explained and, when I returned to my room that night, there was another replica waiting for me.”
The Doctor halted. “I’d like to use my room,” he said softly, opening the door. “I think the furnishings might interest you more than your own.”
I followed him. Not only was this the first time he had ever invited me to visit his own chambers, it was only the second time I had ever entered an apartment that was not my own; and, while the dimensions of the room were no more or less than I expected, the décor was, as he promised, interesting. No, scrub that. Mind-blowing.
I stood within a shrine to Empousa. A true shrine. There was nothing that would have seemed out of place in ancient days. The art painted onto the walls, the tall, guttering candles, the stone work and earthenware. Statuary and figurines. “I collect.” he explained unnecessarily, then gestured towards a screened off doorway. I followed him and stood before a bookcase. “Sacred writings. I do believe I have an even more complete collection than the library itself.”
He retrieved one exquisitely-bound volume that had toppled onto its side at the end of one shelf. “I have writings that date back at least to the age of Alexander. The originals of course are under glass, loaned to the British Library although I doubt they will ever display them. Or even acknowledge their existence.”
He laughed. “As a culture, we expect a lot from our ancient writers, holding them to standards which are so much higher than those to which we ourselves adhere. But this...” he turned to a particular page. “This is Aristotle musing upon the reasons why a blow job performed by a Priestess of Empousa feels as good as it does. And a few pages on, a lost fragment of Aristophanes’ The Frogs, where Diogenes and Xanthias sacrifice a servant to Empousa, in return for safe passage.”
He continued leafed through lovingly through the pages. “I adore this one. It’s a list of common garden herbs and flowers that should, under no circumstances, be applied to the flesh of a recently flagellated partner. Advice, of course, that every sadist in the land would promptly turn to their advantage.”
He took my hand. “But you’ve been surrounded by musty old books all day. Come and look at this.” He led me around the bookcase to a series of shelves, piled high with… “An example of almost every sexual device that has been employed in Empousa’s worship, at least that has been recorded. I haven’t found the True Cross yet... that’s the X shaped frame that we are told took central position in the second temple of Athens, to which male supplicants would be chained for the Goddess to feed from. But, apropos of the account you were just reading…. Behold! A nesting dildo.”
I was astonished. The set I had seen in the library had been a dull burnished bronze color, seven dildos growing in size, The Ascent of Man in Phallic Symbology. The Doctor had assembled his, each dildo already snug inside its parent, and the final one, the largest, was simply beautiful. Even in the dim light of the apartment, the jewelencrusted shafts sparkled, sending tiny rainbows cascading over the walls.
I reached out a fingertip. The texture was exquisite, a velvet warmth, a flesh like softness. Eleven inches from tip to balls shaped base, it was an imposing object; but, of course, I knew the trick now. Flick a little catch at the bottom of the shaft, and the outer case slipped open to reveal an inner secret that was even more spectacular than the first.
Over and over, I clicked open each dildo to retrieve the next one, while the Doctor watched me with a mixture of amusement and alarm. “Steady on. It took me a week to reassemble them the last time I tried that,” he admonished, but I continued on until I located the one I was searching for; a nice, firm eight-incher.
I put on my best little girl voice. “If it would please you, Master, I can think of several places where this would be displayed to far greater advantage, than simply tucked up inside its brethren.”
“And where would that be?” he asked. I picked up a second shaft, the next one in line to that which I’d handed him. “Close by this one, Sir.” I let my dress slip to the floor and lay on the bed, my knees bent, a cushion beneath my ass.
The Doctor seemed to be wrestling with some internal dilemma. Then he shrugged. “Well, what’s the point of having them if you’re not going to use them?” he finally decided. “I’ve often wondered whether they felt as good as they looked.” As he slowly entered my ass with one, and then teased my pussy with the other, I couldn’t help but breathe the answer he was waiting for. “Actually, Sir, they feel even better.”
