Not wanting to be late, I had the driver pick me up at 10 am, sharp on Monday morning. Forty-five minutes away lies St. Briavel Castle, which is located on a spur dominating a position above the River Wye, on the edge of Forest Dean. Further along, is the woods near Lower Meend, and on a long, dark lane overshadowed by centuries-old yew trees, is an ancient hidden dwelling, made of hand-hewn stone from the valley below.
As the car negotiated the dark shadowed curves in the roadway, I felt a trickle of sweat run down my armpit. It had been a long time since I had dressed in leather from top to bottom, and I had never worn a leather bra before, or black make-up, both courtesy of the Goth. It was clear that the driver had negotiated this laneway before, but that fact gave me little comfort. As we drew closer, my senses heightened, and when I lowered the window to get some air, the sound of the tires on the gravel driveway of the imposing mansion only served to increase my anxiety levels. Finally, the car stopped. I opened the door and put my leather-clad sandal onto the gravel. “This was it,” I thought.
I pulled back on the huge knocker on the ancient wood door. “Flee now, it is not too late,” I thought. I held the knocker up, suspended at a right angle and looked over my shoulder, to see the driver turning out of site at the end of the driveway. I took a deep breath and dropped the cast-iron knocker. It was 11am on the dot.
Seconds later, a tall, well-built, barrel-chested man opened the door. He was dressed in black leather coveralls with shoulder straps and had no shirt on. He was wide-shouldered, covered in thick curly black hair everywhere except on his freshly shaven face and head. The man was unsmiling as he gestured me into the high-ceilinged entrance hall and handed me an over-filled envelope. I looked inside the envelope and flicked through about a one-centimetre-thick wad of freshly minted £100 notes and put it in my bag.
The man then led me down a dark, stonewalled corridor with a small, light-filled window at the end. Before we reached the window, he turned to the left and unlocked a heavy wooden door with a rounded top. As I walked down the narrow circular stone staircase, I heard the heavy door close behind him and the lock thud. I desperately needed to pee.
The bottom of the staircase revealed a medieval dungeon fitted out with modern torture equipment comprising ropes, whips and leather-upholstered tables and gymnastic-type horses. The man still had not said a word. “I need a toilet, please,” I said.
Not saying a word, he took my handbag and placed it at the bottom of the stairs on the floor. He returned to me and roughly turned me around. He pulled my hands behind my back and tied them together with ribbon. He then lifted me up onto the leather gym horse and undid my pants. He pulled them down, over my thighs and let them slip onto the floor. With his massive hands, he pulled off my silk bikini panties, sniffed them deeply before throwing them over his right shoulder onto the floor.
He then picked me up like you would a rag doll, and dropped me roughly into a corner of the room. Here he pulled me into the squatting position and instructed me to pee. I was on the verge of tears. I desperately wanted to pee, but for the life of me, I could not. “Pee, you fucking whore bitch,” he yelled. “You wanna fuckin pee, pee!”
I began to cry as I felt the warm urine flowing from me. He watched me closely, his eyes not leaving my face. He seemed to enjoy seeing my tears and frustration as I felt the urine splashing and puddling around my feet. I spread my legs further apart and tipped onto my toes in a desperate attempt to avoid the ever-growing puddle. I struggled to not fall over, unbalanced, because my hands were still tied behind my back. I calmed myself as I felt the relief of my bladder emptying. I don’t know why I was crying. I was not scared. I heard The Manager’s voice in my head saying, “Do not panic. Remain calm, you will be safe.”
When I finished peeing, the man picked me up from the squatting position. I kept my knees bent and my legs apart because they were wet with my urine, which I could now smell. It was humiliating, and I realised, this is precisely what he wanted. He dumped me on the horse again and pushed me onto my back. This was uncomfortable because my hands were still tied behind me. He then fetched some wipes from a glass cabinet and began to wipe me clean. I appreciated that he wiped down there from front to back. He wiped down my thighs and then pushed my legs onto my chest and cleaned my anus. He spent quite some time doing this and I was grateful that I had followed the Goth’s instructions on preparing for anal intercourse earlier in the morning.
