A PASSION FOR PUNISHMENT: Part Two - privileged and perverted pleasures



                                                                  PART  TWO

  Recovering her poise, after her shattering orgasm, Lady Maycott patted her riding jacket pocket with a gloved hand and deftly extracted a chased silver cigarette case.  Thumbing the hinged lid open, she selected a fragrant Black Russian cigarette - she had the cured tobacco supplied to her directly from Sobransk - and snapped a Vesta match down the silver pommel.  Ramilees trod nervously at the sudden spurt of orange flame and the sharp whiff of sulphur as she lit her cigarette and exhaled slowly.  A curl of pale, almost colourless smoke unwound, swirling away from the glowing hot tip. She gazed at it through narrowed, pleasure-clouded eyes.  In the middle distance, across the pinkish tiled roofs of clustered cottages, she suddenly became aware of a darker plume of grey-black smoke curling up into the cold, still air from a tall, whitewashed brick chimney.  It was the village forge, surely?  Lady Maycott frowned.  The village forge was deserted.  The smithy had been silent for well over a year now.  Silenced, like so many village farriers, by the onset of the war in France.  Plucking her unfinished Black Russian from her lips and tossing it aside, she squeezed her knees into Ramilees and urged him on.

 The sound of a hammer striking the anvil rang out like evensong bells from a distant church tower.

 Ting, tang!  Ting, tang!

 Lady Maycott dismounted, deliberately raking her juiced cunny against the supple leather as she slid down from the Spanish saddle.  Tethering her bay gelding securely, she patted Ramilees as he strained to nibble a clump of sweet dock.  Striding out across the wet turf with silent footfalls, she approached the village forge.

 At close quarters the hammer sounded harshly as it rained down upon the anvil.  Pausing at an open window, she peered into the blacksmith's domain.  All was dark inside except for the fierce glare from the furnace.  Her eyes narrowed against the brilliance, focusing until the darkness within became visible and she caught a slight movement...the shape - the silhouette - of a man moving in front of the open furnace.  Then she saw him more clearly and realised with a delicious shock that he was naked.  Naked and...glistening.

 No, he was not utterly naked...a leather apron was lashed tightly below his belly and around his hips, the knotted thongs dangling down over the slight swell of his sweating buttocks.  Smothering a gasp of raw pleasure, Lady Maycott steadied herself at the open window and gazed inside.

 The young farrier was stretching.  Sweat gleamed on his muscled arms and shoulders and his naked spine rippled sensuously.  She watched, enthralled, as he bent down, his right arm stretching for the bellows.  She gazed, mesmerised,  as he pumped the furnace causing the dark cleft between his straining buttocks to yawn wide open.  With a soft roar the furnace issued an intense glow flooding the darkness with its crimson blaze.  Silhouetted against the dancing light, the gleaming skin of the sweating blacksmith seemed to be etched in gold.  Her throat contracted.  She could hardly breath.
Her nipples tightened into stiff little peaks of sweet soreness and a slow ache bloomed in her breasts.  Flickering out the tip of her dry tongue, the darkness in her eyes deepened as they drank in the stretched leather apron below his taut belly.  He was naked beneath the apron and Lady Maycott knew that beneath the dark hide the farrier's no doubt superb cock lay coiled and potent.  A yeoman's cock.  Thick and heavy to hold in the palm of one's hand.  She suppressed a moan as she imagined the leather apron dropping away, revealing his swollen erection - the rampant cock nodding ponderously, raking its bulbous dark purple snout between her cunny lips and nestling its cruel hardness deep in her moist warmth.

 She gripped the stone window ledge as her knees suddenly betrayed her by buckling.  She cursed silently, hungry for the farrier's cock.  Hungry with an appetite the broken body of Teddy Carmichael could no longer satisfy.

 Wiping the sweat from his eyes, the naked blacksmith grasped his hammer, weighed it judiciously, and then rained it down repeatedly on a molten horseshoe pressed upon an anvil by dark tongs.  Red and silver sparks danced and the blazing orange metal dulled to a crimson glow.  The flashing hammer beat yellow and gold sparks out of the cooling ore, and as he worked, the farrier's leather apron grew taut against his thighs.  The outline of his cock and balls was unmistakable and unavoidable to Lady Maycott's greedy green eyes.

 She drew the tips of her gloved fingers up to her lower lip, dragging the soft flesh down to reveal neat, cruel white teeth.  She swallowed as she stared at the bulge beneath his leather apron.  Her tongue darted out to lick the leather at her lower lip, thrilling to the tang of the hide.  Leather...a feral, brutal taste...

 Spreading his thighs wide, the naked, sweating farrier resumed punishing the anvil with his hammer, and watching him, Lady Maycott felt her belly implode with a divine warmth as, buried deep down inside her, the concealed rope of slippery pearls churned...



