The Cruel Countess
My boots crunched through the snow frozen on the ground, now mostly a white mantle of ice left over from a freak snowstorm in northeast Siberia during November 2007. Despite the bitter cold, the low precipitation that time of year usually produced no more than flurries. The wind whipped through my clothes, numbing my senses with even more frigid air. My hands and feet turned into popsicles before the big freeze glazed my face and shaved head, penetrating my arms and legs, branching into my torso.
Maybe this time I’d reach the next village, or the big city of Khabarovsk itself, and find sanctuary, warmth, and safety—if the local Russian police overlooked my undeniably Western features. They’d peg me as an American right away. The best I could hope for was that they’d slam me in jail.
But knowing my luck, they’d drag me back to my cruel Mistress, Natasha Vronsky, Countess of Russleder. Never mind that Russleder, pronounced ‘ROOS-lay-der,’ doesn’t exist on any map. Local authorities eagerly turned a blind eye to Countess Vronsky’s sadistic but harmless (to them!) despotism whenever she settled the issue using Russia’s one reliable currency: bribery.
My best hope lay with the locals helping me escape. If I could stay out of the clutches of the authorities, I believed the ordinary citizens would sympathize with me. Russians like Americans, even if they dislike our leaders—mirroring our sentiments toward Russians. Perhaps some Slavic saint, curious to learn about my country, would harbor me from the authorities. If I could trudge through another mile or two of frozen snow, freedom would await me over the next hill.
Even in my misery the sun, intermittently beaming over the horizon to my left, painting the fleecy clouds in beautiful pastels, dazzled me. The morning hour, the humidity, and the tilt of the earth’s axis in November dusted the eastern horizon with soft red, pink, lavender, and mauve. I longed for a sheet of Bristol board and artist’s crayons to record the burst of hues. I could dash off a striking sketch or an elegant painting for Nicole, who lovingly collected every picture I painted during her lifetime. What she did with them, I had no earthly idea.
O, Nicole! I wouldn’t be in this predicament if she were alive. Someone stole her heart, but I knew I’d win her back. Nicole embodied the classic Big Blonde, whom I called Ms. Carrington when she acted bossy, although she was only five years my senior. When she acted wild and frisky, I called her Nikki. But she became a casualty of our open marriage.
My mind turned to a perilous escape option. Rumors persisted that a mysterious figure who called himself Yury Strelnikov gave sanctuary to Countess Vronsky’s ex-slaves—the escapees and those she ruthlessly dumped. Some of the Countess’s current Slaves swore that Strelnikov planned to overthrow the Countess. But anyone who joined his band would become an outlaw. Strelnikov reputedly killed for hire, dealt drugs, and committed grand theft for fun and profit. But no one had solid information. He may have wounded a Russian police officer at the Khabarovsk train station when I arrived, or a copycat may have shot the Russian. Everyone embroidered this psycho’s legend.
No, I couldn’t cast my lot with Strelnikov.
So, I resumed my search for a kindly Siberian to shelter me. Thank goodness it was November; winter weather would’ve frozen me to death already. But with all possible landmarks covered in white, how close was I to escaping?
The distance became a moot point.
Over my shoulder I spotted a troika barreling toward me with amazing speed. Countess Vronsky’s signature burgundy latex catsuit peeped though her dark furs and glistened in the emerging sun. She whipped her three horses vigorously—signaling how severely she’d lash me, crushing my fragile dreams and shackling me in the cold, harsh reality of her small dungeon. My Domina’s fiery countenance, framed by her flowing, dark-chocolate hair, stunned me with fear. And worship.
Countess Vronsky’s inevitable victory gripped me. I embraced the twisted desire to wallow at her booted feet, soaking up her harsh degradation just to gaze on her wild beauty and bask in the proximity of her supple five-nine body. I’d documented the Countess’s beauty in mineral spirits mixed with artist’s crayons to create countless portraits, predominantly full-length with an occasional head-and-shoulders pose. She loved herself enough to model for me. But she stamped her image into my mind so indelibly I usually painted her from memory. She confiscated every painting I poured from my heart, framing and hanging three in her mansion, the Ice Palace. My tangible homage to her beauty probably spared me from a near-certain death.
As an afterthought, I noticed Percy Willingham, the Countess’s zombie-puppet, sitting beside her, half-frozen. His last name fit him: His upturned nose and puffy jowls looked porcine; he acted the perfect ham in his role as consummate ass-kisser; and ‘willing’ described his sycophantic behavior towards Countess Vronsky. I hoped my permanent eyeliner and eyebrows—shadings the Countess had etched into our skins to make us look perpetually feminine—looked less ridiculous than Percy’s. True, we were Countess Vronsky’s slaves, but at least I had the balls to try to run away.
