Down For The Countess, A Femdom Novel

Chapter Two-2

“Just remember: You delivered two bottles of vodka to this man. I wasn’t here.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

She took the bottles from the cart. “Never mind the formality of setting the table. I’m going to roll this nice, wealthy man, and I want to start right away.” Her kiss on his cheek induced an instant boner and reddened his face.

While the aroused hotel worker wheeled the cart away, the Countess closed the door and put my wallet on the dresser. “Now we’re going to play strip-drinking,” she improvised when she returned to the table. “For each article of clothing you remove, you have to take a drink.”

I reached for her.

“Not my clothing,” she chided, “yours. Remove your tie.” She had the first bottle open before I slid my tie out of my collar, and she began pouring vodka into my mouth before I dropped the albatross from my neck to the floor.

Undressing while getting inebriated approaches perfection as a recipe for getting shafted, and the Countess kept the heat turned up to make sure she followed the recipe to stew me thoroughly. While I removed my last article of clothing, my jockey-style undershorts, she took the chocolate piece from the turned down sheet on the bed. I marveled at her dexterity in unwrapping it with her gloves on. When she devoured the treat, it seemed to symbolize my will: I now belonged to her.

Totally besotted with her and with vodka, I stood nakedly vulnerable before her.

Balling up the foil wrapper, she tossed it in my face. “Lie down,” she commanded, “supine.” I stood motionless, mildly defying her, but she interpreted my silence as ignorance. “That means on your back.”

She pushed me backwards, gently, and I acquiesced, reclining on my back. “I know what supine means,” I protested. “I just couldn’t believe your gall.”

She retrieved her large bag from the dresser and placed it on the floor. Taking out two pairs of handcuffs, she locked my left wrist to the center of the headboard of the king size bed and my left ankle to the center of the footboard.

The position seemed odd, but all I could think to ask was, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to do you,” she admitted. “The way I’ve laid you out, I can flip you over and keep you on the bed.” She wiggled her panties down and stepped out of them. Stooping to pick them up, she said, “I learned this from Sable, who saw Sigourney Weaver do it in a movie.” Stuffing her panties into my mouth, she smiled, “That should keep you quiet.”

When she stooped to her bag again, I reached to remove her panties from my mouth.

Before I could even grasp her panties with my fingers, she placed an object against my chest. I felt a jolt of electricity course through my body. I convulsed wildly. For several seconds, I was totally incapacitated. “Stun gun.” Her arch smile signified how thoroughly I was at her mercy. “Don’t make me use it again.”

I shook my head no.

Placing a tape player on the bedside table, she explained, “I’d rather listen to tapes of me playing the organ. But this is saxophone music: very romantic and sexy.”

My desperate gaze into her eyes amounted to nonverbal begging.

“People in the adjoining rooms will think we’re making love,” she smiled. “They will be wrong.” She flipped out a camera phone, took several pictures of me, and began texting a message. “Just letting Nicole know what you’re up to. I’m attaching the pictures for her amusement—and possible grounds for divorce.”

Even though I was sure Nicole would never divorce me, I reached for the panties in my mouth. But the Countess zapped me again.

“I will ruin you,” she promised. “Lie back and enjoy it. I know I will.”

Turning on the music, very loud, she punched me in the right eye quite deliberately and accurately. Then her gloved fist shot into my left eye. She formed two circles with her index finger and her thumb of each hand and placed the circles on her eyes, presumably predicting my future black eyes. If my eyes looked as stunning as hers, lined with burgundy instead of purplish-black, I could endure her cold, precise punches all night. Jabbing me in the nose several times, she ran her index finger under my nose and held her bloodied, gloved finger before my eyes as proof of her cruelty.

Inexplicably, she leaned down and pressed her wet lips hard against mine, sucking and moving her lips until I kissed her back desperately, madly hoping she somehow cared for me, despite the fact she had just beaten me savagely. I wrapped my free arm around her back and tried to pull her closer. Totally disregarding her sadism, I yearned to embrace her and show that I was still enamored with her—or at least lusting for her; I wasn’t sure which urge prevailed.

When she rose, our lips parted. I leaned up as far as I could to try putting my lips near her.

She jerked free of me and clipped my chin with a wide swing of her right fist. While I stayed in my half-raised position, dazed and stupidly craving more affection, she gave me another roundhouse punch, with her left fist, and laughed in my face.

Countess Vronsky easily snatched the prize for the most sadistic version of tease and denial I’d ever seen.

She coolly flipped open her camera phone, took more pictures, and attached them to another text message. Placing her camera phone on the bedside table, she retrieved a whip from her bag and turned me over. Throughout her flurry of activity, the Countess’s facial expression and demeanor seemed frozen at absolute-zero degrees, a cryogenic sculpture chiseled into my mind. She formed an exotic amalgam of fire and ice.

I thought her punching was vicious, but her whip cut like a blade, punishing me with its sheer impact and the way it ripped my skin. Even while the pain sliced through me, the intensity of my feelings turned my c**k into a rigid rod. Countess Vronsky’s whip seemed to lash every inch of my back, stinging me into s****l arousal, moving down to my buttocks, piquing my lust in steady escalation, ripping my thighs, and raining shots back up to my ass. She playfully snapped the tip of her whip in my anus, and pre-c*m oozed out of my c**k. While I marveled at her dexterity with the lash, the Countess flipped me over again and stroked my c**k vigorously, twice. I started to c*m.

