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Slaves Of The Bloodline by Falconer Bridges

Slaves Of The Bloodline 
(Falconer Bridges)




The rapping on the door of the lodge was loud and insistent.

Mistress Madonna snorted in annoyance and stayed her actions for the moment, her right arm held motionless where it was, raised high above her head with her fingers wrapped tightly around the haft of a wickedly-plaited flexible riding crop. The displeasure she was feeling at the unceremonious interruption to the delivery of a well-deserved beating to her worthless, witless slave was written plainly on her face.  Suddenly the commotion stopped and tipping her head to one side she listened intently for a few moments. Outside there was now nothing but silence and deciding that whoever it was had gone away she whipped the crop down with all her considerable strength. 

Although Julian had been ordered to act like a real man and to steel himself against the pain and remain silent throughout his disciplining, nonetheless a deafening tortured shriek rent the air as the crop ripped into his naked, exposed buttocks. And that stroke was only the latest of many. Other countless scalding strokes had already fallen, but struggling to follow his mistress' orders he had utilised all his inner strength and striven to steel himself against their biting impact. But whatever inner strength he possessed it had not proved to be enough. From the beginning the agony had been unbearable, but this was fiery and sickening, worse than anything she had inflicted before.

"That should teach you to . . ."

What it should have taught him to do was never made plain as her words were interrupted by a renewed assault on the door.

"Ouvrez la porte. Maintenant!"

The voice was loud, female and adamant.

The reply was equally forceful.

“Allez faire foutre, whoever you are."

The response did not surprise Julian one little bit. Notwithstanding the franglais mixture of French and English of her reply, his mistress was not going to open the door to a person unknown and telling the intruder to ‘get stuffed’ was nothing more than he would have expected. She was so strong and dominant that he could not have imagined her responding in any other fashion. The intruder however was not going anywhere.

"Ouvrez. Immediatement!"

Mistress Madonna was in no mood to open the door, right at that moment or later. And the worst mistake that anyone could make when dealing with her was to order her to do something. The door remained closed; she was not frightened of anyone and neither was she to be intimidated by unidentified voices in the night.

“Who the hell are you anyway?"

The answer was not really that unexpected. And this time it came in clear English.

"Police. Open up."

The door handle was tried and rattled impatiently.  

Sighing audibly, Mistress Madonna instructed Julian to remain still and quiet before unlocking the door and inching it open just enough to enable her to peer around its edge at her unwelcome visitors. Unceremoniously she was bustled aside as two agents de police pushed their way into the room. One was male, heavily built and crop-haired; the other was female and even in her uniform, of striking impact. She was tall, with a well-honed athletic body and looks to match but her lack of make-up and short dark hair added a touch of the sapphic to her appearance. Exuding strength of character and authority, the crowd-control baton she was swinging in one hand did nothing to diminish that image.

Two pairs of police eyes immediately took in both Mistress Madonna's fiendishly erotic and intimidatingly vampiric appearance and the hapless position of the slave, the woman's lighting up in instant recognition of the circumstances. Her original tense stance melted into easy relaxation and taking charge of the situation she directed the male officer to close the door.

"Things here are not as we thought. You just stand by the door while I sort things out."

Hesitant but unquestioning, he did as he was bidden, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and watching intently. 

It was clear that Mistress Madonna held an instant fascination for the policewoman, the tongue that ran over her lips and the eyes that roamed over every inch of the magnificently statuesque, dark-eyed and sex-laden woman who stood before her betraying her inner feelings. Momentarily she seemed to lose control of her senses as her arm reached out as if she were about to fondle Mistress Madonna's jutting breasts but suddenly she checked herself and wrenching her eyes away turned her attention to the slave.

He was standing in the middle of the main room, bent over with his arms spread wide and pulled outwards towards the sides of the room by iron chains attached to Gothic-looking iron wristcuffs. Chains that were anchored to large iron hooks that had been not too expertly driven into its walls about three feet from the floor. Chains that were so taut that his arms and shoulders plainly showed every painful, strainingly-agonised stretched muscle. His legs were forced several feet apart by a metal spreader bar attached to anklecuffs of similar design and faded mottled matt-black colour to the cuffs clamped to his wrists. A broad spiked iron collar was fastened around his neck, again with an iron chain clipped into the ring attached to it, which was stretching his neck upwards towards the metal bracket to which it was fixed. A bracket that normally housed a heavy pike with a wickedly sharp 'fleur-de-lis' spearhead. The pike lay on the floor, discarded so that a better use could be made of its usual home.

