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The Girl in the Golden Mask by Reece Gabriel
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Chapter 1
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Karin was being watched. By her new stepfather, Count Nikolai, the man she'd nicknamed Count Creepula because of his heavy Eastern European accent and mysterious ways.
At first it was just a feeling, a sense of invasion, eyes burning holes in her skin, shadows that fell from nowhere, making the skin on the back of her neck crawl. She wasn't sure how she knew it was him, but there was no doubt in her mind.
From the moment she and her mother had moved into the man's gabled, stonewalled mansion, Karin had felt vulnerable, stripped and analyzed. Enough so that she worked studiously to avoid him.
What worried her most were the strange feelings he invoked in her belly. Not desire, per se, at least not towards him, but a kind of dark attraction, a primal lure towards something forbidden but eminently satisfying.
The first time the Count actually made his eavesdropping presence known she'd been swimming in the Olympic-sized pool, her lithe, young body slicing through the water, barely covered by the red bikini she'd picked up in the south of France last year.
He was there on the Italian tiles when she emerged from the water, nipples hard from the cold, her long dark hair, dripping wet over her shoulders. He had his hands behind his back, small fingers interlaced. He stood no taller than Napoleon and he acted about as friendly most of the time with his stiff suits and his gruff, terse manner.
"Nice day," she said, determined not to be cowed.
The Count frowned, pinching his thick black eyebrows and pursing bloodless lips. To think her mother had actually married this creature. It just went to prove that the former Marlena McCovey had no limits when it came to debasing herself for money.
Without saying a word, the Count turned on his heel and marched off, the turn as precise as any parade maneuver.
What the fuck had Karin done wrong? Was it a crime to be young, to have just graduated boarding school and trying to relax a little at the start of summer? She almost wished he'd made a pass or something. Sex she could understand. Boys and men wanted that from her all the time. And she always said no, in large part because her mother always said yes.
The second time Karin ran into the Count, she was out jogging, listening to her new Love Guppy CD and trotting happily along the winding asphalt pathway that circled the perimeter of Creepula's humungous estate outside the city. So big, in fact, that it had its own forest and a pair of tennis courts, too.
Karin was just turning a corner, near a bunch of bushes, and there he was. He was dressed in riding gear; shiny boots, a blazer, jodhpurs and helmet, almost the same dark shade as his toupee. What a trip. With that thick, dyed mustache of his and antiquarian demeanor he looked like some kind of nineteenth century squire.
"Be more careful next time," he said curtly, in those deep Dracula tones of his.
She was too dumbfounded to tell him he ought to do the same.
Where was his horse, anyway? And what was with the riding crop he was tapping against his thigh?
She kept right on running, well aware of his beady eyes following her retreating form. Again, she wished it was just her pert ass he wanted in or out of the skimpy shorts, but there was something more complicated here, something way beyond her eighteen years of life experience, something that made her wet between her legs, slickening her thighs with a liquid more fragrant and far more suggestive than sweat.
She might well wash it all away with masturbation, imagining any young man she wished, but that didn't seem right. What if the Count were some kind of axe murderer? It wasn't like Marlena ever researched these men before signing on the dotted matrimonial line. How many was it now, four, five? One of these times was going to have to stick, too, because Marlena was pushing forty and her ex-beauty queen looks wouldn't hold forever.
Not with all that vodka she'd been drinking the last few years.
Had her mother been more sober, Karin might have shared her concerns about step daddy number six, but as it was, the two of them were not on the friendliest terms. Since Karin's graduation from boarding school three weeks previously, Marlena had been harping on her constantly to make plans for the fall. She'd made it no secret that she was unhappy at Karin's refusal to attend college.
"I don't know what you think you'll make of your life," the blue-eyed Marlena had said during their last conversation. "Without school you have three choices. Waitress, wife or whore. Is that what you want?"
"Why not?" the smart aleck Karin hadn't been able to resist quipping. "It's worked for you—and I don't mean the waitress or wife part."
Marlena glared at her, reflecting their mutual hatred. It was the same old story, daughter resents mother for dragging her from home to home, mother resents daughter for being born in the first place.
