Marquises Revenge!

Still flushed with pleasure, she went below deck and called over her shoulder to the burly bosun, "Send my lapdog to my cabin. Now!"

The bosun gestured to two young deckhands to run the errand. They hurried down below and found the prisoner still gazing earnestly out at the place on the deck where
the dramatic scene had just taken place. His reverie was quickly broken as his shackled limbs were roughly released. He fell, but was quickly hauled to his feet and the two surly men began to frogmarch him down the passageway to the Captain's cabin. They had no love for him, he knew, this interloper who had such special access to their cruel Captain. Though whether they truly envied him, when they heard his shrill cries in the night, he had no way of knowing.

They reached the door and knocked.

"Yes," came the immediate reply, loud and impatient.

The door opened and her lapdog got a glimpse of the familiar quarters. The huge bed strewn with such a plethora of cushions and covers in so many different textures and colours. Silk and satin and pelts and cotton and calico and, well, so many other exotic materials that lapdog could not put a name to. And the carved bedposts, notched and gnarled yet sturdy enough to take all manner of strain, over so many nights.

Next to the bed was a box containing weapons and ammunition, and next to that, in the corner, a podium. On the podium a stand containing two books, one forever open, and one always kept closed.
The closed one was the Captain's log. The Marquise's personal diary, as she had once described it to him. It was always kept locked, but what extraordinary stories it must contain, of piracy, conquest and cruelty and, just occasionally, compassion. The Marquise had related some of her previous adventures to a wide-eyed lapdog before now, and it was clear there was so much more that had never been spoken of. If someone were to pick that lock what marvels would they find? But nobody had ever dared and surely nobody ever would dare. The book remained closed and for the Marquise's eyes only.

The other book, which was always open, was of course the punishment book. It was large. Punishments deserved and punishments undeserved. Punishments harsh, harsher, and harshest, but rarely lenient. Punishments past and punishments still to come, for the Marquise revelled in informing some poor underling of the dreadful punishment he had merited and then leaving it hanging over him to be administered he knew not when.

The walls were adorned by a vast array of implements, of war, piracy and more intimate conflicts. In addition to these were shelves of potions and powders and a large elegant dressing table covered with more potions and perfumes, a pair of pistols and all manner of other trinkets. The overall effect of the quarters was a strange mixture of feminine luxury and masculine belligerence: Perfume and pistols, glamour and grappling irons.

But now lapdog was being flung headlong into this cabin, a couple of kicks thrown in for good measure. Crashing to the floor in pain, he checked for broken bones while
trying to regain his breath and composure. Before he could begin to look around him, some force he could not resist drew his face and gaze upwards -- there was the
Marquise standing directly over him.

"So you enjoyed the spectacle just now, did you lapdog?" she asked with an accusing tone. He paused and swallowed deeply before answering.

"Yes, Marquise, I could not take my eyes off you".

"So you would like the same treatment yourself, I presume?"

"Oh no please Marquise, I couldn't -- I don't -- I mean I couldn't take that -- I am so weak, you know I am" he pleaded. In response she laughed freely and his heart sank
as she knew it would.

"Well, that's a pity because I would have been very happy to oblige you with a thorough flogging right now. But in any case, you must realise that the punishment for watching me like that is going to have to be something similar, isn't it. Something very similar."

He shuddered and seemed to want to speak but could not. She waited, and then continued.

"Well, as I am in a good mood I will give you a chance. If you serve me well enough I will forego your punishment for ogling me. But you will have to be spectacularly good, I warn you."

A hungry rapacious stare glowed in her eyes that he instantly recognised. Some unspoken dialogue seemed to pass between them, as their eyes met, and he fell instantly into a trance-like state of obedience. She spoke quickly and quietly now, with no emphasis, quite certain of him.

"Boots!" she said.

He clambered round till his face met the leather instep of her right boot and began to lick in a transport of reverence. He continued caressing and shining the leather like this until something, perhaps some slight shift in her weight, alerted him to the fact that it was time to move on. He switched his attention to the left boot and continued as before. She stood patiently all the while, as the sense of power and majesty seeped up through her. His slavish devotions were filling her with a strength that would soon come crashing back down upon him. What a delightful thought.

While he worshipped her, the Marquise thought about the events that had occurred earlier in the day. Here eyes glittered as she recalled them.

When the drum roll ended the only sounds that could be heard were the creaking of timbers and the splashing of waves against the sides of the ship. The men were quiet for they knew that the Marquise wanted absolute silence, better to appreciate the cries of her victim.

"Now you dogs, I am going to remind you why I am in charge of this ship and not any of you scum," she shouted, tossing her short blonde hair in disgust at her crew.

