Debut Series: Part 6
Author: selkie
Filed in: whips, oral sex, initiation, bloodS. snorted, unable to breath, her nose flaring frantically as she tried to capture a trickle of breath. Mucus exploded out of her nose and tears streamed from her 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 exquisite trails of agony along the roots of her hair.
S. felt 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 fought to keep conscious – her mind foggy and clouded as her reality narrowed to a hard thrusting prick and the feel of cruel fingers in her silky 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, his prick....
Groaning, Damian's breath hitched and whistled as he felt his balls tighten.
Yelling, he pulled his prick from its tight prison.
S., face crimson, breasts heaving, mucus and tears tracing a grimy path down her cheeks, fought to get breath in her cramped, agonized 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 filthy, the mark of his hand still clear across her cheek, S.'s green gaze met the wild navy glare of her tormentor.
Almost growling, Damian, his prick still crimson 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 composure, aware suddenly that he had an avid audience watching his every move, Damian fought 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 grasp it.
Spreading S.'s legs, Damian cuffed her slender feet tightly to the polished 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 freckled back. The small firm buttocks flexed and contracted, the deep crease between the cheeks enticing 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 begrimed, 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 fly.
Reaching, he took the soft nipple of her right breast between calloused fingers and twisted cruelly. Tears sprang to her eyes, but S. refused to lower her gaze.
Damian released her breast with a last harsh pull then strode to the back of the cross.
Nodding to his personal slave who immediately scurried over, he leaned down and spoke quietly into the obedient ear. The slave looked shocked, turning startled eyes to his master. Damian cursed and his hand came down hard against the slave’s ear. Moaning, the slave nodded, 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 servant hurried back. Conversation increased as they saw what he was carrying. Made of Australian leather, supple and threatening, the plaited whip was fully 8 feet long and emanated 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 plaited 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 intense, he studied the delicate sweep of back, already bearing subtle marks from his loving ministrations 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, exquisitely 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 alcove.
For a moment it was as if Damian had missed. Then suddenly a crimson line appeared along the pale length of S.’s back, a long tongue of sweet red blood welling up, drooling thick tendrils along its length. Collectively, the crowd sighed, a thick wet sound made up of a mixture of shocked appreciation and pure lust.
Again 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, struggling for composure, a massive burning pain erupting along the sensitive nerve endings of her back, already abraded from weeks of abuse. She closed her eyes, ignoring the salty stream which welled from the corners, concentrating her considerable courage and gathering her reserves.
Again the whip smote, then again, closer now, faster. The next blow scattered droplets of crimson 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 agony. Beneath the burning, she could feel the blood welling and dripping down her hips, sliding between the trembling cheeks of her ass, tendrils trailing down taut thighs. 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 statue, the only movement the black clad arm, the dark thong of the whip crimson 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.
Again, his hand rose and fell, S.'s body twisted and shuddered on the cross, her pale skin crimson but her lips pressed stubbornly together – she refused to say the safe word.
Damian felt a hot delicious rage fill him, flooding through is arm and into his fingers, washing his mind in sweet, sensuous waves of anger. He looked at the bitch hanging from the cross, her head hanging now, blood streaming down that pale white skin, tendrils of her sherry coloured hair coated and dripping and sticking to her back and felt a fierce joy.
Around him, the crowd pressed forward, breathing hot and excited, breasts heaving, pricks throbbing, slaves mouths working and licking and sucking; to his right, a leather vested dom groaned as a heavy-breasted slave suckled his swinging balls, his eyes glued to the flickering whip as it sang its song of destruction.
Swinging above the crowd, Fazilia watched avidly, trying to rub her swollen, dripping cunt against anything to try to relieve the aching need. Below her, the crowd was in a sexual frenzy, a bacchanalia of arousal and lust, the sights and sounds of S.’s torture calling to the atavistic part of them, the original part of the brain that lurked in even the most refined human being, that cold, primitive cortex that thought in terms of pictures and immediacy, the blood calling to its reptilian nucleus.
Damian panted harshly as his arm rose and fell, oblivious to the blood running down his arm as the gore covered fall of the bullwhip leaked S.’s martyrdom on his implacable body. His prick throbbed painfully in the tight confines of his pants, while the tail of his shirt dripped with the pre-cum welling up from the slit in the purple swollen head of his cock.
At the far end of the room, the doors swung open and into the bloodbath walked D., trailed by a frightened Charlotte.
Horrified, he looked about him incredulously, trying to make sense of the writhing bodies, the pricks entering red soaking slits, glistening breasts with bites and bruises, being caressed, smacked, squeezed, throbbing cocks bobbing in and out of mouths … and at the far end, as she pushed through the writhing bodies, a red meaty disaster … and it was only as he saw the delicate neck, encircled by his collar, HIS collar .. the sherry coloured curls almost indiscernible in the crimson almost black blood which soaked their beauty ….
“ENOUGH”.
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