"You fucking bastards. You rotten lousy arseholes."
"Carry on, why don't you? You've already earned another twelve lashes. Make it more."
Julian's tongue froze.
Mistress Madonna's did not.
"You silly little boy. Do you think I'd really waste my time playing chess when I could be playing with The Colonel's cock?"
Julian had no answer.
"Well, you can just stand there and behave yourself for a few minutes. The Colonel and I have unfinished business."
And then sweetly to The Colonel:
"Same as we left off?"
"If you don't mind m'dear I rather fancy a shot at a bit of rearguard action, if you know what I mean."
She knew very well. And as a matter of fact she quite fancied it herself.
"Anything for you Colonel. How do you want me?"
Bent over, legs spread wide and with her palms flat on the floor was how he wanted her. And just twelve inches in front of Julian. Close enough for him to reach out and touch her. It was another trap.
"Now then young fella-me-lad, watch and learn."
Julian was always watching and learning from The Colonel; the problem was that he never got the chance to put anything he learned into practice. He was pissed off, and he was beginning not to like the old tosser again. Why did he get all the goodies?
The Colonel never asked himself questions like that. He had been pursued by women all his life, that's just the way it was. And Mistress Madonna was no exception. Positioning himself behind her, The Colonel spread her buttocks even wider and lodged his bell-end into the pucker of her anus. He prodded her resisting sphincter with ever more pressure, until in sudden capitulation it parted and tugged his shaft into her most private of places. And then he did what Julian had feared most - with ever deepening strokes into her tight passage, he literally fucked the arse off Mistress Madonna.
Tears of frustration trickled down Julian's cheeks as only inches away, his wonderful untouchable Mistress was being fucked to distraction. His prick throbbed and jerked in pulsing erection and a little bubble of pre-ejaculate fluid leaked from his meatus. One hand strayed to grasp his lusting manhood, an action that despite her position did not go unnoticed by Mistress Madonna.
"Stop that, you disgusting little beast. Did I say you could toss yourself off?"
Julian had to agree that she had not.
"Wanking without permission. That's another six. Now, get your hands behind your back."
Julian did as he was told, the need in his cock driving him to distraction. Mistress Madonna returned her attention to the matter in hand.
"Carry on Colonel."
And so The Colonel carried on. And on. And on. He was an artist, a consummate exponent of the art of fucking, and with his cock stoking her rear and his fingers working on her clitoris he brought her very slowly to an explosive orgasm. An orgasm that saw her legs trembling, her body shaking and her heart thumping as he pumped jet after jet of his lovely hot sperm into her anus. And unfortunately for Julian, he also pumped out jet after jet of sperm in an uncontrollable spontaneous ejaculation. Sperm that spattered all over Mistress Madonna.
Her reaction was frightening. Controlled to perfection, because she had known full well what would happen. Julian never failed to fall into her traps. There were no histrionics. No outraged screams. No inflamed raging at the hapless, terrified Julian. Instead there was icy, controlled fury. The Colonel felt her stiffen on the end of his cock and withdrew immediately as the outrage radiated from her very being. Mistress Madonna unbent very slowly and very deliberately; fixing Julian with an icy stare that froze his soul. In an acid tone she told him that this was one time too many. She was going to make sure that he never defiled her body with his revolting spunk again. Not ever!
"I think you'd better leave us alone now Colonel."
It was more of a command than a request and The Colonel lost no time in re-holstering his weapon and heading for the door. But his own sense of outrage would not allow him to leave without letting Julian know exactly what he thought of his despicable behaviour.
"You filthy little blighter. If you were under my command I'd have you cashiered for this."
"Don't fret Colonel, he's going to suffer far more than that. Now! Please close the door behind you."
The Colonel did as he was bid, and for once Julian was fervently wishing that he had not. He was terrified and in mortal fear of being left alone with his defiled Mistress. He had seen her wild with rage. He had seen her bursting with ridicule and scorn. But he had never seen her like this. Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared, and if looks really could kill he would already have been dead meat. Sperm trickled from her anus, The Colonel's sperm, which she had welcomed. It also dripped from her legs, her buttocks and her breasts. And it was nauseating. Disgusting. It was vile and filthy. It was Julian's.
She pulled herself up to her full height, which was considerable for a woman, at just under six feet. With her face only inches from Julian's she spoke in a venomous, spine-chilling whisper.
"You snot-gobbling, low-life turd. You really are a dog's arse. You're so puke-making that even a rat scuttling around a stinking cesspit would throw you back out if you fell in. Well, it's not going to carry on. I'm going to teach you respect. Respect for your Mistress, because you certainly don't have any at the moment. Do you?"
Julian was given no chance to reply. It did not matter, his tongue was a leaden lump and his throat was as dry as a desert. He was incapable of speech or thought.
