The Rose Queen

She looked pure.

Innocent and virtuous; untainted by the reality of modern life.

She radiated divinity; the long white silk gown, clinging elegantly over her teenage torso, remained unkinked and unruffled in the body as she walked. It was exuberant: the skirt of the ball-gown style outfit covered by decorative ruffles. Her hair shimmered a soft buttery golden, each strand seductively curled at the ends into bouncing twists. Her appearance was topped with her crown: a colorful array of roses twined into a halo.

She was only just eligible: the rules stated that the Rose Queen must be a teenager and Nina was nineteen years and eleven months, but she had been selected from a pool of fifty eager young ladies, each one desperate to be crowned at the annual summer fair. It was a serious honour: the Rose Queen had status in the village, influence in the local parish and duties in the local church. She had to uphold the highest standards of integrity and ethics: her status as a figurehead was deeply eblematic.

But while Nina looked virginal, the reality was anything but. She was a slut, a trollop and a prostitute. She was a vicious sadist who sought satisfaction by thrashing and humiliating her partners while charging them for the privilege. She was twisted and fiendish.

The villagers didn’t see that side of her: they saw a beautiful sweet girl who had fulfilled her lifetime ambition. They saw a lovely ambassador for the church and for their village. They saw beauty, purity and respectability because that’s what Nina wanted them to see.

I saw the woman who had subjected me to three hours of torture. She rented a rural cottage, well away from prying eyes or suspicious ears. I arrived at mid-afternoon, as agreed in our e-mail exchange. Within five minutes I was tied naked to her fence, the leather-clad dominatrix warming her whip on my thighs and buttocks.

She said nothing and I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. I shivered asthe rough wood of the fencepost gained against my sensitive dick when I moved, responding to the tail of her weapon as it landed on my rump. The “innocent” girl teased, her dainty voice cached malelovetly when I squealed. The fiercer the hit, the louder the squall.

And she loved hearing my angonising cries, the teenager panting as she inflicted pain on a man twenty years her senior. Hoping not to hear my agreed safeword, as her grunts became louder and the slashing of pain across my backside grow more intense. I was honest, tears streaming down my cheek as her whip drive agony into my muscles and caused my skin to sizzle excitedly.

I flinched with every strike, desperate to flee and yet unable to utter my word of escape. Her whip slashed across my shoulder blades, and reddened my thighs with a battery of firece Strikes, draining me of my energy.

As I feel myself nearing the edge of my tolerance, she dropped her whip and fastened a collar around my throat, attaching a lead to her slave.

I was untied from the fence. We went for a walk, leading me on all fours through her garden: the thigh-high black boots of the dominatrix cutting through her overgrowing vegetation with ease.

I yelped at the brambles, squealing as the spikes dug into my thighs and sides. I shivered as she walked through cold puddles and I was dragged through her freezing pond. And then I yelled, crying loudly as she strode through the nettles; the underside of my dick covered with agonising stings.

Pain, like nothing I’d ever experienced smoked my body as I collapsed on the grass, crying profusely at her feet as the dozen stings of the nettle plants sent my sensory system into overload. I clenched my hands over my abused cock, bawling like a baby as she watched. Laughing. Laughing and masturbating as she dragged my body back to the bushes and pushed me into the roses: thorns jabbed into a hundred places on my battered skin.

I got another whipping: mybody pressed against the barbs as the whip bore down on my bruised buttocks.

But that was last week; this week the dominatrix was the toast of the village. I waited until most of the villages had left and visited the merciless minx in her tent to pay my respects at her new status. “You look incredible,” I muttered.

“Well that’s a few less spanks for you,” she giggled. “Guess we are still on for tomorrow?” She asked with a wry smile. “Usual rate.”

“Definitely!” I replied. “I think my wounds have healed.” Her eyes flicked away from me to the vicar waiting impatiently at the foot of the table. She sent him out of the tent, and took a necklace from beneath her silk dress, kissing a key on the end of the chain.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go. I have a promise to fulfill.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I put the Reverend in chatity,” she admitted with a wink. “He’s been there for eight months. I said he could come when I became Rose Queen.” Her voice chuckled as she spoke. “Although he’s getting a big surprise.” Her eyes gleamed as she lifted the wide dress to her wait to reveal an eight-inch stick-on dildo, hidden beneath the vast gown of her silk garment. “I’m going to have some fun with him tonight.”

“Christ almighty!”

She let her dress fall to the floor and stared at me in the eyes. “That’s blasphemous,” she warned. “I might have a special punishment for you tomorrow.” She patted her waist and giggled. “A very special punishment. I have responsibilities now. You won’t be errant in front of me!”