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/elit/ - Erotic Literature
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Wedding Day odiscipline!!xlAmp4BJLj 18/03/31(Sat)22:54 No. 25490 ID: 3093c9

This story contains the following -

MM, MF, rape, anal, ntr, blood, piss, cum

If any of these things disturb you, I advise you now, please do not read. If you choose to do so anyway and are offended, please stfu about the subject matter, you were warned about it before hand.

I hope you enjoy this. I have multiple parts in this story in mind, I will write more if I get positive feedback.

The battle is long over. I am beaten, my sword knocked aside, my legs bleeding, a gash running across my arm. I do not know why I have not been slain yet. The brute is clearly more of a swordsman than I, better trained, stronger, faster. My rudimentary training was nothing compared to his artful strikes. I do not believe that I even laid my blade on him seriously.

I kneel in the dirt, waiting for a death blow. I am met with a sharp kick to my stomach. I taste the wedding meal I had consumed earlier, as I fall flat into the mud. I am lifted up by my hair, and kicked in the stomach again, and again, and again. I know not why this brute continues to prolong this: he has won, I am no match for him. Why does he not just slay me here.

He picks me up, and punches me in my tender abdomen again. I can barely voice my surrender, my voice has been beaten out of me. The brute picks me up, and wraps his arms around my throat, choking me. My undergarments become warm and heavy, as I begin to reflexively piss myself in utter fear. I am too weak, too beaten, to escape this beast's grasp, the creeping, fading, foggy blackness that envelopes me quicker than sleep.


I awaken to the taste of iron and blood in my mouth. There is a gag in my mouth, I cannot shout, or beg, or plead. Nor can I move: I am tied standing to a tree. My arms are tied by my sides, the binding knots are out of my reach, I have no hope of escape. I glance at the carriage. The door swings open: I begin to panic. Where is Genevieve, where is my new wife?

I glance the length of the small lea where we fought our duel. I spy the lady, backing out of a nearby grove, dagger in hand, with the brutish thug menacing her every step. Beaten as I am, a small flicker of hope rises in me: my wife, though my height, is soft, decadent, feminine. It would be easy for the beast to underestimate her, dismiss her, just long enough for her to strike a fatal blow. I can hear the derision and mocking in his voice as he stalks her. It would be so easy for her, to just lunge forward, and stab him unawares.

He backs her to a tree, maybe ten yards from me. She is not aware, she is startled when she bumps into it. He uses the distraction to make his move, lunging towards her, and grasping her knife hand, twisting the knife from it.

She darts around the other side of the tree, and he is after her, like a hound around a fox. They dart, and pivot, from one side to the other, he lunging the knife, she scampering around the trunk on feet and hands and knees and whatever else she could scamper with.

The brute grasps her by the hem of her wedding dress. The white fabric tears, but not enough, and he drags my wife into his grasp. I moan in anger and terror as I watch him take her in his arms, and wrench her like a doll onto the ground against the nearby tree.

He straddles her, holding her arms down as she struggles, claws, and screams. Tears stream down my cheeks, as I remain bound, helpless, unable to do anything but watch. I feel myself drowning in shame, and regret, that I did not attack harder, if not to kill the bastard, then to force him to kill me, so that I may not have to watch my new wife be raped by an animal.

He barks at her, to still herself, to quiet herself. Why he would expect her to do this under these circumstances, I do not know. I hear him say that he will not hurt her, that no harm will come to her. I wish to retch further than I already have: why state a lie when the truth of his actions are so obvious.

He picks her up, and kneels before her, offering her the dagger back. He begins to speak, in a lower tone that I cannot hear from where I am. My wife shivers plainly with fear, her skin peach pink as she brushes her disheveled black locks from her face. With quivering hand, she takes the knife.

My heart rises again. I know not what has entered the brute's mind, what twisted logic his conscience operates on, but it does not matter: he has given the instrument of our salvation back to her. I wait, knowing that only momentarily, she will stab the bandit, sending him to the underworld, and then would come and free me.

Slowly, my wife stops shaking. No doubt steeling herself to make the killing blow. Whatever words the highwayman speaks now are irrelevant, I am certain his death is only moments away.

I am utterly surprised, when she hands the blade back to him. He takes the blade, and sheathes it in his belt. I cannot fathom what is happening. Did she think she did not have a chance, did she fear that she would miss a vital point when making her thrust? I had hoped for rescue, but even had she taken the opportunity to out and out flee, I would have found that situation more preferable than this. Why return the knife?


They are sitting now, as though they are merely sharing a scene. I cannot make out what was being said between them, too far away I was, and too low spoken they were to hear. I cannot see what it was the bandit was saying, as his head was turned from me, but I could see my wife, and if not hear her, read her features. She looked cool, collected, as the bandit talked with her, no doubt threatening her with the worst things imaginable. I admired her so much, her steely composition under her soft noble skin. Every so often she would blush and laugh, no doubt to gain his confidence and lull him into a false sense of security.

Presently, she rises, and returns to our carriage. My heart rises again, even as my hopes for my own salvation sink. Most likely Genevieve had managed to secure her own freedom at the cost of my own. I would most certainly be killed as soon as she made her escape, but it is a sacrifice I am willing to make, if it means that the lady can preserve her purity and escape to safety.

Once again, the lady confounds me, as she returns with our luncheon sack: the food that we were going to eat on the way to the honeymoon cabin I had built in the deep woods. Why come back with our food, and bring it to the bandit? I cannot understand it, cannot fathom what it is she was thinking, as she sets out a picnic cloth, and removes the meats, breads, fruits, and cheeses that we were to sup on from the basket and onto the cloth.

It is not until I see the bandit begin to devour the food voraciously, that I understand what her true purpose was. Ah, clever Genevieve, I was such a fool to not see it before. Genevieve was a woman, a noblewoman at that. Of course mere assault with a knife was not something that she would engage in, even if her life was in danger. No, cunning, seduction, deception was her natural gift. Poison would be her weapon, and she had tricked the brute into eating it, happily, of his own free will. In this way she would save herself and I, her love.

I watch, as the bandit gorges himself on the food, and my wife smiles ever so sweetly at him, patting him on the head like a beloved dog. I know it is only a matter of time before he drops dead. I would laugh, if my mouth were not bound by this gag. I watch, waiting for him to stumble, to choke, to slump over dead. I watch. I watch. I watch.

My wife takes a bite of meat. I look on in horror, as she begins eating. What is this, I ask? What is she doing? Why would she eat food that she herself has most certainly poisoned? I watch as the lady satisfies herself, as she sups on the various delicacies laid out before her, as the bandit feeds her small portions of food, and she nibbles, no snaps, at his fingers.

It occurs to me that only one food item need be poisoned, and it may be that he has already eaten it. Hence why she did not begin eating straightaway as soon as she obtained the food. She didn't want to arouse suspicion, but she didn't want to risk eating the poison either. Clever, clever girl. I watch as they continue to eat heartily, and my lady smiles at him, flirts with him, leading him closer to his doom.


She is lying in his arms now, still talking to him, still lulling him to his doom. The bandit seems sluggish now, more exhausted, as the poison begins to take it's toll. Like a cat playing with a mouse, she smiles at him, beaming at him, playing with his hair, distracting him from any suspicion that something may be amiss. I know that my freedom will soon be at hand.

He draws her to him, probably still thinking that he is in the position to ravish her. I almost want to smirk, knowing that his last moments are fleeting and nigh. Genevieve pulls herself up to his ear, and whispers something in it, what I do not know.

The bandit roars, as she bursts off of him with a laugh...no a scream. She has told the fiend what fate awaits him, and now he tries to seize her, to drag her down with him into the underworld. He stumbles to his feet, and in a drunken stupor, launches after her. She is fleet of foot, darting out of his reach, taunting him, laughing at his impotence, as he falls, regains his footing, and launches after her again. Again and again she backs just out of his reach, mocking him, enraging him with the sight of her pink tongue, even briefly flipping the front hem of her skirt to show the brute the flower of her womanhood that was slipping ever further out of his reach.

I watch tensely, as tightly bound as I was when this began, the ropes not giving an inch. I am thrilled, but also scared; she darts ever so closely to his grasp, almost as though she wants to be caught. I know this is to enrage the beast, but at the same time, I know that this is a dangerous gambit: it would be all too easy for him to grasp her by a sleeve or a hem or torn strip of clothing, and pull her back into her grasp: even dying of poison, it would be a simple thing for a man his size to crush her windpipe before his own demise.

My heart jumps when he finally catches her, dragging her onto her ass by the hem of her skirt. She rolls onto him, striking him, with girlish blows, on his thick chest, shielded by his leather tunic. They tumble in the mud and grass, and I watch, breathless, unable to move or breathe or do anything but watch. There is nothing for her but to reach in his waistband, take his knife, and put and end to the beast. He struggles to grasp her arms, one second he is able to, one second she is free.

They tumble and roll against the trunk of the tree. He is atop her now, holding down her arms. He doesn't even need to pin her with his knees, so much heavier than her he is. He puts a hand around her neck, to choke her. Now is her chance: now she can take the knife from his waistband with her free hand, and dispatch him, in his final moment of poisoned delirium.

He forces a kiss on her. I wait for the cry, the yelp, as the blade enters his ribs.

It never comes.

He breaks the kiss, rising as though to inspect his handiwork. He releases her other arm.

I want to scream to her, to do it now, that this is her last chance, that there is no other way, that this is the end.

What happens next, it is hard to see, through tear soaked eyes. It looks as though she tries to scramble away again, but I cannot tell. My tears cloud my vision, and when I can next see clearly, he has her firmly in his grasp, one arm around her waist, the other around her throat. They lie facing me, I can see both Genevieve's fear flushed face, and the bandit's. He tilts her head up, kissing her again. But she does not resist. Is she terrified, is she frozen...

I close my eyes, as the bandit's upper arm disappears beneath my lady's dress. I cannot watch: I know not if the poison will take him before he can complete his deed, or if my lady will regain her composure and strike at him with the knife, or if some other circumstance will occur, but I cannot bear to watch. And so I do not.

But even with my eyes closed, my ears are open. Soon I hear soft moans, sobs, as she pleads with the bandit. Pleads with him don't. Pleads with him stop. Over and over again. Don't. Stop. Don't. Stop.

Blood rushes to my ears, drowning out the sounds of the wind and the grass and the birds. But her moans, her sobs, grow louder and louder. The roar of blood in my ears is louder than a crashing tide, and yet it can't silence the cries of agony from my love. With each passing moment, they grow louder, more shrill, more urgent. Finally I can take no more, I must know what he is doing to her!