Try was the operative word. While my third attempt to escape headed toward decisive, predestined humiliation, I realized Natasha wanted me to flee—so she could recapture and pummel me. I played right into her hands. And, sickeningly, I surreptitiously got perverse kicks from being her plaything. Countess Vronsky was my addiction, as destructive as any drug and totally irresistible.
She contrasted sharply with Nicole, who let me stray before reeling me in to chastise me with spanking, embrace me, and take me in her loins. Then I was home, and I was hers. When I wandered away from Countess Vronsky, I felt as if she snatched my testicles and penis fiercely, and I’d damned well better follow her lead, or she’d make me her bitch anatomically.
Ahead of me, a Russians police van accelerated to arrest me before Countess Vronsky could spirit me away to her lair. The paddy wagon looked old and worn-out, as if from a nearby village, not the populous Khabarovsk. Wherever they called home, I became the football in their sport with the Countess. The van lurched to a stop in front of me while the troika drew within a hundred yards.
A hardy woman, fleshy yet comely, piled out on the passenger side. Her authoritative air indicated she was the officer in charge. “Name,” she said.
My numb lips barely functioned. “You speak English.”
I sighed in resignation. “Igor Vladimir Marks. ‘Ivey’ comes from my initials.”
Her expression resembled a smile with skepticism. “Communist?”
“M-A-R-K-S. No X.”
She frowned. “You look American. But…?”
“Russian grandmother. Dad’s mother.”
I pointed toward the troika. “Sh-she has them.” Trapped like a dog, I succumbed to the bitter cold.
“Illegal immigrant. Come with us for questioning.”
“Countess Vronsky will explain.”
The Russian licked her lips. The Countess’s reputation preceded her. The officer ran her gloved forefinger along my eyelashes and the permanent eyebrows Countess Vronsky had etched at my eyes with a technology similar to tattooing. “Pretty Boy.”
My blush failed to materialize in the frigid air.
Two other uniformed women, younger and thinner, but homelier, hopped from the van to join their chief. Countess Vronsky arrived soon and reined her horses to a stop within feet of us. The officer in charge greeted her. “The Counterfeit Countess. Is he yours?”
Countess Vronsky’s eyes, angry slits, opened wide and flashed in glowing brown triumph in the emerging sun when she and I made eye contact. Even in my utter defeat, her arched-eyebrow pose exhilarated me, and I felt the sensation of licking her milk chocolate eyes and dark chocolate hair with my eyes. Her most ruthless air remained eye candy to me. “He’s my Slave. Want him?”
“Nyet. No slavery in Russia. His papers…”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“His papers are at my mansion, the Ice Palace. Come with me, Olga. Your associates, too. I’ll punish him. You watch.”
“We punish. Put in jail.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “Maybe he sneaked across border from China. Looks Mongolian.” Olga laughed at her own joke.
Countess Vronsky handed the woman a thick stack of rubles. “I’ll flog him. Make bets with your associates on how long he’ll last. Use this money.”
The Russian officer fingered the bills to draw a rough estimate of their worth. “From where comes so much money?”
“He gave it to me.”
Olga laughed heartily.
Countess Vronsky coaxed her. “Olga, you can’t lose gambling with his money!”
“Da!” the officer exclaimed.
“Watch this.” Countess Vronsky handed the reins of the troika to Percy. “You drive.” Turning to me with wrath etched in her face, she systematically stripped away my last vestiges of dignity. “Crawl to me, you stupid, worthless swine!”
I obediently prostrated myself on the frozen snow. Despite my numbness, the jagged shards repeatedly nicked my flesh through my thin gloves and light clothing—totally inadequate for Siberia—abrading my frigid hands, chest, and thighs. If I rose to my hands and knees, the Countess would snatch the whip from Percy and beat me severely, gleefully—as I learned during her ravages after my two earlier attempted escapes. Every inch of my crawl magnified my defeat and glorified her triumph.
When I reached the troika, Countess Vronsky dangled her booted feet through the door. I licked her boots as if receiving the tastiest treat imaginable, obeying her tacit command because of another cruel lesson: Countess Vronsky kicked me swiftly in my face when I dared to balk at kissing her boots after my first escape. My defiance cost me two teeth, replaced with implants to keep me “pretty.”
