Down For The Countess, A Femdom Novel

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Queens Take Pawn

I did, indeed, think about what I’d done.

Exactly how did I plummet from the lap of luxury in Washington, DC, in February 2007, to the scrapheap of Countess Natasha Vronsky’s seduced-and-abandoned Slaves in Russleder in November 2007? Superficially, the two locales contrast sharply with each other: the Capital of the United States, climatically though not sociologically a Southern city, and Russleder, which roughly translates to ‘Russian Leather,’ staked out in the harsh terrain of Siberia.

Yet these two sites share significant comparative attributes. In fact, aside from their physical contrasts, they resemble each other in their essence: one, a fake dominion in Siberia; the other, sixty-eight square miles, surrounded by reality. A government official once commented, “In Washington, friends come and go, but enemies accumulate.” In Russleder, Countess Vronsky’s Slaves come and go, but her wealth (formerly theirs) accumulates.

My downfall began on February 14, 2007, when Catherine Roman threw an extravagant Valentine’s Day reception for an influential senator in one of DC’s most elegant hotels—a brazen gesture to buy the senator’s vote on a bill that would benefit bankers. Stretched thin by the myriad of topics that the Senate monitors, the senator conceded to Mrs. Roman’s superior knowledge on banking issues—unlike him, she lived and breathed banking every day—and subsequently delivered his vote to her on a silver platter, repeatedly.

Never mind the political party of this senator, because elected officials on both sides of the aisle are routinely compromised this way. And I don’t mean to impugn the senator’s ethics. Mrs. Roman got her way without giving him the faintest hope of s****l favors, and whatever cash she lavished on him paled in comparison to her real advantage: information. The fact is that Washington lobbyists, without facing the turnover that elections create in Congress, have a tremendous edge in the knowledge of their special interests. Collectively, they enjoy uncontested tenure and have a firmer grasp than anyone else in Washington on what’s really happening in government.

Initially, I thought Mrs. Roman invited Nicole and me to the reception to show her appreciation for the millions we’d deposited in the Fairfax, Virginia, branches of her New York-based bank. I grudgingly realized, however, she wanted all of our assets in her institution. Furthermore, my most cynical impulses sliced through the floss to the reality that Mrs. Roman would subject Nicole and me to ulterior motives even more sinister than her plans for the senator. When I spotted a stunning blonde in a red satin dress waving to catch my attention from across the room, I decided she must be the bait to lure me into Mrs. Roman’s trap.

The blonde’s elbow-length red satin gloves mesmerized me while she swam through the crowd toward me. She looked aggressively voluptuous. I swapped my empty glass for my third Vodka Collins from a passing tray to fortify my courage. As soon as I touched the fresh drink to my lips, the blonde stepped close to me.

She appeared a few years older than Nicole and slightly heavier. Her well-sculpted flesh was strategically placed at her luscious breasts, hips, and ass. She was, in fact, a bigger, more stacked version of Nicole. Her eyes were a darker blue, almost violet. And violent.

“I crashed your party.” Her smile was naughty, and her hauteur almost dared me to challenge her interloping. “I just had to meet you!”

Switching my drink to my left hand, I gulped and extended my right hand. “Ivey Marks.”

“Oh, I know, silly!” Proffering her right hand, she let me clasp her fingers. Her left hand lightly touched my arm, and her gloves felt like red-hot branding irons. “I have dozens of your paintings. I’m Sable Brandenburg.”

“Don’t you live in Philadelphia, Ms. Brandenburg?” Even her name—Sable Brandenburg—resonated with dominance, compelling me to call her Ms Brandenburg, not Sable.

“A short trip. Are you as full of passion as your paintings?”

Either my art tapped an erotic vein in her, or—I suspected—she was just playing me to snare me for Mrs. Roman. I remained silent.

“Come to Philadelphia,” Ms. Brandenburg offered boldly. “Paint my portrait. Nude.”

“Can’t I at least wear my socks?”

“You can’t hide your emotions behind stale jokes.” She indulged me with a jaded smile. “Music is more expressive. Do you know ‘One Way or Another’ by Blondie?”

