La Contessa Ch. 22

Chapter 22: The Olive Press

Lucio leads Julia and I away from the hunting lodge to the stone farm buildings clustered behind the main house. He unlatches the wooden gates to the olive press and pushes us into the building.

I find it strange there's no effort to bind us. I'm strong and know I'm capable of overwhelming Lucio to make an escape, though I've no wish to do so. It's not because I expect La Contessa would recapture me and drag me back anyway, I've been fairly caught out and should face my punishment. Another thought occurs to me; am I secretly pleased to get caught? Is my behaviour, knowingly taking such risks under La Contessa's nose because I subconsciously want to be exposed? I can't deny that possibility. There's another reason for not fleeing; I don't want to leave Julia to face the situation alone. Whatever my confused emotions about my servitude to La Contessa, I do love Julia, and have a lot of affection for her. I'm furious with myself in allowing those feelings to drive us into this predicament.

Julia looks distraught. I try to catch her eye but she appears to be in her own world of guilt and misery, oblivious to anything. How quickly things can change. Only minutes ago I laid at her side admiring her beauty and, here she is now, eyes reddened and face etched with a profound sadness, unable to even exchange a glance with her lover.

We sit in silence waiting for La Contessa's arrival. Lucio is prowling around preventing any contact between us. He's gloating, I can tell. Indeed, he can't resist commenting on our plight.

He mocks me, "So, you thought you could get away with it? Fucking mistress's maid. I made sure she knew what you were up to. Now your arrogance and lust will get their just reward."

"Ah, young lady," he says disdainfully, turning towards Julia, "you have become mistress's confidante but now you are undone, betrayed by your desires and stupidly falling for this young fool. Now with you gone, I'll get complete control over the household."

Bastard. So, it seems Julia, and I have been caught up in another agenda, the web of Lucio's palace politics. I wonder if La Contessa knows of his ambitions, or his plotting to bring poor Julia down. Mind you, he's the fool if he believes he'll ever control La Contessa. Julia couldn't care less. Lucio's words have no impact on her. Her misery runs deeper than Lucio's pathetic household power struggles.

But Lucio has played his hand; in his moment of victory he has shown his ambitions, whether he is wise or not remains to be seen.

Whilst waiting for La Contessa there's a chance to take in my surroundings. The olive press is an open-planned stone building, the equivalent of two storeys high, with white-washed walls. Rough wooden beams run across the building, some at ceiling height and others at what would be first floor level. In the centre, and dominating the space, is a huge cast iron frame and stone press with its cogs and wheels. Underneath it there is a large, shallow stone bowl used for gathering the oil once the olives have been pressed. The various implements used for the process: stone weights, wooden ladles, cast iron slatted spoons, funnels, and stoneware flagons are scattered around the building. There's a gallery at one end where barrels and jugs of oils are stored. My imagination is running away at the torment La Contessa can inflict with this stuff!

La Contessa arrives. She has changed out of her dressing gown and is wearing the same one-piece leather suit she had on last night. The gleam in her eyes is harsh and determined. Becky is behind her, naked with coils of rope hung over her shoulder like a human spindle, looking inscrutable as ever. Mademoiselle has come to watch the display too though her demeanour is subdued. She doesn't appear to be taking any pleasure out of this turn of events. For her, bondage and domination are a tool for sexual fun, but for La Contessa they're a serious business. She means it, it's part of who she is.

La Contessa's eyes flit around the olive press building, mentally noting its potential for sadistic punishment. She starts with me. She directs me to stand inside the stone bowl where the oil is gathered, with the press itself looming in front of me. The surface of the stone has a slick, oily texture. Lifting the coils of rope off the girl's shoulders, she begins by tying my ankles together. Then she ties my wrists and, throwing one end of the rope over a beam, she steps back and tugs at it until my arms are raised into the air. She pulls hard so the soles of my feet just touch the floor, and my arms are stretched. The rope is tied to one of the cast iron cogs used to turn the stones which crush the olives.

I'm compliant and offer no resistance. I understand why I need to be punished. I've no complaints. Indeed, dare I say I'm only too willing to submit to La Contessa, and accept whatever chastisement she desires to inflict.