Countess Vronsky’s Russian surgeon, Dr. Sasha Khachaturian, sutured the gash from my upper lip to my nose—without anesthesia so the women could nurture their burgeoning, sadistic arousal, ravenously absorbing each meticulous detail of my misery. When Dr. Khachaturian closed the last stitch, the two women strapped me face-down on the operating table, with my chin over the edge at the end.
The Countess and the Doctor stripped and sprawled on the floor before my hungering eyes, kissing and licking each other, massaging and fingering their bodies with remarkable expertise to whip their sexual surge to a peak and to exhaust the last ounce of gratification from the collision of their bodies, heightening the consummation of their nasty lust by stealing glances at me to confirm how much their fleshly union wracked me with agony.
Under any circumstances, flaunting their sensual ecstasy while I couldn’t play with myself would have tortured me. But the Countess sadistically twisted the psychological dagger in my heart by graphically dramatizing how I’d lost Nicole’s love—to another woman—before I lost her through death.
When Dr. Khachaturian performed her cosmetic surgery the day after stitching my lip-to-nose gash, she consented to anesthetize me—but only to prevent me from squirming and marring the artistry of her work.
Why would any sane man return to this cruel Countess? Why would any man, sane or crazy, seek her torture? Natasha drugged my common sense with the narcotic of her eroticism, but at some point, reason should awaken. Her most thoroughly-seduced victim should be able to recover long enough to utter that classic: “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”
Unfortunately, I was both crazy and stupid for Countess Vronsky. She prepared to sedate me with her charms again—a repeated ritual as cloyingly predictable as it was irresistible.
The Russian policewomen had seen enough of my slavish devotion and departed for Russleder.
When I crawled into the troika, I noticed Percy’s permanent eyeliner, eyebrows, and mascara looked even more hideous close up. Countess Vronsky spread her furs wide before wrapping me inside, snugly against her body-heated latex—one thin, rubbery layer away from her flesh. Nestling in the warmth and protection of my fearsome Goddess, sheltered from the bitter elements I’d inflicted on myself by defying my Goddess, I felt a serenity surpassed only by the afterglow of sex itself. I cannot describe the ecstasy of depending totally on Countess Vronsky, encapsulated from harm, absolutely at her mercy.
All I can say is, her benevolent dominance erased her degradation, humiliation, and physical torture—although she cooed sweet promises to inflict pain more intense than my wildest imagination, because of my latest folly.
“Your attempts to escape are hilariously futile,” she said, lacing her acidic words with musical laughter. “I delight in beating you senseless after I recapture you.” She brushed my hood back when her gloved hand enticingly stroked my slick head. “Don’t try my patience. Find other ways to justify my whipping you within an inch of your life.”
“You are your own justification.”
Gloating at my servile, verbal ass-sucking, she pulled my hood back, pressed my face into the rubbery material straining over her breasts, and wrapped me inside her furs again. We lay facing each other. Tempting me with her divine flesh, sequestered in latex to forbid direct touching, she tacitly dared me to attempt any gesture remotely resembling a sexual advance. She deigned to accept my rigid erection as my tribute to her, but if I tried rubbing my cock against her luscious, unattainable body, she’d crush my testicles with her lethal, lovely boots.
I curled my body into the fetal position pressing my face into the latex covering her breasts and my knees against her thighs, preventing my cock from touching her. My spirits soared with her contact but ached because her vaunted arrogance would deny me any affection. The smell of her latex and my nascent trickles of sweat—from nervousness and body heat under her thick furs—focused my dreamy bliss into delicious reality. I wanted to eat the Countess.
But although my sole purpose was Going Down for the Countess, she seldom granted me the privilege of going down on her. I gave good face. She conceded that. But she parceled out cunnilingus as a special treat that I must earn. Her exquisite intimacy bought my soul—again. For her warm embrace, I’d let her destroy me.
As if she needed permission…
Dying in my Goddess’s arms would be a fitting end to my life. Nicole was gone, and Countess Vronsky had stripped me of all the millions of dollars Nicole had left me, siphoning my residual income directly into her account. My passing would have made little difference.
In exchange for giving her all of the assets I owned or would ever own, the Countess condescended to give me a taste of the voluptuous delights of her body—two nights of divine bliss strategically spaced six months apart, so that I’d absorb, internalize, and cherish the celestial ecstasy she willfully denied me except for those two nights. Her mega-version of tease and denial brutalized my soul more than her whip or her extensive repertoire of ingenious torture.
