Shwenn
07-28-2008, 09:09 AM
Here is a FemDom Story I've begun. I welcome you to be ruthless. I just won't learn otherwise.
The Countess (this is a working title I have no intention of keeping)
The countess reread the letter as she sat in the trundling carriage. She was impeccable. Not a strand of her dark red hair was errant, not a speck of powder in the wrong place. Her deeply colored satin dress was folded and draped precisely where folds or drapes were required. Her nails were each filed to pinpoint sharpness, capable of picking a single wet hair off of a smooth marble surface. Or drawing blood...depending on the task at hand. Those menacing, red fingernails lightly scratched the back of the letter as she read.
Your Grace Mrs. Lucinda Lemuil,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you that I have found a trinket I believe you will fancy. I know I had promised such a gift long ago. Aware of your most exacting standards, I have discarded many that would satisfy you but certainly wouldn't bring you joy. I want to present to you a gift that will fill your heart delight. I believe I have found just such a toy. I will keep it for you here. You may, of course, collect it at your leasure. I am eternally grateful for the patience you have deigned to offer me as I conducted this search for you.
Your Most Humble Servant,
Officer Derrick Moonday
She smiled at the last line. Patience. It wasn't patience, she had simply forgotten him. She had somebody at each prison finding toys for her. Had she remembered that he owed her a tribute and failed to deliver it, she may well have had him put to death. She may well do that, still. He should hope his gift is as exquisite as he promised.
They never lasted, her toys. Soon they broke. Grown men became quivering, fearful children. Useless. Discarded. She had recently released her most recent toy into a world he most likely could no longer handle and was looking for something new.
She felt the horses slow to a trot and stop. Looking out the window revealed looming brick walls, mossy and dirt crusted. She sat back until the door opened and a large, hairy hand lay open before her. She placed it delicately in the course palm and it lifted her out of the carriage with strength and care. It belonged to one of her two handmen. Both were massive figures, capable of bending a steel bar. They weren't entirely human, these two, but they were human enough for her purposes.
As they walked into and then through the prison, the two large outer figures rushed at each door, opening it just in time for the middle figure, the countess, to continue gliding without pause. They were halfway down an expansive hall when a man with one arm entered it, quickly hobbling and panting. He shouted "Your Grace! Your Grace! I'm so sorry I didn't greet you outside! You left no word you were coming today. I would have stood by the entrance all day, had I known."
With a flick of her wrist she dismissed his apologies as unneeded, and a little annoying as well. "Where is it?" she asked.
"Please, right this way."
The officer's hobble slowed them but the countess could glide at many rates of speed. He glanced fearfully at her handmen. Everybody did. It's what she loved most about them, the fear they elicited with their mere existence. "So, what is so special about this trinket that it took you two years to find?" She made no attempt to suppress the anger in her voice.
"It doesn't break," he said.
"They all break."
"No, my lady, not this one. Everybody has had a crack at him. He doesn't speak at all. Not a word. Not even 'please'."
She sighed, a labored, impatient sigh. It caused the officer to glance furtively at the handmen again. "Do you not think it possible that he is deaf? Or mute?"
He laughed nervously, his twisted back dipping forward a bit as he did. "Oh, dear, no. I didn't mean that no one has heard him speak. He hasn't spoken to us. He has spoken to one guard he thought was a prisoner. We planted him in the same cell. He was meant to befriend the prisoner and get our information that way. We disguised him perfectly, beat him about the face and neck, rolled him in some horse dung, put him in a dead prisoner's clothes. They got along famously. They talked about their families, food they missed eating, usual prisoner talk. When the guard asked him where he'd hidden the papers, he retreated. The guard said his eyes just went dead and he didn't speak another word. Not a 'good morning'. Not a 'bless you' when the guard sneezed. Nothing. Two more weeks he tried but he never got another word."
The countess felt her day brightening. "This does sound interesting. How important are these papers?"
"It depends. We don't want them. But we don't want anybody else to have them either. So, it's only important if somebody else knows where they are. We feel confident that we've collected everybody who knew of them. We questioned him to be thorough, is all." They were in the holding area, now. Cell after dark cell passed beside them. The officer removed his key ring as they approached the last one. A handman grabbed a torch from the wall. She could barely see a mass curled in the corner while the twisted, broken little man worked the lock. The handmen entered first, grabbed the prisoners arms and pulled him upward. His head hung forward and a handman pulled it up by the hair as the other held the torch next to his face. The prisoner's eyes fluttered. There was little other sign of life. He smelled like a cocktail of death and feces.
