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Continued from Part 4
Chapter 5: The Prussian Maid
Queen Lilla of England sat erect on the throne, her kinky coppery hair flaring from beneath her crown like sunshine, a distracted smile playing across her narrow face. Her husband, the manni king, was the true power behind the throne.
Or within the throne.
Between her thighs, within the folds of her gown, an erect male member rose up to friction against her rust-colored, dampening snatch like a table-saw blade poised against feminine hardwood. The owner of this pulsing manhood, the male monarch, was tightly strapped down beneath the cushions supporting Her Majesty. Her weight indirectly rested on his folded thighs. She leaned against his buckled chest. Behind her headrest, she could hear his whimpers. And between her thighs, yes, she could feel him pulse. She clamped tighter around the crimson shaft of royalty, slowly rubbing his log between her hot thighs. It was amusing how Girl Guide training paid off so later in life, such as using friction to make fire. She could tell His Highness was just about to combust...
"Your Majesty," a courtier called. "Professor Stone, reporting as summoned."
"Drat," she thought as she crossed her hands over the purpling cap, hiding it away, feeling it stir ever harder at the handling. She'd looked forward to wielding the 'scepter of power' since taking the throne this morning. Composing herself in the face of the interruption, she looked to the woman who approached.
She was late middle-aged, compact and slender, her brown hair silver-capped like a frosted haystack. In her narrow face, highly intelligent eyes stood like calm green pools to either side of her Semitic nose. She was dressed in comfortable academia.
Lilla nodded to the courtier who carefully handed the good doctor a small object that flickered in the stain-glass light. Professor Stone casually took it in her small hand, tucked a jeweler's lope into her eye, studied the rock.
"Ah," she said in a voice made melodious by its faint Eastern European accent, "A carbon-aligned diamond. These have begun trickling into world markets."
"Natural?" asked her Highness, idly fingering the rod beneath her palms. From behind her head, a low moan.
"Yes," Stone replied hesitantly, seemingly holding back. At the queen's minute frown, the Doctor of Gemology furthered, "The diamond was originally natural but some process, some chemical process, has purified it. Where once it might have been largely flawless, it is now perfect."
"What process?" The Royal Grip tightened in agitation, forcing a gasp from her headrest.
Stone tossed the expensive bauble back to the courtier. "Unknown."
"Origin?"
Stone shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the possibility of a visit to the Tower's Royal Orgasmer, something the Queen was seriously considering for her impertinence. She'd love to see this cool woman taken down a notch. Or perhaps hitched up one. Either way.
"Africa, I believe."
"You leave at once," the Queen commanded. Nonplussed, Professor Stone gave a minimal bow, turned and departed. Lilla frowned at her back, not realizing her grip had increased. A moment later, her hands grew wet and sticky. Now she'd wasted a perfectly good Regasm. Perhaps, when Professor Stone returned, Lilla would see her placed in the tower, to suffer Royal Displeasure. Inverted, perhaps, and enemaed. Tickled, too. It would be amusing to see how long the good Doctor could keep her composure under such conditions. Lilla would most certainly be in attendance for that.
"I'll see you paddled most thoroughly for this untimely discharge," she promised her headrest. Ignoring its faint pleas, she called for the Imperial Towel to be fetched.
=< O >=
"You rang, Madam?" Barbette inquired with a neat curtsy, her short maid outfit showing a modest length of lanky thigh.
"Yes, My Dear," Lady M___ said as she leaned back from her writing desk. "I Will Be Traveling Abroad on Business And Will Need You To Act As My Vanguard, Ensuring My Accommodations Are Fitting."
"Très Bon, Madam. And what place will you be travelzing to?"
"San Francisco."
"Ah, Spain. What province is zis in?"
"No, My Dear. San Francisco. In Am-Er-E-Ka," Lady M___ pronounced it with the care reserved for all foreign places beyond the frontier.
"America?" Barbette recoiled slightly. "Mon Dieu. But zat is... Yankee-land!"
=< O >=
The little Prussian maid slipped down the cold steps, her upraised lantern cutting the gloom. Beyond the estate's thick walls, snow-laden winds howled. At the end of the narrow hall stood a stout door, its key warmed in her sweaty grip.
After a circumspect glance, she opened the door to the coal cellar. With the snow piled up against the chute window, the room was as dark as a cave. A small furnace kept the chill away. In its light, the Prussian maid could see the iron bed with its captive bound across it.
She smiled, sighing in love.