She takes a narrower piece of rope, kneels in front of me and grasps my balls in her hand, pulling at them viciously. I let out a yelp.

"This is only the beginning, slave!" she exclaims.

She squeezes my balls and separates the two testicles with her fingers, running the cord between them, then threads the rope back around the base of the sac and pulls tightly. My balls are squeezed into two bulging blue-veined sacs. She holds one of them between her red painted fingernails and squeezes my testicle, her nails digging into the taut flesh. The pressure on my balls is intense and, again, I squeal at the intensity of the pain. She takes the loose end of the rope and secures it to a winch, part of the mechanism of the press. This enables her to pull the cord which in turn stretches my aching balls even further. She's not finished yet. La Contessa pulls the rope securing my arms and stretches them even further, forcing me onto tip toes. I'm in an awful predicament. She can cause untold agony by manipulating the ropes. My shoulders are aching, and I wonder how long I can hold this position.

La Contessa says nothing but, leaving me in this position, strides across to Julia. She takes her face between her hands and forces her to stare at me.

"Do you see your lover now? Observe the predicament he is in. You can watch him suffer, and then it will be your turn."

She removes more coils of rope from Becky, and secures one around Julia's ankles and ties her wrists with another, throwing the rope over a beam to haul her arms into the air. Julia does nothing to resist. Her eyes are blank and her body limp like a sock puppet. La Contessa could do anything with her and she wouldn't care. She takes one of Julia's nipples between her fingernails, squeezes it and then twists. There is a whimper as she finally gets a reaction from Julia. I feel sorry for her. I'm used to this treatment, after all, it's what La Contessa uses her slave for, but being naked and strung up is a new experience for Julia.

La Contessa strides over to one side of the building, the silver tips of her boots clicking on the stone slabbed floor. It's here where an array of tools is mounted on the wall, most of them fearsomely intimidating. Her back faces me so I can't see what she's selected. She returns with an armful of implements, dumping them into the circular stone trough with a clatter.

Her first act is to add to her ingenious cock and ball torture. She takes up a stone used as a counter-balance for the pulley of the press, and threads rope though a hole in the weight. She ties this onto the sac of my squeezed and stretched balls. She bends down in front of me whilst supporting the heavy stone, assessing its weight as she nestles it in her hand, the striking scarlet of her fingernails like flames against the dull grey of the stone.

"Do you see this slave?"

"Yes, mistress," I mumble.

"Can you see how heavy this stone is? You know I don't think I can hold onto it for much longer. And when I let go, imagine how the weight will pull on your balls."

I nod, acknowledging her taunts, and wait for the fateful moment when La Contessa releases the stone. She smiles a cruel smile.

"Oh, I'm only a feeble woman, the weight is simply too heavy for poor little me!"

She parts her hands and lets the stone go. It drops swiftly. The rope tugs on my balls and I expel a grunt. The pain is excruciating. The stone swings to a stationary position but it's a dead weight stretching my balls causing a relentless aching in my groin.

"Oh yes, that made you squeal. Was it painful slave?" she asks as she rests one hand against the press and raises a boot.

Even in my current predicament, I notice La Contessa is wearing my favourite pair of boots of hers, the ones with long silver-tipped heels and laced eyelets.

She kicks the stone weight with her boot.

"Ah," I scream as the weight swings from side to side, dragging my throbbing balls with it.

She lets the stone swing into a stationary position again, pauses a moment for effect, then kicks it again, this time harder.

"Oh," I shout.

"Your moaning and groaning is distracting, slave." She turns and calls behind her, "Mademoiselle, Would you do me the honour of lending me your knickers to gag this slave."

"Mais oui, madam. It would be my pleasure," she replies.

She hitches up her indigo velvet dress and wriggles her hips as she shuffles out of her knickers, and tosses them over to La Contessa.

"Mm. Look at these. Real silk, how delicious. And they are in the French style, see how petite they are."

She dangles them up before my eyes. They are beautiful, ivory silk with dainty lace trim. She pushes them up against my nose. They reek of Mademoiselle's French cologne.

"Smell them," she commands. "These are no Venetian bloomers. They are so small and tight, the material must have worked its way up into the crack of Mademoiselle's arse, and into her slit... and you know how wet she gets. Seeing you get tormented will be turning her on. Oh yes, see the damp patch where the crotch is. Open wide slave."