"He appears to be half dead."
"Yes, your ladyship. I had them stop just short of killing him. So I could keep him for you. He's a tough one. He'll handle anything you throw at him. This is one you can keep, my lady. I don't know that you could train him but he will last."
"We'll see," she said as she turned and glided back to the carriage. Her handmen insisted that one of them be allowed to ride in it with her and the prisoner. They were protective of her. She was good to them. Few had been before her. She let one of them ride in the carriage, cramping the space. It was pointless as the prisoner only regained consciousness for brief periods, his eyes searching the interior, trying to understand. "What shall I name him?"
"I like Evert."
"Ever?"
"No, ma'am. Evert. With a 't'."
"Okay. That'll do. He'll be Evert, then. Is that even a name?"
"I think so."
"I think you are thinking of Everett. That is a name."
"That may be, ma'am."
"I like Evert, as well. We'll keep it Evert."
"Very good, ma'am."
She had her maiden bathe the prisoner on their return and watched as he was cleaned. He would need to be nursed back to health. She must be patient. It would be worth the wait. His body was long with broad shoulders and firm buttocks. Smooth lines, none of the rippling muscles she preferred. There was something dear about his face, though. It was manly and boyish at the same time. There was hair on his belly, shaped like a wine bottle, the neck of which rose between his nipples. She decided to keep him in her room during his recovery, naked, which was the usual way.
It was many days before he stayed awake for any noticeable length of time. He didn't speak. He watched everything, scanned the room incessantly. She wanted him to ask her where he was so she could refuse him the information but he never did. He only looked all over the chambers or eyed the countess warily with his deep, green eyes, occasionally testing the bonds that held him to his bed.
He wouldn't even speak to the doctor she'd called on.
"Where does it hurt most?" he asked, prodding and poking him.
He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, and gazed unwavering into the doctor's eyes.
"I can't make it better if you won't tell me where it hurts you."
Nostrils flared a bit, lips tightened and relaxed, the gaze didn't falter.
"Then I suppose you'll just have to deal with the pain then, okay? I can treat the wounds I see but I can't be expected to know about anything I can't see."
Chest rose and lowered, eyelids lowered slowly and, just as slowly, lifted.
A handman took a shot at it. He towered over the prisoner and belted out the order, "Tell the man where it hurts."
His eyes widened a bit at this, he chest rose a lowered more quickly, but no words came.
When he was finally able to stay awake for the whole day, the countess had a seat placed next to the bed in which the prisoner was strapped. Alone, she sat in the chair and ran her knife point fingernails over his chest and belly. He twitched in response.
"I'd like to hear what your voice sounds like. I mean to know the sound of your voice. I won't ask what you did with those papers. I don't care. That part of your life, the part where those papers mattered, is over. You are entering what you might call a new phase in your life. You even have a new name. It is Evert." The bonds groaned a bit as he pulled on them. The countess ran her nail along his arm, his long, lean biceps tensed in response. "You can say anything you want without punishment. You won't have this freedom again so you may want to take it now. I just want to hear you speak and, for this, I will grant you, this one time, the freedom to speak freely." She moved her fingernails to his scrotum and scratched them lightly. He broke his gaze on her, moved it suddenly on to the ceiling. He breath quickened. "All you have to do is say something, anything. There's no reason not to, and a very good reason you should." She pinched a fold of skin from his scrotum and rested a nail point at either side. He shut his eyes tight. "Very well, then," she said, slowly pinching the skin with the pads of her fingers.
"You can't rename me," he said quickly.
The countess smiled and released his scrotum. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it? You know you almost died in that prison. You would be dead if it weren't for me. I don't just get to rename you. I get to own you."
"I'd prefer death," he said in an even voice.
She stroked his temple with the back of her fingers. "You think your preference matters. That's precious." The countess rose and put out all candles before leaving the prisoner engulfed in darkness.
He became mute again. She allowed it. She dressed and undressed in front of him, had her handmen service her in that room so the prisoner could see how difficult she was to satisfy. She read her novel in the bed instead of the study, so that he could watch her. The doctor came a few more times. The last time he said there wasn't much more he could do. The prisoner should start trying to take exercise.