"Before you shot your disgusting spunk all over me, you'd already earned an extra eighteen lashes, hadn't you?"
She waited. Julian finally managed a nod.
"Well, that's just for starters now. You've been a very, very bad boy this time. The naughtiest, the filthiest that you've ever been. So what else do you think Mistress Madonna should do to punish you?"
He did not know. But he was very afraid that she did.
In the event, the eighteen lashes he had earned were as the gentle touch of a summer breeze compared to what followed. That is not to say that they lacked impact or severity. Or that they did not cause Julian the most intense pain. They did. Firstly she had cut six lashes into his already pulped backside with a bullwhip. But this time when blood flowed, she did not halt the lash as she usually did. Then she had hammered another six onto his cock with the haft of a riding crop. And the final six she delivered in upward slashes to his balls with a bamboo cane. He collapsed in agony and lay on the dining room floor, convulsed and jerking for the best part of an hour before being able to get to his feet.
During that time, Mistress Madonna took the opportunity to shower and cleanse herself. She did not need to hurry, knowing that Julian would be out of action for some considerable time. Her first act was to spray off Julian's revolting sperm with the highest powered jet she could coax from the showerhead, cursing all the time because it was also washing away The Colonel's sperm. Sperm that she had been looking forward to scooping up and tasting. It had such a gourmet flavour, salty and tangy. It reminded her somehow of the best red Russian caviar, and now it was gone. That was another thing Julian would have to pay for.
Eventually the steamy spray eased the tension in her muscles and she found herself relaxing and luxuriating in the streams of hot water. She began to soap herself. Lazily. Her throat, her arms, her breasts and belly all were soaped by languid strokes of her palms and fingertips. She squeezed out a palmful of shower gel, rubbing it into her luxurious pubes and pushing the resulting suds down under her crotch. It felt nice. A hand stroked along her labia, and aided by the suds slipped easily into the slit of her sex. She dropped the showerhead onto the tiled floor of the shower and let the spurting streams play over her feet and ankles. The hand that had dipped into her labia now found her clitoris, already hard and erect, and
the other massaged her breasts, her fingers pulling and rolling her nipples.
She thought of The Colonel's cock. That stimulated her even more. The tingles and shivers began to build in her vagina and reluctantly taking her hand from her breasts, she picked up a fresh bar of soap from the porcelain tray. Allowing it to soften in the hot water spray, she then lodged it at the entrance to her hole. It slid in with a feeling as near to the real thing as was possible. Nice and fat. And she thought of The Colonel again. She rolled her fingers over her now solid clitoris, rubbing harder and faster as she pushed the bar of soap in and out of her vagina with increasingly frenzied strokes. Her body locked and a little sigh of pleasure rolled over her lips as her orgasm hit. It was good. One of the best, and her nerve endings twitched as the pulsing waves of ecstasy radiated to every part of her body.
And then as the picture of The Colonel's weaponry began to fade from her mind, it was replaced by one of Julian's revolting equipment. She snorted in disgust at her own thoughts and began conjuring up a suitable programme of punishment for her delinquent slave. In truth he had already suffered horrendously for his crime. But it was not enough. Not nearly enough.
Having finally completed her toilet, Mistress Madonna returned to the dining room just as Julian was recovered enough to be able to take in his surroundings and pay proper attention to what was happening. One look at her and his cock, battered as it was, dismissed any lingering pain and prepared itself for the shagging it was never going to get. He sprang a frightening erection, an erection that filled her with satisfaction. Not because of the size and hardness of his cock, but because once again Julian had reacted exactly as she knew he would. He was a puppet. A marionette. She pulled the strings and he danced. He paid the piper, but in this instance it was the piper who called the tune. And she was that piper. At that particular moment she was pulling a very special string. An invisible string attached to his cock. A string that put him in imminent danger of spunking over her once again.
She was dressed as usual in devastatingly vampiric fashion, all in black, with black lipstick and moody, shadowy make-up. Slung over her shoulders was a black leather biker's jacket, zipped, studded and sporting silver and enamelled badges of either a ghoulish or erotic nature. But this was no ordinary motorcycle jacket, this was a Jean-Paul Gaultier special, cut that little bit differently so that when it was worn by a woman such as her, it flamed her already considerable sexual allure into inferno-like proportions. Beneath it she wore a tight fitting basque, that pushed her breasts into full high orbs of temptation, her hard nipples peeping over the tops of the half bra-cups. Its bottom was lace fringed and finished just below her midriff and long, long, black suspenders rolled over her flat belly and down her thighs to be clipped into the wide black bands at the top of her fishnet stockings. Impossibly high stilettos with the sharpest of toes pushed her another several inches into the air. All that - and no knickers! Julian's eyes fastened onto her wonderful, thick pubic bush and his straining cock jerked visibly.