Soon the troika skidded into the seven-foot-diameter tunnel through the ten-foot-thick granite walls surrounding Russleder. Two of Countess Vronsky’s Slaves slammed shut the huge, round one-foot-thick gates at either end of the tunnel—resembling bank vault doors—putting gigantic periods on my Goddess’s victory.
As the troika skidded along the interior of Russleder, I admired the Ice Palace, Countess Vronsky’s magnificent mansion. The Russian motif of building massively sufficiently impressed visitors, but the flashy minarets and onion-shaped domes added panache. In fact, the structure mimicked the architecture of historical buildings in Moscow, four thousand miles to the west.
I stumbled into the medical room over the smaller dungeon for Dr. Khachaturian to examine me. The Good Doctor rubbed me with oils and lineaments to ward off frostbite, but her smug expression mocked me as a weak, vulnerable American at the mercy of her Motherland.
For good measure, Countess Vronsky drew near and slapped me twice, forehand and backhand. “That’s for leering at Sasha.” The three of us knew quite well the Countess had taught me months earlier—painfully—to lower my eyes respectfully for either woman to escape such punishing blows. But we also knew Countess Vronsky did as she damned well pleased, and if I objected, I could go freeze my ass to death. When they exchanged giggles, my cock rose.
Countess Vronsky bade Percy to bring piping hot mugs of borscht to the three Russian policewomen. After assuring that the nourishment satisfied the lady guests, he wrapped a coarse robe around me and gave me a mug of borscht, and dutifully refilled each mug upon request. Percy and I complied with the will of the Countess. I ate ravenously to bolster my stamina for the Countess’s whip. She was so eager to beat me she nearly salivated. Percy fulfilled his servile duties to comply with the whims of the Countess—although he and I despised each other.
Our Goddess fostered hostility among us Slaves by shrewdly segregating us. When she forced a Slave to perform menial chores, such as Percy clothing and feeding me, she beat us savagely if one Slave spoke to another. Some assholes spoke to other Slaves intentionally, enduring their own beating just to punish Slaves they detested. After Countess Vronsky turned total strangers into sworn enemies, she judiciously doled out basic comforts like food, clothing, and shelter to fuel our jealously and manipulate us into hating each other.
God only knows what we Slaves would do to a slave suspected of receiving individual, sexual favors from Countess Vronsky! She entertained us with group masturbations, and I was about to become her costar.
Strapping a collar around my neck and attaching a leash, Countess Vronsky led me to the massive Great Hall in the Ice Palace. I left my trusty boots in the operating room after the foot gear had served me so well on the tundra. Now I wore slippers.
The stone walls arching high to the cathedral ceiling lent the occasion a quasi-religious feeling. Nothing in the Ice Palace, of course, actually resembled ice. The mansion took its name from the frigid Siberian climate and the temperament of the woman who designed it—an American descendant of Russian grandparents, Catherine Roman.
In the blink of an eye, the Countess whisked my robe away and shackled me, spread-eagle, with two manacles suspended from crisscrossing oaken beams and two more anchored to the stone floor. She tied my neck leash on a hook in one of the beams so that I would, in effect, choke myself if I let my knees buckle.
The Russian policewomen made wagers in one corner. The other ten slaves, shackled ankles linked by heavy chains, shuffled as close as Countess Vronsky would allow them. Although Countess Vronsky intended to have a dozen Slaves at all times, her hot temper drove a slave or two away occasionally. They were in various stages of sliding condoms on their cocks; many already had boners at the sight of Natasha’s lithe body highlighted in burgundy latex.
Countess Vronsky was to beauty as Lon Chaney, The Man of a Thousand Faces, was to horror. She could change her countenance dramatically enough to make a chameleon jealous. The fire she’d flashed on the tundra now froze on her face at the Ice Palace. She became the Ice Queen, a true disciple of her benefactress, Mrs. Roman.
Pointing dramatically to Percy, she decreed, “You’re exempt. Monitor the others.”
I gritted my teeth and looked stonily ahead, but nine other pairs of eyes stared daggers into Percy. Countess Vronsky’s favor guaranteed retaliation from the other slaves. They’d punish Percy at the earliest opportunity, and the Countess would either turn a blind eye to Percy’s agony or beat the other Slaves senseless. Her mood would determine her mode of pleasure.
Countess Vronsky stepped behind me and cast her whip like a fishing line, snapping the tip as it touched my flesh, slicing open my first wound of this session. Ten Slaves cheered loudly. My cock stood ramrod straight, proud to be the instrument of the Countess. Over in the corner, the three Russian women stared wide-eyed, actually licking their lips. They forgot their bets while they enjoyed Showtime.