He knelt at my feet, watching transfixed as his hands guided the shafts in and out of me, and my holes yawned around their heavy thickness. The sensations were heavenly; even when he bent forward to gently lick at my clit, it was the penetration, not the palpitations, that caused my hips to buck so hard; and the pinprick of the blade that set my clitoris ablaze.
I could not move, I could barely breathe. He was between my legs now, his tongue seeking the droplets of blood that merged with my pussy juice. When he raised his face, his lips were smeared with blood. I orgasmed again.
“Hey, why am I having all the fun?” I sat up, grabbed his waistband, and pulled his legs towards me; divining my intentions, he rolled away sufficiently to unbuckle his pants and remove them, then rolled back, his micro-manhood a needle that jabbed me in the eye. I shifted my head slightly, guided him to my lips, and had to choke back an irreverent thought. What was it about this place that attracted so many men with unusual penises? I thought of the
Executioner, with that gross, distended monster of his; and then the poor Australian sex change guy, with his under-inflated bladder. Compared to them, I guess, the Doctor got off easily.
But would I? My body still impaled with two dildos, he reached for a third and then for a harness, deftly slipped into it and then slipped into me, forcing my mouth wide as he pushed his length in - and my heart was pounding as my jaw stretched so far, and my eyes swept panic-stricken towards the table. He was wearing the largest of the dildos. And I was swallowing it.
My panic was momentary, my fear was fleeting. His hand on my head, he moved slowly, gracefully, never pushing but sliding softly, lovingly. Allowing my jaw to relax around its load, my muscles to meld themselves to his girth.
And when my teeth locked into that row of indentations, and sought out a similar set on the underside of the shaft...
Another climax was rushing in. I flung my head back, releasing its prize; bucked and bellowed and, brushed his hands aside. I seized control for myself, frigging myself to an orgasm so visceral that the Doctor both sprang and spent a second erection, just watching me.
I lay back, let my eyes wander across the room, then fix on one of the portraits of the Goddess. “Thank you, Empousa… and thank you, Sir,” I added.
He kissed me tenderly. “You know, you could just call me Owen. At least when we’re alone.”
I couldn’t resist a tease. “Yes Sir, but if you’re Owen, I wonder who’s going to be payin’ for it later.”
He laughed loudly. “I’m sure we’ll think of someone.” CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back in my own apartment, I found Penny waiting for me. One glance, I think, told her how I’d spent the last few hours, in rough brushstrokes if not exactly digital clarity.
“I was with my Master,” I told her, before her reproachful eyes could consolidate into a question.
She bit her lip and nodded. “I wish I’d been there as well.” With a guilty start, I remembered the plan we’d hatched to have him. It didn’t seem so alluring anymore, at least not for the reasons I originally thought.
“Mistress, might I ask you a question?”
Dammit, I wish she’d cut that out. “Yes Penny, you may.” “Do I no longer please you?” “Of course you please me.” Aside from when she brought me my meals and clean laundry, I realized I’d barely spent an hour with the girl since New Year’s. “I’ve just been busy lately.”
“But that’s why I am here,” she said, barely attempting to disguise the tone of patient admonishment that she always ad
opted when she felt I hadn’t quite grasped some rule or another. “So that you might devote your time to more pleasurable pursuits.”
“These are pleasurable pursuits,” I shot back. “Heavens, Penny. I’d go mad if I just had to lie here clapping my hands whenever I wanted someone to wipe my ass for me…”
– did her eyes brighten when I said that? “I enjoy being busy. I read, I write, I work out.”
“I see.” She nodded, making it purposefully apparent that she did not. Okay then, if that’s how she wants to play it, then so be it. “Penelope. I have had enough of your illmannered disobedience. Rise and remove your clothes.”
She gasped and slowly stood, her hands hesitant at the button of the print blouse she was wearing today. “Please Ma’am, I’m sorry.” Were those genuine tears in her eyes? Or was the little minx playing along… playing me?
“The time for apologies passed when you first thought of the wicked things you have said, not after they have been spoken. Remove your clothes.”
