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Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 01

By: unpublaauthor



With lime green eyes that slash her enemies down and reflect the lime sheen of the lightning bolts she summons in her anger, Lady Elizabeth Karnackii nevertheless stood subdued, enchained, as she awaited her fate. 

Her Grace, the Duchess, leader of the witches in the days since her mother's death smirked at the defendant. Elizabeth did not see the gaze; she was merely counting down the seconds until her death sentence is pronounced. She had been holding her breath since she confessed to the death of the old Duchess, a crime she did not--could not--commit, as the new Duchess well knew.

Tracy, the Duchess, cleared her throat. All eyes were on her as she preferred them to be. "I bow to the wishes of the court and King Stuart in making this sentence. I am grateful that I have this opportunity, as it was my mother who lost her life two days ago. I wish to show mercy for Elizabeth, as she so kindly confessed to the crime, sparing us a lengthy trial. In lenience, I commute the death sentence." A gasp went up throughout the courtroom. "Instead, she is sentence to a year in King Stuart's custody."

Stuart's lecherous gaze swept the trembling, enchained virago that had haunted his dreams for years. Ever since Tracy had offered this bargain, he had played out each fantasy he had imagined for his cousin's fiancée over the years. Now, only a few feet and the thin white muslin gown separated him from the body that made his dreams ignite. The chains, rather than repulsing him, served only to heighten his desire for Elizabeth. Images of her spread eagle for his delectation played in his mind.

***

Stuart led her, stumbling, by the chains that joined her hands together down the heavy stone stairs into the darkness of the dungeon. With a laconic gesture, he lit a match, his features taking on a demonic cast in the light of the candle he now lit.

He waved his hands expansively, a gesture only obscene as he parodied the generous host. "This will be your home until you learn to please me."

With a rough jerk he tugged and then finally dragged her to the manacles that were placed on the far wall. The candlelight caressed the menacing devices that Elizabeth tried to ignore.

Elizabeth kept her head down, eyes downcast, as he ordered her to lift each hand to be shackled to the wall. The heavy black iron of the manacles contrasted sharply with her ivory skin; the coldness seemed to chill her to the bone. Stuart was gratified to see her pale pink nipples stand proudly in relief, the only impudence his domination would tolerate.

For Elizabeth, she refused to acknowledge his control of her; instead, she dreamed of her gentle love, Michael, the king's cousin. She bit her lip almost to the point of drawing a thin line of green blood.

"Further," the king continued, "you are woefully overdressed." A sword, the wickedest blade in the king's collection sheered the fragile muslin of her gown. Even Stuart, the master swordsman, was shocked at how easily his blade divided the delicate fabric. The blade worked until her body was bare to his gleaming dark gaze.

Her refusal to look him in the eyes, for him to completely enjoy her humiliation enraged him. From a nearby stone table he lifted a riding crop. With the handle, he pushed her chin up until she was forced to catch his gaze.

"Rule number one: I must always be able to see your reactions in your eyes. Hide them from me and the punishment will be all the more severe."

Her mute, mulish glare was her only response to his dictate.

"Second," he added, slowly running the loop of the crop across each puckered nipple, "you will refer to me as 'Master' or as 'Your Majesty.' Is that understood?"

Although fear of the leather crop shook her slender frame, Elizabeth responded, "Is that all, Your Highness?"

She flinched as the crop raised and slashed twice in quick succession, once on each uptilted nipple.

Stuart's voice thundered, "What did you just call me?"

Elizabeth's wheezing whimpers echoed in the cavernous gloom, her only reply. To her shame, she felt her body tearing--not her eyes, which would be embarrassing enough--her softness between her legs wept, for what she could not begin to understand. 

Her mind balked at Stuart's demands. She was not raised as a Romanian; she was no subject of his to do his will. Even more, she did not understand why his touch, his masterfulness, aroused her. Michael, before he left, had impressed on her the need for them both to remain sexually untouched until they wed. Until now, she had kept that promise.

Stuart, by far more experienced with the female sex, recognized the signs of arousal: the taut, pouting nipples begging for lips, teeth, tongue, whip, and candle wax; the uneven breathing that caused his predator's senses to sing; and the sweet wetness even now dewing the curls at the apex of her thighs, curls that he would have removed so that she could hide none of her secrets from him. Even now, the sweet muskiness that betrayed her beckoned him to taste.

Elizabeth, still pondering her reaction to him, wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue. "I'm sorry...Your Majesty," the words tumbled from her trembling lips.

Her words of unwilling submission snapped him out of the trance her aroma had triggered. "That will do...for now, slave," his voice snapped with a frustration he couldn't conceal.

Elizabeth flinched at the word that echoed just as her whimpers had filled the chamber earlier. 

She was no one's slave, much less his. The mutinous light entered her eyes again.

Stuart welcomed the lime green flash. "Your Highness," she stressed, "I am not your SLAVE!" The hand that had held the crop loosely now tightened as he returned to his new toy. "Would you care to restate that, slave? You have only this chance." For emphasis, he smacked the loop of the crop into his other hand, the heavy smack causing her to wince, although the green lightning did not fade.

From deep within her, her natural hauteur rose to the fore. "No. I don't wish to restate anything. Your Highness," she added, merely to goad him.

One hand still clenching the crop, Stuart's other hand grabbed for the closure of his pants, yanking until his strong heavy arousal was free. He then removed her from the manacles at the wall, a twisted smile playing on his face.

With a look that could only be described as unholy glee, he yanked her by her raven waves to her knees to the cold stone floor. He pulled her head up merely to be able to see her fear-laced disdain.

"As you will not learn your place, I think it best to institute your first punishment. I am going to gag you. You will take my cock in your mouth while I take a crop to your slave's ass. Maybe then you will learn your place."

Pinching her nose so that she was forced to open her lips, he plowed past her soft lips to the hot wet cavern that he had dreamed of nightly since his cousin's engagement to her.

Her lips spread obscenely with his thick member, Elizabeth struggled to breathe. The first sharp smack of the crop caused her to jerk a bit, bringing a groan of pleasure from the king.

Swishing smacks rained down on her tender rounded buttocks until soon the ivory blushed pink, then magenta. Tears streamed her eyes and gurgling noises escaped around her cock, yet she refused to move. Refused to give him pleasure. She refused to acknowledge the juice dewing her curls that leaked slowly down her thigh.

The king, meanwhile, held himself rigid as he mentally counted the swats to thirty to allow himself the pleasure of her mouth enrobing his cock. Finally, he could take no more. Using her hair as a leash, his cock rode her mouth cruelly, mindless of the choking, gagging noises issued forth from the back of her throat.

A hoarse shout alerted her that he was about to release his seed in her mouth. She struggled to pull away, but his hands held her immobile, forcing her to take his load. "Swallow it all, slave," he barked.

The ropy strings of creamy come continued to spurt, stinging her face and breasts with his heat as he pulled out of the warm heaven of her mouth. One final blob landed just above her eyes, still laser green defiance.

Stuart's heavy breathing filled the next few moments until he gradually came to his senses.

The senses of the wolf, the predator registered the tangy evidence of her desire, even more evident now. Elizabeth glared at him, still not comprehending the error of her words--or choosing headlong to ignore his warnings and his punishment, he couldn't decide.

Her nipples stood out, tempting little morsels, but what he really wanted to feast on was the moist valley between her legs. He dropped on his knees before her, pushing her down on her back on her stone cold floor.

Her legs splayed, Stuart dove face first just to the left of the delicious feast offered before him. Elizabeth choked in shock, reflexively swallowing the spunk that had been lodged upon her tongue as the king nibbled and then bit, marking her on the sensitive skin of her thigh just shy of her streaming cunt.

The werewolves' bite, his brand for his prey, burned through her veins as her lime-tinted blood leaked from the wound. A taste of her potent blood was all he allowed himself, the salt before the shot of the heady liquor he would find between her legs.

A raspy voice, just barely managing control, gloated, "This will be your final humiliation this evening. You desire my mouth here even now, just as all sluts. The high and mighty Ice Bitch, Elizabeth Dracula, will soon be mewling her climax that I will savor."

Her eyes less sharp now but still determined, she whispered, "I will never purr for you, Your Highness." He forgave her transgression for he heard the newly awakened desire resonating in her tone.

The king's nose drank in the distinctive aroma of her juices. He dipped one finger past her pouting pussy lips. After pulling the dewed fingers from her cunt he held them up to her. "Lick my fingers, slave. Taste the arousal you struggle to deny."

Her tongue darted out, compelled by his tone and the gaze that locked with hers. The flick of her tongue signaled her submission to him in a way she would later regret.

"Tell me how you taste, slave," her Master ordered.

Her gaze almost dreamy now, she considered his words. "Almost like fresh cream, Master."

A groan welled up from deep in Stuart's chest as his tongue darted down for his own first taste of her sweet cunt.

At the first touch of his tongue to her sensitive little clitty, both Master and slave shuddered. Elizabeth's hips bucked upward in welcoming submission. She bit back the mewling moans that he had threatened her with.

Stuart's talented tongue, honed from years of practice on many of the pussies in Europe, teased her sensitive clit further. She knew he was trying to force a reaction, and she railed against giving him this satisfaction.

With two thumbs, he separated her soft, furred pussy lips. His tongue laved her labia, sliding closer and closer to the hole that wept the honey that now coated his tongue from his intimate cleansing of her cunt.

Stuart could hardly believe his luck. For years, he had resented his cousin for his woman. For Elizabeth. He burned to make this Ice Bitch melt into a puddle as a result of his domination.

Her slender neck that would wear his collar appeared fragile, vulnerable now, especially where her pulse beat erratically with heightened arousal. His gaze absorbed the cream and rose beauty of her coloring. Her rounded breasts would pillow his cock later--later, he promised himself. His cock hardened at the image that struck in his mind where he would ride that now untried pussy while he taught her how to suckle her own nipples. The narrowness of her belly and hips, both that same creamy, snowy white invited him to mark her, to claim her permanently, not just for the damned year.

Sweet, sexy whimpers, so at odds with her usually stern voice clued to him that she was strung out, rapidly approaching her climax.

As he felt her pussy clench around his tongue, he lapped greedily at the juices she produced.

He lifted up only to command, "Sing for me, my bitch. Scream my name as you come."

In a voice several octaves higher than her normally clear soprano, she screamed "Stuart!" before retreating to the soft, mewling moans.

***

Stuart led a limp Bitsy to the sets of black iron manacles that littered the wall of the dungeon. At his order, she lifted first her right hand, then her left to each tether that he deftly attached to her wrist. 

Stepping back to observe his handiwork, he tweaked her left nipple. Bitsy jumped in her chains as the peak hardened again.

That show of domination wasn't enough for the king. His lips plundered her pale pink ones that shuddered beneath his own. Sooty black lashes fanned her cheeks as her eyes closed, a demure contrast to the spitfire virago who fought his mastery only an hour earlier. He pondered cleaning her face and torso of his rapidly drying come, but then decided that he preferred this mark of his on her as well.

Her eyes dreamily opened as he broke off the kiss; the laser green had been replaced by the dewy spring green of new leaves following a warm spring shower. Damn, I'm growing almost poetic, he castigated himself. He found the new befuddlement of one newly awakened to dark sexual passion almost adorable, but the body of his new courtesan brought to mind images more pornographic than domestic.

With a shake of his head, he gave his new toy her directions, "Slave, Maria will shortly bring you refreshment and the materials to shave. After you finish eating, she will shave you. Do you understand, slave?"

Bitsy started to nod, but then stopped herself. "A shave, Your Majesty?" she asked with a raised brow.

He nodded in approval for her correct form of address. "Yes, slave." Two strong fingers parted her ebony hair cloaked nether lips to collect the moisture that still called to his predator's senses. He brought one finger to her lips. "Taste," he commanded as he had earlier; this time she eagerly licked her juices from his finger. His gaze locked with hers, ebony zeroed in on green, he tasted the juices that clung to his other moistened finger. He pulled the fingers away, their lips only millimeters apart. "The next time I taste those particular lips slave, or the first time you hold my cock within you, you will be soft and smooth." 

As he spoke, her lips brushed his.

She appeared hypnotized by his presence as he stepped away to gauge her reaction. After blinking twice, Bitsy nodded. "Yes, your Majesty." For the first time, she really looked at the king; prior to her imprisonment, she had never really looked at Michael's cousin.

He stood well over a foot above her modest five feet, six inches. A dark auburn pelt capped a tanned forehead. Ebony eyes of infinite depth and coldness burned her with their coldness, but they had melted her inhibitions earlier. Hard, cruel lips that had become the confounding mixture of demanding, coaxing, and seducing on both her lips and pussy frowned in frustration just now. Broad shoulders led to strong arms and chest that betrayed his physical strength. No wonder so many women had fallen victim to his masculinity, Bitsy thought to herself.

His eyes sharpened on her. "That is all slave," he snapped before blowing out the single candle, plunging the dungeon into impenetrable blackness.

Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 02



This part of the story picks up where Chapter 1 left off. Please feel free to let me know what you think.

*

A few hours later, Bitsy heard the light step of one of Stuart's maids on the stone steps. She had spent the last few hours cursing herself a hundred times a fool. To her shame, away from the king's mesmerizing influence, she was able to focus on what had actually transpired. Had she actually willingly swallowed his come? Had she also come in his mouth when he tongued her clit and mound? But most humiliating of all, her most egregious error was her arousal from her punishment.

She stood there, pondering her conflicting emotions and actions, until a petite girl, little more than a teenager, approached her with a tray of food. Delicious smells wafted from the tray, and Bitsy's stomach growled her response.

"Good evening, your Ladyship," the girl said in a soft voice. Like all of the king's female palace staff, she was dressed in a provocative parody of a French maid's uniform. "My name's Maria. His Majesty sent me down here to make sure you were fed and cleaned for him."

The girl, Maria, who couldn't have been more than twenty years old, placed the heavy plate of food on a nearby table before unlocking each of Bitsy's shackles. Bitsy stroked her tender wrists that had been roughened by the sharp edges of the iron. She then walked, trancelike, to the table laden with food.

"If you don't mind me saying so, Your Ladyship, you look very hungry," Maria observed.

Bitsy, her eyes glazing over from the goodies laid before her, murmured more to herself than to the maid, "The Duchess doesn't usually feed prisoners that she is going to execute. It has been three, no make that four, days since I last ate."

The young maid was shocked. "Four days," she exclaimed, "that's inhuman!"

"No, that's the Duchess," Bitsy explained as she reached for a fork.

"His Majesty had asked your brother, the Count, for a list of your favorite dishes," Maria gushed. "Wasn't that sweet of him?" 

"Sweet," Bitsy mumbled around a mouthful of food. She ate voraciously for a few minutes, but then noticed that Maria stared at her body. 

The thirty year old Bitsy blushed because she knew that her bouncy breasts were dancing as she ate her dinner. She smiled at Maria. "I'm sorry," she explained. "I'm just really hungry."

Maria appeared mesmerized by the movement, but then she smiled, a kittenish, come-hither grin at odds with her innocent appearance. "It's alright," she said, reaching out to stroke the underside of Bitsy's left breast, causing Bitsy to jump, "you have nothing to be ashamed of."

Bitsy realized that her age did nothing to mask her naiveté in front of Maria. "I-I've never done this before," she said, flustered.

"What?" Maria asked, her smile widening as if she appreciated Bitsy's discomfort.

"I've never touched a woman...that way," Bitsy explained. Even to her own ears, the words of the normally articulate First Lieutenant sounded garbled and unsure.

While comforting, the light caresses that Maria was bestowing on Bitsy could only be considered sexual. The hand that stroked the soft, pale underside of Bitsy's breast was now palming her nipple, tweaking it, making the celebrated Ice Bitch moan softly. "Have you thought about it?" Maria's smile was now wicked.

The fuchsia blush on Bitsy's skin made the normally pale flesh gleam in the candlelight. "Not until now," she said solemnly, but with a sweet smile.

Maria scooted closer. Soft pink lips brushed Bitsy's, coaxing them open. Maria's warm tongue flicked Bitsy's, and both the maid and the slave moaned. Maria pulled back momentarily to strip. Her mound was waxed; Bitsy hoped hers would look as delicious without the raven curls at the apex. The maid's firm, milky globes were even a bit bigger, a bit more rounded, than Bitsy's.

The maid winked at her. "I'll let you taste mine; and once I wax yours, I'll make you come in my mouth."

Bitsy swallowed hard. Sensing her indecision, the maid slid back over, kissing her tenderly, and then passionately. Tongues melded and their moans echoed throughout the dungeon. 

Slowly, Bitsy's inhibitions faded, just as they had with Stuart. Her mouth slid down, tasting, nibbling, and then biting Maria's neck, enjoying the warm sweetness of her blood almost as much as the cry of pleasure she wrung from the maid. Maria's hair tangled in Bitsy's ebony curls, guiding her downward.

The slave nibbled and kissed and suckled at Maria's beautiful breasts to the delightful gasping music that Maria made. Gently, Bitsy caressed with trembling fingertips past Maria's stomach to the parted lips between the maid's legs.

Maria's pink pussy was already moist, dewy, and ready for a taste. Bitsy's head ducked lower, and, for the first time, she tasted another woman.

Warm, wet, tangy, and sweet all vied for dominance in Bitsy's mouth. No food, no drink, no blood she had tasted had ever tasted so unbelievably delectable, except for the cream that shot from Stuart's cock, she inwardly mused. The hand urging Bitsy now became demanding, holding her mouth to Maria's pussy. Bitsy's tongue tickled Maria's clit playfully, and the maid lifted her hips as her juices spurted into Bitsy's mouth.

The older slave licked greedily, the fresh nectar making her crave more. Finally, Maria pulled her back, looking into Bitsy's completely lime green eyes, glazed with a passion that matched her own dark brown ones.

"Time to switch, I believe," Maria stated, her tone brisk. Maria slid off of the table to trade places with Bitsy. The slave lay back, her eyes closed as Maria caressed, tweaked, and pulled Bitsy's large pink nipples.

Bitsy moaned and writhed beneath Maria. She could hardly believe that she had kissed Maria, caressed her, licked her, and was now going to have the favors returned. Soon, Maria's fingers were replaced by her lips as a smooth, hot coating of wax drizzled onto Bitsy's cunt lips.

The slave jumped slightly. "Shhh," Maria whispered, soothing her. "If you are a really good girl, you'll get a special treat." The thin cotton strips were placed on the wax, then, RIIIIIIP! 

Bitsy's voice became a soprano yelp that reverberated again and again in the otherwise silent dungeon. When Maria finished, Bitsy whimpered softly, even though the moisture flowing from her pussy told a different story.

Maria's tongue traced the juices, parting the slick, now bald, lips of Bitsy's pussy. She teased and tortured Bitsy's clit, all the while eliciting shrieks of pleasure that turned into moans, then screams as Bitsy's orgasm flooded into Maria's mouth.

Neither cared that they could be observed from the cameras in the corners of the dungeon. As Maria's soft body slid along Bitsy's, their lips met in a soft kiss that tasted of both of their arousals. ***

"You realize, brother, that you are going to burn in Hell for what you have agreed to do," Marcos, Stuart's older brother, the only first born royal son to have ever abdicated in the history of the country, and the king's unwilling conscience, nagged him from ten feet away.

Stuart shrugged, not bothering to look up from his view on the security cameras that were locked on Bitsy's nude form in the dungeon. Even with the oral respite she had given him, his body still craved hers.

"I mean it." Marcos adjusted his priestly robes. "You know she is not guilty of the Duchess's murder. Why do you continue this?"

Marcos's younger brother did something he rarely did: he stared his older brother down. Of the same towering height, they also shared the unmistakably stubborn square jaw of their forebears. Stuart's flat black snake's eyes met Marcos's clear blue ones with challenge. "Maybe because I want to prove to you, dear brother, exactly how malicious my intent can be. And to everyone else." Stuart's gaze snapped back to the screen as Bitsy's melodious voice chatted with Maria.

Marcos looked at his younger brother. Curiously, Stuart appeared fixated on the new Count's first lieutenant; his brother had never let any woman hold his interest so completely. Maybe, Marcos reasoned, Bitsy will be his kryptonite. Marcos figured he, on behalf of the family, owed it to Bitsy to present a cautionary word to Stuart. "Bitsy's not like the other girls that you've played with brother. She's an innocent. If you destroy that innocence, there will be a hell that you've never known to pay."

His brother did not acknowledge the warning; Stuart's eyes continued to feast greedily on Bitsy's pale, nude form. Sighing, Marcos glanced down at his watch to realize that he was late for an appointment with his new employer. The International Police Department headquarters in Paris was his destination. ***

The jarring scrape of boots on the stone stairs interrupted Maria's musical laughter as she told Bitsy of her childhood in Bucharest. Quickly but professionally, Maria gathered the waxing supplies and the remnants of Bitsy's meal. With a quick bobbing curtsy to Stuart, she scurried up the stairs.

Bitsy kept her eyes closed, hoping that if she pretended sleep, he would leave. "No such luck," Stuart said, appearing to read her mind.

"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" she whispered, the black fur of her eyelashes opening to reveal spring green orbs.

His hands curled into fists, he leaned into Bitsy where she slumped shackled to the wall. Her earlier defiance seemed to have melted with the juices pouring from her pussy. "I am not leaving you here chained to this wall, Elizabeth, my pet. That would be cruel."

Her lips twisted in a parody of a smile. "I see, Your Majesty. And you wouldn't want to be cruel, would you?"

"Exactly." Stuart's smile was one of genuine satisfaction. His gaze swept down her pale nakedness noting for the first time with approval her newly waxed nether lips.

She glanced down to see what so transfixed his gaze. "Did it hurt, slave?

"A bit, Your Majesty, but Maria is very good at her work," Bitsy's voice, for once, was shy.

He smirked a bit, remembering the passionate scene he had seen between his maid and his slave from the security camera. His cock grew even more erect at the memory. "It was supposed to hurt more than a bit, slave, to prepare you for what's to come." His black gaze averted from hers as his stance grew remote, almost resembling a statue.

A shiver ran down Bitsy, prompting gooseflesh to dot her creamy softness. "What's to come, Your Majesty?" Panic tinged the pitch of her voice.

With a chilled hand, he slid her ebony waves back from her neck to stroke there. "Tonight, I will relieve you of your virginity. Tonight, you will become mine. Tonight, you will accept my collar as my slave." His eyes drilled into hers, hypnotizing her.

As for Elizabeth, her mind reeled. She wasn't stupid; she had realized that this is what her sentence entailed. On the way to the palace, during Stuart's first assault on her nakedness, and then while Maria "prepared" her, she had dwelled on the fact that she was about to break her final promise to Michael.

She tried to withdraw herself emotionally and mentally from Stuart's caress on her neck, but his rapidly warming fingers distracted her from that task, bringing back the memories of the imprint of his fingers, his lips, and his teeth on his skin. "It's no good, you know," his honeyed, hypnotic voice coated in a warm chuckle. The conversational tone seemed so at odds with his intent. "You are going to feel and experience every moment of this, my pet. There is no distancing, no withdrawing from this event. You will be with me every step of the way; I promise you the end will be the same as earlier. Fight me all you want, slave, because I'll enjoy your struggles. But at the end, you will be begging me to let you orgasm. If I'm feeling...generous...I just might allow you to do so."

The truly detestable part was not his words, not his certainty of her eventual acquiescence; no, the truly reprehensible aspect was that she knew, deep down, that he spoke the truth.

So lost was she in the knowledge that she would betray herself, Michael, and her virtue, Bitsy did not notice as Stuart unlocked the manacles and caressed her sore wrists. "Beginning this evening, pet, you will sleep beside me in my bedchamber. Please me and it will be in bed. Displease me and it will be in a cage on the floor." He snapped his fingers as if she were no more than a dog. "Come, slave; don't tarry. Lay upon the sofa. Recline. Become comfortable."

At the far end of the dungeon was a chaise, upholstered in plush red velour, a prop from a low-class bordello. It was to this piece of furniture that Stuart pointed. Her degradation and deflowerment would be complete. She walked to the chaise and lay woodenly upon it, her limbs akimbo and at harsh angles. "Tsk, tsk, slave, that will never do," Stuart murmured in the dreaded, falsely conversational tone.

"You are awaiting me, your first lover, your Master, not a fate worse than death." He chuckled at his own joke. "Just because you are not here free and clear on your own terms does not mean that you cannot enjoy yourself." Strong fingers that could easily break every bone in her body without effort smoothed over her bare arms and legs, rearranging the soft limbs to his enjoyment. The trails of sparked electricity he left behind on the feminine paleness left her bereft as his touch abandoned her.

"There," he sighed with satisfaction, a ruddy glint in his eye. "Now you look like a woman who desperately wants to be fucked." His eyes gleamed as he took in the harsh breathing, the womanly arrangement of her body, the nipples that had perked up the instant his fingers had snapped in command, and the glassy eyes that indicated an impending trip to subspace, that secret location that submissive slaves visited behind their eyes when the orgasms granted by the domination one's Master bestowed sent one into orbit. "Is there a problem, pet?"

Fine tremors made her soft white breasts quiver. He smoothed a hand over them, warming them with his touch. The chemistry they shared, the symbiotic Master-slave bond, sparked a need on her body to be imprinted by his. Stuart's eyes widened as his mind catalogued and processed the impossible: Bitsy Dracula, the Ice Bitch that was his cousin's fiancée, needed him, desired him, Stuart, to ease the ache of desire in her body. His mind marveled over that revelation as his body hardened further in preparation for the actual penetration.

She wet her lips, her pink tongue tasting the dry flesh nervously. "A problem," she croaked trying to regain some sense of herself. "You are going to rape me, and you ask me if there is a problem."