She had her handman take him to the dungeon to outfit him. A cuff on each wrist, each ankle and one for the neck. It was how she outfitted each of her slaves. It looked especially delicious on this new one. She couldn't decide exactly why. Something about not having those bulging muscles made those cuffs seem to have more of a hold on him. She didn't know how fully recovered he was but she was terribly bored. When the handman brought him in, cuffed, his upper arm in the handmans massive fist, staring at some unknown spot on her wall, his nostrils flaring so delicately, she decided her wait was over.
There was no need to get too fancy too soon. She simply had her handman force him to his knees in the middle of her chambers and restrain each arm with his hands. He didn't struggle which was wise. Were the handman to tighten his fist a bit, he would break those arms. Were he to close his hands with all his strength, the bone would crumble to dust. You could feel the power in those hands. She knew from the many times one of them would hold her leg in the air to get at her vagina more easily.
Evert looked stoic but you could see his anxiety in the way he opened and closed his own fists. Evert watched the countess intensely as she pulled the long satin rope on the wall, issuing a 'gong' that seemed to have no decay. She opened her tall chiffrobe. An array of crops, whips, floggers and leather straps hung from an assortment of hooks. She was surprised, even shocked, when Evert spoke.
"I'll tell you this once. I told that little gargoyle man once. Only once. I don't know where those papers are. You are wasting your time." She looked at her other handman, standing at the bed and indicated towards the prisoner with her eyes. She watched as he went to the man, sat one the floor beside him, put one hand on the back of his head, and covered his entire mouth as well as most of his jaw with only two fingers. Fear was in his eyes, now. His breathing became erratic as his eyes darted to and from this second handman beside him. His fingers wiggled wildly. She turned back to the chiffrobe to choose her instrument. The young man's terror was understandable. The two handmen would have to be careful to coordinate any movements they made to avoid accidentally ripping the prisoner's head from his body.
When people see a body of such size, they tend to assume its owner is clumsy. Not a wholly accurate assessment. The handmen were as nimble as any tumbler or bowman.
She chose a long whip. Her expertise with it was unparalleled. It made her proud of herself to use it. She turned with it and the handman acting as the silencer moved one leg behind the prisoner and pressed it against his buttocks, forcing his pelvis forward. A simple, delicate move of her wrist and it shot at the prisoner. It licked his belly lightening quick, barely seeming to touch him, but his muscles contracted and his eyes squeezed shut. Another flash of black and the prisoners muscles activated again.
The maiden entered the room wordlessly as the countess snapped another bolt at the prisoner. She sped up, one after another, crack crack crack crack. Her timing was perfect. A pianist could have used her whipping as a metronome. The prisoners eyes shot open and looked desperately at the ceiling. All of his muscles were tightened, no time to relax between blows. He rocked his pelvis back and forth sideways, trying to escape the thin leather darting in and out. The maid moved next to her and waited calmly. She didn't stop, even increased her speed gradually until she got what she wanted, a scream, muffled and muted through the ogre's two fingers. His eyes rolled up in his head as he did this.
She looked at the maiden and nodded. Taking her cue, the maiden dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the prisoner. She took his penis, licked it, kissed it, swirled her tongue around it, took it in her mouth. At the same time, she fondled his testicles. His eyes went wide with shock and confusion. The maiden stopped briefly to lick a trickle of blood off of his hip bone then went back to her task. After a few minutes, the maiden, penis still in her mouth, lifted her thumb in the air to signal that he was fully erect.
"Good. Very good," the countess said. The prisoner looked at her with an expression of horror. "Yes, this is a little different from the prison, isn't it?" She moved to her vanity as she spoke. "I'm not quite like Moonday. Or, what did you call him? A gargoyle?" She stood over the prisoner with a small glass bottle in her hand. Lifting it over his belly she tipped it and a stream of liquid fell onto him. His eyes shut tight again and more muffled sounds emanated from the fingers. They were more frustrated, these sounds were, higher pitched. She squatted beside him and rubbed the liquid all over his chest. He looked at her, eyes wild with frantic incomprehension. "That will burn and sting for quite a while, my pet." The maid lifted her hand, thumb pointing down, to signal he was no longer erect. "You will need to learn to keep your manhood firm through pain. This was the shoddiest performance I've ever seen. The slightest little discomfort and your little soldier flees the battlefield. This will..." she slapped his stomach, "...not..." another slap, "...do..." and once more. His eyes spoke of nothing but worry, even as his body shuddered with each slap.
