Mistress Madonna and her husband. Eventually she stepped forward and took the baton from Mistress Madonna's unresisting hand. Her first words staggered them all.

  "I've always wanted to do this."

  And so saying, she laid into The General with unstinted ferociousness. Strike after strike smashed down on to his backside and his thighs. He writhed, jumped up and down and screamed in tortured agony as her blows landed on top of his already abused flesh. When she stopped, his howls of pain did not. They carried on over the short, but interesting conversation his wife had with Mistress Madonna.

  With satisfied smiles on both their faces, The General's wife and Mistress Madonna returned their attention to The General. His wife seemed more than pleased.

  "Right. If that's what the silly old bugger wants, he can have it from me."

  She then told The General that for the same fee that he was paying Mistress Madonna she would provide him with the same services. Which was soon going to put a huge dent in the family fortunes. And he was in no position to argue. If he did not agree, then the whole county would get to know what he had been up to. And in truth, he did not care. He was looking forward to it.

  So, Mistress Madonna and The General's wife got on like a house on fire. It was a lucky coincidence that the Hunt Ball was going to be a fancy dress affair and she invited Mistress Madonna to be present, dressed just as she was.

  "You'll be an absolute wow."

  And of course, she was!

  The Judge

  THE POLICE SERGEANT PULLED Julian's arms behind his back with an unfeeling roughness, clamping a pair of steel handcuffs tightly over his wrists before pushing him backwards down onto the splintered seat of a beaten up and ancient wooden stool. Above his head a single naked bulb on the end of a length of fraying electric cable hung from the stone ceiling throwing a halo of light around him. Otherwise the interior of the fusty, dank cellar was an almost impenetrable blackness.

  Julian was shivering with a combination of fright and cold and because he had been stripped naked, with no clothing to protect his goose-pimpled flesh, the sharp edges of the cracked wood bit into the undersides of his thighs, scoured his backside and caught themselves in the loose skin of his scrotum as he shuffled uncomfortably on the seat. His body was vividly bruised and marked with the telltale tramline ridges that were the sign of a very recent sound and ruthless caning. He had been beaten almost to a pulp and intermittent teardrops still trickled down his dirt-stained cheeks following the paths left by the earlier floods of tears that had flowed when the intensity of the thrashing was at its most painful height. His underpants, which had been stuffed deep into his mouth as a makeshift gag, were pulled from his lips leaving him spluttering and gasping for breath. The bulbous business end of an old style police truncheon tapped lightly but threateningly on the purple glans of his poor abused cock, which incredibly considering
the circumstances, was stiffly and throbbingly erect. Inflicted by the hands of a person in authority, pain did that to him, in fact the tortured straining of his rock hard dick was contributing greatly to the awful torment he was undergoing.

  In an attempt to nullify his thoughts and direct his attention away from the awful physical anguish that he was suffering, Julian tried to concentrate his mind on subjects that did not involve cocks or pain. He thought of his favourite car of the moment, a brand new Lamborghini Diablo. It did no good. He tried to work out how many millions he was worth in cash, property and assets. It was futile. The pain and the suffering remained, just as awful as ever. He could not believe it. This was how the police dealt with criminals and subversives in the barbarous regimes of Eastern Europe and the third world. But this was England and such a thing should not have been happening in a democratic country, especially to a sophisticated pillar of society such as he was.

  The barbarous treatment that he had already received at the hands of the law showed that Julian's high business and social standing meant nothing in the present circumstances. Breaking the heavy silence, the sergeant's sneering voice confirmed that fact, carrying with it a tone that implied that it rather hoped that the answer to the question being posed would not be in the affirmative.

  "Now then sonny boy, don't you think you've had enough? Just tell me what I want to know and all this can come to an end."

  "Shan't."

  "You will eventually, you can be very sure of that. And you'll save yourself a lot of pain."

  "Don't care."

  "In that case you asked for it."

  In an instant the heavy truncheon swung back and a swift blow to Julian's unsuspecting cock sent a current of sickening agony surging through his entire body, precipitating a squealing yell of intense agony. But his uncontrollable outburst was only the first of many. One, two, three . . . four more thudding, mind-numbing strikes landed on his defenceless manhood. The screaming turned to prolonged howls of anguish as he thrashed around on the stool, wrestling with the handcuffs in an attempt to free his hands in order to comfort his mashed cock. All he succeeded in doing was to dig the splinters more deeply into his flesh, thus causing himself even more pain.

  As his agony began to subside so did the howls until at last he was able to gasp out a flurry of curses directed at the sergeant.

  "You fucking bastard. You perverted cunt. I'll have you off the force for this. I know the Chief Constable."

  "So do I sonny. And a lot better than you."

  There was no answer to that. Having heard various scurrilous rumours concerning the Chief Constable, Julian knew that it was very possible indeed that the sergeant did have a far closer relationship to him than he did. With steely eyes never losing Julian for an instant, the sergeant began to circle him slowly and deliberately, not striking him purposefully but every now and then idly allowing the truncheon to fall heavily and painfully on various parts of his bruised and tortured anatomy. Eventually the sergeant stopped and stood directly in front of him, studying him with a sort of resigned but questioning look.

  Julian tried to steel himself for what was coming.

  "We're not getting very far here, are we? I think it's time we tried something else."

