Down For The Countess, A Femdom Novel

Chapter One-3

“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 p*****s 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 b***h!”

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 f**k 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.”

“Always.”

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.”

“Whatever.”

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 c**k 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 p***s. 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 c**k.

“Let me stay!” Percy begged.

“I can’t use you. Time for your goodbye f**k,” she cooed, clearly deriving s****l 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 s****l 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.”