1 comments/ 22046 views/ 1 favorites The Countess By: Malacandra Ever had one of those days where you have to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming? That’s how I felt when I watched the Countess’s butt going over a five-bar gate in front of me, in the shortest pair of cut-off jeans you ever saw. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You don’t know me from a hole in the ground and you don’t know what the Countess looks like. Let me put things straight. I’m not sure she really is a Countess, but I hear her folks did have a title in France before the Revolution. Maybe the French wouldn’t recognise it these days, but she sure acts like a titled lady and we mostly call her “Madame” to her face and “the Countess” behind her back. But if you’re thinking of some toffee-nosed thing with a face like the less pretty end of a horse, think again. If the Countess had ever gone in for modelling, girls like Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell would be earning their living saying “Do you want fries with that?” She’s around about six feet tall and at least half of that is leg; she’s got a figure like you wouldn’t believe and silver-blonde hair that she keeps shoulder-length. I don’t know what she pays her hairdresser, but he earns every penny. Mostly she wears silk and it’s my guess she gets at least half her wardrobe given her in the hope she’ll put in a good word for the makers. Strong men come over all weak when she smiles at them, and as for her scowl, I’ve never seen her mad and I aim to keep it that way. I’ve got a job in this hotel of hers. I mean she’s the owner. The actual running she leaves to some other guy with a title of his own. But for reasons that are going to become obvious, I’m not naming names. This isn’t her only business interest by a long street. The signs are she’s got a hell of a head for making money, but exactly how she does it, don’t ask me. Businessmen come and see her from time to time, they sign stuff, and a couple of months after the ink’s dried she’s smiling as she watches the money roll in. That’s all I know about it. My job’s not as high-flying as that. Again, I’d better go light on the details. Let’s just say it’s one of those jobs where it doesn’t hurt to be about six and a half feet tall and not too hard on the eyes. Keep myself in fair shape, too. And a lot of my salary goes on the great love of my life. Betsy is a Harley-Davidson. You know the kind of thing, all chrome and leather. She’s a big pit to throw money in, but I’m always tinkering with her, buying little ornaments and go-faster stuff or just making with the chrome polish and elbow grease. So I’m busy one evening after work down in the hotel garage. It’s a lot safer than a lock-up, and as for the street, don’t be silly. Betsy’s getting a good going-over with a soft cloth, I’m chasing up the last few specks of squashed fly, and just as I’m putting the final touches on the mirror finish, there’s a sound like an aeroplane landing. It’s the Countess bringing her Ferrari back in. Any other car and she’d give the keys to one of the porters, but no-one touches that Ferrari except to clean it. She can drive, too; I’ve seen her. Anyway, she parks it and sees me, and she comes over to have a look. “Handsome machine,” she says. “You’ll have to take me for a ride one of these days, Jake.” Yeah, really Jake. Blame my folks, OK? ’Course, in my shoes you’d figure she was just being polite, right? So do I. But a friendly word and a smile from the Countess sure makes your day, no matter what you tell yourself. I get on with finishing what I’m doing, after mumbling something about how the pleasure would be all mine. Lots of men mumble around the Countess, so I guess she’s used to it. I’d’ve thought no more about it, except that a couple of days later it’s stopped raining for once, and it’s blue skies and warm sunshine outside. And the Countess comes by round about eleven and says, “Bon matin, Jake.” That’s just her way, by the way. She speaks better English than I do, but she likes to drop the French in from time to time. Anyway she says, “It’s a glorious day, non?” “It certainly is, Madame,” I say, getting four whole words out without stammering. “It’s a shame to be indoors.” “I agree,” she says. “Take the rest of the day off and take me for that ride, Jake. I’ll see you at the garage door in ten minutes.” A hint, in case you should ever need it. When the Countess says ten minutes, she doesn’t mean fifteen, or twelve, or eleven, and I’d be careful about stretching it to ten minutes thirty seconds if I were you. So I get changed p.d.q. and I’m down there and firing up Betsy and thanking my stars she’s clean enough to eat your dinner off, if the Countess is going to sit on her. I turn the key and press the button, and Betsy sits there going “potato-potato-potato”, and if I’ve got to explain that, you’ve never heard a Hog on tick-over. I roll her up the exit ramp on just a whisker of throttle and there the Countess is, all ready and waiting. Oh boy, is the Countess ever there. Remember how I said she always wears silk business suits? Well, not now she isn’t. She’s got a dinky little black leather jacket and black boots, and a pair of frayed denim shorts the size of a doll’s handkerchief. And a helmet that she’s just doing up, but that’s not the point. I’m thinking to myself, “Jake, this is going to have to be the safest ride ever. ’Cos if she falls off she’ll be skinned alive, and that’s the same as setting light to the Mona Lisa.” Anyone else, you’d say, “’Scuse me, my lady, I think you’d better cover up a bit.” But making the Countess’s mind up for her isn’t smart. Not smart at all. So instead I just bite my tongue and say, “Where’d you fancy going, Madame?” “Get us out of town,” she says. “I want to see a bit of the campagne.” Well, I let in the clutch and Betsy chugs away and pretty soon we’ve cut through the traffic and all the guys in the cars are left road-raging at each other in a summer’s-day snarl-up, and we’re out past the M25 and heading southwards. And already the Countess is telling me to hurry it up a bit, and I think, she’s going to get just as skinned if we have a spill at forty, so I wind it on like she says. Betsy’s vibrating away; Hogs do that. It’s what we call “character”, and once you get a bit of speed up, you feel it even though the engine’s rubber-mounted. It’s all low-frequency buzz, not like those Jap screamers; it doesn’t feel like your fillings are going to fall out. We’re belting along at a bit over seventy and Betsy roars through those slash-cut pipes, telling anyone who isn’t deaf to get out of the way. She chugs a bit as we go up one of the long hills in the Sussex Downs, and the Countess thumps me on the shoulder. “Take the next left!” She’s left it late, but I pull in, brake hard and change down. The Countess gets flung against the back of me and she squeals a bit, but she doesn’t sound scared or cross. I’m plenty strong enough to handle the extra eight stones or so of her weight. OK, so I’m grandstanding a bit. The point is, we make the turn, with hardly any slide. It’s a by-way leading nowhere much, and after we’ve gone a mite further I get another thump on the shoulder and she yells, “Stop by that gate!” Well, she’s given me a bit more warning this time so I bring Betsy to a nice smooth halt and cut the engine, and we’re there up on a hillside a mile from the main road and the grass is blowing a yard tall in the sunshine. “What’s the matter, Madame?” I ask, but she smiles, takes off her helmet and gives her hair a shake. It drops back into place, no trouble; I guess it wouldn’t dare not to. “Nothing. I just wanted to stop and enjoy the sunshine.” And she takes the five-bar gate in an easy couple of strides and I get this shot of her fantastic butt right under my nose. Of course, I follow her over the gate. There might be bears in the field, or something. What there is, is grass and plenty of it. It’ll be cut for hay sometime soon, I guess, but right now it’s just growing tall and green and sweet-smelling, and it comes most of the way to the Countess’s waist. She turns and looks at me, and scowls; only a little one, for which I’m most grateful. “Take those things off. They don’t suit you.” She means the shades. Everyone’s a critic; I like them, myself. Still, I do as I’m told. Then I wince a little in the sunlight and she says, “Something the matter with the view?” She’s teasing, so I grin right back at her and say, “Not a thing from where I’m standing.” “Good,” says the Countess, and she lies down in the grass and rolls around a bit until she’s flattened out a couple of yards of it. “Well? What’s keeping you?” Now I nearly do literally pinch myself right there and then, but you know what faint heart never won, and so do I. I lay myself down next to her, and this pair of slim leather-covered arms reach out for me, and the Countess gives me a lazy smile and says, “This is to say merci for the ride, Jake.” I figure I’m in for just a peck on