My Goddess adroitly cracked her whip again, drawing more blood and eliciting another roar from the slaves. “Do you hate me yet?”
“I shall always love you.”
She lashed me twice, savagely, in quick succession. “Strong words from a weak man. I’ll break your will.” Her whip lacerated my skin once more. “Again. I’ll make you my bitch.” Crack! “Again.”
Gritting my teeth and wincing, I braced myself and shouted firmly, “I love you so much I could burst out in song!”
Silence fell on the great hall. I tried not to tremble in fear. What would she do now? Countess Vronsky swaggered past me, turned, and jutted her face within inches of mine. “So you could ‘burst out in song.’” Her sneer was distilled scorn. “Prove it. Serenade me!”
My desperate mind latched onto the tune of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll” and scrambled to improvise lyrics:
“I love Countess V
Enough for her to pee on me.
She has so much class,
I’ll lick her feet and then her ass.”
Despite herself, she burst into laughter. “Nice try, you worthless swine.” Resuming her post behind me, she hummed “I Love Rock and Roll” and flayed my skin harder. “Will you love me later tonight? When Dr. Khachaturian pours alcohol on your open wounds?”
Her strokes came harder and faster. Her frenzied breathing measured her rising ecstasy. “When you ache so much you could scream.” Crack!
“I’ll still love you!”
“But I’ll crush you if you scream.” Crack! Crack!
“I’ll worship and adore you!”
“You’ll cry in pain.” Crack! Crack! Crack!
“Crying out my praise for you.”
“While I kick you senseless with my beautiful, ruthless boots—symbol of my power, icon of your worship.”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Do it, beloved Countess!”
Silence again. Her breathing seemed to rack her lungs. Her panting and grunting fascinated me so much I was surprised to realize she’d stopped whipping me. Her moans nearly made me ejaculate. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You’re making me—”
“I win!” A voice interrupted the Countess to announce he was the first slave to climax.
I could have strangled him. Because of his interruption, I figured the Countess would start the beating all over again, from the beginning until she reached another orgasm.
Instead, she kept stroking herself purposefully, expertly. I could visualize the crotch of her catsuit zipped open, her gloved hand plunged into her pussy, her middle finger strumming her clitoris—a stunningly magic image. The memory of her bravura performance, seared into my brain, made me gasp for breath. Watching her would’ve driven me berserk. When her climax induced her to bellow her guttural yell of exultation, my cock quivered in empathy.
The crunching whir of her zipper brought us all back to reality. She wasn’t through with us. She stepped to my left side and held her right hand near my mouth, tacitly demanding that I lick her juices off her gloved fingers.
“Thank you!” I exclaimed. My mouth engulfed her index finger, and I sucked eagerly.
“Clean me to my satisfaction and I’ll give you a special treat.” Turning to the slave who’d bragged about cumming first, Countess Vronsky said, “Slave Robert, only ladies win in Russleder.” Icicles dripped from her words. Seconds after her explosive climax, she was the Ice Queen. Only Mrs. Roman could look so cold and so beautiful at the same time.
“My mistake,” he said sheepishly.
“Yes, and you’ll pay dearly for it.”
Countess Vronsky stood motionless, terrorizing us with the fear of her next move. What new cruelty would she inflict on us to gratify her sadistic streak?
Turning to me, she said, “Finish quickly.”
I sucked fast on each latex-gloved finger and gave each digit a second cleaning.
“Dr. Khachaturian, release Slave Robert. He’ll finish off the other slaves, except Slave Percy and Slave Ivey.” Countess Vronsky picked one of her least willing slaves—fastidious, if not prissy, Robert, who stood tall, eschewed the nickname ‘Bob,’ and strutted around totally absorbed in his good looks. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, but Countess Vronsky didn’t. And Dr. Khachaturian was strictly a ladies’ lady. Tough shit, Robert.
I wondered what the Countess had in store for Percy and me while Robert walked down the line, inspecting each condom to assure that its owner had “given it up”—not applause—in tribute to the Countess. When Robert found a slave with a boner, I closed my eyes while Robert masturbated him. Giving another guy a hand job disgusted me about as much as it sickened Robert. Jerking someone else’s cock repulsed all the slaves except Pat and Jackie. And, of course, Countess Vronsky forbade them from playing together. Sidney, who’d ‘recruited’ Pat and Jackie, and also preferred same-sex climaxes, disdained masturbating someone else.
The good news: Pat and Jackie were limp when Robert reached them. The bad news: They probably got off watching me suffer, not admiring the fabulous Countess in her latex catsuit.
