Down For The Countess, A Femdom Novel

Chapter One-2

“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 s****l advance. She deigned to accept my rigid erection as my tribute to her, but if I tried rubbing my c**k 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 c**k 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 c*********s 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 c**k 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, s****l 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 c***s; 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 c**k 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?”

“I will!”

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 p***y, her middle finger strumming her c******s—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 c**k 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 s**t, 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 m*********d him. Giving another guy a hand job disgusted me about as much as it sickened Robert. Jerking someone else’s c**k 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-s*x climaxes, disdained m**********g 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.