Scene 1 - The Duchess
“Well, Mister Drake,” purred the voluptuous vixen as she lustfully studied my bound body, “I finally have you just where I want you.”
I was thoroughly strapped onto a thick—and thankfully padded—plank of wood suspended vertically in an old-school, torch-lit dungeon. My wrists and ankles bore leather cuffs that were locked onto rings in the wood. My arms were at my side and my legs straight out, as if I were at attention.
At the moment, my cock was certainly coming to attention.
I was naked. The Duchess Demona was not, although her nearly transparent outfit was sexier than outright nudity, in my opinion. My dick seconded that motion.
The striking redhead had just entered the room, dressed in a form-fitting, sheer black bodystocking with subtle shadings that did nothing but accentuate her womanly charms: creamy double-D breasts, firm belly, flaring hips, strong thighs.
(Her ass was also first-rate; I could not see it at the moment, but I had memorized—and kissed—every inch of her luscious body as we made love the previous night in her hotel room.)
(Well, she had done the same to me, spending some extra time on my substantial, and grateful, genitalia.)
Skin-tight high-heeled boots completed the ensemble as she strolled up to me in a sexy undulation that any catwalk model—or high-class stripper—would be proud of.
The Duchess was flexing a riding crop between her two hands in a show of intimidation, foreshadowing her intention to pummel my muscular, but helpless form. I’m sure I looked good; my skin had been oiled up and it glistened in the flickering glow of the torches on the wall.
“I wonder,” she cooed, “just how much intense pleasure and agonizing torment a big, tough man like you, can absorb before he …"
At that, the riding crop snapped in two, having been bent too far.
“...breaks.”
The femme fatale didn’t flinch at the sound of the crack; she didn’t even take her sultry green eyes off mine.
“Oh, look what you made me do, Mister Drake,” she snarled in a smoky voice. “My favorite instrument of discipline. I’ll have to punish you doubly for that.”
She leaned into my face, kissed me and whispered, “No matter. I have a wide assortment of whips and other devices, many of them much crueler than this one.”
Said instruments lined the stone walls of her "Chamber of Despair,” an unnerving re-creation of a medieval torture dungeon. X-frames, stretching racks, stocks, and other pieces of bondage furniture completed the décor.
She held my semi-erect cock in one hand and lightly dragged the jagged edge of one half of the broken crop along its shaft with the other. I tried not to show the distress on my face, but my dick stopped growing.
“I look forward to torturing you over the course of the next several days, Agent Drake. Not an interrogation; I already know exactly what your mission is.
“My Fatal Femmes and I will hurt you, ride you, injure you, pump you, batter you, fuck you, crush you, suck you, and harm you. We'll do it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, repeating the cycle over and over again, until you eventually perish from the stress and sensory overload.”
My penis was swelling again. The lady noticed.
“Well,” she purred, "perhaps we should start with the pumping.”
She slipped on a pair of black satin gloves and took a small bottle of lube from a holder on the plank. The Lady dripped some onto my member and started stroking it.
“This is an interesting concoction that my staff developed. I call it ‘Erect-All.’ The aphrodisiac effect is immediate and powerful; repeated doses will turn you into a raging sex fiend. Well, more of a sex fiend than you already are, Mister Drake.”
Her hands were like heaven. The lube, the satin gloves; it felt like my cock was enveloped in a tiny pleasure palace.
“It feels good, doesn’t it? I should tell you of one little side effect; once you lose your erection, either through ejaculation or from fatigue, this potion will stimulate the pain nerves of your cock and balls for hours on end.
“You’ll beg us to get you an erection again, to stop the anguish. Which, after we torture other parts of your body with whips, needles, and such, we will provide. We’ll use this ointment, and start a new cycle of pleasure and pain.”
I groaned beneath the gag. The Duchess was a genius. A mad, evil, perverted genius, but...
“Tell you what, Agent Drake,” she said. “My ladies and I won't start the endless rounds of teasing, torment, and agony until you shoot your white man-cream all over my soft black gloves—and then lick them clean.”
I grimaced at the thought. I could say nothing; my mouth was filled with an inflatable rubber gag, filling that cavity almost to the bursting point.
“Oh, you could try to avoid ejaculating, darling, to postpone the torture, but remember—I studied your erotic buttons last night. I intend to push each and every single one. Perhaps I’ll discover a few that you don’t even realize you have.”
The Duchess continued the slow, deliberate hand job. My cock was nearly to its full, ten-inch length and building to a climax. We stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed forever; both determined to prevail in our contest of wills.
“Cut! Print!” yelled the director.
“Let’s break for lunch!" the assistant director shouted. "Back in an hour!"
The soundstage bell rang, the spotlights shut off, the house lights went on, and the crew began to scatter. A young, blonde production assistant stayed behind to deflate and remove my gag.
“Good job, Helena,” the director said to the redheaded actress. “Took six tries, but you finally got the crop to snap at just at the right moment. Good thing, because we were running out of them. It wasn’t very loud, but we can add sound in post. And I like the ad-lib with the broken handle. Nice touch.”
“What about me?” I asked as he walked away, a little bit offended at not being congratulated. It was the first day on the set, and I could have used a little “attaboy.”
My co-star in this scene, the fetching Helena Ashby, joked in her normal voice and charming British accent, “Dirk, you didn’t have any blocking or any lines. All you had to do was just stand there.”
“Yeah, but...”
Looking down at my rigid cock, still in her hand, I said, “... I did hit my mark.”
Helena chuckled. “Yes, you did, sweetheart. Good job.” She bent down to give the tip of my cock a little kiss.
The fetching female PA started to unlock me from my very real shackles on a very real bondage board.
“Tell you what, Tammy,” said Helena. “Can we leave him on there for a few minutes? I’ll release him a little later.”
“Uh, sure thing, Miss Ashby,” she replied.
Helena knelt before me and started licking my genitals. Tammy stood nearby for a few seconds, watching.
“Is there something else you should be doing, girl?” asked Helena, archly.
(Actually, it came out kind of mumbled, seeing as she already had my member partway in her mouth.)
“Well,” Tammy said, “As the On-Set Bondage Wrangler, the Union says I really should stay until everyone’s free. Perhaps I could watch...or assist...in some way.”
Helena grinned at the young blonde. The PA’s erect nipples—pierced and jutting from nice B-cup breasts unencumbered by a bra—were visible through her thin tee-shirt. Her face was flushed, and she was biting her lips.
You didn’t need to be a body language expert to read her meaning. Over the previous few hours, both Helena and I had noticed the lusty gazes from this girl. For both of us.
Helena asked, “Does this plank go from vertical to horizontal?”
“Sure, Miss Ashby.” The girl pressed a lever, and in seconds I was on my back, on the floor, still fully restrained.
And still naked, still hard: it had been a long morning with a lot of fondling, but no release.
Helena knelt beside me, pulling the crotch panel in her bodysuit open.
“Do you want tongue or dick to start with, Tammy? We can switch off as often as necessary.”
“Oh, could I ride his dick?” the girl asked. “I’ve been staring at this...beautiful piece of meat all morning long.”
(As she pulled off her jeans and moist panties, I could see that her nipples weren’t the only erogenous zones she had pierced. This should be interesting.)
As the two women moved into their agreed-upon places on my body, I asked, half-seriously, “Hey, what about lunch? I’m hungry.”
“Well, you can eat my pussy, Dirk,” Helena said as she moved up to my face. “If my cunt-juice doesn’t satisfy you, I’m sure Tammy here will let you lick your semen out of her snatch. That’s good protein.”