"I've kept a roof over your head, young lady, not that you'd ever appreciate it."
"I never asked for anything," Karin reminded her.
"Children don't have to ask, do they?" Marlena spat. "They just get, get, get."
"For the millionth time," Karin shot back. "I'm sorry I needed diapers, I'm sorry I needed food and clothes and a pacifier every night. If I could have talked and walked quicker, I'd have gone and found someone else to help me."
"You're impossible, Karin," Marlena declared, looking sexy as always in her white blouse and skirt, her copper-dyed hair combed into a flame down her back. "I can't take this anymore."
At this point the woman excused herself with the usual headache.
Karin accused her of running out like a coward, going to sleep it off like the drunkard and a couple of other things besides—the usual last words to their arguments.
The third time Karin caught Creepula in the act, she decided she'd had enough. All she'd been trying to do was walk into her room one afternoon and there he was, skulking just down the dimly lit corridor, right next to a suit of armor.
The Count moved off, silent as moonlight as soon as she saw him.
"Hey," she called out.
He ignored her. She followed him, tracing his steps down the red-carpeted path, her heart thundering in her chest. He went into his bedroom—his alone and not Marlena's—and closed the door.
Now what?
A few moments later she heard someone coming up the long, circular staircase. The varnished oak creaked with every step. Karin ducked into an empty room across the hall, keeping the door open just a crack.
She saw Anya coming, the petite blonde maid with curly, shoulder length hair and big, blue eyes. The girl spoke only broken English, though she was always very kind in saying hello to Karin and asking after her needs each day. Karin didn't peg her at more than twenty-one or twenty-two. She felt sorry for Anya, having to work for Creepula like she did. He made her wear stiff black uniforms, dresses that came just above her knees with starched white aprons. He allowed her little rest and never a day off.
One time Anya had showed Karin her room. It was a glorified prison cell with a metal bed, a bare floor, a rickety dresser, a doorless bathroom and a tiny closet. Karin's own closet was twice the size of Anya's entire quarters.
Karin had offered to intervene to get her some improvements, but Anya had begged her not to cause trouble. The poor girl was clearly frightened. One more reason to hate the Count.
Anya was walking very briskly, with her eyes straight ahead. Karin's pulse quickened a little as Anya opened the Count's bedroom door.
To her surprise, Anya did not close the door behind her, but left it half open. Karin, dying of curiosity, stared longingly at her opportunity. Creepula was going to screw Anya, she was sure of it. As much as Karin should be repulsed, not to mention indignant over his exploitation of Anya, she was actually aroused. It was the power dynamic that did it. Anya was young and pretty and the Count was old and repulsive. She was going to him because he was the Master of the house and she was the servant.
It was the same feeling Karin got when the Count would watch her. She would feel all queasy and weak, knowing that he didn't have the right, but that he was doing it anyway. Like she was nothing but an object, to be studied and put through paces in another's mind.
Was the Count having his way with her naked image? Did he take out his cock and masturbate while looking at her?
Karin listened carefully now, poking her head out into the hall for the expected sounds of sex, heavy breathing accompanied by commands issued by the Count that would lead to female moans of acquiescence.
She heard nothing.
Strange.
Had they gone into an adjoining room?
She had to find out. She knew it was a risk. Her stepfather would be furious if he caught her spying and her mother would be, too. Somehow this sense of danger only upped the thrill, though.
It was as if some voice in her head were making her do it, forcing her to expose herself, to put herself into a position of no return. Karin was very wet between her thighs. It was all she could do to keep from whipping up her short skirt and plunging her hand into her panties as she tip toed across the hall and peered into the Count's room.
It was dark inside. No one was there. She stepped in for a closer look. There was a dresser and mirror, a tall, lamp, and a four-poster bed with high, mahogany posts, carved into a twisting, Arabic kind of pattern. The smell of cherry hung in the air, the Count's tobacco.
The walls were bare. The place was a mausoleum.
Except for the door. It had been left half open, just like the outer one. A light shone through from the other side, casting a small swathe across the hardwood floor. Karin tried to keep her breath steady. Her nipples were hard against the fabric of her silk bra and this time it was not the cold from any pool water doing it.
