La Contessa Ch. 13

Author note: this chapter is an edited version of part of my Literotica story 'La Contessa's Slave Girl'.

Warning: this chapter contains non-consensual scenes

Chapter 13: Revenge

The week passes. It's not long before I'm waiting for La Contessa underneath the portico at the entrance to her palace, the imposing marble staircase fanning out before me towards the canal side. Becky is by my side having been bathed and dressed by Julia and the maids. She's wearing a crisp, white, cotton bodice, laced tightly, her fulsome breasts lifted up to display them in their soft, milky magnificence. I gaze at her breasts swelling with every breath she takes. Her skirt is decorated with a bright, rustic, floral pattern. Her lips have been painted a subtle pink, and her cheeks with the merest touch of rouge to set off her pale skin. The knots have been combed out of her fair hair, which tumbles in waves over her shoulders, and she smells fragrant. I see La Contessa's vision for Becky; she's been re-cast as a fresh and innocent peasant girl dressed in her finest clothes for a special occasion.

I have to say she looks lovely now she's been cleaned up and her wounds tended. At the sight of her, I have to control the swelling in my cock. I'd better be careful on two accounts; I daren't let La Contessa see any traces of an erection or I'll be in for a severe punishment. I also see Julia noting the looks I cast towards the new slave girl. She's looks askance at me with a fiercely quizzical gaze.

Becky looks calm and serene now, but I wonder if she knows what she's let herself in for. I have experience of La Contessa's wicked imagination and know the ordeal she'll devise for the night will be challenging.

There's a bustle of activity behind me as La Contessa, with a coterie of attendants, sweeps through the grand, marbled entrance hall of her palace. As always she looks stunning. She's wearing a low-cut, silk gown in bright scarlet with matching silk gloves. Over her shoulders is a huge hooded cloak, also in scarlet. Her hair is combed long and loose tonight. She wears a magnificent pair of knee length boots in soft Italian leather with silver buckles, white silk laces, and long stiletto heels capped with pure silver. They are a vivid reminder of my boot worship. She wears a simple moretta mask in black.

She glances across at Becky, and her red lips curl into a smile of satisfaction. One of the attendants puts a black cape over Becky's shoulders to keep her warm from the chill of the crisp autumn night, and then a moretta in white over her eyes.

"You look lovely my dear. You smell like an English rose, fresh and innocent, but ready to be picked," she adds ominously. "You know you must surrender completely and give in to the path I have laid out for you. I trust you are ready for your trial. Are you nervous girl?"

"Yes, madam, but I'm willing to submit to you."

"Good, that is how it should be. Now we must go."

La Contessa puts an arm through Becky's, and they descend the staircase together to the waiting gondola moored at the foot of the grand entrance to the palazzo. It's my task to transport them to La Contessa's secret destination. Her gondola of black lacquered wood with fittings of solid gold is a magnificent vessel as befitting her wealth and status. La Contessa takes up her position on silk cushions under the ornate gilded felce, the small gazebo structure in the centre of the gondola. It is fitted with curtains of red and gold damask, tied back so La Contessa can be admired. Night has descended, and the gondola is lit with lanterns hung from the felce which illuminate La Contessa. Becky sits opposite her, whilst I take up the oar at the stern of the boat. I push the flat bottomed vessel gracefully into the Grand Canal.

After we've been rowing for a few minutes, and whilst in full view of the crowds lining the canal, La Contessa gestures for Becky to come forward. She seductively parts her scarlet cloak to reveal her leather boots. No words are exchanged between them. Becky knows instinctively what she has to do. She gets onto her knees before La Contessa and licks her boots. She runs her tongue across the sole of the boot and then takes the silver tipped heel into her mouth and sucks. She kisses the toe of the boot, then runs her lips up its length cleaning the silver eyelets with delicate flicks of her tongue. I see everything whilst steering the gondola and feel a twinge of jealousy; how I wish it was me at La Contessa's feet.