With her short dusky limbs, taunt breasts and rounded hips, Velika was stunning. Bound invitingly open, a thick pillow jammed beneath her lifted buttocks, her thin-lipped mouth packed with cloth, her exotic eyes masked beneath a cruel blindfold, she was lustfully helpless. It was all the Prussian maid could do not to clamber aboard and frolic across her tits and twat.
She did allow herself the glory of tenderly pushing jet-black hair away from the Cossack's small ear, to whisper, "Patience, my love. I shall free you now. I have a sleigh hitched up and provisioned. We can flee west to Prussia and live a life of love." Then she got to work on the ropes pinning wrists and ankles to the cold bedposts.
The wiry easterner was eventually freed, sitting up to spit away her gag, pull off her blindfold and rub her abraded wrists. The Prussian maid turned modestly away to allow Velika to don her exotic Cossack clothing, the thought of which set the Prussian's pussy to pulsating. A moment later, she found herself pulled back onto the bed, her arms wrenched back and captured neatly in ruthless ropes.
"Oh, Darling, we have no time for this. Later I shall be your slave, but for now Mufff mfff MFFF!'
The poor Prussian trembled as her exotic eastern lover trussed her tightly with the very ropes that had held her to the bed, her hands bundled tightly back and locked into reversed-prayer, her ankles cross-looped. The gag prevented her from spilling out further endearments but that was all for the better; her words of passion would take on a certain spicy urgency when Velika finally freed (or at least used) her.
The young Prussian girl, having ridden the Cossack that very day in the ballroom riding academy, had been overcome by burning lust for the burlapped plaything who'd churned between her legs. Being young, she'd confused fiery lust with true love. Further, she'd mistakenly assumed the feeling to be mutual (for how could such a titanic loinal urge not be?).
She wanted nothing more than to share a cottage in her home province with the exotic girl, to keep her and be kept by her. In her mind, she saw herself staking the compact easterner out atop a high daisy-laced hill. She would tickle a flower through the girl's moistening sex, tracing her upthrust tits with its stem. She would chide the gag-mummified cries, laughing at the barbarian's angst as her spirited resistance brought both girls to a boil. And then she would release her, knowing that the dark Oriental would savagely and immediately truss her up in the most cruel of bindings for use foul and repeated until they both lay gasping beneath the rising night-moon.
So she lay on Mongol-scented bedding, dreaming of being carried upstairs over her wiry lover's shoulder, of being dropped rudely into the sleigh, of tucking under the thick covers, of Velika's hands playing across her helpless body as the snowy fields raced away while they arrowed west to the freedom of Prussia. The poor maid actually began trembling in youthful orgasms and so missed the hiss of recovered clothing being donned, the clunk of the closing door and the click of its lock.
Velika had no time for starry-eye milkmaids. She'd have passed the poor girl to her riders and enjoyed the spectacle of it. Still, she appreciated the sleigh and would shortly use it, yet there was one thing she had to see to.
Like a dark ghost, she slipped up stairs and down hallways, her soft boots making nary a sound. At one point, she tucked behind a curtain as two women drifted past. She recognized Anna Oblonsky, the noble whose service she would soon be leaving.
"...and it has begun to pain me, Gayana."
"It is nothing more than tennis elbow, Contessa. I have a cream in my office for it..."
It took her a few tries to find the right bedroom. Most of the rooms were empty. In one, a soup-spilling maid hung trussed over a spanking rack, her gag-swathed face looking fearfully back at the sound of the door latch, a paddle-laden table nearby. In another, a poor servant girl lay doped and unconscious on a bed, Gayana's medical bag standing open on a table, ropes hanging from a just-opened drawer. Clearly, the doctor had in the midst of something when Anna had interrupted her.
Finally she got the right door. In it was the vast bedroom she'd expected of Anna, finely furnished, centered on a bed large enough for a dozen-woman orgy. And there in the middle of this snowy white expanse of perspiration-dampened sheets lay Petra, her blonde hair sweaty and limp, her wrists corded behind her back, her ankles laced tightly and hobbled to a bedpost. The girl was as naked as a painting by Rubens, her buttocks glowing from the attention bestowed by a small paddle discarded on the bed nearby.
She moaned sadly, her fingertips wavering, stretching slightly before curling up into a protective ball.