The idea was almost too much to comprehend, knowing they were there, the two of them in that next room, basking in that unknown light, playing out their game. Or was it more than a game?
Karin slipped off her sandals and proceeded, barefoot. Reaching the middle of the room, she decided it would be best to make herself small. Down she went, onto all fours, palms and knees on the hard wood. Just like a cat, she began to crawl, careful to keep herself in the shadows and not in the light.
Thus was she able to reach the wall, right next to the door. She was wild with excitement. She could hear them on the other side.
"Is this how you serve me?" the Count was saying.
"Master, Anya is sorry, make mistake," she said with her deep accent.
Karin just had to see. Peering around the door jam, she spied the Count, standing beside a lamp, the girl kneeling before him. The room was appointed in red, with rich, deep burgundy carpeting and a velvet trimmed bed fit for a queen.
"It was no mistake," said the Count harshly, holding up a white gloved finger before her nose. "It was a sign of complete and absolute disrespect."
The girl whimpered at the evidence of her ‘disrespect', a tiny dark smudge at the tip of the otherwise pristine linen glove. He'd obviously found a bit of dust on one of the wooden surfaces in the room and now he was going to rake her over the coals.
At once the blonde lowered her head, kissing the Count's shoe. Karin bit her lip. Something inside her reacted, hot and fast to the act of utter subjugation, golden curls spilt on the floor, the maid's mouth utterly debased upon shiny leather.
"Forgive, Anya," she begged. "Forgive bad slave."
Karin felt a chill down her spine. Anya had called herself a slave.
How could that be? It was the twenty-first century.
"I should make you lick the entire house clean as punishment," the man growled.
"Yes," said the pitiful girl. "Thank you, Master."
Karin's pussy pulsed. She longed to touch herself, to feel the evidence of how much this scene was turning her on—wrong and unjust as it was.
"But that would be inefficient," he continued, showing not the least regard for the humiliation involved in such an act. "And unhygienic. We shall have to settle for a beating."
Little Anya shivered, her head still at the man's feet. "Yes, Master," she acknowledged. "You are good, Master."
Karin couldn't stand it any longer. She reached with her right hand. Up under her skirt and down into her panties. She writhed at the feel of her labia, puffy, hot and covered in slick, sexual liquids.
Her fingers moved inside, violating her crack and claiming her hot empty hole. She pretended the Count was making her masturbate like this against her will. Oh god, it felt good. She could easily take things all the way, but did she have the nerve to come with the man right next door?
On the other hand, would she be able to stop herself even if she wanted?
Anya had risen to her knees by now in order to unzip her dress and pull it over her head. She was naked underneath. Karin clenched her pussy at the sight. The small, pale body, covered in welts and bruises and scars.
The Count must beat her all the time, Karin thought, rubbing her clit.
Karin had never felt this hot in her life, or this confused, either. How could this scene be so sensual and so stimulating to her? Pain and degradation shouldn't be aphrodisiacs, should they? Karin had always thought herself a normal girl, not some sort of kink queen.
Though perhaps this explained why none of her gentle and ‘normal' dates so far had been able to work her up to the point of no return.
Karin's head swam as she considered what her sex life might look like if she required treatment like Anya's in order to come with a man. Maybe it would be enough to watch while enjoying something tamer herself?
"Fetch your punishment implement," the Count ordered.
Anya, nude except for her black heels, crawled dutifully across the rug. She was gone out of sight for a few moments. When she came back into view she had a bamboo cane between her teeth.
The sight of the pretty girl, almost her own age, on hands and knees with such a terrible device in her mouth was more than Karin could bear. The waves of the orgasm overcame her, like one of those Tsunamis in Asia. She ground her teeth, trying to keep from screaming. Whimpers issued from the back of her throat. She was spasming, her entire body responding to the feelings, the environment, the sheer mental rush.
The juices poured down her thighs. She writhed against her own hand, fighting to stay in one piece.
If Count Creepula should find her like this...
He might punish her, making her lift her skirt or take her clothes off. He might even beat her like he was about to beat poor Anya.
