Bitsy's Inhuman Submission Ch. 15

This chapter begins immediately after Chapter 14. Thanks to my super special collaborator. You know who you are! And thanks for several amuse bouches that made this so much easier to write. To my readers, sorry for the delay. Real life sometimes happens when you are planning to write instead.

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Bitsy looked at Stuart. "What is the forfeit?" she asked, fearing something heinous.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "my masquerade ball is coming up. You will, of course, be my date and de facto hostess of the event—and the after party." His eyes were set, his voice arctic.

The royal masquerade ball was an annual event dating back for centuries. Various royals and nobles—both within Romania and beyond its borders—vied for the coveted scarlet gilt-edged invitations.

Lavish decorations competed with a lush and lavish buffet of sweets and meats, wine, and less innocent libations. Lords and ladies wore costumes of sumptuous fabrics in every hue, colorful tropical birds bedecked with an equally elaborate mask.

As with most masquerade balls, risqué was the name of the evening. Under a barely concealing cloak of anonymity, friends and enemies became lovers. At midnight, the revelers would unmask and pantomime shock at their chosen partner.

Bitsy had, of course, attended the masque in years' past, alongside Michael in the beginning and with her brother-in-law Chris ever after. She had NEVER attended the after party.

The after party of the masque, dubbed "Bacchus's Delight," was thought to be little more than an all-out orgy. Members of the demimonde cavorted and frolicked with dissipated and debauched aristocrats. Any nods to restraint that the masque made to the Count and his supporters were banished from Bacchus's Delight. The castle converted from a hedonist's paradise to hell by way of hedonism until the first rays of the sun painted the walls the following morning.

In Bitsy's lifetime, and for at least several lifetimes, there were no hostesses for the party—either the ball or the after party. She was a bit unsure as to what her duties would entail at the masque. As to the after party—her brain shut down refusing to allow her to contemplate further.

She realized that Stuart was awaiting her response. Nodding almost mechanically, she came out of her reverie.

Bitsy had already determined her dress for the masquerade ball. Having been at the palace for a few weeks now, she had often glanced at the full-length portrait of Queen Christiana, Stuart's mother, in her coronation gown. She had photographed the beautiful work of art—for surely it was—and had employed Madame Anastasia, one of the most sought-after couture designers for the nobility and royalty of Eastern Europe, to painstakingly reproduce the dress in minute detail.

Her plan was to wear a much less extravagant dress during the reception line and guest presentation. Then, when the final guest arrived, she planned to have Maria quickly help her change into the more elaborate gown. Paramount in her mind was the desire for the king to approve.

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In the two weeks since their fencing match, Stuart had turned instructor, tutoring her in the more stylistic maneuvers and flourishes in the art of fencing. He no longer thrusted and parried with a virtual him as antagonist; now, he enjoyed the challenge of a tango with foils with his concubine.

He had underestimated her prowess. In remembering conversations with Michael—in hindsight—from a decade and a half ago, he vaguely recalled Michael waxing poetic about Bitsy's skill with a sword. As with most conversations with his cousin involving Lady Bitsy, he found it best not to dwell on what was being said but instead focused on the lasciviousness. To the best of his knowledge, each conversation had ended with Michael walking away in self-righteous disgust after the king made a sexually charged pun about women and a man's sword.

She was truly a remarkable fencing master, he mused. Graceful and quick. They were using blunted sticks today with no padding. Dangerous for many reasons, not the least of which was the physical injury they could sustain.

But he couldn't resist watching the droplets of sweat slide down her neck to rest in the cleavage beneath her leotard, the delicate clench of muscles of her thighs as she parried his thrusts. The flip side was that his lack of focus during those moments made him particularly vulnerable to her offensive maneuvers.

It was one such maneuver that allowed her to press the end of the wooden "sword" to his chest, "killing him." They faced each other, panting.

"A direct hit," he congratulated. "Brava, slave."

Her concern showed through. She had never bested him at fencing, although it had been close a few times in the last week. "Is everything okay, Master?" she whispered.

