The Daughters of de Sade Read online

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  THE DAUGHTERS OF DE SADE

  BY

  FALCONER BRIDGES

  Publisher Information

  Published By Silver Moon

  The Daughters of De Sade

  Converted and

  Distributed in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Falconer Bridges

  The right of Falconer Bridges to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Mistress Madonna

  THE STEEL TIPPED stilettos dug deeply into Julian's back. The pain was exquisite, excruciating enough to have made him cry out in agony if he had been able. But the gag was tight. Too tight, biting into the corners of his mouth before traversing his cheeks to be fastened in a knot at the base of his skull. The knot had a large heavy coin wound into it which pressed edge-on into his neck, in itself another source of discomfort. Not only that but a blindfold restricted his vision in the same way that the gag restricted his voice. Utter blackness. Not a scrap of light penetrated the rough lined thick leather strap that covered both his eyes and was buckled at the back of his head. He possessed neither speech nor sight. Perfect.

  He was laid on the bare tiled floor, flat on his stomach with his hands pulled back and handcuffed together in the small of his back. A steel spacer bar ensured his feet were held wide apart so that his buttocks, his anus and the tip of his penis, which was pressed back under him, were accessible to the leather clad, whip wielding Demoness standing astride him. A spiked leather dog collar pressed hard against his Adam's Apple and clipped into the ring at the back was a long plaited leash, the end of which was wound around a gloved hand and pulled tight, forcing his head up backwards.

  Julian's backside was a crimson mass of weals that extended downwards to cover the backs of his thighs and his calves. His shoulders had also received the same attention from the whip and were glowing bright as a beacon. And on either side of his spine from his neck to where his hands lay cuffed together, the deep imprints of the wicked stiletto heels pulsed in bloodied agony.

  Mistress Madonna was treating him to a splendid session. Worth every single penny of the enormous fee she charged for her services. But it was not over yet. The whip was thrown to one side and a long, rigid cane took its place. She pushed the tip of the cane down the crease between his buttocks to spear the enormously bulbous bell-end that poked backwards from between his legs.

  She leant on the cane.

  His thick glans squashed out into a flattish oval of gristly meat, the gag stifling the scream that erupted from his vocal cords as the excruciating pain seared up to his brain. Julian thrashed around helplessly. Mistress Madonna was scathing.

  "Keep still, you pathetic little wimp."

  Her voice was ice. Colder than Arctic frost and just as biting. The cane eased its pressure on his prick, lifted and then whipped down. Smack! His backside rippled as the stroke landed raising an instant tramline that overlaid the mass of scarlet that his bottom already was. Again and again the cane bit deep, his whole body jerking in pain as each stroke tortured his flesh. Even after the last stroke had fallen he was still writhing in agony.

  A wicked stiletto stabbed into his calf. It stayed there, grinding into his flesh as Mistress Madonna conveyed to him the contempt in which she held him. He was a worthless little nonentity. Useless in every way. A total wanker with the smallest dick she'd ever seen. He was nothing but a nauseating ball of slime, a festering sore on the backside of mankind. And so it went on, her comments becoming ever more disparaging until tears of the utmost misery began to flow from his eyes.

  Her words ceased. Deathly quiet ensued, broken only by Julian's sniffles and whimpers. A verbal lashing had just as much effect on him as did a physical assault. He was abject. Wretched. And at the same time, the luckiest man in God's creation. She was his Mistress. He was her slave. Nirvana.

  She allowed the tension to build before breaking the silence with a question.

  "Are we going to try and be a good little man from now on?"

  Yes he was. And not only was he going to be good, he was going to be the best, most obedient servant any Mistress had ever ruled over. He just could not say so, the gag saw to that.

  It made no difference to her. He was going to suffer anyway. Sliding one of the outrageously pointed toes of her boots under his waist, she rolled him over on to his back. While he had been laid on his front he must have been suffering untold agonies in his private regions because as he turned over, an enormous pulsing erection came with him, springing upwards to freedom from its previous position trapped underneath him.

  "What's that?"

  It was his fucking great big cock. That was what he wanted to say, but he did not even attempt to reply. A wise move.

  "Did Mistress Madonna say you could do that?"

  She had not, but it wasn't his fault. His prick did what it liked. It occupied a world in which his authority was nil.

  "You'd like Mistress Madonna to do something about it, wouldn't you? You'd like her to suck it. Wank it. Thrash it and stuff the filthy throbbing thing up her vagina. She knows you would. So why don't you just tell her?"

  The bitch! Of course he would. But there was no way he could get the words past the gag and so his head frantically nodded up and down in a silent plea for her to bring him to orgasm.

  "Not today you slimy toad. But you may wank yourself if you wish."

  Of course he wished, but masturbating with his hands handcuffed behind him was impossible. "You arsehole. You swine. You fucking stinking whore."

  The insults came out as nothing more than muffled grunts. But she knew full well what he was trying to say. The cane tapped his straining cock.

