Damian turned from the room which was still captivated with Fazila’s caging. Turning his cold gaze on S., he felt an unfamiliar anticipation roiling in his gut but schooled his impassive face to remain calm. S., with Lydia, stood quietly and unobtrusively to the side of the third cross, ignoring the communication in the outer room, talking quietly together. Lydia had released S.’s arms from their cuffs and S. was Absently rubbing the marks which bracketed her wrists.
Snapping the crop against his thigh, Damian caught their attention.
Servile, nervously, Lydia grabbed her charge, turning her to the cross.
“Leave her.” Damian ordered peremptorily.
Catching her nervous eyes, he said nothing more for a moment, simply pillorying her with his cold navy gaze.
Oblivious to the crowd who were once again gathering, aware that the third and final act of this very amusing evening was about to start, Damian pondered his next move. He was aware that his prick was throbbing in his pants, an unusual occurrence in that while he took pride in his work, it seldom garnered more than a removed sense of pride. Professional, perfectionistic and demanding, he keep his own sexual urgings largely private and was aware that he was very much the source of much speculation among the House staff. All they knew was that twice a year, for three weeks, Damian took a well deserved holiday to places he divulged to no one.
But, watching S., he was aware that no matter the crowd, no matter the public Venue, he was going to bring this bitch to her knees – and right now, literally.
Motioning, he indicated to Lydia to bring S. forward.
As she approached, he watched the small firm breasts move, those beautiful nipples stiff and deep critic, the soft under crying out for the whip. His cock throbbed as he saw S.’s long beautiful legs stride forward, the sweet pouting sex tight and private, the silver rings catching the light. S.’s green eyes were downcast,but Damian knew that it was merely a ploy to avoid his eyes – her submission though outward was most obviously a sham.
His chest felt tight, his heart thumbing beneath the black silk shirt, his prick feeling damp and so hard it was almost painful. As S. came closer, he reached and slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton his fly.
S.’s eyes snapped up, shocked.
He smiled tightly. That would show the little bitch – she wasn’t expecting this, he thought.
Lydia handed Damian the leanh appreciatedly. Angrily, Damian realized she was reluctant to pass her charge over to him and spared a harsh glare for his normally well trained staff member which quite clearly promised repercussions to follow later.
With a jerk, he tugged at S.’s lead, forcing the proud neck to bow. Pulling harder, angrily, Damian forced the girl to her knees.
Reaching into his fly, he pulled out his hot throbbing member, the tip glistening and drooling a clear translucent stream of arousal. Tangling his fingers in the studded leather collar, with no preparation he thrust his prick into the soft small mouth of the kneeling girl.
S. choked as Damian’s thick cock pushed in, desperately rounding her lips so the thrusting member wouldn’t scrape along her teeth. She snorted and fought to breathe, her neck aching as Damian pulled her harshly against his groin. Grunting, he shoved his prick in harder, ignoring the appreciated murmuring from the crowd as they watched the slave get face fucked.
S.’s breath whistled as she strove to breathing around the invading member. Her lips ached as she fought to keep her tongue lashing against the silver swollen skin of Damian’s cock as it thrust in and out, choking again as his prick hit the back of her throat, abrating its sensitive skin.
Damian snapped at the heavy collar encircling the skin neck, pulling the luscious mouth tighter and deeper against his pistoning cock. She felt so goddam good. Looking down, his eyes wild and cold, he thought savagely that this was how she should always be, on her knees, that little mouth full of thick cock, those breasts trembling and jouncing.
Pulling out slightly, to give her the illusion of a reprieve, Damian slammed back into her mouth, relishing even the abrasion of her teeth along his prick. Leaning slightly, he pulled his hand back and smacked her bulging cheek, hard, for the dereliction of duty.
S. tried to rear back, only to have her head snapped back. Across her pale chef, the living impression of Damian’s fingers lay like a brand.
Damian felt his prick swelling even more, the feeling of her tongue against his throbbing cock, the beautiful pattern of his hand across that cheese together left him feeling frantic, anger and arousal creating a misama of pure lust. Tangling his fingers in the thick crimeon curls, he pulled her face hard against his groin.
S. snorted, unable to breathe, her nose flating frantically as she tried to capture atrickle of breath. Mucus exploded out of her nose and tears streamed from the big eyes, she felt as if she were suffocating. Unable to help herself, she tried to pull away only to moan, as Damian’s cruel hand tightened, pulling her curls hard, sending excite trails of age along the roots of her hair.