"Dear pet, I'm not going to rape you. I abhor that word. It implies a type of force that will not be an issue here. If at any point in time during the festivities you wish me to stop, say 'persimmon'—that is the safe word, remember it, it's important, and I will stop. It is even more effective than 'no.'"

Bitsy's innate curiosity got the best of her. "What is a safe word?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

The king flexed his fingers against his palms to keep from reaching for her and taking her brutally without pause. When her nose wrinkled, she appeared even less the Ice Bitch, and he wanted her with an insane rush. "A safe word is the escape route for a submissive, as you are, or a slave, as you also are, provided by Masters as a matter of protection. Anything that is too much emotionally or physically can be stopped with just the use of the word. All play, training, whatever, comes to a grinding halt at that point."

"Persimmon," she stated.

Stuart nodded. "Yes, that's the word."

"I know that's the word. I'm using it now."

He tapped her nose with his fingertip. "I'm not doing anything to you now. You can't use the word if nothing's happening."

Her answering smile was weak. "I guess asking to retain my virginity is not a possibility at this point, Your Highness?"

He forgave her the purposeful misspeak. In fact, as she referred to him as "Your Highness" more and more, he found the nickname endearing, which surely was not her intention in using it. "Slave, we can do this now or we can do this tomorrow or the next day. The end result is the same. I am going to seduce you. You will submit to me. And I will claim your virginity as my right. Do you understand, pet?"

Bitsy forced herself to nod. She knew his ownership and control over her body was inevitable. It was up to her at this moment to make it either catastrophic or pained. Maybe the king would show mercy on her if she acquiesced. "I understand, Master," she whispered.

Stuart opened a cabinet that touched the chaise and removed a few items that were disturbing at best. A whip with multiple leather tails swished as he waved it in the air. "This is a cat o'nine tails, my dear pet. The cat's tongues can caress if administered properly...or they can impose upon your skin the most electric form of pain." The other item was a length of bungee cord. For this, he offered no explanation; the king simply spread her legs, securing the cord at each ankle and feeding the cord along the bottom of the chaise.

He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The trembling virgin was no more; the pink and white goddess with the raven locks had returned, his temptress whose body pulsed with a sexual desire and deviancy to match his own. He lifted the whip over her body to caress her with the strands, starting from her right toe, up her gracefully arched foot. Her foot flexed, the delicate muscles curling from the seductive brush of the leather strands.

As the strands split over her shapely calf, the king was pleased to observe her further relaxation. Her shoulders that had been raised in fight-or-flight readiness curved downwards as her body settled further into the plush crimson velour of the chaise. His nostrils burned with the essence of her arousal that even now beaded at her naked cunt lips. When he draped the tails up her thigh, her pre-orgasmic juices really started to flow. With the tails centered on her cunt, he spread the cream that gathered there to cover her lips and mound. Then the strands continued upward over her pale, flat belly to enshroud each breast. Even before the tails brushed her pink, pouting lips, she moaned for his touch.

"Not yet, my pet. You still are not begging; therefore you are not ready."

Bitsy's moan became one of frustration, and he couldn't resist a bit of an insidious laugh. "You know what to do now pet. Kiss it. It's stroked you like a lover. Doesn't the cat deserve a reward? You will kiss each of the strands." She held the strands to her mouth, kissing each in a glazed gratitude dropping each as it was caressed by her lips. Then, she looked up at Stuart for approval. "Good girl. Now lay back and let me show you how this toy kisses back."

He lifted it only to snap the whip down over her right breast, then her left. Unlike the crop, the snaps caused her to intake her breath only to feel warmth emanating from both slaps from the cat that made her breasts grow rosy slightly and her pussy dew further. Stuart had to keep an iron lock on his control that wanted to flee as her pussy continued to seep sweet fluid that taunted him as he rained the sweet stinging lashes over every inch of her front. Even her feet did not escape notice. With each slap that heightened both of their arousals to a dangerous pitch, she came even further under his umbrella of control.

When her body was covered with marks that flushed her skin an incredible rose and both their harsh breaths could be heard as they struggled for control, he delivered the final slash to the one area of the skin that was not colored by the cat's kiss. When the cat connected on her cunt lips with a much harder smack than the other slaps, her body arched off of the chaise. Her eyes went blank, her cunt squirted juices, and she screamed a scream of orgasm that seemed to go on and on as it echoed through the stone dungeon. Her mind crash-landed in subspace as the post-orgasmic chills shook her body. Her body now was completely limp on the couch, completely relaxed, and completely his.




Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 02



Stuart's control snapped. He dove face first into her unprotected cunt, licking and tasting the come that his skillful dexterity with the cat had wrought from Bitsy. For a few precious seconds he ignored the turgid arousal that lay beneath his pants and feasted on the heady banquet before him. 

The tender flesh dewed again as his tongue lapped the last bit of cream from her sensitive pearl-like clit. A moan from her other lips signaled to him that she had returned back to herself. His eyes, his scarlet hunter's gaze, met hers above him. He flicked the bungee cords from her ankles and tugged her so that only her legs splayed in the air as her ass made purchase with the chaise's edge.

He grinned with wolfish intent. "This will be a bit of a rough ride, I'm afraid. Your lovely responses have driven me to the brink, pet." He opened his fly, and his erection sprang free.

"I understand, Master," her musical voice responded, made hoarse by her orgasmic shout only minutes earlier.

His cock head stretched the sensitive opening to her pussy. She tensed a bit, and he rushed to soothe her alarm. "I will make this as gentle as I can, but it may hurt some. I'm very aroused for you, and you are very small here," he whispered stroking her outer lips with questing fingers.

She smiled, an understanding smile. Her hips lifted a bit, and he let out a groan. "Don't do that," he ordered, smacking her ass. "Otherwise I could really hurt you."

Sweat broke out on his forehead as he slid slowly in her, spreading her tight pussy before him. "Jesus! You are so tight!" At last he came to the tender web of skin that he had to breach to take her. He tested it a bit, feeling it give slightly. "This is your last chance to say 'persimmon,' pet. I won't be able to stop, or to pull out, or to undo anything after this." He held his shoulders rigid as he awaited her answer.

With aroused eyes of a dewed crystalline peridot green, she lifted her hips the final fraction of an inch, and her hymen gave way, her secret gateway opening to him to release her secrets. A harsh, agonized growl burst from his lips as he slid home, feeling the moist walls of her pussy enrobe his steely length in welcome. When he felt the telltale softening of her skin around his cock, he pulled back only to slide back in. Bitsy's cries of pleasure spurred him on to completion, both his and her cries reaching a crescendo simultaneously. She felt the hot spurts of his shooting sperm coat her cervix.

He slid along the chaise, taking her with him, only to tuck her against his body so that their heart beats could slow. A trembling hand stroked the tender flesh on her back that belied his supremely confident, satisfied smirk. In a tone that reverberated through her being, he whispered into her ear, "I'm so proud of you, slut. You took me as not even a trained courtesan could."

As he slid her forward she realized that her pussy still held his cock in a death grip. He stood and ordered, "Wrap your legs around my hips, slave." She did as bid feeling his cock slide inside her as he walked to the stairs, and then climbed them. As he came out of the dungeon, she buried her face in his neck, sure that her nudity was on display for the entire staff. He climbed the stairs at the entryway and led her to his immense suite.

Only when he placed her delicately on the bed did he remove himself from her. She curled on her side looking at him in admiration. "I have to go to a meeting, slave. Rest until I return." He headed into his closet and returned with a silk tie that he used to secure both her wrists to the post closest to her at the head of the bed.

Admiration tinged his gaze as he looked at her nude sloping curves, relaxed and replete. She looked up into his charcoal hued eyes, and something changed in his stance and bearing. He bent to kiss her, not the masterful, punishing kisses of earlier, but ones of gentle desperation. Then, he turned and vacated the room. "Farewell, Master," she called to an empty room.

Soon, her limbs recumbent, she slumbered.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 03



This chapter takes place a litle bit after chapter 2 leaves off. Enjoy and keep the comments coming, please!

***

An hour later Bitsy was awakened by Maria's quiet knock on the door. She smiled up at her new friend sleepily. "Are you well, Your Ladyship?"

"Yes, Maria." Despite the bondage of the tie, Bitsy stretched her slender frame. "Could you untie me for a few moments, though? I need to make a phone call."

"I don't see why not," Maria agreed. "His Majesty did not say I couldn't untie you," she said reaching for the silky fabric. After untying Bitsy, she turned to leave. "Let me know if you need anything else," she called back.

Bitsy waited until Maria had shut the door before dialing on her cell phone which she found in her purse conveniently placed in the closet. The receiving end picked up on the second ring. "International Police Department Headquarters, how may I direct your call?"

"Alyssa Mason's secretary's desk, if you please," she demanded in her imperious tones known to make subordinates quaver.

But she had trained her receptionist staff to well to back down. "And who may I say is calling?" the receptionist queried in a laconic tone.

"The woman who signs your paycheck, Elyse," Bitsy ground out. For it was true that Lady Elizabeth "Bitsy" Karnackii Dracula, newly selected First Lieutenant of Count Dracula and concubine of King Stuart of Romania, and Alyssa Elizabeth Mason, Commandant General of the International Police Department headquartered in Paris, with the sole mission of eradicating all witches and werewolves with evil intent from the planet, were one and the same.

Elyse, one of Bitsy's closest friends (although not one privy to her covert "other" identity), giggled. "Right away, Lyssa," she said.

A few seconds later, Alyssa Mason's new secretary, Marcos, the king's brother, answered his desk's extension. "Marcos? Alyssa Mason here. I'm sorry I am unable to be present for your first few days on the job, but that's the burden of field operations. I left a file of your duties and responsibilities on your desk blotter. If you have any questions, either Ginger or Dee Browne will be glad to help. I don't know when I will be able to be in my office in the next few weeks, so this will be a trial by fire." Bitsy's businesslike tones had softened into the southern accent of her Texas hometown of Jasper.

She could hear the king's brother on the other end of the line shuffling through the papers in the folder. "All of it seems fairly straightforward, Ms. Mason."

"Alyssa," she corrected.

"Alyssa, then. You do have a few messages, though." Bitsy inwardly groaned. "The Duchess, that is Tracy Bathory, has called three times to set up an audience with you." Bitsy knew why, of course. As touted by The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal as the most influential woman alive, Alyssa Mason had aroused the interest of her former schoolmate, Tracy Bathory, who desperately wanted to help on the "Great Witch Hunt" with a "sizable monetary contribution."

Bitsy spent a few seconds clenching and unclenching her hands into fists. "Tell her that for the meantime, I am unavailable for appointments, but that I will personally contact her when I am able to meet with her. She won't like that, I know, but that honestly is the case."

Marcos just barely managed to hide his groan. "She really won't."

A glance at the huge grandfather clock that dominated one corner of the grand bedchamber alerted Bitsy to the fact that the king would probably return soon. An unwilling warmth and wetness seeped to gather at the newly unfurled petals of her sex. She shouldn't be thinking of him with such desire, but she could not help it. The fascination she had for him—her Master—compelled her to cherish each moment, each attention he lavished upon her. Call it the Stockholm Syndrome, call it latent effects of being placed in the asylum twelve years earlier, but the king in a few short days had become the center of her universe.

"That is all for today, Marcos. I do not know when I shall be able to contact you for the next few days, but again, just check in with Ginger or Dee if there are any problems that arise."

"Yes, Alyssa." The phone call ended after that only to have Maria rapidly enter the room.

She appeared out of breath as she approached Bitsy only to retie her wrists to the wrought iron of the headboard. "The king has returned, and he's in a foul mood. And he's been out riding."

Grimly, Bitsy pictured the king in full riding gear, the boots, the clothes, and the riding crop. She got a sinking feeling in her stomach, but she knew she needed to reassure Maria. "All will be well, my friend. It's nearly dinner time. You must eat!" A nervous Maria scurried away as Stuart came to stand in the doorway.

Bitsy soon realized that her mental picture was not far off the mark. The black riding boots that traveled up his legs to his knees nearly were buffed to a patent black sheen. Strong thighs were encased with buff riding breeches that were almost buttery soft as they caressed the muscles of his upper legs. A white button down shirt, open at the neck to display a patch of reddish-brown hair, the pelt that would extend to cover his body during every full moon, whispered over his torso. With an unreadable yet threatening expression, he swished the heavy black crop through the air. The air of menace was unmistakable, the demon highwayman come to life.

His slave, his pet, summoned up the strength to speak. "Welcome home, Your Highness," she said with a bit of sauciness to break the tension in Stuart's coiled presence.

The sensuous lips that had tormented her, pleasured her, and teased her, flattened into a thin line. "What did you call me, slave?" his questioned thundered throughout the room, bouncing off of the walls. A spark of red showed within the flat black depths of his gaze.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position. At this point, some insane part of her rationalized that it was best to provoke him further; the burgeoning violence she sensed within him needed to be unleashed before it grew into a maelstrom she could never hope to survive. "I said, 'welcome home, Your Highness.'"

Like the dog he was stalking his prey, he shifted toward the bed, never once taking his eyes off of her. "Lie back and spread your legs," he barked.

Compelled more from the dominating force of his presence than from his words, she did as commanded. The king removed his belt and attached one ankle to the headboard that held her wrists hostage; the leather that was warmed by his body heat cinched her foot tightly in place. Her other leg he lifted so that the knee was against the headboard. Using another tie and a complicated series of knots, he secured her thigh, leaving her open, spread widely obscene before him.

His anger had not calmed one iota during his activity. As he surveyed his crude, yet effective hogtying handiwork, his fury only grew. "My butler informed me that Maria untied you earlier today and that you were heard using your phone," he growled. "Tsk, tsk, pet. If you had needed use of your limbs and the phone, all you had to do was earn it, as you will this evening. But first, you consider Maria a friend or confidante, right?" At Bitsy's nod, he laughed insidiously. "Then to help her avoid her punishment at the hands of my male staff, you will submit to a double helping of punishment. Is that understood, slave?"

"Yes, Master," she whispered, her eyes wide with fright—and an even more troubling emotion. He had discovered that she seemed to grow even more aroused from the idea of his discipline. Now her eyes were glowing with suppressed pleasure in addition to the predictable fear. The fully cognizant part of his brain rationalized that this would be useful later, when he entered her backdoor.

Bitsy felt her body reacting against her will or reason, her nipples budding, her cunt leaking, her eyes dilating, and her breathing growing ragged. Despite the threat of the punishment to come—or because of it—she felt herself grow excited. As for having to do something later in exchange for the favor of being untied when not at his disposal and being able to use the phone—there was a word for women that exchanged their bodies for favors. Was she, in fact, going to be a whore?

Stuart left her little time to ruminate further. "I'm not going to ask you to count these; they will be coming at you too quickly. Nor am I going to ask you to play the coquette and beg for more. There will be a total of fifty: fifteen on each ass cheek centered on your sit spot and twenty on your clit and labia. Do you have anything to say?"

For a second, she considered saying the safe word persimmon. Would it make a difference if she did? She wouldn't be saying it for a surcease from pain, but rather to prohibit her own reaction to the punishment. It didn't seem right, somehow, to shirk this punishment as she had been deceitful (even more so than he knew). "Only that I'm sorry for being deceitful, Master."

Stuart almost relented, but then he remembered that she would need to be aroused to the point of no return for what was to come. The first thirty thwacks of the crop elicited squeaks that escalated to moans and then screams. Tears flowed from her eyes more from her regret at deceiving him that from the pain the thwacks elicited. Her pussy cried as well, a steady stream of juices that slide down the crack of her ass to gather beneath her. The king noted this with a sense of almost relief.

Before he began the final assault with the crop, he murmured to her, his anger nearly melted from her glorious reactions to his ministrations, "Now for the final twenty. You may orgasm as need be; I've been very generous in not prohibiting your orgasms, but the time will come soon where you will only come on my command." He bent to lick the tears that remained on her cheeks, kissing her eyes closed. "It is best not to watch this part, pet. Just feel."

The first heavy slash on her partially spread cunt lips elicited a shrill scream from her lips and juices rushing forth from her pussy; the force of the orgasm lifted her off of the bed. He continued quickly, each smack bringing forth a musical scream that melded pain and pleasure into a beautiful soprano siren's song.

When the twentieth stroke was just a recent memory, he dropped the crop where he stood, breathing as heavily as his slave. "Open your eyes," he ordered. "I need to see your reaction now."

Orbs of that incandescent vernal green shone for him, only for him, he could almost convince himself. The pleasure and desire were there, no fright, no animosity to cloud the crystalline window panes to her soul. And now, what he would do next could possibly shutter her soul to him forever.

"Slave," he stated, purposefully roughening his voice and distancing his tone, "now you will earn your partial freedom around the palace as well as the return of your phone." With brisk, almost angry movements, he removed her from her bondage.

The doubt seeped into her expression, paling her creamy complexion. "What is it that you require of me, Master?" 

"There is an orifice on your body that I have not conquered. Your ass." At Bitsy's sharp indrawn breath, he paused, and then continued. "Even if it didn't come down to exchanging that particular pleasure of mine for more privileges for you, I would still partake of that enticing rosebud. You can comfort yourself with that."

Her sudden stiffness clued him in to how she felt about that. "But for now, pet, on your hands and knees, your legs off the bed to the knee, slightly spread with your ass facing me." He guided her into position, and then slapped each upturned buttock. "Very nice, my pet. I am so proud of you. You are growing greatly in your submission to me.

"Right now, I'm going to prepare you. You needn't worry that I'm just going to batter your tightest hole; I will make you crave it as you've craved every touch you have received from me." He bent over to collect one of the ties and the crop. He gathered the pillows from the bed and placed them beneath her chin. The king then retrieved her hands, securing them with the tie behind her back. He inserted the handle of the crop up within her pussy to flood it with juices. Her ass jumped from the feel of the thin leather rod invading her weeping hole.

"Calm down, my enticing pet. It is better that the crop invades your sweet anus before my fingers, lubricating the entry for my heavy erection." He tore open his pants, and his shaft sprang forth, angry, hard, and pink from his nest of reddish curls. The head of his cock probed the crack that hid her anus from view, spreading the moisture that had pooled there during her punishment. Meanwhile, he twisted the crop within her, sending a burst of creamy fluid to coat the slender handle. Her breath caught on a moan.

Stuart chuckled warmly. "There we go, slave. You've moistened it perfectly." The crop handle left her pussy with a yank. She shuddered slightly as it found the entrance of her still virginal anus. He reached around to tease her clit, twitching it, tugging it, eliciting a gasp that was the sweetest melody for his ears. "Relax, my tormented pet. Take deep breaths now." With slow twisting motions, he slid it inside her tightly clenching anus. She moaned, burying her face in the pillows as her pussy began to steadily drip on the sheets beneath her. 

A whimper was made, one of loss and emptiness, when he withdrew the crop. "Don't worry, sweet slave, there is more to come." He laughed at his little joke as he dipped his fingers in her sopping cunt, drawing forth the honey that resided there. With a well-lubed finger, he began echoing the motions the crop had used as it had invaded the tight rosebud only moments before.

"Jesus, pet, you are so tight here!" Bitsy moaned her agreement as he worked to slide another finger within her, scissoring them to spread her a bit wider.

Then, his control broke. He pulled his long fingers out that had just began to cause his slave a pleasure she had never before experienced only to replace them at her backdoor entrance with the broad head of his cock. Sweat poured from his brow as he tried to claim the control that eluded him. "Say it slave," he ground out with the tattered remnants of his control. "Beg me to fuck your ass!"

She turned her head in the pillow to capture his gaze. "Please fuck my ass, Master," she moaned more than spoke.

A long, slow penetration was his answer for her. As he had directed, she worked to breathe deeply as her ass tried to tighten up, to clench to stop his further advancement by his cock. The sensations that the crop, then his fingers, had introduced within this secret place of hers awakened again, this time in a blazing array of star bursting colors that danced beneath her tightly closed eyelids. Pain was there, and pressure, too, but tied to it was the long, slow, inevitable slide of his erection moving within her, pistoning within her body, slowly at first, then with a gaining momentum.

She clenched her muscles around him experimentally and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure from him that mingled with her submissive one. The dance of the possessor—and the possessed—made more erotic by the taboo nature of this fucking, this claiming, and this mating. A burst of euphoria overtook her, sending her with shattering speed to the most powerful orgasm of these last few days, of her entire life. The dual clenching of her vaginal and anal walls served to milk a scream and an eruption of boiling semen up deep within her ass.

In the rapid heartbeats after their orgasms, the king collapsed on top of her before pulling out of her anus. She savored the warmth and aroma of his body as it surrounded her, feeling an almost desperate love for him permeate her soul. Bitsy sighed happily.

Her sigh seemed to cause a chain reaction within him. He stood, his expression again growing remote. With an angry twist he pulled her up by her hair, using her hair as a cloth to wipe and clean his cock. She stared at him mutely, wondering what had become of the warm, teasing, and then passionate lover of only seconds before. With purposeful determination, he shoved his phallus into his breeches and buttoned them up. He untied her hands rubbing the wrists roughly to help her regain the blood circulation to her hands. She flexed him, watching but not comprehending as he tossed her phone on the bed.

"My secretary will apprise you of my schedule during the day. I will give you leave to be away from here during the times when I am not present or when you are not required by me to be here. I expect you to be here for those other times. Maria will be up shortly to bathe you and prepare you for the evening meal. Your...cooperation...spared her from punishment that she well deserved. And," he said, delivering the cutting final remark with an odious smirk, "you're obedience and enthusiasm for your final deflowering while I pounded that tight rosebud earned you the use of your phone. I will see you at dinner, slave."

He turned and left, leaving her in a pool of his—and her—climactic juices.

***

Stay tuned for Chapter 4!



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 04



This chapter picks up where Chapter 3 left off. Bitsy's brother, the "real" Count Dracula makes an appearance here. Enjoy and please let me know what you think!

***

Maria arrived shortly after, very subdued as she bathed Bitsy. She made no comment about the state of Bitsy's body, nor about the cum found beneath her; she simply cleaned her efficiently. When she made no move to dress Bitsy, simply to shackle her hands together, Bitsy mustered a protest. 

"But I thought I was going downstairs to dinner," she stated hesitantly.

Her maid appeared unsure and, even worse, in possession of an awful secret. "What is it, Maria?"

"You are to eat downstairs, yes, in the grand dining room. But the king has ordered you to your place prepared just as this," Maria's whisper was one of misery.

Aghast at Stuart's gall, Bitsy seethed, "Naked? I am to appear at dinner, eat at dinner, naked?"

Maria nodded, her head bowed. 

Bitsy knew enough of her Master to know that there had to be more. "What else is it, Maria?"

"He said that this was to be a continuation of your punishment, of helping you to learn your place."

"I certainly will at that." Bitsy seemed to gather up the old hauteur and disdain that she had worn as a cloak in her dealings with Tracy Bathory and company. "If he wants me down there in my place, such I will be. But he will never touch my soul again."

Maria seemed to think that this was unwise by the sideways glance that she threw Bitsy, but she knew better than to speak of it. Instead, she squeezed Bitsy's palm once in support and fled the room.

Resolutely, Bitsy walked from the bedchamber, proudly past an array of lecherous male servants who paused to gaze upon her submissive loveliness. Like a queen she strode, a modern day Lady Godiva, giving no pause to squeamishness even as she noted the bulges beneath the pants of each of the footmen and other manservants.

She was the Ice Bitch again, perfectly at ease and stoic as she entered the grand dining room to find Stuart at the head of the table. Not even seeing Chris, her brother, or Marcos seated at the table as well, made her falter. 

Stuart gestured to a pillow at his side. "This is where you will dine, my pet."

Chris stood, scraping the heavy wooden chair across the marble floor with a loud screech to stand. With a snarl revealing his fangs, he growled, "She is not going to sit there naked at your feet begging for scraps of food. Stuart this has gone far enough!"

Bitsy raised one hand to stall his further comments and leveled an imperious stare at him. "Chris, it's okay." With her mental voice only so that he could hear and feel her emotions, she told him, I'm really okay. He has to have this show of his authority so that you would let Tracy Bathory know of his treatment—at least I think that is his reason for this display. Things have not been that bad. She concentrated on thinking only of her conversation with Marcos over the phone and other innocuous details rather than let him see or experience the less innocent things that had occurred.

She knelt at Stuart's side locking her lime gaze with his, pretending that Chris and Marcos did not exist. Chris stood again. "I can't stay here and watch this. I'm sorry," he choked out, turning and walking out of the room.

To Stuart's delight, Bitsy paid Chris's declaration no mind; she merely gazed up at him through submissively lowered lashes, her head tilted up slightly. Her posture was straight, so that her bouncy full breasts rose and fell enticingly with each breath.

The cook's assistant was so entranced by the rise and fall of the rosebud-tipped creamy mounds that he almost dropped the first course. In between bites of shrimp bisque, Stuart pressed the spoon past Bitsy's lips for a taste...which she took demurely.

Marcos, who had not outwardly protested Bitsy's treatment of dinner, looked at turns fascinated and disgusted. When some of the bisque escaped her lips and Stuart yanked her up by her hair to lick the trail from her chin down her neck, Marcos interrupted, "Is this really necessary, brother?"

Caught in Bitsy's enraptured gaze, Stuart pondered a minute before responding, "Yes, it is. I have to test the depths of her devotion, her limits. Isn't that right, my pet?" His voice, once directed at Bitsy, turned mesmerizing.

The innate haughtiness had been broken by her own acts of submission; the Ice Bitch had retreated again. "Yes, Master," she breathed, cooing at him.

Stuart continued, "She has to know, to accept, to internalize that I own her, body and soul." He snapped his fingers, and his valet appeared before him, a flat box in hand. Pulling Bitsy up on his lap, he directed that she should open the box. 