Still his ingénue, he relished, enjoying her innocence. Then, his eyes focused on the mark he had given her at the last full moon visible still beneath her public collar. Even though the next full moon was still some time away, the raw, primal part of him came to the fore.

In a tone that welled up from the depths of his being, he quickly shed the idea that it was his soul, a voice burst forth full of insidious, devilish, indecent intent. It was as if it came spewing out from the tarry pits of hell, tinged with brimstone. A demonic voice. His Master VOICE. Quiet, unbelievably growly, dark, take-no-prisoners.

"Tomorrow, slave, you will serve as my hostess. You will do your best to make others feel welcome, giving them anything and everything they desire. Is that understood?"

Bitsy quaked internally. At times Master had been hypnotic and insistent, in turns, but this was the vocal embodiment of evil-masochistic-sadistic-power-struggle-submit-because-you-need-to-so-you-can-hear-the-voice-again Mastery.

"Anything, Master?" she asked and was shocked to discover that her voice came out as an almost childish whine.

Stuart nodded. "And everything, pet. Especially at the after party. You will enter the after party wearing your new working collar over a new public collar. The new public collar will be less able to pretend that it isn't a slave's collar but still acceptable for public wear and use. You will receive both tomorrow night during the masque during a collaring ceremony. And, to signal that you are mine and that the party is at an end and the after party is to begin, I will take you where you kneel in front of everyone."

His voice ended raspy, and Bitsy felt the rasp as if it were his tongue rasping roughly at her clit. He saw her tip over into the same mad, wild desire that had overtaken him, and he pounced.

The wooden swords skittered to the floor. Grasping the neckline of the red unitard, he yanked, and the stretchy spandex rent in two as if it were tissue.

Stuart looked his fill. Her pale breasts were capped each with a hard dark pink nub that ached for his tongue, his teeth, and something else. "Tomorrow, slave," he continued in that same diabolical tone, maddeningly quiet as it described the torments to come, "you will enter the after party nude, save your collars and the leash that will be attached to the top ring of your working collar. You will wear clamps attached to these nipples," he said, cruelly pinching and twisting each as she lay, lost in his sadistic spell beneath him. "Those clamps," he breathed into her ear, "will be connected to your collar on the bottom ring. I think you will find the sensations that will happen to be quite...maddening."

Just to make sure she didn't catapult into subspace quite yet, he clawed from the nipple down the undersides of her breasts to her ribcage. A warning. A promise. A delicious torment.

At her soft mewling whimper, he took her mouth voraciously, needing to claim her as his pet, his slave, yet again. When he paused for breath, he was shocked to hear her voice, thready with need, beg, "Please, Master, mark me again. Make sure they all know that I am yours to trifle with. Your slave."

Riding this sadistic high, he could no more deny her plea than he could make the world stop turning. With a low snarling growl, he ripped open her throat, lapping, tonguing, tasting the lime green liquid that spurted then flowed down her neck.

He saw her thoughts a scattered collage of her desire to submit to him, so different from the first time he bit her. One thought rose to tease him with its impossibility, that she loved him. He scoffed even as his heart warmed with the love that burned in his veins for her.

It was infatuation, he discounted the emotion that shone from her mind, not love. With what Tracy Bathory had planned, they could not afford to love. Love meant death for Bitsy. And he would do anything he could to prevent that from happening.

Pulling back, he ripped away the tatters of the leotard and shredded the tights that she wore over her legs. Her surprised sigh followed by a low liquid moan spurred him on further. He pinned her wrists with one hand high above her head and plunged into her with one thrusting stroke. This sword was velvet encased iron, not the wooden splinters that scattered around them.

She writhed, lifting her hips, an active participant as he had tutored her. While most of their tutoring sessions ended in a round of sex, this time it was different. This was not a perfunctory releasing of endorphins. This was a return to the primal nature of the beasts within them both.

When he felt her quicken beneath him, her clear soprano starting the slow ascent to her orgasm in his ear, he offered her his neck. "Bite," he commanded in that quiet, liquidly evil voice.

Under his spell, she bit and pulled, coming apart, screaming her orgasm into his neck. The milking of his cock by her pussy walls, the taste of her still on his tongue, and the ravaging bite that she made on his command all served to make his thrusts more masterful, more purposeful.

