Plaything for Goddesses

©COPYRIGHT 2011 BY KINGKEYWRITER

Initially, I thought Catherine Roman invited my wife Nicole and me to her reception to show her appreciation for the millions we'd deposited in the Fairfax, Virginia, branches of her New York-based bank. I grudgingly realized, however, she wanted all of our assets in her institution.

My cynical impulses sliced through the floss to the reality that Mrs. Roman, a widow of four years, would subject Nicole and me to ulterior motives far more sinister than her plans for the senator being honored by her reception. When I spotted a stunning blonde in a red satin dress waving to catch my attention from across the room, I decided she must be the bait to lure me into Mrs. Roman's trap.

The blonde's elbow-length red satin gloves mesmerized me while she swam through the crowd toward me. She looked aggressively voluptuous. I swapped my empty glass for my third Vodka Collins from a passing tray to fortify my courage. As soon as I touched the fresh drink to my lips, the blonde confronted me.

She looked a few years older than Nicole and slightly heavier. Her well-sculpted flesh was strategically placed at her luscious breasts, hips, and ass. She was a bigger, more stacked version of Nicole. Her eyes were a darker blue, almost violet. And violent.

"I crashed your party." Her naughty smile and hauteur almost dared me to challenge her interloping. "I just had to meet you!"

Switching my drink to my left hand, I gulped and extended my right hand. "Ivey Marks."

"Oh, I know, silly!" Proffering her right hand, she let me clasp her fingers. Her left hand lightly touched my arm, and her gloves felt like red-hot branding irons. "I have dozens of your paintings. I'm Sable Brandenburg."

"Don't you live in Philadelphia, Ms. Brandenburg?" Her name—Sable Brandenburg—resonated with dominance, compelling me to call her Ms. Brandenburg, not Sable.

"A short trip. Are you as full of passion as your paintings?"

Either my art tapped an erotic vein in her, or—I suspected—she was playing me to snare me for Mrs. Roman. I remained silent.

"Come to Philadelphia," Ms. Brandenburg offered. "Paint my portrait. Nude."

"Can't I at least wear my socks?"

"You can't hide your emotions behind stale jokes." She indulged me with a jaded smile. "Music is more expressive. Do you know 'One Way or Another' by Blondie?"

Ms. Brandenburg disarmed my defenses so easily I didn't give a damn about her motives anymore. I ached to join her, bodily, feeling a relentless, inexplicable obsession to submit to her.

Life would have been smoother if I'd followed her to Philadelphia.

Instead, a tall dark-eyed brunette loomed at my side out of nowhere. "My organ music will surpass even your passion, Igor."

Buttery soft, highly polished burgundy leather swathed her long, lean body. Her gown glimmered in the candlelight from the buffet table. Diamond bracelets glistened from the wrists of her opera-length leather burgundy gloves, and her diamond necklace drew my eyes to her face.

Oddly, I remember judging her very pretty, but not beautiful. Compared to the sexpot Ms. Brandenburg, this brunette looked safe and wholesome.

The two women's wary expressions indicated they knew each other, neither friends nor bitter enemies—maybe acquaintances gone in separate directions.

"Why did you call me Igor?" In her high heels, also burgundy, she stood as tall as I—mildly threatening.

"Don't try to hide your Russian roots." She shifted the strap of her huge burgundy handbag to relieve her shoulder. Her bearing was as autocratic as Ms. Brandenburg's. Her dark eyes and hair, neutrally attractive to that point, now gave her aloofness tinged with cynicism. She was no creampuff. No matter; she was on my side.

"You interrupted my steamy conversation with Ms. Brandenburg," I confessed.

The imposing brunette ignored me and addressed Ms. Brandenburg. "Does Nikki know you're here? Or Catherine? I'm sure they'dloveto see you, Sable."

"I'll bet the police would love to seeyou, Nastassia."

"My name is Natasha."

"Whatever."

"And the police can't harass me. I have diplomatic immunity."

Stymied, Ms. Brandenburg glared at Natasha. "I'll be back after I announce myself to NicoleandCatherine."

"You just do that. 'Bye." Ms. Brandenburg stormed off, and Natasha's eyebrows rose triumphantly. "We won't see her again."

Natasha's rescue soothed me. How wrong I was! Besides, she'd been rather harsh. "Was that necessary?"

"I want you all to myself."

"I'm flattered, Miss—"

"Natasha Vronsky, Countess of Russleder."