I open my eyes to a horrific sight: he has her firmly in his grasp, with no hope of escape. He holds her in his lap, one hand around her waist, one hand under her skirt. She is flush red, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face gritted in pure agony as he molests and tortures her. Her skirt flutters, as he moves his hand underneath, and my wife thrusts her head back, her torso seized in agony. She remains frozen like that for what seems like forever, like a statue, a wax figure. Finally, she begins to slump over, as the pain subsides.

Again, her skirt flutters with the movement of his arm, and poor Genevieve tenses once again, throwing her hair back as another wave of pain racks her body. I pray for a heart attack, or a lightning bolt, or something, to kill me, to spare me the sight of this inhumane torture. My slight, tender, loving wife, in the grips of this barbarian, shuddering and flailing in the throes of the worst pain, is something that I cannot take.

The beast draws the torture out, letting her recover from one spasm, before inflicting an even more devastating one. Her body flails back and forth in his lap like a life sized ventriloquist's dummy, her mouth and torso responding with every depraved thrust of his blade or stick or whatever it is he mutilates my wife's flower with. Over and over, she thrashes, and shakes, and quivers, and moans, and sobs.

It seems like hours have passed, by the time he finishes with her. With a final yell, she collapses forward, her blouse dark with her sweat, her hair tousled, her skin glistening with sweat, and flushed with exertion. My wrists are bleeding from trying to break my bonds, I am drenched in sweat, and piss, and shame. I pray for death, for the bandit, for my wife, for me. I can barely think straight, I am drowning in my hate for this animal.

My wife rights herself. I am in shock, amazed that she had the constitution to sit properly after what I just witnessed. I have heard stories of women of seemingly slight frame and figure enduring pain and hardships that no man could fathom. Given that women must birth humanity, this is something that I did not disbelieve, but have never witnessed until now.

She rights herself, and looks the brute straight in the face. I wonder, if she is taunting him, showing him how futile his efforts to break her spirit were, before revealing a blade of some kind, and shoving it through his neck.

She takes him by the chin, looks him dead in the eye.

Then she kisses him. Not a peck, or a quick, stolen kiss. A long, deep, wet kiss, that he lustily returns. They sit there, she in his embrace, kissing deeply as though the world around them did not exist. As though I did not exist.

Like a breaking fever, my anger disappears, leaving a calming, obvious clarity in its place: I am defeated. The bandit has vanquished me, but he has not taken my wife: she has given herself to him, of her own free will. As is normal, and natural: the female of the species offers the pleasures of her body and soil of her womb to the fittest male. In the city, with my money and social status, I could pretend that I was that male, but here in nature, the pecking order is clear. The highwayman had proven to be my better in combat, and now he was claiming his prize, his natural right, something that Genevieve was more than willing to offer him.

I realize that my pants are tenting: somehow I have become erect while watching this display. Have I been erect? I have heard stories of men who are angered or fearful becoming involuntarily erect without knowing. Not a moment ago, I would have agreed. But watching Genevieve and this man kiss, hug, fondle each other, I wonder if my erection doesn't now come from something else.


The young woman is on all fours now, shivering as her lover brings her to yet another noisy orgasm. She tosses her head back, thrusting her bare breasts forward: her blouse has long ago been unbuttoned and left to hang round her waist. Her leggings and undergarments, lie tossed aside in the dirt. She is as naked as our horses, save for her muddy, dirt smeared skirt.

The animal is behind her, under her, his face under her skirt, licking her, kissing her. How many orgasms is this now? Six, seven. My cock strains in my pants. I have almost forgotten that I am a captive, so eager am I to touch myself, to relieve my pent up urges that have been excited by this display. How he kisses her, licks her, fondles her. She bares herself for him, willingly, openly, eagerly, in a way that she never did for me when I courted her. It is not that there was no affection in our relationship: indeed, she was kind, and generous with her pleasure, never refusing my kisses or embraces, and even blushing when I approached near. We did share intimate kisses, touches, nether feelings. Once, during a night boating trip, I even fingered her, to what I thought was a stunning climax: she gave a soft moan, and my finger came away somewhat damp. She smiled, and kissed me, and I felt proud that I had pleased the woman I loved.

No longer do I suffer from that delusion. I have watched with frustration, lust, envy, as my captor has brought the sweet Genevieve to orgasm after noisy orgasm. He has licked her in places I have never seen, made her writhe in the dirt like a worm with his fingers and tongue. She has willingly bared herself to him, and yielded to his every invasion with moans and coos and cries of pleasure that I have only heard from animals. My cock throbs in shame, knowing that I have never brought her a single hundredth of such pleasure, that I had no idea what pleasuring a woman was.

I watch as they embrace and kiss again, and my heart is even heavier than it was before: now I know that she is safe, now I know that she is with the man that she deserves, and now I know that man is not me. I pray once again for death, to release me from this shame.


They rest in each others arms now, whispering, talking, occasionally kissing. I no longer strain to hear them, or take much interest in what is being said: it is all sweet nothings, and eventually it will lead to their mating. What happens to me at this point is immaterial: I will never taste the sweetness of Genevieve's lips again, nor do I deserve to.

But I find it curious, that they have not in fact mated yet, not as man and woman proper. Surely he has made her cum, numerous times, but not once has he yet taken down his trousers and mounted her. At this point, I would think it to be foregone: he has vanquished me, and the lady has made her affection for him known. Why not consummate his victory?

For the first time in hours, Genevieve looks directly at me, directly into my eyes. I look down, ashamed to look at her face, but she calls to me, softly, sweetly. I cannot resist gazing into her eyes, beautiful, green eyes that look at me pityingly. She says something, I cannot tell what, it is carried by the wind. Would I like to join them? I do not understand.

She turns to her lover, and says something to him. Then she reaches in the picnic basket. I assume it is to get something to eat, to replenish her strength. She produces a handful of thick cream butter. With her free hand, she undoes her lover's trousers.

A thick pale snake springs from his groin, and both Genevieve and I look in disbelief. The member stands tall, coming halfway up the bandit's abdomen. The lady looks at it hungrily, before giving it a kiss on it's head. I have already witnessed her shamelessly cumming before me repeatedly, now it looks as though I shall have to watch as she offers him the pleasures of her mouth as well.

She slowly licks the shaft up and down, keeping her gaze fixed on me throughout. She kisses the tip of his organ, then, with a grace that I would think impossible for an actual snake, she swallows his member. My eyes go wide, as his shaft disappears down her gullet, into what must be her throat. She holds it there, for five, no ten seconds, her throat muscles visibly clenching, as she continues pressing her face into his groin. I wonder if she is choking, I cannot believe what it is I am seeing.

With the same grace that she devoured his tool, she regurgitates it, leaving it shiny and wet from tip to testicles. She says something to him, and they kiss, before she looks at me again. Once again, she keeps her gaze fixed on me, as she smears the butter cream onto the ruddy wet cock. She coats it, until it is covered in thick, creamy paste, as a pastry covered in cream.

With this done, she kisses him once more. The bandit rises, and approaches me, drawing his knife. I no longer have the strength or care to resist: I await the death that I have been praying for all morning. He approaches me, knife in hand. I steel myself for the death blow, closing my eyes. But it never comes.

I feel a tugging at my waist. I open my eyes: my captor is cutting at my trousers with his knife. With one rip, he slices them in two, leaving them to fall at my waist. My own cock, stiff with a mixture of fear, lust, and shame, springs forth. It is barely much longer than my hand at full mast, and the differences between our two organs is distinct and clear as the bandit stands before me.

The bandit sheathes his knife, and reaches around my head to embrace me. Part of me wonders if he is going to snap my neck, but part of me knows what is coming next.

I moan into my gag as a blunt heat penetrates my anus. With a single thrust, he forces himself into me, filling my ass with hot, wet fire. I reflexively piss myself. The bandit mutters something, what I do not know, as he drives himself deeper into me. I feel my ass splitting as his balls slap against my buttocks. He holds it there for a minute, for what seems like an hour. Then he withdraws slightly, letting the burning feeling subside somewhat. With another sudden thrust, it returns, more fierce than before.

He reams me, against the tree, over and over again. I could barely take one thrust of his organ, I could not imagine how anyone could. He screws my ass for what seems like an hour, forcing his manhood deep inside of me, dominating me even further. He doesn't look at me, or say anything else: this fuck is purely about establishing dominance, to me, and the lady Genevieve. I have seen bulls in the field sometimes mount other bulls they have defeated, as a show of strength to nearby females. The alpha bull will fuck a beta until the defeated beast spills its seed into the soil. The females, already in estrus, will flock to this male, having shown his strength and ability.

So it is with me, what remains of my masculinity is being sacrificed, for the pleasure and satisfaction of lady Genevieve. She kneels in the dirt now, one hand under her dress violently frigging herself, another hand squeezing her exposed breasts, gazing upon my submission, his dominance, as she flushes, bites her lip, shudders ever so sweetly and violently.

I can hear her cry out. Fuck him. Fuck him hard. Make him your bitch. She tosses her head back, and gives a lusty groan of satisfaction, as another orgasm overtakes her.

I have brought the lady pleasure. In my defeat and submission, I have brought the lady more pleasure than I ever did when I was her husband. This, strangely pleases me. My ass tenses, and I quiver, as I cum into my tunic, the fire in my ass leaking through my body in a wave of orgasmic warmth.

My captor stops, and pulls his cock from my flaming ass. Pulling it out hurts almost as much as thrusting it in. He cuts my bonds, letting me slump to the muddy ground. I lay there only briefly, as he picks me up by the hair, bringing me to my knees.

His cock stands stiff before me: he has not cum yet, or if he has, he has not withered. It glistens with shit and blood. He takes it in his hand. I need no order to know what is expected of me. I open my mouth, and begin to clean his tool. Surprisingly, he does not force his cock down my throat, being satisfied as I licked and lapped my filth from his organ. It tastes of shit and iron and sex and acid. I lap it as though it were a fine dessert.

Finally, his tool is clean, the rod shining as clearly as when Genevieve had serviced it earlier. The man fashions a noose out of one of the ropes he had previously bound me with, and places it around my neck. Like a dog on a leash, he drags me over to Genevieve, who watches with fascination.

With me in tow, he bids the lady to stand. As she stands, he kneels. He professes his love to her, his adoration for her, his devotion to her. He flatters her with words dripping with honey, poetic metaphor comparing her to the loveliest of wonders, words that I myself could not have come up with. He asks for her hand in marriage. He offers me as her slave, her pet, or her sacrifice.

The lady considers for a moment. She mulls having me sacrificed to her. She blushes as she does so, feeling under her dress again, and I am certain that I am finished. It is only as the noose is tightened around my neck, that the lady declines: she acknowledges that the thought of my sacrifice for her glory brings her a certain excitement, however as impotent as I may have been as a lover, I have been sweet, kind, and thoughtful to her and in general, and by her reasoning this should count for something. Therefore I should be spared, at least for the time being: I can always be sacrificed later if the other options don't work out.