the lips, but I get this tongue poked out at me and I reckon I ought to respond in kind, and when I give the Countess my tongue she goes to work on it like no-one I ever knew. She’s sucking my tongue in deep and her lips are squeezing it and her tongue’s fencing with mine, and when we break off for breath we sure need it. When we’ve got some air back she says, “Want some more?”, and that’s the only foolish question I’ve ever heard of her asking. I gradually roll us over till she’s mostly on her back, and I bring my hand up to her jacket zip, slowly enough that she can tell me I’m out of line if she wants. But she doesn’t say anything, even when I start to undo it a tooth at a time. She just keeps her mouth locked onto mine and the next time we stop for breath we’re neither of us any too steady in our breathing. It turns out there’s nothing under that leather jacket except twenty-four carat Countess, smooth and firm like no-one over the age of eighteen’s got any right to be. She’s pale-skinned and her nipples are salmon-pink and just starting to firm up, and in case I’ve got any doubts she brings my hand up and cups it round her breast. I start right in to fondling it, one perfect-sized handful, and I feel her nipple start to poke into the palm of my hand. We’re both having to break for air a bit more often by now, and hers is getting sort of ragged, especially when I give her breast a harder squeeze. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and whispers, “Hard enough.” Her nipple’s hard enough, too. It’s made to be licked and nibbled on, and she gives a little mew when I start doing that. She starts undoing my jacket no quicker than I undid hers, and she runs these inch-long nails through my chest hair. I tell you, I’ve had screws that were less erotic than that alone. Then I let my mouth take care of her nipple by itself and my hand goes down to her leg, starting at the knee and heading on upwards. When it gets to the frayed hem of those cut-offs, she says: “Take them off. I know you want to.” And she undoes the waist-button herself to prove she means it. I take the shorts down as far as her knees and she’s got a little pair of lacy panties more or less glued to her with her wetness, and she jumps when I touch her pussy through them, but she says, “Them too. All the way off. I want to open my legs.” If there are six more exciting words in the English language, I can’t think what they might be. We have a little trouble getting her cut-offs and her panties off over her boots, but it’s worth the trouble. If you’d ever seen the Countess bare from the waist down but for a pair of black leather boots, you’d know what I meant. You never will, of course; I never thought I would. She opens her legs a bit so I get a good square look at those pink lips and the fringe of blonde hair; oh, the Countess is a natural blonde all right. It’s just a couple of shades darker than what’s on her head. And I open those lips with the tips of my fingers and she’s leaking a little trickle of milky juice, just like what you get when you cut a dandelion stem. When I touch her clit she starts leaking faster, and she gasps out, “Ah, oui! Make me come, Jake.” You know, I’d have to be a real klutz not to manage that. Her love-button’s swollen up almost like a baby’s cock and she goes wild when I start to run the pad of my second fingertip over it. She starts moaning and gasping and muttering stuff in French, and I’ve got one arm round her, my mouth sucking on her nipple and my fingers busy in her crack, and she’s putting frantic hot little kisses on the side of my face and breathing hard in my ear until she stiffens and goes: “Jake! Put your finger in me, please!” All right, those’re six more exciting words. What’s a gentleman to do? Right as she starts to come, I slide two fingers in deep, palm up, and I hook ’em upwards slightly behind her pubic bone, and she yelps, not in pain, and I think: bullseye. She’s sobbing and yelling and tearing up handfuls of that good green grass, and I rub away at her G-spot like there was a djinni hiding in there, and that warm wet muscle of hers squeezes my fingers and lets go and squeezes again and lets go, again and again and again. When she starts to come down I take my fingers out and I hold her in both arms, partly because now would not be a good time for the boss to decide she’d had second thoughts, but mostly because it would be impossible not to if you aren’t heartless. And her arms go round me and she kisses my face, over and over again, and the tears run down her cheeks, and I say, “Wow!” “Wow!” she agrees. “But what’s a girl to do after spending an hour sitting on that two-wheeled vibrator?” And she wags her head over towards the gate, where Betsy’s still ticking slightly, not quite cold yet. She strokes my face and looks me in the eye. “In a little while, I’m going to want you inside me. But you’re due for some attention first, Jake.” And she undoes my jeans, and there I am, hard as a beer-bottle and leaking a little. “Oh, you good man, letting me come first!” she coos. “Poor Jake, you’re nearly bursting.” She bends her head over my lap and that silver-blonde hair of hers spills all over my bare thighs, and she takes a cool firm grip of me with her hand and her lips close around me without a pause. You know, it’s my guess she could’ve got me there in less than a minute from a cold start; and I’m not starting cold at all, not after she’s just gone off in my arms like that. Hell, the whole scene, right from when she said “Well? What’s keeping you?”, is about the biggest turn-on I ever had. Anyway, she goes to work with a good will, sucking, licking, stroking with her hand and breathing real deep through her nose. She’s teasing all around the ridge with the tip of her tongue and I’m going crazy, I mean clean out of my head. All of a sudden I feel I’m going to shoot and I can’t even get the words out. She doesn’t even break stride, she takes me right over the edge and she makes a kind of “mmm!” noise with her mouth full. I feel this torrent pouring out of me, and she doesn’t flinch away, she just squeezes me a little with her hand and lets it out a bit at a time, swallowing all the while. Eventually it stops, though for a time there I’m not sure it ever will, and she lets go, giving me a couple of soft little licks at the end there, and she looks up at me with the most mischievous grin you never saw. “Sorry,” I whisper, when I can manage it. “Woulda figured on askin’ first, at least, only I just couldn’t talk.” She comes up and snuggles in my arms and brings her mouth up to mine. Well, if she doesn’t mind how I taste, nor do I; and she says “Don’t be silly. I knew what I was doing. J’ai l’aimé.” And she nestles her head in my chest hair and we both get a bit of breath back. “Thought you said you’d want me inside you,” I say after a while; and she looks up at me and grins again. “Mais si! I still do.” She strokes J.T. and he gives a sort of a twitch, like the spirit’s willing but could he have another five minutes first? “I don’t think it’ll take this fellow long to wake up again.” “Me neither,” says I; and while we’re waiting, I slither down the Countess’s body, leaving a trail of kisses on her lips, chin, throat, breasts and belly-button, until I’m down between her legs, and she opens them again and rests her hands on my head. I get nice and settled with her legs over my shoulders, and then I start licking. She smells sweet and fresh, a gorgeous smell that she ought to bottle and sell by the quarter ounce. It’d put Chanel out of business in a week. And she’s firm-fleshed, and slick and wet with her own juices, and she coos when I bring my tongue down on her clitoris and start in to licking it, nice and slow. I get both hands up to her tits and stroke and fondle them, and it ain’t long before she grips my head real hard and starts grinding herself against my face, and then she’s screaming and yelling out loud and this time I don’t bother with the fingers, I just use my tongue to wring every twitch I can out of that little love-button of hers. As soon as she starts to come down a bit, she turns herself around so she can suck me as well. I’m already up to about ninety percent just from the sight and smell of her, not to mention being all pleased with myself for making her come again. Trust me, she adds the other ten percent mighty quickly, and maybe a few percent more. And right when I can feel she’s more than halfway to coming again, and I’m so hard it nearly hurts, she takes me out of her mouth and gasps: “I want you inside me, now!” All right, that’s the six most exciting words. So we shuffle round again and she opens her legs wide, and I slide right in as easy as winking. She’s tight, all right, but she’s so wet and slippery it’s almost like she’s Teflon coated. “Oh, fuck!” she gasps. “You’re huge!” I like a girl with nice bedroom manners. The four-letter word doesn’t sound coarse on her lips, and there’s hardly a man in the world who doesn’t like to hear his