Velika stood arrested in the doorway, the nipples beneath her shaggy vest jutting, the sex trapped in her riding pants moistening, her conical hat nearly lifting off her head in a jet of supersexed steam. And Velika, woman of action, a rider feared by thirty villages and a hundred square miles, stood in the doorway feeling faint. She licked her lips and took a deep breath, trying not to pant.
Seemingly, she'd fallen in love.
Petra, big and blonde and strong, perhaps a head taller than her, was a goddess. Velika wondered if the golden-haired Viking girl might be able to best her in hand-to-hand combat. What would it be like to be lashed down by this powerful Amazon, to see those icy blue eyes measuring her rope-snared form, deciding which balance of lust to pain, passion to torment to apply. And Velika, her clothing ripped away, her wiry dun body trapped in harsh ropes, would only be able to squirm as those strong worldly hands closed around her, to grip and pinch and tickle and slap.
What would it be like?
So much for not panting.
She'd begun to feel this rising realization when Petra had dangled in humiliation and banana-paste. And the flies, how she'd struggled beneath them. And the brushes with their soapy, thorough scouring. Through it all, Velika had felt herself fire ever hotter, getting more and more aroused with Petra's every struggle and twist of resistance.
And when the girl from the sky had stood before them in her opulent purple dress, her hair done up so prettily, her arms bagged up so neatly, it was as if the Cossack had fallen off a cliff. Doubt had come when she'd stood with the captive in her moist grip before the doors to Oblonsky Hall, to turn her over to Anna. When she'd shoved the girl into the ballroom, it was much for herself as it had been for Petra. But whatever link had formed still remained. Confused and hurt, she'd gone to the kitchens and gotten herself completely drunk, a bad move considering the randy maids who'd watched her liquefaction with wolflike eyes. And when she was beyond fight, they fell upon her, ropes snapping, skirts flaring. She'd come to as their plaything. She, Velika the Cossack, a toy of the downstairs staff!
But the humiliation didn't break her of her obsession with Petra.
She would free Petra and together they would flee east, deep into the empty tundra. There, they would form a band of two, riding roughshod over the steppes. Any woman who stood against them would find herself stripped, bound and hauled into their darkened ger hut, to be toyed with over the long northern nights to absolute and unconditional compliance. And mannis? They would have a herd of mannis, big fellows free-ranging in their hobbles, always handy for a heated roll in a bear rug. And as they simply couldn't service every literal member of their growing herd, young Mongol women would act as milkers, keeping the flock in comefortable domination. It was a glorious dream.
So, with thoughts of huge bonfires and sweating, leather-strapped male bodies, Velika slipped up to cup a hand over Petra's mouth, holding her hot body close, whispering into her ear.
"I've come for you, to take you east. We will rule a vast empire as co-Khanettes. I have a sleigh waiting!" With that, she untied the ropes with haste, her mind swirling with images of female chieftains kneeling before her to grant the only service she would recognize. It was such a glorious vision that it prevented her from seeing cold-fire flash in Petra's eye, the hand scrabbling among the discarded ropes, the momentary wait until the Cossack's back was turned.
"No, Darling, not yet," Velika warbled as ropes snapped around her heaving chest, binding her forearms fast to her sides. "Wait until I am in the sleigh with you. Then we can tussle and grapple for dominance. Now is not the ommfph murffff mmmfle!"
Against a lesser woman, Velika might have fought and turned the tables and ropes. But in Petra's strong grip, she was putty. Gagged, her upper arms snared, she could offer little resistance as her wrists were wrenched behind her and tightly knotted up. From a side table, Petra fetched more ropes which Anna had set aside for later play and eagerly applied them all, looping tight bands around the Cossack's slender waist, bundling her entire upper torso in a netting of ropes that left the poor barbarian girl helplessly vulnerable. And then, with little warning, Petra ripped open her captive's pants and hauled them off, flinging them away. Velika nearly swooned at this.
Only then did the airshipwoman finish her knottings, frog-tying the poor girl's boot-sheathed legs to her naked thighs. Velika grunted in time to the seating of each knot, her slitted eyes fluttering, the ungagged portion of her face radiating the blushing bliss she felt.
Only when her poor prisoner was trussed so tightly to prevent any hope of escape did Petra ease her back into the rumpled sheets. Then, reaching to bowl of fruit on a side table, the muscular blonde fetched up a banana, one she peeled with slow, obvious intent. Before her, Velika looked up and moaned, realizing that she was about to loose both dreams of destiny and her own dignity in one humiliating act.