"Spell it." While she called out the letters, I grabbed a Vodka Collins from a passing tray. "That's German, not Russian. Now I know you're a phony." My fourth drink on an empty stomach unleashed a buzz through me.

"Roughly translated, 'Russleder' is 'Russian leather,' from a quote by German philosopher Heinrich Heine. He predicted Russia would become powerful and ruthless—my kind of country."

I stepped behind her. "You really know your heinie."

"Russialeather is a bookbinding technique." She ignored my lame pun. "The process yields a camphor scent and the color of my dress." She rubbed her gloved hands over the glimmering leather stretched tautly over her beautiful ass. "Want to smell?"

Nearby guests stared in shock or amusement.

Natasha's transparent guile—sensual, facile tease before humiliating denial—paralyzed me because of my visceral hunger for her. Depositing my empty glass on another passing tray, I replenished my libation. A tray of shrimp with horseradish sauce caught my eye.

But the Countess clutched my shoulder and turned me to face her. Drinking on an empty stomach made me more pliable. "Your grandmother was Russian."

"How'd you know that?"

She touched my glass. "You're drinking vodka. Therefore, your grandmother was Russian."

My fifth drink accelerated my giddiness. "Silly."

An inebriated guest weaved into me. "'Scuse me."

Natasha lowered her voice. "You and Nicole maintain an open marriage."

Her remark pierced my euphoric high. "That's none of your business."

"It is precisely my business." Taking the glass from my hand, the Countess placed it on the buffet table and gripped my shoulders with surprising strength. "Nicole told me to take you out of action so she can frolic without interruption."

"You're not the first. She does that on all of her birthdays!"

"We can't talk here. Let's go to your room."

"I don't know." I stared down. "I could fall for you."

"No problem. You're in an open marriage."

"Sex is OK, but Nicole forbids me to fall in love."

"Forbidsyou? A marriage with rules is not open."

"You saw what happened with Ms. Brandenburg. She's crazy about my paintings."

"I'd like to see your work."

"I was getting a crush on her. See why Nicole tried to keep us apart?"

The Countess frowned and shook her head. "Sable is a gold digger, and a sadistic bitch, to boot."

Several guests cocked their.

"My kind of woman!" I declared, ignoring the eavesdroppers.

"I know a thing or two about fleecing men," she smiled. "Do you want sadism? I'll make you beg for mercy."

Convinced she was handing me a line, I stayed focused on the departed blonde. "I mean, if Ms. Brandenburg wants to destroy me, what a way to go!"

"You want a woman to bleed you dry."

"Like an old-fashioned vamp—or vampire."

"Physically punish you."

"I'm a bad boy."

"And force you to ejaculate whenshewants you to—if at all."

"As long as I get my climax and she gets her orgasm."

Countess Vronsky presented her arm to me. "But you must earn a woman's domination."

"Huh?" Although I took her arm, she subtly led the way, guiding me into the hall.

"When a woman disciplines you," she pushed the elevator button for the third floor, "she's presenting a priceless gift. Ask yourself if you're worthy of her dominance."

She steered me from the elevator and to my room so quickly I dimly realized she knew my room number.

After I inserted my room card into the slot and withdrew it, she preceded me inside. The spectacle of her derriere flexing under tight, shiny leather whipped me. "What must I do to deserve your gift?" I closed the door.

She smiled in triumph. "Just a second." Picking up the phone, she punched in several digits. "Room service? Send two bottles of your finest vodka to Suite 333. Add the charge to the room bill."

Placing her large handbag on the dresser, she indicated the table near the window. "Sit down. We'll discuss my terms for your surrender over drinks."

"Terms of surrender?" I took a seat at the table. "Should I be flattered or insulted?" Too cowardly to meet her bold, hypnotic brown eyes, I stared at her beautifully turned ankles while she walked toward me, figuratively over me.

"Makes no difference." She adjusted my tie. "Slaves aren't entitled to opinions."

Reflexively, my penis and my body started to rise.

Clamping her hands on my shoulders, she held me down easily. "Show me gratitude. I saved you from Sable."

"Yeah, I think Mrs. Roman put Ms. Brandenburg up to something."

The Countess smiled slyly. "Consider this an audition."

"For what?"

"Depending on how well you perform, you could become Count Vronsky—straight out ofAnna Karenina." She laughed, doubting that I caught her literary allusion. I learned later she'd taken her fictitious surname from the dashing count in Leo Tolstoy's novel.

"I'd like being a count."

"In title only. If you pass my test, praise me for using you shamelessly."

"You know, I'm crazy about aggressive women, but your conceit is grating on me."

