Down For The Countess, A Femdom Novel

Chapter One 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 p***s fiercely, and I’d damned well better follow her lead, or she’d make me her b***h 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.” “Name.” “Ivey.” “Girl’s name.” “Nickname.” “Full name.” 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.” “Papers.” 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.” “Olga.” “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 s****l 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 s*x 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.”