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Down for the Countess -
an Erotic Femdom Book by King Key

Down for the Countess - Femdom Book Review

Down For The Countess, A Femdom Book in Paper and E-book Format
Price of this Femdom Book: $7 (E-book) Purchase it directly from http://www.adultebookshop.com/Down-For-The-Countess-p-1467.html

Femdom book by King Key

Bereft at the loss of his wife, artist Ivey Marks finds himself manipulated into joining Countess Natasha Vronsky in her domain at Russleder (Russian Leather) in Siberia. She initially plans to make him her figurehead Count. But Ivey rebels, and Countess Vronsky brings him to his knees as just another of her twelve slaves. In his humbled position, Ivey discovers there’s a slave rebellion afoot—a scheme to overthrow the Countess with the help of a mysterious outlaw who calls himself Strelnikov. Ivey, ever the loner, tries three times to escape by himself. But the Countess tracks him down each time with the help of her comrade, Dr. Sasha Khachaturian. Ivey gradually realizes his Goddess lets him flee for the sport of recapturing him, then humiliating him with a whipping in front of the other slaves. The Countess Vronsky delights in seeing how harshly she can abuse him. And while Ivey’s secret and perverse delight in being under Countess Vronsky’s heel disturbs him, he can’t help but be drawn to her powerful allure.

This beautifully crafted femdom book weaves a tale steeped in Female domination and male submission. Its graphic content includes intense scenes of physical beating, whipping, restraints, forced feminization, intense humiliation, chastity, dildo sodomy, enema, piss play, financial and psychological emasculation and female worship.

Purchase this femdom book directly at http://www.adultebookshop.com/Down-For-The-Countess-p-1467.html

Excerpt
The Cruel Countess by King Key, Femdom BDSM

Though Ivey's third attempt to escape this formidable femme is met with the same brutality as his previous attempts, he can't help but be drawn in by her intoxicating allure.

Copyrighted © 2009 King Key, all rights reserved.

My boots crunched through the snow frozen on the ground, now mostly a white mantle of ice left over from a freak snowstorm in northeast Siberia during November 2007. Despite the bitter cold, the low precipitation that time of year usually produced no more than flurries. The wind whipped through my clothes, numbing my senses with even more frigid air. My hands and feet turned into popsicles before the big freeze glazed my face and shaved head, penetrating my arms and legs, branching into my torso.

Maybe this time I’d reach the next village, or the big city of Khabarovsk itself, and find sanctuary, warmth, and safety—if the local Russian police overlooked my undeniably Western features. They’d peg me as an American right away. The best I could hope for was that they’d slam me in jail.

But knowing my luck, they’d drag me back to my cruel Mistress, Natasha Vronsky, Countess of Russleder. Never mind that Russleder, pronounced ‘ROOS-lay-der,’ doesn’t exist on any map. Local authorities eagerly turned a blind eye to Countess Vronsky’s sadistic but harmless (to them!) despotism whenever she settled the issue using Russia’s one reliable currency: bribery.

My best hope lay with the locals helping me escape. If I could stay out of the clutches of the authorities, I believed the ordinary citizens would sympathize with me. Russians like Americans, even if they dislike our leaders—mirroring our sentiments toward Russians. Perhaps some Slavic saint, curious to learn about my country, would harbor me from the authorities. If I could trudge through another mile or two of frozen snow, freedom would await me over the next hill.

Even in my misery the sun, intermittently beaming over the horizon to my left, painting the fleecy clouds in beautiful pastels, dazzled me. The morning hour, the humidity, and the tilt of the earth’s axis in November dusted the eastern horizon with soft red, pink, lavender, and mauve. I longed for a sheet of Bristol board and artist’s crayons to record the burst of hues. I could dash off a striking sketch or an elegant painting for Nicole, who lovingly collected every picture I painted during her lifetime. What she did with them, I had no earthly idea.

O, Nicole! I wouldn’t be in this predicament if she were alive. Someone stole her heart, but I knew I’d win her back. Nicole embodied the classic Big Blonde, whom I called Ms. Carrington when she acted bossy, although she was only five years my senior. When she acted wild and frisky, I called her Nikki. But she became a casualty of our open marriage.