manhood praised. I start to grind in and out of her slow and steady, and her eyes go wide and round as I push in deep. She bites her bottom lip and pushes up to meet me and we hit each other’s rhythm straight away. That doesn’t often happen, the first time with a new woman, but it’s great when it does. She lifts her legs right up so they’re resting on my shoulders, and I’m in so deep I almost expect to cut off her breathing on the up-stroke. I’m trying to keep it slow and regular, but it’s not easy. She pulls my face down to hers and licks her own wetness off my lips and chin, looking like she loves it, and then she starts going “Oh… oh… oh…!” and I know she’s about to go over the top yet again. So I hammer her for all I’m worth, hard and deep, and she squeals and bucks underneath me like she was trying to throw me off, only I can tell she isn’t really, and I say “Ride him, cowboy!” and she bursts out laughing and gives me a push backwards as she starts to come down again. Back I go, pulling her after me, and she’s easily light enough to go where she’s pulled, and more or less straight away we fetch up with her astride and me on my back. That’s when I get a bit of a look at the sky, and I see this monster of a black anvil-topped thundercloud coming up from the southwest. I can see the grey mist sheeting away from it and right while I’m watching, I see a flash of lightning and I count up to twenty before I hear the rumble. Four miles. She can tell what I’m looking at, and she smiles. “Are we going to reach shelter if we run for it?” “Reckon not,” I say. We’re in for a wetting, no matter what. “Then I don’t see the sense in stopping,” says the Countess, and she sits right back, takes me in real deep and squeezes me hard with her cunt. Since she puts it that way, neither can I. So she grinds herself down on me and up again, down and up, slowly and ruthlessly, still with that hard muscle hugging me tight, and it’s just like she’s sucking me all over again. And it comes as no surprise whatever when she gives a long, loud wail and sits right back again, and I feel her cunt go squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. The Countess Again You'll remember how I told you about the time I took the Countess for a ride in the country, and how that ended up. At any rate, I'd've sure found it hard to forget - other than pinching myself and wondering if it really happened, after all - and I guess any other guy would too. 'Course, I'd always figured that this was a lady who had to be about the best lay in all the world. She's not just a looker, but she kinda oozes sex and sensuality when you look at her, the way a leopard oozes grace and power and general bad-assedness. Granted, it'd take a man with bigger stones than me to stare at the Countess, still less undress her with your eyes, however much you might want to. I figure if she wanted to break a man, she could do it with no more fuss and bother than that same leopard might pull down a pronghorn. But you don't need to stare at the Countess. It doesn't take a lot more than a glance for you to tell that this is about the most beautiful, sexiest and smartest woman you're ever going to meet in the flesh, and the only hard part is where you have to admit you've got about a snowball's chance on a hot stove of ever getting within arm's reach. And that was what left me pinching myself. I'll own up to the whack-off fantasising - I'd've had to be queer not to - but it was so unbelievable that anything would ever have come of it, even if I'd been shown a video of the two of us in that hayfield, I'd've sworn it was a forgery. Well, there was no sense in following the Countess around like a dog with blue balls. I had the memories, when I could convince myself they were real, and they were some way-out memories at that. I mean, the Countess, who's the kind of woman the Queen of England would say "Madame" to, going down on me, and swallowing, too? Hoo, boy. No, I just had to say to myself, "Jake, my man, just be glad you're in a nice well-paid job with all found, you scrub up not bad-looking, you've got some good manners on you, and take it one way and another, you can generally find some pussy if you want it badly enough." And I won't say I didn't knock one out to the thought of the Countess now and then, or pretend it was her I was balling instead of whoever it really was, but on the whole, I just got on with things and didn't fret none, and when I saw her turning on those wiles on some businessman who was going to help make her even richer, I'd smile inside, 'cos I'd been there, and I was ready to bet the house he wasn't going to. But one day I'm on my way down to the gym to spend an hour or so staying in shape, and as I'm going in, the Countess is just coming out. She's in fencing gear and toting a sword of some kind - an epee if I'm not mistaken - and this guy who teaches her is a couple of paces behind her, looking red-faced and out of breath and generally giving all kinds of clues as to who it is who's just really been taught a lesson. She sees me and stops, and says, "Jake. Just the man I wanted to see." So I stop and draw myself up a little straighter, try not to stammer, and say "Madame. What can I do for you?" "I have a function to go to ce soir, and my escort has let me down," she says, and I figure I'd sooner have been the guy at the record company who told the Beatles that guitar bands were on their way out. "If you're not otherwise engaged...?" Yeah, like I'm going to blow the Countess out by telling her I've already got a better offer. I pretend to think for a moment, while the Countess pretends not to know I'm pretending, and then I say, "Sure, I'd be delighted, madame." And that's the pure truth, too. She hands me a business card and says "Then take the afternoon off and go and get yourself outfitted, Jake. I have an account." I just bet she does. Matter of fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't have the folks there eating out of her hand for fear she bought them out and slung them onto the street. So I scrub round the gym session and go get a cab and pretty soon I pitch up at the kind of gentleman's outfitters where they don't let you through the door unless all four of your great-granddaddies were the right sort, or else you've got a pass from the Countess. Inside it's all walnut with a shine an inch deep, discreet murmurs and assistants who take a second longer than you're really comfortable with when it comes to measuring your inside leg, but I gotta say they know their stuff. I'm none too easy to fit off the peg, but in less time than it would've taken me to buy a pair of pants, I'm decked out top to toe in the kind of duds you'd wear to the opening of Parliament or an audience with royalty. The weirdest thing is, I actually feel comfortable in it, though normally I'd sooner be skinned alive than put on a tux. They pack it all up for me and tell off some guy to bring it round to the Hotel, and so we fast-forward to when the Countess and I are turning up at this "function" of hers in a limo that's slightly shorter than a Greyhound bus. She's been chatting politely to me all the way there, and although we ain't been talking about, say, Harleys and hayfields, it's not been all stilted and make-believe-polite, and I'm already thinking that, even if the Countess wasn't drop-dead-and-call-the-undertaker gorgeous and loaded to boot, she would make about as good a date as a flesh and blood man had the right to hope for. We get out of the car and the Countess is surrounded by photographers faster than you can snap a shutter, but she holds up a dainty hand that asks 'em to all mind their own business and I'll be dipped if they don't back off, which I never heard the like of. Being the Countess's arm candy for the next few hours isn't what you'd call hard work. A lot of the conversation goes right over my head, but then wherever the two of us go it ain't me that they're interested in talking to. I figure that this might be hard for a lot of men to take, and I get a sort of idea as to why the Countess never has a man permanently in tow, but as for me, I'm cool with it, and I just enjoy myself drinking in the billion-dollar atmosphere, not to mention the thousand-pound champagne, and the time goes by quicker than I'd've guessed. We quit the party at about two in the morning and it turns out we've got a suite booked on the top floor, and I'm a couple of doors down from the Countess. She smiles at me as we go up in the lift, and she says, "You do fill out a suit very well, Jake." "Thanks," I say, and maybe I've taken just enough of the free drinks to add, "but I'm hardly a beginner next to you, Madame." It's no more than the truth, if it comes to that, and it has to be something she knows very well and has heard before. She smiles, accepting the compliment, and says, "And you've been the perfect escort, and I hope you have enjoyed yourself." I laugh. "It's the high life, all right, and not for me every day of the week, but it's