When he had finished wiping and drying me, he sat me up, undid my hands and then lay me back again. The horse was shorter than my body length and my head fell back over the one edge and my rear end reached to the other, my legs dangling over the edge. He placed a cuff on each hand and clipped a rubber coated cable to each cuff and locked each of the cables to a ring in the floor, shoulder length apart. I was being crucified on my back. He then threaded a thick, felt covered belt under my waist and clipped one end of a cable to that and the other to a pulley held by a steel ring in the ceiling. He stepped back and pulled on the cable. Unexpectedly, my back arched as my prone body lifted off the surface of the horse, my neck and bottom barley touching the leather at each end. I grunted involuntarily as I was suspended in mid air. I felt my chest constrict, and I became aware of my breathing. My head was now fully hyperextended over the back of the horse, facing the stone floor and my mouth was open as I sought more air.
I was prone for some time in this dangling position before I noticed that he was standing by my head. He began to slap me on my cheeks. I tried to move my face away. He slapped me again, this time harder. He said something like, “you think you can take my home, my lands away from me, you heathen bitch, well, you’re wrong and you’re going to find that out the hard way.” He yelled more disgusting curses as he roughly pulled my neck back further by grabbing my hair. I felt him shuffling behind me and I opened my eyes. He had removed his coverall and was naked, standing legs apart, square behind me. He had a thick cock to match his body, and for the first time I was afraid.
Pushing my head back again, he inserted his cock into my mouth and down my throat. My throat was blocked. We had agreed on a safe word, but I could not say a thing. I could not move. Do not panic, I had been told. I began to squirm. I could not breathe. I began to panic. I needed air. I tried to wheel my body from side to side. He pushed deeper. I could feel his cock in my throat not far from my lungs and I was at the point of blacking out, when he pulled his cock out, asking me if I still wanted his lands and home in a mocking tone. I gasped, struggling to get air into my lungs.
Unbelievably, even though gasping for air and again in tears, a voice, seemingly mine, defiantly and hoarsely screamed, “fuck you, we’re taking everything, your land, your homes and you and your people will be slaves to the gods. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” I was now angry and crying. I meant what I had said. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel pain.
He laughed at me. “You are in no position to make threats, Danish whore,” he sneered at me. He then disappeared, leaving me hanging, my back arched, my legs hanging loosely, my lady parts exposed. At this point I was just thankful I could breathe!
I was lying there, suspended, trussed, contemplating my choices in life when I heard the horse being shifted from below me. The man placed a kind of hammock underneath my back and hoisted it up by the same pulley in the ceiling. This felt more comfortable as my back was now supported even though I was now fully suspended from the ceiling and could rock back and forth lengthwise. He untied my hands behind me and clipped the cuffs together in front of me. He then put a kind of ball in my mouth and tied the leather straps attached to it behind my head. This was not comfortable and again I could not speak. Finally, he placed a hood over my head and my hearing and sight were shut down. Do not panic. Do not panic. My mantra, I told myself, was do not panic.
I felt my body starting to swing back and forth lengthwise, like the pendulum balls of a Newton’s Cradle. The man lowered my body down a bit, then up a bit. When he was satisfied, he grabbed my legs, pulled them apart, and stood between them, his cock aimed at my opening. He pulled me toward himself, and I felt the tip of his cock enter me. He pulled further, lining me up, his cock sliding in further. Without warning, he pushed me away from him and I felt a rush as the blood flowed from my head. I reached the zenith of the swing and began the reverse swing, fully expecting him to impale me, but he stopped me short and came to stand beside me. He opened my leather top and exposed my bra. After fiddling around with the clasp, he tore it off me and released my breasts. He went back between my legs and pushed me away from him. This time, as I swung back his cock entered me. He pushed me away again and as he entered me for the second time, he began to whip my breasts. It really stung and I tried to squirm away, but I could not see anything and the ball in my mouth hindered me from saying anything. I was screaming for him to stop hitting me but each time he fucked me, the pain from the whipping made me focus not on what his cock was doing, but on trying to avoid the invisible stinging slashes.