My mind turned to a perilous escape option. Rumors persisted that a mysterious figure who called himself Yury Strelnikov gave sanctuary to Countess Vronsky’s ex-slaves—the escapees and those she ruthlessly dumped. Some of the Countess’s current Slaves swore that Strelnikov planned to overthrow the Countess. But anyone who joined his band would become an outlaw. Strelnikov reputedly killed for hire, dealt drugs, and committed grand theft for fun and profit. But no one had solid information. He may have wounded a Russian police officer at the Khabarovsk train station when I arrived, or a copycat may have shot the Russian. Everyone embroidered this psycho’s legend.

No, I couldn’t cast my lot with Strelnikov.

So, I resumed my search for a kindly Siberian to shelter me. Thank goodness it was November; winter weather would’ve frozen me to death already. But with all possible landmarks covered in white, how close was I to escaping?

The distance became a moot point.

Over my shoulder I spotted a troika barreling toward me with amazing speed. Countess Vronsky’s signature burgundy latex catsuit peeped though her dark furs and glistened in the emerging sun. She whipped her three horses vigorously—signaling how severely she’d lash me, crushing my fragile dreams and shackling me in the cold, harsh reality of her small dungeon. My Domina’s fiery countenance, framed by her flowing, dark-chocolate hair, stunned me with fear. And worship.

Countess Vronsky’s inevitable victory gripped me. I embraced the twisted desire to wallow at her booted feet, soaking up her harsh degradation just to gaze on her wild beauty and bask in the proximity of her supple five-nine body. I’d documented the Countess’s beauty in mineral spirits mixed with artist’s crayons to create countless portraits, predominantly full-length with an occasional head-and-shoulders pose. She loved herself enough to model for me. But she stamped her image into my mind so indelibly I usually painted her from memory. She confiscated every painting I poured from my heart, framing and hanging three in her mansion, the Ice Palace. My tangible homage to her beauty probably spared me from a near-certain death.

As an afterthought, I noticed Percy Willingham, the Countess’s zombie-puppet, sitting beside her, half-frozen. His last name fit him: His upturned nose and puffy jowls looked porcine; he acted the perfect ham in his role as consummate ass-kisser; and ‘willing’ described his sycophantic behavior towards Countess Vronsky. I hoped my permanent eyeliner and eyebrows—shadings the Countess had etched into our skins to make us look perpetually feminine—looked less ridiculous than Percy’s. True, we were Countess Vronsky’s slaves, but at least I had the balls to try to run away.

Try was the operative word. While my third attempt to escape headed toward decisive, predestined humiliation, I realized Natasha wanted me to flee—so she could recapture and pummel me. I played right into her hands. And, sickeningly, I surreptitiously got perverse kicks from being her plaything. Countess Vronsky was my addiction, as destructive as any drug and totally irresistible.

She contrasted sharply with Nicole, who let me stray before reeling me in to chastise me with spanking, embrace me, and take me in her loins. Then I was home, and I was hers. When I wandered away from Countess Vronsky, I felt as if she snatched my testicles and penis fiercely, and I’d damned well better follow her lead, or she’d make me her bitch anatomically.

Ahead of me, a Russians police van accelerated to arrest me before Countess Vronsky could spirit me away to her lair. The paddy wagon looked old and worn-out, as if from a nearby village, not the populous Khabarovsk. Wherever they called home, I became the football in their sport with the Countess. The van lurched to a stop in front of me while the troika drew within a hundred yards.

A hardy woman, fleshy yet comely, piled out on the passenger side. Her authoritative air indicated she was the officer in charge. “Name,” she said.

My numb lips barely functioned. “You speak English.”

“Name.”

“Ivey.”

“Girl’s name.”

“Nickname.”

“Full name.”

I sighed in resignation. “Igor Vladimir Marks. ‘Ivey’ comes from my initials.”

Her expression resembled a smile with skepticism. “Communist?”

“M-A-R-K-S. No X.”

She frowned. “You look American. But…?”

“Russian grandmother. Dad’s mother.”

“Papers.”

I pointed toward the troika. “Sh-she has them.” Trapped like a dog, I succumbed to the bitter cold.

“Illegal immigrant. Come with us for questioning.”

“Countess Vronsky will explain.”

The Russian licked her lips. The Countess’s reputation preceded her. The officer ran her gloved forefinger along my eyelashes and the permanent eyebrows Countess Vronsky had etched at my eyes with a technology similar to tattooing. “Pretty Boy.”