He tried to allow her a glimpse of his mind, having cordoned off the more interesting parts of his mind while lapping up her blood. Letting her see herself as he saw her beneath him, the enticingly quicksilver pet of his, beautiful and mercurial.

Pulling the ribbon that she tied her hair back with, red, in honor of him, he tied her wrists together and then used both hands to lift her legs so that her ankles rested on his shoulders. Then, he pounded her while he tormented her nipples again.

Her body slick with sweat both from the fencing match and from the more intimate tussle they presently engaged in, she glowed in the light of the gymnasium as Stuart pounded her harder into the gym mats.

This time when her orgasm streamed through her, she couldn't hold back the shriek of pleasure that echoed throughout the empty room, save for the two of them.

Neither noticed the pained eyes set in the face of Marcos as he watched the primal mating that shredded his heart and soul. He turned with a face frozen with excruciating torment and quietly exited the wing of the castle and the castle itself.

Stuart continued to jackhammer her pussy, gritting his teeth as he felt her again clenching and releasing the walls of her pussy on his cock. Seeing that she was on the precipice of subspace, he reached down and pressed her clit between his thumb and forefinger, appreciating how her body slowly went slack beneath him.

Her eyes half closed, and a look of utter peace and contentment suffused her features. He bent to kiss her lips, then nuzzled the other, unblemished side of her neck right above the public collar.

In his mind's eye, he saw her new collar. The public collar was a ring of shiny platinum, much more obvious than the one she now wore. She would never be able to remove it, he groaned as Bitsy's body shifted sinuously beneath him.

Her new working collar was soft black leather with gleaming chrome rings that begged to put put into practice. Begging brought a chuckle to his lips, and Bitsy noticed. "What is it, Master?" she asked, smiling.

The molten, midnight voice of Stuart, her Master, whispered against the skin of her neck. "Beg me to cum in your pussy." When she appeared to balk, he grasped a nipple in each hand, clenching them, tormenting them between his finger and thumb at either breast.

"Tut, tut, pet. What was that?" He felt his cock come so close, so he forced himself to think of Tracy Bathory, of anything to hold back.

"M-m-master," she purred, "please cum in my yearning pussy." She seemed to have understood how close he was and surrendered further into a descent into depravity. "Please cum in my nasty slave's cunt. Fill me with your jizz. I want to feel your spunk sliding down my legs when we leave this room and pass the servants in the hall. I want everyone to know exactly what we have been doing, that we have been fucking on this floor where anyone could walk in, see, and hear."

With the filth spewing from her lips, Stuart thrust, thrust, and sprayed his potent seed up inside the walls over pussy, arching as shot after shot of his come coated those clenching walls.

Still feeling potent, Stuart stood and lifted her around his legs. "Slide your legs around me, my sweet slave," he moaned, the voice from the pits of hell still on his lips.

She slid her legs around him at his hips and her tethered wrists around his neck as he stood and began to walk purposefully out of the gymnasium that now reeked of their sexual escapades, the aroma unmistakable. Her heartbeat beat a tattoo against his chest as he strode through the door and down the hall.

In the past, she had ducked her head, ashamed by her nakedness around the king's servants. Now, she stared the servants in the eye proud of her nudity and the fact that Master still throbbed within her.

As a tease, she wiggled a bit, jerking Master's cock within her as they started to pass the butler.

In response, he pressed her against the wall and started pounding her away while the butler watched disapprovingly. Bitsy, on the other hand, didn't care. Was she becoming an exhibitionist, Stuart pondered. So much so the better when considering what she would experience tomorrow night.

His sweet slut moaned bringing him out of his meandering thoughts. Her alabaster breasts were heaving against his chest, something Brooks the butler was trying not to notice. Stuart looked down at the swelling cock in the butler's pants and grinned.

He spun, taking her with him and walked purposefully to his wing of the castle, his room, his bed that dominated the room. As she was his most precious cargo, he placed her delicately on the bed in the center.