  "Jesus Christ, no! Haven't you done enough already?"

  "Don't be stupid, I've only just started. Of course you could just admit it and all this would stop."

  "Now it's your turn to be fucking stupid."

  The sergeant was anything but stupid, which Julian knew very well. But it was too late, what had been said could not be unsaid. His fate was sealed.

  Disappearing into the darkness for a moment, the sergeant reappeared waving an instrument, the sight of which froze Julian's blood in his veins. He began to tremble even more fiercely; he felt boiling hot and icy cold at the same time. His mouth dried completely and although he tried to croak out an admission of defeat, he was unable to raise even a whisper.

  "Nothing to say, eh? I had thought that this cattle prod would loosen up even your infantile idiotic mouth. Alright I'll just have to try something else."

  Julian's sense of relief was beyond measure. He could not believe his luck, the sergeant had mistaken his silence for a kind of misguided defiance and threw the prod back into the gloom. After an unfortunate incident some years earlier, the one thing that he never wanted to experience again was the dreadful stunning electric shock delivered by that instrument of torture. Strength began to return to his body and within moments, he was beginning to congratulate himself on being a really clever boy.

  His confidence was not about to last.

  The sergeant was wearing a somewhat physically restrictive regulation Metropolitan Police uniform and in an exaggeratedly theatrical display began unbuttoning the tunic. Julian stared in disbelief, he was really in for it now, that was a foregone conclusion. Once the tight coat had been removed the sergeant would have a much greater freedom of swing and the strikes from the whip, the cane, the truncheon or whatever was coming would now fall with greatly increased ferocity.

  The tunic was dropped to the floor, the tie discarded and the collar of the crisp white shirt was pulled open. Sweat began to glisten on Julian's brow and his fears once more began to overwhelm him. His persecutor possessed a fiendish, inventive mind and Julian began to conjure up full colour images of all kinds of horrific, devilish torments that could be inflicted upon him. And as the remaining fastenings down the front of the shirt were pulled open one by one and the sergeant stripped to the waist and revealed a well defined torso that was obviously kept in tip-top shape, his worst fears seemed about to be confirmed. The danger signal flashed in his brain as he tried desperately to gather together what was left of his courage and resistance.

  He was going to fail, he knew it and as the tight black skirt was inched upwards over a pair of smooth lower thighs and the broad-banded tops of a pair of sheer black stockings appeared, he knew that his destiny was sealed. Black painted fingernails dug into the material on either side of the skirt and hitched it even higher, revealing luscious pale upper thighs, black suspenders and the first wisps of jet black and curly pubic hair.

  Finally the hat, with its black and white chequered band, was whipped from her head and the severely scraped back ebony tresses were shaken loose to fall over her shoulders. Wonderful, heavy breasts were thrust forwards as she took their thimble-sized nipples between her fingers and thumbs and rolled them suggestively.

  "You wish it were you doing this, don't you?"

  He did. More than words could say.

  The hands returned to the skirt, hitching it right up over her thighs. Julian's jaw dropped wide open. The sergeant was not wearing knickers and there right before his eyes was the most marvellous fanny he had ever seen. He longed for it. He wanted to shag it. He wanted to kiss and suck and lick it. The sergeant played upon his obvious lust for her body.

  "If I let you fuck me, will you tell me what I want to know?"

  "Oh God, yes. Let me. Let me now!"

  The fanny inched closer to Julian, the outrageous height of the sergeant's spiky stiletto-heeled shoes raising it to a level that allowed him to look straight at the vulva and brought its mouth watering fragrance floating to his nose. His penis began jerking involuntarily and a trickle of clear liquid oozed from the eye of his glans.

  "Tell me then."

  "No. Not 'til I get my cock stuck right up your cunt."

  "Oh no. You don't think that I'm going to let you stick that little boy's excuse for a dick in me until you've told me, do you? After you've fucked me, you might be a bad boy and not tell me."

  He barely recognised the insult for what it was. He was too engrossed in visions of fucking a police person.

  "I wouldn't do that."

  The sergeant was adamant. She did not believe him. She could not take the chance o
f him reneging on his promise. And so she piled on the pressure, her fingers slipping down to her vagina and dipping inside her labia. Pushing them up into her tunnel she pleasured herself for a few moments and then turned her attention back to Julian.

  She passed her juice soaked fingers under his nose, permitting him to savour the heady aphrodisiacal fragrance that had come straight from the inside of her vagina. Then she slowly ran her palm back down over her taut flat belly and re-inserted her fingers into the nest of all his desires.

  "These fingers could be your cock. Are you sure you don't want to think it over?"

  He already had.

  "Alright, alright! I fucking well did it. I did it and it made me a fortune. Now unlock these fucking handcuffs and you'll soon find out my cock's not little. It's big. Big enough to fuck your arse off, and that's what I'm going to do."

  The response was a resounding snort of derision.

  "You silly little man. You pathetic prat. You've spilled the beans and you're of no further use to me whatsoever. Didn't you think about that?"

  As a matter of fact, he had.

  "You're not going to fuck me, now or ever. You can do whatever you like when I've gone, toss yourself off if you want to, that's the best you're going to get."

  "Bastard! Cunt! When I get out of this, you'll be sorry you ever messed with me."

  "I don't think so. But if you don't button your lip, you'll be the sorriest excuse for a turd that ever lived."