She considers possessing and selling me as a slave. This entices her, but she also considers that she can't really do anything with me as a slave: I was a noble, and even though I was not powerful, and had no allies as such, I had enough money such that someone could easily track down my captors, and kill them in hopes of a reward. Also, slavers tend to have poor reputations for how they treat their slaves, thus bringing the previous reasoning into play.

She then considers having me as a pet. As a pet, I would be a servant to the new couple's desires, cleaning them sexually, serving as a substitute fuck toy when Genevieve was indisposed or it pleased her lover, performing manual field labor, and eating their scraps. Genevieve kneels, and asks me if I would like to be their pet.

Without hesitation, I answer. I would very much like to be their pet.

With that, the brute hands Genevieve my leash. He cuts off my tunic, leaving me stark naked before them. They share a loving, warm kiss, one that fills me with happiness and pleasure: even though I will never enjoy the sweet pleasures that Genevieve has to offer, I may watch, and witness, and endure, as she is loved and pleasured and pleased by her new lover. If the price for Genevieve's happiness is my humiliation, it is one I am happy to pay.


It is with a giddy playfulness that the couple frolics through the tall grass into the clearing. They disappear through the tall reeds and cattails, leaving me alone, as they consummate their new marriage. I am alone here, naked, behind the grove, the carriage and horses completely obscured from my view. As for Genevieve and her new lover, they are not that far away, perhaps a dozen or so yards, but they are mostly obscured from view by the grass that somewhat sparsely surrounds the clearing. The gently blowing wind occasionally parts and shifts the natural privacy screen, providing glimpses of varying clarity of what takes place beyond.

A scene of foreplay plays out, in parts, one moment they stand together, kissing as husband and wife. The grasses close, and the wind is still. When next the grass moves, the man stands shirtless, as his woman kisses and fondles his rippled, muscular chest. With another rustle, they disappear, I cannot see them anywhere.

A pair of trousers flies through the grass. There is no question as to what is happening now: the grasses make a lovely privacy screen, but they do nothing to muffle sound. A cry of pleasurable agony carries through the clearing and echoes through the lea. Loud, sobbing pleas for mercy, change to high pitched squeals of ecstasy, punctuated by deep, guttural grunts.

It is a beautiful music, and my cock rises as the harmony of their mating fills the air. The wind blows again, and through the grass I can see them. They mate in the mud like animals, she on her back, legs raised in feminine surrender, as her lover ruts in her. He glistens in sweat, his powerful ass muscles flexing under his skin, as he bores into her with his tool. She wraps her legs around him, and begs for more, pleads for more. How weak I am: I could barely stay conscious when her lover took my ass, and yet she not only endures, but revels as he takes her.

I grunt, unable to satisfy my lust with my hands bound behind me. A stream of piss arcs through the air, the most tribute I can pay to them in this state. The grass closes, leaving only a broken outline visible to me.


Her face is wet with tears, her face as red as an apple. He holds her against the rock, choking her. She sputters and gasps, her mouth frothing as her lover's hand clamps around her neck. Thin streams of liquid rapidly spurt from her nether lips, onto the ground and her lover's thighs. He kisses her, and she wraps a leg around his waist, drawing her close to him.

I can see them clearer, as they stand against the rock, fucking. The sun is three quarters of the way through the sky now, it will be dusk soon. Even as the sky dims, they mate obscenely, slamming each other at the same pace as they did when they first began fucking. Their bodies are covered in mud and sweat and sex now, and they look no different from field animals bucking in the meadow. I marvel at his stamina, her endurance. Their muscles strain and flex in time, though separated by two skins, as one beast, writhing, struggling, in a way that is simultaneously graceful and chaotic.

The lady quivers, and he releases her, letting her slump to the ground, briefly out of my view. He picks her back up, pushing her chest against the rock. His cock is still erect, though it is dripping with cum and the lady's honey. He parts her legs, and with a mighty thrust, slams into her ass.

Genevieve cries out, louder than I have heard her cry for hours. He is taking her ass now, as he did mine. I watch morbidly, wondering if she can withstand his forceful invasions. She seems to take it limply at first, doing nothing as her lover reams her ass. I wonder if this is her limit: she has taken him for so long, so hard, I wonder if she is about to break.

The lady turns her head to her lover. Her face is wet with tears. She kisses him deeply, lustily, obscenely. They are tears of joy, tears of eagerness and desire. He ruts in her with the force of a bull, I can see blood spatter on the lady's fair ass, as his rhythm quickens, and his muscles tense. He reaches between her legs, she cries out in pleasure. Again, and again, and again, until she flings her head back and lets loose an animalistic, high pitched squeal of delight. Oh how beautiful they look together, as their bodies quiver in rapturous unison. My cock has never been more erect. Even on such occasion when Genevieve and I were right next to each other, I never felt such lust, such arousal. There is no altar here, no bishop, no ceremony, no decoration, but truly I am witnessing a blessed union, the most beautiful I have ever seen. Nothing could be more right.


The sun hangs just above the treetops when the lovers emerge. They are flush with passion, and even coated in various sex and grime, shine with a radiance that only passionate lovers can. They are both shamelessly naked, their genitals dripping with satisfaction. Honey and milk oozes down Genevieve's thighs, and her lover's cock finally hangs low, having been satiated. My own cock stands ever so erect in frustrated tribute.

They stand by the clearing for a moment, simply chatting, holding each other, kissing. They look as if they are talking about dreams of the future, and the recent pleasures of the past.

The wind blows the scent of their sex to me, as I sit kneeling, my inadequate cock at full erection, begging for release. It is a sweet, unmistakably female scent, mixed with the heavy musk of male sex, and a fading tint of wedding perfume. I piss again in happy frustration, and Genevieve giggles, and whispers something in her lover's ear.

They stand before me like one inspecting a stable animal, genitals still dripping. Genevieve asks her lover if he thinks I will do something. I have no idea what something is, but if Genevieve asks, I cannot imagine refusing.

Clean her, she orders, gracefully hooking one leg over my shoulder, placing her wet, cum filled cunt in my face. At sunrise this morning, I could not imagine sucking the cum of another man out of Genevieve’s pussy. Now I want to do nothing more.

I begin from the back of her cunt, scooping the cum out with my tongue: I have no experience in the art of cunnilingus, I have never pleased a woman, any woman like this. I doubt that I could do as well as her lover even if I tried. But all that has been asked of me is to clean her, and that I can do.

At once, the seed is tangy, acrid, earthy. No doubt from being mixed with Genevieve’s juices deep inside her. Thick cum gives way to thin, runny cum: this is older cum, most likely the remnants of her lover's earlier loads that did not plant itself in her womb.

I can feel the warmth of the lady's cunt as I lap the juices and dried stains from her nether regions. She smears it in my face, over my nose and lips. With every breath now, I smell her well fucked sex. It drives me to madness, my balls wanting to burst all over the ground. My hips begin quivering spasmodically, in a futile effort to climax.

Both Genevieve and her lover begin to laugh, with her lover commenting that he has won his first wager with her. Knowing how she will pay him back does not help my frustration.

She then places her ass in my face, and spreads her pale asscheeks. Pink cream flows from her tortured anus, and I suck at it, as the sweetest honey. I lovingly lick the blood spatter from her cheeks, from her asscrack, from her taint, and plunge my tongue into her asshole, to make sure that I get every last drop of blood and sex.

She orders me to stop licking, and to hold my mouth open. Calmly, she tells me that she is about to urinate. She has barely finished saying this, when piss begins to stream from her mouth. I have no choice but to swallow, as quickly as I can. Her urine is acrid, and it washes the taste of sex and blood from my mouth. She pisses for a minute straight, and I wonder how such a delicate lady can hold so much piss. When she is done, she smears herself on my face once again, cleaning herself.

She pats me on the head, praising me, calling me a good pet. My cock throbs as a dog's tail would wag. She coos pityingly, and asks me if I would like to cum. I nod affirmatively. The lady asks her lover, she addresses him as master, if she may grant me a servant's release. Her lover agrees to this, so long as I clean my mess when I am done, and submit to his discipline afterwards.

I shudder in eager anticipation: a servant's release is called such, because it is an accepted way for a lady to pleasure a male servant or slave that she wishes to reward, without losing any of her purity. When so inclined to grant such, the lady will offer the servant or slave her shin, or outer thigh. The aroused male then satisfies himself on the soft flesh of her leg, like a dog humping the end of a table. When the male reaches climax, he then cleans the spilled seed from her leg, with cloth or with tongue.

The lady pulls herself closer to me, repositioning herself, and placing her foot at the base of my cock. I look up at her, she tells me to go ahead, in the sweetest voice.

I need no further prodding. In an instant I have scrambled up to her shin, and begin frotting against it. Lady Genevieve has given me such release before, but always against a boot, or a dress, or a legging. Now my cock touches her bare skin. It feels like the softest velvet, and my body is flooded with quivering warmth. It is not even a count of five, before I shiver, and surrender my seed onto her shin.

The lady laughs, and remarks that she has lost her second wager with her lover. They embrace and kiss, as I dutifully lick up the pathetic mess I have made.

When her shin is clean, I kneel back on my heels. Her lover stands erect again. I know what is to come next. I lie back in the dirt, ass up, face in the mud, and he takes me, filling my ass once again with burning heat, though this time around his cock slides into me a little easier. My body shakes, as her master, our master, disciplines me, fucks me further into submission.


It is freshly noon of the next day, when we break camp. Even this, is relatively early given the events of the previous night. After I was disciplined, Genevieve and her new husband, Veltin, made camp. They ate from his supplies, and fed me the scraps. After that, they fucked throughout the night, in their warm tent, while I lay outside, naked, as a dog.

They were clothed now, Veltin in his tunic and trousers, Genevieve in a dress taken from the wardrobe packed for her in our carriage. Her white wedding dress still lay in the muddy clearing. There was no reason to retrieve it: it represented a promise, one that no longer mattered.

Veltin led the lady to the carriage, and helped her back in the coach, kissing her hand as he did so. He then led me, noose around my neck, to his horse. He picked me up, and lay me on my back, tying me to the horse's back. This was to signify that I was now property: when other travelers passed by, seeing me belly up with my cock raised to the heavens, they would know that I was vanquished property, belonging to the man and woman of whose carriage I was in tow. As the carriage starts off, I know not where we are headed. It is not important: I am just a pet now, my only duty in life being to serve and service Genevieve and her husband Veltin. The strong thrive, and the weak serve, as it should be.