The last of Karin's climaxes was fading away just as Anya reached the feet of her Master. Still mesmerized, Karin watched as Anya lifted her head for him to take the cane. Dramatically, he waved it through the air, testing its mettle.
Next he held it up to her face with his white-gloved hand, giving her a chance to kiss it. Her lips went obediently to the bamboo, pressing, making love to it.
"Up," he ordered, satisfied at her act of obeisance.
She rose to her knees, back straight, breasts thrust out. Her responsiveness was like that of a well-trained dog.
Anya made no attempt to protect herself as he poked her nipple. "Where shall we beat you today?" he asked, as though they were about to embark on a ride in the park.
"My body belongs to Master," she said in a slightly high-pitched voice.
He lifted her chin with the tip of the cane. "Is that the answer I want?"
"N-no, Master." Her eyes were wide with fear.
"Where shall we beat you today?" he repeated.
The frail blonde trembled, her full bosom looking so much more vulnerable on her small frame. "On...on my b—breasts," she stuttered.
"Are you begging me, Anya?"
She nodded. "P—please, Master, beat my breasts?"
The look on Anya's face told Karin that this was the last thing Anya wanted. Karin could only imagine how badly such a thing would hurt.
The Count smiled sadistically. "Your wish is my command, girl. Hold them up for me."
Anya cradled her tits, molding them and lifting them. Karin saw the marks, faded but very much real. This would not be first time. Perhaps this was a ritual, being made to plead for what she hated most?
Karin took the opportunity to taste her masturbating hand. Eagerly, she sucked at the deep, musky liquids, proof of just how horny she'd been—and still was. Anya was aroused, as well. Her legs were spread and Karin could see the wet shininess on her pink lips.
Incredibly, Anya's nipples were erect, despite the pain they were about to receive—or was it because of the pain?
The Count tapped his slave's shoulder. "You will count, Anya."
"Yes, Master."
The cane sliced the air, landing viciously on Anya's left tit. "One," she arched her back, teeth clenched, eyes closed.
A welt rose immediately, just above her delicate areola.
"Two," she moaned as he delivered a savage blow to the right tit.
"Hold them higher," he commanded. "Push up your nipples."
Anya obeyed, setting herself up for even worse torture. Her breasts were like ripe fruit, born to be seized and owned.
She screamed as he lashed out at both nipples at once, a deadly accurate blow sideways against the sensitive pink nubs.
"I'm waiting," he said coldly.
"T—three," she sputtered, realizing her error.
"Too late." The Count struck at her back. Anya doubled over, making a low, groaning noise.
The Count continued to deliver thwacks along her spine until she righted herself, once more proffering her young breasts for abuse.
Tears streamed down her face.
The cane sliced through the air, no mercy, no respite. Anya was the picture of discipline, her face locked in an expression of acquiescence. "Four," she proclaimed, her voice belying the terrible horror.
Karin's hand shook. She could not stop herself from masturbating...again.
Anya took ten hits in all. After this the Count unzipped his pants and fed his small, stiff member between the shivering maid's lips. She opened wide, taking the whole of him, deep to the back of her throat. He pushed hard against her, giving no concern as his trouser covered thighs abraded her lacerated bosom.
Anya sucked like a vacuum cleaner, her hands behind her head in a position of absolute subjugation. He grunted, giving her a full load, which she promptly swallowed.
Fingers still interlaced, in a position of absolute abasement, Anya proceeded to lick him clean, the whole of his cock, up and down and all the way around until the whole shaft was glistening with her saliva. She even did his balls, dabbing her tongue over the surface of each sac, leathery and surprisingly full and vital. Karin wondered if he took some sort of medication or if having a slave was enough of a natural stimulant.
As a final show of appeasement, Anya fell forward onto her cheek, licking the edge of the Count's shoe where it met the carpet. He allowed her a few moments before dismissing her.
"Get up," he ordered. "And get back to work. Next time I won't be so lenient."
"Yes, Master." The whipped Anya leaped to her feet and found her dress. Her face reflected her pain as she pulled it over her punished bosom. Karin regarded the wounded flesh with awe. To think a man had done this to her, for no apparent reason other than because it pleased him. And then he'd made her give him pleasure, ignoring her needs entirely.