She removed the thin strip of leather within, then the wider band that resembled a black dog collar. The king secured the thinner one around her neck. "You will wear this when within a public setting or at anytime when wearing this one," here he indicated the wider collar, "would be inappropriate. This marks you as my slave, my slut, my play thing." He slid the heavy black leather collar over it, attaching a leash through one of the loops. "This is the collar of your servitude, a working collar as it were."

Bitsy moved her head in such a way so that she could kiss the leash, as she knew was his desire and intent. "Thank you, Master, for my lovely gifts." Her eyes shone for him, glowed the peridot gleam that was for him alone. 

The king looked at his brother. "If you will excuse us, Mark. My pet and I have some unfinished business to discuss." He snapped his fingers indicating her place on the floor, then taking the leash, walked her, his pet, from the room and into his office. Taking the key for the office door from his pocket, he locked it on the inside. 

"Sit on the edge of the desk, slave," he ordered, the natural imperial tones rising to the fore. She quickly did as bid, spreading her legs wide for him, tempting him with her bald mound that glistened with the telltale signs of her arousal. Her dark pink lips curved into an enticing smile.

He approached her slowly, the alpha wolf tracking the scent and sight of his mate, unbuttoning and removing his clothes, finally shucking his boxers as he approached her, close enough to feel her heat, to be drawn in by the muskiness of her arousal. Stuart closed his eyes, breathing in her aroma, before opening his eyes to reveal the red irises of his lust. Bitsy's own dazed gaze was solid, molten lime: no white or black showed.

When his cock brushed up against her mound, coating the head with her silky soft juices, she slid her legs around his waist drawing him in to her. He slid in, until he was buried to the hilt in her sheath. With trembling fingers, he lifted her shackled hands to slide them behind his neck. He groaned as her nipples brushed his sensitive ones, a groan that turned into a growl as he playfully nipped her shoulder.

His hands came under her thighs and he carried her, while buried deep within her, to the nearest wall. With a rumbling laugh that echoed deep in his chest, he warned her, "This will not be gentle, my slave. The time for gentleness has passed."

"I don't care," she moaned, as she bit on his earlobe. "Please fuck me, Master!" 

His control snapped yet again, and he began pounding her against the wall. Her orgasm was almost instantaneous, causing his climax to soon follow with a bellowing shout.

In the aftermath, their heartbeats and breathing began to slow. Bitsy slumped against him, murmuring softly, "Thank you, Master."

Stuart chuckled. "When we are as intimate as this, and alone, you may call me by my birthname, Tristan."

"Tristan." Bitsy tasted the unfamiliar word on her lips before his lips claimed them, devoured them. 

He collapsed, still holding her, into his cushiony office chair. Stroking the ebony waves of her hair, he seemed to relax further until sleep and sweet dreams claimed them both.

***

I'm hard at work on the next section, and I will post more when I've finished. 



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 05



Bitsy sat, ruminating over her fate, in the rapidly cooling water of her deep bath. The king—Stuart—Tristan—Master, she corrected her mental voice, had graciously allowed her the freedom of her bath. The tropical humidity that characterized the lushness of the soak's beginnings had transformed her pinned up ebony cloak of hair into damp ringlets that escaped the confines of the clip.

Her bath served to clarify the murky depths of her mind. She still felt torn between the love and affection that she felt for Michael and the obsessive depths of passion Master inspired within her. The sensuous motion of the rose-scented water as it smoothed over her curves reminded her of the caressing tones that Stuart employed to coax—then demand—her sexual obedience.

Through half-open eyelids, Bitsy surveyed the sumptuous interior of the master bathroom. It was, rightfully so, a lavish refuge for a dominant ruler. The walls were stained a golden hue, a delicate wash at odds with the blood red tapestries and towels that remained, warmed and at the ready, for her eventual exit from the marble tub that appeared to have more in common with an Olympic-class swimming pool than a shower stall. An assortment of bottles and jars concealing perfumed secrets littered the edges of the oasis.

The truly shocking feature of the bathroom, however, greeted her as she rolled her eyes heavenward: a mirror mounted high into the ceiling that reminded her of the king's more salacious appetites.

The staccato of his riding boots on marble alerted her to her Master's arrival. She heard the familiar thudding of his riding crop smacking his open hand encased in the leather of his riding gloves. In response, her heart began to thud heavily, her breathing grew shallow and rapid, and her eyes dilated with glazed passion showing only peridot green orbs in her eye sockets. Why she anticipated the hard thrashing she was due to receive the way a romantic yearned for a lover's sweet kiss, she couldn't say. But, from his smirking glance, she knew Stuart had catalogued each evidence of her arousal.

As a "payment" for her languorous bath, the King had made but one demand—that he claim a forfeit from her at a time of his own choosing—now, it seemed.

"Stand." One word, harshly spoken, even as his hunters eyes turned crimson with his own answering lecherous intent.

The water sluiced down her soft pink skin, made ruddy by the warm water, leaving rapidly cooling, fragrant drops that clung like diamonds to warmed skin.

"Is this where you are claiming your forfeit?" Bitsy asked, barely able to keep the quavering excitement from her voice. Her gleaming peridot eyes followed the hypnotic movements of the riding crop.

He nodded, slowly, savoring her obvious indecision. The prim and proper thirty-one year old First Lieutenant warred with the seductive succubus his slave was rapidly becoming. Flashes of fiery submissive passion had already begun to melt the Ice Bitch façade.

"I haven't focused on your training; I've been too lax with your submissive instruction," he explained.

Bitsy's eyes widened. "Too lax?" she questioned, her voice an aghast breath, a mere whisper.

"Precisely," he answered in a tone that brooked no argument even as he chuckled inwardly. "This evening, you will experience delights--and torments--you can't even imagine. Come here, slave," he commanded, snapping his fingers and pointing at his feet.

She began to walk over, sauntering slowly to show her body to the best advantage. Her new collar twinkled in the candlelight where the metal caught the wavering lumens. She jumped when he yelled an autocratic "No!"

Bitsy faltered. "Is something wrong, Master?"

"Return to the tub, drop down to your hands and knees, and crawl to me, slave. You are showing way too much pride for a slave." The crop hitting his riding boots formed a staccato rhythm that was easily audible--even above the thunderous pounding of her heart.

After returning to the edge of the tub, she slunk down to the marble floor and began to crawl to her Master. "Straighten your back," he directed, enjoying the gentle sway of her ivory-and-rose breasts as she crawled. "Look up at me, slave," he demanded when she ducked her head.

He smiled in proud pleasure as she arrived at his feet. "Now kneel," he told her. With his left hand, he stroked her cheek in appreciation and approval.

"What next, Master?" she asked, this time unable to keep the breathless excitement from her voice.

"We're going to experiment with new forms of...restraint," he chuckled, an insidious gleam in his eyes as he glanced down at her breasts with malicious intent. "You will also learn to orgasm only with my permission and to withhold it if I deny that permission."

Bitsy's audible gulp was her only response. Her mind raced. Her Master made her feel completely out of control as he seduced her. How would she ever be able to resist the undeniable need to orgasm?

He snapped his fingers in her face to grab her attention. Bitsy shook her head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry, Master," she said, completely compliant...completely his, Stuart realized.

"Follow me," Stuart dictated then turned toward the bedroom. On his way through the door, he grabbed two lengths of slippery nylon rope.

Bitsy's pussy clenched as she wondered what the rope would be used on.

"On your lovely breasts, slave. They were made to be tied," Stuart explained. "Stand."

She stood, her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders back, as she presented her breasts to him. With deft, efficient movements, he wrapped the rope around each breast, securing them together. "It's like a rope bra," Bitsy mused, looking down and twisting to test the strength of the--tight--bonds.

"You're welcome, slave," her Master said, a strange smile on his face. "How does it feel?"

Closing her eyes, Bitsy concentrated on feeling. "I feel constrained and aroused, Master," was her grudging description.

"Let's test that arousal, then," Stuart said, sliding two fingers into her drenched pussy. Bitsy had to bite back a moan. "I see," he said, with the maddening chuckle that didn't bode well for her.

The two fingers exited her pussy only to rub her juices on her nipples. Her Master clucked his tongue. "That won't do, slave. Those nipples need more decoration than just your arousal juices.

"But first," he said, picking up the crop, "I must prepare them to be adorned."

The only warning she received was a loud swishing by her ear. A loud CRACK was shortly echoed by her wheezing gasp. Stuart's response was an outright laugh. "Croppings are quite different with your breasts bound, aren't they, slave?"

Bitsy was still struggling to breathe around the sunburst explosions of pain that engulfed her entire breast, not only the nipple that received the bite of the crop. Her tardiness in answering earned her a matching THWACK on her left breast.

"Now, slave, what is the appropriate response?"

She couldn't hold back the agonized squeal. "Thank you, Master, for disciplining me," she gritted out.

"You're welcome, slave. That was very prettily done." He laughed in sheer pleasure. "But, now for your special jewelry." He opened a drawer and removed a box. "These are called clover clamps."

She opened the box, removing the medieval-looking devices. The clamps were attached with a thin silver chain. He took the box from her and removed them, holding them up so they could catch the light.

"Face the mirror, my pet. I want you to see your body correctly adorned as my possession." She did as bid, drawing in a sharp breath as one, and then the other, clamp tightly grasped a nipple.

Fire seemed to shoot from her nipples southward, igniting the barely stoked flames in her pussy. The sensations were made all the more intense by the ropes constraining her milky globes--although their milky whiteness had become a more ruddy hue because of the bondage.

Stuart, sensing her impending climax, took pity on her. "Come for me, my bitch; sing for me, my siren." He yanked hard on the chain; her nipples felt as if they were being ripped from her breasts. A scream, endless, wordless, preceded her crashing orgasm.

Bitsy's pussy erupted, squirting juices that slicked her thighs, as she dropped to her knees, the state of semi-consciousness known only as subspace took over her composure to leave the ravenous, needy desires of his submissive bare to his enjoyment. Instead of gradually finding the peace a trip through subspace usually allowed, Bitsy's lime green eyes burned with a strange light, and her mouth swelled as her canines elongated, forming the long sharp spikes of fangs.

The succubus within Bitsy would no longer be stifled. Eyes of phosphorescent fire burned Stuart as she climbed from her kneeling crouch. With sinuous movements she balanced on her toes and entwined her arms around his neck. The fangs, so characteristic of her race, so elusive until now for her until her passions had been unlocked, weighed heavily in her mouth.

She opened rose tinted, trembling lips to reveal the snowy white spikes that tingled with an unfamiliar electricity. They grazed Stuart's neck, and he tensed. His carotid artery pulsed his heartbeat against her gleaming canines. Her soft tongue swabbed softly at the bronze skin concealing the blood pumped by his heart.

Much faster than a snake could strike, Bitsy snapped her head back and then down again, piercing his skin with the razor-sharp canines that overburdened her mouth.

Bitsy responded to his rumbling groan with an answering euphoric moan. Her lips trembled as his salty sweet blood filled her mouth. His body quaked against hers.

With the blood flooding past her lips and teeth came a flooding of images in Bitsy's mind. She was, perhaps, the strongest telepath of her generation, but all previous telepathic experiences seemed puny--in comparison to this one. She had never attempted to "read" the king, for years out of a disgusted disinterest of what she might find there, and, most recently, a troubling curiosity of his inner thoughts had enticed her dangerously to break her resolve.

His mind was not the murky cesspool of depravity she had imagined. There was darkness there, a wealth of dark desires that he had begun to share with her. Behind everything else, as she delved deeper, she discovered a bitterness, a wrenching jealousy. Just as Bitsy was about to uncover exactly who and what he was jealous of, Stuart pushed her away from him.

Bereft, she looked up at him from wounded eyes. "You cannot invade my privacy this way."

"Yes, Master," she responded, her puzzlement still evident. Under half-closed lashes, she looked up at Stuart uncertainly.

With a growl, he yanked her to him. His own sharpened canines, the mark of his werewolf gene, distended his lips. Unafraid, Bitsy tilted her neck back, offering her neck and breasts to his mouth, his teeth.

His bite, when it came, was not a clean puncture, but a savage tear that burned her neck with a thousand flames. He drank, greedily gulping, heedless of all but the enchanting green elixir that poured down his throat.

Bitsy struggled to clamp down on her thoughts, feelings, or memories, but it was no use. Every corner of her mind, every vulnerability, every secret was transparent to him. And he viewed them all.

She gradually lost consciousness, and he lifted her, cradling her against him. He walked into the bedroom and deposited her carefully on the bed before sitting on the edge to face the dawn.

Bitsy's breathing evened, and Stuart sat up on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. He considered the folly of the evening. Biting Bitsy's neck and drinking her blood--and then allowing her to do the same to him--may have sealed her fate irrevocably. Only the next full moon would tell.

The law outlawing hybridization had been signed by his several-greats-grandfather, Stephen I. Mixing his lycanthrope gene with her Vampiran one would lead to a death sentence for her. Since, contrary to beliefs perpetrated by movies and fiction, the exchange of blood with a Vampiran did not cause one to become a vampire, Stuart was safe.

He chuckled softly to himself as he responded to his own mental statement. No, her heady blood may not bring the fangs and immortal life horror stories suggested, but it did make for a delicious repast: sweetly tart, it reminded him of the lime candy the Rom used to sell at fairs when he was younger. Until Tracy Bathory and her mother banished them at the end of the war, that is, Stuart thought, sobering. The Gypsy Banishment Law went into effect the same day as the Hybridization Reinforcement Law. 

The new law dictated a slow, painful sentence against newly hybridized were-vamps. To date, the sentence had never been meted out, but Stuart realized that Tracy would love nothing more than to make Bitsy the inaugural criminal.

These thoughts kept Stuart awake as the sun kissed the horizon outside his window. As the sun rose, warming Bitsy's pale skin a golden hue, he stood and dressed to go for his morning run



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 06



I hope you like this installment. Please let me know what you think. I'm hard at work on the next chapter.

***

As day became night in the Romanian capital, Bitsy returned from her IPD duties in Paris to enjoy a breathtaking sunset. It wasn't often that the winter clouds parted to reveal the spectacular incandescent pinks and oranges that faded to purple and red, colors people sometimes said were never seen in nature. This boisterous display of nature belied their words.

She pulled over just past the IPD Paris-Romania transit tunnel to step out of the silver Camaro that reflected the vibrant hues of the sunset. While her Vampiran senses could catalogue the various shades logically, it was her budding lycanthrope abilities that turned the rational First Lieutenant's categorization on its emotional ear. 

While Nature's riotous spectacle was unbelievably beautiful, Bitsy worried about the deeper problem it revealed. Vampiran-werewolf hybridization was illegal; the laws that made hybridization a capital crime had been in effect for several centuries. The treaty that ended the most recent Vampiran-White Gulfian, or witch, war strengthened the resolve of the law. The end result was the same regardless: if Tracy Bathory, who had placed her in the situation where Stuart could and would seduce her, discovered that the king had, in fact, tainted her Vampiran purity with the lycanthrope gene, the Duchess would order her immediate execution.

So, it was with no surprise that Bitsy enjoyed the sunset with a wistful heart. Only after the fiery pinks and oranges faded into the horizon to be replaced by the indigo velvet of twilight dotted with patterns of twinkling diamonds, stars millions of miles away, did Bitsy return to the warmth of her Camaro to drive to the palace.

She was long overdue to arrive. Stuart had long been expecting her, she was sure. It was expected, then, that he would be standing in the expansive circular driveway awaiting her return. His thunderous expression served to make her quake inside with a two-fold purpose: fear of his wrath mixed with an even deeper, more insidious softening within, the submissive demurring to the dominant before her.

"Where have you been?" his voice thundered in the twilight. For once, the dark Master that invaded her dreams and waking reality was not costumed in his riding outfit. She knew, though, that even though the crop was not in evidence, it would probably be made available for his use on her shortly.

Bitsy swallowed hard, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. "I'm sorry, Master," she whispered, her lowered eyes and quietly submissive tone causing his eyes to gleam red with satisfaction. "I was enjoying the marvelous sunset and lost track of the time," she continued.

She dared to glance a gaze up at him. "Most evenings would not be a problem, slave. Tonight, however, is the first full moon that you will face under my protection."

Her stomach roiled in dread. Nightmarish images of men converting into wolves battered her brain. She closed her eyes, but her sightless gaze could not prevent the pictures of flesh stretching, bones elongating, her beloved Master's features becoming feral as a pelt sprouted where skin rested now. 

Her psychic mind must have been projecting her distress because he caught her gaze and nodded. "Moonrise is in one hour. At that time, you need to be secure, safe from my reach, my clutches, my claws," he said, deliberately scaring her.

Bitsy shuddered. Even through the violent tremors pulsing through her body, she found the courage to ask, "What about me?"

Her quiet question shook his resolve. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"We've been denying what has happened. That first night, in the dungeon, you...bit me. Your saliva mixed with my blood. I'm tainted. I'm a hybrid. And last night only made it worse. I drank your blood; I shouldn't have; it caused us both to break THE LAW." Her voice shook on the emphasis she placed on her final two words. She licked her lips, a motion the king watched with absolute fascination. "I'm a hybrid now, or at least on my way to being one. What will happen to ME tonight while you are changing?"

The possibility hadn't occurred to him from the horror on his face. After a moment's pause, he asked, "Are you sure?"

"I can feel the moon's pull now; I find bright colors fascinating," was her answer by way of explanation.

"I don't really know what will happen tonight, then, my slave," was his grudging admission.

Her eyes closed on a prayer. "What happens now?"

"We secure both of us in dungeon, separately. The doors of the dungeon will be sealed by my servants. And," he paused, dreading to finish his statement.

"And?" Bitsy echoed.

With a heavy sigh, he continued, "And we await the dawn. The dungeon is the most secure location, but I don't know if any tethers there will keep you safe from me."

***

Maria led them down the stairs of the dungeon by the light of a single candle. The time of conversion drew near, and both Stuart's and Bitsy's eyesight had grown sensitive to the light. "Strip," her Master commanded, and Maria and Bitsy both jumped. He gestured at Bitsy. "Do as I command, slave, strip." 

While Maria helped Bitsy out of her business suit, Stuart removed his clothes to reveal a rampantly aroused king. Maria, having seen him undressed before, barely glanced at him; Bitsy, still holding to her previously virginal naiveté, blushed and looked away.

Maria stepped back to look at Stuart. The werewolf senses, those of the predator, slowed his walk to a crouching stalk. Bitsy stared at him, her hybridized eyes a solid peridot green, nearly one of challenge. With both of his hands, he caressed her shoulders, sliding his hands down her arms, creating electric tingles down her soft, pale flesh, ending her flash of defiance. In supplication, she lifted her hands, palms up. 

Stuart grasped her wrists, securing one cold metal manacle around the right wrist, then the left. The heavy sounds of the metal clunking together echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. Then, he buried his face in her neck, breathing deeply her elusive scent that haunted him during their time apart during the day. 

He bit her right above her heartbeat, then chuckled mentally at the irony of it. He, the Alpha wolf, not only of his pack, but of the entire race of werewolves, drawn to nearly Vampiran actions by this woman, this slave. Stuart took a long, slow drink of her sweetly effervescent blood, the lime green life fluid spilling past his lips to cascade down his throat.

The woman he would've loved to have chosen as his wolf-mate moaned low in her throat, a mixed sound of desire and growling. He bit again, harder, and her body grew limp beneath his, her peaked pink nipples teasing him against his chest. He felt the veil slip over his humanity that signaled a descent into his wolf-like stupor, and barely managed to pull himself back as he heard Maria's throat clear behind him.

"Your Majesty, begging your pardon, but the time to secure yourself grows short." she said, lifting his manacles to remind him. His response was a sullen growl. She continued to wait, tapping her foot impatiently.

He finally gave in with more grace than anyone could have expected. Maria quickly locked his manacles into place, and he tested the strength of them. They seemed strong enough, he reasoned, but one could never be sure of his strength when the moon reached its zenith. With the last bit of cognizance of his human state, Stuart demanded, his tone harsh, "Maria, go now. Lock the door. Seal it. Do not open it, for whatever reason, before dawn."

The young maid appeared to want to balk at his commands. She looked longingly at her charge, but Bitsy clearly had started to undergo whatever change her hybridized state would force. Bitsy's eyes were glazed, a florescent pale green, no white, no pupil in evidence. No hair sprouted on his slave's body, although her waist-length ebony waves had grown to nearly ankle length.

He knew soon that she would realize he had fibbed. While his hair would become more unruly, and his canines even more elongated, he would still remain upright, resembling more a man than an animal. The scary part of his transformation was what occurred within him. Any inhibitions that remained within him would be gone as his body, mind, and soul would be given over to animalistic tendencies; his passions and his emotions would become even more unmanageable.

But so, it appeared, would hers. As he felt the last of his control slip away, Stuart saw Bitsy's vacate her as well. A low, keening wail past from between her lips. "Please, Master, please come to me," the siren's song joined the wail. His succubus come to life to haunt him.

His body reacted predictably. He struggled against the manacles; to his intense frustration, they held. 

She was growing more desperate, as well. But then, she had never had to encounter this total, complete loss of control, even more demanding than his dominance over her. He could sense, not only her frustration of his distance from her, the length of the dungeon, but also her heartbeat that only continued to quicken. The throbbing of that heart nearly deafened him; other than her harsh breaths and mewling whimpers, he could hear nothing else. It was driving him mad.

One wrenching, screeching separation of metal on stone, and he was free of his bonds, or rather, the chain that met the wall was destroyed. 

"I need you, Master," she begged, her eyes and lips promising him untold delights as he swooped down to her.

The king took her mouth in a show of complete domination, a mating of an Alpha and his mate. Her growls echoed his, her pussy creaming for him without him touching any erogenous zone other than her lips. Playful nips that coaxed moans and whimpers from Bitsy's lips dotted her neck, drawing blood in places. Blood that he lapped up greedily. 

"Master," she crooned, arching her body as much as her bonds would allow, "please take me. Make me yours. I need you." Words that he had waited for, dreamed of, and never hoped to hear from her sweet soprano.

His voice hoarse, more that of a growl, an animal, not a human voice, responded, "Yes, my pet. After tonight, there will be no doubt who owns you, who controls you. It will not be a gentle ride."

"I don't carrreeee," her voice sobbed.

He lifted her feet by her ankles, wrapping them around his waist. The moisture at the apex of his thighs drenched the head of his cock, welcoming him into her warmth. Stuart speared her, no allowance made for her previous innocence. Their mutual grunts formed a chorus that only seemed to encourage the other. Promises of submission to him spilled forth from her mouth, words of raunchy nastiness he would never have imagined coming for her. He shot his seed in her with a harsh shout as her voice screamed how she wished to milk his cock with her clenching ass.

They slumped together, Master and slave, Alpha and mate, waiting for their breathing to even. It was at that moment that the king realized the cure for his uninhibited full moon escapades: the wild sex with his...slave. He couldn't bring himself to admit that she was also his mate. With a definitive yank, he separated her chains from the wall.

She murmured against his neck, her passions, like his, sated for the moment. He curled her against his body, holding her in, subconsciously keeping her safe in this secure chamber. In the darkness of the dungeon, they both slept, their bodies relaxed, as they waited and slept through the night to dawn.

***

As always, I look forward to your feedback.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 07



This chapter takes place the morning after Chapter 6 leaves off, in the aftermath of the full moon. Many thanks are due to those who asked for more of Bitsy and Stuart. Enjoy this installment, and please keep the comments coming!

***

The morning after the riotous night began with a loud creaking as someone unbarred and opened the dungeon door at the top of the stairs.

Bitsy awoke instantly to find herself trapped--not by the chains that marked her servitude, but by the warmly muscled body of Stuart himself. She marveled at this; although she was a self-proclaimed "early riser," he usually beat her awake each day.

As she snuggled deeper into the heat that emanated from his body, she brushed up against another part of his body that was an "early riser," causing Bitsy to nearly giggle. Looking down, she focused on his cock.

Even though she entered into his servitude a virgin, she had seen statues and paintings of nudes before. Neither compared to the sinew and muscle of Stuart's magnificence.

In repose, he appeared younger than his forty years of debauchery and dissipation. His reddish-brown hair curled impishly against his forehead, tousled from their night play. Coarser hair in the same shade dusted the strong pectorals of his chest and teased a trail down to his abdomen before exploding into a profusion of curls just below his waist.

Jutting out proudly, impudently, from those waves was the long, thick column that had robbed each hole on her body of its innocence. With one tentative hand, she reached out to stroke the hardness, to caress it, only to snatch it back at the sound of Maria's knowing chuckle.

Stuart stirred, causing Bitsy to flush. Slumberous black eyes gazed down at her as Stuart rolled her over, pinning her to the ground with his rampant masculinity. Those eyes had been opaquely red last night, Bitsy remembered.

"Let's give your playmate a show," he growled against Bitsy's lips, spearing her mouth with his tongue as his cock slid surely home into her wet warmth, in one long, plunging stroke.

He released her mouth to breathe, allowing Bitsy to ask, "My playmate?" in an aghast whisper. Surely, he didn't see Maria and her sharing kisses and caresses--and so much more--days before.

"I saw you both, you know," his answer to her unspoken question a hot breath against the earlobe he now nipped, drawing forth a moan from her. "The day that she waxed your pussy," he elaborated, as if any clarification was necessary.

A brief movement and he had her hands pinned above her head as he plowed her pussy. Just as he realized that her orgasm was imminent, he paused. "Who am I?" he asked her, his voice hoarse with the passion of the moment.

"My Master," was her response, her eyes almost crossed as she reached vainly for an orgasm he wouldn't grant her.

"Beg me," he compelled her. "Beg me to be allowed to come."

Her voice now a wail, she pleaded with him, "Please, Master, I beseech you. Please allow me to orgasm. I need it," she said, her voice shaking at the last.