Honeymoon: The Sweetest Moon odiscipline!!xlAmp4BJLj 18/05/07(Mon)16:04 No. 25536 ID: 3093c9


This story contains the following:

MF, MM, oral, anal, vaginal, rape, castration, crucifixion, general torture, murder, implied pedo, ntr, voyeurism, (nonsexual) vomit, urination (sexual and nonsexual), masturbation

In addition, there are most likely numerous other things in the text of the story, that many would find offensive, that I did not include in the story description. With the above being said, do NOT read this story if you don't wish to be exposed to any of those themes.

If you ignore this warning, and choose to read ahead anyway, you lose any right to be offended, consider this your preemptive STFU about the offensive content: the fantasy vs reality argument has been had for millions of man years at this point on the internet, if you can't differentiate between the two at this point, that is your problem, not mine, but I don't care to hear about it.

To be clear: constructive criticism is always welcome, I simply do not care to hear from the jackass who feels the need to moralize about gayness, ntr, pedo, and whatever in all such fiction.

I hope everyone enjoys.

Honeymoon: The Sweetest Moon (The Wedding Day Part Two)

[Eight Days Ago]:

"I like you Gisil. I've liked you ever since you brought me my first honeycake. I like you as much now as I did when I was a little girl and you brought me roses you plucked from your manor's garden."

Lady Genevieve sits the brush on the table, crosses her legs, and hunches over, so that we are at eye level.

"But I will never love you. From now until my dying day, I will never love you. When I go to the creator, doubtless that my sins against you will be many and vulgar. I admit this, both to my pleasure, and to my shame. But of all of sins against you, let us not say that deceit is among them. What I tell you now, I say as truly and solemnly as any blood oath, and before anything else is said between us, you must understand this: I do not love you, I have never loved you, I never will love you."


[One Fortnight and Seven Days Ago]

It has been three days since I have lost the duel, my standing, my wife. Now I am property, chattel, bound naked and upturned to the victor's horse. I have been bound here for 3 days, naked, in various states of erection. My wounds, hastily cleaned and bandaged by Genevieve, have crusted over, but various insects still bite at them. I am gagged, but even if I were not, I would not yell out, no one who could hear me would care.

I am scratched and pricked, as we have walked under various tree branches and rough underbrush. I am covered in various bloody welts as well, from the horse walking past these branches and bushes with no care to the bound animal on it's back. I endure this quietly, only wincing with every new scratch or cut.

I am fed sparsely: when we stop for camp, I am given some water from a flask, and the scraps of the couple's previous meals for the day. Genevieve laughs as her lover Veltin feeds me as a dog. I am past shamed by this: the scraps they offer me taste finer than the sweetest repast I have ever had as a noble. They are not many though, and by the second day, my stomach growls regularly. And yet even this is not unbearable.

The torture comes after I am fed. When the lovers are done feeding and mocking me, they turn to each other, and mate. They fuck like animals, their cries echo throughout the woods, and ring in my ears. Their grunts and moans, the lusty sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, the Lady's gags and gurgles as her lover choke fucks her, her giggles and squeals as he brings her to another wet, trembling orgasm. And I lie, bound to this beast, unable to relieve myself, unable to even look to see what it is they do to each other. That is unbearable, and with every stop, I pray that they will simply tire of me, and kill me, so that I may not be tormented by yet another night of the beautiful sounds of their copulation, so near to me, so unreachable.

On this, the evening of the third day, we finally enter a clearing. I do not know where we are until I hear Veltin welcome his Lady to their new home. He unhitches the horses, the one I am on included, and sets them off, presumably to graze in the meadow. The last I hear of Veltin and Genevieve is their bubbling laughter as they chase each other into their new home, most assuredly to fuck each other's brains out.

I am left tied to the beast, as it wanders under the chill, cloudless night sky.


[Seven Days Ago]

"You are improving." Genevieve smears my anus with butter. "This time I'm going to go a bit faster. Remember what I told you."

I grunt as the ivory dildo cleaves my ass. After several days of being fucked in the ass, it is no longer an unbearable pain when something slides up my rectum. The dildo itself is smaller than Veltin, and Genevieve is much weaker than he, making the exercise less brutal.

With every thrust, I clench my ass, and exert myself, as though I am trying to push the dildo out. I know I will fail: this exercise is for Veltin’s benefit, not mine. "As the Lady of the house, it is my duty to ensure that all things in it are pleasing to my Master," she has told me. "This includes the services my pet provides to him."

Genevieve is nowhere near as strong as Veltin, but her thrusts are forceful enough, deep enough, and soon I have surrendered another load onto the pine floor, which I quickly lick up.

"Even better," she says, patting me on the head. "Your control is improving. You tire out less. Pretty soon your ass will actually be a decent substitute for my pleasures."

I kneel as she refastens my chain to my collar. "When Veltin took my virginity, I thought I would die. I had never felt anything so thick or hard in me. Even my biggest dildo didn't compare to him." She dipped the dildo in a bowl of water, and polished it clean with a rag. "Of course my lust for him eased his entry, and I soon learned how to endure him, both to the increase of his pleasure and my own."

"When he took you, in the field that day, I somewhat pitied you. The way he took your ass. You looked so beautiful. You looked as though you were about to burst. I cannot imagine how painful it was for you: weak though I am, nature has given women the strength to endure such violations. Your sex has no such natural ability or experience."

She begins to comb her long black locks. "I'm sure that the experience was quite different than what you were used to with the commoner girls," she says as she ties her hair back. "I'm sure that you have fond memories of those days, particularly now."

I lower my head and say nothing, looking away.

"I wonder how many dalliances you had. Oh, you needn't look away, we ladies know that all you noble and royal men have lovers on the side. Even hopeless dandies suck as Lord Farley had three Mistresses. Tell me, who did you have your eye on."

I remain bowed, still looking away.

"I know you were in the stables a lot. Did Lauren catch your eye? Such a beautiful little nymphet. Were she a little older, and I could be assured of her discretion, I would have invited her to my bedchamber. Or maybe had her in a stall. I'm sure I would not have been the first."

I say nothing.

"The gardener girls were lovely sights. I particularly liked how Bethany had the reddest, sweetest cheeks, even when she wasn't blushing or embarrassed. And young Crystal was such a cocktease: always flirting with the lords, making subtle innuendo, even in the presence of her betters. I know several of the Lords would discipline her behind the sheds for her wanton, flirtatious behavior. Of course, I do not know how effective it was, as both she and they enjoyed it so much, and so regularly. Tell me, was she as good with her tongue as it was said she was?"

I remain silent.

"Of course, maybe none of them ever caught your eye, you always were so aloof and quiet and busy. Tell me, who did you fancy yourself with?"

Still I give no response.

"Come now, there is no need to be modest in this situation. I promise, I will not punish you if you tell me about your affairs, nor will I incite my husband to punish you in my stead. Tell me a story, who have you shared your bed with?"

I continue to remain mute, sad, ashamed, trying to hold the tears back.

"Will you not tell me sweet Gisil?"


Genevieve slams the comb on the table at which she sits. "I demand an answer pet," she orders. "You will tell me who you have fucked before me, or I will have Veltin castrate you for your disobedience as soon as he returns."

I look up at her. "No one Lady Genevieve."

She looks at me in disbelief. "None? You were a wealthy nobleman with no less than 50 beautiful girls in your employ, and you availed yourself of none of them?"

"None Lady Genevieve," I reply. "Nor the boys. I did not engage in sexual activity, save with my hand. I kept myself," I pause, knowing what Genevieve has said beforehand, "for the Lady I love, the only Lady I have ever loved."

There is a heavy silence between us. Finally Genevieve speaks.

"That day, in the field, was your first mating? You had never known another before then?"

"You are correct Lady," I reply.

She looks at me for a moment. Then she leans down, and kisses me. Not a peck, or a steal. Nor is it forceful. It is a long, deep kiss, a sweet kiss. A kiss like she would give to Veltin. Her tongue is both loving and yielding, and my stiff cock slaps against my tummy, as our lips and tongue embrace.

As suddenly as she embraced and kissed me, she breaks it, and heads outside. I do not know why the urgency, I assume that she is sick, or has forgotten to attend to something outside.

When she returns, her face is puffy and her eyes are red. She sniffles: the pollen has kicked up, and Lady Genevieve, delicate as she is, must have succumbed to an episode of hay fever. She cleans her face, and sits at her loom.

Nothing more is said for the rest of the evening.


[One Fortnight And Some Days Ago]

I do not remember the past several days. They are a blur of brightness, darkness, sharp bites, yells, yelps, howls, and other sounds, as I drift in and out of consciousness. At times I fully awake, to see the sun has jumped across the sky from when I last saw it, or that the moon has emerged since I last blinked.

Sometimes, it gently rains, for an hour or two. It is enough to slake my thirst, to moisten my lips. I suck the water through my gag, it tastes of leather as it leaches past the leather strip. I do not care, it is the finest drink I have ever had.

My face burns: my cock randomly stiffens, particularly when I need to urinate. Tied as I am, when I piss, it is in an arc, that sprays my face and upper body. The rain both soothes and agitates this problem: by falling on my body, it washes me, but by drinking it, it fills me with more piss to coat myself with.

Every so often I hear a hoary moan, or squeal, or yelp from far off in the distance. I know not whether these are from nearby animals, or the lovers sharing their delight of one another. It makes no difference, I am here, forgotten. Veltin will impregnate his woman, she will carry to term and birth, and eventually, they will come to ride their horse, and find the remains of my corpse bound to it. Such is nature, I think to myself, as I fade out of consciousness.


"I can't believe you left him out there for three whole days!"

"He's your pet, you are responsible for him."

"Well I did not tie him up there in the first place! How would I have gotten him down? As my husband, you should have an answer for these things."

"I would at that, but these things would be much easier if you didn't throw yourself on me and demand to be satisfied when I go to take care of such things, dear wife."

"When did I do such a thing?"

"The morning after we arrived home, and then after lunch, and then that evening, and then lunch of the next day. I've barely had time to attend to the crops, so needy and lustful you are, woman."

"Well, you must forgive me. I was on my way to my honeymoon, when a roguish bandit brutalized my husband and dragged me off to be ravished against my will. The experience left me scarred, frustrated, and constantly aroused."

"So this is my fault then?"

"You're married now dear Veltin: rule number one is that it is always your fault, even when it isn't."

"Is that it then?"

"Yes, it is."

"So given the choice between neglecting you, and neglecting my goods and property, you would have me neglect my goods and property?"

"Of course."

Veltin smiles, "Well, I suppose that that is a choice that we both can live with."

The two lovers kiss, naked as jaybirds, their thighs caked with dried sex juices, and their genitals wet with fresh ones. Normally, I would have stare at them in joyous awe and lust as they fondle and tease each other to another imminent mating session. For the moment however, I am thoroughly devoted to devouring a slice of beef and bowl of clean water I have been given, having not eaten anything at all for at least 3 days.