She stood very close. Julian's heart was trying to hammer its way out of his chest and his cock throbbed and twitched uncontrollably. Disaster loomed once more.
"You know what will happen if you ever spunk on me again?"
He was beyond any sort of reasoning, Mistress Madonna knew exactly what she was doing. At that moment he would not give a damn about anything except his lusting cock. She moved even closer, her jutting breasts almost brushing his chest.
"Answer Mistress Madonna."
He could not. He was speechless. Desperate.
She slipped the jacket from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and ran her palms down over her breasts and in between her thighs. The movement was sexual teasing in its most devilish form. Any resolve Julian had disintegrated immediately and he grabbed his cock and began wanking wildly, at the same time yelling at the top of his voice.
"Fuck me, shag me, wank me. Do anything. Come on you bitch, do something."
Mistress Madonna did not have to do anything at all. He did it all by himself. Fountains of sperm spurted everywhere. She dodged most of it, but splodges spattered over her basque and her legs. She could make him do anything she wanted, and he had just proved it once again. Her new plan of action was working nicely.
She said nothing.
She did nothing.
When Julian's frenzy had subsided somewhat and the truly heinous extent of his actions began to sink in, he looked at her with horrified eyes, his slackening member still grasped in his fist.
"Mistress, I'm sorry. You were driving me crazy, I couldn't help it."
Silence.
"Please don't punish me. It wasn't my fault. I'll be good, I promise I will."
Still unmoving, she spoke very slowly and deliberately.
"You're going to pay for this Julian."
Christ, now he was in trouble. She never ever called him by his name. It spelt the apocalypse.
"Mistress Madonna is going to make you suffer. Suffer so much that you'll wish you were burning in the fires of Hades rather than being here with her. And then do you know what she's going to do?"
Julian did not want to know.
"She's going to make you suffer some more."
Then she asked him if he remembered what she had threatened to do if she ever thought he had been so naughty that she could not punish him severely enough herself.
He did.
"Oh God, no!"
Oh God yes. She was going to make a phone call, she told him. That very instant. She would arrange it for tomorrow morning, and when she came back he would start to find out just how lucky he had been in the past.
"I've been treating you far too gently, I can see that now."
With her back to him so that he could not see the wry smile of satisfaction on her face, Mistress Madonna walked over to the telephone. There was no smile on Julian's face, only tears of dread trickling from his frightened eyes. She picked up the phone and dialled.
Julian remained in shocked immobility while she made the call. When she replaced the receiver and turned her attention back to him, she found him frozen in exactly the same stance as she had left him, his now flaccid cock still grasped in his fist. He looked like a marble statue, not only had the colour drained from his face, but his whole body had paled into an ashen white. He had thought that she was going to contact her sisters, her accomplices in the Triplets of Torture, the terrifying Daughters of de Sade. That was an horrific enough prospect; he would never forget his one and only encounter with Mistress Magenta and Mistress Maria. But she had not. This was far worse. She had summoned two personages who he had always imagined were mere figments of her imagination, just like the Bogey Man his mother used to threaten him with when he was small. He could not believe that they really existed.
"You heard?"
The question was unnecessary. Mistress Madonna had made sure that he caught every word. "All right. I take it that you did. So I'll ask you something else. Do you know what they say about sailors and God?"
The haunted, non-comprehending expression in his eyes gave her his answer.
"Well, they say that a sailor only ever prays for God's help when he's drowning."
His lack of understanding only intensified.
"I'll spell it out for you. You're in a far worse situation than a drowning sailor. He comes up three times and then he's gone. His agony ends. Yours won't. I suggest that you start praying right now."
At last a switch clicked in his brain. He did as she suggested. He prayed fervently and desperately, because the confreres she had called were Mick and Frank... Mick The Tooth Puller and Brass Knuckles Frank.
The Heavy Squad not being due until the following morning, Mistress Madonna was faced with the problem of what to do with Julian overnight.
"A cold bath, that's what you need. Ice cold."
Julian was never really happy unless he was miserable; unless Mistress Madonna was making his life unbearable. The more unbearable her treatment of him and the greater the misery he felt, then in his own perverse way the happier he became. And in that case over the forthcoming hours he was due to become very happy indeed. For his misbehaviour in the bath, she made him stand shivering and dripping icy water all over the tiled floor while she dried herself with hot towels and the warm airflow of a hair dryer. He was then ordered to remain as he was while she went to dress herself.
When she re-appeared she was once again wearing the black leather Gaultier jacket, but this time with nothing underneath it but her perfect, heavy breasts. Apart from that she sported the tiniest of black micro-skirts that barely covered her mons, so that wisps of ebony pubes hung beneath its hem, and black intricately patterned cowboy boots. The boots being designer creations, of course featured her trademark mountain high stiletto heels. It never failed. Julian's frozen cock sprang to attention yet again.
The Daughters of de Sade Page 18