One button. Two. I reached out, grasped the fabric of the blouse and tugged. The buttons flew off and she shrieked. I stepped behind her and pulled from the collar. The blouse slipped to her wrists.
“Continue,” I demanded. She let the torn blouse fall to the floor. I was surprised to see her wearing a bra. In all the time I had known her, never once had I suspected that her firm, upright breasts were held up by anything other than their own dogged determination. Fuck gravity, we’re amazing.
“If you want me to continue for you, I will,” I warned. “But I would counsel you to think carefully before making that decision, because I assure you that you will regret it.”
Her hands crept reluctantly behind her back, unfastened the bra; she shrugged her shoulders and it, too fell away.
“You have beautiful breasts,” I told her. “I would like to see you touch them.” Her face a mask of rigid shock… oh she has to be faking this… she touched the barest fingertips to her flesh. “Touch them, I said, not tap. Feel them. Rub them. Make them feel good.”
Now she was crying, spilling out an almost incoherent succession of pleas and
whimpers… “Please don’t make me do that, not that, it is so vile, so disgusting” and so forth. But she obeyed and, as I saw her nipples begin to harden, I snapped another command. “Lick them.”
She stared at me. “But Ma’am…” “You heard me. Lick them.” I watched as she inclined her head, stuck out her tongue as far as it would go and, raising one orb, tapped the tip to one nipple.
“And the other.” Her face a mask of revulsion, she repeated the procedure, then let the breast fall back in its place and stood before me, her face streaked with tears, her body shaking with fear.
“I thought I told you to remove all your clothing,” I said slowly, as though I had only just noticed that her lower half was still dressed.
She commenced the blubbering routine once more and, though I remained convinced that the entire thing was an act, suddenly I was seized by not one, but two, emotions, that grappled around my own fluttering heart as I watched her slowly, almost painfully, lower her skirt.
Part of me wanted to hold her, protect her, let her know that I was only teasing, that I would never do anything to harm her… which wouldn’t simply shatter the precepts of our relationship forever, it would so reverse our roles that my night in the latex envelope would seem a romp in velvet sheets by comparison. But part of me wanted to punish her harder, wipe the play-acting from her face with one blow, and truly reduce her to a quivering mass of terror and torment. Which would simply reinforce her insistence on acting my slave, and ensure she became even more infuriatingly subservient than she already was.
But what if there was a third route? What if I could sidestep both of those conclusions? What, I wondered, would Empousa have done?
Penny was naked now, one arm stretched across her breast, the other reaching down to shield her pussy from my hand. I ordered her to remove it; when I did, I saw that she had allowed the hair to begin growing back.
“Who told you to stop shaving your pubes?” I demanded. “Nobody. I didn’t think… I didn’t know… I wanted to please you, Ma’am. And I saw that you allowed yours to grow fully.”
“I do not have to look at mine,” I snapped. I wondered whether to order her to the bathroom, to shave them away. Or, to bring me the razor and gel, so that I might do it for her. I pushed both notions aside. She was so unpredictable that she might well end up doing herself a mischief, just to keep up the pretense.. And I was now so excited that I probably wouldn’t prove any safer. I allowed myself to smile. “Good girl. Just do not permit them to become too unruly.”
A smile like sunshine crept over that rainsoaked face. I decided to extinguish it. “Part the lips that I may look inside you.”
She gasped. “I could not do that. How could you ask me to do that?” Again she began choking on her sobs, blathering on about the horror, the outrage, the
humiliation of it all. I have to admit, the girl was good.
“If you do not do it,” I told her, “I will.” I looked around the room in search of something suitably fearful that I might brandish in her direction. I settled upon my curling tongs, and now she really did look worried. Her fingers sprang to work, peeling back her soft pink lips, delving inside as though to open herself more fully. Moisture glistened on the light pink coral.
“Does that feel good?” I asked her. “Spreading yourself for another woman?” She shut her eyes, wrinkled her nose. “I feel nothing, Ma’am. I am empty inside. I am so wretched; whatever am I do to?” Okay, now she was laying it on a bit thick… someone’s been reading too many tawdry romance novels.