been something to see how the other half live, or maybe the other point oh oh one percent. Seriously though, who'd pass up a chance like this? I've had a gourmet dinner, rubbed shoulders with half the A-list and got to strut my stuff in the classiest surroundings I'll ever set foot in." Then the champagne gives my tongue another kick and I say, "But I'll tell you one, thing, madame. There were maybe twenty of the best lookers in the world there tonight, and not one of them fit to hold a candle to you." Another smile, and not even a hint to me to stop my blethering; and she says, "Well, as you have seen me to my room, Jake, perhaps you would care for a nightcap?" "Sure," I say, trying not to make it sound like "pretty please with a cherry on top", and also trying not to fantasise about getting the Countess out of those designer originals of hers, 'cos I'm ready to bet she can read my mind. So we go into her room, which is about the size of the ground floor of your average country house and has a huge picture window looking out over the lights of London. There's a crystal decanter on the sideboard, and she takes a couple of brandy snifters and sloshes a generous slug of I don't dare guess how old Cognac into each of them, and hands one to me. "A votre sante," she says, to which I say "Prost," and we both take a sip. The rot-gut I usually drink stomps over your tongue in hobnailed boots and you mostly feel relief once it's gone down, where as this just sashays on down like a harem dancer in silk slippers, honey-smooth and fragrant; but I can feel it's got a wallop on it, and besides, you don't guzzle antique brandy, still less in front of the Countess. While I'm admiring the brandy and the view both, the Countess turns on some music, and she faces me and says, "We were too busy to dance earlier, Jake. Care to make up for it?" She's got one hand out, which I take, and I say "Glad to, but I'm not much of a ballroom dancer." "Ca ne fait rien. Neither am I," says the Countess, though I'm ready to bet that's a lie; and a moment later she's cheek to shoulder with me, all soft silk and firm, smooth curves and frighteningly expensive scent that pushes some button deep inside my brain. I've got an arm around her, but I can feel a swelling down below that I figure it'd be rude to push up against the Countess, so I try not to get in too close. She tuts and snuggles up closer. "I know," she murmurs. "It's all right, Jake. It's all right." What between the brandy and champagne, the music, and the sight and feel and smell of the Countess in that silk dress, it doesn't take more than that "it's all right" for me to hold her good and tight; and she sighs and says, "When a lady has had a pleasant evening, it is only polite for her to give her gentleman friend a kiss." "So I'm a gentleman now?" I say, kinda lightly, as though I didn't want to pick up that lead and kiss her face off. She smiles again. "You are, Jake. Where it counts, you are," she says; and her mouth meets mine, softly, sweetly, gently, and maybe a little hungrily. She's close as close can be to me and my hard-on is getting harder and pressing right into her flat belly. Being the Countess, she grinds against it and purrs, and I guess I didn't ought to be surprised. I guess there's no hurry, and I let my fingers run down the side of her neck instead of being in a rush to get anywhere else. She groans a little, deep in her throat, rubbing herself up against me, and starts to help me off with my jacket and vest. "Ohh, Jake," she says, leading me over to a chair that looks like it costs a year's salary. She gets me to sit in it, and favours me with a very direct stare. Kneeling, she smiles again and says "I wonder how many men here tonight like to imagine having me right here?" "All but the faggots, I'm guessing," I say. She unbuttons my flies and wriggles my trousers down around my knees. My JT's making a tent out of my boxer shorts, and she reaches in with a cool hand and takes hold. "Mmm," she says, her voice dropping half an octave, and she starts to stroke me up and down, real slow. I've got the biggest boner I've had since - well, it must be the last time I told you about - which she's going to work on slowly, patiently and mercilessly. She takes hold of me near the root with her left hand, and her right wraps all around my head, which is swollen up real big and purple, and she slides the skin back and forth slowly. (Yeah, I'm uncut.) I have to bite my lip. She's hardly touched me and already I'm nearly out of my mind with pleasure. Looking me right in the eye, she bends her head forward and I tense up a little. I already know she gives the most fantastic blow-job I ever imagined and I can almost feel it already. But instead of taking me right in her mouth, she just looks at me again and holds my gaze with her own while she pokes out her tongue and licks away the one little drop of pre-come that's beading up there. Straight away another one pops up to take its place, but the Countess winks and says "Maybe later, Jake. Sit there a moment and don't move." There's a rustle of expensive silk as she slides out of that dress. Underneath it she's wearing a little silk bra that looks real soft and can't be giving her a lot of support; I guess her tits stay up okay all by themselves. She's got a tiny pair of panties on, and lace-topped stockings and a garter-belt. It's all in black, and the sight of that against the white of her skin makes me just a little harder, which I'd have said couldn't possibly happen. The bra's a front-loader, and she undoes it in front of me. Her breasts hardly sag at all as she lets it drop. Then she takes a jar of something off the dressing-table and unscrews the lid, and rubs some of the cream that's inside it up and down her cleavage before she settles back on her knees at my feet. "You'd love to give me a pearl necklace, am I right?" she murmurs, starting to rub my erection up and down that scented valley. 'Course, I know what one of them is, and it's nothing to do with oysters. It's where she brings you off between her breasts so you come all over her throat and under her chin. As she pushes 'em together, wrapping them tight around me, she groans. "Oh, c'est merveilleux!" Elle a raison, I think. I don't know what a hot, thick rod between her breasts feels like to her, but I already know they're sensitive; and as for me, I can feel myself starting to get close to the edge already. She wiggles a bit from side to side, and as I pop out of the top of the valley, she bends her head forward and her tongue flickers from side to side, as fast as a bee's wing, right over the little hole at the end of me. Pretty soon I clench my fists and grind my teeth together, 'cos I can tell I'm about to deliver one pearl necklace as per the plan, but then when I'm about a half-second from No Returnsville, Iowa, she slips me out from between her breasts and clamps both hands down on me, hard. Now she takes me in her mouth and sucks on me, but that grip on me won't let me come and I feel myself stepping back from the edge in spite of what her mouth's doing. "Oh, that's torture!" I groan, and she takes her mouth away and gives me the evillest grin that flesh and blood ever wore. She slackens off with her hands, once she can tell she's shoved that bolt well and truly back in the breech and I'm not going to shoot it after all. "Never mind, Jake," she says. "I'm just too greedy to want to waste it all at once." She stands up and brings her crotch up to my face. "Can you smell how much I want you?" I sure can. Being the Countess, it's all clean and fresh and sweet, but it's woman-lust pure and simple and I can see that those panties of hers are soaked right through. I bring my hands up to her hips and yank the little black things off, and she laughs, and as she climbs astride she bites down on one end of them and holds the other up to my mouth. "Mind you don't let go," she says. She impales herself on my horn and lets out a thoroughly aristocratic whine around the mouthful of black silk and lace, and drives down hard on me, taking me deep inside. I only hope the chair's built for two. 