Stuart appeared to be considering it. "No, I don't think so." He pulled back from her, still engorged. After positioning himself so that his elongated shaft was poised against her lips, he ordered, "Suck me slave; swallow my own orgasm. If I am pleased, I may grant you one. Or I may not. But you will learn to come only on my command."

The humiliated sheen in her eyes was unmistakable. Bitsy stared at Stuart with something akin to betrayal, caused, not only by his denial of her orgasm, but also because she had to submit to his whims in front of Maria. 

His groan of pleasure as she slid her lips over his cock almost--but not entirely--compensated for her degradation. Her tongue tapped the head repeatedly, swirling and darting at the slit, playing with the hole that even now seeped with pre-come that she greedily lapped up. "Such a good little suck slut," he said approvingly, in the same maddening tone that denied her the coital summit she craved.

With her head braced on the dungeon floor, Stuart began to ream her mouth, forcing his protuberance to the limits of her throat, and beyond. Gagging noises from Bitsy's throat mingled with his animalistic grunts as he reamed her face. Finally, with a harsh shout of, "Here it comes slave; swallow it all," he emptied the balls that had slapped her chin in his excitement only moments before.

"Kneel," he commanded, standing up, pulling her up to her knees. "Kneel and clean me, slave, with your tongue."

The gratification, the hope of a possible orgasm, was dashed when no mention of permission occurred. Yet, still, she did as he bid, caressing the remaining drops of semen from his cock and his balls. Every drop she tasted, enjoyed, even as she burned inside with her own desires. Ultimately, he pushed her away. "That's enough, my pet. Now, I want to see a show between you and Maria. You may orgasm only after Maria feeds you her own juices twice. Crawl to her; serve her as you would serve me."

"Yes, Your Highness," Bitsy said, managing to express her displeasure at the refusal of permission in her saucy response.

In response, he slapped her shapely rump with a firm hand. She looked back as she crawled to Maria, barely managing to refrain from stroking her heated ass that still smarted from his spanking. As she neared Maria, she looked up at the younger girl, surprised to see the same dominant gleam that twinkled in Stuart's eyes.

"Stand, pet," Maria's normally musical tones commanded briskly. Bitsy stood, still nude, and entwined her arms around Maria's neck gliding closer to her in the chill of the dungeon. The crisp black cotton of Maria's cape abraded Bitsy's nipples, causing them to perk to attention. Maria used her fingernails to tease and taunt them further, eliciting a sobbing moan from Bitsy. 

From beneath the cloak, Maria was nude. She placed Bitsy's hands on her own pale mounds guiding Bitsy to mirror her own movements. Bitsy swallowed the maid's moans of pleasure as she kissed her, first tentatively, and then with growing passion.

Over her shoulder, Maria gazed at Stuart as he stroked his cock to the display. His groans fueled Bitsy's passion, making her movements more sure, more erotic on Maria's body. She took each pebbled nipple into her mouth, flicking it carelessly with her tongue before tugging each with her teeth.

Amazingly, the young maid orgasmed from the nipple play. Bitsy dropped to her knees to taste the sweet juices bubbling forth from Maria's bald cunt, lapping them hungrily.

Even as the last drops slid past Bitsy's lips, she suckled the wrinkled clit that peeked from between Maria's nether lips, coaxing yet another climax from the newly dominant maid. Maria's fingers twined in her hair, guiding her ever closer to her moist pussy. 

Stuart, moments after Maria's second screaming climax, stood before them. Jets of his come sprayed on both of the women. Bitsy wasted no time in licking his essence from Maria's body, savoring the combination of his hot jizz and the maid's warm, fragrant skin.

"Separate," he directed, in the take-no-prisoners voice of his, the voice that made him an effective ruler of an often fragmented country. The two sprang apart, like, as Bitsy realized, two guilty secret lovers caught in the act.

With a cruel hand, he grabbed Bitsy's jaw, shaking it a bit. "Come for me, my submissive bitch. Without touching, orgasm now!" his voice thundered down at her. With dazed eyes, she nonetheless looked up at him trustingly even as she felt the waves move within her, felt her pussy flood, felt her vision go black in the strongest climax she had ever experienced.

Still on her knees, she collapsed further, losing consciousness from the force of the orgasm.

* * *

She awoke shortly after to feel Maria covering her in the starchy cotton cloak. Her lips parted beneath Maria's kiss that remained sweetly innocent, for once.

Her eyes opened, slightly out of focus in the wake of the unbelievable passion of the previous hours. Her thoughts were instantly of Stuart, her Master. As her eyes cleared, she sought him out, and found the dungeon empty of his presence.

"He's gone," Maria answered her unspoken question.

Irrationally, Bitsy felt a letdown. So far, their days together had been spent separately. Logically, she realized that he was busy keeping the delicate balance of peace between the Vampirans and White Gulfians that she knew could explode at any moment in the wake of the deaths of weeks ago. She was no less busy in her capacity of Commandant General of the IPD, not that he knew of her involvement in the organization that was attempting to run counter to the efforts he made daily.

She knew that a second war was inevitable; it was up to her to prepare her people for that eventuality. Shortly after the end of the first war, after they had conceded defeat to the Bathorys, Bitsy had, in the guise of her birth identity, created the International Police Department ostensibly to combat witchcraft worldwide. The organization had grown so powerful that even Tracy Bathory herself clambered to aid in the efforts, the same efforts that would hopefully, one day, lead to her execution.

Maria cleared her throat. Her gentle friendliness had returned. "Thank you for...earlier," she said, stammering a bit as she tried to find the words to explain her feelings. "I know it was all for his benefit, though," she offered.

Bitsy nodded, not fully understanding what Maria meant. "Yes, he did order us to do that, didn't he? Although, I did enjoy it," she rushed to add, not wanting to upset her one ally in the castle.

The maid, however, was not to be fooled or put off. "That's not what I was talking about. You did it, not because he ordered it, but because you would do anything to please him."

Bitsy shook her head in denial, even as the voice deep within her pleaded with her to admit the truth, out loud for once. To give voice to the level of obsession, of infatuation, that she felt for the king seemed impossible, however. Say it, the submissive within her begged. Her voice shaky with the effort to hide the turmoil that threatened to lay her emotions bare, she replied, "Of course I would; my life depends on it. It is only at his whim, and Tracy Bathory's, that I am alive right now."

"I hope you can continue to convince yourself of that lie for the duration of your servitude," Maria stated, the wisdom of her words and tone belying her tender age.

"Of what lie?" Bitsy asked before she could bite the words back.

Maria shook her head sadly. "You are in love with him. It has only been a few days that you have been here, and already there has been a change within you. Sure," she said, "it could be because you are learning to be his submissive slave, but anyone that looks at you when he's in the room with you could never be fooled to believe it. Your only hope is that he doesn't realize it; he's incapable of feeling that depth of emotion for anyone, much less a mere female."

"We are merely objects to him, toys," Bitsy clarified, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach. Truthfully, it was no more than she had worked out in her own mind. On the heels of that revelation, she felt even more sick as she realized how much her need for Stuart and his brand of domination had caused her to betray Michael.

"I'm glad you realize that," Maria said, seemingly relieved. "Tonight will be another long night, evening two of the full moon."

"We will be contained within the dungeon again, then?" Bitsy asked, although her tone was more one of knowledge than of question.

Her friend nodded, biting her lip. "It's for the safety of the entire palace, just in case things become too...wild."

Bitsy nodded, understanding entirely. Her mind had not been able to comprehend yet what had happened last night. Regardless, the remainder of the day would be spent preparing to separate herself emotionally from his presence. And that reminded her....

"I've got a meeting to attend in Paris," she dictated to Maria. "If he gets back before I do, could you tell him that I will be back in plenty of time for nightfall?"

"Of course," Maria said, helping Bitsy to stand and dressing her in her clothes from the previous evening.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 08



Sorry for the long wait, but I hope it was worth it. I am back at work at the story after a lengthy "pregnant" hiatus. I have the middle and the end of Bitsy and Stuart's saga written, but now I have to fill in the blanks. I hope to be posting more in the coming weeks. Thanks for continuing to read! This takes place in the hours after the shattering discoveries made in Chapter 7. I do have to confess that, as usual, Bitsy and Stuart took control of the chapter away from me; this is not how I intended the chapter to go. Enjoy!

*

Bitsy smoothed the fine silk of the red skirt over her curves. What had possessed her to wear something so slinky to the IPD headquarters she couldn't say, or rather she wouldn't admit. As the slick fabric roused the nerves against her skin, the seductive whisper a reminder of her Master's touch, she felt an answering wetness tease the bald lips between her legs.

She attempted to think of anything—sports (of which she knew nothing), cars, and finally, the vile organ that beat within Tracy Bathory that some may confuse for a heart—to quench the juices that made her mound glisten. Instead, of their own accord, her fingers slid from the steering wheel to tease at that juicy apex. She spread her legs, causing the already short scarlet skirt to hike even higher up her thighs.

Admit it, that infuriatingly taunting voice castigated. Admit that you wore red, HIS color, in homage to him, because you are obsessed with him, because you love him, her internal voice continued to press her, goad her. Vignettes of her fantasies, awakened and nourished by his domination, filled her mind, fueling the pulsing heat that her fingers continued to coax.

As the needle displayed a speed far beyond the limit, she slammed on the brakes. Chest heaving, her breathing harsh within the confines of the Camaro, she responded to the voice in her head aloud, "I'm not obsessed with him, and I certainly don't love him. It's the Stockholm Syndrome or something, or a latent sexual addiction. I can just imagine going to see Anna now for counseling. My cousin would pass out—or go into labor—if I explained to her how I responded to him. "

As for the fantasies that dictated her thoughts lately, the inescapable images of what she yearned to experience at the king's hands, she had no answer. For the first time in her life, she, Bitsy Dracula, the confirmed workaholic of the family, could not focus on her vendetta against Tracy Bathory and her followers in the wake of the daydreams that seemed as inevitable as breathing.

A truly insane part of her mind even toyed with the idea of telling him about her involvement in the IPD, of him finding her in her penthouse office, closing the door to the office, locking it, and demanding that she strip and kneel before him, offering herself on every horizontal—and vertical—surface in her office for his enjoyment.

The Camaro slid smoothly into the designated space for the Commandant General of the IPD. Bitsy, in her guise as Alyssa Mason, slid her face down into her hands in frustration. Her fingers twisted in her long blonde hair, a sharp contrast to the ebony curls that fell in a waterfall down Bitsy Dracula's back. She looked up into the rearview mirror, her grayish green eyes mocking her. A wry smile touched her lips. King Stuart would never make the connection between his temporary slave and the plain-Jane drudge that peeked at her in the mirror.

And that was a good thing; she reminded the internal voice resolutely as she stepped out of the low slung sports car and locked it. The long, narrow heels of the red stilettos made clickety-clack noises on the smooth concrete as she hurried to the entrance of the most exclusive piece of real estate in Paris, the IPD headquarters.

Just as she told herself that, her cell phone, the one that Bitsy Dracula would be answering, beeped. A text message. Her breath caught in her throat.

Where are you? was the laconic sentence that filled the screen.

The submissive voice within, one that Bitsy now recognized as a more playful, impish facet of her personality, fired back a coy, "Around."

Predictably, the king's response sent delicious shivers down her back to center as vibrations in her molten core. Unobtrusively, Bitsy crossed her legs, biting her lower lip to keep the aroused moan at bay that his words induced. "That pettish evasion is not attractive, pet. As a result, there will be...consequences."

Bitsy's mouth and pussy watered as her mind exploded with images of possible consequences: the crop, nipple clamps, orgasm control, exhibitionism, humiliation. Which would he choose? Her text was a half-hearted attempt at placation. "Consequences, Your Highness?"

"You will call me within 90 seconds to receive your punishment. If you fail to do so, you won't like the results." Imagining the humiliation that this phone call would probably cause, Bitsy hurried past Elyse at the reception desk.

Clutching her phone like a poisonous snake, she raced to the elevator, breathing a sigh of relief when Marcos, her Master's brother and her very own assistant, held the door open for her. Her breathing coming in short pants, her glazed look of trepidation focused on the phone, and her right foot tapping a tattoo on the marble of the elevator floor, she created a picture of anxiety that led Marcos to ask, "Is everything alright, Miss Mason?"

She didn't bother to correct him on his use of her formal name; instead she simply dictated her instructions for the day, "Hold all of my calls and appointments. I will be in a...phone conference...for the foreseeable future."

The doors opened on the top floor, and Bitsy's nervous feet propelled her to her office. Barely nodding at her sister Ginger who waited with a stack of affidavits for Bitsy's signature, she slammed the door of her office, barely registering Ginger's interrogation of Marcos about Bitsy's behavior.

Her stomach roiled in her belly as she dialed his number with only two seconds to spare. He gave no word of greeting, only an order, "Wherever you are, strip. Then, you will take a picture of yourself and send it to me via text message. You have two minutes." A click let her know that he had disconnected the line.

Fingers shaking more from anticipation than remorse slid her skirt down her legs. She unbuttoned the blazer, smoothing her hands over the erect tips of her breasts. The moan that had been held back now burst forth as she tweaked each of them before smoothing down her torso to tease her pussy lips. Bitsy left the fuck-me heels on as well as the public collar. 

Two attempts at digitally archiving her nudity later, she managed to send a provocative shot to her Master, one that revealed splayed legs, a hand teasing her pussy, while another hand held up a breast to her mouth for her to suck on her nipple. The now-present ebony cloak of hair teasingly hid the other breast from view.

The phone rang, and his coldly amused voice congratulated her, "Very arousing, pet. You are inside, then, and alone?"

"Yes, Master," her voice was a breathy moan.

"And in an office setting, I see," he continued. "That must mean that you have some very intriguing toy options at your disposal."

"Toys, Master?" Surely, he couldn't mean....

"All sorts of intriguing possibilities, pet. Look inside your purse," he commanded.

Her fingers clutched on a small box. "What is it?" she asked, although she feared that she knew exactly what it was.

"It's a webcam, pet. You're going to be a movie star today and make a special, private porno especially for me." He broke off and chuckled.

Her stomach twisted at his directions. She remembered the humiliation of this morning; even though part of her yearned to be his plaything subject to his every whim, Bitsy knew that giving in to this demand would risk revealing her...obsession...with him and his dictates.

"Hello? Are you still there, pet?"

Her voice unsteady, she answered, "Please don't ask this of me, Master."

A cold silence on his end mocked her. "Master?"

"Yes, slave?" His voice was coldly unemotional, standoffish even.

"I...can't do this." 

"You will do this, slave. You forget that you have no choice." The passionately demanding Master had disappeared in the wake of this arctic, unforgiving aristocrat. "Now, here is what you will do...."

* * *

Stuart gripped his cock with his hand as he looked at the picture Bitsy had sent. He could hear her muttering to herself on her end of the connection. She sent that image to enflame him, he knew. The king also knew that his cock would probably explode shortly, listening to her playing for his delectation. Watching her tease her body would be almost too pleasurable.

He accepted her invitation to view her camera. As she came into focus, he bit back a groan. She wore red stilettos that formed a seductive contrast to the public collar and soft pale skin. Pre-ejaculate beaded at the tip of his cock.

His pet sat perched on top of a large office desk, endearingly uncertain. "Lean back, slave. Place your hands behind that fuckable ass. And spread those legs wide as you did in that picture."

Her lips were set in a mulish line. She wasn't playing the reluctant innocent; for some reason, she actually wanted to not do his bidding. He would change that, he decided; he would make her yearn to be the slut that seethed just beneath her ice bitch exterior. That slutty interior continually teased his senses, making her his obsession. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't fair. It wasn't safe...for either of them.

Slowly, the slut began to take over her demeanor. Her head fell back, her nipples ripening from the breeze in the air conditioned office. His harsh voice a growl, he stated, "Take the black binder clips. Place one on each nipple and clamp them shut. Look at the camera while you do it. I want to see every sensation in your eyes."

He palmed his shaft, smearing the fluid that seeped from his tip down to his balls, turgid from the enticing display. The anticipation in the lime green orbs changed to an aroused wince as the plastic jaws bit into the strawberry-tinted bud that topped the cream of her breast. She repeated the action, the groan of pain giving way to one of pleasure.

"Very good, my little pain slut. You never knew you were a masochist, did you?" The hand bobbing up and down his engorged shaft quickened. He would not be able to stave off his orgasm for much longer.

"No, Master." His slave almost purred her answer.

"Tell me what you are while you tug on the metal part of the binder clips. Tell me slave!"

Her pink tongue lapped at her full lips that were enhanced by a scarlet gloss. He remembered the caress of that tongue, of those lips and curved his other hand around his balls, squeezing them in time to the movements of her tongue. "I'm a pain slut, Master. I'm a masochist who needs it to get off. It's my secret kink that makes me come and come."

"It's very admirable that you admit it, slave. Because of your insolence earlier, however, I think you need to be punished a bit more. Stand up and bend over the desk and grab that ruler. I find it very interesting that you have that wooden ruler in that office. It seems a bit out of place."

Bitsy whimpered as her clamped breasts made contact with the cold lacquer of the desk. "Spread your legs, slut; let me see those naughty juices pouring out of your thighs. You may come when you feel the need to. You will spank your ass hard until I come. You may cease your self-punishment when I reach my orgasm. At that time you will again sit on your desk with your legs spread. Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes, Master," came her muffled response. The ripe white globes of her ass twitched enticingly as scarlet-tipped nails the same hue as her lips curved around the heavy wood of the ruler.

"Begin, slave."

Whap! The ruler made immediate marks on her tender ivory flesh. Pink, then red, then purple welts appeared on the fresh canvas. She did not spare the rod for her punishment. Nor did she spare herself any orgasms; she climaxed four times from the stinging deep burn of the smacks. "Turn your head," he directed, as semen spurted from his cock, painting his toned abdomen. 

At the sight of the enticing trails of tears glistening on her cheeks, her sharp teeth indenting the lush curve of her lower lip, he couldn't hold back a second, immediate orgasm. When she heard his shout of exultation, she turned completely, balancing again on the edge of the desk.

Gradually, he came back to Earth. "Lovely, slave. Now, you will pick up that black magic marker." At her look of confusion, he explained, "I abhor tattoos, and they are hardly appropriate considering the brevity of our connection. I want you to write the words 'slut,' 'pain slut,' 'bitch,' and 'slave,' on your naughty bits."

Soon, her flowing script decorated her breasts, the mound above her pussy, and her ass cheeks. "Stand and turn, slave. Let me see the extent of your artwork." She pirouetted before the camera, blushing from his applause.

"One last thing, slave. I want you to pound your pussy with that marker." Completely acquiescent now, she hurried to spread her legs. The marker disappeared within her still-clenching cavern. One plunge...two...three...and her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body wracked in orgasmic shivers that made her breasts bob gently.

"Remove the clamps now, slave." He chuckled when her breath let out in a hiss, then laughed when she hissed again at the removal of the second makeshift clamp.

When she could speak again once the throbbing on her nipples slightly dissipated, she retorted, "I will never think that office supplies are innocent again."

Stuart laughed again. He looked at his watch; the Count would arrive for their meeting shortly, and the king still had a mess to clean up. "Do not be late this evening," he stressed, his tone completely sober. The second evening of the full moon hung heavy on them both.

"I promise to be back before sundown. I won't be late again." Like Stuart, Bitsy realized the full implications of being outside after nightfall. 

"Until then." Stuart clicked the X in the corner of the video window and severed the phone connection.

* * *

Bitsy ruefully slid her skirt back over her hips; then, she tugged on her blazer. As she bent over to retrieve the ruler that had been part of her desk organization set, her skirt slithered over the welted, sensitive curves of her ass. The lava between her pussy lips began to drip again.

A no-nonsense knock interrupted the start of another salacious fantasy. She unlocked the door and opened it to reveal her older triplet sister. Ginger cocked a knowing brow as she slid in the office.

"Oh, shut up," Bitsy told her still-silent sibling. Ginger shook her head, laughing quietly, causing the masses of honeyed curls to dance against her shoulders. 

"Just so you know: I sent Marcos on an errand when it started to get really noisy in here."

Bitsy flushed a shade of scarlet to match her lips, nails, and clothes. "It's not what you think," Bitsy hedged, pulling back her own now-blonde hair into a chignon.

"I hope not, but I have a feeling that it is exactly what I think it is. Bitsy, you are being careful, right?"

Shocked at the rare concern in her sister's gaze, Bitsy stammered a bit, "Careful? Of c-course I'm being careful."

"I sincerely hope that you are. Regardless of how tough you think you are, Stuart is an old hand at the love 'em and leave 'em game. Thankfully, he never took much interest in me," Ginger added.

Bitsy rushed to protest. "I don't love him. I love Michael." Even to her, her protest sounded hollow and false.

Ginger merely raised her eyebrow again and turned to leave, leaving Bitsy to struggle to believe the lie she had just told her sister.

*

Please let me know what you think. I am at work on Chapter 9 and hope to post it soon!



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 09



Even though I pen these words years after the last episode, in Bitsy and Stuart time, only moments have passed.

Michael. Bitsy's inner voice and thoughts clung to those two syllables like a talisman. How did things go so wrong? So fast? For the first time since his disappearance twelve years earlier when they were both nineteen, she felt a spark of anger ignite within her soul. Anger at him. For leaving.

Michael, the new Earl of Carpathia since his parents' deaths when Bitsy was just shy of her nineteenth birthday—murders—at the hands of the Bathorys, the same night they dispatched Bitsy's parents and aunt, was her center, her rock.

And, then? He was ripped away from her. Oh, nothing as catastrophic as his death, and nothing as shattering as her infidelity to him. One day he was there, and the next he was gone, ostensibly to broker a treaty with a band of Wiccans, who seemed to be less loyal to the Bathorys than other witches and warlocks.

Weeks passed, and nothing was heard from him. The Wiccans knuckled under—again—to Tracy Bathory's cruel nature. Word came to Bitsy that Michael never made it to that corner of Siberia that housed the Wiccans.

Bitsy realized, as did Chris, Michael's best friend, that if the Bathorys had killed Michael, that if he were dead, the mother-daughter duo of evil would have spared no expense to have the pleasure of parading his broken body before Bitsy.

As time passed, Bitsy, the war strategist and the Vampirans' best hope for victory in a stalemate two-front war, gave up on life. The change was gradual. But, as it became apparent that Michael was not returning, she began to refuse to eat and started singing to herself and wringing her hands at times, often in meetings with her advisors.

It was a last resort that Katya, her baby sister, had her committed to the asylum. By that time, Bitsy was catatonic and unresponsive. Only after signing the paperwork did Katya realize—too late—that the asylum was owned by the Bathorys, that she had actually placed her beloved older sister in a trap expertly crafted by the Bathorys.

For the next year, as the Vampiran defense steadily crumbled without Bitsy's masterful handling, she was offered up to Tracy Bathory's steadily more creative forms of mental torture. At the end of the year, she was pushed out of her tiny cell, scrawled with her incoherent ramblings, into the bright sunlight of a war-torn street in Jasper. 

And realized that there was still no Michael.

Now, twelve years later, as she reached for his ever-present 8x10 image, a duplicate of the photograph of the innocently smiling nineteen-year-old who had stolen her teenage heart that graced her desk at her office in Transylvania, that rested on the right side of her desk in Paris, her vision blurred to the point that she could no longer make out her trembling, scarlet-tipped fingers.

She clutched him briefly to her chest, now heaving with silent sobs, before deliberately placing the photograph of her first love face-down in the lower right-hand drawer of her desk.

In doing so, she said goodbye to many things. Her innocence. Her love of Michael. The girl she used to be and was no longer. And Michael himself.

A knock interrupted her nearly melodramatic reverie. Briskly shaking her head, she pulled herself together mentally before barking a "Come in" to Marcos's hesitant knock.

There was a hardness to the steely grayish-green dry-eyed gaze that met Marcos's baby blues. Dispassionately, she catalogued the differences between the two brothers.

They were of the same height and facial features, but that is where the similarities ended. The man who would-have-been king but abdicated in favor of joining the priesthood in the hope of not descending into the same path of lechery and debauchery that had plagued his father's side of the family for centuries and had already, at the ripe old age of eighteen, skewed his brother into being a new convert to the cult of Dionysus, had a...kinder...look to his eyes that Stuart simply didn't have.

A few months earlier, Marcos had returned home defrocked, by his own choosing rather than the Church's. Whispers abounded that maybe he had succumbed to his family's base tendencies, but, from what Bitsy could see, that concept was laughable.

Marcos was an innocent...a babe in the words in terms of the sensuality his two-years-younger brother wallowed in. And that she now wallowed in.

Bitsy, in front of the ten years older Marcos, suddenly felt ancient.

"Erm. Is everything okay, Miss Mason?" A hesitant query to match his knock moments before.

Bitsy glanced around before responding. All evidence of her early cam-play with Stuart had been safely put away. "Of course, Marcos. But, please, as I've said several times, call me Alyssa."

Marcos's kind smile was blinding. Just once, she wished she could inspire that open affection in Stuart. To bask in that much warmth from her Master would surely be her undoing, however.

"Alyssa. I'm sorry."

"Is there something wrong, Marcos?" Even though he towered over her, his bulk did not intimidate her, unlike her Master's. It was obvious that something was wrong with the Duke.

"Yes. No. I don't know." Clearly indecisive, Marcos began pacing before her desk. Then, with a heavy sigh, he collapsed in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "It's my brother," he let out with a groan of impatience.

Bitsy gulped. "Your brother?"

Marcos nodded. "You're the only person that I've said this to, but I came home because of him." Marcos barked a short laugh. "I could choose to save a million souls. Or I could choose to save my brother's soul."

"And you chose his." A statement. Not a question.

Another nod. "Yes. His behavior in the last couple of years has become more erratic. More women. More debauchery. More dealings with the Bathorys. He's spiraling out of control."

