The Viscountess Investigates: A Dominion Erotic Mystery by Cameron Quintain
ISBN: 978-1-61390-035-2
Word Count: 69,044
Page Count: 204
List Price: $6.99
“Easy, Snuzzle,” the driver said, pulling back on the reins. The pony girl began to drag her feet, throwing up a small cloud of dust and gravel until the forward motion of the cart was under control.
The driver gave her human mare a few seconds to catch her breath, then brought the carriage whip down smartly across her shoulders. The pony girl moved forward at a gentle trot, lifting her legs high and making the bells on her breasts chime with each step. The small purple hearts tattooed across one buttock and down her right thigh were quite visible.
The driver steered her carefully down the gravel road and into the quarry. The cart went down the path to the punishment wheel. The guards ordered the prisoner to halt as they stared at the newcomer.
“I’m afraid I have to cut this short,” the driver’s cool, sophisticated voice said. “I have need of him.”
The prisoner felt his heart beat faster. He had known it was her from the second she had appeared, but even so, hearing her voice sent a quiver of excitement through his body.
“He belongs to you then?” the blonde guard asked.
“A poor thing, but mine own. Here are his papers. I need him hosed off and shaved as soon as possible.”
While the guards were checking his paperwork, the driver crossed over to her pony slave and pressed a lump of sugar past her bit gag. “Good girl,” the driver said softly. Snuzzle stamped her feet and gave a whinny of pleasure. She was far too deep into her Persona to respond with words, even if the bit had allowed it.
Standing still, at last, but still chained to the wheel, the prisoner heard her approach. He wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with her, but he didn’t have to. He knew exactly what she looked like. He could see a perfect memory of her face, with its moody grey eyes, and proud Roman nose. He often thought of her as an ancient queen reincarnated. She had the kind of a face that would look appropriate if carved into a marble statue, or stamped onto a coin.
He knew every inch of her. He knew the pale skin and lustrous black hair, the full breasts and shapely ass. He knew the hands with their long fingers that could so easily give pleasure and pain. She would be wearing something that both displayed and revealed her body. She would have her belt on, with the two whips, the cruel single tail called Tears-Like-Rain, and Hornet’s Sting, the wicked little flogger. No doubt Hornet’s Sting was already twitching against her thigh, anxious to be in use.
She was coming closer to him. The delicious scent of her body, sweat and leather reached his nostrils. He could feel himself becoming aroused. A gloved hand reached out and gently lifted his head, allowing him to look her in the face. She was actually more beautiful than he remembered.
“Enjoying yourself, slave?” she asked. Her grey eyes danced with merriment.
“Yes, Viscountess,” he replied.
“I’m sorry to end your vacation, but I have need of you.” She saw the expression on his face and smiled. “Don’t pout darling, you’ll enjoy this one. It looks like murder.”
An hour later the prisoner was standing in the prison yard in front of the warden’s office. He had bathed in the hose, and had been shaved. The hair on his face was gone, along with every bit of hair from his body below the neck. The guards had also given him something to eat and all the water he could drink. As he stood in the sun, drying off, his wrists were held behind his back with leather cuffs. There was a collar around his neck whose leash led to the back of the pony cart.
He had missed his collar over the last few weeks. He had to take it off, since it didn’t fit the mood of the Dominion. He had felt naked without it, which was odd, since he had been naked most of the time. Now he was equally naked, but he felt at peace with himself now that the strip of leather was back around his neck. There was a metal tag on the collar which read “My name is severin” followed by his slave registration number on one side and “I belong to the Viscountess” on the other.
The Viscountess stood in the shade of an awning, luxuriating in the waves of submissive energy that rippled off of him. She admired his bowed head, the curve of his well-marked ass, even the small, half erect cock that jutted out at an odd angle.
The warden emerged from her office with his release papers in hand. She was a squat, powerful woman with biceps the size of most people’s thighs. She had a wide-brimmed hat and was carrying her favorite flagellation instrument, strips of an inner tube nailed to an axe handle.
“I swear that boy of yours is the best buck I ever did see,” the warden drawled. “Hell, the last time he went over the wall he dammed near escaped. We had to use the dogs.”
“Escaped?” the Viscountess raised one eyebrow quizzically. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“If he didn’t escape, we wouldn’t have no reason to put him in the hot box, or stake him out for the fire ants, ain’t that right, boy?” The warden grabbed one of his testicles between thumb and forefinger and gave a hearty squeeze.
“Yes, Boss, thank you Boss,” he gasped.