My blush failed to materialize in the frigid air.

Two other uniformed women, younger and thinner, but homelier, hopped from the van to join their chief. Countess Vronsky arrived soon and reined her horses to a stop within feet of us. The officer in charge greeted her. “The Counterfeit Countess. Is he yours?”

Countess Vronsky’s eyes, angry slits, opened wide and flashed in glowing brown triumph in the emerging sun when she and I made eye contact. Even in my utter defeat, her arched-eyebrow pose exhilarated me, and I felt the sensation of licking her milk chocolate eyes and dark chocolate hair with my eyes. Her most ruthless air remained eye candy to me. “He’s my Slave. Want him?”

“Nyet. No slavery in Russia. His papers…”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Olga.”

“His papers are at my mansion, the Ice Palace. Come with me, Olga. Your associates, too. I’ll punish him. You watch.”

“We punish. Put in jail.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “Maybe he sneaked across border from China. Looks Mongolian.” Olga laughed at her own joke.

Countess Vronsky handed the woman a thick stack of rubles. “I’ll flog him. Make bets with your associates on how long he’ll last. Use this money.”

The Russian officer fingered the bills to draw a rough estimate of their worth. “From where comes so much money?”

“He gave it to me.”

Olga laughed heartily.

Countess Vronsky coaxed her. “Olga, you can’t lose gambling with his money!”

“Da!” the officer exclaimed.

“Watch this.” Countess Vronsky handed the reins of the troika to Percy. “You drive.” Turning to me with wrath etched in her face, she systematically stripped away my last vestiges of dignity. “Crawl to me, you stupid, worthless swine!”

I obediently prostrated myself on the frozen snow. Despite my numbness, the jagged shards repeatedly nicked my flesh through my thin gloves and light clothing—totally inadequate for Siberia—abrading my frigid hands, chest, and thighs. If I rose to my hands and knees, the Countess would snatch the whip from Percy and beat me severely, gleefully—as I learned during her ravages after my two earlier attempted escapes. Every inch of my crawl magnified my defeat and glorified her triumph.

When I reached the troika, Countess Vronsky dangled her booted feet through the door. I licked her boots as if receiving the tastiest treat imaginable, obeying her tacit command because of another cruel lesson: Countess Vronsky kicked me swiftly in my face when I dared to balk at kissing her boots after my first escape. My defiance cost me two teeth, replaced with implants to keep me “pretty.”

***

Why would any sane man return to this cruel Countess? Why would any man, sane or crazy, seek her torture? Natasha drugged my common sense with the narcotic of her eroticism, but at some point, reason should awaken. Her most thoroughly-seduced victim should be able to recover long enough to utter that classic: “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

Unfortunately, I was both crazy and stupid for Countess Vronsky. She prepared to sedate me with her charms again—a repeated ritual as cloyingly predictable as it was irresistible.

The Russian policewomen had seen enough of my slavish devotion and departed for Russleder.

When I crawled into the troika, I noticed Percy’s permanent eyeliner, eyebrows, and mascara looked even more hideous close up. Countess Vronsky spread her furs wide before wrapping me inside, snugly against her body-heated latex—one thin, rubbery layer away from her flesh. Nestling in the warmth and protection of my fearsome Goddess, sheltered from the bitter elements I’d inflicted on myself by defying my Goddess, I felt a serenity surpassed only by the afterglow of sex itself. I cannot describe the ecstasy of depending totally on Countess Vronsky, encapsulated from harm, absolutely at her mercy.

All I can say is, her benevolent dominance erased her degradation, humiliation, and physical torture—although she cooed sweet promises to inflict pain more intense than my wildest imagination, because of my latest folly.

“Your attempts to escape are hilariously futile,” she said, lacing her acidic words with musical laughter. “I delight in beating you senseless after I recapture you.” She brushed my hood back when her gloved hand enticingly stroked my slick head. “Don’t try my patience. Find other ways to justify my whipping you within an inch of your life.”

“You are your own justification.”

Gloating at my servile, verbal ass-sucking, she pulled my hood back, pressed my face into the rubbery material straining over her breasts, and wrapped me inside her furs again. We lay facing each other. Tempting me with her divine flesh, sequestered in latex to forbid direct touching, she tacitly dared me to attempt any gesture remotely resembling a sexual advance. She deigned to accept my rigid erection as my tribute to her, but if I tried rubbing my cock against her luscious, unattainable body, she’d crush my testicles with her lethal, lovely boots.