Bitsy cleared her throat before responding with a lie. "I don't know your brother that well," she paused thinking sardonically to herself, only intimately. "But, from what I've seen in the news and in the gossip rags, he seems as if he knows what he's doing." Playing the devil's advocate, she continued, "Are you sure it's not just you being big brother and worrying for no reason about little brother?"

Marcos appeared to deliberate on that for a few moments before steepling his fingers together and tapping his nose. Now, he appeared every second of his age instead of his almost youthful hesitancy and eagerness that usually enrobed him. "I had almost convinced myself of that. But then," he broke off.

"But then," Bitsy prompted when it appeared he wasn't going to finish his tantalizing teaser statement. 

"But then, he made a deal with Tracy Bathory concerning Lady Bitsy." He appeared to want to explain.

Bitsy, as Alyssa, held up her hand to stall him. "You mean that...incarceration...that recently made the news?"

Marcos met her gaze, his normally warm gaze resembling blue ice chips. "Yes. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, Tristan is my brother. On the other, Lady Bitsy's fiancé is my best friend and cousin."

In attempting to maintain a neutral appearance, Bitsy glossed over his use of the present tense regarding Michael. She tried to appear understanding. "Of course," she responded, "you are trying to be a help to all involved."

Now, Marcos shook his head in a definite no. "It's not that simple. I know Tristan better than anyone on this planet. I knew, or rather I hoped, that since Lady Bitsy was Michael's fiancé that my brother would consider her off limits. You see," he intimated, his voice dropping to a whisper, "he's been obsessed with her for years. Almost stalker obsessed."

A maelstrom of emotions slammed into Bitsy instantly. "How? What? I'm sorry, but what?"

"I knew you would understand right away," Marcos beamed again while nodding appreciatively. "My brother, called by many the most infamous lecher of his generation, is absolutely infatuated with Lady Bitsy, Ice Queen. Fiancee of our cousin. And, up until Tristan got his claws in her, the ideal image of chastity. But all of that is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" Bitsy parroted while her mind reeled. Too much. Too much. Too many thoughts plagued her mind in those moments.

"Well, not irrelevant, but made so by the truly horrific thing he has done." Marcos appeared lost in his own dour musings.

"Which is?"

Marcos buried his face in his hands, then rubbed his fingers over his cheeks and eyes as if to clean his thoughts from his mind. "Even though he has taken her, raped her, enslaved her, been obsessed with her for years, that is not the truly terrifying fact. He doesn't appear to be able to stop."

"Stop?" I've really got to stop this, Bitsy thought. I'm only able to parrot back the last word of his statements. I must focus.

A harsh, bitter laugh ripped from Marcos's mouth. "My brother's attention span concerning women, especially once he gets what he wants, is miniscule. But, in Lady Bitsy's case, after all he has done to corrupt her, he doesn't appear to be ready to move on."

Bitsy decided a slanting glance might be an appropriate reaction. "And that's a bad thing?"

"It is when it involves an interaction that is related in any manner with Tracy Bathory. The sentence is to last a year. I guarantee that if she realizes that her malice has backfired and resulted in happiness for either Tristan or Lady Bitsy that she will do something to destroy them." After a deep, shuddering breath, he addressed the person he knew to be Alyssa Mason. "That's why I don't think you should let her have any involvement in the IPD. She's poison. She's worse than the evil you are trying to fight."

Inwardly, Bitsy couldn't help but agree. After all, she was living the fate worse than death that the Duchess had commanded. And she knew better than most of the festering malevolence that Tracy Bathory was capable of. Outwardly, she snapped, "Well, I haven't contacted her back yet, have I?"

Her tone seemed to snap him out of his rueful funk. "No. You haven't." His boyish eagerness was back. "But enough about her and Tristan and Lady Bitsy. I really came to ask you something."

"Hmm," she voiced, lost in her own turbulent imaginings.

Marcos took that for acquiescence. "Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?"

Bitsy snapped to attention again. "Are you asking me out?" The concept was almost laughable, but not for the reasons that his ego would be hurt by. 

"Um, yeah."

Hoping to let him down gently, she demurred. "It really isn't a great idea. I mean, we work together. I'm technically your boss."

For the first time, in either guise—Bitsy or Alyssa, she recognized his family's rakishness in Marcos. If there had been no Stuart, and no Michael, she could easily have felt herself giving in. The heated glances from someone as gentle as Marcos would someday be a woman's undoing.

He walked over to her, knelt until his eyes were level with his. Even though her mind was occupied with thoughts of her Master, she could feel herself responding to his brother's own hypnotic gaze. Drawn in, compelled, she almost missed his reply. "I will quit my position, then. You are worth it." He was so close that his breath beat a caressing tattoo on her lips. Her tongue darted out, and his lips swooped the final millimeters to claim hers.

Masterful...but in a completely different way from Stuart. Whereas Stuart's brand of control was that of a warlord, a hearkening back to his forebears, a take-no-prisoners, scorched earth brand of mastery, Marcos's was seductive, steely yes, but encased by steel. Equally sinful.

Bitsy's lips trembled against his. For one...two...three seconds longer than she should have allowed. The buzz of a text message on her "Bitsy" cell phone gave her the reminder to separate. And breathe.

Marcos was equally shaken. More hesitant than usual as he scraped his hair back, the dark auburn a painful reminder that he was her Master's brother. He struggled for words and finally came out with, "So, what do you say?"

Bitsy closed her eyes to shut out his gaze, but she couldn't shut out her shame. First she cheats on Michael with Stuart and now Stuart with Marcos?

"Alyssa?" Marcos prompted.

She touched her lips, still able to feel the warmth there. "I...can't," she said, her voice breaking on the second word. 

Marcos's eyes appeared almost purple with injury. "Can't?"

"I'm sorry." She darted out to lick her lips again, a nervous gesture that she thought she had eradicated from herself when she was thirteen, otherwise known as the year of Chapstick. "If I were to post my relationship status on Facebook right now, I would have to choose 'It's complicated,' and that wouldn't even tell a tenth of the complications. I know this is going to sound like a major kiss off, but it truly isn't you, it's me."

Marcos appeared to regroup a bit and become the friendly guy-next-door again, rather than a very tantalizing Mr. February. "If you ever change your mind, or if things become uncomplicated," he broke off, letting the unspoken question hang between them.

"You'll be the first to know," Bitsy promised.

As he turned to leave her office, she called him back. "By the way, Marcos, I do not accept your resignation."

He smiled, a bit sadly, and shut the door.

Bitsy let out a long exhalation that did little to relieve the torment within. Then, the enormity of what had transpired in the past ten minutes hit her, and she sternly put a lock on her emotions.

Her phone's text message function buzzed again, imperiously, if such an inanimate object could be imperious. She glanced down and bit back an unladylike string of curses. Even if the phone could not be imperious, the sender most certainly was.

The most recent message read, "Call me now, slut." She winced when she realized she was one in truth.

The first message read, "Come home immediately." When did the Romanian royal palace become home? But it had.

Bitsy dialed Tristan's phone. After half a ring he answered with, "Where the hell have you been?"

Part of her own anger—at herself—forced her to respond in kind. "I have been in the same office ever that I cammed you from earlier."

The silence on the other end made her wonder for a minute if the call had been disconnected, either from a lousy connection or by her Master's own hand. Then, "You need to return home immediately."

"Yes, Your Highness," was her waspish response.

Click. Stuart had disconnected the call.

***

How could anyone have ever considered her the least bit icy? Stuart wondered as he pocketed his phone. In her sexual passion, she is a blazing inferno. In anger, she is a fiery virago. He looked up, smiling a rare crooked grin, as his older brother strode into the room.

Wait? Marcos? Strode? His quiet, bookish, saintly brother? "Waiting for your...what is it you call her anyway, brother?"

And in a mood, as well. "I call her my slut, my slave." My ladylove, Stuart added to himself.

"I'm sorry. I cannot and will not refer to a lady that way."

"Well, then, how do you plan to refer to her?"

Marcos considered this, his knowing gaze spearing his younger brother. "I think, companion."

"Why are you here, Marcos?" His brother, who had his entire life served as Stuart's part-time grudging conscience, had made the part-time full-time as of late.

Happiness glinted in his brother's cerulean gaze. "I met someone. And, I made the first move."

Marcos's glee was contagious. "I'm happy for you, bro. When do I get to meet her?"

"You may have already. Alyssa Mason."

Stuart blinked. Leave it to his brother to pick someone unappetizing. "The Commandant General of the IPD?" he asked with a disgusted set to his features. In his mind, he conjured up the image of a blonde with dishwater blonde hair pulled back in a too-tight bun with dull-colored eyes and an unappetizing figure.

At this, Bitsy walked in, disrobing as she slunk in. She stopped, inches from him, almost angelic in a sheer white babydoll gown. Avoiding his gaze, she slid down into a submissive kneeling position that she knew he favored. Only then did she raise her glance to meet his approving eyes. Though outwardly she played the innocent coquette, dipping her tongue out to slick over her lips, inwardly she seethed.

That's what he thinks of me? The real me?

Marcos's sharply indrawn breath broke the spell of Master and slave. Bitsy realized immediately what she had done.

Her gaze collided with Marcos's wounded one. Confusion, hurt, and betrayal were visible on his face, and Bitsy's heart ached for what could never be between them. She shut her eyes, cursing herself for being a coward, unable to face the realizations that Marcos was having.

Stuart, too, had noticed. "What's wrong, brother? I would think that true love would have stopped you from being a prude."

"No," Marcos croaked, with a definitive shake of his head, "not a prude. Not in love, even. Infatuated briefly, as you are with Lady Bitsy."

The king appeared relieved. But his eyes soon darkened. "The hour grows late, brother. I worry that, having faced your first infatuation, as you call it, tonight may be fairly difficult for you."

Bitsy, puzzled, looked from one brother to the other and back again. Marcos, clearly pained, seemed to comprehend exactly what his brother was saying. "What do you mean, Master?"

"My brother, up till now almost a eunuch, has had his first taste of sexual desire. Sexual desire awakens the wolfish beast within. To now, he's avoided the 'family curse.' But now, tonight, he will transform. He will have to spend tonight with us in the dungeon. For everyone's protection."

"Will he be...like last night?" Bitsy's voice faltered.

Stuart's reply was grim. "Probably even more so."

Bitsy's stomach roiled. The change was already starting to take place for the evening.

"With us?" Mild-mannered Marcos was all but nonexistent. "Do you mean, you risked her life because you were too selfish to be apart from her for a night?"

Please don't tell him, Bitsy silently begged. Stuart opened his mouth to respond. "With us. Brother, I have something to tell you that's going to involve you keeping quiet about a violation of a law."

Horror masked Marcos's features, contorted them. "Please tell me you didn't."

"The first evening Bitsy was here, I bit her. And it's happened since then. It's too late. Last night proved that."

Marcos's horror gave way to despair. "A hybrid?" he breathed.

"Yes." The answer that neither Bitsy nor Stuart had spoken aloud until now...now both whispered it, as if to make it less true. The answer that sealed her fate.

"What do you mean, for everyone's protection?" Bitsy was worried about the answer.

"It means," Marcos ground out, speaking directly to Bitsy for the first time since her arrival, "that if the object of my 'sexual desire,' as my brother calls it, were to be within reaching distance to me, my 'sexual desire' and acting on it would probably kill her. Tristan has had years to hone his behavior and can sort of pretend a measure of control. As someone new to this, I will know none."

"There's not even a guarantee that you will be safe tonight, slave," Stuart was quick to mention, unknowing of the full implication behind Marcos's words. 

Bitsy again looked from one to the other with a dawning horror of understanding that mirrored the same emotion on Marcos's face only minutes before. "And that means?"

"It means that I may have to stand aside while my older brother takes you, as is his right. I'm alpha only because he chose not to be. Well, chose by not feeling any desire. Now, even though he desires another, he will have to have a stand-in for her to take her place." Stuart didn't appear to like the idea at all.




Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 09



Bitsy shook her head. "And I have no say?"

"No. For several reasons. First, as a hybrid, the alpha all but owns you. Second, you are my slave. He is my alpha, therefore he can claim my possessions as his." As Stuart spoke, Bitsy looked at Marcos and was shocked to see the raw hunger, desire, and yearning simmering just below the surface. "I'm not okay with it," Stuart added, "but I know understand why several of my pack were very resentful when I invoked this clause. I guess this is my payback."

"We could...share," Marcos spoke around his trepidation. "You could...teach me what she likes. I could practice on her."

Bitsy took the opportunity to gainsay the man who would, after tonight, be halfway her alpha. "No. I'm not a practice prop."

"No, tonight you are the plaything of two ravenous wolves, one with absolutely no control over his actions," Marcos countered, his words intended to be pragmatic, not censorious. "Although, other than on nights like tonight, I don't see myself mistreating you, being anything other than gentle."

"Other than on nights like tonight? This is the only night this shall happen. And it's not going to happen." Bitsy's voice almost resembled that of Alyssa, she was so angry.

"You don't understand. After tonight, I will have you. I realize that I cannot risk my heart on the woman I love, of her running away in horror by what I will become tonight. So, I will risk your body and take you instead. Be grateful that I am willing to share with your Master." The deception clouded Marcos's eyes briefly, but then they hardened.

"Grateful? Share? What? One of you one night and one the other?" Bitsy's words spat from her like sparks from a riotous fire.

Marcos looked to Stuart for guidance. "No. As in together, slave. At the same time. You have more than one hole. Tonight, and for however long after is Marcos's decision, at least two will be filled."

Bitsy averted her eyes only to have her glance note the bulging erections of both brothers. And they quickly noticed her predictable response as moisture dewed at the bottom of the hem of her babydoll gown that barely skimmed the bottom of her pussy. A growl sounded, but from whose throat Bitsy could not be sure.

Marcos spoke, and his voice rang with more authority than she had ever heard from him. "Brother, maybe I can convince her of the inevitability of what is to come. Why don't you go find someone to seal us in the dungeon tonight as I try to smooth things over." His smile, usually so sweet and benign, was now almost slavering. 

The silky material of her gown did little to veil her extended nipples begging for masculine touch.

Stuart tapped her on the nose to get her attention. "I will return soon, slave."

A bit of her old sauciness returned. She dropped into a curtsy before him, revealing her streaming pussy and alabaster globes of her ass. "Yes, Your Highness."

With a grin that promised retribution later—tomorrow, when they returned to normal?—Stuart went in search of Maria.

And left Bitsy alone with a simmering Marcos.

***

"I can explain," she began before he cut her off with an aristocratic wave of his hand.

"No. I think I understand. Complicated, you said. Yes. Most definitely complicated. More fool me, for falling for my cousin's fiancée who is now my brother's..." he trailed off.

"Slave. Slut. Whore. Masochist. Toy. Pet. Concubine," Bitsy helpfully supplied.

"Companion," Marcos finished.

"And now, to you? What am I to you?" Bitsy's tone held more than a note of bitterness.

"You're my...it doesn't matter. Suffice it to say, after tonight, even though I don't want it, I will be alpha. And I don't want anyone but you. I don't want to dishonor you or hurt my brother, but I really cannot not take this opportunity."

"So, that means..."

Marcos looked down at her, completely at odds with the affectionate man of only a few hours before. "That means I'm going to be the same debased individual as my father's family has always been. That my brother is. That I've struggled against my whole life."

Having caught only the last of the conversation, Stuart sidled in. "It's really not that bad, brother. The dark side, as it were. The servants are leaving and sealing up the palace for the evening, so that we have complete freedom within these walls."

Marcos's lips were set in a grim line. "That's very little comfort, brother."

"Perhaps. But it makes tonight more palatable, for you and for Bitsy, if it doesn't happen in the dungeon."

"It" comprised a whole category called "things Bitsy wasn't looking forward to tonight."

"Now," Stuart spoke briskly, "it would probably be best to begin before the conversion takes over for the night." Only Marcos saw the bleak look in his eyes. A rare look of understanding passed between the two brothers.

To Bitsy, he commanded, "Behave. Do exactly as you are told, by Marcos and me." To his brother, he spoke in a gentler tone, "Remove her gown."

When Marcos started to balk, Stuart's voice roughened, "Do it!"

Marcos looked at Bitsy with an apology in his eyes and reached for the hem of her gown. His hands skimmed her mound beneath the hem, and Bitsy jumped, even though his hands were warm. "I can't," Marcos whispered.

"What?" Stuart and Bitsy both reacted with shock.

"Please, Tristan, I know this is your way, but I can't have her this way. Call me sentimental, but this is my first time, after all."

"I realize that she's not your 'ladylove,'" Stuart's lips were twisted in a mocking approximation of a grin, "but, trust me, you won't regret this coupling."

"Please, Tris, just let me do this my way."

"Marc, you don't have a way."

Marcos simply ignored him and looked down into Bitsy's eyes. To his mind, now that he knew the truth, it was impossible not to see that Alyssa and Bitsy were one and the same. His newly heightened predatory senses catalogued the evidence of her arousal. Her eyes, dreamily trapped halfway between lucidity and subspace. Her breasts thinly veiled by the gown with her impudent nipples demanding his—and Stuart's—attention. The catch of her breath in her throat, the same aware thrum that had occurred between them earlier.

With the pad of one finger he traced her lips while his gaze held hers. Stuart, looking at the pair as he undressed, recognized the hypnotism for what it was, an alpha's hold over a female werewolf. It was a claim, nowhere near as strong as his was on her, but a claim nonetheless.

As Marcos bent to caress her lips with his, Stuart pulled Bitsy's arms back and secured them with manacles. They broke apart briefly and stared at Stuart. "Trust me. You will have better control of yourself tonight if she can't touch you. And, besides," he added with regal hauteur, "I like her better enchained...enslaved...fettered for my easy access."

Marcos stepped away to remove his own clothing, his gaze patently jealous as he watched Master and slave circle each other. As Stuart's mouth crashed down on Bitsy's, his newly honed senses detected the adoring sighs that came from her throat, sighs that she wasn't even aware of...but that he and Stuart could easily detect.

Stuart motioned him over. Bitsy stood before both of them, the only one wearing anything. "It seems I'm overdressed," Bitsy flirtatiously suggested. 

"Yes, you are slave, but for now, you have other duties to attend to." Stuart snapped his fingers and pointed down in front of Marcos. "Kneel and suck."

With a pout that only served to further advertise the delectable curves of her lips, she sank down before Marcos. "Ask nicely," Stuart commanded.

"Please, may I suck your cock?" In Marcos's eyes was a wild look, the look of a beast barely held in check.

Stuart snorted with impatience. "Have you forgotten everything? As alpha, he is your Master, as well. Address him properly."

"Please, may I suck your cock, Master?" Bitsy wheedled playfully.

Marcos couldn't manage much more than a nod. She gently pressed her lips to the head of cock, then darted her tongue out for a taste of his slit.

And his control broke. Grabbing fistfuls of her now-floor-length hair, Marcos plowed her mouth for several minutes, his innocence giving way to rapacious desire. Stuart, sensing he was about to come, whispered a suggested phrase in his brother's ear. As the first hot spurts of come shot from his cock, Marcos caught Bitsy's eye and ordered, "Swallow every last drop, slut." As she cleaned him off, even slurping the last bits from his cock like a straw, Marcos passed out, a sign of the conversion about to take place.

***

He came awake, his cock already straining for attention again, jutting proudly from his nest of auburn curls, to the sounds of Bitsy and Stuart's bestial mating. Grunts, moans, and whimpers rose to a crescendo of pleasure pain as both came to the thwaps of Stuart spanking her.

Stuart withdrew, noting his brother was finally awake, and asked, "How's it going?"

Marcos mulled that around in his mind for a bit. "It's fine. I think. How long do you think we have before...?"

"Maybe half an hour."

In less than half an hour, he would be fully a werewolf. And not only that, he would be alpha. It was only then that he noticed that Bitsy was blindfolded. And suspended from an apparatus that allowed access to all of her holes simultaneously.

Marcos's cock twitched. Yes. He would be fully a werewolf, all because of his yearning desire for her. Stuart leaned in and asked the obvious, "You want her, don't you?"

He met his brother's feral gaze with one of his own. "Yes."

"Just remember who she belongs to, brother."

Only half teasing, he said with a swagger, "I could demand her as mine, brother; you know I will have that right as alpha."

"But you wouldn't. Not and risk your budding relationship with your ladylove."

He gave Stuart a look that the king himself had patented. "I've already moved on, brother."

As they approached Bitsy, they could hear her panting breaths, a sign of the hybrid within yearning to be free...and wild. "Ohhhh, slaaaaaave," Stuart crooned. "You have been a very naughty girl. You cheated on me with my brother. I think you both need to be punished."

For a moment, two hearts out of the three in that room skipped a beat. Surely, Stuart couldn't know...

Bitsy, blindfolded, didn't realize that Stuart held the insidious clover clamps...until it was too late. Like a horse's reins, he pulled them inexorable down, until Bitsy's tears soaked the velvet of her blindfold. Marcos was at turns aroused and horrified both by what Stuart was doing and his arousal from it.

He would never have considered himself even a closet sadist, but here he was reveling to the music of Bitsy's cries of pain...mixed with pleasure. "Would you like to punish our truculent slut, brother?" Stuart offered and laughed when Marcos moved up to Bitsy a bit too eagerly.

"Yes, slave, you cheated on me with my brother. Sucking his cock clean and dry like that." He reached to the thin rod on the table. "And now for your punishment. Those clamps are just for entertainment," he chuckled as Marcos gave the reins a particularly hard yank. "This cane, on the other hand, is your real punishment."

Bitsy had heard of caning from Maria. As part of the maid's training, the butler was responsible for caning her into submission. Maria said caning was the worst.

A whistling through the air was her only warning before a line of fire emblazoned on her sit spot. Bitsy howled, gyrating uselessly in the apparatus, causing the clamps to tighten still further.

Marcos, given over to his wolfish tendencies, laughed in approval. "Tell me whose cock you like more, slave," he spoke in a tone that brooked no argument or teasing. "Tell me whose cock you crave." Another sharp yank reminded her that he meant business.

Bitsy spoke silently for a few moments, her voice abandoning her. Stuart added his comments to the discussion. "Yes, slave tell us. Whose cock do you crave more?" Another whoosh and cracking whap on her bottom.

Marcos tugged her chin up so that he could kiss her. "Tell us," his voice held only warning.

"Both of you! I crave both of you. I'm nothing but a cockslut," her shout surprised even her. 

With that, Stuart came around to her front and Marcos stalked to her rear. "A slut like you should be gagged for insolence," Stuart joked as he thrust, balls deep, down her throat.

"And stuffed so full that all she can feel is cock," Marcos joked as he thrust into her quivering pussy that pulsed around him.

The brothers' faces were ruddy with the evidence of their mutual desire as they pounded away at the slut between them. An exhausted Bitsy, moments later, took their thick, molten seed within her.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 10



I don't know when Chapter 11 will be posted, as I'm working through some continuity issues with it, but here is Chapter 10!

*****

Bitsy awoke between two warm, masculine bodies. Stuart's was the more familiar of the two and the one whose arms encircled her. His even breathing indicated that he still slept the sleep of the sated.

Marcos, on the other hand, was very awake as evidenced by his hand stroking tingles of heat over every inch of her he could reach. His cock, hard and eager, gave away his obsession with her curves. Curves that he had possessed last night in countless ways...feral ways...as the full moon held them all in thrall.

Not for the first time, he nipped at her, this time on the back of the neck and hard enough to draw blood. When she squirmed a bit, although not enough to wake Stuart, he laughed even as he licked and slurped. "Alpha's right," he singsonged in the same voice of last night.

"And now for the gentleness I promised you," Marcos deftly moved her out of Stuart's arms and into his, facing him, her nipples, still sore from clamps and teeth the night before, were abraided to painful life as they brushed against the pelt on his chest. His lips caught hers as she hissed her nipples' displeasure.

Soon, the kiss turned passionate...as well as another adjective Bitsy dare not name. Loving, her traitorous mind supplied. 

She slid her arms around his neck to thread her fingers through his wine-hued hair, now so like a debauched son of Dionysus she couldn't believe it. Bitsy pulled back and looked him over. There was a new arrogance that hadn't existed within Marcos before last night.

"Good morning," spoke Stuart behind her, as he gave her ass a very pointed smack. 

"Mmm, morning, Master," she purred. Bitsy felt the dip of the bed as he rose to head to the bathroom. 

"I'll leave out the other door so that you two can have some alone time."

Marcos looked up, shocked, to question Stuart. "I thought you wanted to only share Bitsy together."

A look of pained uncertainty clouded Stuart's face before he managed to get himself back under control. "I know that you both need to find your footing in this brave new world your desire for that slug, Alyssa Mason, created. I'm not too stupid to realize that you probably want her all to yourself for a bit. I'm being generous, brother. Don't take advantage."

The brothers shared some form of silent communication that Bitsy couldn't even begin to comprehend before Stuart turned to walk toward the steamy bathroom. "Master?" What she was asking, she didn't know.

He turned, bending to brush his lips with hers, the most gentle kiss they'd ever shared. He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It will be okay, slave. We will all decide how we go from here."

Bitsy couldn't quite suppress a shivering sense of loss. Yes, she wanted Marcos, perhaps even loved him. But her feelings for Marcos were nothing compared to what she felt for Stuart. Maybe his obsession was starting to cool, as Marcos had hoped.

She turned back to Marcos and was shocked to see the possession there. "What happens now?" Bitsy asked.

"What do you mean?" His reply was evasive.

"I mean, later today, Alyssa Mason and her secretary return to the IPD offices. What happens there?" Her look of befuddlement forced another kiss from him.

A hopeful glint in his eye this morning should have warned her of his reply, "Lots of closed door meetings?"

