Mistress of Pain by Anonymous

The snow-covered mountains passing outside the heavily tinted windows of the limousine appeared alive, hovering in the darkness like the mammoth breasts of a female giant. Each colossal mound seemed to breathe and heave, and they were never-ending in succession.

The man brought his hand to his brow and rubbed the deep creases. The stress had now nearly worn itself off and he only now could begin to take pleasure in the company of the auburn-haired woman in repose off to his side.

Thickly forested valleys loomed below like out-sized thatches of puss hair. Covered with the crisp layer of fresh-crackling come glowing beneath the crescent moon, a ghostly anointing provided in the man's imagination by some striding prick of heavenly proportion.

Francis Dashwood began to feel his neck muscles relax as finally he sank into this reverie. There came the nibbling of the hunger inside him as he scanned the landscape.

He ignored the silent onscreen blather of the video monitor, the sounds of which his brand-new wife Artemis listened to over jacked-in earphones.

Instead, he concentrated on the stirring sight of the stand of frosty conifers now lining the road. Like proud pricks covered with frozen jism, their sides bristling and spiky, the pine forest was a fine image to incite one's fancy.

He was glad to be getting away.

With the relaxation and the first pangs of the hunger, Francis felt at last detached from his inevitable daily problems. They were as if in an entirely different world.

His enterprises in the nightlife of New York seemed so far distant.

Thousands of miles away. Of another era.

Alien, certainly, to this world.

Francis clutched the long, cool fingers of his wife's hand. He looked into her lickerish smile and felt the hunger flare once more.

He was already anticipating the rush to glory, the shimmer of his muscles. And the calm that would come afterward.

There were those who said that all aficionados of athletic pursuits were ultimately devotees of physical pain.

But Francis understood that the trend of recent medical research indicated that all forms of stress--athletic, sexual, emotional--set into action certain bodily mechanisms.

These processes did not heighten the pain. Rather, they resulted in the release of the body's own pleasure-provoking and energizing substances.

The rapid descent down the side of a mountain was like the hurtle of ejaculation. Flying downhill on skis involved an element of fear and adventure, itself a form of release.

Even the sauna, with its overtones of torture and purification, demanded stressing the body's acceptance of heat.

Pursuit of pleasure?

Or adoration of pain?

He saw the tightly nippled chest of his wife quiver as she breathed. Her firm legs were covered with sensually cut slacks of nubbly wool, with feathery tassels of weave running the sides from waist to cuff.

Francis allowed himself a gentle smile.

Artemis was herself a devotee of pain.

But she didn't know that yet. There still remained parts of herself to which she had not been properly introduced.

She would have said simply that she was one who appreciated physical culture.

As she had remarked more than once, it was an inherent part of her public image. What better and more credible advertising could a line of fashion sportswear have than for the designer Artemis Schwartz to be highly visible as an excruciatingly sexy action-lady.

Artemis would have it that her exercises were symptoms of her devotion to financial gain, not physical pain.

Francis saw the familiar bend in the road come up ahead. They were nearly there already.

The smoky taste in his mouth told Francis that the hunger was there in full force of arousal. He took in the landscape and marveled once more at its glorious wild beauty.

Its thrilling dimension that even in memory could ignite the hunger response. The craving for the flash of pursuit from the summit to the valley depths. Plummeting through successive layers of his own emotions to touch if only for an instant the true depths of his being.

It was as if the landscape itself held the keys to his soul.

Situated on the Canadian border, not so very far from New York, was this amazing country, he reflected.

The isolation, the freedom.

And yet so close to his work.

With the troubles and the frantics of his new nightspot inescapable during the weeks ahead, Francis felt this weekend to be of the highest, most desperate importance.

"I'm glad you made me come," Francis said, leaning over to take his wife in his arms.

"I'm glad you could make it," Artemis said.

He brought his hands down to the center of his groin and felt his cock jostle a bit. He flicked it through the thick flannel material of his sharply pleated trousers.

The thickness responded with a lazy catlike stretch. Arching its back, whipping out from its secluded lair where it had lain comfortably within the folds of his pants material.