  "Naughty, naughty boy. Now Mistress Madonna will have to punish you further."

  "Christ no! No more."

  His grunts meant nothing.

  The cane whipped sideways. The pain as she lashed his pulsing manhood was nauseating. Perspiration burst over his flushed face as he struggled helplessly to free his hands. Again it struck, his backside leaping upwards from the tiles as the searing agony flooded his senses. He was suffering. But not enough.

  And he was not really sorry either. Or so she told him. But he would be. And so she was going to leave him for a little while, and when she came back he was going to be a very sorry little boy indeed.

  But there was something she was going to do in the meantime.

  "Do you want to know what it is?"

  He did, but more than that he wanted his cock sorting out. And he wanted to be released. He was not to be granted either of his wishes.

  "Mistress Madonna is going into the bedroom. And what do you think she's going to do in there?"

  He did not give a toss. He wanted a shag. She told him anyway.

  "She's going to play with herself. She's going to stroke her clitoris and put her fingers up into her juicy, slippery hole. Right where you'd like your silly little cock to be. It's lovely in there. It's all wet and tig
ht, and she's got muscles. Muscles you've never dreamt of. Muscles in her vagina that would milk your silly excuse for a dick tighter than your fist ever could, until you shot your disgusting sperm right up inside her."

  But he was never going to know about that. Not now, or ever, because she only fucked with men. Men with real cocks, not little boys with useless little peashooters. Julian's snorts and frantic struggles with his bonds demonstrated plainly that her words had struck him as painfully as any whip.

  "But that's not all she's going to do. She's going to play with her nipples as well. You like her nipples don't you?"

  He did. And she knew full well that he did. But she had never allowed him to touch them. Or suck them. Or, in fact, get anywhere near them. She gave him a moment.

  "And then she's going to fuck herself with a dildo. A lovely big fat prick, not like your infantile little widdler."

  And then she was gone.

  And fuck herself was exactly what she did. With Julian's tortured body still writhing on the cold tiled floor of the magnificent en suite bathroom, she draped herself languorously over the king-sized bed and pleasured herself shamelessly. Sensuous, thrilling and pushed in deep, the fat vibrator buzzed inside her tunnel.

  "Mmmmm."

  She moaned in a low throaty purr of satisfaction as she pulled the monstrous vibrating dildo down and out of her vagina until only the bulbous tip penetrated her open, pink sex lips, before thrusting it back up to its fullest depth. Her juices began to flow, the sucking sounds growing louder as she began to plunge in and out with an ever-increasing tempo.

  "Oh God. Let me look. Show me."

  It did not matter that Mistress Madonna could not hear Julian's silent pleas. Words were not necessary. She knew full well that every squelch of her fanny and murmur from her lips were audible to him as he lay trussed, like the chicken he was, in the next room. It was all part of the torture. Although she had fully aroused herself and was near to orgasm, many of the sexy sounds and sensuous groans were thoroughly orchestrated - merely sound effects to heighten his already raging senses.

  Rubbing the hard, erect nub of her clitoris to complement and stoke up the thrill of the pistoning dildo, she worked herself to a devastating conclusion. Shuddering and writhing on the bed, she convulsed in a series of repeated, pulsing and spectacular orgasms. Her squeals of fulfilment drove Julian over the brink and with no assistance from hands, mouth or cunt his wildly jerking penis spurted torrents of sperm unbelievably high into the air, before the separating globules fell back to spray his legs, stomach and even the floor tiles.

  He was in for it now.

  He had done his best. He had tried. But although he had been ordered on fear of unmentionable punishments not to do so, he'd spunked. Running true to her plan he had failed Mistress Madonna yet again. His despair was absolute. And his filthy prick was to blame.

  She had told him often enough before to keep the revolting thing under control. And time and again he had promised to be a good little slave and do just that, but his promises had counted for nothing. He could not help himself. Nothing could diminish his fevered fantasies. To be whipped, to be beaten, to be thrashed beyond the realms of reason; Mistress Madonna knew that these were the things he dreamed of. And she also knew that beyond a doubt he wanted her, and only her, to do those things to him. Not only that, he wanted her to play with his dick. And wank it. And suck it. But although his latest misdemeanour had been sufficiently outrageous to guarantee major attention to his wayward member, the attention it was likely to receive would most probably not result in sweet bliss, but horrendous pain. And to Julian that would be just as wonderful.

  After several minutes spent calming her senses to a lower than volcanic level, Mistress Madonna ruefully caressed her vagina and rose from the bed. To an onlooker it would have been more than obvious that she fancied giving herself another one there and then, but Julian was paying. And a small fortune at that. She was worth it.

  She made no attempt to dab up the juices that had flowed in such abundance that the tips of her thick pubic bush glistened, and so tiny droplets now and again dripped to the floor. There was so much it almost seemed as if a man had shot two full balls of semen up her. A certain man was desperately screaming to do just that, but his woeful act of disobedience had made that more unlikely than ever. Coming without permission. A heinous misdemeanour indeed. He would be lucky to get away without every inch of skin being stripped from his back.