I curled my body into the fetal position pressing my face into the latex covering her breasts and my knees against her thighs, preventing my cock from touching her. My spirits soared with her contact but ached because her vaunted arrogance would deny me any affection. The smell of her latex and my nascent trickles of sweat—from nervousness and body heat under her thick furs—focused my dreamy bliss into delicious reality. I wanted to eat the Countess.

But although my sole purpose was Going Down for the Countess, she seldom granted me the privilege of going down on her. I gave good face. She conceded that. But she parceled out cunnilingus as a special treat that I must earn. Her exquisite intimacy bought my soul—again. For her warm embrace, I’d let her destroy me.

As if she needed permission…

Dying in my Goddess’s arms would be a fitting end to my life. Nicole was gone, and Countess Vronsky had stripped me of all the millions of dollars Nicole had left me, siphoning my residual income directly into her account. My passing would have made little difference.

In exchange for giving her all of the assets I owned or would ever own, the Countess condescended to give me a taste of the voluptuous delights of her body—two nights of divine bliss strategically spaced six months apart, so that I’d absorb, internalize, and cherish the celestial ecstasy she willfully denied me except for those two nights. Her mega-version of tease and denial brutalized my soul more than her whip or her extensive repertoire of ingenious torture.

Soon the troika skidded into the seven-foot-diameter tunnel through the ten-foot-thick granite walls surrounding Russleder. Two of Countess Vronsky’s Slaves slammed shut the huge, round one-foot-thick gates at either end of the tunnel—resembling bank vault doors—putting gigantic periods on my Goddess’s victory.

As the troika skidded along the interior of Russleder, I admired the Ice Palace, Countess Vronsky’s magnificent mansion. The Russian motif of building massively sufficiently impressed visitors, but the flashy minarets and onion-shaped domes added panache. In fact, the structure mimicked the architecture of historical buildings in Moscow, four thousand miles to the west.

I stumbled into the medical room over the smaller dungeon for Dr. Khachaturian to examine me. The Good Doctor rubbed me with oils and lineaments to ward off frostbite, but her smug expression mocked me as a weak, vulnerable American at the mercy of her Motherland.

For good measure, Countess Vronsky drew near and slapped me twice, forehand and backhand. “That’s for leering at Sasha.” The three of us knew quite well the Countess had taught me months earlier—painfully—to lower my eyes respectfully for either woman to escape such punishing blows. But we also knew Countess Vronsky did as she damned well pleased, and if I objected, I could go freeze my ass to death. When they exchanged giggles, my cock rose.

Countess Vronsky bade Percy to bring piping hot mugs of borscht to the three Russian policewomen. After assuring that the nourishment satisfied the lady guests, he wrapped a coarse robe around me and gave me a mug of borscht, and dutifully refilled each mug upon request. Percy and I complied with the will of the Countess. I ate ravenously to bolster my stamina for the Countess’s whip. She was so eager to beat me she nearly salivated. Percy fulfilled his servile duties to comply with the whims of the Countess—although he and I despised each other.

Our Goddess fostered hostility among us Slaves by shrewdly segregating us. When she forced a Slave to perform menial chores, such as Percy clothing and feeding me, she beat us savagely if one Slave spoke to another. Some assholes spoke to other Slaves intentionally, enduring their own beating just to punish Slaves they detested. After Countess Vronsky turned total strangers into sworn enemies, she judiciously doled out basic comforts like food, clothing, and shelter to fuel our jealously and manipulate us into hating each other.

God only knows what we Slaves would do to a slave suspected of receiving individual, sexual favors from Countess Vronsky! She entertained us with group masturbations, and I was about to become her costar.

Strapping a collar around my neck and attaching a leash, Countess Vronsky led me to the massive Great Hall in the Ice Palace. I left my trusty boots in the operating room after the foot gear had served me so well on the tundra. Now I wore slippers.

The stone walls arching high to the cathedral ceiling lent the occasion a quasi-religious feeling. Nothing in the Ice Palace, of course, actually resembled ice. The mansion took its name from the frigid Siberian climate and the temperament of the woman who designed it—an American descendant of Russian grandparents, Catherine Roman.