The warden roared with laughter and spat some tobacco juice on the ground. Seeing it, Severin couldn’t suppress a shudder. It brought back too many memories. There were some things even he didn’t enjoy.
“Thank you for taking such good care of him,” the Viscountess said. “I’ll make sure to recommend this Dominion to all my friends.”
“I sure would appreciate that, ma’am.”
The Viscountess drew up the leash until she had tugged him very close to her.
“I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you’re too tired to run behind the cart.”
“Yes, Viscountess,” he admitted.
“Very well,” she sighed theatrically, “You may lie on the floor of the cart, face up.”
He got himself into position. She settled into the seat and placed both feet on his chest.
“Comfortable?” she asked with a faint smile.
“No, Viscountess.”
“Excellent.”
She cracked the whip and Snuzzle shot forward at full gallop. The cart went through the open gates and onto the road. Every little bump sent her heels into his chest, but he lay there, almost contented, at her feet.
As they travelled down the road, the man felt a familiar, queasy sensation. The sun seemed to go down, then come up again. Things shot past them in a blur. The Dominion of the prison work farm fell away. Everything became a jumble and they were suddenly falling, or flying, or running, because he could still hear the jingle of Snuzzle’s bells. Everything seemed to be spinning about them.
As the vertigo and nausea struck him, he reminded himself that he could turn a wheel until he was ninety and he still wouldn’t be a real pony slave. He had worn the harness and even carried some women, but it wasn’t in him to be a true pony. He could never cross that yawning void between Dominions and the Real World.
Everything became light, then dark, then light again. A world seemed to be forming around them, one piece at a time. A building appeared, then another. The wheels of the cart struck pavement. What had they been rolling on before? he wondered. He could hear car engines and smell their exhaust. They were now on a busy street. In the prison Dominion it had been midday, here it was early morning.
The Viscountess fought to get the cart back under control. They were wedged between two cars in bumper to bumper traffic. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to them.
“New York,” the Viscountess explained.
That would explain the smell. Lying on his back on the floor of the cart he had an odd view of things. He saw people on the sidewalks, men wearing clothes and speaking without permission. There but for the grace of God go I, he thought.
The Viscountess brought the cart around to a narrow alley. She gave water to Snuzzle, then drank a bit herself. When she was done, she freed his hands and tugged on his leash, forcing him to prostrate himself on the pavement before her. Her dominant energy flowed freely down the leash, sending a shudder of submissive desire through him.
To his horror he saw that dust from the prison yard had settled on her boots. Each particle of dust marred the perfection of the perfect black leather. He drew himself up to his hands and knees and leaned forward. He was so upset that he almost forgot to ask permission.
“Please, Viscountess,” he begged.
She did not answer verbally, but simply snapped her fingers and pointed. Immediately he went to work. His tongue worked its way around the tip of the boot, licking the dust away. The black leather was cool and smooth, sweet as chocolate to his hungry mouth. He felt her toes move beneath the leather, and she laughed at his eagerness.
“Tell me, slave, what do you know of the Algophilia Society?”
“They’re very rich and powerful,” he said, gulping down some gritty mud he had just taken off her boot.
“In fact they’re probably the richest and most powerful group of S&M adepts in the city. They became much more popular when people stopped taking the Hellfire Club seriously.”
“Well, what do you expect? Appearing on The Avengers is one thing, but when they let themselves appear in the X-Men comic, well…”
The Viscountess took Hornet’s Sting off her belt and with a flip of her wrist sent it hard across his ass. It was a wicked little thing and made sure to catch his balls with its moosehide strands.
“You shouldn’t criticize your betters,” she said, then added softly, “Even if you are right.”
“Thank you Viscountess,” the slave said, keeping his face close to her boot. He was working on the instep now, a delicate process that required he lie on his side.
“The Board of Directors wields a great deal of authority, and unfortunately one of them just passed away. Eric Powers. I’ve known him for a few years. He’s a collector of rare erotic artwork and a master of forniphilia, the art of human furniture. I once rented a pair of sculptures to display at a garden party, lovely girls, do you remember them?”
“No, Viscountess.” He was almost done with one boot, going across the toe a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, “I was staked out in the grass and couldn’t see them.”
“Yes, that’s right. Well, at any rate, he’s passed away.”
“What happened to him?”
“That is what we’re going to find out. We have an appointment to see John Masters, the president of the Algophilia Society.” The Viscountess gave a sharp tug on the leash. “And we don’t want to be late.”