“Well, if you feel nothing,” I retorted, “you will not feel this. And you will have no cause to object to it.” And launching myself towards her, I grasped her around the waist, forced her back onto the bed and, in the same movement, buried my face between her thighs, to seek out her clitoris and suck. And to bite.
Penny screamed, but it was a scream of absolute ecstasy, as she writhed beneath me, her legs wrapping themselves around the back of my head. My mind flashed upon something I’d read in the history, about the unendurable pleasure that can be caused with a feather. Oh, if only I’d come prepared. But maybe this was the next best thing, to simply fasten my mouth upon her enflamed nub, to feed and feast and never let go, even when she was begging for mercy, even when her thrusts and exertions seemed certain to fling me from her loins like a rag doll.
Her blood flowed and I gorged upon it. I had been careful; in such a tiny organ, only the tiniest slit could be cut, but one would be surprised at how much blood it was capable of producing. Or how delicious that blood might be, mingling with her pussy juices.
I do not know how much time passed before I finally released her, nor how many orgasms the poor girl endured – for even the
hungriest body must eventually reach a peak so high that ‘endurance’ is the only word than can begin to describe the resultant sufferings. But when I did finally surface for air, my face and neck streaked with her blood and juices, her tears at last were genuine.
Now I held her and kissed her, while she held me just as tightly and I cursed the house rule that forbade overnight guests. For as long as we could, though, we lay there, drifting luxuriously in one another’s arms, until finally I felt her gently extricate herself from my grasp, and begin to dress herself.
I rose and handed her a blouse from my closet. “Yours’ is a little worse for wear,” I smiled, and she kissed me. “I will launder it and return it tomorrow, Ma’am,” she promised. Then she stepped daintily around me and was gone. I think I only imagined the tiny skip in her gait as she went.
############## I’d forgotten just how dark it was in the dungeon; forgotten how oppressive the combination of absolute blackness, absolute silence and enforced immobility could be. Only if I held my breath could I detect even the slightest hint that another being shared the darkness with me and, thoug
h I’d rehearsed and rehearsed again the nine or ten furtive steps that would lead me over to where he lay, still my mind reverberated with the image of myself creeping back and forth in the void for hours, unable to locate my quarry.
Moistening my lips, I allowed a slight whistle of air to emerge.
Immediately, a voice, startled, terrified, tremulous. “Is somebody there?” I remained silent, started counting towards one hundred. Then I would whistle again. When the Magician cornered me in the library, and asked if I’d be interested in training a new arrival, my initial response was a vigorous refusal. My life here had settled into precisely the kind of comfortable routine that I had dreamed we all should enjoy. Penny would wake me up with breakfast – some mornings we’d make love, others we wouldn’t. I exercised, showered, wrote for a couple of hours.
What a boon it was when Owen presented me with a clock. “It’s not necessarily correct,” he’d laughed; “in fact, there’s probably not two clocks in the entire place that tell the same time. But it’s handy for those occasions when you want to know how many hours have passed.”
Then, after lunch, I’d retired to the library. I planned to return to my room for dinner, before heading ‘out’ for the evening – the Main Hall, the Music Room, once or twice even the Movie House.
The idea that I would willingly give up all that in order to torment a terrified newcomer was absurd. But not, I determined from the look on his face, as absurd as refusing the Magician’s command, no matter how gently he couched his instructions.
It was a Canadian lad, eighteen years old and, from what the Magician told me, an incorrigible flirt. The problem was, he never followed through on his promises, while leaving a trail of broken hearts, or at least unbroken hymens, across British Columbia. Finally, however, he’d worked his seductive magic on a girl who was in a position to make sure he learned the error of his ways.
“To be truthful,” the Magician sighed. “I don’t think there’s a malicious bone in the young man’s body. He honestly doesn’t know the effect that his manners are having. Or, if he does, he’s too shy to actually follow through to the next level.”
Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale Page 18