In the blink of an eye, the Countess whisked my robe away and shackled me, spread-eagle, with two manacles suspended from crisscrossing oaken beams and two more anchored to the stone floor. She tied my neck leash on a hook in one of the beams so that I would, in effect, choke myself if I let my knees buckle.

The Russian policewomen made wagers in one corner. The other ten slaves, shackled ankles linked by heavy chains, shuffled as close as Countess Vronsky would allow them. Although Countess Vronsky intended to have a dozen Slaves at all times, her hot temper drove a slave or two away occasionally. They were in various stages of sliding condoms on their cocks; many already had boners at the sight of Natasha’s lithe body highlighted in burgundy latex.

Countess Vronsky was to beauty as Lon Chaney, The Man of a Thousand Faces, was to horror. She could change her countenance dramatically enough to make a chameleon jealous. The fire she’d flashed on the tundra now froze on her face at the Ice Palace. She became the Ice Queen, a true disciple of her benefactress, Mrs. Roman.

Pointing dramatically to Percy, she decreed, “You’re exempt. Monitor the others.”

I gritted my teeth and looked stonily ahead, but nine other pairs of eyes stared daggers into Percy. Countess Vronsky’s favor guaranteed retaliation from the other slaves. They’d punish Percy at the earliest opportunity, and the Countess would either turn a blind eye to Percy’s agony or beat the other Slaves senseless. Her mood would determine her mode of pleasure.

Countess Vronsky stepped behind me and cast her whip like a fishing line, snapping the tip as it touched my flesh, slicing open my first wound of this session. Ten Slaves cheered loudly. My cock stood ramrod straight, proud to be the instrument of the Countess. Over in the corner, the three Russian women stared wide-eyed, actually licking their lips. They forgot their bets while they enjoyed Showtime.

My Goddess adroitly cracked her whip again, drawing more blood and eliciting another roar from the slaves. “Do you hate me yet?”

“I shall always love you.”

She lashed me twice, savagely, in quick succession. “Strong words from a weak man. I’ll break your will.” Her whip lacerated my skin once more. “Again. I’ll make you my bitch.” Crack! “Again.”

Gritting my teeth and wincing, I braced myself and shouted firmly, “I love you so much I could burst out in song!”

Silence fell on the great hall. I tried not to tremble in fear. What would she do now? Countess Vronsky swaggered past me, turned, and jutted her face within inches of mine. “So you could ‘burst out in song.’” Her sneer was distilled scorn. “Prove it. Serenade me!”

My desperate mind latched onto the tune of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll” and scrambled to improvise lyrics:

“I love Countess V

Enough for her to pee on me.

She has so much class,

I’ll lick her feet and then her ass.”

Despite herself, she burst into laughter. “Nice try, you worthless swine.” Resuming her post behind me, she hummed “I Love Rock and Roll” and flayed my skin harder. “Will you love me later tonight? When Dr. Khachaturian pours alcohol on your open wounds?”

“I will!”

Her strokes came harder and faster. Her frenzied breathing measured her rising ecstasy. “When you ache so much you could scream.” Crack!

“I’ll still love you!”

“But I’ll crush you if you scream.” Crack! Crack!

“I’ll worship and adore you!”

“You’ll cry in pain.” Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Crying out my praise for you.”

“While I kick you senseless with my beautiful, ruthless boots—symbol of my power, icon of your worship.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Do it, beloved Countess!”

Silence again. Her breathing seemed to rack her lungs. Her panting and grunting fascinated me so much I was surprised to realize she’d stopped whipping me. Her moans nearly made me ejaculate. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You’re making me—”

“I win!” A voice interrupted the Countess to announce he was the first slave to climax.

I could have strangled him. Because of his interruption, I figured the Countess would start the beating all over again, from the beginning until she reached another orgasm.

Instead, she kept stroking herself purposefully, expertly. I could visualize the crotch of her catsuit zipped open, her gloved hand plunged into her pussy, her middle finger strumming her clitoris—a stunningly magic image. The memory of her bravura performance, seared into my brain, made me gasp for breath. Watching her would’ve driven me berserk. When her climax induced her to bellow her guttural yell of exultation, my cock quivered in empathy.

The crunching whir of her zipper brought us all back to reality. She wasn’t through with us. She stepped to my left side and held her right hand near my mouth, tacitly demanding that I lick her juices off her gloved fingers.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed. My mouth engulfed her index finger, and I sucked eagerly.

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