  Mistress Madonna put one foot inside the bathroom, the steel tip of a stiletto heel tapping on the ceramic tiling. One glance was enough.

  "Oh dear, mummy's little baby has been a bad boy, hasn't he?"

  Those words, or something very similar were what Julian had been anxiously waiting for, signalling as they did the commencement of further, harsher punishment. He had been a naughty boy, that fact brooked no denial, but like all naughty children he would never admit that it had been his fault. She had driven him to it. He could not speak, he was unable to see, he had a monster of an erection and what had she done? Gone off to fuck herself! It was not fair. And then she had made sure that he heard every last tiny sound. Every slurping push of the dildo up her vagina. And every murmur of appreciation that went with it. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. And she knew it.

  "So then little man, what is Mistress Madonna to do with you?"

  She said 'little man' in such a denigrating way that it was obvious she was not referring to his physical stature, but to his cock. In fact it was really not that small, and when she was not around he often admired its fairly spectacular erect proportions in his bedroom mirror. But Mistress Madonna made him feel as if he did not possess a prick of sufficient proportions to satisfy any woman, let alone her.

  "Jerk off Julian, that's you. Have you ever shagged a woman, little man?"

  He struggled against his bonds, mumbling furiously and incoherently.

  "No I thought not. In fact I think you'd come in your pants before you got within a mile of a minge."

  His writhing achieved almost demented proportions and she scrutinised his flailing legs and shaking torso. There was only one treatment for someone as obviously deranged as him, and she was going to make sure that he got it. She blew him an unseen kiss.

  "Don't go away now, will you?"

  Julian's heart dropped as he heard her leave the room, and behind the mask tears of dread began to fall.

  But before his punishment could begin he had a task to perform. After making her preparations and upon returning to the bathroom Mistress Madonna removed his gag and blindfold. She pointed to the pools of sperm decorating the tiles.

  "What is this mess?"

  They were her first words after restoring his vision and his speech. Harsh and demanding, allowing him not a second to recover his previously deprived senses. There was no reply. The cane struck with lightning speed.

  "Answer!"

  It came in an agonised gasp.

  "Mistress, I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry."

  "Sorry's not enough, you filthy little pervert. You'll have to do better than that."

  And to make amends, his first task was to lick up his sperm.

  She had not removed the handcuffs and with them still firmly clamping his hands behind his back, she forced him to kneel and shuffle over the floor, a difficult task with the spacer bar still pushing his feet apart. Licking up every drop, his tongue delved into the cracks between the tiles as well as lapping over their smooth surfaces. And when he had finished, she did not consider his efforts satisfactory, making him go over it again, encouraged by countless slashes of the cane.

  And then, when even she could not find a single inch of tiling that was not completely spotless, she had opened her legs, squatted and urinated. The floor was flooded with her salty amber piss, and his next task was to clean it up. All of it. With his tong
ue.

  Which he did.

  With relish.

  But she was not finished. She had not expended all her reserves of bodily fluids and with a firm push from her stilettoed foot she sent him sprawling back on to the tiles. Squatting over him, she moved down his helpless form squirting warm jets of the urine that remained in her reservoirs over his head, his chest and his penis. Piss soaked his hair, dripped from his chin and trickled over his balls. His Mistress' piss. Nectar from Heaven.

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

  His words ripped out in a flurry of grovelling gratitude.

  "Don't thank me yet you pig's arse. You've still got to pay for your filthy behaviour."

  Tugging on the plaited lead attached to his collar she finally led him from the bathroom. He was still cuffed and on his knees, the spacer bar removed so that he could actually make some forward progress. His neck stretched, his knees scraped and his cock throbbed into an undeniable erection as he looked up at the firm contours of Mistress Madonna's buttocks as they swayed above him, Julian was closer to a state of total ecstasy than he had ever been before.

  He hated her.

  He loved her.

  He would kill her the moment she released him.

  He would hug and kiss her and fall to his knees in worship.

  Mistress Madonna had worked hard to place all these contradictory emotions in his mind. She was becoming indispensable to him. He could not exist without her. He was pathetic but he had a fortune. He was every Mistress's dream.

  ***

  The cellar was dark, dank and miserable. Piles of coal remained from before the area was declared a smokeless zone and a dilapidated boiler stood with its iron door rustily ajar. Large diameter pipes ran through the walls, close to the ceiling, carrying hot water to the ancient radiators on the upper floors and dirty water out from the house. Julian was strung up a foot or so above the stone flagged floor, his arms wide and chained by the wrists to one of the pipes. His legs were similarly pulled wide and chained to rings anchored into the stone slabs. Black swathes of coal dust were laid over his reddened flesh where, obeying Mistress Madonna's orders, he had painfully and with great difficulty pulled himself over the heaps of fuel.