I had never been whipped or hit by anyone before. It was painful. It stung, a kind of lingering sting and I was worried about his leaving marks on my breasts and chest area. He swung me again. This time his cock bored deep inside me and again, I felt the sting of his whip. Again, swing, thud, whip and again, swing, thud, whip. He began to develop a rhythm and my vagina thankfully began to lubricate and expand. Again, again, again, swing, thud, whip. I had stopped screaming and became resigned to the rhythm. I felt like I was floating, weightless. The stings each time he whipped me dulled into that pleasure pain feeling I remembered from when I was losing a baby tooth. I was beginning to enjoy the motion and felt myself edging. I was getting closer and closer to coming. He must have sensed this and abruptly stopped.
He slowly lowered me to the floor and untied me, removing the hood and the gag in my mouth. “Bitch, you thought you were here for fun, did you? You’ll soon find out,” he sneered, as he removed any bit of clothing I still had on my body. He then picked me up and placed me face down on another piece of equipment, basically, a shortened stuffed leather chaise lounge, with my head abutting the one end and my feet stretched out, my hands at my sides. “Don’t move, bitch,” he ordered me.
I lay there, my breasts still stinging, my vagina numb from the pounding, wondering what he was going to do to me next. “Whack!”, another whip to my back. This time I yelled, “stop that, it’s enough.” “Whack!”, another strike. I arched my back up in pain, but he pushed me down again.
I was again considering the safe word when he began to fiddle with my arse hole. He was using his finger or fingers to rub lube in and around my hole. It was not unpleasant, and I began to relax. He put one finger in and rolled it around. Then another. It began to hurt but I could tell he was trying to be gentle. Its just that I had never really had anal before and the last attempt was with my husband almost twenty years before. “Ho,” he said, “what do we have here? A virgin whore?”
While his left hand pulled my cheeks apart, his right-hand fingers began to pull apart, opening my arsehole, getting it to stretch, then relax. After a while, I could feel his index fingers had spread apart in a V-shape and he was rotating them back and forth. I can’t say it was unenjoyable, but it was a unique sensation. I was just beginning to get used to the feeling, to enjoy it, when he stopped what he was doing, and I heard him lubricating his penis. He pulled my legs together and climbed on top of me. He was heavy on me but he carried the bulk of his weight on his one arm which was beside me. With his other hand, he positioned his cock over my arsehole and began to push it in. I could feel the large head sliding in and squirmed under him as I endured the pain, biting my lip. He then placed his other arm on the sofa, relieving me of his weight. He slowly pushed his cock in deeper. Then out. Then in again. Again, the pain pleasure feeling. He began to gently rock in and out, each time deeper into me. As he went deeper each time, the pain made me cry out. He seemed to enjoy that and pushed deeper into me until he was fully in me, all of him. And then he began to fuck me. Slowly at first and then faster and faster. I cannot begin to describe the pain I felt. Each thrust seemed to go further and further into me. I could feel his cock deep inside me, thrusting, thrusting. I tried to move further up the couch to get some relief, but my head hit up against the end. Again, I thought about the safe word, but with one final deep thrust, he came inside me, first wave, second wave, third…and then he just collapsed onto me.
I lay there, under his weight, asking myself what the hell had just happened. I was not sure what I was feeling. Did I even have to think about it?
He lifted himself off and out of me and smiled at me for the first time. “Thank you,” he said. You were marvelous. You’ve given me the best time. Thank you, thank you.” He led me upstairs to the guest room with an ensuite. I showered and fixed my torn clothing as best I could.
I walked to the entrance hall where he was waiting for me. He had another envelope in his hand. “For you, my dear,” he said. You were a great sport. Thank you.
It was exactly 12:55 pm when I walked out of the front door. The car was waiting for me in the driveway. As I climbed into the back seat, I noticed the bike rider at the end of the driveway. He was on one of those big motor bikes the police use, the ones with the big, water-cooled radiators in front. He was dressed all in black leather with a full head cover helmet. He gave me a two-finger salute at the side of his helmet as his electric starter whined his bike engine into life. I got into the car as he drove out of sight, and we slowly crunched along the gravel driveway until we reached the asphalt lane, turned right, and headed home.
Twenty minutes later, in my warm, normal, familiar kitchen, I made myself a cup of Earl Grey tea and wondered who the hell I was.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vbxlin/an_appointment_in_the_country