Robert reported to the Countess. “Slave Alvin, Slave John, and Slave Biff had erections.” Each man vaguely resembled his name. Short in stature, Alvin spoke in a high-pitched voice and had a puffy face like a chipmunk—with a surname that never let anyone forget the analogy: Cheeks. John, vainer than Robert, wore a sorrowful expression, waiting for someone to anoint him a saint. His full name was John Luther Martin—an inverted namesake nearly impossible to live up to. And Biff…Oh, Biff. So big and strong. So clueless.
“Dr. Khachaturian, cuff the delinquents and march them to their cells without supper. Then play with them.”
Dr. Khachaturian leered eagerly while she handcuffed Alvin, John, and Biff before unlocking their ankles from the shackles. To instill dread in them, she zapped each one with her stun gun and snickered while they staggered to the floor in spastic disorientation.
My guilty pleasure distracted me while Countess Vronsky unlocked my shackles. “Can you dish it out as well as you take it?” She handed me her whip. For a second, I considered using her whip on anyone who tried to stop me from escaping. That sliver of indiscretion brought swift retribution. Drawing her own stun gun faster than an Old West outlaw, Countess Vronsky shocked me into inglorious submission at her booted feet. Groveling helplessly, I listened to Dr. Khachaturian herding her victims to their cells. Yes, only women triumphed at Russleder.
I looked around the Great Room. Now that Dr. Khachaturian had removed three slaves, eight of us remained: Percy, Robert, me, and the ones I called the Charter Members, the slaves who’d been at the Ice Palace almost from the start. Three of them, fugitives from justice, knew Countess Vronsky would send them to jail if they didn’t bow to her.
First there was Arch Grubber, whose crimes included embezzlement, fraud, manipulation, and other white collar offenses that ruined his career as a stockbroker and threatened him with a long term in prison. A sexy bombshell named Sable Brandenburg ‘donated’ him to the Countess.
Not to be outdone, Gretel Wickersham contributed two Slaves to Countess Vronsky’s collection: Bruiser Blunden, whom she’d seduced into several felonies and framed for other crimes while he was on probation; and Sidney Schisslinger, whose PR firm Gretel stole while luring him into convictions for several crimes he didn’t commit. Sidney cherished the way Gretel rear-ended him with her dildo enough to let her blackmail him. And Sidney brought along Pat and Jackie. They swore he shanghaied them—and they loved every minute of their abduction.
Conspicuous in his absence was the very first charter slave, Matt Dorman. Matt’s serious drug addictions and the litany of crimes he committed to get money to feed his habit delivered him into Countess Vronsky’s merciless hands—anything to escape criminal prosecution. The Countess, with startling kindness, sent Matt to a rehab center. To show his gratitude, Matt swiped some drugs from the center and ran away. Everyone assumed his body would turn up loaded with an overdose of drugs. But the longer he remained missing, the more the doubts grew.
While I reminisced about the other slaves, Robert assumed his role, letting Countess Vronsky lock him in the position I had just vacated. After she had secured all the manacles, he pleaded, “Just don’t TASER me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She zapped him.
He struggled to form a coherent sentence. “Please? I asked you nicely.”
“I didn’t TASER you,” she insisted, shocking him again. When she deemed him capable of comprehending her remarks, she explained, “Did you know TASER is an acronym? It stands for Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle.”
“Who’s Thomas A. Swift?”
“A 1930s science fiction hero. The man who invented the TASER is a big Tom Swift fan. As you can see—” she incapacitated him yet again “—I don’t have a rifle.”
Struggling to recover, Robert conceded, “I see your point. ‘Stun gun’ and ‘TASER’ are not the same.”
“Good boy!” She pinched his cheek, hard. “Just remember, ‘This is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for fighting, and this is for fun.’” She paused. “Oh, what’s the use? None of you pussies were in the Army, so you wouldn’t get it.”
The newest piece of the Countess Vronsky puzzle astonished me. “You were in the Army??”
“Military Police!” she beamed. “You can’t imagine how much fun I had! Several nights a week I’d get my girlfriends to lure some male chauvinist pig to a bar and get him stumbling drunk. Then I’d batter him with my nightstick. He’d become a slobbering, weeping punching bag, begging for mercy. From a woman! I always swore the guy was resisting arrest, and he’d be too plastered for anyone to believe him.”
My mind stripped its gears. I was livid. “You sadistic bitch!”
Everyone grew quiet, neither moving nor speaking.