And yet, despite his desperate circumstances he was sporting an unbelievably rigid, straining erection.

And that erection itself was subject to its own restraint. A circular metal clamp had been screwed tight just below his bell end, causing it to swell in a grotesquely obscene fashion. Fastened to the clamp was a much thinner iron chain that cruelly divided his bollocks as it passed between his legs and with difficulty dragged his cock downwards towards its anchoring point, another large hook that had been hammered into a crack between the stone paving of the floor between his widespread feet.

After silently digesting the scene, the policewoman crossed over to him and pointed the baton at his more than usefully-sized penis. She snorted in an exaggeratedly derisory fashion.

"That pathetic thing is what you Englishmen call a cock, is it? Here in France you'd be laughed out of any self-respecting woman's bedroom. Even a whore wouldn't do business with that."

After studying him closely for several seconds she suddenly whacked him smartly with the baton over the crimson weals striping his pale rump, following it up with a swingeing wide-armed strike to the chain anchoring his cock to the floor.


The strangled scream that tested his vocal cords to the limit was not in the least quieter than those that had summoned her in the first place. 

"Shut up you wretch, how can you make so much fuss over a little discomfort such as you are suffering."

She paused to cast a glance at the policeman guarding the door, before continuing.

"Men are all the same, wimps and whingeing poofs. A woman would never allow herself to crumble into such an outburst of gutless caterwauling just because she had been dealt a little pain. Women can take pain, soak it up and laugh at it. . . And maybe perhaps, love it. But men, they are nothing but worms, insects to be crushed under the feet of women."

She directed Mistress Madonna’s attention to the policeman.

“Look at him. He is my superior officer but sexually he is a wimp. He will ignore orders, debase himself and do anything I ask just to be within sniffing distance of my vagina.  Yet I have never allowed his nose, never mind his cock anywhere near it.” 

And then turning back to Mistress Madonna, she added, “And that is the same with your slave, is that not so Madame?"

Astounded by the turn of events and also by the policewoman's perception and perfect use of colloquial English, for once Mistress Madonna was at a loss for words, taking several seconds before she stuttered out an answer.

"Yes . . . yes, you couldn't be more right."

Even then, unsure of the policewoman's motives, her reply was hesitant, almost questioning.  The policewoman seemed eager to enlighten her.

"Madame, I have some experience myself in these matters and this useless specimen seems more vocal than most, although I have to say that with a little forethought you could have avoided my having to call on you. The noise that he was making was so loud that it could be heard in the castle itself and the Baroness and her guests were convinced that someone was being attacked or murdered. They were mistaken, that much is obvious, but if you intend to continue take my advice and gag him."

Gag him? The slave's instant reaction showed that he did not like the idea of that at all.

"No Mistress. Please don't do that. I'll be good, I won't scream again I promise."

Promises from a turd such as he were worthless. At least that was the policewoman's opinion.

"I didn't gag him because I wanted to hear him scream, he's such a wimp and he squeals just like a stuck pig. I enjoy the shrieking, it tells me that I'm doing a good job on him."

The policewoman agreed that Mistress Madonna’s explanation had great credibility but added that in the circumstances it was not really wise to allow his cries to echo resoundingly around the otherwise silent countryside.

"Here. If you have nothing suitable, use this."

And what she handed over to Mistress Madonna was very suitable indeed. From the depths of a jacket pocket she pulled out an instantly recognisable object - a leather strapped ball-gag. A question formed itself on Mistress Madonna's lips but quick on the uptake, the policewoman provided an answer before the words could be delivered.

"Ah yes, you're wondering about the gag. Let's just say that it comes in very handy sometimes if a suspect gets awkward and decides not to be co-operative."

To emphasise her point, she smacked the baton into the palm of her hand.

"Keeps them quiet while I work on them, if you get my meaning."