Arousing from a slumber.

And now dangerous.

Artemis was so happy that they could now be together. They hadn't ever been alone together for more than an evening at a time.

Their busy schedules had precluded even a token honeymoon to celebrate their hasty civil wedding. Any real vacation would have to come later, but this would do for now.

Artemis had been more than joyed when Francis had asked her to see if there was an open slot in her schedule. Some time during the upcoming month she would be able to get away.

With Francis. For a few days.

Alone together.

Artemis of course knew of Francis's passion for the outdoors, for cold-weather sports in particular. The cold and the mountains, though she could well appreciate the scenery and the fireplace, did not happen to be her personal preference for a wintertime break.

Her favorite vacation choices would have rather involved the sun and the beach. But she had gone ahead with the arrangements anyway.

She had heard Francis mention this place, with a relish to his voice and a pang of glitter in his eyes. It was obviously one of his favorite playgrounds.

One of his most valued getaway places.

Since Francis had in the interim determined to open his new art-gallery discotheque the following weekend, Artemis had actually feared he might cancel at the last instant.

But when she had looked out the vast window of her design studio and seen, just as they had planned, the long dark automobile with its motor running at the curb, she knew it was meant to be.

Artemis had rushed downstairs, still coated from her work with pastels, bits of yarns and glue and sweat, and jumped inside.

Francis was waiting, obviously dog-tired but grinning widely. The limousine already held their luggage and they were on their way.

Together.

They would finally have a chance to get to know each other. Not only as man and wife, but as deeply emotive beings.

Artemis sighed.

She brought her own hands down to cover Francis's. Feeling the warmth and the hardness, she went at the zipper.

In seconds her hands were inside and his cock was out. She ran her strong fingers along its hardening length.

Francis flinched and lifted his flanks from the seat. Artemis flicked open his belt buckle and undid the buttons.

His trousers fell down past his knees and the head of his prick smacked against his flat belly. Artemis worked her fingertips along the bristly copse of pud hair.

It was like briars covering his bustling sac. And Artemis didn't know why, but she found that thorniness most arousing to her.

When she ran her fingers along the root, probing the fleshy balls, she could almost sense the come beginning to ferment.

Within the moving scrotum, she knew there was a new heat. And she would have that heat. Inside.

In her mouth. Her ass. Her cunt.

She placed the penis to her lips.

Francis squirmed as Artemis drew the thickness of her spread tongue across the eye of his pecker. The brewing semen was flashing off energizing sparks all along his dong.

It speared his testicles and slithered down the length of the shaft to the hopping head. Then it traversed his pelvis and bit him in the asshole all the way up.

Artemis slickered the pecker with her tongue tip and prattled away with her fluttery fingers. Jostling the balls.

Shaking the sperm up.

"It'll be nice to be around some sane people for a change," Francis said, holding his wife's head close in his lap.

"Must be tough," Artemis murmured, dick in mouth, hands under smooth masculine rump.

"All those weirdos in the art world-it really is a scene. You know each and every one of them has what those of us in straight business would call a criminal attitude."

Artemis jabbed her fingers around his anal pucker and took her lips all the way down his shimmering cockshaft.

She felt her lips press into his briar patch. Pricking them and making them feel oh, so glad that she was his mate.

"Now don't go getting yourself worked up," Artemis said. "When you get right down to it, that's why they're artists-they don't want to obey the strictures of society."

"And collectively they are worth many millions of dollars to yours truly," Francis said, spreading his asscheeks.

She dropped one of her own hands into her whining crotch. The fingers fondled her engorged slit, rubbing it with the nubbly material.

The limousine slowed to make a left hand turn between the gates appearing in the break of the high stone wall that now ran alongside the two-lane blacktop as it snaked through the snowy winter landscape.

Francis licked his lips in sureness that his hunger would be satisfied. Tonight.

Artemis yanked the cock out of her mouth and read the elegantly lettered sign on the tall stonework gatepost.

They were there already. The driver must have been moving fast. Though one would never know it from the smooth ride the limo gave.

