The Daughters of de Sade

by Falconer Bridges

  It was time to tie things up.

  "Julian. Put that hideous thing away. And you Judge, come over here. No, don't get up, on your hands and knees."

  The deep pile burning her knees, The Judge crawled over to the sofa, sperm dripping from her face onto the carpet as she did so. It was horrid and messy but she was not allowed to wipe it off, and somehow that seemed only right. Carefully avoiding the sperm Mistress Madonna bent forward and put her hands around The Judge's neck, causing her a few moments of panic. But it soon became clear that no harm was intended.

  "What collar size are you?"

  She did not know.

  "No matter, I've no doubt this will fit nicely."

  And it did. A thick and wide, steel studded leather collar was buckled around her neck. And she loved that too. She was very fast becoming the perfect slave, unthinking and totally obedient to her Mistress. She looked up at Mistress Madonna with an undeniable look of adoration on her bespoiled face. It was Julian all over again.

  The look on Mistress Madonna's face was anything but fawning.

  "I think that perhaps we may have given you too much too soon but I'm certain that you've enjoyed this night more than any other in your wretched life."

  That was very true indeed and Mistress Madonna did not even reprimand her when she said so.

  "But nothing can go on forever and there's something I want you to see before you leave us."

  As far as The Judge was concerned she was never going to leave, and as for what had happened to her, then too much was not enough, and forever was not long enough. She did not want this night to end. But end it must.

  Ordering Julian to follow them, Mistress Madonna got up from the sofa and clipped a short plaited dog lead into the ring on the collar and with The Judge dutifully crawling on the end of the lead, together with her sisters she led the way out of the room. Once out into the corridor, they did not go far, only into the next room in fact. What she saw in there rocked The Judge; it could not be true, Mistress Madonna would not do such a thing. But there, right before her eyes was indisputable evidence to the contrary.

  In the drawing room it had been impossible for her to miss the very large ornate mirror that filled almost one wall. Now she saw that it was in fact a two-way device and standing behind it, toting a video camera was The Colonel. She leapt to the obvious conclusion.

  "So that's it. Blackmail! And I was stupid enough to think I'd found something wonderful."

  "Not at all dear lady. It's true I have recorded everything that happened in there, but not for any ulterior reason. Mistress Madonna thought that you might like a personal record of your evening. And everything's ready for you to take a look right now."

  The video was hooked into a wide screen television set and with them all gathered around, The Colonel gave them a preview of the tape. It would have taken far too long to show it all so he fast forwarded from one juicy scene to the next. Just as Mistress Madonna had said, everything was there; the beatings, the cunnilingus, the orgasms and the spunk. And amazingly enough when The Judge saw it, she was much more than thrilled as she witnessed Julian's showering sperm falling all over her naked body.

  As the video ended, Mistress Madonna pulled the dildos from her body. Plopping, squishing, sucking sounds resonated around the wood-panelled room as her holes fought to retain their originally unwanted occupants. They had felt marvellous, nothing like she would have expected, she wanted to feel them again. And soon.

  And then came the denouement. The real reason for the night's events.

  "There is one little thing that we'd like you to do for us."

  "What? Anything. Just say the word and I'll do it."

  "It's a little awkward, it's Julian."

  "Oh him."

  "Well he does rely on Mistress Madonna to relieve his more extreme cravings and in prison he could fall victim to all those nasty, perverted homosexuals that fill the cells. And we wouldn't like that, would we?"

  Actually The Judge would like it but realised that it would not serve her cause one little bit to admit it.

  "And you would like to see Mistress Madonna again, wouldn't you? After all you did accuse her of attempted blackmail, and she really can't let that go unpunished."

  That was the killer moment. She would do whatever it took, her future life depended on it. So she had only one course of action.

  Julian's judgement day arrived. The Daughters and The Colonel were in court to hear the verdict. When it was delivered the court erupted into pandemonium, Julian's lawyers wiping the sweat from their unbelieving brows and reporters scurrying for the phones. The Judge announced that after much legal discussion she had found that Julian had no case to answer. He was innocent. A free man.