With diabolic timing, she put her hand over my c**k, straddling my p***s with her middle and index fingers just behind the glands p***s, simultaneously pushing up on the underside with her thumb. My c**k went flat.

I literally wept, afraid that her deflating act might inflict permanent impotence on me. As if to allay my fear, she pumped my c**k back to life—and collapsed it just as quickly to reinforce the reality of her absolute tyranny over me.

She lowered the music. “Having fun yet?” Now her face was ablaze with sadistic lust.

Cowed by her stranglehold on my vulnerability, I nodded my head yes.

She glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. “Just about now, Catherine Roman is f*****g your wife for one million dollars.”

I jerked upright, incredulous.

“Catherine screws all of her rich-b***h girlfriends on their birthdays—including Sable—and convinces each gullible bimbo that she’s the only one.” The Countess slithered off one of her gloves. “Catherine insists the money only adds to the decadence of their debauchery.” She removed her other glove. “But I can’t recall that she ever gave a discount or r****d, much less a free ride.”

I pointed to my lips, and she pulled her panties out of my mouth. “I won’t scream,” I promised. “Please let me talk to you. Did Nicole take money from my account to pay Mrs. Roman?”

The Countess unzipped her dress. “Draw your own conclusions!”

“So, Nicole has made love to Mrs. Roman every year since we’ve been married!”

Countess Vronsky nodded in agreement. “Always on Nicole’s birthday, probably on other special occasions, depending on their schedules.” She wiggled out of her dress. “But tonight Catherine will demand Nicole’s pledge of undying love for Mrs. Roman—to convince Nicole that she doesn’t need any man.”

“Nicole wouldn’t fall for that.”

Countess Vronsky reached into her bag and pulled out a dildo with a head on each end. Inserting the smaller head into her v****a, she gave me a wicked smile. “Those pictures I sent Nicole may convince her she doesn’t need you.”

“You’re in on this?”

“Ivey, you’re so f****d up.” She turned me over on my belly and secured my right wrist to the bed with yet another pair of handcuffs. “And you’re about to be just plain f****d. Do exactly as I command and I may grant you the privilege of coming to live with me in Russleder.”

“Don’t even consider that idea now. Why are you destroying my marriage?”

“Just making sure you’re available.” She shackled my right ankle to the footboard with a fourth pair of handcuffs. Stuffing her panties back in my mouth, she leaned over to move the clock radio to the floor, revealing a video camera mounted on a small tripod on the bedside table. “Smile for the camera,” she demanded, thrusting hard into me.

Her brutal invasion jolted me. She underscored how completely she owned me from the first stroke, and each agonizing jab convinced me that my suffering might earn at least some slight affection from her. I wanted to give her whatever she wanted because she had trapped me between the crosscurrents of her cruelty and sensuality.

She rode me so hard I started cumming, humping the bed, wanting to proclaim my slavery to her. Having her panties stuffed in my mouth, preventing me from babbling my adoration for her, temporarily saved me from myself.

Jutting her pelvis so hard she forced my ass into the air, Countess Vronsky said to the camera, “This is for you, Nikki.” She jabbed me harder and harder, manipulating her end of the dildo to treat herself to several orgasms. Her squeals and grunts of satisfaction/arousal/ecstasy taunted me while I was imprisoned in my desperate frustration but fulfilled me in a peculiar way I could never understand. Gratification rippled through me because she made me her instrument to pleasure herself. Being used so crassly gave me a meaningful function in her life.

Reaching under my belly to milk me—at least she drained me, regardless of how thoroughly she humbled me in granting my s****l release—the Countess pumped me until I couldn’t give any more, even though I strained as hard as I could, just to keep her hand on my c**k. She kissed me on the cheek and dismounted. Dressing quickly, she demanded, “Look at me!”

I turned my head as far as I could to look over my left shoulder while she slithered her hands into her gloves. Stuffing her whip back into her bag, she hoisted the strap to her shoulder and returned to the dresser. Her wicked smile provoked me with lust and anger while she picked my wallet clean and slid all the bills into her bag. Blowing me a kiss, she exited and closed the door.

Early the next morning, Mrs. Roman sauntered into my room, locked the door, and taunted, “You seem to have gotten yourself into quite a predicament.” She stood there in her black dress, even shinier than leather or satin, leather-gloved hands planted on her hips, and a fur stole around her neck and over her shoulders.

I nodded vigorously.

Moving slowly to build the suspense surging inside me and tantalize me with the spectacle of her fluid grace in glimmering black, Mrs. Roman placed her fur on the nearest chair and took the handcuff keys off the bedside table.

Her majestic strides around the bed to my right side could have passed for a processional march. She stood where my right wrist hung cuffed to the headboard. When she tried three keys before inserting the correct one into the cuff at the headboard, I wanted to curse her with every four-letter word in my vocabulary. She knew goddam well which key was the correct one! Again, the panties stuffed in my mouth saved me—from what, I wasn’t sure, because the Countess had already stripped me of everything, especially my dignity.

At least my wrist, still cuffed, was free of the headboard. Mrs. Roman repeated her act of innocent ignorance, trying the three incorrect keys before unlocking the cuff around the footboard. b***h! You’ve already eliminated one key!