'Course the Countess could pay for a whole dining-room suite of this stuff and never miss it, but I guess it must be three hundred years old if it's a day and it's sure be a pity to trash it. Well, it takes the strain okay. Meanwhile the Countess is bouncing up and down on me, with her wet cunt slurping away as I slide deep inside her and then out again. She leans back, trusting her weight to the strength of my teeth and neck, not to mention the breaking strain of a pair of expensive panties, and thrusts down at me; she leans forward, shoving my face in between her tits, and I growl and grab hold of them, knowing that when she gets worked up she likes 'em mauled quite rough, and I drink in the scent of that cream she smeared over them. Suddenly she lets out a kind of animal yell half-smothered by the mouthful of panties and grinds down on me harder still, and I feel her cunt go into spasm. Her long nails rake over my back and I'm willing to bet she's drawing blood, but I don't mind. I'm not quite ready to join her, is the only thing; but who's hurrying? Not me. Remembering the hayfield goings-on, I'm guessing she's hardly started. She subsides a little, sitting astride me and letting me hold her weight, and lets her end of the panties drop out of her mouth as she reaches over and picks up the pot of cream. She gives it a kind of thoughtful look, and then gives me one made of pure mischief, and says, "Alors, Jake... do you want to fuck me in the derriere, or what?" Now normally you don't ask the Countess if she's sure about anything, but just this once I say, "You bet, but I thought you didn't get into that?" She shrugs one of those little Gallic shrugs and says "There's a time and a place. This is both. Shall we get to it?" She yanks a pillow off the top of the bed and throws it cross-wise about halfway down, then lies down over it so her ass is in the air; and she looks back over her shoulder at me and says "This is going to make me squeal, so I want you to remember one word." "Sure," I say, picking up the pot of cream she spread down her cleavage. "What's the word?" "Brandy," she says. "If I say 'Brandy' you're to stop at once, bien compris?" "I got it," I say. I dip my fingers in the cream and spread it down her ass-crack, getting her good and lubed up. I'm already slippery from where she's taken me between her tits, but I slather on a little more. From what I know of this, there ain't such a thing as too much lube. I position myself behind her and start probing at that tight little hole. She gasps "Oh!" and bites her lip, clenching both her hands in the duvet. "If you're not sure about this, now'd be a good time to mention it," I murmurs, but she only whimpers a little and shakes her head, so I start to press into her, not too hard but not taking a backward step, waiting for her to open up. "Oh!!" she goes again, a mite more urgently. "Oh, you're so big, it hurts. Jake, you're hurting me!" "Relax and hold still," I growl, bracing my right hand against her lower back to hold her in place. "I've started an' I'm going to finish." I guess I do feel big, at that, 'cos she sure feels tight to me, but up to now she's feeling like she can stretch a little more and I keep the pressure on, just aiming at getting in for now and not trying to pump in and out. She turns her head to one side, brings her hand up to her mouth and bites down on her thumb, and I can see a tear or two running down her cheek. "You really are hurting me, Jake," she says, quietly. "So say the magic word," I say, no louder, and I give another push and feel her asshole give a little more, and I slip in deep. She gasps. "Oh God, Jake, you bastard... you ruthless, ruthless bastard." "That's me," says I. See, I've been listening out good and sure, and the one word I ain't heard her say so far is "brandy". I'm in her ass about halfway now and the thickest part of me is inside her, so I hold still. She feels hot and really tight. We're both of us quiet for a while, until the Countess says, "You're all the way in now, aren't you, Jake?" "Pretty much," I say. "I could give you a little more depth, but width-wise, you got it." "Wow," she says. "I don't do this very often, and never with a man as big as you. And you really are a ruthless bastard, aren't you?" "Me?" I grin. "Just doing as I was told, Madame." She laughs. "With your cock hilt-deep in my bottom, Jake, I think you could drop the 'Madame'." "Naw. I like it better this way. How about you?" "Mmm," she says, and wriggles her ass. "It's not hurting so much now. Still sort of stinging a little, but it's a good stinging. You can start to fuck me now, Jake." I wrap one arm around her breasts and grab her by the belly with my other, lying along her. "I got another idea," I say, and I roll the pair of us over, still joined at the hip as you might say. Like I've mentioned before, the Countess is light enough to go where she's pulled and we fetch up on the edge of the bed, coming up half-sitting with her on top. We're facing the dressing-table, which has a big mirror we can see ourselves in, and I say to her "Spread your legs wide apart, so I can see your snatch in the glass." The Countess Again That makes her giggle. She does as she's told, and says "This is pornographic, Jake," with a kind of purr in her throat that clues me in that she's finding it a turn-on, not an outrage. I grab her by the hips and wiggle her back and forth a bit, getting even deeper into her ass. "We ain't hardly started yet," I say. "Now let's see you play with yourself." She colours up at that, which I never thought I'd see the Countess do, and then she giggles again. "Do you know, I have never masturbated in front of a man in my life? Never needed to. Every man I have ever been with has been more than happy to do anything to please me." "So am I," I say, bringing my two hands up to her breasts and starting to stroke at them, "but I can see this being a helluva turn-on. You going to do as you're told?" I see her laugh in the mirror. "D'accord. Just don't expect me to call you Master." She slides the fingers of her right hand down to her crack and parts her lips with them, starting to stroke at her clit, which is well and truly swollen up. I flex my legs, easing her up and down so my cock starts to slip in and out of her asshole, and she bites her lip. " 'Helluva turn-on' is exactly right, Jake," she says. "Your ass not hurting any more?" "Non. I love being buggered, Jake. It's just that it hurts actually getting there. Now... it feels wonderfully depraved and... exciting too. You should only know what it feels like!" "Ain't figuring on finding out," I say. "Even for you, Madame, I just don't fancy faggotry." "What a word!" she laughs. "I have some sensitive and gentle admirers who would tell you not to knock it without trying it... but I agree, women just don't do it for me either. Well, maybe one day I should suck you while I put a finger up there. There's a special place there that drives men wild, and... oh, mon Dieu, I'm going to come." She brings her legs together and squeezes them tight shut, and I feel her muscles tighten as she goes off with a loud wail. Then she swings her feet to the floor and transfers my hands down to her hips and mimes getting up, so I stand up, hoisting her to her feet, and she reaches her hands over to the wall above the dressing-table mirror and braces against it. "Go on, Jake," she screams. "Fuck me in the arse. Fuck me hard!" Yup, she pronounces it the English way - though you gotta have a kinda keen interest in regional accents to pay it much attention when a beauty like the Countess is telling you to butt-fuck her senseless. Naturally I do as I'm told. She's got good and used to me being in there and although she yells all right when I let her have it, I can tell they're just yells of pleasure. And she has the hottest, tightest asshole a man could ask for, firm taut ass-cheeks and a generally all-round fantastically fuckable physique that's reflected in the mirror for me to see, her face contorted with pleasure and her skin flushed about the throat and down to her breasts. I feel it building up in me and for a moment I toy with the idea of pulling out at the last moment and letting Madame have it all up her back, and I guess she wouldn't be complaining, at that. But I don't, in the end. It's just too good being inside her and all I want to do is give her the biggest sperm enema in Christendom - and that's just what I go ahead and do. She cries out loud when she feels it hit, and I can't tell for sure, but I'm ready to bet she comes again there and then. We stagger back onto the bed as I slip out of her asshole, both of us too done to move once again, and I snuggle up to her back, squeezing one of her ass-cheeks with my right hand while I hug her with my left arm. "It's too late to say 'Brandy' now, isn't it?" she murmurs softly. I chuckle. "Kinda. 