Countess Vronsky’s voice was calm and frigid. “I’ll deal with you after you whip Slave Robert.”
I laid the whip on the floor. “Bring it on.”
“I could kill you.”
“You can kill me, but not my spirit!”
“Oh, I like that!” Something like admiration flickered in her eyes. “Defiant, but not very original.” She nonchalantly got me with her stun gun again.
Even while I writhed in my agony on the floor, Countess Vronsky’s power stoked me, and I yearned to fuse with it. Actually plugging into her, giving her everything I could and taking whatever she’d give me, would’ve pushed me to the zenith of ecstasy, again. I might not survive the jolt. Or I’d settle for melding our minds and spirits to make me feel invincible, but vulnerable to her.
She knelt beside me and said softly, “Choose: Whip Slave Robert until you’re exhausted. Or fuck him.”
I rolled onto my aching back and looked her in the eye. “Neither.”
She sent more shock waves through me. “We will stay here until you whip or screw Slave Robert. How’s your back?”
The pain from the impact of her harsh, repeated lashes would not set in for hours, but my open wounds already throbbed. I struggled to my knees. “You win.”
Picking up her whip, I staggered to my feet. Normally, the Countess would’ve made me lick her boots before letting me rise. In my crushed spirit of absolute subservience, I perceived the omission of her signature act of humiliation as a rare gesture of kindness. Although she spared me, I knew my “victory” was hollow. She’d exact her revenge, redoubled, at her leisure. I swung the whip lackadaisically.
“No you don’t.” She snatched the whip away. “Make love, not war? Is that your game?” Pointing to Robert, she added, “Take him.”
The Russian police chief bustled forward. “Enough. Take your money.” She handed Countess Vronsky a stack of rubles, apparently all of the original amount.
“Olga, I need to teach Ivey a lesson.”
“He knows. Or too dense to ever learn. We take to prison.”
“I’ll discipline him. Then you’ll have your man.”
The Russian woman looked dubious. “No killing.”
Countess Vronsky roared with laughter. “I’m not going to go that easy on him!”
So, I resumed whipping Robert, once more with feeling. I bore him no malice, and lashing him made me wince—at first. Repetition deadened my sensitivity to his pain. Through sheer willpower I continued whipping him long after my arm grew so numb I could barely feel it swing. Finally, exhausted from both beatings, mine and his, I begged off. “I’m done.”
The Countess took the whip from my hand. Turning to Dr. Khachaturian, who’d returned, she handed her stun gun and whip to the Good Doctor. She faced me again. “I am a sadistic Goddess, not a sadistic bitch.”
She streaked toward me with lightning speed. Her forearm shiver across my nose blinded me with tears, and she knocked the wind out of my lungs with her tight fist driving expertly into my solar plexus. Another forearm shiver across the side of my head made my ear ring, and when she blasted my crotch with her boot—cruel, debilitating beauty—I crumpled to my knees and then lay on my back without a single spark of resistance. Unzipping the crotch of her catsuit, she jammed her ass against my face. When my tongue squirmed into her anus, she relaxed to savor my wet, warm treat. I think the symbolism of sitting on my face surpassed the physical rush of my sucking her ass. She perched victoriously on my face as long as she could.
Countess Vronsky always waited until I was battered and exhausted to pick a fight and beat me up, planting seeds of doubt about my ability to defend myself. Could I fend her off when I was healthy and well-rested? Shrewdly, she’d never let me know.
When she rose, she said, “Percy, put your condom on and take him.”
Percy would have taken me. But I mustered a desperate surge of adrenaline, bodily lifted him in the air, and threw him several feet across the floor.
“I learned what I wanted to know,” Countess Vronsky mused. She began to peel off her catsuit. “Did that mean old Slave Ivey hurt my little piggy-wiggy?”
“Leave me alone!” Tears welled in Percy’s eyes.
“I’ll console you for your suffering.” She jammed a condom on his cock and squatted on his ambivalent tool.
Puzzled by Percy’s reluctance, I barely noticed Dr. Khachaturian clamping a chastity belt around my waist and its cage over my penis. I felt her stun gun pressed against my neck, poised to disable me, and gave up all hope of resisting the spectacle of Percy making love to my Goddess while her cruel cage prevented me from even stroking my cock.
“Let me stay!” Percy begged.
“I can’t use you. Time for your goodbye fuck,” she cooed, clearly deriving sexual arousal from his fear and trembling. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I’ll do whatever you tell me. I’ll clean all the toilets with my toothbrush. I’ll lick your toes every night. And ream your anus with my tongue. I’ll bait your next Slave.”