This is the city of my birth, and I still marvel at its splendour. It's never more beautiful than at night time when the candlelight from the magnificent palaces lining the Grand Canal reflect on the water so ripples of light appear to dance on its surface. The Venetians are out in great numbers in their finery. I hear the bustle of street traders around Ponte Rialto and the mouth-watering smells of food vendors plying their trade. This is my city and I love it. I love that I serve La Contessa and am honoured she has chosen me to carry her along the canals of Venice on this special task. In my heart, I believe the girl will not let her down. The gondola glides under Ponte di Sospiri, and soon after La Contessa gives orders to turn the gondola into the network of narrow canals in the Sestiere di Santa Croce. It's nine o'clock at night and the bells from the hundreds of churches of Venice peal in unison across the city. I sense the bells are tolling for the sinister fate awaiting the girl.

The lanes in this part are less well-lit and the buildings close darkly in on the narrow canals. This is another aspect of Venice I love; its narrow canals and winding lanes, places where you get lost, places with dark secrets. We glide through just such an area, the atmosphere dark and oppressive, the buildings looming over us. La Contessa directs me to turn left pointing for me to navigate the gondola towards a small landing stage. I notice a sign by the side of the iron gates above the stone steps. 'Palazzo di Sadismo' it reads, and I know we have reached our destination.

I reach out my hand and help La Contessa up from her reclining position on the cushions of the gondola. She leads the way up a short flight of steps with Becky following her, and me at the rear. I see the tension in Becky's body as she climbs the steps to meet her fate. It's a sensation I know only too well from those occasions of being summoned into La Contessa's presence; a tingling fear of the unknown mixed with excitement and anticipation. I wonder if she sees the inscription on the building and understands its meaning.

There's an iron grille at the top of the steps and within it an unlocked gate which La Contessa pushes open, its hinges creaking ominously. We enter a vast stone room with a vaulted ceiling, formerly a wine cellar or store room, but now used for more sinister purposes. La Contessa is an exacting mistress and expects everything to be perfect; she's no doubt sent forward instructions as to how she wants the room set out, as it's already been prepared for her.

In the centre of the chamber are four huge, wrought-iron candlesticks arranged on the floor in a square, two either side of a wooden frame fixed to the floor. By its side is a large wooden chest. The glowing church candles cast a gloomy and atmospheric glow over the vaulted chamber; its flickering light casting shadows across the stone ceiling. The light does not penetrate the corners of the stone room but, as my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see the hazy outline of other pieces of metal furniture. It is equipment designed for torture, I'm sure, recovered from the chambers of Venice's mediaeval past. I'm reminded that Venice has not always been the liberated city state of this enlightened century. The outline of the equipment is indistinct in the gloom though it's obvious the room has been set out as a place of torture.

I see the girl is spellbound as an awed hush permeates the room. The only sound is the click of La Contessa's heels on the stone floor as they echo menacingly around the chamber. The vaulted ceiling is supported by a row of pillars and, on the pillar directly opposite the wooden frame, a fat bearded man is tied. It comes as no surprise to find the Syrian merchant there. La Contessa used me as intermediary with the procurator of the Sestiere di Cannaregio to arrange his arrest, and subsequent transfer into La Contessa's hands. Her power and influence in the city is great and, with the offer of a small gift and the promise of an invitation to one of her famous balls to partake of their perverted pleasures, he was easily persuaded to do her bidding.

The Syrian has been skilfully tied. His whole body is covered in a criss-cross pattern of black ropes, an elaborate arrangement of knots pulled so tightly I can see the rope burn marks on his wrists and ankles from his struggling. He's gagged with a ball gag made of a wooden ball covered in leather and secured with leather straps. On La Contessa's arrival he struggles to shout abuse at her but only a muffled noise comes out. If this isn't the work of La Contessa, who I know is an expert at rope bondage, it's of a skilled practitioner of the art.

Becky looks fearful at the presence of the Syrian merchant.

"Yes, I have arranged for your tormentor to be here," announces La Contessa, "do you trust your new mistress, girl?"

Becky stands quietly and obediently, her arms behind her back, her breaths short and shallow. She relaxes her body, which bristled with tension on seeing her abuser, and gives an affirmative nod.

La Contessa turns to me and says, "Servant, you will not be required to join in the events of the night, but I do want you to observe. And I don't expect to see you getting aroused at any of the sights. You are here to witness only, do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress," I reply.