After Ms. Brandenburg disarmed my defenses so easily, I didn’t give a damn about her motives anymore. I ached to join her, bodily. I felt a relentless, inexplicable obsession to submit to her, and life would have turned out so much simpler and smoother for me if I’d followed her to Philadelphia.

Instead, a tall brunette with dark eyes abruptly appeared by my side, as if out of nowhere. “I can play music that will surpass even your passion, Igor.” Her long, lean body was swathed in a buttery soft, highly polished burgundy leather gown that glimmered in the candlelight from the buffet table. Diamond bracelets glistened from the wrists of her opera-length leather burgundy gloves, and her diamond necklace drew my eyes to her face.

Oddly, I remember thinking she was very pretty, but not beautiful. Compared to a sexpot like Ms. Brandenburg, this brunette looked safe and wholesome.

The two women’s expressions indicated they knew each other, but they were wary, neither friends nor bitter enemies—maybe former acquaintances gone in separate directions.

“Why did you call me Igor?” I asked. Her incisive greeting disconcerted me. In her high heels (burgundy, too), she was as tall as I was. I felt mildly threatened.

“Don’t try to hide your Russian roots.” She shifted the strap of her huge burgundy handbag to relieve her shoulder of the weight for a second. I realized her bearing was as autocratic as Ms. Brandenburg’s. Her dark eyes and hair, neutrally attractive to that point, now gave her aloofness tinged with shades of cynicism. She wasn’t the creampuff I’d originally judged her to be. I didn’t mind; she was on my side.

“You just interrupted my steamy conversation with Ms. Brandenburg,” I said, half in jest.

The imposing brunette ignored me and addressed Ms. Brandenburg. “Does Nikki know you’re here? Or Catherine? I’m sure they’d love to see you, Sable.”

“I’ll bet the police would love to see you, Nastassia.”

“My name is Natasha.”

“Whatever.”

“And the police can’t harass me. I’ll claim diplomatic immunity.”

Stymied, Ms. Brandenburg glared at Natasha. “I’ll be back after I announce myself to Nicole and Catherine.”

“You just do that. ’Bye.” Ms. Brandenburg stormed off, and Natasha raised her eyebrows triumphantly. “We won’t see her again.”

I appreciated Natasha’s initiative in rescuing me from a predator. How wrong I was! Despite gratitude toward my “savior,” however, I thought she’d acted harshly. “Was that necessary?”

“I want you all to myself.”

“I’m flattered, Miss—”

“Natasha Vronsky, Countess of Russleder.”

“Spell it.” While she called out the letters, I grabbed a Vodka Collins from a passing tray. “That’s German, not Russian,” I scoffed. “Now I know you’re a phony.” Guzzling my fourth drink on an empty stomach, I let my buzz reverberate through my body.

“Roughly translated, ‘Russleder’ is ‘Russian leather,’ alluding to a quote from the German philosopher Heinrich Heine. He predicted Russia would become powerful and ruthless—my kind of country.”

I stepped behind her. “You really know your heinie.”

“Russia leather is a bookbinding technique,” she continued, ignoring my lame pun. “The process yields a camphor scent and the color of my dress.” She rubbed her gloved hands over the glimmering leather stretched tautly over her beautiful ass. “Want to smell?”

A few nearby guests glanced in our direction, variously shocked or amused at us.

Natasha’s guile momentarily paralyzed me. She teased me so facilely with her sensuality, only to humiliate me with denial—a painfully simple tactic, yet irresistible because of my visceral hunger for her allure. I deposited my empty glass on another passing tray and replenished my libation. A tray of shrimp with horseradish sauce caught my eye.

But the Countess caught my shoulder and turned me around to face her, sensing that she could manipulate me more easily if I kept drinking on an empty stomach. “Your grandmother was Russian,” she said.

“How’d you know that?”

She touched my glass. “You’re drinking vodka. Therefore, your grandmother was Russian.”

After chugging my fifth drink, I felt giddy and tipsy. “Silly.”

An inebriated guest weaved into me. “’Scuse me.”

Natasha lowered her voice. “I understand you and Nicole maintain an open marriage.”