"How is that fair to my Master?"

"Which one? You forget, you now serve two Masters. And if you look at it honestly, you serve two Masters because you are so absolutely delicious and desirable."

"A slave can't serve two Masters," she retorted. "And, besides, that was only on full moon nights, right?"

"Honey, I'm alpha, and what I say goes. You will find me a more benevolent Master than Tristan and definitely more so than my behavior last night, but the fact remains that if I order you to strip in front of every IPD employee in the office in downtown Paris, you will do so and thank me for the privilege of being able to serve me." The arrogant tone of the alpha rang clearly through his speech.

Bitsy, stunned, could only ask, "But you wouldn't, would you?" Part of her desperately hoped for an answer in the negative while the rest was wondering what would happen if his answer were positive.

Surprising her again, he replied, "I just might. Unless we have a few of those closed door meetings. A satiated Master is more inclined to be kind."

The submissive within dewed at the possibility, while the former Ice Queen part of her wanted to bristle at him. In the end, the Ice Queen won, or maybe the submissive let her win. "And what if I don't want a kind Master?"

"My dear Bitsy, you forget yourself. I'm trying hard to be kind, and you, in return, are being a brat. I may have to borrow my brother's cane."

Both submissive and Ice Queen quaked at the thought of the cane. "Please, no," she breathed.

"Why not?" he countered, pretty sure he knew her reason.

"It makes me wet."

"Mmmmmmmmm. I know."

"Please, Master, no." At being referred to as her Master, the feral light again appeared in his eyes.

He stroked his chin, setting off a daydream for her that he might stroke parts of her with that purposeful finger. "So tempting, though. What am I to call you?"

"Whatever you wish, Master."

"I'm torn between slave and slut. See how easily my family's salacious instincts take over?"

Bitsy muttered something under her breath about being grateful for those instincts, and he pretended not to hear.

"Or fucktoy. After all, I have to learn how to properly seduce and rape as an alpha would using you. But, for now..." Marcos's lips curled around her earlobe and she moaned.

"For now?" she panted.

He let out an insidious snicker. "For now, you and I are alone. The servants don't return until this evening, so there is no one to hear you beg for mercy."

His words sent her careening into subspace orbit. She almost didn't see the clothespins until he waved them playfully in front of her face. "Do you know what these are, fucktoy?"

"Clothespins?"

"Yes, but they are also clamps." He ducked down to take one nipple in his mouth, suckling deep. With lips, tongue, and teeth he tormented her nipples until she begged for mercy, as he had predicted she would.

"Okay, I'll stop," he acquiesced much too reasonably.

"Thank you, Masterrrr," her voice released on a hiss as he pinned first her right, then her left, nipple with the pins.

With a deftness that she didn't know he possessed, he tethered her wrists to each bed post on the headboard. Bitsy's moans became incoherent as he did the same to her ankles, leaving her spreadeagle as he stepped back from the bed for a moment to survey his handiwork. He bent down to kiss her, leaving her scorching and aching all at once.

Her hips lifted in an obscene parody of sex. Eyes gleaming, he lifted one more clothespin and tapped it like a bat tapping a ball against each clothespin at her nipples. Bitsy moaned and tried to twist away, still uncomprehending of his true intent with that third clothespin. 

Still, she did not understand, even when he bent between her legs and began laving her clit. Around and around his tongue circled, bringing her clit out of its hiding place to part her lips impudently. Only then did he squeeze and release the clothespin, opening and closing it, his eyes, locked on hers, full of diabolical intent.

And she realized, as he parted her pussy lips with his fingers, where that third clothespin would soon pinch. "Please, no, Master, not there. Please. I'll do anything."

He paused as if intrigued. "Anything," he spoke the word slowly, with deliberate relish.

"Yes, please, Master, anything except that. I'll do anything."

"Well, I've had this fantasy where you are concerned, and it should have worried me that I was becoming more like my family even then."

Her stomach clenched in dread, of either the fantasy he was going to detail to her or the possibility that he might still use that clothespin to punish her clit, she wasn't sure which. 

"I come into your office unannounced and find you playing with yourself. Of course, now that I know you are a slave-slut, that opens up so many other possibilities." His grin was wolfish.

"Such as?" Her voice was a mere breath.

"Spanking you with that ruler of yours."

Bitsy winced. There was no way he could know...

"What happened to it, by the way? It wasn't in your office earlier."

"Master...that is Stuart...had me go on cam with him and he discovered the ruler as well."

A mix between a purr and a growl rumbled deep in his throat. She could not mistake the look of jealousy that flashed in his eyes. Clearing his throat, he questioned her, "Why didn't you tell him what happened between us?"

"And what would that solve? I now know his opinion of me, the real me." Bitsy's tone was a mixture of despair and bewilderment. "And, once you told him about me, there was no way of telling him without explaining him who I am."

"You have to realize why, of course," Marcos began, as if trying to soften the blow of Stuart's words. 

Bitsy let out a distinctly unladylike snort. "Of course. I've made him into the enemy. I didn't realize that in doing so, that I would become not only the enemy but public enemy number one. Or that you would become the enemy. Werewolves side with Tracy Bathory. Tracy Bathory must be stopped."

Marcos slowly trailed the clothespin down from Bitsy's lips to her belly button, leaving a trail of sensitive gooseflesh in his wake. "I find that I am adapting fairly well, don't you think, pet?" 

Her breathing hitched as the pin dipped lower to tease along her pussy lips. Involuntarily, and totally against her better judgment, her hips lifted off the bed as if seeking more of this eventual instrument of torture. "Yes, Master," her reply nothing more than a nearly feral moan.

"This may sting a bit, pet, but it's for your own good." He took her lips in an undemanding kiss, teasing her to respond with a brush of his tongue over her lips. As her tongue tangled with his, he spread her lower lips with two fingers and secured the clothespin tightly over her pulsating clit. 

She screamed once against his mouth and then spasmed beneath him, her eyes rolling back in her head as she collapsed, boneless, melting into the silky red sheets, her orgasmic juices coating the wood and metal of the pin tormenting her clit.

Her final moments of lucidity before sleep overtook her yet again were as a witness to Marcos brushing his lips along her forehead and hair, whispering words of love in Old Romanian, which now, because of her hybridization, she could understand. As she gave herself over to the haze of sleep, she marveled at how he fitted her body into his and curved his arms around her protectively.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 11



Now, it's time to hear Stuart's side of the story. This happens during the action of Chapter 10, in which he describes how he met Bitsy and how Tracy Bathory made her tantalizing offer. As always, please let me know what you think.

***

Stuart was in a hell of his own making.

All of his adult life, he had been alpha. He had been able to plunder, rape, take, and possess whatever and whomever he wanted and damn the consequences. As alpha, there were no consequences. As king, there definitely weren't.

And now, just when he was finally getting everything he wanted, fate had to play several cruel jokes.

First, his brother had to fall for that dull stick Alyssa Mason. His brother, being the elder, being the one who should have been heir, became alpha because he felt desire for the first time in his life.

But, being a member of the royal family, Marc had no qualms about taking someone who was not his beloved. 

Oddly enough, it wasn't no longer being alpha that perturbed Stuart so much, it was the thought of losing Bitsy. The threat of losing her to Marcos was real...a ready-made wolf-mate? Stuart, if he had been able to find one before first seeing Bitsy would have been, pardon the pun, over the moon.

But he had met Bitsy. He still remembered his first sight of her. As nominal leader of the family, Stuart had been the one to host his cousin's engagement party, even though he had never met the lucky lady. He thought Michael was crazy to be that so enamored of one woman when there were so many females out there willing to spread their legs (or open their mouths) to his invasions.

He had been whispering salacious images into one such female's ear when he looked up into a pair of peridot eyes that seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. Captivated, he broke away from his woman of the evening to get a closer look at her.

Her ebony tresses were up, he catalogued dispassionately, while the rest of his body sprang to attention at her loveliness. A few tendrils managed to escape as she looked around, taking in the soft glow of candlelight around her. The warm flames bathed her ivory skin to a burnished sheen.

Her dress, a shade of chiffon that exactly matched her eyes made her appear soft...vulnerable. Protective instincts, long dormant within Stuart, sprang to life at last.

She was disconcerted by the party...and trying hard not to show it. He realized that she must be a friend of Michael's fiancée—what did he call her, anyway? Barbara? Betsy? Billie? Brittany? Even while his protective instincts rose to the fore, a more familiar (and less benevolent) emotion enhanced the column of steel encased in his pants.

He wanted her. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone before. When she shifted to glance at the chandeliers, her dressed dipped a bit. Before, it was at least slightly modest. Now, he could almost make out a pink nipple glancing out of the neckline.

Discomfited, she tugged at the dress. The predator within could hear the soft shushing of the fabric from 30 meters away as well as her muttered unladylike curse of disgust at the fit of the dress.

In his mind, he could already picture how he would make her shout and moan other unladylike words when he felt Michael's hand at his back. "Cousin? I want to introduce you to Bitsy."

Bitsy. That was the name of his paragon-of-purity cousin's fiancée. In his mind, he snorted condescendingly. Tracy Bathory had warned him about the Ice Bitch, virginal just as his cousin was, a sharp contrast to the gleaming virago who now was looking about desperately for salvation.

Too bad for his new conquest—her salvation would come from him, and he would seduce her in return.

Stuart knew that he had a reputation for seduction and leaving, and he knew this time would be no different. But why did this woman make his blood burn as no other had done before?

Michael was chattering beside him about how wonderful Bitsy was, leading him right up to his—Stuart's—new conquest, his virago. The woman who now flashed a winning smile, her eyes full of love, aimed at Michael.

The virago—his virago—was none other than Bitsy Karnackii Dracula, his cousin's fiancée? 

"Stuart, I would like to introduce you to Lady Elizabeth Karnackii Dracula, my fiancée. Bitsy, my love, I would like to introduce you to my cousin, King Stuart of Romania," Michael's voice seemed to almost burst with pride.

"Your Majesty," Bitsy whispered in that same musical soprano that cursed her dress only moments before. Eyes lowered submissively, she dropped to a low curtsey. As she rose and looked into his eyes, he clasped her right hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips.

Stuart registered the look of unease, of puzzlement, even more than he did the spark that flared between them at his touch.

That night, Michael and Bitsy went to bed, separately resting on sweet dreams of their future life together, while Stuart attended and participated in an orgy to get Bitsy out of his system. 

But, as the nights and years passed, he would still see her in his mind's eye as he first saw her, the burnished virago, or later that evening, submissively dropping to a curtsey in front of him. On those nights, he invariably ended up pounding away at one of the many pussies of Europe, trying, but not quite succeeding, to eradicate her image and voice from his memory.

Whenever there was an opportunity to be in the same room, he avoided her. That didn't seem to be difficult to do, as Bitsy went out of her way to avoid him, as well. Maybe she had some latent instinct that screamed at her, as prey, to flee from the predator, Stuart. The more likely explanation was that she had heard of his exploits and was sickened.

When Michael left and disappeared, Stuart had already convinced himself that she would never be bent to his regal will. He had, in fact, convinced himself that he was over those first stirrings of lust when fate, in the guise of Tracy Bathory, intervened.

Tracy, on her knees before him, gloriously nude, removed her mouth from his cock with an audible "pop."

"I've got a present for you," she sing-songed.

Stuart, so close to shooting his load down her throat or on her face, grunted. "What?" he panted, nearly out of breath.

"You know how I've always promised to give you a sex slave in return for marrying me and making me queen?" Tracy began, tracing her tongue along her lips.

Stuart grunted. "Yeah? Whatever? And your point?"

"My point is," Tracy began stroking his cock, "I've found one for you. And you get to keep her for a year, at which time I should be able to become queen."

"Meaning you will have ridded yourself of your second husband," Stuart interjected. 

"Meaning Kevin will no longer be an issue," she agreed as a matter-of-fact tone.

The king pressed his royal scepter against her lips, but Tracy refused to take him within her mouth. "Don't you want to know who she is?" she teased him.

"Fine. Okay. But then I'm going to prove what a cumslut you are."

Tracy narrowed her eyes at him until only the faintest line of malevolent blue ice showed through. "I am not a cumslut. You can make your new slave into one if you want, and, in fact, I will be quite amused when that happens. But I am not a cumslut. Now," she changed the topic briskly, "how would you feel about enslaving Bitsy Dracula?"

Forcing himself to breathe normally, because it was never a good idea to show any emotion or desire in front of the new Duchess, he injected false derision into his tone, "The Ice Bitch? That prude of a virgin that pines for my cousin's return? No, thank you."

He hadn't let the fantasies take over him in years, but with Tracy's offer they returned full force: Bitsy, submitting to him. Bitsy, his slave. Bitsy, cum trickling out of each orifice, her eyes shining, pleading, for more of his sensual abuse.

"Well, if it doesn't interest you, I guess I could go with the more traditional punishment, since she's confessed to killing my mother." Tracy dangled the option of Bitsy's death before him.

Stuart groaned. "If you execute Bitsy for your mother's death, the war will begin again. You will give them their martyr. Strategically, that is perhaps the biggest mistake you could make. And, I wouldn't support you." In the back of his mind, the sadist was polishing the manacles, repairing the clamps, preparing himself mentally for the sensual onslaught he was about to visit upon Bitsy.

"So, you do accept, then," Tracy looked deeply into his eyes in an attempt to read any emotion there.

Stuart made a show of reluctance. "I will, if only to save my country from another war."

"In that case," Tracy's voice was husky as she thought of the torture of Lady Bitsy to come, "I've brought you a plaything." She walked to the door, her red hair a riot of curls that teased the bottom of her inverted heart-shaped ass.

Upon opening the door, she tugged on a black leather leash, pulling in a young woman, quite obviously submissive, or at least dressed as a submissive, who appeared to be ready to serve.

"This is your plaything for the evening, Nadia," she explained after handing Stuart the leash. "You can practice on her for when Bitsy becomes your slave tomorrow."

Nadia, who appeared to be quite well trained, dropped to a straight-backed kneel at the snap of Stuart's fingers. "Bring me to orgasm, slave," he ordered, his normally black eyes sparking red, not from the supplicant before him but for Lady Bitsy who would soon occupy that spot.

In his mind's eye, it was Lady Bitsy's creamy flesh—though, to his mind, she was always Elizabeth—encased in black vinyl, the nipples revealed by cutouts in the vinyl but partially hidden with clover clamps of a thick steel that made the young sub wince. In his mind, it was Elizabeth's clear green gaze who looked at him through a twinset of crescent-shaped lashes rather than the brown gaze of Slave Nadia.

In his ears, it was Elizabeth's whimpers and moans that echoed in the room, musical and lilting as she careened into subspace with one tug of the chain attached to the clamps. Her voice that pleaded "Please, Master, no," as he rammed his cock down her throat and road as she choked and gagged on his thick member. It was not the whiny, petulant, Romanian-accented voice of this Nadia.

And, as he coated the back of her throat with his thick, steaming, bands of cum, it was her name, Elizabeth's, that he yelled as he found his release. Her lips, her stroking tongue, her trembling.

Spent, he drew in great whistling breaths, his mind already on the pleasurable torments he would be able to administer to Elizabeth's body tomorrow, and for the next year. Surely he would be sated of her, tired of her, after a year.

He pulled back from Nadia, vaguely irritated that he could no longer hold with the illusion that she was Elizabeth. An unbecoming scowl twisted her lips. Stuart slapped his cock on her cheeks as a warning that she, unfortunately, did not heed.

"But, Master, my name is Nadia, not Elizabeth."

The flat, black gaze, so like a snake assessing its prey, speared her. "No, you are a nameless, faceless slut. To prove that point to you, bend over this table." When she balked, he placed her bodily over it. Breathing heavily, already imagining that he would do this to Elizabeth shortly, he aligned her so that the under curves of her ass, rounded and begging to be chastened, twitched within easy reach of his crop.

A sizzling hiss slashed through the air to land with a muted slap on her buttocks. A throaty whore's scream. Nadia, who obviously was a very untrained slave, reached around to soothe her burning cheek.

"Big mistake!" Stuart's voice boomed in the silence. He dropped the crop so that the business end brushed Nadia's nose. Gathering a length of rope eight foot long, made of rough hemp fibers, sure to mar the wrists, the king secured one wrist, and then the other, to the front legs of the table. Using another rope of similar length, he did the same with her ankles and the back table legs.

To ease the way for his pleasure, he attached a spreader bar to each ankle, as well. An incoherent fury was upon him that he kept barely in check. Tracy had sent this parody of a sub, surely one of the whores from one of the many brothels she owned, as a "gift" for him? For him to practice on in preparation for his year with Bitsy?

Stuart took deep, shuddering breaths, willing himself to be in control. His anger could not be misplaced on the trembling body before him. His anger, oxymoronically nearly righteous, was centered directly on Tracy Bathory.

A fist clenched around the handle of the crop, but the man wielding it was much calmer than moments before. Still, sounds in the air reverberated through the two souls, the disciplinarian and the chastened, a volley of whistles, thwacks, and screams, thirty more of each until the king gently placed the crop beside the slave once more.

What the slave thought was a moment's respite was soon taken away as the king thrust his massive cock deep within the whore's pussy. Further proof of the girl's lack of servitude was in evidence with that first masterful stroke. The whore, while giving every pantomime of pleasure during the first act of the evening that was familiar to her, was dry.

Stuart sawed at the dry canal until he could take it no more. He jerked off, finally anointing her vinyl-encased back with his seed, empty of more than just his creamy ropes of come.

His mind and his heart hardened around one thought, a promise he made to himself: Elizabeth would never lie beneath him woodenly while he took an empty pleasure, a meaningless victory. She would ripen and quicken beneath him, her channel juicy and hot, regardless of what it took.

Stuart blinked, coming back to the present and his worries of losing the treasure, whose value was not diminishing in his eyes, as time went on.

Again, he put a lock on his worries and emotions, the roiling anger at the new twist Tracy Bathory made to his life's plans.

Grimly, he decided, it was time to introduce his slut to the glorious variety the spreader bar offered. With or without his brother.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 12



Note to my readers: This chapter was exceedingly difficult to write, as it denotes a shift in the plot (with the insertion of Tracy Bathory's evil plan) and a "what on Earth am I supposed to do about Marcos," as there was never supposed to be an issue of menage with Bitsy, Stuart, and Marcos. Stuart has to deal with the certainty that he will only have Bitsy for a year and that Bitsy and Marcos seem to share a bond that he and his slave do not. For those who like the stories to be sex-heavy, this chapter is about advancing the plot, introducing many elements that will reach a shattering "mid-story conclusion" several chapters from now. For the protagonists, I warn you things will get worse-a lot worse-before they get better. I think I have finally figured out how to be true to the middle of the story (already written) and the end (also already written) and still "deal" with Marcos's intrusion into Stuart and Bitsy's relationship. I hope you continue reading and continue to enjoy Bitsy and Stuart's struggles unfold (and Marcos's, as well, because he now knows that Bitsy is Alyssa, etc.).

***

"Twenty-eight year old Nadia Viliamich, a member of the organized band of gypsies called the Rom, has disappeared this evening. Sources close to her and her family say that she was abducted, while the police insist that there is evidence of her leaving with a lover. More to come as this story unfolds," Charles "Chaz" Tsepesh announced from the IPD newsroom.

That pronouncement jolted Bitsy from her canoodling slumber with Marcos.

"What?" She started blindly reaching for clothes.

Marcos came up behind her. "What is it?"

"My sister Katya's best friend from childhood is missing! We have to get to the Paris office!"

"Shhhh. Slow down. Take deep breaths," Marcos soothed as he tried to kiss the panicked look from her face.

She sucked in gasping breaths. "Marcos, the 'police' would be White Gulfian, in Tracy Bathory's payroll."

"You think Tracy had something to do with this?" Marcos appeared grim.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Bitsy watched as Marcos, too, gathered up clothes and began shrugging into them.

Marcos turned to look at her, concern for her evident in his worried blue eyes. "How so?"

"Please," Bitsy's response was little more than a snort. "My sentence for her mother's death had to be merely the opening salvo of her plan."

Bitsy's phone buzzed, cutting off whatever reply Marcos would have made. "Yes, Chris? Yes, I'm on my way. Don't worry; we'll find her." The staccato rhythm of Bitsy's heels on the marble floor could be heard over her words. Marcos rushed to follow.

As they rushed out to their cars, Bitsy to her Camaro, and Marcos to his new red Ferrari, they missed seeing Stuart wearing a similar troubling turbulent expression on his face as he pulled up.

***

One would think that the reason for the turbulence of Stuart's expression was his worry about Bitsy and Marcos obviously going somewhere together, further shutting him out.

One might also think that his expression was caused by the thwarted desirous fantasy of introducing Bitsy to the spreader bar.

Observers thinking that would be wrong on both counts.

Stuart was worried about nearly the same thing as Bitsy and Marcos, but in a different way.

Unlike his brother and his slave, he knew where the missing woman was. And why she was missing.

It was all his fault.

He thought back to his conversation with Tracy Bathory earlier that evening.

"I have something to show you," she sing-songed as she tried—and failed—to entice him in a kiss.

In the past, he could at least pretend interest in her seduction. Now, with his uncontrollable desire for Bitsy combined with the love he dare not show or voice, he could no longer bother to struggle to become aroused by the Duchess.

"What's that?" he finally asked, but not quickly enough to avoid her ire.

Tracy Bathory's smile was a parody in cruelty. How she managed to convince anyone that she wasn't the most evil, base creature on the planet eluded him. "I've got a tableau for you to enjoy, along with your slave, of course, over the next several months. To remind you of the fact that your slave is only in your thrall for a year."

"A tableau?" Stuart bit back a curse as Tracy pulled the curtain that covered one wall of her overdone office. When he saw what the burgundy and white plush velvet hid from eyesight, he nearly gagged.

A form of slavery was being acted out before his eyes, for his—and Tracy Bathory's—delectation?

But whereas the hold that he held over Bitsy had quickly turned nearly consensual and then eager, this one never would.

What made his eyes burn with unshed tears was nothing more—or less—than rape on an unwilling victim by Tracy Bathory's husband Kevin and his cousin, Kent.

He recognized the woman, to his shock. A member of the Rom who had always had laughing eyes and was a close friend of the Count's missing wife.

Stuart willed his anguished eyes away to look at Tracy. "Stop it," he ordered.

"You know I can't do that," Tracy chortled with glee as her eyes lit with an unholy light. "If I make them stop and let her go, then the Vampirans will ask questions. And that war you are trying so hard to prevent from happening again will be instantaneous." Tracy paused to take a long slow sip of white wine, probably her trademark chardonnay.

"No," she continued. "That slut's fate is sealed. A nice, long, slow death. As a reminder of the vow you made to me when I offered you Bitsy Dracula."

"What vow?" Stuart put his hands to his ears to try to drown out the woman's screams. 

Tracy Bathory snapped her fingers in his face to get his attention. "The vow you made to marry me and make me your queen after your year of owning Bitsy is up."

Stuart's head shake in the negative was emphatic. "No! This—I—There is no way I will be marrying you after this! Consider this the only warning you will be getting about being arrested and executed for what you are having done to that woman!"

"Oh, really? You think I'm doing this because I think you might like watching her? Yes, I know you are depraved, have heard from your own servants, many of whom are more loyal to me than to you, how you have her truly in thrall as your sex slave. But let me warn YOU, if you think to expose me or renege on your deal, I will have Bitsy abducted and her end will be leagues worse than what you witness here." Tracy Bathory rocked back on her heels, her explanation of her evil plan complete.

"No! You will not—"

"Oh, yes I will. I know that you love her. You've loved her for years, your little pristine paragon of perfection that you would never be able to have because she would never sully her hands with you. And now you've gotten what you wanted all along, and, surprise, she seems to be equally smitten with you.

"But hear me out, I will never allow her to be happy. I may have—miscalculated—her reaction to you. But, at the end of the year, you will separate yourself from her in a way that is as cruel as possible, OR I will have her abducted and it will be her body behind this curtain raped and murdered. And I will make you watch every moment of it.

"As it is, you will be coming here every day to watch my lovely tableau, won't you? Because I would see a missed day of the viewing to mean that you don't want your slave to be alive any longer."

She saw his sick dismay settle over his face and knew that—for now, at least—she had won. "And after all, kingy-poo, I may choose not to marry you after all. Watching the misery on your face and Bitsy's at your separation will probably be pleasure enough."

Now, at home at the palace, Stuart realized that while he knew that his time with Bitsy would be finite, he had been tricking himself into thinking that it wouldn't be. And Tracy Bathory had stripped him of that comforting illusion.

***

Mere moments before sundown, Bitsy and Marcos let themselves into the palace, empty-hearted and dejected.

"We'll find her; I'm sure of it," Marcos whispered in her ear.

She shook her head. "Not if the White Gulfians have her."

"You're late," Stuart's voice sliced through the comforting passion between his brother and his beloved.

Bitsy cleared her throat, a bit unsure. Before today, she could put the coldness in Stuart's eyes to pretense or to play, but now the arctic black flatness chilled her, bone deep. "There were some things we had to take care of. Marcos had to go to Paris to the IPD Headquarters, and Chris needed me to start searching for Nadia. Nadia's missing."

"Nadia?" Stuart asked, but inwardly he grieved. He remembered now that Nadia was the Rom woman's name.

"Nadia, my sister's best friend. She's disappeared. Abducted, we're sure, even though the White Gulfian police don't believe it or acknowledge it."

Stuart nodded, hoping they took his turbulent expression to mean that he had already known from a source like the news. "I heard something about that; I'm sorry." He winced as his voice sounded robotic even to his ears.

Marcos, usually able to read his brother's emotions, realized something serious was going on. "Bro, if you don't mind, I'm going to go out searching for Nadia. I need to do this tonight."