 The gallop home was as breathtaking as it was breathless.  Lady Maycott gulped down choking mouthfuls of the raw November air as Ramilees charged across the fields and ditches.  Barely able to see through her tear-filled eyes, she gave the frisky gelding his head, gripping the reins tightly.  Squeezing her jodhpurs into his warmth she crouched low in the Spanish saddle - grunting softly as the silver pommel rhythmically punished her pubis.

 Home at last.  Ramilees cantered into the yard, clattering loudly on the cobbles.  Panting, she dismounted and unsaddled him.  Then, plucking away the wet whipcord from her seething cunny, she staggered indoors.  Upstairs in her bedroom she peeled off her boots and riding habit and eased the slippery pearls out of her cunny and anus with a snarl of pleasure-pain.  Then she locked herself in the bathroom and collapsed across the cool linoleum floor.  Only her hammering heartbeats were audible in the silent stillness.  Gradually, her racing pulse decelerated.  Outside in the encircling elms, rooks were calling loudly.  She pressed her thighs together then slowly opened her legs wide until the sensation became painful.  She must have him!  And soon...bloody soon!  She must have him in the darkness and heat of his forge.  With the furnace flaring, bathing the darkness with a golden glow, she would be stripped naked and coupling with the lusty farrier, demanding that he pleasure her, ravish her, again and again, until she collapsed down into the straw writhing and exhausted.

 She drew her thighs together firmly and abruptly.  The crisp wisps of her pubic bush crackled gently, and she shuddered.  She squeezed her thighs tightly together, and then slowly inched them apart again.  The chill air of the unheated bathroom caressed her wet heat and her pussy throbbed in response.  Her breasts quivered, her nipples darkening as they peaked, the gloom of the smoke-filled forge fuelling her fantasies.  Her scrabbling fingers sought and found her breasts, teasing their creamy softness.  Her fingertips paused at her nipples - worrying the stubby peaks and then tweaking and pinching them with savage tenderness.

 Lady Maycott felt the power of her rank and privilege surge through her veins and flood her body as potently as lust.  She knew exactly what she wanted to do with this strapping young yeoman, all but naked in his supple leather apron.  She tucked her knees up against her breasts and lay on her side.  The shadowed opening between her thighs widened as she sighed, imagining the blacksmith kneeling before her, his head bowed submissively.  She would level the tip of her riding crop at his chin and force his face upwards a fraction in order to stare dominantly down at him.  Then the little loop of leather at the tip of the crop would rake down swiftly to torment each of his nipples.  She would make him hard...as hard as the iron he hammered at his anvil.  Lady Maycott moaned softly as she pictured his leather apron bulging as it betrayed his thickening, uncoiling response.  Yes.  A cock as hard as iron.

 Her imagined control over him aroused her fiercely and left her inner thighs glistening.  As a mere blacksmith from the lower orders he would be hers to command and enjoy.  To control at her whim.  Naked, crop raised up over his kneeling body, she would be able to dictate in explicit detail how she wished him to satisfy her desires.  She would drag the tip of her cruel leather riding crop down across his taut belly to dominantly tap-tap the bulge of his erection behind the leather apron.  He would shut his eyes and moan...his moan deepening into anguished groan...terrified to obey her commands to pleasure her - but more terrified of the consequences of refusing to do so.  Yes!  Lady Maycott longed to have the farrier in her thrall.  

 She sighed and raked her thumb-tip against her hot cleft.  She rolled over onto her back and dragged her fingernails down to the base of her belly.  At her golden pubic bush she plucked at stray wisps until her sensitive flesh stung.  Her soft bottom cheeks, pressed against the cool linoleum, clenched in response to this brutal pleasure-punishment of her pubic coils, and her moist outer labia - now sticky and slippery with a creamy rime - peeled apart hungrily.

 She skimmed the exposed, splayed inner lips of her sex with her thumbnail as she pictured herself lowering them down onto the obediently kneeling blacksmith's upturned mouth.  In her heated imaginings her thumb-tip became his tongue, a thickly muscled yeoman's tongue that flickered and probed, flickered and probed before plunging - hard and deep.  Lady Maycott's spine arched away from the linoleum and her soft buttocks clenched fiercely as she imagined...

 Suck!  The innocent word echoed harshly like an obscenity as in her mind she gave the curt command.  Suck!  She shivered at the sound of her own assured voice, a voice accustomed to being obeyed, as she demanded to be pleasured by the blacksmith's lips and tongue.  Suck!  Obediently he would drag her moist heat into his rough mouth.   She quivered as she imagined his lips, and then his tongue, becoming busily subservient.  Forcing herself down over his face she would thrill to the feel of his unshaven jowls rasping her exposed flesh.  Then, swaying her hips sensuously, she would dominantly roll her cunny across his up-tilted features, smearing them with her hot juices.