As she was his slut and his slave, he secured her bound wrists to the center of the headboard. The red silk stretched taut against her milky skin served only to excite him further. He pulled out of her despite her tiny plaintive protest.

"Shhh," he soothed. "We are not finished yet, my pet." As he had carried her to his room, he had developed a plan. He knew Marcos was never far from her thoughts, so he would give her, tonight, a taste of tenderness from him. But with that masterful edge, he thought, grinning wickedly.

Her eyes followed him as he walked to the drawers opposite the bed. Removing as scrap of black fabric and a feather quill, he slowly stalked over to her, sensual menace infusing his every fluid movement.

Eyes shining just for him gleamed further at the sight of the new toys. He almost hated what he was about to do, but he knew that it would up the ante on her orgasm, so to speak. Sliding the scrap of fabric up her belly to dance over her nipples, first one, then the other, he then commanded her, "Lift your head, pet."

"Yes, Master," she responded throatily, a smile all for him that warmed him to his toes. As she lifted her head up, he slid the makeshift blindfold over her eyes and tied it behind her head.

"Can you see anything?" he asked in a hushed tone against her ear, licking her earlobe.

She moaned, a sound made all the more loud because of her lack of sight. "No," she whimpered hoarsely.

"Excellent," he laughed, low-pitched and quiet. With the feather, he tickled the pads of Bitsy's toes on her right foot. "Nuh, uh, uh," he cautioned, "if you move I will have to tie you down the rest of the way. And that would limit the fun I have planned. And you wouldn't want that, would you, slave?"

Bitsy shook her head, trying to remain still as he transferred his attention to the other foot, this time focusing on the delicate high arch on the underside of her foot.

She yelped, struggling to keep her foot immobilized. He chuckled again, the molten darkness that whispered to her in her deepest fantasies only discovered since becoming his slave.

"Now, now," he cooed, still with that steely edge, encased by silky velvet. He gripped one of the tethers that he had secured to the foot of the bed and attached her squirming right foot. "I warned you, pet," he reminded her. Stuart quickly tethered her left foot, languishing the attention of the quill on the sensitive arch, causing Bitsy to squeal and arch, discovering that the bonds held fast.

He admired the tableau of his slave, blindfolded, nervously licking her lips in such a way that he wished he was caressing his cock with her tongue. Later, he promised himself. These moments were for Bitsy's pleasure-and to hopefully banish his brother from her erotic thoughts.

Idly, chuckling barely audibly, he slowly swept the edge of the quill up one leg...from tethered right ankle, along her shapely calves, up her sensitive inner thighs, resting briefly and tickling at the lips at the apex of her thighs concealing the honeyed nectar he longed to taste, then back down her left thigh, reversing his route. Fine tremors shook Bitsy as her voice strangled out of her throat, "Please, Master, I need you." Her moan was plaintive. Nearly a wail.

Her entreaty ruffled his already strained composure. Just as earlier in the gymnasium, his control broke, and he pounced. His good intentions of teasing her already erect nipples with the feather to aching buds vanished as her need clawed at his.

As he slid home, she sighed into his neck as she again bit, "I love you Master."

His response was a punishing pace, fucking, rather than the lovemaking he had intended. Thoughts a blur, he focused on one single thought: not revealing how his feelings mirrored the feelings she thought she had. Infatuation, he strove to convince himself.

That's what it was, he guaranteed emphatically, even as her pussy embraced him tightly as her orgasm hit with an inhuman howl that escaped her lips.

Infatuation. Nothing more. His eyes bleak, he emptied the contents of his bulging balls into her waiting cunt.

She looked into his eyes, misinterpreting his frosty, remote glare. Her deepest fear in the last few weeks, after discovering her feelings for him, was that she wouldn't be enough. To tempt him. To keep him. Bitsy was a gambler; Alyssa's status as Commandant General of the IPD proved that. But, looking into his gaze that refused to be caught by hers, she realized that she might not win this contest.

As the last spurts of his cock landed deep against her cervix, he collapsed against her. Fuck! He spoke to himself as she withdrew from him and curled up tight.

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To be continued...please let me know what you think!