When I have finished my meal, the Master outlines the new order to me. The rules are simple, straightforward. I am a pet, less than a slave, to Master Veltin and Mistress Genevieve. I eat their scraps, I clean them when they demand. While the couple is often naked during their honeymoon, I will never wear clothes again, I am always to remain naked, with hands bound behind me. I must always traverse on my knees or my belly: I am never to stand at my full height. Arousal is permitted, but I may only satisfy myself without express permission in celebration of Master and Mistress's mating, while it occurs. I am allowed to do this on a shallow, fur covered incline, just wide enough for me to straddle and hump against. The fur is soft, and it feels like humping the Lady's shin as she wears a silken legging. At night, I am to sleep outside in a pen outside the cabin. It protects from the bitterest cold, but is a far cry from the warm bed and sheets I am used to. I am never to speak, save by their permission, and even then, nothing more is expected from me than a yes Mistress or Master.

The Master recites these rules, without malice or hate. He states them plainly, matter of factly, as the victor of our duel, and owner of me and his wife. This is his domain, I am now his property, as is his wife. I only live through my obedience, and the couple's unified pleasure: he makes it very clear that the moment either one of them is displeased with me, is the end of my existence.

When he is finished, I nod my head, signifying my acceptance of all the Master has told me. Then I roll onto my back, and spread my legs, and the Master mounts me, as Genevieve giggles, and fingers herself...


They are rutting in the corner now, the drum of their bodies slamming against the hardwood floor echoing through the house. Loud squeaks are heard, as the Lady is forcefully screwed against the wax polished planks of the cabin, her sweaty back rubbing against the floor as a wet rag on a pane of glass. The apparent discomfort of this is not enough to keep them from continuing to mate like animals. There is no place in this house that has not served as their mating bed: they have mated in the kitchen, before the hearth, against the walls, on the table, on the firewood pile. This is to say nothing of how they often mate in the field as depraved animals, where I cannot easily see them, being chained often to my solitary corner pen of the house.

None of this stops me from giving tribute to them. Whenever the lovers occasion to mate, I am allowed to relieve my frustration on the soft fur incline provided to me. My worship of them lasts only seconds, as I have the stamina of neither Master nor Mistress, and the soft, warm friction of the fur against my cock is too much for me to bear. It only takes moments before my thighs quiver, my balls tense, and I waste my seed into dead fur, a pathetic imitation of the scenes of love and passion that I witness before me.

Their backs are to me, I can only see their asses, as they sinuously squirm and struggle together. Master's balls swing low and heavy, audibly slapping against the Mistress's sopping cunt. Passion milk leaks from her slit, dribbling down her ass, puddling onto the floor. Her legs are raised in eager surrender, as she moans like a speared animal. Occasionally, she locks her raised legs around her lover's waist, so that he may invade her faster, harder. He pounds her like a mechanical butter churn, his tempo constant, his intensity never waning. Every so often, the Lady's legs quiver, and wrap extra tightly around his trunk, as evidence of the Lady's pleasure streams from her slit, but he never wavers or slows in his churning, spearing thrusts.

When finally he does cum, he collapses onto her, and they kiss and lick and suckle each other as they rest in each other's embrace. I have ceased masturbating some time ago, my seed now fully soaked into the fur of my humping horse. My cock is stiff again, but I have no desire to satisfy myself now, I know what is next.

Genevieve summons me, and I scamper over to the couple. Veltin pulls his thick, long cock from her shaft, and hot, milky goo pours from the gaping slit as his cock head pops out. I quickly place my mouth on her cunt, ensuring that none of the mixture is wasted on the floor. After two weeks of learning to drink their sex, the taste of them together only grows sweeter with every serving.

I suckle every drop from her cunt, lick every drop from her taint, and her asscrack. Then I lap the puddle of sex that they have dripped and sprayed on the floor, like a dog lapping at spilled gravy. My face pressed against the hardwood panels, my ass raised in anticipation.

My ass splits, searing, as Master mounts me, taking the opportunity to establish dominance once again. Unlike his previous coupling with Genevieve, this is a quick rut, and he cums almost as quickly as I do. When he is finished, he presents his tool to me to clean. I lap it clean, and then lick my cum from the floor. With a shoving kick, I am sent back to my corner, as Genevieve and Veltin begin to fondle and tease each other once again, in preparation for another round of mating bliss.


[Six Days Ago]

The cock cage is surprisingly loose, when I am not aroused. It lets piss, water, flow freely through it, and as such it can be left on indefinitely. But it is rare that I am not aroused: in Veltin’s absence, Genevieve regularly pleasures herself. She starts her morning with an hour long frig, that leaves her sweaty and flushed, and my cock stiff. The smell of her lingers, as she goes throughout her day, tidying the house, preparing her meals, and attending to various crafts: Lord Veltin has left her any number of tools with which to keep herself occupied while he is out getting supplies for the coming winter season - a pottery wheel, a kiln, a spinning wheel, a sculptor's kit. The Lady is prodigious in creating various lovely artifacts, both for her amusement and pleasure. In the three days since Veltin has left, the Lady has managed to create the better part of a full dinnerware set, as well formed and delicate as any china from the far eastern lands. Her noble learning shows through, as she kneads, molds, and sculpts the moist lumps of clay into plates, pots, cups, vases, adorned with the most beautiful patterns.

I suspect that she might even be done by now, but that she stops every so often, and begins to pleasure herself at her worktable, or in the garden, or in the middle of the floor. There is no ceremony, or pomp to it: when desire takes her, she slides a finger, or two, or three, into her tight, pink slit, and with a series of audible grunts, friggs herself, massaging her breasts and biting her lip as she teases herself to ever more rapturous heights. Almost casually, the Lady will quiver, her toes digging into the wood floor, as a thin milky string of happiness streams onto the floor.

She does not clean it, nor does she call me over to lick it up. If the Lady does not resume pleasuring herself (which happens just as often as it does not), she will continue about whatever task it was before she began pleasuring herself, as though nothing had happened. Her scent continues to linger, as her perfume soaks and dries into the floor where she leaves it. And with every burst, my constant torment grows that much more, as the scent of her sex constantly stiffens my cock against it's iron prison.

She roams the house nude, her beauty unshielded by any gown or fabric. Her long dark locks cascade freely down her shoulders, her pale skin stands in contrast to the brown tones of the rest of the house. I cannot keep my eyes from her: her nipples are always erect, and her thighs always glistening with the juices of her constantly leaking sex. She yearns for him, with every pore of her being, and with every orgasm, she moans his name softly, in tribute, and in longing. I find myself longing for him as well, so that he may continue to satisfy her, and dispel the dark mood of her heart.


"Just a little longer," the Lady says.

I clench my ass again, and almost manage to hold the dildo where it is. The Lady grins, and gives it an extra push, causing me to grunt as my seed shoots against the cock cage, and drips onto the floor once again.

"Good boy," Mistress says, patting me. "You made it halfway through this time" she says, turning the hourglass over.

I begin dutifully lapping the cum I have spilled: with my hands bound behind me, and the cock cage around my organ, this reaming was the closest to orgasm I could come. It felt nowhere near as pleasing as when I would mount my hump horse, or even when Veltin would mount me, but it was a welcome relief, after a day of watching Lady Genevieve continually please herself.

"You're improving, you did far better than you did yesterday. Veltin might even be pleased with the stamina you are building up. Might be. He'll probably just rut your ass harder to get it over with quicker." She dips the dildo in a bowl of warm water, and begins polishing it. "Oh how I miss him. It's only been three nights, and it feels like forever. I hope to have the dinner set made by tomorrow, I want it to be my gift to him. I suppose I could just give him the set you gave me as part of my dowry, but that would just seem wrong. Besides, that can be the common dinnerware." Lady Genevieve smiles as she polishes the molding and grooves of the shiny white phallus.

"There, all clean," she says, as she returns the dildo to its holding case. "My, I don't think that I've gotten so much use out of this since attending Lord Malthus’s concerts. My, he was so good with his fingers, such beautiful music he could make, on the piano, on the harp, on the tender pussies of the ladies." Lady Genevieve reaches for the dildo case, and reopens it. "Perhaps I have put this away too early," she says, as she begins another round of spontaneous self pleasure.

At least this time she cums in my vicinity, and I am allowed to lick up her juices when she finally spurts them upon the wood grain.

"Oh Gisil," she says, as she removes the slimy tool from her birthing slit, and offers it to me to clean, "you should have attended more concerts. You would have been amazed at how eager the ladies were to surrender their virtue after one of his recitals."

"It is a shame, really, that you did not enjoy more of the delights available to you when you were free. I mean women, if it isn't obvious." Genevieve continues as I lick her dildo clean. "I honestly thought you already were fucking the servants and maids and peasant girls like every other lord. Had things taken a different turn, I would not have minded if you had continued to do so, even while we were married." She takes the dildo from me, and places it back in her case. "But who knows. You may still yet. Who knows what could happen between now and three days from now, when Master returns. My lust for him makes me so weak, so silly, so absent minded. Other than this dildo, I barely remember where I keep anything. I might very well put your key in there with it, and completely forget to put it up when I retire to bed. I am quite sure you wouldn't waste the opportunity to abscond should it present itself in such a manner. You may no longer be a Lord, but with my dowry money in the coach, and any number of mountain towns in the north in the opposite direction of where my Lord has gone to trade, you could easily escape there, and live a reasonably comfortable life with any number of women." The Lady pecks me on the cheek, and refastens my collar, before closing my pen.

"The hour grows late, and I must be off to bed. Good night, pet, may we both wake to a better day." And with that, the Lady retires to her bed, naked. In her haste, she leaves her dildo case next to my pen, closed but unlatched. Not really an oversight, as the doors are locked, there is no one in the house but her and me, and I would not dare to touch such a personal instrument of the Lady's, even to set it right, without her express permission.


[One Week And Six Days Ago]

The mud is wet, cold, slimy. The smell of dirt, grass, and pollen fill my nose, and I tilt my head to the side, so that my face may not sink further in. Light rain falls in small puddles, and the cold wind tingles and stings the exposed parts of my naked body. I do not squirm, or complain: the warmth of Mistress's lust makes it bearable.

She lies on top of me, her ass resting snugly in the small of my back, as Veltin viciously plows her silly. I serve as her mattress, keeping her sublime naked body from touching the mud, while she mates with her husband. I sink deeper into the muck, as the couple atop me grunt and mate like animals. Genevieve's lust pours through me like the heat from a fireplace, a comfort that helps me endure the cold of the wet mud.

He has been thrusting into her for an hour now. I feel a warm trickle spill onto my back: she's cum again. I have lost count of how many times the Lady has yielded to his pleasures, and her cunt has rewarded him with the juices of surrender, spilled onto my back. My cock is stiff, unsatisfied, in the cold, wet muck, in contrast to Lord Veltin’s member, buried in the Lady's soft, warm, wet cunt. She pants and moans like a bound and tortured animal, sobbing, groaning, pleading, squealing in my ear. When Veltin finally cums, they cum together, and he collapses on her, pushing my body almost completely into the mud.