  But what had instigated the verdict that he was innocent was not quite so free itself. It was extremely expensive. For arranging his continuing freedom and allowing him the privilege of adding to The Judge's humiliation by being allowed to wank all over her, The Daughters expected and received a hugely enhanced payment. For them it had proved an extremely profitable day. In more ways than one. Because although she had nothing like Julian's resources, Mistress Madonna had been told by The Colonel that The Judge was also an extremely wealthy person. Therefore she could afford The Daughters' hefty fees and because she had experienced what she herself had admitted was probably the best day of her life, Mistress Madonna made her pay as well.

  The Tooth Puller

  JULIAN'S BACKSIDE HURT. Badly. Which was no wonder because his buttocks were a disaster area. The lashes had cut deeper this time, one agonising stroke following another until stripe after stripe and weal after pulsing weal criss-crossed his flesh. But then again he had asked for it. And he would again. He would beg for punishment and when the punishment became too much to bear, he would plead for mercy, hoping against hope that his pleas would remain unanswered. He would cry tears of exquisite joy if the cane or the whip bit painfully enough to excite him into orgasm, or he would cry tears of bitter frustration if the punishment was withheld or laid on in too gentle a manner. To feel the bamboo or leather only brush teasingly over his skin instead of convulsing him in spasms of excruciating agony was the ultimate cruelty.

  And his most cruelly unfeeling tormentor was Mistress Madonna. She knew exactly how to exploit to the full his every whim and weakness. It had undoubtedly been The Headmistress who had first taught him to appreciate the exquisite joys of pleasure through pain, but it was Mistress Madonna who in later years had honed that appreciation to its ultimate peak. He lived for pain. And humiliation. And degradation. And Mistress Madonna ensured that he got all three in abundance. She was an expert. That entire afternoon had been spent not only in the whipping, beating and general physical chastisement of her vulnerably naked and pitiable slave, but also in verbal disparagement of him. Her scorn was unbounded. He was contemptuous, a despicable worthless nothing, no better than something she might scrape from the sole of her shoe. And not only that, he was a sexual catastrophe, a midget-cocked eunuch without even the equipment to satisfy a rat.

  And it did not matter how many times she repeated her condemnations, they always struck him to the core, although he still could not bring himself to accept that he would never fuck her. She was his life. His reason for living, loving, and hating. She was a torturer. As wicked and depraved as the beasts of the Inquisition. At her hands he experienced both the ultimate highs of pleasure and the blackest extremes of pain. She was a true Daughter of De Sade. And he worshipped her.

  Mistress Madonna was well satisfied with her afternoon's work. And so was Julian. Her fee, astronomical as it was, was always money well spent. And of course it had not ended there. Once she had freed him from his bondage, Mistress Madonna fastened a studded dog collar around his neck and led him, still naked, on his hands and knees on a tour of the house. He had been a bad, naughty boy and he ha
d to make amends. What is more the house was in a dreadful state, cigarette ash was everywhere and scraps of food had been dropped onto the carpet in the dining room. And as for the toilets! Julian had thrown a party a couple of days before and suffering from the king of all hangovers had not allowed his housekeeper to repair the damage. The sound of the vacuum cleaner had battered his aching head like a sledgehammer. He had told her to get lost, and so she had. And the place was a mess. Mistress Madonna gave him his instructions. He had to clean it all up with his tongue, and being an obedient, dutiful slave he did just that. Even the ashtrays and the toilet.

  When all the cleaning had been done to her satisfaction, Mistress Madonna ordered him back onto all fours and in the same manner that she would have treated an errant mongrel, she shooed him into the kitchen. Julian was thirsty, very thirsty, but his bowl was empty and in her present mood he knew better than to ask her to fill it. As she turned to walk away, he whimpered in a dog-like fashion to gain her attention.