Karin felt her heart stop. The Count was coming this way, back through the door. She'd waited too long to make her getaway.
She whipped her hand from between her legs and took off down the hall, straight into her own room. It wasn't until she closed the door that she remembered.
Her sandals.
Would the Count find them on his floor where she'd left them? Would he figure out that she'd seen and heard everything?
Karin stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower in her adjoining bathroom. She needed to clean her body. She needed to wipe away the layers of dark filth she felt clinging to her skin. If only memories could be so easily cleansed...
Memories of herself, on all fours, drooling over the Count and his hapless little Anya, masturbating over the servant girl's misfortune.
Karin stayed under the cascading water until she couldn't stand it anymore. She'd used nearly half a bar of soap in the process, but it wasn't enough. Grabbing a large towel, she wrapped it about her body. She put the other about her hair like a turban.
Maybe I'll paint my nails, she thought. There was a good distraction. She was just picking out a color from her collection when she heard a knock at the door. Crisp and precise.
Her heart skipped a beat.
It was him. She could feel it in her gut.
She held her breath, hoping he'd give up when she didn't answer.
"Karin," he called after another round of insistent rapping. "Open this door at once or else."
Karin didn't dare wait for the ‘or else.' Covered only in the blue towel, she opened for her stepfather.
He was standing expressionless, arm extended, the straps of her sandals dangling meaningfully from his finger.
Her knees buckled. "Oh, wow," she attempted to breeze it off with a laugh. "I've been looking all over for those. I left them on the veranda. Where did you find them? The dog must have dragged them somewhere and—"
"The dog did nothing," he interrupted.
Karin gulped.
"We need to have a discussion, young lady. Privately." He arched a brow, indicating she should back up.
She did so, stumbling over words as she went. "I—I don't know what there is to—to talk about."
The Count closed the door. A part of her wanted to scream and escape, another part wanted to fall on her knees and beg mercy.
"Did you enjoy what you saw, Karin?" he asked smoothly.
She moved into swift denial mode. "I don't know what you mean," she folded her arms over her chest, her nipples swollen against the terrycloth.
His eyes darkened. "Don't play games with me, Karin. You cannot possibly beat me."
But he could beat her, in more ways than one.
She shifted on bare feet. "Please, I don't want any trouble."
"Then answer my questions," he said, his voice carrying a dark edge that reminded her of the snapping cane.
Karin's eyes watered. "I did see you with Anya," she admitted. "And I...I don't know what I thought of it."
"You masturbated." It was not a question.
Karin flushed, staring at her bare toes, pink at present. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
"Speak up," he commanded.
"I'm not your slave," she snapped, feeling a sudden combination of fear and anger.
The Count pursed his lips, amused. "The kitten has claws. Rather like the mother cat."
Karin didn't like the implications. "If I find out that you've ever hurt Marlena," she threatened, feeling a strange, inexplicable need to defend her mother. "You'll be sorry."
The Count's eyes brightened. He was enjoying himself. "Don't worry; I have not caned your mother. Yet. What happens to her in the future, however, is largely up to you."
"Up to me? What do you mean?"
"I mean, sweet Karin, that your cooperation and obedience are crucial to your mother's continued well being."
Karin's mouth dropped open. "You—you're blackmailing me?"
"Such a nasty word," he chided. "I prefer to consider this a chance for you to step forward and ease your mother's burdens."
Ease her burdens...
Suddenly it was making sense. The Count wanted her and he was using her mother to ensure her compliance. Karin wondered how long he'd been planning this. The whole eight months of the marriage, perhaps? What if he'd engineered that little scene today, giving Karin a chance to see he meant business when it came to female punishment?
"I won't have sex with you," said Karin. The fact that she protecting her virginity was something he did not need to know. Even if she wasn't, there was no way she'd let him touch her.
At least not while she was in a calm and unaroused state.
"You'll serve me," he said cryptically. "However I define that service to be."
She shook her head. "You're pushing too far."
The Count stepped forward, slapping her crisply.