The couple lies on my back, kissing passionately. I lie quietly, saying nothing, serving them as is my new position. I have never been so close to their passion, never been so close to Mistress when she truly came. My cock is so stiff, so unsatisfied. I am so happy, so frustrated. Finally, Mistress speaks.

"My Lord?" she asks coyly.

"Yes goddess."

"I have a wish."

"My Lady, are you not pleased? I have pleasured you for an hour nonstop, give me but two minutes to rest and I shall continue."

"No darling, you satisfy me more than I or any other woman could dream," she says, audibly kissing him. "No, I am quite pleased. It's just, that I feel sad."

"What saddens you?" Veltin asks.

The Lady's voice takes on an impish tone. "Well, as you've said, you have fucked me good and proper on this mattress for the past hour. I bet he's so frustrated."

"I suppose he would be," Veltin replies, sounding almost sympathetic. "Well, when we retire for the night, he can finish himself off on his humping horse."

"But it's getting late. What if we should desire to retire here?"

"There are plenty of wet and mossy logs and stones he can fuck himself against. Besides, he's a pet. Suffering unsatisfied lust for a single night will not kill him," Veltin says.

"I suppose you're right." Genevieve lies back on me, pressing my head firmly against the mud. "I'm sure this is the best he's ever had it: with the wet mud, and us so close together, I wager that he is cumming into the ground and pretending that he's the one fucking me silly."

I loosen my ass, prepared for what I know is coming next. I feel cold mud smeared against my ass, and into my tortured rectum. The Master has been reaming me regularly for almost three weeks now, my ass is becoming well trained. I still grunt in pain as he reams me, his mud covered cock filling, splitting my ass. It is at once painful and satisfying: I do not know if it is the force of him screwing me into the mud, the slickness of the mud around his cock, my ass becoming used to his punishment. I feel a spasm of warmth emanating from my ass, radiating through my thighs and cock. My ass reflexively clenches, tightens around Master's tool.

He finds this enjoyable, and takes his time screwing me into the mud. Usually he mounts me, cums, and is done with me almost as quickly as he has mounted me. This time, he takes his time, being slow with his thrusts, drawing himself up to his bulbous cock head, before impaling me once again. As he rapes me, his wife fingers herself, moaning and cooing with pleasure, encouraging her man to plow the faggot under them, lustily, nosily kissing him as he splits my ass, and makes me his catamite.

I cum into the dead mud, an impotent, pathetic imitation of Master's copulation with Mistress, his ejaculation into her warm, life giving uterus. I have no illusions about my place in the pecking order. But Lady is right, this is the best I've ever had it. It only becomes better as the night goes on, and the rain continues to beat.

[Four Days Ago]

It is the dead of night, as I am awakened by the opening of my pen. The cabin is dark, and I can see naught but shadows. I hear the lock of my collar being unbound, as I am dragged out. Soft hands roll me over onto my back, and soft lips caress my ear, as they whisper silence.

I feel a weight on my chest, and the scent of Mistress's sex wafts into my lungs. I breathe deeply, only to be silenced by a moist, warm, hairy gag. Even by surprise, in the dark, I know the Lady's slit by now. She rocks and smears her cunt over my lips once, and I begin to clean and service her. But it is strange: she does not sit passively, or lie with legs spread open, as with Master. She ruts my face, aggressively, slamming my head into the wood with her grinding hips.

The dark cabin is filled with the sounds of Mistress's frustration, her knees knocking on the floor as she shifts herself, her grunts as she frots against my face in the same way that I frot against my humping horse. It is barely 2 minutes, before hot warmth gushes onto my face, into my eyes. The Lady only slows for a moment, before resuming her frantic humping with even more gusto than before. As she does so, I can hear her quietly swearing, using pejoratives I would think a Lady such as herself had no familiarity with. Cunt. Whore. Slut. She ruts my face, and cums, and barely takes two breaths before beginning the cycle again.

I do not know how long this continues, but when she cums for the final time, she gives an agonizing sob of pleasure, and clamps my head between her slender thighs. She does not call for her lover, she does not beg him to fuck her. This is strange to me: not once, has she called for her Master while pleasuring herself, something she often does when doing so. But then, this night is strange: this is the first time I have ever had such an intimate encounter with Lady Genevieve, without Master being involved in some way. The taste of her, alone, is something I have never tasted. It is tangy, musky, fresh, in a way that the two of them together could never be. I silently thank Mistress for giving me the opportunity to taste her alone, from her fountain of life.

The Lady collapses, leaving her wet, pulsing cunt in my face. She doesn't move, or urge me to do anything, simply lying on my face, resting herself. At one point, I think I hear a sob, not of pleasure, but of sadness, but it quickly subsides.


I am reawakened by the Lady tugging on my chain. Her cum has dried on my face, and I can feel it tense and crack as I open my eyes. I can barely see her by the candle light: she is probing at my cock cage lock, with two slim nails. I am groggy, and have no idea what she is doing, until I hear a click, and the bottom of the cage falls off.

Almost immediately, my cock springs up, free from its iron bond. Mistress removes the other half of the cage, then reaches behind me. I hear another click, and my hands are free. Before I know it, my collar is gone.

And like that, I am a free man.

I have been bound, in one way or another, for almost a month. Being able to move freely, to bring my hands in front of me, to stand. I am breathtaken, I am in awe, I am stunned. I look around, wondering if this is not some kind of trick. I look at Mistress again, kneeling, on the floor, naked, next to my chains. I want to say something to her, to ask her if this is a dream. I wonder if this is a dream. I try to talk, to say something, but words won't come out. I try, but no matter how I struggle, there is only silence. So I stand there, with the Lady at my feet, in silence.

It seems like an hour, before she speaks.

"Over there," she says, pointing into the darkness. I look: in the shadows, is the outline of some mass. I pick up the candle, and approach it. On the table, is a large bag, a smaller bag, and a set of clothes.

"It is your dowry, a third of it anyway, returned to you, along with enough food to get you to one of the frontier towns, and the clothing to keep you from freezing to death should foul weather befall you on your way there." The Lady rose, and wandered to the window. "I suppose you could argue that I still do you a disservice: after all I was not even a faithful wife to you for a single day. Even given the code of our nobility as it is here, no one would disagree that you have paid quite handsomely for something you did not use. You fought for my hand in marriage and our honor. You lost me as a wife, and our honor...well that has been sullied for both of us, in differing ways. Nonetheless, you have done what is required of you. I see no reason to continue in this way, it serves no one anything."

I try to speak, but the Lady interrupts me before I can say anything. "The code applies to nobles and prisoners of war. As I see it, you ceased being a noble when you lost, and Veltin claimed me on his own, not in the name of a country. It no longer applies to you. If nothing else, it says nothing about someone simply fleeing their circumstances and refusing to play the game any longer when given the opportunity. And even if it did, well Veltin isn't a country, you have nothing that would be worth his while to take, and he has a pretty new wife to occupy himself with at home. He won't follow you."

"Is that your wish, Lady Genevieve, that I should leave?"


"What is it that keeps you here? Your love for me?"

"Yes Lady."

"Why do you love me? Because I am sweet, kind, and gentle?"

"Yes Lady."

Genevieve stifles a half laugh, half sob. "Heavens," she says, "I have done quite the job on you." She sits on her marital bed, and motions for me to sit beside her. On shaky legs, I walk over and do so.

"If you knew me, truly, you wouldn't believe any of those things." She pulls me down onto the bed, and swings a leg across my crotch, so that my erect penis is bare against her thigh. Pulling herself close to me, she speaks softly.

"Have you ever watched a blood match? Between slaves or gladiators?"

"No my Lady. I would never do such a barbaric thing," I say, surprised that she even knows of such a thing.

"That is noble and sweet of you Gisil," Genevieve says. "I watched my first duel when I was 8. The winner castrated the loser, and offered me his severed privates as tribute. I rewarded the victor by sucking him until he ejaculated onto my face, in front of the loser, as he bled to death in front of us."

I am stunned by this revelation. Over the past month, I had come to accept that Genevieve was a pragmatic woman, and that I was not worthy of her love or affection, but for her to be wantonly involved in something so base, so violent, so sadistic. I find myself unable to say anything in response.

Somehow, my cock throbs like a hummingbird's wings as she speaks.

"My family would often have such duels in our viewing chambers. Duels where two men entered, and only one man would leave, if the loser were fortunate. In these duels, I would often serve as a prize, and as an arbiter of fates. To the victors of such duels, I would lavish the most exquisite pleasures of my body, the sweetness and softness of my tongue, and the juices of my womb. To the defeated, I would lavish, equally exquisite sexual torments."

She begins to rub her thigh against my stiff, dripping cock. "When I was 10, a slave, not much older than you are now, fell in defeat in a duel. As was the custom, he was stripped naked, hands bound behind him, and I was asked to determine his fate." The Lady sucks my ear, and without thinking, I begin to hump her smooth thigh. "Tell me Gisil, what do you think I did with this poor slave?"

I shudder, enraptured by the waves of pleasure flowing through me. "Mistress is a kind woman, I believe you teased him to orgasm, and let him crawl back to his cell in shame."

Mistress squeezes my testicles, and I grunt momentarily in pain. "You are a silly boy," she says. "I kissed the winner, as a woman, and promised him seven times the same pleasures in victory as I could grant the loser in death."

My mind is foggy from being so near to climax, and my mind can barely grasp Lady Genevieve being involved in such gruesome bloodsport anyway, let alone comprehend her cryptic riddle. "I do not understand, Lady."

"I removed my silken undergarments, wet with my lust. I gave them to the victor, and I asked that he slowly strangle the weak, pathetic loser to death with them. I then took to my knees, and fellated the poor slave, as he struggled and wriggled so uselessly." She licks and sucks my ear, and I shudder pleasurably, even as I am appalled by what I am hearing. "His dying load was probably the sweetest load I've ever tasted. The look on his face as he died was so beautiful. His eyes were so beautiful, he struggled against death for all but the last few seconds, and then, as he came, he clenched his eyes and opened his mouth, as though he wanted to moan in a final pleasurable surrender. He shuddered so pleasantly as he blew his load in me, and I savored every drop of his seed like it was the sweetest honey. Afterwards, we mated on his corpse, and brought each other to far more than seven times the pleasures the poor boy under us received in death."

