Chapter 8: Afterward
Like a civil-servant's career, the Russian plains were endless and tedious. They stretched away to a disinterested horizon, brown and drab and humorless. The sky's optimistic blue had been belted into the overcast's mummification. From struggling weeds, water beaded from the morning storm, falling to the sod with disappointed drips.
Six riders sat on their scrawny ponies in a loose half-ring, lances drooping, leaning forward to peer at the thing on the ground before them. One of them nervously fingered her reins.
“What do you think it is, Velika?”
The leader, a compact steely-eyed indigo-haired mongol with wolf-cast elegance, took her time to consider a answer.
“It's a girl, of course.”
And it was.
She lay in the sticky clay of the fresh bog like a noblewoman in her soft, opulent bed, covered tightly and inescapably in tacky mud from head to toe. Only the upper half of her face, with blinking blue eyes and thick matted blonde hair, was visible. Her mouth, positioned below the muck, was as effective gagged as if taped. She hummed in desperation. Her feet peddled in frustrated arches, shod in strange shoes with very high heels.
“Mmmupph! Mmmmm!!!”
It looked as if she'd fallen from the sky, mud splashed yards about the impact. A day sooner, a day later, she would have been dashed to ruin on the rock-hard sod. The recent rains had prepared this soft (if not slightly disgusting) bed for her. But now she was trapped in it, as trapped as if she'd been rolled up in sheets and belted fast. She could only hum at the six watchers (twelve, counting horses) and angrily buzz.
“Who is she?”
“Dunno,” Velika grunted.
“How did she come to be here?”
“Dunno.”
“How do we get her out?”
In answer, the hardened Cossack whirled out a lariat with practiced ease, looping it neatly over the mired ankles. Setting her boots into her pony's flanks, she backed her mount away. The rope thrummed and slowly the ankles were drawn forth. But as they were, the little head was sucked into its muddy hole like a gopher descending into its den. The legs, shapely and half-sheathed in ruined trousers, coated with mud and goo and slop, were slowly drawn forth. From within the hole where the head had disappeared came noises of disgusted distress.
The horsewomen watched the gradual exposure of the pretty, pretty legs, licking their lips. The extraction reminded them of an erection being pulled from a reluctant-to-relinquish-it vagina, the sucking noise, the sticky fluids, the writhing muscular flesh. The ponies pranced as their riders grew agitated.
Now the belly, tight and tidy with its darling mud-packed navel. The horsewomen moaned as the remainder of the torso, compact and crusted, was withdrawn with excruciating slowness. Grunted approvals met the release of the hand-sized breasts, their halter top lost to the mire, muckified yet promising. There was a final moment when Mother Earth resisted surrendering its mud-bound captive, where the rope hummed and legs, buttocks, and body seemed to float in air. The girl, her whippet body racked in tension, her face encased in gooey mud, sent up her protests through slow-popping bubbles. Then, with a wet smack that was, in itself, sexually suggestive, the little woman lay in the churned morass, painted from head to foot in runny peat, only her wildly blinking eyes providing any color besides brown.
“Mugh! Bleck! Phoo!”
Velika smiled at the spitting lass. Over her shoulder she asked, “Do we have bananas at our camp?”
“Yes, Ma'am,” one of the outriders confirmed, trembling with expectation. “Three bunches, old and very, very squishy.”
In reply, the Cossack just nodded a command. Her band, knowledgeable in her wishes, let fly a storm of lassos. The mud-caked girl, her feet still snared in Velika's hard coil, found her arms likewise locked up as loop following loop fell over her grimy shoulders and locked up her arms. The girls whirled their ropes with skills appropriate to Wild Bill's Western Show, whirl-knotting their ropes around their companion's ropes until the poor dun-painted lass lay trussed up like a package set for shipping. With the other lines neatly secured, with the prisoner roped fast, Velika turned and trotted off, her lead twanging, yanking the poor girl along. Their poor captive, tied tear-misting tight, naked save for her strange extreme footgear and basting of sticky mud, muck and mire, was towed away to fates best left to fevered imaginations...
=< O >=
The peasant woman, middle-aged and sensual in blunt practicality, groaned around her heavy leather gag. She'd been bent over a spanking stand in the Oblonsky estate basement (a combination of wine cellar and cell block). Her limbs were locked to the frame, arms belted before her, ankles to a crossbrace, with further straps compressing her lush body with painful insistance. Her bare toes barely brushed the floor. None of this she could see, of course, given the wide leather blindfold, a companion to her gag, that took away her sight.
Her heavy wool dress had been idly flipped up over her hips and across her back, exposing her fleshy bottom. In the Oblonsky estate, that could only mean one thing.
She'd been taken by Velika's outriders on the charge of overpayment of annual taxes (she'd owed three and a half rubles to the manner house and, lacking smaller denominations, had offered up four). That was all it took to be grabbed up, trussed up, gagged up and thrown over the haunch of a pony, to be brought to the Contessa's estate.
She was rather surprised that Velika's wolves could find the time for such things, as amorously attached as they were to their latest plaything, someone they called the tick-tock-girl. Short and blonde and vocal, they'd kept her in dangling suspension and fruit-runny humiliation for weeks.
The woman trembled in prolonged anticipation of the Contessa's arrival. At any moment would come the click of high heels descending the stone stairs, the hiss of a black velvet dress across long smooth legs, the caress of an exploring glove across her elevated posterior, the scrape from the paddle-rack as the tall raven-haired noblewoman selected the paddle that would meet both her fancy and the peasant woman's fanny. And then would come the first white-hot flash, the first smack of wood and flesh, the first flare of burning (yet sensuous) pain.
And after it was all done, the poor woman might be allowed to service Anna Oblonsky with her tongue. Her oh-so-willing tongue.
After all, her fate was not completely ill-regarded.
Against the cool leather padding, her snatch slowly heated.
Then she yipped into her gag. She'd not heard Anna enter yet hands were now groping her posterior, soft hands, soft enough to be... furry? Any attempt to analyze them failed as those same hands slithered between her legs, locating her pulsing womanplace, exploring it with an attention to detail that brought on her own sticky response. She tried to rise in shuddering arousal but straps held her fast. Her moans filled her gag, stars flashed before her blindfolded eyes. The hands... the soft hands... the things they did. She found herself moaning as she was manipulated towards her gathering orgasm. Oddly, from cells and racks around her, unseen yet still present, other women moaned as if they, too, were experiencing this heaving bliss that was sweeping though her.
Her climax threw her about in her strapping like a rat in a cat's jaws; she was helpless as her body clenched, clenched, and clenched again. She'd not felt anything like that since she'd been a young mowing girl enjoying the oiled mannis about the evening campfire. It was a climax that burned the blood in her veins, scouring her senses of lessor orgasms and casual masturbations. It was a climax that shook her down to her soul.
When it was over, it was as if she were boneless. She couldn't move, couldn't protest. Those same hands, now sticky with her freed juices, unbelted her from her rack and lay her upon the floor. But freedom, like her orgasm, was transitory. These same hands swept around her panting body, garlanding it with tight ropes, tighter than she liked but, in actuality, found she loved. Still unable to see or speak, the Russian woman of the Steppes was rapidly roped up into a tight bundle of slow-breathing flesh. Only then was she tossed over a fury shoulder, to be carried away to a nearby magic forest where a collection of fellow captives awaited her prolonged deflowerment for their communal pleasure...
The real end
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15.03.13