* * * *
Touching the doorbell produced a cute, college-age girl in a very short maid’s outfit. It didn’t quite come up enough to hide her pierced nipples, and the skirt wasn’t low enough to hide the fact that she was completely shaved. She was balancing precariously on eight-inch heels, the shoes held on with small padlocks. Although her wrists were free, her elbows were chained behind her back. She had managed to get the door open, but for the most part her arms could do nothing but flop around like the tiny forelegs of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Apparently they had interrupted her in the midst of dusting, or at least attempting to dust. A bright red ball gag about the same color as her lipstick was buckled between her teeth. The front of it had a hole, and into that hole had been inserted the end of a feather duster. She had to dust using only movements of her head.
No doubt when she failed to do a good enough job, she would be subject to some exquisite punishment.
“I am the Viscountess. I’m here to see Mr. Masters.”
The maid made a sort of murmur from behind the ball gag and nodded her head. She backed away from the door with careful steps and led them over to an elevator. She moved like someone on stilts.
She took them to a small elevator and nodded towards it, holding up the fingers of one hand.
“Fifth floor?” the Viscountess guessed. The maid nodded.
The Viscountess did not thank her, but merely stepped into the elevator, followed by Severin. The maid shuffled back to her duty. She was engaged in dusting a group of small, delicate-looking bottles that were on a low table. Viscountess winced at her clumsy attempts to dust as the elevator door slid shut.
“What do you think?” she asked when they were alone.
“So this is how the other half suffers,” Severin mused, glancing around the polished brass and mahogany elevator. He saw his naked body in a mirror on the ceiling. There were also rings set in the walls so slaves could be secured in a variety of positions.
The elevator was almost silent until it reached its destination. They found themselves facing a long hallway with plush carpet. Heavy oak doors lined the hall and there was a secretary at a desk guarding the largest and most impressive door.
The secretary was a well-built ,middle-aged woman with a blouse stretched very tightly across her large breasts. Her lipstick was subdued, but her long fingernails were fire-engine red. Her hair, a shade too red to be natural, was pulled into a tight bun. She wore glasses with cat’s eye frames perched on her nose. She looked vaguely like a school teacher or librarian from the 1950s. It was a good look for her; somehow she seemed to be both conservative and smolderingly sexy at the same time. The little sign on her neat desk read, “Miss Fellatrix.”
“Yes?” Miss Fellatrix said, glancing up from her computer. She looked at them as if they had just tracked mud across the carpet.
“I am the Viscountess. I have an appointment to see Mr. Masters.”
“One moment please.” She lifted the phone and pressed a button. “Sir, there’s a Miss Viscountess and slave to see you. Yes sir.”
Miss Fellatrix rose from her chair with some difficulty. She had to take the arms of her chair and pull herself to her feet. Once she was standing the reason for her problem was clear. There was a dildo of no small size permanently mounted onto her chair. There was no way she could sit without impaling herself on it.
The secretary steadied herself on her black patent leather pumps and smoothed the tight skirt across her well-rounded ass before leading them to the door.
“This way,” she announced, opening it for them and following them in, apparently to see if her boss needed her to take dictation or something.
John Masters was the perfect image of an alpha male dominant. He was an imposing figure while seated and when he rose it was with the power and grace of an ex-athlete. Although he was casually dressed, everything he wore was very expensive. The diamond on his pinky ring was so small it was scarcely noticeable. His face was handsome, but not too handsome, rather it looked rugged and a bit worn, perhaps from sailing around the world on his yacht. There was a touch of gray at his temples, as if to remind visitors that he was both older and more powerful than them.
“Viscountess,” he said, taking her hand and expertly kissing it. “It’s an honor to meet you. Please call me John.”
He was making sure that she didn’t have to call him by his title. It didn’t take a genius to guess that in his club he was always called Master, which was both his title and his last name. By allowing her to use his given name he was accepting her as an equal.
In front of the desk there was a comfortable seat for her and a circle of bare floor for her slave. Viscountess settled into the seat and made a circular motion with one hand, indicating that Severin should sit rather than kneel.
As Masters took his seat the Viscountess was aware of his gaze on her. He was admiring the swell of her breasts as they rose from the silk corset, and her legs in the tight leather pants. A current of sexual desire flowed out of him. She accepted this as the compliment that it was and made sure to give no sign either verbal or nonverbal that she reciprocated.
“I don’t know about you,” Masters said. “But I haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And your slave?”
“Nothing,” Viscountess said.
Miss Fellatrix had been standing at attention waiting for orders. He glanced at her and nodded. She bowed slightly and left the room.
“This is quite a place you have here,” Viscountess glanced around the office. “Is your organization entirely male dominant?”