 Cowering, he would shrink back, amazed and frightened by her aristocratic excesses and her ruthless dominance.  A swipe from her crop, she resolved, would still and steady him instantly, bringing his face and busy mouth back between her parted thighs.  Then a second stinging lash would draw his tongue forth into her eager warmth.  He would be hers absolutely - utterly hers to control and command.

 Outside up in the elm trees the coven of ragged rooks grew increasingly raucous.  Lady Maycott rolled over and crushed her breasts into the hard sheen of the linoleum floor.  Grinding sinuously into it like a snake sloughing off its skin, she kissed the cold surface with her nipples, belly and pussy lips.  The frenzy of her slow, deliberate gyrations increased as she inched her buttocks up.  She gripped them fiercely, her strong fingers dimpling and whitening the plumpness of each captive peach as she pulled them apart and exposing her dark cleft.

 A thread of spun sugar flowed down from her smouldering pussy and the warm ache between her buttocks became a delicious discomfort.  She rehearsed once again the dark delights of dominance and discipline.  She ordered the blacksmith to kneel close up against her thighs,  his supple apron slapping her proffered bottom.  She imagined the fierce presence of his iron-hard length nuzzling at her hot sphincter.   Yes!  The young bull of a village blacksmith kneeling behind her, his hard body and iron cock pressed fiercely against her softness - the snout of the cock only a heartbeat away from her tight little rosebud of feral heat.  She relished the idea of him moaning in fear and confusion.  And in the darkness of the village forge, her puckering anal whorl would suddenly gleam in the golden glare from the furnace.  Impatiently, jerking her bottom into his cock, she would scream out her command, her passionate cry as ragged as a coven of startled rooks.  Still he would deny her, deny her and refuse to use a titled lady in so depraved, so disgusting a manner.

 A perverse light shone in Lady Maycott's sea green eyes as she rolled sensuously from thigh to thigh across the shining linoleum.  As a titled member of the aristocracy, she held the whip hand.  The whip hand... 

 Lady Maycott masturbated slowly, deliberately...luxuriously... as she imagined herself punishing the disobedient farrier.  Swish-swiping her riding crop down across his bare bottom.  The leather-sheathed cane's deliciously satisfying hiss as she whipped it down across his jerking cheeks - cheeks already bearing the blue-purple welts of each vicious kiss.  She masturbated frantically now as she imagined his smothered grunts turning into anguished yelps as he squirmed under her crop.

 She must come.  She must climax immediately.


 Sitting up suddenly Lady Maycott addressed her seething cunny determinedly.  Her fingertips grew wet and shining as she strummed her tingling labia.  Capturing and brutally tweaking her clitoral thorn, Lady Maycott slipped into her intoxicating reverie of pain, pleasure and punishment.  She would force the kneeling farrier to lower his head beneath her pinioning riding boot.  Swish!  Crack!
her crop would stripe his whipped bottom yet again.  Treading his head down triumphantly, she would grip her riding crop very tightly as his punished bottom rose for more pain.  The crop would whistle down...swish!  crack!  The riding boot now at his neck would keep him perfectly positioned for his punishment and pain.

 Drowning deep in her violent reverie - her fantasy of chastising the naked farrier - she could almost feel the reflexive jerk of his whipped cheeks as he writhed beneath her cruel boot.  Swish!  Crack!  Again her pinioning boot absorbed the spasms of the beaten man.  Swish!  Crack!  As she relished the image of the crop whipping down once more, she nipped her clitoris savagely.  Swish!
Crack!   Again and yet again, she relished and gloried in his humiliation, suffering and pain as she ravished her love thorn...

 Half a dozen imagined strokes later, Lady Maycott was rolling across the linoleum floor and her threshing nakedness collided with the cold iron bath tub.  It sobered her instantly.  Brutally brought out of her sexual reverie, she rose unsteadily to her feet and stumbled towards a full length looking glass.  In it her eyes met their reflection.  Twin flashing emeralds of glinting green.  Pressing into the cold glass, her nipples kissed their twins as her breasts bunched.  Hugging the long, oval glass between outstretched arms and shoving her nakedness into the unyielding glass, she ground her wet cunny into her own reflected flesh - smearing the shining surface with her juiced wet heat - and climaxed.

 Shrieking loudly, her knees buckled as the orgasm broke over her and within her - contracting and squeezing her belly muscles and loosening her inner thighs.  The pulsing delight darted like a lightening bolt up inside her between her thighs - searing into her tight rectal warmth and leaving her cunny tingling and livid.

 A second orgasm ravished her mercilessly, her wail of carnal delight escalating into a primal scream of joy...and scattering the coven of black rooks gathered outside in the immemorial elms...


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