Countess Vronsky turned to face me. “Someone else will do all those things.” The wicked glint in her eyes seduced me into accepting the bitter fate she’d sealed for my future.
Once more I felt outraged by her arrogance and impotent to resist her domination. Besides, Dr. Khachaturian would have loved nothing better than an excuse to zap me.
Turning to Percy, the Countess said, “Lie back and enjoy the ride. Real men would die for a piece of me.”
Apparently Countess Vronsky’s challenge to Percy’s masculinity goaded him into maximum overdrive. Swirled away in the rush of surrender to the Countess, he drove up into her while tears streamed down his face, signifying his climax commingled with pain, humiliation, dismissal, and permanent separation from the Goddess who stooped to delight him. She was telling him goodbye with sexual bliss that was far more elegant and less lethal than a kiss of death.
She rose without tidying up. “He’s yours, Olga. Take him.”
“Not him,” Olga protested.
Walking to a desk, Countess Vronsky whisked out some documents. “Here are the papers for Igor Vladimir Marks. Everything is in order.”
The officers looked over the items and nodded.
“May I see those?” I asked. My passport, birth certificate—everything—had been missing since the morning after I arrived in Russleder.
Countess Vronsky shoved the papers back into the desk and locked the desk. “Not now,” she taunted. My papers, too, would disappear when I needed them: when I ceased to amuse her, and she discarded me. She turned to the Russian policewomen. “On the other hand,” she said, “Percy Willingham has no papers. He’s clearly an illegal immigrant.”
“That’s a lie!” Percy turned hysterical. “You stole my papers when I got here. You took all of my money and hid my passport and everything else!”
“I recommend a psychological examination,” the Countess observed. Her frigid expression could have frozen the Sahara. “He’s emotionally unstable, even delusional.”
“He is not the man we found in the snow,” Olga protested.
“Should I tell your superiors you came to my Ice Palace for entertainment? That you took a bribe and gambled with it?”
“That is—how do you say?—blackmail!”
“Insurance. Take Percy into custody—proof positive that you’re maintaining law and order in your Motherland. Da?”
The Russian police officer gave only an icy glare in reply.
In minutes, Percy was bundled up warmly to face the frigid weather of late fall in Siberia. The Russian policewomen surrounded him while he shuffled toward the door slowly, a beaten man, powerless to correct the injustice done to him.
Lest I revel in Percy’s misery, Countess Vronsky said to Dr. Khachaturian, “Once the Russians pass the outside wall, bind Slave Ivey for another beating. Please do the honors. I’ll stand before him to watch him suffer. He can worship me to my face.”
“With pleasure!” Dr. Khachaturian beamed.
“Then we’ll send him to bed without supper.”
I had learned to deplore Countess Vronsky’s pet euphemism for sending me to solitary confinement. “Please don’t put me in timeout,” I made a mock protest.
The Countess looked at me sternly. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, and I want you to think about what you’ve done.”
Down for the Countess, A Femdom Novel Description
Bereft at the loss of his wife, artist Ivey Marks finds himself manipulated into joining Countess Natasha Vronsky in her domain at Russleder (Russian Leather) in Siberia. She initially plans to make him her figurehead Count. But Ivey rebels, and Countess Vronsky brings him to his knees as just another of her twelve slaves. In his humbled position, Ivey discovers there's a slave rebellion afoot a scheme to overthrow the Countess with the help of a mysterious outlaw who calls himself Strelnikov. Ivey, ever the loner, tries three times to escape by himself. But the Countess tracks him down each time with the help of her comrade, Dr. Sasha Khachaturian. Ivey gradually realizes his Goddess lets him flee for the sport of recapturing him, then humiliating him with a whipping in front of the other slaves. The Countess Vronsky delights in seeing how harshly she can abuse him. And while Ivey's secret and perverse delight in being under Countess Vronsky's heel disturbs him, he can't help but be drawn to her powerful allure. When Strelnikov materializes as a very real challenge to Countess Vronsky's authority, whose side will Ivey choose? Or does it matter? Are they both out to kill him? Even as Ivey is caught up saving himself from the Countess and Strelnikov, he longs for the breathtaking Sable Brandenburg. But with the Countess in charge, his acute desire to be subject to this beautiful mistress is little more than a pipe dream. This beautifully crafted story weaves a tale steeped in Female domination and male submission....
Who is Down for the Countess, A Femdom Novel Author?
Author: King Key
Down for the Countess, A Femdom Novel Catalog
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