La Contessa's painted fingernails pull gently on the cords of Becky's bodice, loosening the laces until, with one tug, the bodice parts, and the girl's beautiful breasts bounce free. La Contessa runs a finger gently across the soft curve of her flesh and around her pert nipples, which stand erect. Becky expels a gasp of pleasure. She pulls the bodice off her shoulder, letting it drop to the floor. The tension of the moment is palpable; I witness the subtle interplay between the dominant mistress and her offering, her submissive girl. La Contessa squeezes her finger underneath the waist band of Becky's skirt, and runs it gently along her midriff, brushing the soft hairs over her sex before finding the hook holding up the skirt. As La Contessa releases it, the skirt slips over Becky's hips and drops to the floor. On La Contessa's instruction no doubt, the girl is not wearing any underwear. Becky quietly steps out of the skirt from around her ankles and kicks off her shoes. La Contessa brushes her pubic hairs with the back of her hand and Becky's body responds with a ripple of pleasure.

"She's perfect, isn't she?" La Contessa asks.

"Yes, mistress, she's lovely."

Indeed she's exceedingly lovely. Julia and the maids have carried out a remarkable transformation from when she was first brought to the palazzo. The welt marks on her backside, the sores on her ankles and wrists from the shackles, and the cuts and bruises on her face and breasts have healed. Her pale skin glows in the candlelight, and she is fragrant with the smell of the rose water from her bath.

La Contessa manoeuvres Becky into position. The girl quietly complies with every touch and unspoken command as my mistress raises each arm in turn and ties her wrists onto hooks on the wooden frame with black rope. She spreads her legs and pulls her ankles, which are also tied to the wooden frame. Becky is rendered helpless, and completely in La Contessa's control.

La Contessa goes back to the wooden chest and pulls something out. She walks back to the Syrian merchant, the clicking of the silver heels on the stone floor gaining in menace with each step. She dangles metal objects before the merchant's eyes. Although they're a type of clamp, I've never seen such a design before. She stares into the merchant's eyes, a powerful feminine presence. The gentle swelling of her breasts above the scarlet, silk gown and the aroma of her scent conspire to overwhelm him into submission. La Contessa's voice is low and full of menace.

"These are my newest toy. I know a trader of silks from China who, being aware of my special predilections, told me of these, and I asked him to bring them back for me. Ah, the Orient," she sighs wistfully, "now, there's a place where they know about torture. Perhaps one day I shall travel there and refine my art. But, in the meantime, I have these. They're called clover clamps and they are ingenious little things. When they close on your nipples they hurt but they tighten with every touch so that when a cord is attached to them, all I have to do is flick it," and she demonstrates by pinging the thin rope with her finger nail, "and it will increase the pain. So, what do you think?"

She's playing with him and relishing every moment of it. She's in her element, teasing with cruel words and suggestions. The look on the merchant's face is one of sheer terror, but all he can do is grunt into his gag. La Contessa squeezes one end of the metal clamp and the other opens. She stares into his eyes as she holds the metal object directly in front of him before releasing it onto his nipple. There's a grunt of agonised pain through the gag. She does the same to his other nipple. La Contessa deftly ties pieces of thin cord to the ends of the clamps and steps back to her new slave girl.

She faces the girl and wordlessly opens the clamp and holds it in front of her. From the shadows in the stone room, I watch Becky's reaction intently. She stares at the sinister metal object, transfixed. With her other hand, La Contessa plays with her nipple, stroking it, digging her nails in, squeezing, and twisting. Finally, she reaches out to release the clamp on the girl's nipple. I notice Becky's body tense, and her lips expel a gasp of air at the moment the clamp tightens on her nipple. After the initial shock, her body melds into the pain. I watch, enthralled. I know these clamps to be severe instruments, capable of inflicting exquisite levels of pain yet the girl has taken them unquestioningly. I know La Contessa will be pleased with her. She repeats the process with a second clamp on Becky's other nipple.

She takes the cord in her hand and jerks it hard making the merchant squirm in pain before tying it to the clamps attached to Becky. La Contessa laughs. I too, from my place in the shadows, smile at this ingenious piece of invention. The cord is taut between the slave girl and her former tormentor. La Contessa pulls the cord, lightly at first, and the clamps close tightly on the two sets of nipples. She jerks the cord hard. The merchant lets out a muffled scream into his gag. Becky is silent, her eyes glazed into the effort of embracing the pain.