As they passed easily through the grounds of the lodge, Artemis knew in part why Spa Abbey of

Theleme had so captivated her husband.

The driver stopped the car discreetly outside of the garage as Francis pointed out the various surrounding summits, naming them and describing the ski runs down their slopes.

As Artemis shellacked his joint and jiggled his balls, he bent forward.

He brought up his knees and felt the fury gash through his loins.

The shot of jism smacked his wife in the teeth and spattered over her blouse.

The sparkling come hung like icicles from her spermy maw. She spouted it in small pulses toward his grimacing face.

Her hands ground the glop into her mouth cheeks as she opened her slacks.

Francis could see that the crotch of her panties was matted and slathered with lady juice. He fiddled with her fur through the front of her panties and riffled the hard clit.

She shimmied her ass and he snatched the pants on down her thighs.

As Artemis leaned back, she experienced the drama of the setting. The remote beauty of the place Spa Abbey of Theleme was situated.

At least one slope was illuminated for nighttime skiing, and Artemis could see a number of Thelemites dangling from ski lifts and blazing down the runs.

That was how she felt, rushing on a chilling run as Francis ran his lips down her slithery slit. Manipulating her clit with his teeth.

She took her fingers and inserted them into her mouth. Coated with saliva, she polished the inside of her quim with shuddering strokes.

The hanging smatters of jism snapped along her jaw as she convulsed in orgasm. The delirium leapt between her legs as she jerked convulsively in her serious frenzy.

Artemis lay slack, in a wash of cool sweat as Francis hit a lit plastic tab aligned above the silent video monitor.

The car slid into gear and Artemis began to resume her clothes. She wiped her mouth of jism and yawned.

She was beat. Could use a nap.

As the stretched-out carriage with the stretched-out couple in the rear delivered them to the entranceway of the large stone central building, she wasn't at all sure that she was up to what Francis had planned.

"I'm really glad we did that," Artemis said as she played the humming tip of the streamlined massage unit along the nape of her neck.

"You'll be happier still when your muscles unwind after you join me in the sauna," Francis said as he opened the cedarwood door.

In his muscular hands Artemis saw that he was carrying two industrial-gray towels inscribed in black-outlined blood-red with the spa's monogram.

Artemis shut off the massage unit and almost giggled out loud. She realized what it was that the high-tech massager brought to mind.

Its gleaming metallic length and puce-colored rubber head made it look like a robotic dick.

Artemis ran her hand along the shaft and was amazed at herself for what she was thinking. All that skiing so soon after their arrival had made her silly, she thought.

Then, playfully, she brought the rubber tip to her mouth and kissed it. She flicked it back on and thought about how it would feel.

Grinding up inside her.

She thought of electric wires like thorny public hairs. Hot-wired to her clit and to her arse hole. The sputtering goo of lady juice sizzling with conducted energy.

Her quim began to teem with fermenting juices, she redirected the twirling head of the pleasure machine downward.

Tentatively, fearfully.

"Artemis, will you kindly get the hell into this sauna. I want to squeeze your tits," Francis shouted lewdly.

She shut off the massager and took a look down at her tits. Firm, they were, with rosy nipples stiff and ready to grip.

She slid onto the hot wooden bench next to Francis and slathered his neck with her saliva. He wiped his hair with the towels and uncrossed his legs, cock pulsing wildly.

"I see you have become enamored of the massage device," Francis joked.

"Yeah, I thought about how it might feel to fuck it," she said smiling.

"Disgusting," he said. "You must like to sit on washing machines or blenders-processed quim."

"Oh, stop it," Artemis said, reaching for his dangling dong.

She urged it to readiness for penetration with the strokes of her fingers.

Artemis thought of how conservative Francis could seem at times. She wondered how he would choose to become involved in such an artsy scene as his newest venture demanded.

Gallery owners and transvestite stockbroker-collectors. Socialites whose cultural activities and highbrow aims involved getting their names and photos into print.

Would-be artists full of their own presumed genius. Successful artists full of their own fleeting renown and now for the moment sporting sycophantic coteries of their own.