She turned to the handman holding the prisoner's arms and said, "I think he's starting to understand. Go get the kit." The second sentence was for the maiden, this was clear to everyone because the countess kicked her when she said it. The woman scrambled to the chiffrobe, took a small suitcase from the drawer and scrambled back with it. The maiden positioned herself on the side of the prisoner, forward of him. She sat on her heels, on the opposite side from where the handman sat and held the suitcase open in front of her. Her position made it impossible for the prisoner to see inside the case. The countess leaned to the side and perused it's contents. "I think you know what happens to soldiers who flee a battle."
Not hearing a response, she furrowed her brow at the handman who released the prisoner's head, freeing him to speak. He grabbed the top of his skull and moved it to an odd angle, as though the prisoner were straining to hear something soft and far away.
"Well?" the countess asked. "What happens to soldiers who flee a battle."
He pursed his lips; he was trying to hide his agony. It was cute. "I don't know. I'm not a soldier."
"But you are a fighter," as she perused the case.
"No. I'm a scribe." His voice cracked as he said this. Something terrible was dawning on him.
"And a fighter."
"No," he said, screwing his face, "I've never held a weapon."
"So, you wrote the papers they are looking for."
A sudden sob escaped him. "Yes."
She flicked her head at the handman who moved the prisoner's head to face her. She ran her index finger nail over his full, lower lip. It was trembling. "Where has your composure gone? What's the matter, my little pet?"
It took him a moment to steady his breathing before he could say, "You really don't care about the papers." The muscles in his face twitched and contorted as he tried desperately to come to terms with his new predicament.
"No," the countess agreed, lifting a pair of pliers and a small leather strap out of the case. His eyes followed the pliers with hopeless dread. She smiled coldly. "I really don't."
Outside, in his pen with the rest of the pack, the alpha dog heard bellows he couldn't quite identify. It could be wolves howling. It was best not to take any chances. He howled, instigating the whole pack to howl with him, marking this territory as theirs.
The Countess (this is a working title I have no intention of keeping)
The countess reread the letter as she sat in the trundling carriage. She was impeccable. Not a strand of her dark red hair was errant, not a speck of powder in the wrong place. Her deeply colored satin dress was folded and draped precisely where folds or drapes were required. Her nails were each filed to pinpoint sharpness, capable of picking a single wet hair off of a smooth marble surface. Or drawing blood...depending on the task at hand. Those menacing, red fingernails lightly scratched the back of the letter as she read.
Your Grace Mrs. Lucinda Lemuil,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you that I have found a trinket I believe you will fancy. I know I had promised such a gift long ago. Aware of your most exacting standards, I have discarded many that would satisfy you but certainly wouldn't bring you joy. I want to present to you a gift that will fill your heart delight. I believe I have found just such a toy. I will keep it for you here. You may, of course, collect it at your leasure. I am eternally grateful for the patience you have deigned to offer me as I conducted this search for you.
Your Most Humble Servant,
Officer Derrick Moonday
She smiled at the last line. Patience. It wasn't patience, she had simply forgotten him. She had somebody at each prison finding toys for her. Had she remembered that he owed her a tribute and failed to deliver it, she may well have had him put to death. She may well do that, still. He should hope his gift is as exquisite as he promised.
They never lasted, her toys. Soon they broke. Grown men became quivering, fearful children. Useless. Discarded. She had recently released her most recent toy into a world he most likely could no longer handle and was looking for something new.
She felt the horses slow to a trot and stop. Looking out the window revealed looming brick walls, mossy and dirt crusted. She sat back until the door opened and a large, hairy hand lay open before her. She placed it delicately in the course palm and it lifted her out of the carriage with strength and care. It belonged to one of her two handmen. Both were massive figures, capable of bending a steel bar. They weren't entirely human, these two, but they were human enough for her purposes.
As they walked into and then through the prison, the two large outer figures rushed at each door, opening it just in time for the middle figure, the countess, to continue gliding without pause. They were halfway down an expansive hall when a man with one arm entered it, quickly hobbling and panting. He shouted "Your Grace! Your Grace! I'm so sorry I didn't greet you outside! You left no word you were coming today. I would have stood by the entrance all day, had I known."