I obey and stretch my jaw open. She rolls the knickers into a ball and shoves them unceremoniously into my mouth. The silk is smooth on my tongue. They taste both sweet and salty, a delectable concoction of Mademoiselle's perfume and body fluids. La Contessa ties a short length of rope around the back of my head and across my mouth to keep the gag in place. I'm conscious of my vulnerability, stretched out, every part of my body exposed to La Contessa's ministrations.

"Hm, now what can I use next," she ponders. "Ah, perhaps a little corporal punishment would be in order."

She chooses from the selection of implements. She selects a ladle, a large wooden spoon with a long handle used for mixing and blending the olive oils. She smacks it against the palm of her hand.

"Yes, that should cause a nasty sting."

She positions herself behind me and swings the wooden ladle against my backside. It hurts. My arse is already sore from being scratched by brambles from the hunt and roasted during the evening. La Contessa's first stroke is strong, vicious and heart-felt. The cup of the ladle makes a satisfying slapping noise as it strikes my flesh. She continues with another seven or eight heavy strokes and then pauses.

"Mademoiselle, would you like to take over?"

"Mais perdone. I hope you don't take offence but this punishment of your slaves is madam's business. It would not be right for me to interfere. I am content to watch an expert in the art of domination, madam."

"Very well, Mademoiselle, as you wish, but you are missing out on delivering exquisite pain. I know my slave girl will have no such reservations."

"No, mistress. I'll do anything you ask, mistress," answers Becky.

La Contessa continues with another series of powerful whacks with the ladle. Now my arse is sore and aching as well. It's funny how the pain of my stretched balls has receded as mistress switches her attention to my backside. They are a dull background throb now compared to the sharp pain of the ladle lashing across my bum.

She chooses another implement, this one nastier looking than the wooden ladle. It's a cast iron slatted spoon with a huge shallow bowl. It's used to run across the surface of the oil to pull out any detritus from the pressed olives. She rubs the underside of the metal against my chest. Its surface is rough with jagged edges of metal which dig into my nipples. I grunt into my knicker-gag.

"Oh yes. This is a nasty little thing. It's rather crude and, being only a tool, the blacksmith has no need to smooth its surface. As you can see, slave, it has nasty pointed edges."

She raises the metal spoon high in the air and crashes it against my arse. It stings horribly. It's not only the jagged edges digging into my skin, but also the slats of the spoon which hit with such force they make an impression in my flesh. She hits me again... and again. The strikes are so powerful they cause the stone weight hanging from my balls to swing in time to the strokes and pull on my balls. After she finishes with the object, she runs her hand across my throbbing backside.

"How satisfying," she says. "The slats have left a pattern across your arse, and the points have pressed into your flesh and left little indentations. How artistic. Mademoiselle, you must come and admire the pattern when I've finished with him."

"I can see them from here. As you say, madam, you are an artist."

La Contessa still hasn't finished with me. I wonder what implement she will use next. She picks up a reddish stone flagon and removes its stopper. She smells the oil inside.

"Extra virgin olive oil, the purest blend produced on the farm. It seems a shame to waste it on a slave, but on the other hand..."

Shit. What's she planning?

She beckons Becky over and whispers in her ear. Many of the ropes coiled round her have been used to tie up Julia and I; she pulls the rest over the girl's head. Removed of her coat of coils, she's now naked. La Contessa passes her the flagon of olive oil.

Becky steps behind me, her bare feet padding on the stone slabs. The next thing I notice is a strange sensation. There's something slimy and oily being drizzled across my backside. It's the olive oil. The oil is cool against the red, throbbing flesh. It trickles down my arse and runs into the crack. It's a pleasant sensation, the slickness is disarmingly comforting on my skin, and over the exposed orifice of my anus. Becky rubs the oil over my backside, working it over, and into, the hole. I sense the touch of something hard being inserted into my arse, the oil allowing Becky's finger to slide into the hole with ease. I've got to confess, I love the sensation of anal play. It's so intimate and disgusting to have your most vulnerable orifices explored in the way Becky is doing. There's the perfect balance between the pain of being stretched, and delectable pleasure.