Then she thought of the money Francis had talked about in recent weeks. She understood.

Their pores opened and the heat became unbearable as they jerked each other off. The dry heat began to scorch their hides.

Their perspiration evaporated quickly in the oven-intensity heat of the electric heating element operating the sauna.

When Artemis thought they would die from dehydration, Francis moved to a gleaming metal nozzle and turned on a spray of ice-cold water.

It was life-giving to the nearly seared flesh, but its frigidity was its own form of torture at the same time.

They had drinks in their suite as they dressed for a late dinner. It was due to the trip, the physical exertion and the sauna that she felt so looped, Artemis thought as she weaved down the stone hallway to the dining room.

"Ah, Mr. Dash wood," the tall sandy-haired man in evening attire said as they approached the wide doorway. "Mr. and Mrs. Dash wood, I should say. Begging your indulgence."

"Good evening, Alistair," Francis said to the man as he brought Artemis's hand forward and up.

Alistair bent to kiss her wrist, then took one fingertip partly within his mouth and smooched.

"I don't have to tell you how lovely she is," Alistair beamed, rolling his eyes toward Artemis as he escorted the couple to a table near to the crackling fireplace.

"I am afraid our hostess has encountered a bit of delay this evening," Alistair said to them as they were seated.

He added as he launched into a description of the evening's special dishes, "She is, however, expected to be with us later this evening."

"Marvelous," Francis intoned.

Artemis looked at the panorama through the wraparound picture windows. The scenery was dazzling even at midnight, as the crescent moon sent jagged shapes running dynamically down the surrounding mountainsides.

She was utterly exhausted and the best thing in the world would be for her to get to sleep.

But she was fascinated by Spa Abbey of Theleme and did look forward to meeting its proprietress. If only Artemis were in a more energetic mode.

After a light meal and heavy consumption of wine, Francis and Artemis strolled along the promenades through different offerings of the spa's central building.

In addition to the dining room and select number of suites equipped with their own private saunas, there was a discotheque, a number of theme bars, and a casual dining area.

At the entranceway, they stopped and looked again at the imposing sculpture. It was a concoction of many media.

From a base reminiscent of a primitive altar built by an ancient people of the forest sprouted a cone-shaped ebony pedestal surmounted by an atavistically feminine bust literally swarming with moving breasts.

They agreed that the semiprecious stones, feather-work, carved hardwood and animal pelts had been used magnificently by the artist. And the inflatable rubber of the breasts, Artemis felt, was a truly exquisite touch.

The face was crowned by a sparkle of a crescent moon protruding hornlike from the dark, straightly coifed shower of monkey fur that was the sculptured woman's hair.

The combination of rusticity and elegance was absolutely in keeping with the ambience of Spa Abbey of Theleme. As she viewed the work of art, Artemis felt a melting in her own bosom.

"I've got to get a copy of this for the club," Francis was saying.

"You can talk to your Miss Cazadora about it later," Artemis said stifling a yawn.

"Our Miss Cazadora-Diana, if you please from now on," Francis said, breathing into her hair.

Francis looked into Artemis's eyes as she gazed over the statue. He could tell she was about ready to conk out.

Well, he wasn't at all tired now. In fact he was energized by the skiing, the sauna, the food and drink. He had the hunger yapping up the back of his tongue.

He could get it up for old Diana any time. And besides, he had business with her and Alistair. They knew the ins and outs of the art world and Francis wanted to see if they would be willing to act as consultants for his new enterprise.

Artemis didn't have to be around.

But Francis had wanted her to be there. To share Diana with him.

To see what a smashing personality she was. In the flesh and in the pink.

"She should be here any moment, I'm sure," Francis said, cupping her hips.

Artemis said, "I can see that you're more awake than I am at this point. And I can tell that you're looking forward to a little rendezvous with our hostess-so why don't I leave you to your whims and get some sleep."

"But I so much want you to meet her,". Francis said, kissing her.

Artemis looked over Francis's shoulder at the many-titted sculpture. Poised on the tip of the spiky ebony cone.