Stuart, wishing with everything good within him that he could tell Marc the truth, nodded gratefully. "Take care," he said, even while dismissing his brother's efforts as futile in his mind.

He watched as his brother enfolded Bitsy within his arms, kissed her deeply yet tenderly, and turned to leave.

When the door shut behind Marcos, Bitsy approached him. "What is it, Master? And don't tell me it's because of Nadia's disappearance."

"It's not. I'm just realizing how close you and Marcos are." Stuart sighed stroking his tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much horrific imagery today.

Bitsy was confused, no doubt about it. "And that means?"

"That means, had I, and Alyssa Mason, not interfered, you could have been his without guilt."

His slave almost choked. "Without guilt? I've had nothing but guilt. Guilt every time that I kiss him that I'm betraying you. And that every time that I'm with you, I'm betraying Michael."

He started to talk, but she held up a hand to pause him. "No. You don't understand. I loved Michael. I love Marcos, for pretty much the same reasons as Michael." And I love you, her heart ached to cry out, but she bit back the words that would surely be repellent to him. "But I serve you. I am your slave. Regardless of whether Marcos is alpha or not. I kneel before you. Any obeisance I give to him is only under your direct order."

"It's not that easy," he began, but she cut in again.

"It is that easy. I am your slave. That is my place. It's important that I know my place."

With effort, he ground out, "You can't deny the claim of the alpha."

"Nor will I. I will be his lover, but only serve him as you direct me." For Bitsy, it really was that logical. That cut and dried.

"His...lover?" Stuart felt a flash of jealousy. For over a decade, he would have killed to have been labeled her lover.

Bitsy nodded, stripping down out of the slinky little black dress she had worn all day. Soon, she stood before him in fuck-me five-inch black stilettos and a lacy peekaboo bra and panty set whose stoplight hue gave tantalizing glances of her nipples and her waxed cunt.

Without being directed, she pulled her "working collar" out of her purse and secured the strap around her neck. Then, she kneeled looking up at him while her nose brushed playfully against his pants-encased cock.

To Bitsy, she seemed unable to stop herself from babbling. "And that's such a pale imitation of a Master...who really encompasses...so much more," she finished, her statement sounding lame even to her own ears.

"More?" Stuart nearly croaked. 

Bitsy smiled up at him, a tender type of smile that she usually reserved only for her family, friends...and his brother. "A Master is lover, teacher, owner...everything all rolled up into One."

Stuart closed his eyes and willed himself to focus. For a year, I can be her everything. Let tomorrow happen, but for the next several tomorrows, there is she...and I. And Marc, his inner voice betrayed him.

"I am all of those things, slave, to you." Stuart unbuckled his belt, then slowly slid it from the loops on his pants. Bitsy watched, mesmerized. "And, as teacher, now, a lesson."

With a slow and practiced movement, slow enough for Bitsy to realize his intent, he slid the belt halfway in the big D-ring in the back of her working collar. Using his belt as a makeshift leash, he forced her to crawl up the steps to his opulent bedchamber.

Bitsy's peridot orbs widened when she saw the black bar contrasting with the crimson sheen of the satin-covered comforter. When she noticed the riding crop, she gulped...hard.

Stuart led her to the point where her nose pressed against the slick satin of the bedcover. She remained on all fours, her legs spread shoulder width, as her Master slid the belt out of the D-ring with much more menacing intent. Her eyes remained watching serenely forward, even as she heard the snapping of the heavy leather belt bent double, even as she heard the sharp whistling bringing the belt home to its target.

Eyes immediately gone from serene to painfully clenched shut, Bitsy let out what could only be considered a yowl. Too complacent, she cursed herself. You thought from his pretty words and yours he would forget that you were still late, that you broke a promise to him, a hard and fast rule.

Those same eyes shed pained tears. "I'm sorry, Master," her voice quavered. "I know how important it is to be on time."

Stuart stepped back and waited for her to finish, waited for her justification that she was out doing work that she was supposed to do. But no denial of responsibility came. He looked down into eyes truly penitent.

He crushed one hand down into her ebony locks, carelessly tumbled, no longer locked into the tight buns that she often wore. Twisting the silken pools of shiny night in his fingers, his grip cruel as he pulled her up to standing, he held her steady as she rocked a bit on her high heels. By contrast, his lips settled on hers, tender, nearly tentative.

The gentle touch, in contrast with his previous handling of her, brought sobs bubbling to her lips. Stuart, in his first show of gentleness and caring to a woman ever, licked and sucked the tears from her face, from her eyes. His own eyes gleamed a crimson that matched the dull fires reflected in the comforter. Master, held in check only by his absolute control. His slave, held in check by every aspect of his personality, every action, gentle and harsh, that branded her as his.

Her still wet eyes pleaded with him for something, and, for a moment, he lost a bit of his confidence. "Please," her quivering lips begged. "Please, Master."

Stuart bent his head until his breath stirred the vulnerable skin of her earlobe. "Yes, slave? Please what?"

Bitsy's eyes closed as she warred with her own indecision. In the end, her desire to serve him won out over her fears. "What is that bar on the bed?"

The king almost whooped in pleasure, but he again held himself back, allowing only a small chuckle. "It's a spreader bar, my pet."

"Um, what does it do?" Bitsy asked, her eyes widening still further.

This time Stuart couldn't hold back an out-and-out guffaw. "It spreads you, slave, for my pleasure. I've thought about introducing you to this special toy for a while now." His tone was conversational, as if he were discussing the weather or another banal pleasantry.

Then, his tone turned commanding. The curt, nearly cruel tone that liquefied Bitsy's insides. "Put your hands up high over your head," he directed. He secured them first with cuffs and then attached the cuffs to a hook above her using a length of rope. 

Afterwards, he knelt before her, leaving her completely bewildered until he attached her ankles to either end of the spreader bar. And she understood. Spread wide for his pleasure.

With purposeful fingertips he slid down the center of her back, tracing the delicate curve of her spine, teasing along the cleft that separated her two ass cheeks, before testing the wetness that even now began to drip down to lubricate her inner thighs.

Bitsy let out one low moan, audible in the silence broken only by the harshness of their breathing. Master. And slave.

"Tell me, pet. Tell me what you need to tell me, what I want to hear." A rough whisper in the stillness.

Bitsy swallowed a few times before she could begin speaking. This was not a playful act. With a flip of a switch, what started out as play and experimentation had taken on a new air of reality. Call it Marcos's presence threatening the fragile construction of their relationship, or the missing Rom woman, or unspoken secrets—on both sides. Things had suddenly become real, and serious.

"You are my everything, Master. Lover, teacher, owner, confessor, protector, disciplinarian. I offer myself up to you as your willing slave, submissive to you and your directives, your desires. From this point on, my loyalty is to you first."

Powerful words, and the king was fully aware of the force behind them. Her loyalty to Michael and Marcos would be superseded by her loyalty to him; even her loyalty to Chris and all Vampirans would be less than her loyalty to him.

Stuart produced a knife from somewhere; Bitsy didn't know from where. She looked trustingly into his eyes as he sliced the lacy crimson bra and panties from her body. In seconds, she stood before him wearing only her heels and the symbols of her servitude to him: spreader bar, cuffs, and collar.

"I appreciate your words, slave, and recognize them as my right." His words seemed fitting for the formality of the moment. "And now," he continued, a bit lighter in tone, "to consummate this occasion."

He lifted the crop to her lips. She kissed the braided band of leather, her eyes locked on his. The first whisper of the crop, still a solid thudding thwack, was much more silent than the solid slap of the belt. Her Master wielded them both, with dizzying accuracy, at times simultaneously.

The pain slut, the masochist within, took the dazzling smacks across her tender back, legs, and buttocks as her due and her deepest desire. Far from quiet, she accepted her punishment, with all of the symbolism behind it, amid a volley of shrieks, screams, moans, and a shaking voice pleading for more.

Finally, Stuart could take no more. Again, he twisted his hand in her hair, this time pulling her neck back until her carotid artery was exposed. He savagely bit, twisting his head as his teach tore at the skin of her neck as his cock did the same to her pulsating pussy.

Heedless of any directive that Stuart could have made to forestall her orgasm, Bitsy came instantly, her pussy milking him as her lime green blood poured past his lips down his throat. He slurped greedily, audibly, echoing a similar sound lower where Bitsy's cunt slurped and squeezed on her Master's cock.

"Mine," he growled against her neck. "All mine." He reached around, first kneading her breasts in his hands and then crushing them together, leaving instant marks from his rough handling. The instant bruises matched the purpling of her nipples from Marcos's rough treatment earlier.

"Mine," the king insisted, to himself as much as to her.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 13



This chapter takes place in the immediate aftermath of Chapter 12. This chapter is to "make up" for the previous plot-advancing chapter. This is also "my solution" for Marcos. Cheers!

******************

Marcos knew something was bothering his brother, but he didn't know what exactly. Stuart had been moody many times before, but this was something different, something darker.

Because of the moodiness, Marcos had decided to leave Master and slave together. He figured, rightfully or wrongfully, that his newfound alpha status was responsible for his brother's turbulent behavior.

So, it was with that thought that he decided to stay away for a bit.

That and to force his own emotions under control.

Marc had never felt this way about any woman. He had always, ALWAYS, disdained his father's and brother's treatment of women. He had always vowed to never do that, ever.

And here, now, he was treating Bitsy with just that level of disrespect.

Even more troubling, or miraculous, depending how you looked at it, she was wallowing in it, her submissiveness to both his brother and him.

Remembering those moments of true debasement caused his cock to harden and his eyes to smolder crimson. At ease in the driver's seat of his new sports car, another symbol of his hedonism, he started to stroke his cock through his pants.

Just as he had worked himself to near orgasm, nearly spiraling out of control, his phone buzzed.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. Sure enough, it was Stuart.

"What?" he said, out of breath and out of temper.

His brother chuckled, but Marcos could tell that Stuart's humor was half-hearted. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No. I thought you and Bitsy would still be at it."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "We are." In the background, he could hear water running.

"A bath, then?"

"Yes. My—our—slave is a bit sore," Stuart rushed to clarify. "I decided to call you while she bathed. We need to work this out, this thing with the three of us."

"What is there to work out?" Marcos knew things were awkward, but he worried that any change to how things were would push him out and away from Bitsy. Learning that she and Alyssa Mason were one and the same, once he was over the initial shock, served only to make him desire her more.

Stuart cleared his throat, lowering his voice to slightly more than a whisper. "I only have her for one year," he began, but his older brother quickly interrupted him.

"You could have her longer, you know. She's as obsessed with you as you are with her." Marcos couldn't help his jealousy of his brother's bond with Bitsy.

Stuart's imperious tone could not be mistaken. "I only have her for one year," he stated, as if there were no doubt. His tone softened toward his brother. "You, as alpha, have the possibility of enjoying her for longer, forever, if that is your wish." Though the tone was less sharp, he sounded pained. 

"What is it that you are saying, Brother?" Marcos thought he knew, and he knew he wasn't going to like Stuart's response.

"I am asking that you step back for this year, let Bitsy and I BE," he said, emphasis on the last word to where Marcos heard the implied capitalization in his mind.

The request made Marc feel dead inside. "Step aside," he repeated woodenly. "What does that mean?" He knew that he could not deny his brother much, especially if it kept Stuart's wild behavior in check. But, please, not this.

"To allow Bitsy and I to be Bitsy and I, Master and slave." Stuart's explanation, while expected, was still a crushing blow.

"If I agree," Marcos began, mentally lashing his hedonism up tight in a chest, "I will only make two requests. One, allow me one more evening with her, to say goodbye, as it were. And, two, promise me that you will not hurt her, not now, not a year from now, and not ever."

Marc didn't see the despair darken his brother's already black eyes, nor did he see Stuart's grip tighten on the phone almost to the point of breaking it, but he did hear the bleak resignation in his younger brother's voice. "I can promise the first, but I cannot promise the second. And, for that, I'm truly sorry."

When Marcos tried to argue the point, Stuart interrupted. "It's beyond my control. When I do eventually hurt her, if it even hurts her, I'm asking you to pick up the pieces because I won't be able to."

Something in Stuart's words didn't quite ring true, but his tone brooked no discussion. "I agree."

"I will let Bitsy know that you are coming for her this evening, then," Stuart said formally, almost as a secretary to a great lady.

***************************

When Bitsy got out of her bath, she expected to see Stuart awaiting Round 2. Instead, on her pillow, she found the following note:

Slave-

Marcos requests your presence in Paris at his apartments this evening. In the box beneath this note, you will find appropriate clothing to wear. He says that you know the location of his apartment. I will see you tomorrow. DO NOT BE LATE!

-Master

In a black box tied with a wide red statin bow, Bitsy found a lacy black masquerade mask, translucent black thigh high stockings with garters, and a black bra top. A note, in Marcos's hand, indicated that she could wear a trench coat over the ensemble while driving.

She shrugged out of the robe Stuart had provided for her. Plush red velvet caressed her curves until it puddled at her feet. Stepping out of the robe's warmth, she began to dress in her skimpy clothes. Unsure of what to do with the garters, as no garter belt was included, she instead clipped the garters to her pussy lips, spreading them wide to reveal her dark pink clit.

Resisting the urge to rub and tweak her tender cunt flesh, she instead focused on her evening with her "other" Master. Somehow, during her bath, she had compartmentalized her feelings for both Tristan and Marcos. She loved—and lusted after—each differently.

She slid her feet into strappy red fuck-me sandals and then shrugged into her trench coat. Leave it to Marcos to suggest she wear a tie-in to her "other" life as Alyssa Mason. Bitsy almost instantly regretted the trench coat because it served only to enflame the parts of her skin left uncovered.

Sliding into the front seat of her car, she placed the mask on the passenger's seat beside her. A frisson of excitement made her shoulders tingle with anticipation. 

As she entered the outskirts of Paris near the IPD Headquarters, she made a sharp left toward the apartments reserved for IPD employees. Bypassing her own apartment, she walked to Marcos's and started to knock on the door.

The door swung open when she put pressure on the hard surface. "Marcos," she said, slightly afraid that the door was left ajar. In the back of her mind she remembered Nadia's abduction.

It took a few moments for even her hybridized senses to become accustomed to the inky darkness. A spotlight in what would be the middle of his living room shone on an unfamiliar apparatus. An X made of wood stood inside a frame.

Bitsy walked closer and realized that a note was attached to the center of the X. It read, "Remove the trench coat. Put on the mask. And face the cross. Do not turn around without permission."

After doing as bid, she stood beneath the spotlight facing the cross. As her eyes continued to adjust, Bitsy could just barely make out implements to discipline and entice to her right. She shivered as she recognized her favorites: the cat o' nine tails, the crop, the belt, the paddle, and, here her heart thudded in her chest in anticipatory dread, the cane.

She felt his presence even before she heard him or smelled him. "My sweet slave," Marcos intoned, "all ready to play with Master."

"Why the mask, Master?" she asked, not really sure she wanted to know the answer. He seemed different tonight, somehow. 

His response elicited more questions than answers. "Tonight is a night to forget...and to remember. It's our last night together for a while."

"What? Why?" she started to turn in order to ask him. The sharp smack of a gloved hand on the lower curves of her ass stalled her movement.

Bitsy heard his hesitation. "I've agreed to step back and let you and Stuart be Master and slave. To wait in the wings, as it were, for my turn."

"Your...turn?" Unease skated down Bitsy's spine.

"For when—if—Stuart and you are no longer together." He tried to skate over the "when," but Bitsy heard it anyway. "This night is my au revoir to you. Nothing so permanent as a good-bye."

He cupped her ass and slid his hand slowly up her back. Her mind awash in sensation, she shivered beneath his leather-encased touch. Marcos's hand curled around the front of her neck bringing her mouth to his. His kiss was hungry, passionate, a hot melding of tongues, teeth, and lips.

When he broke away moments later, she stared up at him, breathless.

"Tonight is about giving over to every fantasy I have had about you. Alyssa Mason. Bitsy Dracula. Both and one. I've pictured you in nothing but what you are wearing now since becoming alpha. I've pictured you in a trench coat with unmentionables beneath as Alyssa Mason for months. You have been my obsession.

"This is the culmination of all of my desires for you." With deft hands, he tethered her wrists to the arms of the cross. Fingertips enrobed in leather tickled along the inside of her upper arms. 

A squeaky giggle bubbled forth from her lips. Marcos's own insidious chuckle disappeared as he secured her ankles to the bottom posts of the X. It was then that he noticed her spread pussy lips. "Your solution for a lack of garter belt is inspired, slave," he complimented, giving her clit a long rub as a commendation for her ingenuity.

Another squeak, but this time, the squeak was one of surprised pleasure. As if reading her unspoken thought, he concurred, "Yes, my pet. I do intend to tease and torment you for the rest of the night."

Bitsy gulped. "The rest of the night?"

He slid his arms around her to cup a perfect breast in each hand, kneading the firm flesh before twisting her nipples beneath the lacy fabric. With lips grazing her ear he repeated, "The rest of the night, my pet."

He played with her breasts for several moments. The only sounds that could be heard were Bitsy's guttural moans and her twisting on the St. Andrew's cross.

Until one sound broke the silence. Marcos had stepped back, briefly, to pick something up from what Btisy's mind had categorized as the "implement table." In her mind, Bitsy had heard the faint whistling sound of the cat. The sound of the leathery tails slapping her skin had an electric effect on Bitsy far beyond the sting the tails provided.

She couldn't hide her betraying moisture; the garter clamps revealed her dewy wetness to her Master as he artfully applied the cat. After only ten lashes, he stopped, to her dismay.

He responded to her frustrated groan with a hearty laugh. "Not quite yet, slave. Even masochists such as you must learn patience."

A mutinous glare met his gaze. He untied her from the cross. "Kneel, slave," he ordered pointing down at his boot-clad feet.

She knelt, noting the outline of his already hard cock through his pants. Her mouth and pussy watered at the delicious view. With an impatient jerk of his hand, he freed his cock, which jutted rampantly forward to pop her on the nose.

"Surely you know what to do, slave. Suck," he commanded.

Marcos looked down at, for tonight at least, his slave as she slid her red lips slowly down his shaft, her hot cavern both caressing and welcoming. Her face half hidden by the sexy little mask, it was all of his fantasies coalesced into an unbelievably true reality.

For years, his brother, and their father before him, had hosted a masquerade ball fit for Dionysus. Sexual depravity of every kind occurred with a hushed half-anonymity behind masks of all shades and hues. 

Outwardly, Marcos had eschewed the festivities for the comfort of his bedchamber, but he was his father's son ultimately. Upon coming into his alpha status, he wanted nothing more than to debauch his slave at the masquerade ball. In keeping his promise to his brother, now that would not be possible. But he did have tonight to make it happen.

Even in the artificial coolness of the air-conditioned room, Bitsy's skin felt flushed, heated with the sexual desire that burned just under the surface for Marcos. "Merely" sucking his cock did nothing to ease the tormented arousal she felt. Her mouth glided, taking more of him with each down bob of her head, hungry for the taste and heat of him.

When she reached to cup his balls, his authoritative tone, so at odds with the gentleness she previously knew of Marcos, spoke, "No! Put your hands behind your back. The only touch I wish to feel on me right now is your luscious slave's mouth."

Chastened, Bitsy redoubled her efforts, her saliva, dripping out of the side of her mouth to rest on his turgid balls. Realizing that his slave literally found his cock to be mouthwatering, Marcos impatiently grabbed her head and pulled her up onto him until her chin grazed his balls.

He then held her head in place and began to fuck her mouth, grinding his cock deep against the back of her throat. Marcos didn't see her eyes widen in shocked pleasure at this show of force.

Instead, he heard the telltale gurgle of gagging and choking that only spurred him on further. Regardless of his recent playtime with Bitsy, every waking thought was spent fantasizing about their next session. And, even though his behavior now would have appalled him months ago, he couldn't keep himself from assaulting her mouth, over and over.

But he didn't want to cum in her mouth. Even though watching her swallow the thick white shots down her throat would be entertaining, he wanted his jizz in one of her lower holes. He hadn't decided which yet, ass or pussy.

However, he knew, by the end of tonight, he wanted to have invaded each of her three orifices, branding her as his, even beyond this night, this temporary farewell.

Bitsy was momentarily confused by his retreat. More than anything, she had wanted to gulp the hot gushes of milky white cum down her throat, tasting Marcos's special blend of jizz.

And he was denying her that pleasure. More planned torment, perhaps?

It was several moments before either could breathe steadily enough to speak. "Is there something wrong, Master?"

Marcos exhaled slowly before answering. "No, slave. I want to fill another of your holes. Bend over that table, ass up."

The coolness of the ebony wood on her breasts, tummy, and upper thighs was another torment. Her heated skin developed sensitive prickles of gooseflesh that only served to make her wetter than before. A familiar shape, unfamiliar in this context, waggled in front of her.

The glow of the spotlight bounced off of the metal hook. "Do you know where this is going, slave?" Marcos sing-songed.

Bitsy shuddered. She thought she had an idea, but surely he wouldn't...he couldn't. "Where, Master?" she asked hesitantly.

"In your ass," he whispered in her ear. "And, oh, by the way, smile for the camera."

"Camera?"

Behind her, she could feel the hook beginning to stretch her ass obscenely. "Of course, my pet. If this is our last time together for a long while, I want to be able to view this night over and over again. So, tonight, you are my little porn star."

She felt her ass being lifted slightly when he attached the hook to a chain suspended from the ceiling. "A winch for a wench," Marcos said, laughing at his own joke. Bitsy, hissing from the sensations that the hook was causing in her ass, could only smile tightly. And moan.

"Let's see. By my calculations, that leaves only one hole untapped tonight." Marcus insinuated four fingers with no preamble into her dripping pussy. As her vaginal walls clenched on his fingers, he chortled further. "And it's such a hungry hole, too."

No longer embarrassed by the reactions that either of her Masters caused, Bitsy gloried in the feel of his fingers pounding her still-tight passage. When she began riding his fingers, he stopped, stepping back.

Only his voice betrayed him; otherwise she would have thought him unaffected by their play—and her arousal—this evening. "It's time, pet."

His cock pressed against her entrance; her own particular honey doused his head in molten heat. With one long, sure stroke, he entered her. 

The fullness caused by the double penetration roused in Bitsy a shattering climax. She opened her mouth to howl, but her exclamation was silent. All of her energy was focused on that blinding maelstrom her orgasm left in its wake.

Marcos managed to keep a tight rein on his arousal, holding in check the intensity to plunge-plunge-cum. For long minutes, he ground his cock deep in her pussy, eliciting whimpers, moans, and then screams as a chain of smaller orgasms burst forth from Bitsy, joining the cacophony of wet slurping slaps that his cock and balls made as he plunged deep.

In his mind, he saw her as he had first seen Alyssa Mason, the professional woman with the soft interior that only he was privy to at times, working so closely as her assistant. And, then he superimposed that image with one of Bitsy as he first took her, so at odds with the staid mien she clung to so tightly as a shield.

When, at last, his orgasm roared through him, he collapsed on top of her, his sweat mingling with her perspiration. His growling breaths matched her panting moans. He reached down to extract the hook from her ass, loving how her cheeks clenched to try to hold in within her.

After moments, as their bodies became softly fluid, fitting together as they were meant to, Marcos tugged her into his arms and carried her, honeymoon style, across the threshold of his bedroom.

With his last moments of consciousness, he wrapped his arms around her, for the first and last time, in his bed.



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 14



The day after Marcos's farewell to Bitsy...

*******

Thrust, parry, riposte! Thrust! Parry! Riposte! Stuart wiped away the sweat as he put himself through another punishing workout.

He had not slept last night and had instead practiced honing his other blade's skills. At swordplay, the king was a master—all Tsepesh males were. The bawdy joke was that they finessed ALL of their swords with equal cunning.

To him, fencing was a carefully choreographed dance, a tango between two—hopefully—matched opponents. Only two people came close to his skill—Michael and Marcos. He shoved thoughts of both of them away. Regardless of how much he dominated Bitsy's supple, soft, curvy flesh, his cousin still dominated her emotions, her heart.

And his brother? Even now, Marcos was probably seducing Bitsy further under his alpha's spell during his grand farewell gesture. And whose fault is that? an insidiously serpentine voice slyly queried. The voice sounded like Tracy Bathory's. He pushed the suggestion down. He knew that he was the only culpable party.

For the next several minutes, his mind slashed air, though with his virtual reality goggles. In his mind, he battled a fierce opponent. He himself had programmed the simulation; his opponent was an amalgamation of himself and all of his previous practices and competitions.

Then, his olfactory and psychic senses tingled. Bitsy, his Elizabeth, was home. To avoid seeming the eager puppy brought to heel, he resisted the urge to bound to her, press her into the plush carpets of the foyer, until she rested, panting and prone, beneath him. Only then would he feast with due carnality on her bounty.

With a frown, he locked down his desires with ironclad manacles of self-control.

Another fencing competitor teased the edges of his eyesight. Funny, he mused, drunk on Bitsy's intoxicating scent so close, yet so elusive, I don't remember adding another combatant.

Dressed in the white padded suit and mask, the new opponent nonetheless crept closer to him with foil raised and blunted. Slight, barely five-and-a-half feet tall, he figured he could easily crush this VR projection. He could have sworn he had the program defaulted to Expert.

As the image appeared to be a spunky stickler for form—as was he—he saluted the digital apparition with a whispered, menacing "En garde."

He thrust—and solid metal swooshed through the air—but clanged the solid metal of his opponent's foil.

**********

Bitsy was furious! Positive her eyes burned lime green from beneath the mask, she felt an intense satisfaction in seeing his hauteur slip, if only briefly.

His expression hardened, and she realized that he still didn't know it was she who parried his thrust. "A tiny assassin?" he ground out.