"Are you man enough to take it?"

What a double bind! She framed our relationship so craftily I had to prove my masculinity by wimping out! And her beauty fueled my passion to drop to my knees.

A knock at the door preceded a young voice. "Room service."

The Countess filched my wallet from my inside coat pocket. Her leather-clad, luscious body brushed mine, disabling me from resisting her brassy theft.

She removed two fifty-dollar bills from my thick wallet, as deftly as if she were bare-handed, on her way to the door. She handed the cash to the young man. "Something for you."

His eyes opened wide. "Thank you!"

"Remember: You delivered two bottles of vodka to this man. I wasn't here."

"Yes, ma'am!"

She took the bottles from the cart. "Don't set the table. I'll undo this rich, horny John so fast he won't know what hit him." Her kiss caused an instant erection and red face.

While the aroused hotel worker wheeled the cart away, the Countess closed the door and put my wallet on the dresser. "Let's play strip-drinking. Take a drink for each article of clothing you remove."

I reached for her.

"Not my clothing," she chided. "Remove your tie." She opened the bottle before my tie left my collar and poured vodka into my mouth before my albatross hit the floor.

Stripping while getting drunk invites getting shafted, and the Countess already had me by the groin. While I removed my jockey shorts, she took the chocolate piece from the turned down sheet on the bed. Her dexterity in unwrapping it with her gloves on amazed me. When she swallowed, the treat symbolized my will, immersed in her pleasure.

Besotted with her and with vodka, I stood nakedly vulnerable.

The balled up the foil wrapper and tossed it in my face. "Lie down, supine."

I stood motionless, defiant.

"That means on your back." She pushed me backwards, gently, and I reclined.

"I know what supine means. I just couldn't believe your gall."

She retrieved her large bag from the dresser and placed it on the floor. Taking out two pairs of handcuffs, she locked my left wrist to the center of the headboard of the king size bed and my left ankle to the center of the footboard.

"What are you doing?" The position seemed odd.

"I'm doingyou," she admitted. "Now I can flip you over and keep you on the bed." She wiggled her panties down and stepped out of them. Stooping to pick them up, she said, "I learned this from Sable, who saw Sigourney Weaver do it in a movie." Stuffing her panties into my mouth, she smiled, "That should keep you quiet."

When she stooped to her bag, I reached for her panties from my mouth.

Before I could them, she placed an object against my chest. Electricity coursed through me, and I convulsed wildly. For several seconds, I was incapacitated. "Stun gun." Her arch smile celebrated her power over me. "Don't make me use it again."

I shook my head no.

Placing a tape player on the bedside table, she explained, "I'd prefer listening to tapes of me playing the organ. But this is saxophone music: very romantic and sexy."

My gaze into her eyes amounted to nonverbal begging.

"People in the adjoining rooms will think we're making love. They will be wrong." She flipped out a camera phone, took several pictures of me, and texted a message. "Just letting Nicole know what you're up to. These pictures should amuse her—and provide grounds for divorce."

Nicole would never divorce me, but I reached for the panties again.

The Countess zapped me. "I will ruin you. Lie back and enjoy it. I know I will."

Turning up the volume on the music, she punched me in the right eye sharply. Her gloved fist shot into my left eye. She formed two circles with her index finger and her thumb of each hand and placed the circles on her eyes, forecasting my black eyes.

I'd endure her cold, precise jabs all night for eyes like hers, lined with burgundy instead of purplish-black. Punching my nose repeatedly, she ran her index finger under my nostrils and displayed her bloody, gloved finger to showcase her cruelty.

Inexplicably, she leaned down and pressed her wet lips hard against mine, sucking and moving her lips until I kissed her back desperately, madly hoping she cared for me after beating me savagely.

I wrapped my free arm around her back to pull her closer. Totally disregarding her sadism, I yearned to embrace her and show I was still enamored with her—or lusting for her. Both, actually.

When she rose, our lips parted. I leaned up, trying to reach her with my lips.

She jerked free and clipped my chin with a roundhouse right. While I remained half-raised, dazed, and stupidly craving affection, she punched me with a wide left and laughed in my face.

Countess Vronsky's tease and denial exceeded any sadism I'd ever seen.

She coolly flipped open her camera phone, took more pictures, and texted them to Nikki. Placing her camera phone on the bedside table, she retrieved a whip from her bag and turned me over. The Countess's facial expression and demeanor seemed frozen at absolute-zero, a cryogenic sculpture chiseled into my mind. She personified fire and ice.