"I'll be in much more presentable shape in the morning," she said. "You know I'm looking forward to meeting her-I mean this is an unbelievable place-but I'm out for the night now."

"Okay, dear," Francis said, patting her on the rump.

As she ascended the staircase, she looked back. Francis was gone. Her eyes drifted once more to the sculpture.

She recognized its source from her art courses. It was a contemporary rendering of the statue of the Greek goddess Artemis, known to the classical Romans as Diana.

Goddess of the hunt, plus some other stuff Artemis couldn't remember. Fertility and chastity too, maybe?

Artemis and Diana.

Were they after all one and the same? Francis had obviously loved Diana Cazadora sometime in the past-but he had married Artemis Schwartz.

This type of meeting would have been disastrous in junior high school. But they were all grown adults now.

Mature enough to overcome any feelings of jealousy. If things so worked out, they might even become very close companions.

Artemis undressed and slopped another drink down from an open bottle in the refrigerator in their suite. Comfortably ensconced in the enormous bed, Artemis aimlessly shifted the television from channel to channel.

There was a rerun she had seen more than once before. An installment of her favorite horror-movie show, Hecate's Horrorhouse.

The hostess was raven-haired and wore jewelry of onyx and silver. Black net stockings and spiky-heeled ankle boots of shiny soft leather.

And spurs.

Her white boobs pushed nearly through the deep cleavage of her spandex bodice.

Blood-red lips and green eyes provided an almost jewel-like counterpoint to the purity of black and white. Artemis loved Hecate's clothes.

The outfits were different each week. And she remembered this one as among her favorites-even though the movie itself was among the most grotesque and pitiful.

Tonight's ensemble, Artemis noted with as much glee as her approaching slumber would allow, included a small set of silver horns, fashioned to resemble the crescent moon.

Artemis felt the hostess so very sexy that she had actually jerked herself off to her when watching her alone on chilly New York nights.

Well, that would be something for her to dream about.

The hands gripped her tits, her clit, and shot in and out of her asshole. They felt covered with rubber and greased. Slimy and irresistible.

There seemed to be a dozen pairs yanking at her clover. Buzzing at her like a swarm of bees.

The tits-so many of them, it seemed-nuzzled their bullet-like nips into her cheek and teeth. There was what felt like a fist in her fanny and a hunger in her grumbling tummy.

Something cool and incessantly stroking was slowly going up the insides of her thigh like an alien prick. Some robot's dong ready to diddle her dripping twat in intergalactic frenzy.

She froze in a wash of sweat.

Then she relaxed.

It was, after all, a dream.

Wild as it might seem, it held her fancy. She would enjoy it while it lasted.

The bubbling inside her quim was raising her to a feverish intensity.

It slickered the lips and glued them together. Then they shivered open, dripping foamy brine over her hump and snorting up her gasping bum.

This was the most intense dream Artemis could ever remember.

So solid.

She could feel the fingers acrawl over her body. Smell the rut spear into her nostrils.

Hear the snap of her asshole as a thumb or a fist popped out.

Abruptly "wiggling, her fanny slipped from the masculine grasp.

It hooked onto a tumbling rubber nib that bit into her rectum. It buzzed and torqued up her ravenously shaking rump.

Rubber head followed by sleek and cool metallic shaft, right up her ass.

When the head was buried, Artemis sensed a thorny scramble about the raised pucker of her bustling buttocks.

Almost like tearing flesh.

She was lifted from the twisting engine and her twat erupted in a wash of lady-juice.

The big tits tapped her as though they were real dugs. The metallic cool inched between her two openings on her underside as she wriggled her rump, enclosed again in his arms.

Whose arms?

Her eyes flickered open and she looked into the man's face. He looked almost like Francis.

She was dreaming she was being molested by her own husband and by a thousand fleshy breasts. And something foreign with a cold metallic dick.

Tight nipples buffeted her face.

Her eyelids fluttered and she shook herself awake. The man who held her looked like Francis, all right. But he was wearing something Francis would never have worn.