With a flick of her wrist she dismissed his apologies as unneeded, and a little annoying as well. "Where is it?" she asked.
"Please, right this way."
The officer's hobble slowed them but the countess could glide at many rates of speed. He glanced fearfully at her handmen. Everybody did. It's what she loved most about them, the fear they elicited with their mere existence. "So, what is so special about this trinket that it took you two years to find?" She made no attempt to suppress the anger in her voice.
"It doesn't break," he said.
"They all break."
"No, my lady, not this one. Everybody has had a crack at him. He doesn't speak at all. Not a word. Not even 'please'."
She sighed, a labored, impatient sigh. It caused the officer to glance furtively at the handmen again. "Do you not think it possible that he is deaf? Or mute?"
He laughed nervously, his twisted back dipping forward a bit as he did. "Oh, dear, no. I didn't mean that no one has heard him speak. He hasn't spoken to us. He has spoken to one guard he thought was a prisoner. We planted him in the same cell. He was meant to befriend the prisoner and get our information that way. We disguised him perfectly, beat him about the face and neck, rolled him in some horse dung, put him in a dead prisoner's clothes. They got along famously. They talked about their families, food they missed eating, usual prisoner talk. When the guard asked him where he'd hidden the papers, he retreated. The guard said his eyes just went dead and he didn't speak another word. Not a 'good morning'. Not a 'bless you' when the guard sneezed. Nothing. Two more weeks he tried but he never got another word."
The countess felt her day brightening. "This does sound interesting. How important are these papers?"
"It depends. We don't want them. But we don't want anybody else to have them either. So, it's only important if somebody else knows where they are. We feel confident that we've collected everybody who knew of them. We questioned him to be thorough, is all." They were in the holding area, now. Cell after dark cell passed beside them. The officer removed his key ring as they approached the last one. A handman grabbed a torch from the wall. She could barely see a mass curled in the corner while the twisted, broken little man worked the lock. The handmen entered first, grabbed the prisoners arms and pulled him upward. His head hung forward and a handman pulled it up by the hair as the other held the torch next to his face. The prisoner's eyes fluttered. There was little other sign of life. He smelled like a cocktail of death and feces.
"He appears to be half dead."
"Yes, your ladyship. I had them stop just short of killing him. So I could keep him for you. He's a tough one. He'll handle anything you throw at him. This is one you can keep, my lady. I don't know that you could train him but he will last."
"We'll see," she said as she turned and glided back to the carriage. Her handmen insisted that one of them be allowed to ride in it with her and the prisoner. They were protective of her. She was good to them. Few had been before her. She let one of them ride in the carriage, cramping the space. It was pointless as the prisoner only regained consciousness for brief periods, his eyes searching the interior, trying to understand. "What shall I name him?"
"I like Evert."
"Ever?"
"No, ma'am. Evert. With a 't'."
"Okay. That'll do. He'll be Evert, then. Is that even a name?"
"I think so."
"I think you are thinking of Everett. That is a name."
"That may be, ma'am."
"I like Evert, as well. We'll keep it Evert."
"Very good, ma'am."
She had her maiden bathe the prisoner on their return and watched as he was cleaned. He would need to be nursed back to health. She must be patient. It would be worth the wait. His body was long with broad shoulders and firm buttocks. Smooth lines, none of the rippling muscles she preferred. There was something dear about his face, though. It was manly and boyish at the same time. There was hair on his belly, shaped like a wine bottle, the neck of which rose between his nipples. She decided to keep him in her room during his recovery, naked, which was the usual way.
It was many days before he stayed awake for any noticeable length of time. He didn't speak. He watched everything, scanned the room incessantly. She wanted him to ask her where he was so she could refuse him the information but he never did. He only looked all over the chambers or eyed the countess warily with his deep, green eyes, occasionally testing the bonds that held him to his bed.
He wouldn't even speak to the doctor she'd called on.
"Where does it hurt most?" he asked, prodding and poking him.
He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, and gazed unwavering into the doctor's eyes.
"I can't make it better if you won't tell me where it hurts you."
Nostrils flared a bit, lips tightened and relaxed, the gaze didn't falter.