“Not at all. We have several dominant female members, and a few switches of both sexes.”
The Viscountess nodded. She had the feeling that he was one of those dominants who saw submission as a sign of weakness. In the privacy of the club men might submit to the power of a woman, but it was all in good fun, not like the complete submission demanded from the female slaves.
Since no one was paying attention to him, Severin looked around the room. For the most part it could have passed for an office at any business. Even the rack of whips and canes was discreet and tasteful. Nipple clamps were on a silver serving tray. Everything gleamed as if recently polished. There was a magnificent view out the window, plush carpet everywhere but the circle he sat in, and wood paneling on the walls. It looked like what it was, a very old and wealthy men’s club.
Several pictures on the wall intrigued him. There was a lithograph from one of the original editions of 120 Days of Sodom, and a signed, original Bishop. Several framed photos dotted one wall. There were pictures of Masters with a few celebrities, some of them in leather, others in bondage.
Interestingly, many of the pictures were of Miss Fellatrix. There was a shot of her naked, on her knees looking dazed and exhausted surrounded by a roomful of nude men. Her body looked as if she had taken a bath in semen. She had a slender crown on her head, and a banner pulled across her chest read “Blow Job Queen 1989.” There was another shot of her and Masters having a vanilla wedding. She looked radiant in her gown, and equally radiant in the next picture where she was wearing only her bridal veil and having the letter M branded into her right buttock.
The door opened noiselessly and Miss Fellatrix herself entered the office. She was accompanied by a maid, a human serving tray, and a woman wearing only a collar and a waist cincher. The maid was dressed much like the one downstairs, but her hands were free, and she had normal heels instead of the cruel spikes the other one wore. The woman who was the serving tray was naked from the waist up. Below that she was wearing stockings and a garter belt and high heels. She was a big girl and her large breasts with the prominent nipples swayed with every step she took. Around her ample waist she had a serving tray with a half circle cut out of it that hugged her tightly. It was supported by chains that went around her shoulders. The tray contained a silver coffee pot, two cups, and a bowl of sugar.
“How do you like your coffee, ma’am?” the maid asked, making sure she did not make eye contact with the Viscountess. She was a pretty thing, dark-haired and slender, breasts the size of grapefruit visible above her uniform.
“Light, with two sugars.”
The maid poured the coffee, added the sugar, then carefully positioned the china cup and saucer on the tray. Taking one of the woman’s breasts in both hands, she squeezed, sending a thin stream of milk into the cup.
After a quick stir with a silver spoon, the maid knelt and held out the cup of coffee in both hands. The Viscountess did not take the cup right away, but made the maid kneel motionless.
Miss Fellatrix did not need to ask how Masters took his coffee. She made it with expert precision and placed it on his desk. Only then did the Viscountess take the cup and saucer from the maid, who remained kneeling. The nearly naked woman immediately went to the side of the Viscountess’s chair and dropped to all fours, offering her back as a table.
“I always find that a little oral service is the best way to start the day.” Masters announced. “Would you care to join me?”
“Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, we’d be honored,” Masters smiled graciously.
The way he phrased it, it would be impolite to refuse. The Viscountess glanced at the maid, still kneeling, but looking at her with eager anticipation.
“Very well.” The Viscountess carefully placed the saucer on the waist cincher of the human table and unbuckled the front of her own pants, revealing the hidden zippers. The pants could be turned into a pair of chaps. The maid’s face positively glowed at the sight of her, she glanced up, making sure she had permission before leaning in and applying her tongue.
Meanwhile Miss Fellatrix was making herself comfortable underneath the desk. She fit so easily under there that the desk had to have been built with this purpose in mind. All that was visible of her was the back of her head bobbing up and down as the sound of sucking and slurping filled the room.
Viscountess was not surprised to find that the maid was quite skilled at her job. The woman ran her tongue up and down the length of her lips, teasing the clitoris slowly to life with long broad strokes. As the Viscountess lifted the coffee cup she noticed that her hand trembled slightly.
“This is excellent coffee,” the Viscountess said, adjusting her position on the chair. She draped one leg over the maid’s shoulder to give her better access.
“It’s grown at a plantation in South America worked entirely by slave labor.”
“So it’s sort of unfair trade coffee?”
“Yes, ah,” Masters made a noise that sounded more like pain than pleasure. Miss Fellatrix’s head was bobbing up and down so fast that it was a blur. “We send a few girls down every year for some hard labor; the locals love it.”
“I can imagine,” the Viscountess let out a soft moan. The maid’s tongue was now moving in deft circles around her clit. Obviously further conversation was going to be difficult…
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