"What are you doing, girl?" La Contessa's voice is harsh, "This is meant to be a punishment for him. Look at his eyes, he's enjoying it girl. Here, give me the oil."

She grabs the flask of olive oil off Becky, and steps behind me.

"It is a nice picture though. If only you could see it my slave. Red spots on glowing bronzed skin, with dark green oil, and the girl's finger stuck up your hole. You can take your finger out now girl. Pass me the funnel."

I remember seeing this object hung on the wall. It's one of a series of funnels of varying sizes used for decanting the oil into storage vessels. My instincts tell me La Contessa would have chosen the largest one. I'm not wrong. She does not stand on ceremony. It's thrust right inside me and pushed hard. I gasp into the gag. Then I experience the most bizarre sensation, an oily sensation not on my skin but inside me. The oil oozes out of the funnel into my anal passage. La Contessa pours the olive oil out of the flagon into me. The viscous fluid is filling me up and stretching my anus. She pulls the funnel out.

"Hold it all in slave. I don't want you to squeeze any oil out until I say so. Girl, pick up the ladle. You know what to do with it."

Becky slides the long handle into my arse. My hole is so well oiled and slippery there's no resistance. It doesn't stretch me though I can feel its length inside me. The girl pushes it in and out, and twists it around. I might have found the sensation comforting, except I notice the new object of torment La Contessa has taken up.

It's a long metal tool with a handle at one end and a hook at the other. I've no idea what it's used for, but I've a pretty good idea where it might be going. La Contessa pours olive oil over my cock. I can see it now. The oil is thick, slimy, and green. As she said, it must be the highest grade of oil produced by the farm. She takes my cock in her hand and rubs its tip, working the oil into the hole. She carefully inserts the hook end of the tool into my penis. Tying more rope around the handle she secures the implement to one of the beams. The hook stretches my urethra and tugs the end of my cock. La Contessa kicks the weights hanging from my balls. My instinctive reaction is to flinch from the pain, but doing this has the effect of making the hook tug inside me, causing yet more agony. La Contessa has created a devilish piece of predicament bondage.

"Girl, pull the handle out and use the spoon now," she orders

The thin piece of wood Becky's been using to probe my anal canal slips out. I'm still filled with olive oil so it slides out easily. I endure the pressure of being stretched as she pushes the wide end of the ladle past my sphincter, and the sense of relief when it passes through the tight hole into my anus. She twists the ladle. I try to keep relaxed and let the wooden object do its work, knowing that if I react, I will only pull on the ball weights and hook. It's not an enviable position to be in!

"Take it out now, girl. You have permission to empty your bowels slave."

Becky eases the ladle out of me. The critical and most painful point is when it's passed back through the narrow channel of my sphincter again. There's a sense of relief when the object pops out. I push my bowel muscles and let the olive oil squeeze out of my backside. It runs down my legs, no longer cooling, but hot and oily. Some of it gushes out onto the stone basin where I stand. The thick fluid oozes between my toes. But I have to say it's a massive relief to empty my bowels.

Whilst Becky is doing this, La Contessa steps over to the miserable, fearful Julia to taunt her. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle reclines on the edge of a stone gulley wide-eyed and open-mouthed, appreciating her lesson in extreme bondage and domination.

"Ah, your poor lover. See the hook up his cock. He had better not make any sudden movements or his cock won't be fit for anything, it will be rendered useless for fucking you, my maid."

All the time La Contessa teases Julia she tweaks her nipples, making her writhe and wriggle against the ropes.

"It will be your turn soon. What object will I use on you maid," she taunts gesturing to tools hanging from hooks on the wall. "Look, there are scythes for cutting the olive trees, they have a sharp point. The funnels and ladles. They would be fun to insert up your cunt. Oh, yes, it will soon be your turn to squirm and squeal. I'll keep you wondering for a while longer though, because I haven't finished with my slave yet."

I don't like the sound of that. La Contessa slips the hook out of the end of my cock, much to my relief. It's red and sore but there's no sign of any lasting damage.

"Put your hands out girl," she orders Becky.

She dutifully cups her hands and holds them out for her mistress. La Contessa takes up the flagon of olive oil again and pours some into the girl's waiting hands.