"Then I suppose you'll just have to deal with the pain then, okay? I can treat the wounds I see but I can't be expected to know about anything I can't see."
Chest rose and lowered, eyelids lowered slowly and, just as slowly, lifted.
A handman took a shot at it. He towered over the prisoner and belted out the order, "Tell the man where it hurts."
His eyes widened a bit at this, he chest rose a lowered more quickly, but no words came.
When he was finally able to stay awake for the whole day, the countess had a seat placed next to the bed in which the prisoner was strapped. Alone, she sat in the chair and ran her knife point fingernails over his chest and belly. He twitched in response.
"I'd like to hear what your voice sounds like. I mean to know the sound of your voice. I won't ask what you did with those papers. I don't care. That part of your life, the part where those papers mattered, is over. You are entering what you might call a new phase in your life. You even have a new name. It is Evert." The bonds groaned a bit as he pulled on them. The countess ran her nail along his arm, his long, lean biceps tensed in response. "You can say anything you want without punishment. You won't have this freedom again so you may want to take it now. I just want to hear you speak and, for this, I will grant you, this one time, the freedom to speak freely." She moved her fingernails to his scrotum and scratched them lightly. He broke his gaze on her, moved it suddenly on to the ceiling. He breath quickened. "All you have to do is say something, anything. There's no reason not to, and a very good reason you should." She pinched a fold of skin from his scrotum and rested a nail point at either side. He shut his eyes tight. "Very well, then," she said, slowly pinching the skin with the pads of her fingers.
"You can't rename me," he said quickly.
The countess smiled and released his scrotum. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it? You know you almost died in that prison. You would be dead if it weren't for me. I don't just get to rename you. I get to own you."
"I'd prefer death," he said in an even voice.
She stroked his temple with the back of her fingers. "You think your preference matters. That's precious." The countess rose and put out all candles before leaving the prisoner engulfed in darkness.
He became mute again. She allowed it. She dressed and undressed in front of him, had her handmen service her in that room so the prisoner could see how difficult she was to satisfy. She read her novel in the bed instead of the study, so that he could watch her. The doctor came a few more times. The last time he said there wasn't much more he could do. The prisoner should start trying to take exercise.
She had her handman take him to the dungeon to outfit him. A cuff on each wrist, each ankle and one for the neck. It was how she outfitted each of her slaves. It looked especially delicious on this new one. She couldn't decide exactly why. Something about not having those bulging muscles made those cuffs seem to have more of a hold on him. She didn't know how fully recovered he was but she was terribly bored. When the handman brought him in, cuffed, his upper arm in the handmans massive fist, staring at some unknown spot on her wall, his nostrils flaring so delicately, she decided her wait was over.
There was no need to get too fancy too soon. She simply had her handman force him to his knees in the middle of her chambers and restrain each arm with his hands. He didn't struggle which was wise. Were the handman to tighten his fist a bit, he would break those arms. Were he to close his hands with all his strength, the bone would crumble to dust. You could feel the power in those hands. She knew from the many times one of them would hold her leg in the air to get at her vagina more easily.
Evert looked stoic but you could see his anxiety in the way he opened and closed his own fists. Evert watched the countess intensely as she pulled the long satin rope on the wall, issuing a 'gong' that seemed to have no decay. She opened her tall chiffrobe. An array of crops, whips, floggers and leather straps hung from an assortment of hooks. She was surprised, even shocked, when Evert spoke.
"I'll tell you this once. I told that little gargoyle man once. Only once. I don't know where those papers are. You are wasting your time." She looked at her other handman, standing at the bed and indicated towards the prisoner with her eyes. She watched as he went to the man, sat one the floor beside him, put one hand on the back of his head, and covered his entire mouth as well as most of his jaw with only two fingers. Fear was in his eyes, now. His breathing became erratic as his eyes darted to and from this second handman beside him. His fingers wiggled wildly. She turned back to the chiffrobe to choose her instrument. The young man's terror was understandable. The two handmen would have to be careful to coordinate any movements they made to avoid accidentally ripping the prisoner's head from his body.
When people see a body of such size, they tend to assume its owner is clumsy. Not a wholly accurate assessment. The handmen were as nimble as any tumbler or bowman.