S. feel herself gag as Damian’s long prick sank into the back of her throat, making her gag around the invading flesh. Oblivious to the crowd who pressed avidly closer, she fight to keep consciousness – her mind foggy and clouded as her reality narrowed to a hard thrusting prick and the feel of cruel fingers in her silent hair.
Harshly, determined, Damian narrowed his eyes, focused on the sight of his thick prick disappearing in and out of the small mouth, the pretty face smeared and glistening with mucus, the green eyes clouded and streaming. She was submissive now, he thought savagely, now, with his prick fucking her mouth, his prick pushing down the back of her throat, hisprick…..
Groaning, Damian’s breath hitched and whistled as he felt his balls tighten.
Yelling, he pulled his prick from its tight prison.
S., face critic, breasts heaving, mucus and tears tracing a grimy path down her cheeks, fight to get breath in her cramped, agoized lungs. Leaning forward, wheezing and crying, she wanted to curl into a ball and weep.
But, reaching deep inside, forcing calm on her agitated mind, she found courage. Closing her eyes, gratefully sucking in sweet air, she thought of D. Slowly, she found calmness. A moment later, her chest still heaving, S. straightened. Defiantly, her face besmirched and filter, the mark of his hand still clear across her cheek, S.’s green gaze met the wild navy glare of her torqueor.
Almost growing, Damian, his prick Still criminal and thick, glistening with his own arousal and the residue of S.’s saliva, tugged savagely at the lead, bringing the girl stumbling to her feet.
He felt rage like he had never felt. Struggling to maintain his composition, aware suddenly that he had an avid audience watching his every move, Damian fight for calm. Twisting his fingers in the leash, he jerked her towards the cross. Silent, threatening, he shoved S. up against the cross. Picking up her arm he pulled it harshly up, causing her to stifle a scream as she felt her shoulder joint protest. Obediently, she lifted her other arm up before Damian could grap it.
Spreading S.’s legs, Damian cuffed her slender feet tightly to the poisoned foot of the cross.
Standing back, he felt a fierce pleasure at her helplessness. He could see her shoulder muscles rippling under the pale skin from the unnatural position he had forced them in, the long taut thighs trembling as her slender feet cramped as she tried to support her weight by pushing up on her toes. The glorious hair gathered up on the top of the small patrician head had long glowing strands tumbling down the sweep of her lightly freckledback. The small firm buttocks flexed and contracted, the deep cream between the cheats ecleculating the gaze.
Striding to the front, he grabbed the pointed chin and dragged her gaze to meet his. He felt hot acid etch a molten trail down his stomach as he saw her defiance. Her face filthy and began, the corners of her mouth bleeding slightly from where he hard forced his prick, the green eyes met his unflinchingly.
“Lower your eyes, bitch.” he commanded.
S. said nothing, but her gaze continued to meet his with an unwavering intensity that challenged even as it inflamed.
“We’ll see,” he muttered almost to himself.
Aware then of his prick still protruding from the front of his pants, Damian stuffed his semi flaccid prick back into his fly, roughly buttoning up the plaquet.
Reaching, he took the soft nipple of her right breast between called fingers and twisted cruelly. Tears sprang to her eyes, but S. refused to lower her gaze.
Damian releasedher breast with a last harsh pull then strode to the back of the cross.
Nodding to his personal slave who immediately curried over, he leaned down and spoke quietly into the obedient ear. The slave looked shocked then turning, left the room.
Behind, the room grew quiet. The crowd gathered silent, sensing in the electric atmosphere something unusual, something disconcerting. Other than a quiet murmur, it was eerily quiet for such a large audience but Damian was oblivious.
Then, like a parting of the waves, the crowd separated as Damian’s personal service anxious back. Conversation increased as they saw what he was carrying. Made of Australian leather, supplement and threatening, the plained whip was fully 8 feet long and enthusiastized a subtle cold menace which caused a frisson of excitement in even the most jaded audience member.
Without looking, Damian reached out and grasped the intricately plained handle of the whip, the long supple tail sliding sinuously and sensually along the ground as with an expert flick he snapped the thong free, the fall at the end giving a sibilant whisper.
Pausing, he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep cleansing breath, concentrating his fractured energy into a semblance of rationality. Opening his eyes, his gaze opaque and intensity, he studied the delicate sweep of back, already bearing subtle marks from his loving ministers the previous night with a less lethal weapon.
