Agate Boyd - Revenge of the Satyr

Perhaps he should tell his master, Count Maximilian, once they had arrived safely at the keep he thought. But then, recalling the easy way Prince Vulkan had suspended him by the scalp, brandishing his great dirk in his face, he decided that perhaps he should keep his mouth shut. Miserably, he hunched his wounded shoulder against the coming night airs and silently cursed the prince who had forbidden him to stop driving for any reason whatsoever.

Hours later and sated with fucking for the moment at least, Vulkan decided upon a change of tack. He took up his dirk and cut away some of the decorative ropes that adorned the fancy interior and tied the ends to the grab rails above two of the windows. The free ends he tied around the countess' wrists, drawing her slender arms out and up so that she was suspended across the width of the coach. Just high enough so that she could not settle her rump on to the seat only inches below; forcing her to adopt an uncomfortable half crouch that soon had her legs muscles burning.

Whilst he worked on her bondage, the prince noticed that the countess could barely conceal a smirk of pleasure as he stretched her arms wide. Well, that was all right by him he thought, grinning malevolently into her flushed face, because she would be howling like a banshee before the night was done.

In sudden fury, he smashed his face down onto hers, crushing her lips and ramming his tongue deep into her mouth. Invading the entrance to her throat until she erupted in a fit of uncontrollable retching at which point he slapped his fist back and forth across her cheeks until a thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

"That will teach My Lady to control herself," he growled menacingly, "later on, when I shove the cock-length your crave so much down your pretty crop, you will be in sore need of all your control."

As he spoke he played his fingers through the soft red curls of her pubic bush, smiling thinly as she tentatively hunched her crotch forward in a silent plea for him to go further. Nodding agreeably to her, he allowed his fingers to play around the entrance to her sex, flicking and massaging the congested flesh that still dripped freely with their combined liquors.

Vulkan teased her like that for several minutes, watching the sweat break out again on her brow, plumbing her mouth with his tongue until she was pumping her hips back and forth as hard as she could against his hand. Then, without warning he closed his fist on the luxuriant, flaming growth and ripped the handful of pelt away I one sadistic jerk.

The countess flung back her head and screamed out in one long wail of agony. A wail that almost made the dozing Henrik leap from the coach in fright. A wail that went on and on as Vulkan began to stripe her perfect white flesh with the length of his sword belt. Laying the thick, heavily stitched band of unyielding leather across her breasts, belly and thighs until not a single piece of undamaged flesh remained above her perfectly sculpted knees.

Later that night, the Prince signalled for Henrik to stop and feed the horses. Whilst the footman busied himself with the animals, the prince brought the countess out of the coach where he made her stand naked in the rising moonlight. Humming softly to himself through tightly compressed lips, the prince, once more wearing his breeches and doublet, took down a heavy chest from the luggage rack. This he secured tightly to the countess' shoulders with a length of rope running under her armpits; over her shoulders; criss-crossing between her ample breasts; finished off with four turns cinched very tightly about her narrow waist. Her wrists he secured together and made fast to the rear corner of the coach so that she was tethered ready to run alongside his warhorse.

As he made his preparations, Vulkan was aware of the countess regarding him furtively from the corner of her eyes. Now it seemed the flame haired beauty was not quite so willing to advertise her pleasure at his treatment of her.

Henrik came to the rear of the carriage to return the horses feed bags to the locker. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his mistress, naked and trussed up like a Christmas turkey, her long, red hair, always so immaculately coiffured, now hanging to her waist in a wild, dishevelled cloud.

"God All-Fucking-Mighty!" the footman wheezed in horror. "Your Grace!" looking back and forth between his stark naked mistress and the handsome prince lounging carelessly against the coachwork, the old man could only repeat, "God All-Fucking-Mighty!"

To Vulkan it seemed that far from being embarrassed by her plight, the countess actually straightened her spine against the heavy load she carried and stood proudly before the two men. Her defiant eyes never leaving his as he addressed the gawping footman.

"How much farther to the keep?"

The footman took a moment to fully register the question, "well, er, the keep… well now… let's see… about twenty more leagues, I would hazard… Highness," Henrik eventually stammered, "but surely you don't…"

"But, surely I don't what?" Vulkan prompted.

"Well, My Lord, the countess, I mean, she's not expected to walk through the border territory like that, is she?" the footman's tone was aghast.

"Why not?" snapped the prince.

"Well, Sire, she's, I mean Her Grace that is, is the seneschal's wife and the king's cousin, I mean, well, er, they won't like it… Highness."

"Lets hope they don't get to hear about it then, eh," laughed the prince, or we're both for the bloody chop."

Henrik groaned helplessly as he followed the apparently mad prince up on to the driving platform and with shaking hands disengaged the brake and flicking the reins over the team's back, setting off once more with the countess walking behind.

"Faster," said Vulkan after only a few yards, "at this pace I'll miss the fucking joust.

Once again Henrik protested, but this time under his breath in what he thought to be an inaudible whisper, "Maximilian will cut my friggin' knackers off."

"I'll cut them off here and now for you if you don't get a fucking move on," the prince roared at the cowering servant. Suddenly breaking out into a huge grin as the man began to sob as he again flicked the reins to break the horses into a shambling trot.

Behind the coach, the horses' modest lengthening of stride was sufficient for the countess to have to stretch out her long legs in a fast trot. The iron bound chest bouncing painfully against her shoulder blades as she struggled gamely to keep up. Each time she lagged behind, the rope snatched cruelly at her arms, threatening to dislocate her elbows as it yanked her forward.

Every few yards Henrik turned to look back at his mistress' pale form bounding along in the moonlight. The retainer was terrified that the countess would trip and be dragged along behind, or worse still, trampled under the hooves of the ill-tempered warhorse trotting along beside her. For his part, Prince Vulkan was content to lay back and enjoy the gentle rocking of the carriage and the cool night air sighing gently past.

"You know Henrik," the prince said at length, "if you keep staring back at the countess like that all of the time, she's gonna get the idea that you just like to watch her big tits bounce."

"Please sire," begged the footman miserably, she's bound to be exhausted by now, it's been over a mile."

"True enough," agreed the prince glancing around, "she looks well fucked to me – pull up."

With an exclamation of relief, Henrik hauled back on the reins, yelling and cursing at the top of his voice for the team to stop.

Vulkan jumped down and strode to the back of the coach where he found the countess doubled over, hands resting on her knees, her breath coming in a succession of harsh, racking gasps that made her ribs ache. Nonchalantly, he checked the rope-work, tightening here and there, smirking as he wrang a series of moans from the luckless female where her sweating flesh had been burned raw by the tightly bound fibres.