Karin held her stinging cheek, in shock.
"You listen to me," he hissed. "You and your lying, cheating whore of a mother are going to be thrown out on the street if you do not obey me to the letter. And forget alimony. You will both be left penniless, thanks to the videos I have taken of her performing sex acts with my chauffer. Furthermore, believe me when I tell you that before I disown her, I will see to it she is severely punished."
Karin felt her body responding to the man's brutal words. She was opening, at a visceral level. Was this what Anya felt in his presence?
"I don't want that to happen to my mother," she said softly. "I'll cooperate."
"Good," he approved. "We'll begin our little meeting again, then, shall we? Answer me; did watching Anya's torture arouse you?"
"I—I think so."
"What do you mean you think so?"
"I got wet," she explained, shame cutting through her like a knife. "I climaxed."
He nodded. "Do you know, little one," he threw her for a total loop, "that your mother is frigid?"
Karin said nothing. This was definitely too much information.
"You hate her?" he looked at Karin closely. "Do you not?"
"We've had issues," Karin admitted.
"And yet you are willing to defile yourself to save her."
Karin had not yet thought of this as defilement. "Tell me what it is you want me to do," she said. "And I'll do it."
She half expected him to order her to remove the towel and kneel at his feet. Or bend over her bed for a sound thrashing. Maybe even a good stiff poke with his antiquarian member, assuming he could rouse it again on such short notice.
Unfortunately, his intent was to make her wait.
"You will come to my room at midnight," he said. "You will wear something provocative."
"All right," she heard her lips pronounce. "Is that all?"
His smile was complicated. Clearly there was more, a lot more. "Yes, Karin, for now."
He bowed, as if somehow that might make her think he was a gentleman.
Why don't you go and suck up to Anya, she wanted to scream, while she cleans your house, in her miserable dress, her breasts welted and bruised, her belly full of your come?
"I trust you will be joining us for dinner?" he wanted to know.
"No," she said curtly. "Thank you."
"At midnight, then," he said, dismissing himself.
Anya waited until he was well out of earshot to collapse on her bed. First came the tears and then, when these were all gone, a strange and silent emptiness. A peace, such as she had not experienced in years.
To her amazement, she fell asleep, in spite of everything hanging over her head. She didn't wake up again until well after eleven. At first she hoped it had all been a dream, but then she saw her sandals on the floor, right where Count Nikolai had dropped them.
The memories came rushing back, and with them the charge of what she must do in the next half hour.
Show up at the Count's door, dressed provocatively. And prepared to obey. How could she follow through with such a thing? Then again, there was no ignoring a man like that. She had no doubt he would carry through on his threats against her mother.
Anyone who was willing to cane a young maid's breasts had no fear of anything. He'd enjoy it, too, whatever punishment he chose for Marlena. Throwing her into the street would get him off, too, no doubt.
Marlena would never survive such a fate. She would beg any kind of abuse or slavery from the man instead. But the Count would not listen.
Basically, Karin had two choices, comply or see her mother destroyed. She could not abide the latter.
Apparently there were deeper things in the world than hate.
It came down to a matter of clothing. What did she have that the Count would find provocative? The safest bet, protection wise, would be the suit of armor in the hall. She'd never get away with that, of course. The Count would expect her nearly nude, her charms well displayed.
All the better for her to be helpless to his predations.
She vowed to be strong, but she knew he could easily make her beg and crawl as he had Anya. Her own body was her worst enemy. How easily she'd imagined herself in the maid's place, holding up her breasts, desperate to please the man with her own agony.
Master, beat me, please, own me...
Karin stood in front of her intimate apparel drawer, her fingers running over the scandalous little garments, lace and silk and cotton. Most of them she'd bought in Europe, while at boarding school. She and her girlfriends had spent hours shopping, passing the idle hours, wasting their parent's money, gossiping about boys.
Francine and Marissa and Gi Gi were all more advanced than her and all three had had sex with multiple partners. To hear them talk you would think it was all about manipulating the opposite sex, tricking them into doing everything for you while giving out as little in return as possible.