Forcing opened the girl's knees, Petra leaned in and pushed, gently yet firmly, feeding the lengthy fruit in into the prone girl's soft scabbard, her firm smile in deference to the muted mewings of her violated counterpart. There was little Velika could do yet tip her head back and moan as more and more of the yellow shaft was forced into her, mushing and cramming its way against every inch of sex-slicked inner-flesh.
When the horrible act of violation was done, Petra smiled sweetly, took an uptrust knee in each hand and forced them together. A wet squish and a throaty warble met this action, the barbarian girl nearly passing out from the combination of sensation and imagery. Like Petra, the phenomenon of being dominated was a new and fascinating experience. With sensation-overloaded eyes, she watched as the airshipwoman bound her knees together, sealing her up.
Only then did Petra lift the compact trembling woman in her arms, carrying her tenderly to a closet, settling her inside, and closed the door. Given her usual boisterous nature, Velika could have crashed and thumped inside like a bowling ball in a drier, perhaps even kicking panels out of the door. But subdued, violated, humbled, she lay in the dark in semiconscious silence, the contractions of her orgasmisms churning the fruit into mush.
Petra, herself, lost no time in straightening up the room. She hid away the discarded trousers and tidied up. Then she located more rope (it was in the third drawer she looked in. The first two contained whips and paddles). Then she surveyed the room carefully, laying out her ambush well, taking up position behind a curtain just opposite the bed. Her prey would have to cross right in front of her to view the bed where she no longer lay like a tied ass-target.
She didn't have long to wait.
Anna strolled in, Anna tall and powerful, her black hair rippling down over her exposed shoulders, her tight yet top-heavy body garbed in a black nightgown, her nails and lips matching scarlet. She strolled around the corner curling up a gloat, saw the empty bed and stopped right on the metaphorical "X".
A moment later, Petra had her. Anna's hands were grabbed in an iron grip, pulled back and neatly tied wrist-to-opposing-elbows. Then came the exchange, a piece of clothing for each new coil of rope. Without gentleness, Petra ripped her each bit of finery away before looping up the exposed, pouting flesh in harsh bands of thick, tight cord. To Anna, unable to turn, unable to defend herself, it was as if she were in the grips of some warm, agitated octopus, one with thin hemp tentacles and amorous designs. Her upper torso was lost to her, all movement gone but the sexual feedback (that of ropes patterning her breasts and compressing her nipples) magnified.
And as she hauled each line, tied each knot, Petra shouted her slogans with glee.
"Worthless upper-class! Leech of the sexuality of the underwoman! Now you will feel the grinding pressure of righteous ropes, ones that compresses your pampered, milk-washed flesh with discomforting pressure! Soon you will be isolated in your bondage, silenced with a leather gag, forced to endure the wraith of the proletariat! You will have what has been long coming to you, you capitalist, industrialist, bottom-paddling tyrant!"
Though it all, Anna could not answer; she couldn't get a word in edge-wise during the rant. Rather, she tipped her head back, bobbing to the tug and wrench as each element of Petra's bindings tightened around her, squeezing her with uncompromised fury.
And then, traced up from knees to shoulders, her naked flesh girdled with ropes, as helpless as she'd ever been, Petra forced her to hobble forward, to bump into the bed's footboard. A moment later, she was bent over it. Leaning forward, gasping as her hips rested against the hard beam, she felt her ankles collected, bound together, then roped to the bed's lower framework. When her legs were fully lashed down, a final rope was noosed around her neck and lugged down through her grinding crotch, wrapping up through her crack to knot up against her banded forearms. This concluding line kept her leaning forward over the bed board, her buttocks high, exposed, and positioned.
Petra took a moment to push her tangled hair out of her eyes. She had time; an hour wouldn't make a difference. She could be off with plenty of night, driving her sleigh south for the Crimean ports. A ship from there could carry her to the Mediterranean, and then home to her airship. But, yes, an hour could be spared.
Smiling broadly, she crossed to the drawers and opened the second one, the one with the huge leather paddle with airholes and studs, a truly monstrous tool that would churn taunt flesh into radioactly pink ruin in quick order. In her other hand, she lifted a pump-gag, to stifle the song Anna would soon be singing.
Leaning painfully forward in quivering tension, her cheeks as high and white as twin moons, her fingers fluttering in their cross-bound packaging, her entire body tightly twined in unforgiving rope, Anna looked back over her creamy shoulder, hair tumbling from an eye, and smiled.
"At last, darling. It took you long enough."
The End.
10.07.10