'Less you want me to fetch you a shot." "Fetch the decanter and the glasses," she says. "I think we're about ready for it." And if the world holds anything better than sipping antique brandy while you're tucked up in a king-size bed with the Countess after you've just fucked her senseless, I can't think what it might be. The Countess and the Contest "Heathyr." The haunting, melodic tones of the Countess' voice rang out through the cold, silent house. Even after months in her service, I still couldn't get over the way the exquisite marble floors and twelve-foot arched ceilings managed to create seemingly impossible acoustics. It was as if the entire house was built to obey her beck and call -- which probably wasn't that far from the truth. I froze in place, carefully bent at the waist, with my ass in the air. My tight, binding corset did not allow for much freedom of movement. Even if it had, I was too well trained to allow myself to ever relax my posture. "Your presence is requested in the parlour." A sudden chill trickled down my spine. The only time she `requested' my presence was when there were guests to be served, or if she was particularly angry with me. Since I had not been summoned to attend to the door, I had to assume it wasn't the former. However, I couldn't recall doing anything to prompt such anger in the usually serene Countess. Regardless, it was my duty (and my pleasure) to obey. With only the briefest hesitation, I gave the mahogany bookcase one last wipe with the pink feather duster, and then hurried downstairs. The sound of three-inch, silver tipped stiletto heels upon the marble stairs announced my presence long before I arrived. "You called, Countess?" I halted just inside the door of the parlour and curtsied deeply. As my training dictated, I lifted my leather skirt high enough to reveal the black satin panties beneath and waited. It hadn't been easy earning the privilege of satin, so I was especially careful not to give her cause to take them away. "Hmm . . . smooth, no bulge, but I do believe that you are wet." Despite the darkness, I couldn't miss the dangerous glint in her eye. "Is it fresh, Heathyr?" I blushed deeply as my own professionally manicured fingers brushed against the damp spot. While I was prohibited from pleasuring myself, a small measure of excitement was allowed in her presence. "Yes, Countess." I held my finger up for her to lick the spot of pre-cum from the tip, proof that it was indeed wet and fresh. "Good." She nodded sharply, and then dismissed the issue with a wave of her velvet-gloved hand. "You may enter and prepare for our guest." It was a struggle not to let my relief show. "Thank you, Countess." It's not so much that I feared punishment, but that the thought of disappointing her - in any way - made me physically ill. I was almost orgasmic in the knowledge that I had not angered her. The first step in my carefully laid-out ritual was to make sure the heavy, black velvet curtains were securely closed and fastened along the seams. Even the smallest shaft of sunlight piercing through to strike the antique, hand-woven carpet would mean twenty lashes. At least I assumed that was the prescribed penalty for such an offence - I had only made the mistake once. Next - and this was often the most difficult step of all - I had to guess the Countess' mood, based on nothing more than a few words and a wave of her hand. Guiltily, I risked a quick glance back towards the couch and confirmed my immediate impression upon first entering the room. The Countess was dressed primarily in a dark burgundy this afternoon, with black lace accents. That alone told me this was to be a casual affair, as did the unusual absence of her thigh-high leather boots. For that matter, she didn't appear to be wearing any leather at all - a definite first in my experience. Anxious, as always, to get it right the first time, I risked another glance towards the Countess. Her velvet dress was full-length with a high neckline, revealing only a glimpse of alabaster flesh where the sleeves ended and her matching gloves began. Her makeup was sparse, yet elegant as always, but her jewellery was rather . . . subdued. Not only was this to be a casual affair, I guessed, but presumably a familiar one as well. Carefully, following the prescribed ritual, I began setting the blood red candles alight. As always, I started in the far corner of the room, banishing the darkness there, and then ushering the flame into the Countess' glorious presence. As my hand hovered above the final candle, though, I froze. The Countess chuckled softly. "Is there a problem, Heathyr?" "I . . . please forgive me, Countess. I did not realise your guest had already arrived." With shaking hands, I quickly lit the last candle and laid the box of matches on the mantelpiece. I stepped forward and curtsied before our guest. "Please accept my apologies, Sir. I had not meant to be rude. May I get you a drink, or - oh!" The stranger laughed as he gave my imprisoned penis another squeeze. "So, there really is a boy under that sexy costume!" Despite my training, despite my submissive nature, I wanted to protest. I wanted to cry out that he was wrong, to deny his crude comment. Fortunately, the Countess spoke up and chastised him herself. "Nathaniel, really . . . I thought I already made that clear." There was a dangerous edge to her voice that told me this was not to be the friendly affair I had expected. "As we discussed earlier, the genetic remnants of Heathyr's past are completely irrelevant to me. SHE is mine, and SHE is precisely what I need HER to be." There was a long pause. "Understand me - there will be no more of this boy talk." He just laughed. "Then perhaps we should get this show on the road and put her to the test, hmm? Let the little slut taste a real man?" The Countess released a bored, drawn-out sigh - something I prided myself in not having heard for months. If she really held her guest in such disdain, though, why the casual, familiar mood? Something strange was going on here, but I sensed that things were going exactly as she had planned. They always did. "Very well. If that is the proof you desire, so be it." She pointed towards his blue-jeaned crotch and waved her fingers dismissively. "If you would, please, Heathyr?" "Of course, Countess." I knelt carefully before our guest, arranging my skirt around me. As I stared at the man before me, I blanched. Even without the benefit of a mirror, I knew I must have looked more like one of the wannabe-vampires that the Countess so disdained, than the artful, elegant goths she embraced. There had been a few, completely minor, things in my training that I'd been reluctant to accept, but nothing I'd felt the slightest inclination to refuse. I truly believed in the path I'd had embarked upon - with her stern guidance, of course - but this . . . my feelings about this confused me. There was no denying the fact that I wanted his cock. Such a thought would have never entered my mind prior to coming to the Countess, but she had trained me well. She had taught me all about what would be expected of me as a woman, and had thoroughly trained me to take pleasure from my duties. Not that pleasure was ever to be my primary concern, but she firmly believed that the best slaves were those who took satisfaction in their work. Still, this man was not the Countess, and his cock was not one of her strap-on dildos. "Go ahead, Heathyr, and make it quick. You know very well it's nothing that I haven't enjoyed before." Strangely, that was all it took to resolve my confusion. If the art of fellatio was good enough for the Countess, then I would consider myself privileged to enjoy the pleasure myself. Of course, I would have obeyed no matter what - I could think of no greater shame than disappointing her - but the thought of growing one step closer to her idea of perfection was extremely arousing. "Yes, Countess." When I turned back to face our guest, I saw that he'd already freed his semi-erect penis. I placed my dark red lips around the shiny head and kissed it softly, leaving a ring around the top. The taste was a little strange, but not unpleasant. It was certainly softer, with a different texture than a dildo, but the shape was one my mouth had long become accustomed to. I made a loose `O' of my lips and slowly took his cock into my mouth, coating the shaft with saliva. Once he was all the way inside, I began gently sucking while slowly pulling away. When I was done, a fully erect, hard, swollen cock popped out of my mouth and sprang up to smear a drop of pre-cum across my nose. For a moment, I stopped and stared in wonder. I had done this. I had made him hard. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to do next, but the Countess' training soon took over. I dropped my head down and took his balls into my mouth. They were hairy and hot, something I wasn't sure I liked, but I knew how important it was to worship all aspects of his manhood. After a few moments of gentle sucking and licking, I let the fall away to bounce against my chin as I began licking my way back up the shaft. Fully erect, I gauged his cock to actually be a bit shorter than my own sissy clit, but easily three times thicker. It reminded me of the strap-on dildos the Countess had first trained me on, before graduating me to the monsters she enjoyed herself. Upon reaching the tip, I gave his cockhead another kiss and swirled my tongued against his piss-slit. Keeping a tight seal around his cock, I plunged my head down and took all of him into my mouth. Much to my surprise, I found myself disappointed that his cock wasn't long enough to force its way down my throat. As much as I had gagged - and, on one humiliating occasion, even thrown up - while deepthroating the Countess' collection of dildos, I had come to love the feeling of utter submission it gave me. "Hmmm . . . yes . . ." His voice dropped to a low, satisfied growl. He grabbed a handful of bright red locks and forced me to suck even faster. I began bobbing my pretty head up and down in time with his thrusts. "Ohhh . . . very nice . . . you learn fast." From her seat across the room, the Countess laughed. "You don't know the half of it, my dear Nathaniel. When Heathyr first showed up on my doorstep, she was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, black sneakers, and these oh-so-tacky sunglasses. I half-expected her to ask if I needed my driveway paved or my lawn mowed." I blushed red in embarrassment at the memory, but continued working to please our guest. "You can imagine my surprise when she dropped to her knees and begged the honour of serving me. To start with, I insisted she rid herself of that drab little outfit, which she did - right on my front step. I was impressed by her eagerness to please, so I allowed her inside." Suddenly, just as I felt the warm penis begin to swell beneath my tongue, our guest pushed me way. Not sure what he expected by way of a response, I giggled demurely and lunged forward for another taste. "Hey!" He slapped my cheek hard enough to leave a mark. "I'm curious to hear the rest of your story. You can lick me until I tell you to continue." The Countess continued. "By then end of that first day she'd shaved everything from the eyebrows down, dyed her hair my favourite shade of red, and adopted her first set of nail-extensions. I think it was the hair that convinced me of her sincerity - men are so skittish about dying their hair -- but I chose to . . . toy with her a bit." "While she finished cleaning the bathroom I laid out three complete outfits upon her bed. The first was a velvet dress of black and red that matched my own; the second was a black latex minidress with red PVC waist-cincher; and the third was what you see her wearing now - the black leather dress and red leather corset. The poor thing must have fretted over the decision for a good half-hour, but she proved her taste by making the right decision." The Countess smiled as I self-consciously adjusted my corset. "After that, I let her guess how I should be addressed. Her first choice, predictably, was Mistress. That earned her a slap. Her second choice was Milady. Amusing, but it earned her a second slap. There were a few more after that, Goddess among them, each of which earned her another slap. By the time my Heathyr finally stumbled upon Countess, her face was nearly as red as her corset, and her mood as black as her nails!" Our guest growled. "Amusing, but hardly a test of a slave's devotion." Suddenly, he grabbed my head again and forced me to swallow his entire penis. A part of me thrilled at being used to roughly, even as I lamented the fact that he wasn't bigger. "What did you do to break her?" She smiled. "Take that nasty thing out of her mouth, and I'll show you." Instead, he began thrusting into my mouth again and again, never releasing his hold upon my head. "Nathaniel." I felt his cock begin to swell. I panicked, but his grip was too firm to allow me to pull away. "Nathaniel." The Countess didn't need to raise her voice. Her tone was enough to convey her anger. At least, it should have been. Our guest just ignored it and began fucking my face. "I thought I made myself clear." I couldn't see, but it sounded as if the Countess had stood up from the couch. "The last thing she needs in her condition is to be subjected to your testosterone laden sperm." When I looked up into his eyes, I saw the anger . . . the defiance . . . the challenge in his glare. "My boys always swallow." "Heathyr is NOT one of your boys. She is mine, and you would do well to remember that." Our guest's only response was to hold the Countess' gaze as he exploded inside my mouth. I knew this was forbidden, but there was nothing I could do. He held me there, pressed tight against the base of his cock, forcing me to hold my breath or swallow. I nearly blacked out from the effort, but only the barest trickle slipped down my throat. "You will release her. Now." The moment he let go of my head, I pulled my head from his cock and turned to face the Countess. "My sweetest Heathyr." She came over to stand before me. Kneeling before her, my mouth nearly overflowing with another man's cum, I discreetly wiped my lips clean, being careful not to ruin my makeup. Applying my foundation was a skill I'd mastered early, but matching the right shade of lip-liner to my lipstick was still something I still fretted over. While the Countess limited me to only the darkest shades available, she always left me enough choice to make me work at making a decision. Since I couldn't speak without swallowing, I nodded instead. "I am so proud of you." She crouched down beside me and licked the trail of cum running from my mouth. "Give it to me," she commanded, "that you might be spared the contamination." The Countess pressed her lips against mine and pulled my head forward. I felt every drop of hot, salty man-cum slide across my tongue, over my lips, and into her mouth. As we kissed, she probed my mouth with her tongue and licked the remnants of cum from inside my cheeks. When she broke away from our kiss, I found myself wanting to cry out for more. She stood up to face our guest. I watched as she pushed three fingers deep into her mouth, coated them with her second-hand cum, and then wiped it across his face. He laughed. "I guess I deserved that." The Countess spat the rest at his feet, but otherwise ignored him. Instead, she looked down at me and smiled. She began tying back her long, lustrous black hair and nodded softly. "You know what to do." I felt a thrill of nervous anticipation run through my body as I rose slowly to my feet. Although I'd participated in the ritual dozens of times since the Countess first initiated me into her world, it never got any easier. I truly was a little sissy girl when it came to anything pain-related, but I would do as I was told, and take pride in doing it. Before I could present myself to her, I had to struggle out of my tight, binding, body-hugging leather skirt, without disturbing the equally binding corset I wore overtop. Although it flared dramatically about my legs, the high waistband was laced as tightly as my corset. Once I was free of the soft, supple leather, I returned to my knees before the Countess. Hands clasped behind my back, I lowered my head and stared at her feet. "If it pleases you, Countess, your slave presents herself for inspection." The only indication I had that she'd heard me was the touch of her riding crop on my back. The Countess traced circles across my body with it, teasing and tickling me, then gave me a solid `whack' when I wasn't expecting it. It was the same with my legs, my arms, my front, and especially my tiny, imprisoned penis. She loved to stroke and fondle it with her crop, to make me gasp in pain/pleasure as prison grew too tight, then slap me hard and watch me flinch. "Hmmm . . . adequate, pleasing almost . . . but disappointing in one tiny area." Even though I knew what was coming next, I'd never found a suitable way of preparing myself. "Those nipples are far too tiny for slave of mine, Heathyr. You should know by now that I like them big and round." "Yes, Countess. Please forgive - ah!" As the hot wax began dripping from the candle onto my right nipple I held myself rigid. If I was perfectly obedient, and kept my back arched just so, the blood red wax would seemingly enlarge my nipple by three or four times it's original size. The Countess was, among other things, an artist, and her wax nipples were nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. The second nipple involved less pain than the first, but far more effort on my part. By now the strain on my body was near the breaking point, and I just wanted to scream in release. However, even the shallowest breath could foul the Countess' masterpiece, so I literally had to place my life on hold until she was finished. In the end, though, the triumphant smile on her face made it all worth it. As our guest looked on, she motioned me towards the floor. "On your back, please, Heathyr - we don't want to mess your pretty new nipples." I took my place on the floor. She stepped forward and placed her legs on either side of my face. I watched, breathless with anticipation, as she slowly lowered herself towards me. From my angle, the dark burgundy velvet of her dress was like an erotic mask, ready to swallow me into its mysterious darkness. Once she came to rest upon my face, I knew I had but seconds to perform my duties. Using only my mouth, I had to coax the red satin panties from the Countess' pussy and hold tight as she stepped out of them. I had no idea whether it was the material, or whether she preferred them that way, but they always seemed to be lodged deeper inside her slit than you would expect from normal wear. As a result, it took a great deal of careful licking, kissing, and biting to perform my task - and the intoxicating aroma made for a difficult . . . distraction. As she began to rise, I used my tongue as an anchor