Her long legs were encased in tight, cream coloured breeches as well as thigh length boots of highly polished black leather. A tight white vest completed her outfit, which only just prevented her magnificent breasts from spilling out. Most eye-catching of all was a long embroidered velvet coat, and an admiral's hat, the spoils of her piratical operations.

In her hand she held a bullwhip, which trailed on the floor beside her like a venomous snake. She looked around her crew with contempt to ensure that she had their complete attention for what she was about to do.

"I am going to flog this son of a sea slug to within an inch of his life to teach him, and you, a lesson you won't forget," she stated. The unfortunate man had been strung
up from the lower yardarm of the central mast of the large ship, which had formerly been the frigate San Jose of the Royal Spanish Navy. It had been captured by its present crew from the Spanish in 1810 and had been operated as a pirate vessel under the name of Marquise's Revenge ever since.

The seaman was pulled up on his toes, by the ropes that secured him. He waited for the wrath of his captain to descend upon his naked torso. He was quite clearly terrified of the prospect of being beaten by this woman because this was no ordinary woman. Her reputation went before her as a blazing terror of the seas.

The Marquise, the self-proclaimed captain of Marquise's Revenge ruled her crew without mercy. It was not uncommon for a man to pass out during the course of one
of her punishments for she was a fearful expert with her infamous whip.

Now she stood in the midst of her company with the skinny sailor totally at her mercy as an example as well as a reminder of her authority over her ragbag crew. He had
dared to defy her so he would be made to pay. She needed to reassert herself over the rabble before they got any ideas about ousting her.

She had been a good captain and the crew regarded her with awe, respect and fear. But occasionally men, whose egos were running away with them, decided that they would challenge her command.

"Be warned that any one else who crosses me will get this and more!" she yelled, looking round at the expectant faces. One of which looked up at her from where he was imprisoned, below decks, her lapdog, allowed special privileges. His expressive eyes watching with eagerness, ecstasy even to see the discipline his superior was going to administer.

She realised that she was teasing him making him watch her as she administered the punishments for she knew that she had an extremely sexy body, especially whilst whipping rebellious curs. She revelled in the attention that she got when flogging her victims, which added to her enjoyment of all such occasions.

Once she was satisfied that everyone was watching her, she stood behind the victim with her whip hand high in the air. Without any further warning she slashed the long whip down across his back with an ear splitting snap.

His scream rivalled the cries of the ever-hungry seagulls that seemed to follow the ship whenever they were near to land. The first blow must have hurt him a lot, but Marquise smiled for she knew his comrades would think him pathetic shrieking at the first stroke. She knew she had won her men back already but she wanted to continue enjoying herself for a while.

She brought the whip down so hard the second time that he was made to dance in the air like a helpless marionette. He was begging her to stop but she would not until she was certain that all her men had witnessed her fully regaining the ascendancy on deck and she was fully assured that the correct level of punishment had been administered.

Another blow with her whip across his backside sent him swinging forward in his cradle of agony but his high-pitched screaming did not put his tormentor off her aim.
Two more strokes followed in quick succession before she was satisfied that she had made her point.

"Don't cut him down until I give the order," she announced as she turned to walk off towards her cabin. "I want him to hang there so he can think about what he's done!"

Marquise was anxious to get back to the relative privacy of her cabin because the flogging had aroused her sadistic passions. She could feel her nipples poking their way through her blouse as she stalked off and she was very wet between her legs. Now was the time to release her pet, no doubt similarly aroused by the display that had happened in front of his eager gaze…Her breathing was heavy as she contemplated rather more intimate cruelties that awaited.

Again, she looked down at him as he worshipped her boots. She knew that there would now be an unrelenting bulge seeking its needful fulfilment. His arousal at her power and her beauty knew only one limit-her absolute control. His gently handsome features and the transparency of his need for her dominance was what first drew her to this captive. His eyes did nothing but plead. Here was a soul truly worthy of her skilled attentions and demands-eros and pain so inextricably mixed that no alchemist's love philtre could be more potent.

Enslaved by his adoration, he licked her boot avidly.

The toe of the other boot found the warm stiffness and traced its length from root to tip though the fine but worn fabric. She was gratified by the low moan that this simple act aroused.

Pain or pleasure, she thought to herself as she contemplated her lapdog. She was ready for the pleasure that he would so passionately afford. She wanted his tongue much higher on her body, much, much higher.

She ordered to him to sit back on his knees and entwined her fingers in his flowing
locks pressing his face into the very centre of her femininity. With great frustration, he hungrily licked her covered sex, denied the pleasure of tasting her, he could only feel the heat and shape of what he so needed and so desired.