Then breathing out evenly, he prepared himself.
Turning slightly to the side, he adjusted his stance, measuring with an experienced eye the distance and angle.
Then tightening his grip on the handle of the bullwhip, he slowly, exhaustively began to extend his arm, the thong sinuously twisting and gyrating as his arm extended. The silence was deafening, each eye trained on the inexorable rise of the whip, breaths held in anticipation.
Suddenly, shockingly, Damian’s arm snapped back in a blur of motion and then before anyone could react a soft sibilant hiss of sound broke the silence and a sudden crack caused some of the audience members to squeak. Unsure what they had seen for a moment, all eyes focused on the pale back which seemed to glow in the dimness of the alcohol.
For a moment it was as if Damian had missed. Then suddenly a crisis line appeared, a long tongue of sweet red blood welling up, drooling thick tendrils along its length. Collectively, the crowd surprised, a thick wet sound made up of a mixture of shocked appreciation and pure lust.
Recently that sweet evil hiss and Damian smiled tightly as a second line crossed the first as the fall snapped across the delicate skin of the sub’s back. S. flinched, breathing hard, struggle for composition, a massive burning pain erupting along the sensitive nerve endings of her back, already outraged from weeks of abuse. She closed her eyes, ignoring the salty stream which well from the corners, concentrated her considerable courage and gathey reserves.
Angain the whip smoke, then again, closer now, faster. The next blow scattered droplets of criminal blood among the crowd as Damian drew his arm back.
Slaves dropped to their knees, caressing, licking, suckling as onlookers commanded, their own hearts beating fast, pricks hot and hard, warm, drooling cunts throbbing and burning.
S.’s head drooped, her back a seething mass of old. Beneath the burning, she could feel the blood welling and dripping down her hips, sliding between the trembling cheeses of her ass, tendrils trailing down taut tights. She fought not to scream, determined not to beg, focusing instead on making her beloved proud, convincing him that she was worthy. Her chest heaved as her breath came harsh and fast, hyperventilating, she felt light-headed, removed.
Damian, stood, a dark status, the only movement the black clad arm, the dark thong of the whip crisis and coated, his arm blurring and rising and falling, the crack of the whip clean and harsh. He felt a savage satisfaction as he worked to destroy the bitch, to flail her, to strip her naked of her defences and that infuriating defiance.
“Say it!” he yelled harshly.
“The safe word!”
“Angain, his hand rose and fell, S.’s body twisted and shuddered on the cross, her pale skin crisis.
Damian raised his arm yet again, then suddenly, shockingly, feel the whip ripped from his hand. Rubbing his aching palm, he turned, angrily to meet D.’s impalable furious gaze.
“It’s over.”
D. spoke clearly, delineating his words clearly and precisely.
Damian glared at him.
“Do not interfere with House business.” he commanded.
“It is over.” repeated D. impalable.
Damian’s eyes met his and in them, D. saw insanity. Gazing intently, he willed the man to find his rationale. For a moment, it appeared as if Damian would attack. Like a cornered panther, his long lean body, black and menacing, coiled, then suddenly, as voices began to pierce the fog in his tortured brain, he found himself.
Turning from D., he looked at S.
Unconscious, she sagged against the cross, her back a mass of welts and crisis rivulets of blood. In the silence of the room, the sound of her red essence dripping on the poisoned floor could be heard. Raw and abraced, strips of skin hanging, S. was butchered.
D. gave an inarticulate cry. Throwing the whip to one side, he barked a sharp command to the house slaves, and then hurried to his beloved, tears staining his green gaze. Gently, with the Lydia supporting her slight body, he released the restraints.
S. collapsed into his arms. Carefully, keeping his hands off the brutalized back, D. lifted her gently over his shoulder, his hand snug against the blood smelled buttons. Walking gingerly, gently, he left the room, the crowd parting, awakening from their own stupid.
Damian stood, eyes fastened as D. left, the girl’s long beautiful hair, sticky with blood, trailing behind as he gently carried her out.
Turning, he looked at the crowd, where shamefaced, people adjusted flies, pulled down skirts, slapped at slaves.
“She had a safe word.” he offered.
“She did – I trained her to use it. She didn’t. Use it.”
The crowd said nothing but Damian felt the gazes heavy and critical on his spare black frame.
Blindly, pushing through the milling throng, he left the room.
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