She chose a long whip. Her expertise with it was unparalleled. It made her proud of herself to use it. She turned with it and the handman acting as the silencer moved one leg behind the prisoner and pressed it against his buttocks, forcing his pelvis forward. A simple, delicate move of her wrist and it shot at the prisoner. It licked his belly lightening quick, barely seeming to touch him, but his muscles contracted and his eyes squeezed shut. Another flash of black and the prisoners muscles activated again.
The maiden entered the room wordlessly as the countess snapped another bolt at the prisoner. She sped up, one after another, crack crack crack crack. Her timing was perfect. A pianist could have used her whipping as a metronome. The prisoners eyes shot open and looked desperately at the ceiling. All of his muscles were tightened, no time to relax between blows. He rocked his pelvis back and forth sideways, trying to escape the thin leather darting in and out. The maid moved next to her and waited calmly. She didn't stop, even increased her speed gradually until she got what she wanted, a scream, muffled and muted through the ogre's two fingers. His eyes rolled up in his head as he did this.
She looked at the maiden and nodded. Taking her cue, the maiden dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the prisoner. She took his penis, licked it, kissed it, swirled her tongue around it, took it in her mouth. At the same time, she fondled his testicles. His eyes went wide with shock and confusion. The maiden stopped briefly to lick a trickle of blood off of his hip bone then went back to her task. After a few minutes, the maiden, penis still in her mouth, lifted her thumb in the air to signal that he was fully erect.
"Good. Very good," the countess said. The prisoner looked at her with an expression of horror. "Yes, this is a little different from the prison, isn't it?" She moved to her vanity as she spoke. "I'm not quite like Moonday. Or, what did you call him? A gargoyle?" She stood over the prisoner with a small glass bottle in her hand. Lifting it over his belly she tipped it and a stream of liquid fell onto him. His eyes shut tight again and more muffled sounds emanated from the fingers. They were more frustrated, these sounds were, higher pitched. She squatted beside him and rubbed the liquid all over his chest. He looked at her, eyes wild with frantic incomprehension. "That will burn and sting for quite a while, my pet." The maid lifted her hand, thumb pointing down, to signal he was no longer erect. "You will need to learn to keep your manhood firm through pain. This was the shoddiest performance I've ever seen. The slightest little discomfort and your little soldier flees the battlefield. This will..." she slapped his stomach, "...not..." another slap, "...do..." and once more. His eyes spoke of nothing but worry, even as his body shuddered with each slap.
She turned to the handman holding the prisoner's arms and said, "I think he's starting to understand. Go get the kit." The second sentence was for the maiden, this was clear to everyone because the countess kicked her when she said it. The woman scrambled to the chiffrobe, took a small suitcase from the drawer and scrambled back with it. The maiden positioned herself on the side of the prisoner, forward of him. She sat on her heels, on the opposite side from where the handman sat and held the suitcase open in front of her. Her position made it impossible for the prisoner to see inside the case. The countess leaned to the side and perused it's contents. "I think you know what happens to soldiers who flee a battle."
Not hearing a response, she furrowed her brow at the handman who released the prisoner's head, freeing him to speak. He grabbed the top of his skull and moved it to an odd angle, as though the prisoner were straining to hear something soft and far away.
"Well?" the countess asked. "What happens to soldiers who flee a battle."
He pursed his lips; he was trying to hide his agony. It was cute. "I don't know. I'm not a soldier."
"But you are a fighter," as she perused the case.
"No. I'm a scribe." His voice cracked as he said this. Something terrible was dawning on him.
"And a fighter."
"No," he said, screwing his face, "I've never held a weapon."
"So, you wrote the papers they are looking for."
A sudden sob escaped him. "Yes."
She flicked her head at the handman who moved the prisoner's head to face her. She ran her index finger nail over his full, lower lip. It was trembling. "Where has your composure gone? What's the matter, my little pet?"
It took him a moment to steady his breathing before he could say, "You really don't care about the papers." The muscles in his face twitched and contorted as he tried desperately to come to terms with his new predicament.
"No," the countess agreed, lifting a pair of pliers and a small leather strap out of the case. His eyes followed the pliers with hopeless dread. She smiled coldly. "I really don't."
Outside, in his pen with the rest of the pack, the alpha dog heard bellows he couldn't quite identify. It could be wolves howling. It was best not to take any chances. He howled, instigating the whole pack to howl with him, marking this territory as theirs.