This description is too much for me to resist, and like an animal, I surrender my pearly seed onto the Lady's naked hips, grunting as I do so. This act that she has described to me, is sadistic, abhorrent, monstrous. And yet I cum harder than I ever have, at the thought of sweet young 10 yr old Genevieve being fucked silly on the corpse of a slave whom she had just ordered to be killed at her behest. I imagined her cherubic, bubbly red cheeks, her lily white skin, her raven black hair, and dazzling, innocent green eyes, looking up at her victim in awe, as she sucked the last of his life essence from his cock as he shuddered in his death throes. Such features that had looked up at me in childlike innocence, and girlish happiness, as I would bring her gifts and sweets, and stroll with her down pastoral trails and soft green meadows, had gazed upon such vicious brutality, and smiled at it.

I am sated, weak, foolish from my cum. I imagine myself to be dreaming, to have half heard the things that she has said, and somehow perverted them into some perverse sexual fantasy that I have dreamed up during the past several weeks. I soon learn that my sexual fantasies were nothing compared to the carnal experiences the Lady has participated in. She tells me lurid, perverse, sadistic tales: of how she hastened the demise of men and women who were being crucified by orally pleasuring them constantly as they hung upon their crosses; of how she suffocated men with her cunt, forcing them to pleasure her while she sat atop their faces, their mouths held open, their heads restrained, their tongues struggling more frantically than even the most attentive, insistent lover, as they struggled for air, until at last, their last living breath was smothered by her birth canal; of how she sucked men to orgasm, and castrated them at the moment of ejaculation, and then drank from the bleeding wound as if it were wine, while being fucked silly by a victorious slave or other noble; of how she and other nobles would rape slave couples, bringing one to orgasm after orgasm continuously in front of the other, making them forsake each other for their rapists, and then, forcing one to sacrifice the other, and sexually rewarding the survivor, before rewarding them with a similar fate.

The list of atrocities seems endless, and boundless. When I think that there is no way that anyone could possibly do anything worse than what has been described, the Lady begins another tale, whose atrocities and cruelty make the previous one pale in comparison. And yet, with every word, my cock is as stiff as a board. At first, I think it is because the Lady is next to me, gyrating against me as she tells me her tales. But as the sun rises, and daybreak begins to creep through the window, she eventually stops, simply holding me, hugging me as she recites her tales, and it becomes clear that it is the words that I find arousing. Occasionally, she masturbates me, when she comes to a particularly gruesome or lurid part. I cum quickly, and the Lady rewards me with a kiss. A kiss with lips that have drank blood and suffocated men to death. Nothing I have ever tasted has been sweeter, and I cum almost instantly every time.


"Why do you tell me these things Mistress?"

The Lady holds me close, as she whispers in my ear. "Because, as I have told you, of the many things I am, a liar is not one of them, not with you. Whatever you choose to do, I wish it to be because you know me, for what I am, and not what you believe me to be."

"You are in love with a tender lily, a delicate flower, who feeds strays and is kind to children and gives to the homeless and plays the harp in the garden. You are in love with a forest nymph, who spreads tender love and joy to everyone she meets, with a voice as sweet as honey and a touch as kind and gentle as silk. You are in love with a prim and proper young Lady, quiet and meek, who curtsies and swoons before every Lord, casts her eyes downward in the presence of her betters, and dares not leave the shade of her manor without being led by her escort. This is how I present myself to the world, and this is how you see me."

"You are a sweet, tender, kind, honorable boy, and you are very similar to the kind of woman you have fallen in love with. You have plucked a flower that looks something like yourself, and that is not shameful: it is natural to wish to do such, and I have gone out of my way to present myself as such."

"But the sweet scent of the flower you have picked is not perfume but poison, the lips you kiss are not coated with honey but with blood. In the light of the day, I am a Lady, so that in the darkness of night I may be a temptress, a whore, a lover of such dark and depraved things, that a boy such as yourself could not even begin to imagine."

"I have lost count of the slaves I have personally tortured and fucked to various deaths, let alone those who I have had sacrificed to my womanhood, even before I had my monthly flow. Even so, I am certain that the number is in the hundreds."

I lay there, ashamed, for the first time in weeks. The things which Lady has told me are vile beyond comprehension. The things that she not only has done, but has enjoyed: it is this which numbs me most. I have heard stories from former soldiers, of the various acts they had to commit during wartime. Often, these soldiers would retell these stories, if not with tears in their eyes, with a reluctance, both to tell the story, and to enjoy the outcome than many people would crown them as heroes for. Genevieve speaks gaily, lustfully, cumming constantly, as she recounts the sexual tortures she inflicted upon her victims. I should be appalled, and terrified. Instead I find myself more erect than I have ever been in my life. I have cum half a dozen times at the Lady's insistence, and I feel as though I could cum half a dozen more. Do I enjoy this?

"What if it doesn't matter?" I ask.

Genevieve looks down at my dripping cock, stiff yet again. She gently grasps it and begins to milk me. "Perhaps it doesn't," she says, "but even so, I could not rest another night, without telling it to you, so you may decide, wisely, without sentiment."

"If I should choose to stay, is this the fate that awaits me at your hands?"

Genevieve continues milking me, and hugs me closely. "There's a difference, between you, and the slaves I have used. I was not, am not, a wanton brute, doing as I will with what I see. All of the slaves I claimed, all of the slaves sacrificed to me, were mine by right, as spoils of war to the victors. I claimed them, and used them, for my pleasure, the same way one might claim cattle or fowl. But most importantly, they knew they were mine, they knew why they were mine, there was no deception in my claim, however brutal it may have been."

"But you, dear Gisil, willingly gave yourself to me out of love, and lust, and devotion. To a sweet, perfect Lady who does not exist. You surrendered your nobility, freedom, and dignity in the name of the Lady who loves you, but I am not that Lady. All you have suffered, you have suffered to maintain and witness the purity of your Lady Genevieve, but she is not yours, and she is far from pure."

As though to confirm the statement, my cock spasms, and I shoot a jet of cum, that lands between her full breasts. Veltin would kill me if he saw that I had marked his woman so. Genevieve delicately wipes the slime from her chest with her fingers, and licks them clean.

"I have kept you too long already. Bathe yourself quickly, then take the money, food, and clothes. Go, live a good life for yourself, get yourself a loving woman, a nice home, have a litter of loving children, and raise them to be as kind and sweet and tender as their father, who has loved a daughter of the devil so well."

[Two Days Ago]

It is raining once again when Veltin's wagon returns, loaded with supplies. This day, Lady Genevieve has dressed in finery, a silk yellow dress that we packed before her wedding day. It is a delicate, dainty affair, and I do not know why she has chosen to wear it: as Veltin's wagon pulls up, she races into the rain, bare foot, and runs through the mud to greet him. She almost tackles him out of the driver's seat, as she leaps up onto the wagon, and into his arms. He is just as starved for her, as she is for him, and it only takes a moment for him to pull the silken dress off of her, and toss it aside in the mud.

He remains clothed, pulling his pants down only slightly, as he bends her back over the wagon bed, filled with supplies, and begins to plow her. I cannot hear their grunts, moans, or the usual carnal melodies of their flesh, over the sound of thunder and the loud pouring of the rain, but I am fortunate in that the wagon has stopped, such that I can easily see them through the door. It is a quick affair, only moments, before the Master quivers, and slumps over onto the Lady, his pent up lust delivered unto her.

Sopping wet, he carries his bride into the house, kissing her, as they drip onto the wood floor. He plops her down, in front of my cage, like a wet rag, and like a wet rag she lays there, shivering, shuddering. Whether it is from the cold of the rain, or the warmth of her orgasm, I do not know. My cock stands erect, turgid, against my stomach, as I wait for Master to begin mounting Lady in front of my cage.

The man gets on his knees to do so, but Genevieve suddenly puts a hand out to stop him.

"What is it my Lady?"

Genevieve looks at me, first sweetly, then with scorn, before turning back to her lover. "Dear Veltin, I have been so eager for you, and waited so long. I want this night to be special between us."

"Is not every night special my Lady?" Veltin asks lustfully.

"Indeed, it is. But tonight, I wish to show you such exquisite pleasure, pleasures taught to me by my slave girls. I wish to share a night of pleasure alone with you, and only you. Without the prying eyes of my pet."

A moment later, and I am tossed out into the rain, naked, the door shut behind me. I am not put in my outside pen, I am not even chained to anything. I am merely left, naked, cold, wet, in the pouring rain. The water slams the ground and wood like falling rocks. Whatever passions Lady and Lord are sharing, I cannot hear them, or see them.

I kneel in the mud, considering the Lady's words, my vision blurry. I do not know if it is from rain or tears.

[Four Days Ago]


"I do not wish to leave your side?"

Genevieve looks at me, dumbfounded, as though I had grown a third eye, or second head right in front of her. She starts to get up for a moment, and then smacks me.

"Oww, why did you do that?"

"To wake you from your stupor," she says, in a brisk tone that I have never heard from her, and was a stark contrast to the sweet cooing I had heard only moments before.

"I am in no stupor."

"To think that you have any choice beyond what I have given you, yes Gisil, you are in a stupor." She stands up, goes to the supplies on the table, and throws them at me. "Go, get out, you are not wanted here any longer."

"How could you say that?" I ask pleading. "What have I done to displease you?"

"Stop," she says. "Stop, and just go."

"I won't," I say. "Not until you explain to me why you want me to go."

"Everything I told you wasn't enough? On top of being beaten and raped every day for a month. Well, every day except for those three days we left you outside to starve while we fucked like rabbits?"

My heart is heavy with what I am hearing. Logically, I know she is right, I should have fled ages ago. But my heart roots my legs, leaks tears from my eyes. "I don't understand," I sob.

Genevieve crouches in front of me as I sit up on the bed. "I have tried to tell you with the delicacy of a Lady, but I am afraid that I shall have to be a bit more blunt, given your unwillingness to see the situation as it is. I, was having an affair with Veltin, while you and I were courting. I fucked him like an animal, while you and I barely hugged and kissed on dates where you spent a small fortune to woo me. Do you think that this is the first you have tasted of Veltin's seed? There were nights when you kissed my lips, that not an hour earlier had lustily drank his essence as though it were champagne."

"He was no random bandit. He knew where and when to challenge you, because I told him to."

I am shocked at what I am hearing. Of all of the things that I have heard, this is the first thing to truly anger me. "Why, why would you do such a thing?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE BORING!!!" she yells. "Haven't you been listening to a single thing that I've told you? A single conversation that Veltin and I have had? A single thing that I have told you while we were courting? I have had swordfights, and raced horses, and practiced archery, and climbed mountains, and a dozen other things that you are too fragile to comprehend, let alone actually _do_. You're such a sweet person Gisil, but you are boring, and most of the time you bore me."