Through the euphoria of feeling high, I still felt intrusion from her remark. “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is precisely my business.” Taking the glass from my hand, the Countess placed it on the buffet table. She gripped my shoulders with surprising strength. “Nicole told me to take you out of action so she can frolic without interruption.”

“You’re not the first. She does that on all of her birthdays!”

“We can’t talk here. Let’s go to your room.”

“I don’t know.” I stared at the floor. “I think I could fall for you.”

“No problem. You’re in an open marriage.”

“s*x is OK, but Nicole forbids me to fall in love.”

“Forbids you?? A marriage with rules is not open.”

“You saw what happened with Ms. Brandenburg. She says she’s crazy about my paintings.”

“I’d like to see your work.”

“I was starting to get a crush on her. You can see why Nicole tried to keep us apart!”

The Countess frowned and shook her head negatively. “Sable is a gold digger, and a sadistic b***h, to boot.”

Several people openly c****d their ears in our direction.

“My kind of woman!” I declared, oblivious to the eavesdroppers.

“I know a thing or two about fleecing men,” she smiled enigmatically. “Do you want sadism? I’ll make you beg for mercy.”

Convinced she was handing me a line, I stayed focused on the departed blonde. “I mean, if Ms. Brandenburg wants to destroy me, what a way to go!”

“So, you want a woman to bleed you dry financially.”

“Like an old-fashioned vamp—or vampire.”

“Physically punish you.”

“I’ve been a bad boy.”

“And force you to ejaculate when she wants you to—if at all.”

“As long as I get my climax and she gets her orgasm.”

Countess Vronsky presented her arm to me. “But you must earn the right to have a woman dominate you.”

“Huh?” Although I took her arm in mine, she subtly led the way.

She guided me into the hall before she elaborated. “When a woman corrects and disciplines you,” she pushed the elevator button for the third floor, “she is giving you a priceless gift. You must ask yourself if you are worthy of her dominance.” She steered me out of the elevator and to my room so quickly I dimly realized she already knew where I was staying.

I inserted my room card into the slot and withdrew it, and she preceded me inside. The spectacle of her derriere flexing under tight, shiny leather completely seduced me. “What must I do to deserve your gift?” I closed the door.

She favored me with a confident smile that acknowledged I had already given myself completely to her. “Just a second.” Picking up the phone, she punched in several digits. “Room service? Send two bottles of your finest vodka to Suite 333. Add the charge to the room bill.” Placing her large handbag on the dresser, she gestured toward the table near the window. “Sit down. We’ll discuss my terms for your surrender over drinks.”

“Terms of surrender?” I took a seat at the table. “Should I be flattered or insulted?” Too cowardly to meet her bold, hypnotic brown eyes, I stared at her beautifully turned ankles while she walked toward me and figuratively over me.

“Makes no difference.” She adjusted my tie. “Slaves aren’t entitled to opinions.”

Reflexively, my p***s and my body started to rise.

Clamping her hands on my shoulders, she held me down easily. “Show some gratitude. I saved you from Sable.”

“Yeah, I think Mrs. Roman put Ms. Brandenburg up to something.”

The Countess smiled slyly. “Consider this an audition.”

“For what?”

“Depending on how well you perform, you could become Count Vronsky—straight out of Anna Karenina.” She laughed at her own joke, perhaps wondering if I comprehended the literary allusion. I didn’t learn until much later that she’d taken her fictitious surname from the dashing count in Leo Tolstoy’s novel.

“I’d like being a count,” I mused.

“In title only. If you pass my test, you can thank me for using you shamelessly.”

“You know, I’m crazy about aggressive women, but your conceit is starting to grate on me.”

“Are you man enough to take it?”

What a double bind she had me in! She framed our relationship so craftily that I had to prove my masculinity by wimping out! And every glance in her direction fueled my passion to drop to my knees before her.

After a knock at the door, a young voice announced, “Room service.”

The Countess reached inside my coat jacket to take my wallet. The nearness of her leather-clad, luscious body gripped me with such tension I couldn’t move to stop her brassy theft.

Walking to the door, she managed to locate two fifty-dollar bills in my thick stack of money. Sliding them out as deftly as if she were bare-handed, she handed the cash to the young man. “Something for you,” she winked.

His eyes opened wide. “Thank you!”