until I could feel the first bit of space opening between us. Then, when I knew her tender labia were safely out of harm's way, I bit down and helped the Countess remove her panties. "Very good, Heathyr. It's not often that you're successful on the first attempt." Her smile of pride was like the most potent aphrodisiac. No matter how much I enjoyed a particular duty, it was her pleasure, her satisfaction that I craved. Before I had time to return the smile, however, her naked, dripping pussy was rapidly descending once again. The Countess would be looking for pleasure this time, for the kind of oral worship that only a helpless slave can provide. By alternately smothering and riding my face, she was often able to coax out a string of orgasms to last the afternoon. Our guest cleared his throat. "Really, Countess. This all seems pretty tame." "Hmmm. There was a time that Heathyr thought so too." Suddenly, she reached down, grabbed hold of my head, and pulled it into her sex even as she forced herself down onto my face with all her strength. As I clenched my fists and held my breath, I heard her tell our guest, "She knows better . . . now." The Countess and the Contest With that, she released her grip and spread her legs so that all of her weight was resting upon my face. Even though I knew what was coming next, there was no way to prepare. My entire body snapped rigid as she began dripping hot wax along my sissy-clit, causing me to squirm and struggle beneath her. She was devilishly clever in the application, spotting me randomly with the hot wax so as to keep me off my guard. At the same time, she continued to enjoy my oral worship, which she always maintained was more pleasant because of my squirming. Even then, the Countess was not done. During a particularly long bout of smothering, she snapped the blood red candle in half and began inserting it into my sissy-pussy. I wasn't expecting the final intrusion to come so quickly, and didn't have time to prepare myself. Instead of relaxing my muscles and welcoming the assault, I was thrown into a renewed series of near-panicked struggles and muffled cries that had the Countess chuckling in dark delight. "Mmmm, you squirm soooo well for a slave, Heathyr!" I felt her thighs begin to quiver against my cheeks and knew the end was near. Desperate to bring her over the top, I ignored everything else and focussed on her pussy. I was completely immersed in the smells and tastes of her sex, and there was truly nothing more exquisite in all the world. I began licking and sucking like a madwoman, forcing my tongue so far inside her that it hurt. My lips were swollen where I'd bitten them, but still I continued to strain upward and coax her closer to climax. That was when she upended the candle and literally began raining hot wax down upon my penis. "Unnngghhhhaahhhhhhh!" I screamed into the Countess as my own orgasm crashed into my penile prison, only to be stopped by a seal of wax. That prolonged my orgasm painfully, making it feel as if the cum was washing back through the rest of my body. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" She literally shrieked as her own climax washed over her. Again and again she ground herself against my face, prolonging her own pleasure while rewarding me with the explosive spray of her forbidden juices. By the time her orgasm exhausted itself, the Countess had sheathed my entire penis on hot, red wax - a feat that seemed to impress even our guest, if his low chuckle of approval was any indication. Although I was nearly rendered senseless, I could hear her breathing heavily above me. "Now do you understand, Nathaniel? Breaking Heathyr is not like breaking one of your pathetic, mewling boy-slaves. Pain and pleasure . . . male and female . . . submission and reward . . . there are so many more facets involved." "It's still not quite heavy enough for my tastes, but I can see your point." The Countess shook her head and laughed. "You still do not see it, Nathaniel." She stood up from my face and smiled down at me. "You know what to do, Heathyr." As their conversation continued, I dug my nails into the exposed based of my sissy-clit until it hurt. As it softened within its wax prison, I felt the rapidly cooling wax give way with a series of snaps and tears. Once I was completely soft, I pushed it down, as if I were going to tuck it between my legs, and slowly pulled the wax sheath away from the head. "When I take Heathyr this way," the Countess continued, "there is a spiritual and emotional bond formed between us. She is a slave remade in my own image - nourished by my sweat, my sex, and my golden wine." I felt the dammed reservoir of cum drain out of my sissy-clit into the wax sheath. It never ceased to amaze me how oddly submissive it felt to just allow it to drip from sissy-clit, instead of having it forcefully ejected in orgasmic spurts. The Countess came over to take the perfectly formed wax cock from my hands. "Thank you, Heathyr. You always do make me quite thirsty." With that, she tipped her head back and let my spent sissy-cum flow into her mouth. She made quite a show of enjoying it, even going so far as break the wax in half and lick the insides clean. This was definitely something new, but I recognized that it was all for our guest's benefit. She had, after all, spit his own cum at his feet in disgust. I nearly fainted in ecstasy as I watched her tongue lick the last remnants of my sissy-cream from her full, red lips. She then returned her attention to our guest. "It's something that no amount of physical pain or pleasure could ever achieve in your . . . boys." "You can stop now, Countess. I am convinced." As our guest rose from his chair, he propped a small, black business card upon the mantelpiece. "I am sure Francis will not like it, but you have won. Congratulations." That said, he took his leave of the Countess' presence. I sensed I was missing something. The Countess' affairs were none of my business, but the strangeness of the encounter had made me curious. I, of course, knew better than to ask, but she saved me the trouble. "Heathyr? Join me on the couch for a moment." She certainly didn't need to ask me twice. I beamed with delight as I crawled onto the sprawling leather couch and snuggled up beside her. Tender moments like this were far and few between in our relationship, but that only served to strengthen the bond between us. I loved her as much for who she was, as for who she was allowing me to become. "You made me very proud today, Heathyr. When I first came to Francis with my . . . request . . . he insisted that you weren't ready. He refused to accept how far you'd come in such a short time." She chuckled softly. "I offered to prove him wrong." As she stroked my hair and kissed the back of my neck, the Countess filled me in on the details of her wager - and the prize. The wager itself was simple: all I had to do was prove my femininity to a neutral observer. It had taken a long while to agree on Nathaniel, but his reputation as one of the best slave-trainers around sealed the wager. Of course, the fact that he only trained slave-boys had seemed to give Francis the edge, but the Countess was confident I could convince even him. "Then I did well, Countess? I made you proud?" "That, and more." She grinned as she pushed me to the edge of the couch. "Fetch me the card he left on the mantelpiece and return to my embrace. Quickly." I scurried to do her bidding, and then settled myself down in her arms again. "Originally, Heathyr, I'd only approached Francis about fulfilling one of your immediate desires." She caressed my chest, my face, and my throat. Although the hormones - natural, prescription, and second-hand from the Countess herself - were slowly working their magic, I still had to do a lot of work to help nature along. "Thanks to his own stubbornness and your delightful performance," she told me, "we need not settle for just one." The Countess rolled atop me and began slowly peeling the wax from my nipples. "We can discuss that in more detail tomorrow, though, when we pay Doctor Francis a visit in his office." With a nervous smile on my lips, I looked into her eyes and asked, "Doctor?" "Yes, a Doctor." The Countess turned herself around and began lowering herself over my face again. "Doctor Francis, plastic surgeon." She pressed the damp lips of her pussy to my face, then suddenly pulled away. "Oh, and did I mention he is the leading specialist in sexual reassignment surgery in all of North America?" My startled gasp was swallowed by her vagina. "Hmmm." The Countess chuckled softly. "Didn't think so." ****** END I hope you enjoyed my little story . . . it was definitely a different one for me. Pain is not something I'm generally into but, in this case, the setting seemed to demand it of me. I know a story is developing as it should when the characters take control and push the story in directions I never intended to take it. If you did enjoy it, I would absolutely love to hear about it.