  "What?" was all she said; and that with extremely bad grace. Julian adopted his most pitiful look, dropped onto his elbows and with his chin scraping the floor, nosed the bowl closer to her feet.

  "I suppose even an animal as dumb as you needs watering from time to time. All right, sit up and beg and then Mistress Madonna might give you drinkies."

  Julian immediately squatted back on his haunches, with his hands hanging limp in front of him.

  Mistress Madonna filled the bowl with water, squirted washing up liquid into it and put it back down. Julian did not relish quenching his thirst with soapy water and made no attempt to drink it. She watched him with steely eyes, gave him a short time to think it over and when he still made no attempt to drink, she grabbed a handful of his hair and practically yanked him from the floor. He yelped like an injured whippet, both his hands leaping to his tortured scalp. A big mistake. Mistress Madonna still had a bamboo cane in her other hand and it fell viciously over his knuckles, turning the yelps into screams of agony.

  "You're a bad, bad boy. You begged for a drink, and Mistress Madonna gave you one. Didn't she?"

  "Yes Mistress."

  "So why aren't you drinking it?"

  "Because... because it's got soap in it."

  "Yes it has. And do you know why?"

  Julian did not.

  "To wash out your foul, dirty mouth. Now, DRINK."

  Julian drank. And turned a strange shade of green. But from somewhere he managed to gain the fortitude not to vomit, although he did have to stop drinking. "When I said drink, I meant all of it. All of it! Don't let me see a single drop left when I come back."

  Julian half-heartedly applied himself to the bowl as she stood watching with obvious impatience, the cane every now and then smacking down onto her own open palm. Finally, she broke the silence.

  "Do you know what Mistress Madonna is going to do now?"

  Once again, he did not.

  "She's going to call The Colonel. What this house needs is a real man, a man who knows how to keep a woman happy. A man with a proper prick."

  Julian thought he had a proper prick, but he knew better than to say so.

  Mistress Madonna went through to the dining room, leaving him to lap disconsolately at the water, his ears pricking to try and catch the snatches of telephone conversation permeating the walls from the next room. He could not hear too much, but what he did hear he did not like. It was not that he particularly disliked The Colonel; in fact now that he knew him a little better, he thought that the old duffer wasn't such a bad old stick after all. It was just that things always went badly for him when The Colonel was on the scene. And he always got to fuck Mistress Madonna. And every other woman who happened to be around for that matter. It wasn't fair. Julian never got to fuck anything.

  So Julian sulked as, some hours later, Mistress Madonna and The Colonel prepared to tuck into the lavish meal that she had instructed him to cook. He was not to be allowed to eat any of it himself, of course. Once the meal was ready, and he had laid the table and served the food, she ushered him back into the kitchen, ordered him down onto his hands and knees once more, and laid a bowl of dog biscuits on the floor next to the now empty water bowl.

  "More than you deserve, and don't make a mess eating it," she said as she headed for the door. And then turning, very softly in a sinister, heart-stopping voice she added an extra comment.

  "You know what will happen if you do!"

  Julian knew all right. He wished he didn't. He opened his mouth, and then shut it. She waited a few seconds to give him the chance to speak. He did not.

  "That's a wise little person. You don't want to upset Mistress Madonna any further, do you?"

  He did not.

  Seemingly satisfied that he would now be on his best behaviour, she turned out the light and closed the door behind her as she went back into the dining room. Left alone in the dark, Julian could not contain himself any longer.

  "Bitch!"

  He did not shout, in fact it was only a half-muttered comment. But it was enough; Mistress Madonna knew him inside out and had been waiting for him to mouth something derogatory. The door opened halfway, her head peeking around its edge.

  "What did you say?"

  Now he was in trouble. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

  "Nothing."

  "Don't lie to Mistress Madonna, you're not very good at it."