"I couldn't stand the thought of living in a stuffy castle doing nothing but pumping out babies and hosting dinner parties. So I convinced Veltin to challenge you, thinking you would be a milksop and just run off. To my shame, I did not give you enough credit, as you stood and fought him, but you lost. I just wanted you to go away, and let me be carried off to be ravished with my dowry and my lover. But you lost, and then I had to decide what to do with you. I didn't want to kill you, I know you too well and you have been to me too sweet to justify any such action; I didn’t want to make you my slave, you'd never have a chance to escape. But if I made you my pet, I figured that you'd have plenty of chances to escape. Plus with Veltin ass raping you every day, I believed that eventually, you would take any opportunity to leave."

"But then I find out that you like being fucked in the ass! Which should not surprise me as much as it does - if the truth be told Gisil, I have fucked half the Lords in the kingdom. The only reason I have not fucked all of the Lords in the kingdom is because the other half are gay! Watching your reactions when I would dress up and flirt with you was amusing, and made me think that you were straight, but maybe you just swing both ways. It doesn't matter though: ass fucking wasn't enough to break you of me."

"And when I tell you of the various tortures and rapes I have committed in bloody gladiatorial duels: not only does it not disenchant you, it makes you more excited than you've ever been! Has the thought not occurred to you that if you stay here, the same thing will eventually happen to you?"

Tears are flowing down my face now, uncontrollably, as Genevieve lays bare her anger and disgust toward me. The realization of it all hits me as a paddle to the face, stunning me, making me dull to the next blow, which stuns me even more.

"Do you comprehend the gravity of your situation, my little faggot?" she says to me, mockingly, cruelly.

"But, but, I love..."

"Listen well," she says, sitting on the bed and looking me directly in the eyes. "If you wish to stay, with me, this is what awaits you. You have borne witness, as Veltin has bred me as a common whore, for the better part of a month. Even someone as foolish as you can imagine what happens when a man and a woman love each other very much, over and over, every single day. If I am not already with his child, I soon will be. In either case, he will continue breeding me until he is certain his seed is planted, and then for several months afterwards. Maybe even until the day I go into labor: I have known some lords to prime their slaves for childbirth such, and it is surprisingly effective."

"During this state of affairs, you will probably be allowed to continue humping your horse, as it's the easiest course of action for us both: it spares us the time and effort in gelding you, and it is quite amusing watching you pretend to be virile while we fuck our brains out. Why, once I am actually pregnant, you may even be allowed to please yourself with your hand, since you won't be going anywhere, and no man, no matter how virile, may impregnate a woman while she is already pregnant. But eventually, and this is the point that I must impress on you silly Gisil, I am going to _willingly_ bear _his_ child. The first of many of _his_ children. The moment that child is born, Veltin will do one of two things: castrate you, or kill you."

"Have you ever seen someone castrated Gisil? I have, and it is terrible, even if the cutter is particularly good at their art. The balls are dipped in warm water, and the slave is aroused, so as to make cutting easier. Then the loose sac is split open, and the balls taken out. Of course this is incredibly painful, and we have to keep the slaves tied down, otherwise we would never be able to make a clean cut."

"Once the balls are exposed, it is so easy to just cut them with even a dull blade, but the slaves still struggle so, even as they are being masturbated. It's such a thin cord, but it must hurt a great deal, I have seen slaves who haven't been drugged before hand, pass out from the pain, after nearly breaking iron forged chains. The best part is when they cum blood. Of course that doesn't happen all the time, and you have to snip them at just the right moment, but if you do, the taste is so very sweet. I wonder what you will taste like when we cut you. I bet you won't taste like much of anything, given how weak you are, how little of a man you are."

"Even so, if Veltin doesn't cut you of his own accord, I will ask him to cut you, for the amusement of myself and my child. Weak as you are, there is no point in leaving you with the slightest possibility of being able to spread your seed, after our child is born. And male or female, it will do our progeny good to see the fate of weak, sentimental, foolish males such as yourself. As with all weak things..."

Something inside of me snaps, and I am on her, knocking over furniture, decorations, everything. I pin her to the wall, my hands around her pale throat, throttling her. I hate her, not for the torture or rape or humiliation, but for pretending to love me, for leading me here, to this place, that wouldn't even be so unbearable if I were loved by her, cared for by her, even a little bit. But the thought of simply being a gelded plow horse, for this whore, this wench, who drinks blood and actively despises me, is too much for me too take. My hands close around her throat, and her face reddens, as I squeeze the life from her.

She struggles, her arms flailing as she tries to hit me. Her blows are inaccurate, and already weakening, the lack of air quickly subduing her. I feel a thrill of orgasmic pleasure, and I realize that I am rock hard, hearing her dying squeals, watching her beautiful red face contort in the final pangs of death. Suddenly, her expression changes, from terror and fear, to immense satisfaction. I feel a warmth spurting against my thighs and crotch. I look down, to see a milky fountain of lust gushing from her pussy.

It spurts in torrents, onto my legs, onto my crotch, onto the floor. It gushes as a geyser spring: I have seen Genevieve express her satisfaction many times during my captivity, Veltin had given her plenty of opportunity to, but I have never seen her gush like this, ever. I look in awe, as her legs quiver, and torrent after torrent of her pleasure milk streams from her slit. It is so primal and beautiful, so close to death, her body spasms and trembles in the same way it celebrates the creation of new life. I am entranced by the beautiful display that takes place before me.

A flash of light blinds me, and a heavy weight knocks me to the floor. Something is occurring, outside of my body, but I do not comprehend, anything. I regain my senses slowly, to find myself on the ground, Genevieve atop me, beating me with something. A brown bag. The dowry gold that she had offered to return to me. She beats me with it like a club now. I cover my head, trying desperately to shield myself from the blows she rains upon me.

I feel Genevieve stand up, releasing me from her weight. I start to try to crawl away, only to feel a sharp kick to my abdomen. I curl instinctively in pain, trying to roll over, but she strikes me again, kicking the wind out of me. As I try to lower my arms to defend my vulnerable gut, the Lady kicks me in the head, filling my mouth with the taste of blood.


She bludgeons me for the next hour, as I lay there, too beaten to defend myself. By the time she is done, I am a mass of welts and bruises. I wait for her to deliver the killing blow to me, as she has to so many other slaves. She kicks me over, and places her foot on my throat. I assume that she is going to crush my windpipe.

"So, so weak," she says, in a sweet tone of voice again. "You cannot even punish a whore properly, when she is completely within your power." She presses down on my throat: I am too weak to resist or struggle. "How did I even come to like a pathetic male like you."

"Look at you: you've been beaten, by a tender soft skinned noblewoman, and still you are hard as a rock. Do you like that pet? Do you like being put in your place such?" She kicks me in my groin, and I grunt, pissing myself. Genevieve looks at me in disgust. "Such a disgusting animal. But your action is not entirely frivolous: it is well into the morning, and I have not had a proper toilet yet, given the activities of the day so far. So as you have presented a theme..."

She pisses on me, in long, gushing streams that soak my hair and skin. Her acrid urine runs into my eyes and my mouth. I don't care anymore. I don't struggle as she rebinds my hands and mouth. I barely quiver when she milks me to a quick climax, not as a reward, but for the functional purpose of getting my cock to shrink quickly, so she may place it back in its cage. Like a heavy load of potatoes, she shoves me back into my pen, and locks it.

"Do you still love me?" Genevieve asks me cruelly.

I remain silent.

"Am I still the only woman you have ever loved?"

I say nothing.

"Don't you wish you had had a little more fun on the side now, instead of putting all of your eggs in a basket that is not even yours?"

I simply lie there, mute, beaten, as Genevieve continues.

"Tomorrow, Master shall be home, and when he gets here, the first thing I am going to do is fuck his brains out. As will be the, third, fourth, and fifth thing I do. But the second shall be to have you thrown out like a sack of rubbish. Did you think I would have you sacrificed? Nothing so good for you: slaves have been known to enjoy such things, and you're far too pathetic to deserve such an honor as being sacrificed to me. Nothing about it would be pleasing: even the most tamed of slaves offered to me as tribute have been more defiant and virile than you. No, dearest, you shall be thrown out as garbage, where you may be devoured by wolves and hawks and buzzards and rodents and every other beast of nature. Or you can just rot where we toss you, like the uneaten fruits of summer. Either way it will not matter to me, I shall be too busy being fucked delirious to care about your fate."



It has been two nights since I have seen Master and Mistress at all. They do not emerge outside for any reason, instead staying in the warm house, mating all through the day and night. I hear only the loudest of their outbursts and cries of pleasure through the thick log walls of the cabin. Though I have not been fed, I manage to sustain myself, from nearby berries, and a small stream. Not the hardiest of banquets, but it stills the pangs of hunger and slakes my rasping thirst.

I tend to myself, the best I can, with my hands bound behind me. I take shelter in the outdoor pen: it is the best shelter I can find from the constant chill wind and cold rain. Even so, the cracks in the side let the wind through, and for the next three days, I engage in a messy, desperate attempt to caulk them with mud and leaves, an attempt that meets with some, limited success. By the time I am done, I am caked in mud and grime, and very much resemble a field animal.

I also manage to make a makeshift lock for the door, from the rope meant to secure me. I manage to wrap it around the open handle of the door and pen frame, and pull it tight, so that any beast that would try to enter would have to loosen the rope before they could open the door. With this done, I resign myself to my apparent fate: as Mistress has said, she will simply mate with her lover continuously, and I will be forgotten and left to die or be eaten.

I am surprised, when the rear door bursts open, and the Lady bursts out, running towards the woods in the back. For a moment, I think that she flees out of fear or anger, that they have had a fight or lover's quarrel. The Lady doubles over, and begins to heave. She vomits, a pinkish brownish sludge, splattering onto the wet mud. Over and over, she heaves, expelling the contents of her stomach as though it were a pouch of wine. She looks more animal than lady, kneeling in the dirt, and purging herself.

Master comes up behind her, crouching over her, holding her hair back as she vomits. Eventually she can only gag, as she has vomited all of the food out of her. The Lady regains her composure, and wipes her mouth on her forearm. She looks at her lover, and says something.

It is low, quiet, and I cannot hear it. Even before they kiss, I know what it is she has said. He has done it, he has planted his seed in her. The first of many seeds, that she will bear for him. Despite the cold, I feel a strange, warm happiness for them both. Genevieve looks so radiant as Veltin, erect with pride, picks her up and carries her back to their cabin. Now they will mate, not to consummate, but to celebrate her impregnation, and the successful continuation of the Master's line. I am sure it will be a grueling, exhausting, pleasurable, copulation, one that I will not have the privilege of witnessing: neither Veltin nor Genevieve cast me so much as a mocking glance as they reenter their cabin.

The door closes, and I am left alone, naked, in my pen, with the falling rain and my thoughts of wasted love.

Anonymous 18/05/15(Tue)07:35 No. 25544 ID: e6b351


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