Karin pretended to find this all very droll, though secretly she would imagine all those abused young men coming to her, demanding that she make good on her endless cock teasing.
In her fantasies they took her on in groups of three and four, putting her through paces. The arousal factor was always greater when she pretended she was being made to do it. Up until today, however, she had never had never imagined negative consequences to her defiance.
From now on she would spread and suck in her dreams knowing the cane awaited her if she did not. Karin shivered, thinking of how much power her imaginary lovers now wielded over her.
Masturbation would be damn good for some time to come.
But what about reality?
She pulled out various items, remembering where she'd bought them. A red silk teddy from Paris, a blue corset and panties from London, a yellow camisole, fine as gossamer from Madrid. All wear gorgeous but not one had ever been worn for a boyfriend. How sad.
In the end, she opted for the camisole. It fell deliciously over her torso. Swollen nipples tented the material, darkening it. Eschewing panties, she put on a robe of white silk that hung just below her thighs. It had a belt, which she pulled tight, thereby concealing as much of herself as she could.
Karin had no idea what she would say if she was discovered in the hallway by one of the servants. Lost on her way to the kitchen, maybe? Anya at least would understand, though she was loath to let the young woman know that she, too, had become the Count's sexual prisoner.
If in fact that's what Karin was.
At least she didn't have to worry about her mother. No doubt the Count had considered this as well in choosing the time. If there was one predictable thing in Marlena's life over the years it was her vodka habits. Up by noon, drunk by one, passed out by ten.
Should she wear heels or stockings? A garter, maybe?
Karin flushed, feeling like a whore for giving this much thought to how she looked for a man like the Count. But she wasn't any better than a whore was she? He was going to do what he wanted with her body and she was going to let him. No caring, no feeling.
She prayed she wouldn't feel anything along the way. Pain was one thing, but enjoyment, that was a lot more dangerous.
One thing was certain, when this night was over Karin was getting the hell out of here, as far away as her credit card would let her.
The hall was dark. Grateful for the anonymity, Karin tiptoed down the hall, past the armor, past the portraits of various Creepulas down the ages, striking dour poses in front of landscape from their home country, some place unpronounceable she'd dubbed Creepula Land.
She was about to tap on the Count's door when it flung open.
Karin's fist froze in midair as she saw who it was.
Nor Creepula but Marlena, looking more furious and witch-like than Karin had ever seen her.
"Caught you, you little bitch!" she snarled.
Before Karin could respond, Marlena grabbed her by the hair, long fingers twisting in her black, silky mane. "Come to fuck my husband, have you? Not enough to keep you busy at school, you slut?"
She yanked by the roots, bringing tears to Karin's eyes. "You're hurting me," Karin cried.
"I'll do more than hurt you," she dragged Karin into the bedroom. "I'll skin you alive."
The Count was standing there by the bed, arms crossed, wearing pajamas and a matching gray robe. "I am sorry it's come to this, Marlena," he feigned dismay. "I had hoped that your daughter's earlier self invitation was a mere jest."
Self invitation? What was he talking about?
Marlena tightened her grip. "Don't act all innocent, speak up. Did you think Nikolai wouldn't come to me? Did you think he would actually take you up on your offer?"
"Mother," she protested. "I—I don't understand."
"Please, Karin," the Count furrowed his brow. "Do not make this more difficult. "We both know that you came to me today, soliciting a sexual act. You told me you would come at midnight. I did not refuse at the time because I needed for your mother to see if you would follow through and obviously you have."
"Mother, don't believe him, he's lying!"
"I'll show you lies, you little tramp, just look at you," Marlena growled, more sober than Karin had seen her in months. Showing surprising strength, she knocked Karin's protective hand out of the way and pulled open the robe to reveal the camisole.
The Count scowled. "Despicable. Marlena, please take her and dress her decently."
"No, you should see her as she really is," Marlena insisted.
Karin whimpered as her mother ripped the light fabric, baring her breasts. "Show him, show your stepfather what you wanted to give him."
"That is enough, Marlena. Remove her," the Count insisted.
Marlena marched Karin down the hall, completely exposed. "I will see that he throws you out of here," she said. "Mark my words."