  The door opened fully as she walked into the kitchen. Julian was still on his hands and knees; his head hung low just like a scolded dog. He never even saw the cane flash down. But he felt the cutting agony of its impact across his back. She had not held back, and neither did she as a further succession of strokes rained down.

  "You..."

  Smack.

  "Are..."

  Whack.

  "A..."

  Thwack.

  "Very..."

  Crack.

  "Bad..."

  Whack.

  "Boy!"

  In between every word a numbing blow from the cane rippled the flesh of his shoulders and back, landing with a ferocious intent that had his voice squealing and his prick hardening.

  "Now... Be Good!"

  Striding out once more, Mistress Madonna slammed the door behind her leaving him howling, this time more like a scalded dog than one that's just had a telling off.

  The door practically flew off its hinges as it burst back open and slammed against the wall.

  "QUIET. Any more noise from you and you'll wish you'd never been born. Do you understand?"

  Julian did understand; only too well, and the howling subsided into a pitiful whimpering.

  "That's better. That's a good little baby. Keep it like that and perhaps Mistress Madonna will give you a sweetie later on."

  Julian kept it like that, the door slammed shut once again and Mistress Madonna rejoined The Colonel in the dining room. Julian could hear the scraping of cutlery upon china, the clink of crystal champagne flutes and the increasingly lascivious laughter as the meal progressed and more alcohol was consumed. Eventually there was the sound of smashing crockery and the clatter of silver utensils falling onto broken china. Then there was silence.

  What the hell were they up to? Julian's guts wrenched and his mind whirled as over long minutes he tried to pick up a sound. But there was none. Not that he could hear at least. The silence bit deeper than Mistress Madonna's whip. He did not even have to see; he knew what they were doing. The Colonel was shagging the arse off her. Most probably on the table top after having swept the dinner service onto the floor. She'd have one of her marvellous tits shoved into his mouth, her wonderful long black-stockinged legs would be wrapped around his waist and he would be banging his cock in and out of her twat like a frenzied ferret. He could just see it, and it drove him crazy.

 
And then, really straining his ears, he thought he could hear those slurping, squelching sounds that usually confirm that a juicy vagina is getting a good solid rodding from a rampant cock. He was beside himself with rage and jealousy. The outcome was inevitable.

  "You fucking heartless rat-faced bitch. I hate you."

  Julian yelled into the darkness at the top of his voice. A deathly silence followed. A silence that made the earlier quiet seem like a tumultuous babble, even the clock on the kitchen wall seemed to stop ticking. Time stood still and the inky blackness closed in on him from all sides. He began to tremble. He could not help himself. Slowly he regained his senses, but it was too late. In trepidation he waited for the volcano to erupt.

  A few moments later the door eased slowly open and light spilled into the kitchen. Mistress Madonna edged around the door, smoothing down her skirt, closely followed by The Colonel.

  It was The Colonel who broke the silence.

  "Dashed bad form that, interrupting a chap in the middle of a game. You should be horsewhipped."

  "Oh, he will be Colonel, don't worry about that."

  Julian's heart thumped at Mistress Madonna's words, he had done it again. Let himself in for a severe beating. At least his indiscretion had been worth it. But then for the first time he noticed that The Colonel was holding a carved ivory knight in his hand... so, they had not been shagging after all, they had been playing chess. It made sense, chess requires concentration, and concentration requires silence. What a prat!

  "Up off your knees and get in here."

  Julian did as he was ordered, shuffling shamefacedly into the dining room. Once he was out of the shadows and fully in the light, he stared firstly at the pair of them, and then at the scene in the room. Bursts of deprecating laughter washed over him as Mistress Madonna and The Colonel stood shaking with mirth. She was naked to the waist, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders onto her full heavy breasts. Her nipples stuck out like bullets and her knickers were draped over a candelabrum. As for The Colonel, his cock stood proud and erect, a veritable flagpole protruding from his trousers. And just as Julian had feared, the tabletop had been swept clear. The stinking shits had been shagging!