Sleek scarlet wristlets and anklets of stretch rubber and a band above his right bicep of the same material.

The man's face was powdered white laced with golden glitter. His lips were parted and painted in a reptilian green.

A skullcap of scarlet rubber covered his hair, ears and sideburns, coming to slightly curved points over his cheekbones.

His prick was enormous and purple, the sac enlarged and pounding. The genitals were strangled in a tight scarlet rubber cinch.

Dickhead aimed and at the ready.

Artemis felt a sputter at her arse hole and a twisting at the pucker. She moved her arms and felt the cord tighten around both wrists.

It was all too real.

The man's voice was that of Francis as he spoke to the feminine shapes circled about the near distance. The scent of body musk was so thick Artemis could chew it.

"It turns out our dear mistress is not able to make it this evening, Artemis," Francis said to her directly.

"If you please, ladies," he said to the female acolytes surrounding them, "let us proceed."

She bit into the man's nipple as he wrested her, struggling, downward.

Guided by his thighs.

Gliding onto the machine of her dreams.

Artemis screamed as the real prick-like engine delved into actual flesh. What was Francis doing to her? In front of all these naked women. Humiliating her.

Taking one voluptuous tit into his hammering maw like a long banana. Lowering her onto a savagely propelled machine-engineered cock of smooth rubber and cool metal.

Snarling with spikes at her yammering arse hole as it ran up and down her fundament.

What were they doing?

Exactly what she wanted them to do to her, Artemis suddenly realized.

She felt the arms release her. She was on an altar-like base of gray metal. Astride the shimmering prick.

The envy of the women around her who stroked their fur and frittered away at their clits.

Artemis was on her knees in front of them. So that they could all see her pain.

And her glory.

The scintillating froth that washed between her legs. The grimace on her face.

Tears rolling down her sweating face like syrup over buttered hotcakes.

The way she took into herself the purple dick of her husband.

In her cunt.

Then down her heaving throat.

Craving the come. Needing the fluid to enter into her.

She wanted so much to hold him. To hold the women who now drew closer.

But her arms were bound to her back. Twisting, she attempted to free herself.

But the pain still grew.

Almost like a hunger.

She wanted more.

Gnashing, she brought her jaw to Francis's wrists, tasting the rubber heated by his body rut. Sinking her teeth into the tightness and smoky taste of his rubber and musk.

There was a tingle in her hair, then a shower over her cheeks.

She saw Francis's raised purple dong sending out a shimmering arc of urine to the air. Cascading over her matted deep red tresses.

Two of the women were now poised above her, their legs angled wide. Open snatches smiled vertically down upon her.

Dripping cunt juices and bidding suck.

Francis sprayed piss over the legs of the women who stood to either side of his wife, silent and intense in concentration.

Artemis moved to take twat in her teeth. As she closed in on a dark brunette split, a sparkle of piss gulped down the spread thighs.

The urine shimmered onto Artemis's breasts, stinging the nipples.

Now Artemis sucked it directly from the hovering woman's cunt and felt the drum of a like spray over her head and back.

The steely dong gyrated her intestines, now picking up smidgens of piss and lady-juice as its necessary lubricant.

Francis stepped back. His inflated cock was being hammered in the fist of a raging woman with a shaved cunt and jingling silver rings depending from her huge, nearly colorless nips.

She felt the come ferment to a boil. Then she aimed the thing right at Artemis's opened yip. Amidst the double cascade of urine flew a languid stream of molten jism.

It mixed with the piss in her hair and drifted over Artemis's mouth cheeks in glops.

The sluice carried the dollops of jism dripping from her jaw. Streaking her long neck. Rippling down her shoulders.

Welling up over the heaving tits. Coagulating momentarily at the scalding nipples. Rushing in rivulets down her tight belly to collect in her bellybutton. Then overflowing down the smooth slope into her sparkling cunt hairs.

It stung the clit into myriad cavorting spasms. The mist of piss and jism slid into her gummy cunt folds and down underneath her.

The brew was whipped up by the twirling spikes