La Contessa turns to the merchant, "Do you see how the girl is stronger than you? She takes the pain without whimpering."

She takes out a whip with leather thongs from the chest and begins to strike the merchant's cock and balls with harsh strokes. His body pulls and twitches from within its rope restraints, which only causes the clamps to dig more tightly sending a ripple along the taut cord which tugs on the girl's nipples. La Contessa laughs wickedly at their predicament.

"Don't you see how you are two slaves joined in pain, and punishment. Each movement you make will cause the other to suffer."

This time she whips the merchant on the nipples, directly on the clamps, and once again he lets out muffled screams of pain. La Contessa turns to Becky and whips her right across her cunt. Her body jerks in reaction to the stroke. But Becky appreciates the game. She knows every movement of her body will send a ripple along the taut cord and inflict pain on the merchant. She knows her resilience is greater than his, and through her pain she can make the merchant suffer more. With each flail of the whip she jiggles her voluptuous breasts and sends a surge of pain through the cord. La Contessa finds this hilarious. She laughs wickedly as she continues the play, alternately whipping one of them or pulling on the tight cord to inflict the greatest torment. It's the Syrian merchant who suffers most.

"I could do this all evening," she smiles, "but there are many more torments I need to administer before the night is out. Servant, you can untie him now."

She pulls the nipple clamps off the girl first, and then off the merchant, but cannot resist the temptation of one final tweak with her fingernails. I do as La Contessa commands, unravelling the complex arrangement of knots. My youthful and muscular physique would always have been too much for the overweight Syrian, but in his current state he's in no position to offer any resistance. Once the ropes are released, I drag him across the cold, stone floor to the position La Contessa wants.

He is soon lying on the floor, his face directly below Becky's cunt, his wrists tied to the bottom of the wooden frame, and his ankles to a set of wooden spreader bars.

La Contessa stands over him. She's a magnificent sight. I'm almost envious of the merchant, staring up at her voluptuous curves, a stunning presence in her figure hugging silk gown. La Contessa shed her red cloak long ago, and now her slender arms and shoulders are bare. What a wonderful sight for the merchant, one he hardly deserves. Once again, I try to resist the swelling in my cock.

La Contessa rests one of her boots on the merchant's chest. The shiny black leather and the glittering silver buckles placed under his nose. She raises the silver tipped heel over his sore and tormented nipples, and presses hard forcing the full weight of her body onto the nipple. The Syrian grunts in anguish. She runs the sharp silver across his chest and across his stomach, leaving a long red scratch. Finally, she rests the silver tip on the end of the Syrian's cock, which lies flaccid and exposed on the stone floor. She presses hard, releases for a moment, and then presses even harder. The merchant's body jerks, his body twisting with the pain and pulling on his restraints. I see spittle oozing from the side of the ball gag as he tries to scream. La Contessa is not finished yet though. Becky stares into his eyes to witness his torment and humiliation.

La Contessa gives me an instruction to undo the ball gag. As the leather covered ball is finally pulled from the merchant's aching jaws, he starts to spew out angry words in his native tongue. La Contessa turns on him, her eyes fiery with anger.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear a peep from you. What you have experienced so far is a mere fraction of what I am capable of. You will suffer in silence. Let it be known La Contessa will extract her retribution. There is one final act of humiliation I need to witness before I banish you from my presence."

She gently strokes Becky's fanny and gazes into her eyes.

"Slave girl, this will be your final act of revenge on your abuser. I think you understand what I need you to do."

Becky nods. At first it's a trickle of golden water as she releases her piss over him. It's soon a torrent of hot water gushing from her cunt over his black beard, seeping into his mouth. It's as if Becky has been holding it in her bladder, knowing the use to which her golden waters will be put. When the girl's piss has been emptied over her tormentor's head, La Contessa finally looks satisfied.

"Now servant, I want you to take this one away. I have finished with him. There is a cell at the far end of the dungeon. You can lock him in there until he can be returned to the custody of the procurator." Turning to the girl, La Contessa proclaims, "Now, it is about you and your initiation, girl, to find out if you are fit to become my slave girl. I've extracted retribution on your behalf from your abuser. I'm pleased with how you have acquitted yourself but you must face more ordeals before I can fully admit you into my world."