Mistress Madonna did get her meaning. And so did Julian. He also got the ball-gag. But he did not want it, clamping his jaws tight shut to prevent her getting it between his lips until the policewoman came to her assistance, digging her thumb and forefinger deeply and painfully into his cheeks until he was forced to open his mouth. She pinched even harder and as his jaws opened wide, Mistress Madonna pushed the hard rubber ball into his mouth and held it there with her flattened palm as the policewoman buckled the leather straps tightly at the back of his head.

"Voila.   Now he will make no more trouble."

The ball was hard despite being formed of rubber and wedged between his teeth it stretched Julian's jaws to the limit and laying heavily on his tongue its bitter taste assailed his cultured taste buds. Almost ripping it from his scalp, the policewoman grabbed a handful of his thick professionally-styled hair and pulled his head towards her as much as the restricting chain would allow so that she could look him straight in the eyes. Her own eyes took on a menacing look, dark and piercing, they became suddenly hard and cruel and a shiver of dread shook his limbs as he withered under her stare.

Mistress Madonna punished him when he'd been naughty it was true and there was no denying that she often hurt him quite badly, but never more than he really enjoyed. And she did it for his own good, to keep him from straying too far from the straight and narrow and he understood that and made the best of the situation. This woman however was frightening, the sort who would no doubt delight in inflicting pain merely for the sake of it. Bad pain. His throat dried and his heart thumped into his ribs as a tide of panic surged over him. Was it possible that Mistress Madonna might let her loose on him? Surely not. But what if she did? He closed his eyes, shuddering at the prospect of such an action and so his obvious relief when she disentangled her fingers from his hair was overwhelming.

"Remember worm, no more noise."

He could no more make a sound at that moment than he could wank his tethered cock. And she obviously knew it, her words were merely intended to reinforce the sense of dread that she had instilled in him. And they worked. He was terrified, his terror increasing by the second as she held him in a prolonged contemptuous stare. Pausing for a moment she took a closer look at the Gothic iron hooks and chains that held him in bondage, paying particular attention to what appeared to be two blood-tinged puncture marks on his neck, partly hidden by the spiked collar. Looking up at Mistress Madonna with knowing eyes, she then inspected the marks once more before bidding her a 'bon soirée' and casting one last covetous glance over her magnificent black leather and satin-clad body, she added a somewhat mysterious final comment.

"It's a greater privilege than you realise to have been invited to stay here. You can see for yourself that the site itself is very ancient, there's a lot of mystery surrounding it, and the castle itself dates back to before the dark ages. The Baroness has gathered some very interesting people here, and judging by what I see before me I'm sure you'd fit in with them very well indeed. So, if you intend staying it would be wise to try not to upset her, she does not like attention being drawn to this place. It would be a very great pity if you had to be asked to leave like some other unwelcome guests."

“And who might they be?”

“Oh, the local fishermen had their quotas cut recently, and because now they can’t put to sea every day they’re finding other ways to make a living and making quite a nuisance of themselves in the process. The Baroness has been having trouble with them digging up the burial mounds trying to find prehistoric treasure, poaching the wildlife and things like that. We cleared them off but we come up here a couple of times a day to keep an eye on things. If you have any trouble with them, just let us know and we’ll deal with it.”

Then returning to deliver a couple of final gut-wrenching baton strikes to the back of Julian's legs, in a steely voice she addressed him once more.

"Adieu little man and remember, no more noise. I don’t want to have to bother your charming mistress again, just because you can't keep your mouth shut."

Although her business with Mistress Madonna was finished, she seemed strangely reluctant to leave, her eyes once again dreamily eating up Mistress Madonna's fabulously enticing body. A discreet cough from the policeman broke her reverie and pulling herself together, she made for the door. Mistress Madonna followed her uncertainly, standing watching as the policeman, in a servile fashion opened it for her and she stepped out to be rapidly enveloped by the inky blackness of the night.


Very thoughtfully and deliberately Mistress Madonna swung the door shut and returned to her business with Julian. It was all his fault of course. That much she made clear before resuming his punishment with renewed vigour

"See what you've done now. Got us in trouble with the local police. For that, you’re going to suffer.”


The crop struck with vicious intent again and again, a strangled gasp forcing its way past the stifling ball-gag as the lashes landed. In between each blow Mistress Madonna posed a question.