If only she knew, thought Karin. Everything Karen had done was to protect her mother. Could she tell her the truth? Would she believe?
Not now, it was too late.
"You don't know anything, Mother," Karin proclaimed.
"Don't talk to me, ever again." Marlena shoved her into her room. "You will stay in there, until someone comes for you."
Someone did come. It was about an hour later and Karin was in bed, nude with the lights off. The tears staining her pillow.
"You will be leaving the country," the Count said, closing the door behind him. "I have arranged for you to take a job in my homeland. You cannot refuse. If you do I will let your mother exile you from this home. Then I will make her my maid, in place of Anya."
That would be an ironic turn for the proud, fussy Marlena. Forced into stark black dresses, forced to clean day and night, not to mention a whole list of other things far more intimate.
"What kind of job?" Karin asked.
The Count turned on the light and sat on the edge of the bed. "Lie on your back," he ordered.
Karin rolled over from her side, too weak to resist, too confused.
"Place your hands above your head, wrists crossed."
She did so, allowing him to tug the sheet down to her waist. He watched her breasts rise and fall, but he did not touch her. She was full of need, electric and sharp, both revolted and terribly horny.
"Are you going to take me?" she whispered, unable to stand the tension.
"No," he pulled a latex glove from the pocket of his robe. "I am going to examine you. I must confirm something."
The glove was smooth on her skin, slick and clinical. "Open," he ordered, sliding his fingers over her thigh.
Karin parted her legs. Her breathing was heavy. She looked away, feeling so helpless, her hands indisposed, no clothing to protect her…and no rights, thanks to this man's lies.
She was humiliated that he was going to find her wet. Drenched, in fact. What kind of woman would be turned on in a situation like this?
The Count's exploration was strictly scientific. He did not regard her anymore than would a physician. This only embarrassed her more. I'm a slut, she thought. This isn't supposed to be sexual. I'm getting off on it like some kind of animal.
He nearly made her come.
"It is confirmed," he announced at the conclusion, having felt the thin membrane. "You are a virgin."
She looked at his crotch, almost wishing for some sign of arousal. All her life she'd dreamed of something special to mark her entry into womanhood and now she just wanted to be degraded, used.
"Have you submitted to anal sex yet?" he wanted to know.
"No," she burned crimson.
"Have you taken a man in your mouth?"
The blood pounded in her ears. "Once," she said.
She'd been drunk at a party at a boy's school near her own. Her date had dragged her into the bathroom and pushed her down onto her knees. It had lasted all of thirty seconds. She'd spit out the semen into the toilet prompting the young man to laugh. He passed out a little while later and Karin went to masturbate. Over and over she heard his voice, the ridicule in his eyes, the way he was getting off on the power.
She never spoke of this to anyone, not even her girlfriends.
"Did you swallow the man's issue?"
Issue...such a strange word for a man's come.
"N-no," she answered, feeling her action was somehow a crime.
The Count nodded, removing his glove, pulling it inside out so as to keep his fingers dry of her glistening sex juice.
"Please," she asked in a small voice. "Tell me what the job is?"
He dropped the glove into the wastebasket by her nightstand. "You may close your legs," he told her.
Karin did so, hotly aware that the man was controlling her body.
"The position will be as a minor functionary," he said mysteriously. "On the household staff of His Highness Prince Ludovico of Vladislavia."
He'd lost her at functionary. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."
The Count pulled the sheet back over her breasts. She shuddered slightly as the Egyptian cotton rubbed over her burning nipples. "You will in time. You will be at the prince's castle; you will do as you're told. Tomorrow morning you will pack one suitcase only and then you will be taken to the airport. The flight will take you directly to Vladislavia. You will be met at the airport by the appropriate persons."
"Yes," she said, feeling as though she ought to say something.
"Good night," the Count rose from the bed.
"Good night," she repeated as he turned off the light.
Was that goodbye? she wondered. If so it was not so unpleasant as what she'd heard from her own mother.
Karin turned back to her side. Taking one of her pillows, she thrust it between her legs like a dominant and intrusive lover.
It was going to be a long night and sleepless.
End of Chapter One
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