She didn't respond; she couldn't through her self-righteous fury and indignation over his treatment of Marcos, his own older brother and ALPHA—and her. Let him think she was some murderous sprite.

"Well, someone should have warned you not to attack me here, with a foil, in my domain."

Pushing off against the force of his foil, Bitsy danced away, twirling as she did, keeping sight of him. Yes, she knew he was renowned as the fencing champion of his generation, but Michael had taught her everything she knew about the foils. In their final days together, their matches often ended in a draw.

Focus! Concentrate! She knew he had to be exhausted and soon growing sluggish; his body was already drenched with the sweat of hours' long workouts. Breathing in his scent, she felt herself weakening, softening.

But then she thought of all Marcos had—and hadn't—told her. After having observed Stuart for several moments before she turned off the simulation, she spotted a flaw in his technique. Acting on that, she lunged heedlessly.

Clang! He wasn't taken aback this time! And whatever distractions she had noted watching him earlier had disappeared. His passionate lips set in a thin line, and he became the warrior of his ancestry.

"See?" he gloated. "I'm not so easy to kill!"

Through gritted teeth, she howled, "I'm not trying to kill you!"

This time, he danced back as if to gather his defenses. When he lunged this time, she saw a cocksure sneer. "What then, pet? Did you think yourself able to hold your own against me?"

She tried again for the weakness and almost scratched him. "Why?" she panted. "Why did you do that to Marcos? To me? To us?"

Breathless minutes followed as their swords clanged and clashed over and over. The two dancers, trapped in their own seductive tango, learning the strengths and weaknesses of their opponent.

When Bitsy stopped a particularly fiendish thrust of his with an underhand maneuver, he asked the obvious—to him—question, "What are you talking about?"

Both sucked in deep breaths in the moments after he voiced the question. That was the only sound in the large gymnasium.

"You told him to give me up, that he could only have one more night with me," Bitsy started to explain, striking once more with a repelled upper thrust.

In retaliation, Stuart launched a stopped thrust of his own. "I did."

Bitsy seemed to shrink. "You did? Why? I had only just begun to figure out my place, and you rip the ground out from beneath me. And all I get is an 'I did'?"

Stuart let his blade go slack. His other blade remained at attention. "I did. I explained to him the brevity of our connection—yours and mine—and prevailed upon him to remember that he could have you afterwards." Too late, he saw her interpret his words in the worst way possible.

Not even if she were nude before him and he had thrust the blade in her heart to the hilt could he have done as much damage, hurt her as much, as he had with those words. "When you are through with me, you mean? When I bore you? Your brother can then have your sloppy seconds?" she blurted, nearly in tears but refusing to let him see her cry.

"Pick it up," he commanded, gesturing to the metal shaft on the floor. He couldn't bear to see the Ice Bitch come into her eyes again.

"Why?" she asked, a gesture of defiance. His fingers itched to grab her and slam her over his knee and paddle the insolence out of her tone, her posture, and her gaze.

A deep intake of breath to calm the wolf within, challenged by his mate. Then, "Because you never start what you can't finish. You wanted to have it out with me, best me at my own game; have at it. But, beware, if I win, I will extract a price you will be unwilling to pay."

"And if I win?" He saw—and heard—Bitsy's squaring her shoulders for the battle ahead.

He tapped his chin. "If you win, you name your forfeit," he gritted out.

Amazingly, she seemed to consider it. Her pink tongue darted out to slide over her smooth lips, and Stuart bit back a groan. "I want things to stay the way they are."

Stuart realized then exactly two things: 1) He may have lost her forever—forget ten months from now, and 2) She was not going to play fair. As to the first, he hoped his peculiar brand of domination would be enough to melt the ice she had already begun to shore up around her. As to the second, he chuckled, in matters of lust, he never played fair, either.

This was the real fight for his life.

Eyes locked, Bitsy and Stuart raised their foils in salute. "En garde," softly spoken, both with malicious intent.

Instantly, with the first clash of metal, the air seemed charged with sensual energy. In the rational (yet depraved) part of Stuart's mind, he catalogued an image of he and Bitsy engaged in a battle as now, but completely nude.

He inwardly groaned at the image as he (and she) thrust through the open gaps left by each other's spread arms so that they were heaving breast to heaving rock hard abs. Bitsy looked up at him, and Stuart was lost in the lime green orbs, unable and unwilling to stop the swell of his erection in his breeches.

Again and again they danced the dance of death, at turns lancing at the other. Pants became moans and then groans—of effort mingled with desire.

Things came to a head when Bitsy tripped. With one arm, Stuart caught her, ending her backward fall in a graceful hold only seen on the dance floor at the end of a particularly beautiful and erotic pas de deux.

With his other hand, not completely the gentlemanly lover, he pressed the point of the foil to her throat.

Game over.

She reached up to pull off her mask. Her defeat—and her desire—warred with each other in the set of her face and eyes.

He placed his blade on the mat and lifted off his own mask. His expression, Bitsy realized, was less inscrutable than usual. Reaching down, his fingers tickled along her jawline, feather light, a caress she would have expected more from Marcos.

She shivered as his fingertips traced the edge of her lips, and her tongue darted out for a taste when he pressed into the crease. He tasted of himself and sweat, and she moaned.

Looking up at him, seeing the tenderness there, was almost her undoing. I could have dealt with everything else but this, she realized. Even the words he had thrown in her face earlier were preferable to the internal upheaval his gentleness caused now.

She closed her eyes and felt him press his lips on her closed eyelids, first one then the other. Then, he lifted her, just as Marcos had last night and carried her in his arms, lover-style, to his bed, up the stairs and several long corridors away.

Once there, he stripped her, gently, as Maria would, even caressing her breasts and flicking her nipples as Maria had grown accustomed to doing. He removed the pants of her fencing uniform. One long finger teased her mound and spread her pussy lips.

When a second finger joined it and he dropped to his knees before her, her legs buckled and she almost collapsed in a molten puddle of need in front of him. If not for the fingers within her core and his other hand cupping her ass, she would have fallen. 

Her moans filled the expansive chamber as Stuart lifted up slightly to kiss her lips. His tongue probed her mouth, tasting, teasing, dueling with her tongue. All the while he fingered her.

Bitsy soon no longer stood passively. She kissed him, again and again, willing her lips to send the message that her voice could not, that she loved HIM. That she was obsessed with HIM.

What unspeakable delicious torments he wished to visit on her body next she was not long in wondering. He lifted her effortlessly, a cherished pet, and placed her in the center of the massive bed. Lifting first one wrist of hers, then another, he kissed the delicate ivory skin before wrapping the manacles around her wrists and clicking them into place.

The coldness of the manacles caused gooseflesh to appear all over her pink-and-ivory silkiness. Her tender nipples puckered, tightening to a nubbin of raspberry hue. Her pussy dripped steadily, weeping joyously from his touch.

Stuart stepped back to admire his tableau. His slave, his pet, eager for his lips and caresses. Her nipples and clit both taut and both that delectable resemblance to berries. He bent and curled a tongue around one nipple, showing off his expertise in this area, as well, when his tongue alone yanked her nipple.

A strangled moan parted her lips. Chuckling low in his throat, he pinched and pulled her other nipple, at the same time flicking it, as if her nipple were a bit of lint that had to be removed from a sweater.

Her response was a liquid scream as her cum poured out of her convulsing pussy, staining the red silk bedsheets beneath her.

Stuart tsked. Even as her body continued to shiver and shudder, he crouched low on the bed, his tongue sliding down to taste, to lick the bundle of nerves and pleasure that was her clit.

His sweet pet sobbed brokenly. Her hips rose and fell rhythmically trying to ride his face—and he let her. His hands slid up, caressing, stroking every millimeter of skin he could reach.

As he cleaned her, her drenched pussy began to again clench. His hands stopped their drugging caresses on her breasts to lift her by her ass to his mouth for a more satisfying feast.

Her sighs gave way to squeals which yielded to another screaming orgasm as her entire body, her heart, yielded to him.

He looked up, seeing the reflection of another in the room that Bitsy couldn't see. With a hoarse, sex-roughened voice, he interrogated her as Marcos watched.

"Who is your sole Master and owner, slave?" he questioned.

"You are," she whispered.

"That's not good enough, pet. I need to hear it. Who is your only Master and owner, slave?" His fingers dug bruisingly into her inner upper thighs, spreading her for his use.

Looking up, meeting Marcos's gaze, he delighted with jealousy-perverted glee as Bitsy screamed, "You are, Master!"

Observing Marcos's stony countenance as he turned to leave, Stuart swiftly freed his erection from its linen prison. While remaining fully clothed otherwise, Stuart plunged into Bitsy's soft, constricting depths with one long, slow stroke.

He paused as yet another orgasm wracked his slave's supine form. For moments, five harsh breaths, at least, he managed to remain still.

Only when she gyrated beneath him did he start to advance and reverse within her wet, juicy, squishy cunt, mimicking their wicked dance just minutes before.

Never feeling deep enough, he lifted her ankles onto his shoulders and pounded her already sensitive pussy.

Her walls clenched and released him, a welcome and farewell kiss, as he took her body as his due. He stroked her side boob and tender undersides before palming both breasts and squeezing them, marking her with his handprints as his. His toy. His pet. His slut. His slave.

Anything to erase the marks of passion and possession that Marcos had left the night before.

Finally, he felt his own climax upon him. He tweaked her clit with a cruel pinch once, twice, and saw her slam into subspace.

More reptilian than canine, the king lifted his head up and back to snap back down in a strike. His teeth ripped her neck right at the carotid, just as hers did the same to him.

Their thoughts, feelings, and memories danced and eddied between them. Unguarded, Stuart allowed her to see herself as he first saw her at the engagement party. And then later, in bondage and supplication to him. Her desire for him was a balm, healing the jealousy that Marcos's status as alpha and co-Master had wrought.

They pulled away just as Stuart pumped a seemingly never-ending spray of cum into her.

Still within her, he collapsed on the bed, curling her into him and pulling the spread over them both and tucking her in.

Their breathing slowly returned to normal. Stuart realized that now was the time to tell her of the forfeit.

He cleared his throat. "About the forfeit..."

********

To be continued...



Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 15



This chapter begins immediately after Chapter 14. Thanks to my super special collaborator. You know who you are! And thanks for several amuse bouches that made this so much easier to write. To my readers, sorry for the delay. Real life sometimes happens when you are planning to write instead.

***************

Bitsy looked at Stuart. "What is the forfeit?" she asked, fearing something heinous.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "my masquerade ball is coming up. You will, of course, be my date and de facto hostess of the event—and the after party." His eyes were set, his voice arctic.

The royal masquerade ball was an annual event dating back for centuries. Various royals and nobles—both within Romania and beyond its borders—vied for the coveted scarlet gilt-edged invitations.

Lavish decorations competed with a lush and lavish buffet of sweets and meats, wine, and less innocent libations. Lords and ladies wore costumes of sumptuous fabrics in every hue, colorful tropical birds bedecked with an equally elaborate mask.

As with most masquerade balls, risqué was the name of the evening. Under a barely concealing cloak of anonymity, friends and enemies became lovers. At midnight, the revelers would unmask and pantomime shock at their chosen partner.

Bitsy had, of course, attended the masque in years' past, alongside Michael in the beginning and with her brother Chris ever after. She had NEVER attended the after party.

The after party of the masque, dubbed "Bacchus's Delight," was thought to be little more than an all-out orgy. Members of the demimonde cavorted and frolicked with dissipated and debauched aristocrats. Any nods to restraint that the masque made to the Count and his supporters were banished from Bacchus's Delight. The castle converted from a hedonist's paradise to hell by way of hedonism until the first rays of the sun painted the walls the following morning.

In Bitsy's lifetime, and for at least several lifetimes, there were no hostesses for the party—either the ball or the after party. She was a bit unsure as to what her duties would entail at the masque. As to the after party—her brain shut down refusing to allow her to contemplate further.

She realized that Stuart was awaiting her response. Nodding almost mechanically, she came out of her reverie.

Bitsy had already determined her dress for the masquerade ball. Having been at the palace for a few weeks now, she had often glanced at the full-length portrait of Queen Christiana, Stuart's mother, in her coronation gown. She had photographed the beautiful work of art—for surely it was—and had employed Madame Anastasia, one of the most sought-after couture designers for the nobility and royalty of Eastern Europe, to painstakingly reproduce the dress in minute detail.

Her plan was to wear a much less extravagant dress during the reception line and guest presentation. Then, when the final guest arrived, she planned to have Maria quickly help her change into the more elaborate gown. Paramount in her mind was the desire for the king to approve.

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In the two weeks since their fencing match, Stuart had turned instructor, tutoring her in the more stylistic maneuvers and flourishes in the art of fencing. He no longer thrusted and parried with a virtual him as antagonist; now, he enjoyed the challenge of a tango with foils with his concubine.

He had underestimated her prowess. In remembering conversations with Michael—in hindsight—from a decade and a half ago, he vaguely recalled Michael waxing poetic about Bitsy's skill with a sword. As with most conversations with his cousin involving Lady Bitsy, he found it best not to dwell on what was being said but instead focused on the lasciviousness. To the best of his knowledge, each conversation had ended with Michael walking away in self-righteous disgust after the king made a sexually charged pun about women and a man's sword.

She was truly a remarkable fencing master, he mused. Graceful and quick. They were using blunted sticks today with no padding. Dangerous for many reasons, not the least of which was the physical injury they could sustain.

But he couldn't resist watching the droplets of sweat slide down her neck to rest in the cleavage beneath her leotard, the delicate clench of muscles of her thighs as she parried his thrusts. The flip side was that his lack of focus during those moments made him particularly vulnerable to her offensive maneuvers.

It was one such maneuver that allowed her to press the end of the wooden "sword" to his chest, "killing him." They faced each other, panting.

"A direct hit," he congratulated. "Brava, slave."

Her concern showed through. She had never bested him at fencing, although it had been close a few times in the last week. "Is everything okay, Master?" she whispered.

Still his ingénue, he relished, enjoying her innocence. Then, his eyes focused on the mark he had given her at the last full moon visible still beneath her public collar. Even though the next full moon was still some time away, the raw, primal part of him came to the fore.

In a tone that welled up from the depths of his being, he quickly shed the idea that it was his soul, a voice burst forth full of insidious, devilish, indecent intent. It was as if it came spewing out from the tarry pits of hell, tinged with brimstone. A demonic voice. His Master VOICE. Quiet, unbelievably growly, dark, take-no-prisoners.

"Tomorrow, slave, you will serve as my hostess. You will do your best to make others feel welcome, giving them anything and everything they desire. Is that understood?"

Bitsy quaked internally. At times Master had been hypnotic and insistent, in turns, but this was the vocal embodiment of evil-masochistic-sadistic-power-struggle-submit-because-you-need-to-so-you-can-hear-the-voice-again Mastery.

"Anything, Master?" she asked and was shocked to discover that her voice came out as an almost childish whine.

Stuart nodded. "And everything, pet. Especially at the after party. You will enter the after party wearing your new working collar over a new public collar. The new public collar will be less able to pretend that it isn't a slave's collar but still acceptable for public wear and use. You will receive both tomorrow night during the masque during a collaring ceremony. And, to signal that you are mine and that the party is at an end and the after party is to begin, I will take you where you kneel in front of everyone."

His voice ended raspy, and Bitsy felt the rasp as if it were his tongue rasping roughly at her clit. He saw her tip over into the same mad, wild desire that had overtaken him, and he pounced.

The wooden swords skittered to the floor. Grasping the neckline of the red unitard, he yanked, and the stretchy spandex rent in two as if it were tissue. 

Stuart looked his fill. Her pale breasts were capped each with a hard dark pink nub that ached for his tongue, his teeth, and something else. "Tomorrow, slave," he continued in that same diabolical tone, maddeningly quiet as it described the torments to come, "you will enter the after party nude, save your collars and the leash that will be attached to the top ring of your working collar. You will wear clamps attached to these nipples," he said, cruelly pinching and twisting each as she lay, lost in his sadistic spell beneath him. "Those clamps," he breathed into her ear, "will be connected to your collar on the bottom ring. I think you will find the sensations that will happen to be quite...maddening."

Just to make sure she didn't catapult into subspace quite yet, he clawed from the nipple down the undersides of her breasts to her ribcage. A warning. A promise. A delicious torment.

At her soft mewling whimper, he took her mouth voraciously, needing to claim her as his pet, his slave, yet again. When he paused for breath, he was shocked to hear her voice, thready with need, beg, "Please, Master, mark me again. Make sure they all know that I am yours to trifle with. Your slave."

Riding this sadistic high, he could no more deny her plea than he could make the world stop turning. With a low snarling growl, he ripped open her throat, lapping, tonguing, tasting the lime green liquid that spurted then flowed down her neck.

He saw her thoughts a scattered collage of her desire to submit to him, so different from the first time he bit her. One thought rose to tease him with its impossibility, that she loved him. He scoffed even as his heart warmed with the love that burned in his veins for her.

It was infatuation, he discounted the emotion that shone from her mind, not love. With what Tracy Bathory had planned, they could not afford to love. Love meant death for Bitsy. And he would do anything he could to prevent that from happening.

Pulling back, he ripped away the tatters of the leotard and shredded the tights that she wore over her legs. Her surprised sigh followed by a low liquid moan spurred him on further. He pinned her wrists with one hand high above her head and plunged into her with one thrusting stroke. This sword was velvet encased iron, not the wooden splinters that scattered around them.

She writhed, lifting her hips, an active participant as he had tutored her. While most of their tutoring sessions ended in a round of sex, this time it was different. This was not a perfunctory releasing of endorphins. This was a return to the primal nature of the beasts within them both.

When he felt her quicken beneath him, her clear soprano starting the slow ascent to her orgasm in his ear, he offered her his neck. "Bite," he commanded in that quiet, liquidly evil voice.

Under his spell, she bit and pulled, coming apart, screaming her orgasm into his neck. The milking of his cock by her pussy walls, the taste of her still on his tongue, and the ravaging bite that she made on his command all served to make his thrusts more masterful, more purposeful.

He tried to allow her a glimpse of his mind, having cordoned off the more interesting parts of his mind while lapping up her blood. Letting her see herself as he saw her beneath him, the enticingly quicksilver pet of his, beautiful and mercurial.

Pulling the ribbon that she tied her hair back with, red, in honor of him, he tied her wrists together and then used both hands to lift her legs so that her ankles rested on his shoulders. Then, he pounded her while he tormented her nipples again.

Her body slick with sweat both from the fencing match and from the more intimate tussle they presently engaged in, she glowed in the light of the gymnasium as Stuart pounded her harder into the gym mats.

This time when her orgasm streamed through her, she couldn't hold back the shriek of pleasure that echoed throughout the empty room, save for the two of them.

Neither noticed the pained eyes set in the face of Marcos as he watched the primal mating that shredded his heart and soul. He turned with a face frozen with excruciating torment and quietly exited the wing of the castle and the castle itself.

Stuart continued to jackhammer her pussy, gritting his teeth as he felt her again clenching and releasing the walls of her pussy on his cock. Seeing that she was on the precipice of subspace, he reached down and pressed her clit between his thumb and forefinger, appreciating how her body slowly went slack beneath him.

Her eyes half closed, and a look of utter peace and contentment suffused her features. He bent to kiss her lips, then nuzzled the other, unblemished side of her neck right above the public collar.

In his mind's eye, he saw her new collar. The public collar was a ring of shiny platinum, much more obvious than the one she now wore. She would never be able to remove it, he groaned as Bitsy's body shifted sinuously beneath him.

Her new working collar was soft black leather with gleaming chrome rings that begged to put put into practice. Begging brought a chuckle to his lips, and Bitsy noticed. "What is it, Master?" she asked, smiling.

The molten, midnight voice of Stuart, her Master, whispered against the skin of her neck. "Beg me to cum in your pussy." When she appeared to balk, he grasped a nipple in each hand, clenching them, tormenting them between his finger and thumb at either breast.

"Tut, tut, pet. What was that?" He felt his cock come so close, so he forced himself to think of Tracy Bathory, of anything to hold back.

"M-m-master," she purred, "please cum in my yearning pussy." She seemed to have understood how close he was and surrendered further into a descent into depravity. "Please cum in my nasty slave's cunt. Fill me with your jizz. I want to feel your spunk sliding down my legs when we leave this room and pass the servants in the hall. I want everyone to know exactly what we have been doing, that we have been fucking on this floor where anyone could walk in, see, and hear."

With the filth spewing from her lips, Stuart thrust, thrust, and sprayed his potent seed up inside the walls over pussy, arching as shot after shot of his come coated those clenching walls.

Still feeling potent, Stuart stood and lifted her around his legs. "Slide your legs around me, my sweet slave," he moaned, the voice from the pits of hell still on his lips.

She slid her legs around him at his hips and her tethered wrists around his neck as he stood and began to walk purposefully out of the gymnasium that now reeked of their sexual escapades, the aroma unmistakable. Her heartbeat beat a tattoo against his chest as he strode through the door and down the hall.

In the past, she had ducked her head, ashamed by her nakedness around the king's servants. Now, she stared the servants in the eye proud of her nudity and the fact that Master still throbbed within her.

As a tease, she wiggled a bit, jerking Master's cock within her as they started to pass the butler. 

In response, he pressed her against the wall and started pounding her away while the butler watched disapprovingly. Bitsy, on the other hand, didn't care. Was she becoming an exhibitionist, Stuart pondered. So much so the better when considering what she would experience tomorrow night.

His sweet slut moaned bringing him out of his meandering thoughts. Her alabaster breasts were heaving against his chest, something Brooks the butler was trying not to notice. Stuart looked down at the swelling cock in the butler's pants and grinned.

He spun, taking her with him and walked purposefully to his wing of the castle, his room, his bed that dominated the room. As she was his most precious cargo, he placed her delicately on the bed in the center.

As she was his slut and his slave, he secured her bound wrists to the center of the headboard. The red silk stretched taut against her milky skin served only to excite him further. He pulled out of her despite her tiny plaintive protest.

"Shhh," he soothed. "We are not finished yet, my pet." As he had carried her to his room, he had developed a plan. He knew Marcos was never far from her thoughts, so he would give her, tonight, a taste of tenderness from him. But with that masterful edge, he thought, grinning wickedly.

Her eyes followed him as he walked to the drawers opposite the bed. Removing as scrap of black fabric and a feather quill, he slowly stalked over to her, sensual menace infusing his every fluid movement.

Eyes shining just for him gleamed further at the sight of the new toys. He almost hated what he was about to do, but he knew that it would up the ante on her orgasm, so to speak. Sliding the scrap of fabric up her belly to dance over her nipples, first one, then the other, he then commanded her, "Lift your head, pet."

"Yes, Master," she responded throatily, a smile all for him that warmed him to his toes. As she lifted her head up, he slid the makeshift blindfold over her eyes and tied it behind her head. 

"Can you see anything?" he asked in a hushed tone against her ear, licking her earlobe.

She moaned, a sound made all the more loud because of her lack of sight. "No," she whimpered hoarsely.

"Excellent," he laughed, low-pitched and quiet. With the feather, he tickled the pads of Bitsy's toes on her right foot. "Nuh, uh, uh," he cautioned, "if you move I will have to tie you down the rest of the way. And that would limit the fun I have planned. And you wouldn't want that, would you, slave?"

Bitsy shook her head, trying to remain still as he transferred his attention to the other foot, this time focusing on the delicate high arch on the underside of her foot.

She yelped, struggling to keep her foot immobilized. He chuckled again, the molten darkness that whispered to her in her deepest fantasies only discovered since becoming his slave.

"Now, now," he cooed, still with that steely edge, encased by silky velvet. He gripped one of the tethers that he had secured to the foot of the bed and attached her squirming right foot. "I warned you, pet," he reminded her. Stuart quickly tethered her left foot, languishing the attention of the quill on the sensitive arch, causing Bitsy to squeal and arch, discovering that the bonds held fast.

He admired the tableau of his slave, blindfolded, nervously licking her lips in such a way that he wished he was caressing his cock with her tongue. Later, he promised himself. These moments were for Bitsy's pleasure-and to hopefully banish his brother from her erotic thoughts.

Idly, chuckling barely audibly, he slowly swept the edge of the quill up one leg...from tethered right ankle, along her shapely calves, up her sensitive inner thighs, resting briefly and tickling at the lips at the apex of her thighs concealing the honeyed nectar he longed to taste, then back down her left thigh, reversing his route. Fine tremors shook Bitsy as her voice strangled out of her throat, "Please, Master, I need you." Her moan was plaintive. Nearly a wail.

Her entreaty ruffled his already strained composure. Just as earlier in the gymnasium, his control broke, and he pounced. His good intentions of teasing her already erect nipples with the feather to aching buds vanished as her need clawed at his.

As he slid home, she sighed into his neck as she again bit, "I love you Master."

His response was a punishing pace, fucking, rather than the lovemaking he had intended. Thoughts a blur, he focused on one single thought: not revealing how his feelings mirrored the feelings she thought she had. Infatuation, he strove to convince himself.

That's what it was, he guaranteed emphatically, even as her pussy embraced him tightly as her orgasm hit with an inhuman howl that escaped her lips. 

Infatuation. Nothing more. His eyes bleak, he emptied the contents of his bulging balls into her waiting cunt. 

She looked into his eyes, misinterpreting his frosty, remote glare. Her deepest fear in the last few weeks, after discovering her feelings for him, was that she wouldn't be enough. To tempt him. To keep him. Bitsy was a gambler; Alyssa's status as Commandant General of the IPD proved that. But, looking into his gaze that refused to be caught by hers, she realized that she might not win this contest.

As the last spurts of his cock landed deep against her cervix, he collapsed against her. Fuck! He spoke to himself as she withdrew from him and curled up tight.

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To be continued...please let me know what you think!