Her fist punished, but her whip cut like a blade, torturing me with sheer impact and ripping my skin. Even while the pain sliced through me, my raw emotions turned my cock into a rigid rod. Countess Vronsky's whip lashed every inch of my back, stinging me into sexual arousal, moving down to my buttocks, piquing my lust in steady escalation, ripping my thighs, and raining shots back up to my ass.

She playfully snapped her whip in my anus, and pre-cum oozed out of my cock. Astounded at her lashing talents, I passively let her flip me over and stroke my cock vigorously, twice. I started to cum.

Diabolically, she straddled my penis with her middle and index fingers just behind the glans penis, simultaneously pushing up on the underside with her thumb. My cock went flat.

I wept, afraid her deflation might inflict permanent impotence. To allay my fear, she pumped my cock back to life—and collapsed it to underscore her tyranny over me.

She lowered the music. "Having fun yet?" Now her face blazed with sadistic lust.

Cowed by her stranglehold on me, I nodded my head yes.

She glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. "Just about now, Catherine Roman is fucking your wife for one million dollars."

I jerked upright, incredulous.

"Catherine screws all her rich-bitch girlfriends on their birthdays, including Sable, and convinces each gullible bimbo she's the only one." The Countess slithered off a glove. "Catherine insists the money only adds to the decadence of their debauchery." She removed her other glove. "But she's never given a discount or refund, much less a free ride."

I pointed to my lips, and she pulled her panties out of my mouth. "Please let me talk. I won't scream. Did Nicole take money from my account to pay Mrs. Roman?"

The Countess unzipped her dress. "Draw your own conclusions!"

"So, Nicole has made love to Mrs. Roman every year since we've been married!"

Countess Vronsky nodded yes. "Always on Nicole's birthday and other special occasions, depending on their schedules." She wiggled out of her dress. "But tonight Catherine will demand Nicole's pledge that she loves Mrs. Roman—to convince Nicole she doesn't need any man."

"Nicole wouldn't fall for that."

From her bag the Countess Vronsky pulled a dildo with a head on each end. Inserting the smaller head into her vagina, she gave smiled archly. "Those pictures I sent Nicole will convince her she doesn't needyou."

"You're in on this?"

"Ivey, you're so fucked up." She turned me over on my belly and secured my right wrist to the bed with yet another pair of handcuffs. "And you're about to be just plain fucked. Do exactly as I command and I may grant you the privilege of coming to live with me in Russleder."

"Out of the question. Why are you destroying my marriage?"

"Making sure you're available." She shackled my right ankle to the footboard with a fourth pair of handcuffs. Stuffing her panties back in my mouth, she leaned over to move the clock radio to the floor, revealing a video camera mounted on a small tripod on the bedside table. "Smile for the camera." She thrust hard into me.

Her brutal invasion jolted me, underscoring her dominance from the first stroke. Each agonizing jab inspired hope that my suffering might earn her affection. She could have whatever she wanted. She'd trapped me between the crosscurrents of her cruelty and sensuality.

She rode me so hard I started cumming, humping the bed, wanting to proclaim my slavery to her. Her panties stuffed in my mouth kept me from babbling my adoration, temporarily saving me from myself.

Jutting her pelvis so hard she forced my ass into the air, Countess Vronsky said to the camera, "This is for you, Nikki." She jabbed me harder and harder, manipulating her end of the dildo to treat herself to several orgasms.

Her delighted squeals and grunts taunted my imprisonment in frustration but fulfilled me in a peculiar, unfathomable way. Gratification rippled through me because she made me her instrument to pleasure herself. Her crass abuse gave me a meaningful function in her life.

Reaching under my belly to milk me—at least she drained me, even though her method humiliated me—the Countess pumped me until I couldn't give any more. I strained as hard as I could, just to keep her hand on my cock. She kissed me on the cheek and dismounted. Dressing quickly, she demanded, "Look at me!"

I turned my head as far as possible over my left shoulder while she slithered her hands into her gloves. Stuffing her whip back into her bag, she hoisted the strap to her shoulder and returned to the dresser.

Her arrogant smile provoked me with lust and anger while she picked my wallet clean and slid all the bills into her bag. Blowing me a kiss, she exited and closed the door.

*****

Early the next morning, Mrs. Roman sauntered into my room, locked the door, and taunted, "You seem to have gotten yourself into quite a predicament." She stood there in her black dress, even shinier than leather or satin, leather-gloved hands planted on her hips, and a fur stole around her neck and over her shoulders.