"And apart from anything else, I want you to tell me what it was you did that forced me to have to punish you in the first place?"

How could he answer?

He tried to but all he could manage was a muffled snuffle.


"Could it be because of the filthy way you behaved earlier on?"  

Of course it could.


"And after the last time, didn't we agree that you wouldn't try and do naughty things like that again?"

It was true, they had agreed on that point. With very bad grace on his part it must be added.

"So why did you?"

Straining in his bonds he attempted a shrug to try to imply that he did not know the answer to the question. It did him no good, this time several wicked, cutting strikes fell in succession before she rephrased the question in a fashion that even a cretin like him could not misinterpret.

"Why did you put your animal's paws on my thigh?"

An incoherent mumble was all he was able to muster.

"And don't think that I didn't see that disgusting bulge in your trousers. You had a hard-on, didn't you? "

He had.

"And you know very well that I didn't give you permission to get yourself all worked up, don't you?"

He did.

"So why did you get that filthy erection when you knew that it wasn't allowed? Especially as anyone passing by could have looked into the car and seen you behaving like the perverted sex-crazed beast that you are." 

What else could he have done? Earlier in the small village bar she had deliberately and outrageously flaunted her body before him in a manner that could not have failed

to set his pulses racing and his cock twitching. Not to mention the local Gallic sardine fishermen, who to a man were puffing the hell out of Gitanes or choking on their minute glasses of vin rosé, their eyes glued to her firm, bullet-nippled and partly-exposed breasts and her fabulously enticing, undulating backside. With their cocks already iron-hard and leaking sperm, after her display there would be many a surprised and sorely-fucked fanny when the lusting men got back home to their wives and girlfriends.

Following that, sat in the passenger seat of the Ferrari, she had pulled her black leather micro-skirt right up over her thighs, exposing not only a succulent expanse of creamy flesh between them and her stocking tops but also a glorious and luxuriantly thatched mons. And as if that were not enough she had then stretched herself out and with her eyes closed was murmuring in aroused delight as one hand slipped between her open thighs to caress her sex, while at the same time her other hand roamed sensuously over the breasts that were straining her clinging, deeply scoop-necked satin top to the limit. Then the fingers that had slipped up and down the moist lubricated slit between her musky, open sex lips were passed under his nostrils, the heady aroma of her vagina flooding his senses, turning his brain into jelly and his cock into steel.  Actions all purposely designed to drive him into a delirium of lust.

And she had succeeded. Even though he knew full well that she was toying with him, stoking up passions that had no possibility of being sated. But he did not dare to make matters worse by being disobedient and telling her that she was a teasing, heartless bitch. So, he made no answer to her question. Not that he could speak in any case, the ball-gag saw to that. 

"Right, don't answer. Why should I care? If you don't want to speak to me that's your affair."

The sense of injustice overwhelmed him.  Of course he wanted to answer her. To tell her once again that his life was lived only for her. That she could have anything money could buy. That she was the most wonderful woman in the entire universe.

Tears of frustration trickled from his eyes; his body ached, his mind was in turmoil and his cock hurt. He was in no doubt that she knew that, after all her plan was always to humiliate him, to stimulate him into sexual arousal and then deny him fulfilment. And on his part he was always more than happy to let her do so. That was one of the main reasons that he loved her so much; she understood a contradiction in his personality that no woman he had encountered before had. And that was that to be really happy he had to be wretchedly miserable, preferably suffering the tortures of Hell.

Now held immobile in his chains; desperately, pleadingly, his eyes sought hers, trying to make her understand what had happened. He'd got a fucking great hard-on in the car because she had made him do it. It was not his fault. But without words no communication was possible.

She tapped the crop impatiently against her creamy, suspender-adorned thigh.  

"You're only making things worse for yourself. You either tell me why you tried to touch me up or I kick your arse from here to England and back. Make up your mind, it's up to you."

But it was not up to him. He was helpless. Mute. She held all the strings, he was just a puppet, dancing to her every whim. And her whim at that moment seemed to be to make him suffer interminably.  And suffering he was, but despite the murderous lashes that continued to stripe every inch of his battered body, he could still only think of one thing - sinking his throbbing cock into his mistress' wondrous, hot juicy steaming vagina.