Before her immediate erotic needs could swamp her, she quickly shackled him to the foot of her bed, his legs spread widely. His face was jammed down into the loose furs and exotic bed lines, his ass high. She reached around to loosen his pants and firmly gripped his monumental phallic offering delighting in its heft, its girth and its unseemly length.

Her fingers quickly found the D-ring that bound this straining Hercules of pleasure, clipped a chain to the head and pulled it back between his legs. The strain was severe, yet the instrument only seemed to harden even more. Again, she gripped it most firmly to ensure that it was pulled backward to its fullest extent and then she clipped the leash high above him to the frame of the canopy.

She selected the thinnest of her whips. His erection pulsed red and purple with a life of its owned pulled prominently by the chain affixed to the D-ring and ever so exposed. So strong, yet oh so weak…Oh, so weak…

Again, she stroked him with her leather-gloved fingers. Again, his lust grew palpably in her grasp. Now, it was ready for the attention of her whip. Now, it was ready for
her artistry. Fluid dripped from the head, dangling like the fine wet thread spun of a spider drifting down toward the wooded floor of the cabin.

Her first blow struck at the very base of the shaft.

His reaction was immediate. He muffled a scream with a mouthful of pillow and shuddered down into a long low moan. But, with each light cut of her slender, yet stiff whip, his desire became more inflamed and his shaft seemed to elongate beyond any natural dimension. This was everything that she had expected. This would subdue any residual arrogance that might still be left in him and weld his submission to her deeply.

His stifled moans continued to fill the cabin. Each sound, each whimper, each gasp for breath was a pungent aphrodisiac to her and thus would only prolong his torment.
She is so lovely in her cruel hauteur, that she knows he will feel like a mongrel wretch beside her beauty, no more than a functioning chattel, and a malfunctioning one at that. He is not today the pampered lap dog she sometimes treats him as...

Fear of her further wrath, however, clears his mind and all else in existence falls away, leaving only the desire to please her in his consciousness. He begins to feel that spiritual ecstasy when his service merges into her being, and the sacred union of Mistress and slave takes place. What this can mean for an atheist he is unclear but with so much about being owned by her a mystery to him, he simply accedes to the experience. He finds himself saying "Take me, Captain, I beg you, take me to the brink of my endurance, and tear your pleasure from me."

She drags him over to her bed and fastens him to the wooden bestead. Then she selects her bullwhip. She purrs with anticipation, measures the correct distance and takes aim.

Crack! That almost-lifeless form jerks back into life as if an electric current had just been shot through it. Crack! again, and again, and again. He is beyond pain now; she has taken him to a place beyond endurance. As lines of blood criss-cross his back, he is no longer in that body; he is a flickering moth-like slave-soul, flying around Her, longing to be in Her, to be taken in the palm of her hand and crushed into oblivion.

"Nine...ten..." She puts the bullwhip down. She walks over to her crucified slave. She puts her healing lips to his bloodied back, and with his blood spotting that lovely cruel mouth, she whispers in his ear: "Good lapdog, my darling lapdog." At her words, her precious wonderful words, he is completely overcome with gratitude and adoring love, and he longs to be able to fall at her feet and kiss them repeatedly in passionate devotion.

But he is still face down on her bed. The Marquise walks away from him - so tall - so stately - so irresistibly seductive and feminine. He groans. But she is only going to her camphorwood chest, from which she takes her pot of healing ointment, and returns with an affectionate smile. She stands in front of him, dips her fingers in the ointment, and then comes close, gently working the balm into his wounds. His prick surges up, and she presses herself against it, the velvet of her coat like a second skin over her firm belly.

He feels her cool cheek against his, and he hears her whisper once more.

"Sweetest slave. You have done well."

His member is hard with desire. The velvet caresses the gland. The feelings in his cock combine intense pleasure and fierce yearning, and seem to stretch to his backbone. He closes his eyes.

She moves away, savouring his desperate, imploring look.

"Ah, No!" she murmurs. "There is more for you to do before that is permitted."

She goes round to the back, and continues her ministrations from there, delicately, sensitively, until all the wounds have been dressed.

"Thank you, my beautiful owner, Thank you!" he cries.

She unfastens him from the bed, and goes back to sit at her dressing table, enjoying again the kiss of the cool leather across her thighs and lips. He crawls after her, looks up, and on a click of her fingers, takes her right foot gently in his hands and presses adoring kisses upon it.

"What I would like now, slave, is a good, slow suck. In fact, I'd like that very much. Don't get confused, now. Suck, I said Sssss...."

By Marquise