The Fall of the House of Usher, page 2
The groin at my face smelt of sweat and sweet juices, and the flesh tasted salty and meaty. Once my throat had opened to incorporate this long pole, the cock began thrusting in and out, the full length. Instinctively my lips closed around him, as the lips below the table had closed about my own member.
No sooner had we three fallen into a delicious rhythm than a terrible pain erupted across my behind as what could only have been the wide cricket bat made a direct hit. My hips jumped into the air and my behind tensed, but far too late to avoid anything. The cock in my mouth thrust hard, the lips at my own cock pulled at me. My balls were crushed in a strong hand.
I had hardly recovered from that blow when another came. Pain streaked across my poor behind. The hard bat only paused the time it took to swing it, then struck again.
Had my mouth not been full, my cries would have reached the grounds above. The bat swung mercilessly, the hand that held it was steady. Hard wood whacked the plumped flesh of my ass so ruthlessly that I soon felt the skin had been set on fire.
Tears streamed from my eyes. The rod in my mouth swelled, as did my own. My ass shrieked in pain. The paddling continued unabated until I thought I might go mad from such pain. All that kept me sane was the mouth around me, and what my own mouth surrounded, which tasted delicious.
Despite an agony I had not known existed before this moment, I had never been so sexually aroused. I struggled desperately to hold on, as my cock wanted to spew a second round, but I could not.
Spew he did. The thick juice pumped out of me in time with the paddle, bringing me so much joy and bliss mixed with the pain that I could hardly tolerate the sensations.
Suddenly it all stopped. The cock was withdrawn from my mouth without my tasting a drop of this man, the lips surrounding my tired dripping phallus left him alone, and the cricket bat ceased its work. I was left with a feeling of emptiness and a throbbing bottom.
“You’re a sorry being,” Roderick said. “Well, perhaps you’ve at least learn one thing. Your name again.”
I gasped out, “Jeremy Edward Compton the third.”
“Jeremy Edward Compton the third, what?”
“I...I don’t follow,” I gasped. Truly that bat had done a job on me. The sharp pain of contact had been replaced with a terrible aching and I could hardly catch my breath.
“Tom, James! Positions.”
Again, movement. My deflated member was sucked between a different set of warm lips, these thinner and firmer. A cry escaped me. In that moment my head was jerked back by the hair again, and a new cock stuffed deep into my mouth. This one was far heavier than the first, thicker, and the taste more tart. The mouth at my member lubricated me anew and much to my amazement, my aching balls began to revive and my penis returned to life.
Once a rhythm was established, the bat struck again. The first whack was worse than those that came before, both because it was harder and also because it landed on tenderer flesh. I did not know how I could stand further paddling, but then, I had no choice. The knowledge of my helplessness, oddly enough, excited me further.
We resumed as before, the thrusting into me, sucking and licking around me, the beating of my ass by a strong arm intent on inflicting as much pain as possible with each blow.
I cannot fully separate all the sensations riding my body. One moment I felt a wonderfully pleasant sensation, the next an agony that left me despairing of any further joy. These reactions in me alternated, riding this way and that across the rising desire that dwelled between them. I only know that my cock received each stroke of those lips, and my own lips enjoyed that delicious man flesh entering me so forcefully and, much to my consternation, my behind seemed to be lifting for the next painful blow, as if the pain were pleasurable.
We reached a stage where my juices demanded release. I struggled in vein. They shot from me hard and fast.
Again, all ceased.
The cock and lips withdrew. My ass, poised so high, was aflame. I sobbed uncontrollably and tears coursed down my cheeks, of release, of fulfillment, of agony.
“Your name!” The voice of the leader was harsher this time, and I felt I’d dare not fail him. And yet I was terrified that I would, for I did not know what he wanted.
“If you’ll just tell me...” I began.
Whack! The cricket bat bit into my sore flesh and I howled.
“Your name! Don’t make me repeat myself, or you’ll learn the price of repetition.”
I could do nothing but sob. I’d failed him. I knew I would fail him again. “Jeremy Edward Compton the third!” It came as a scream, a plea for help. My addled mind was as blank as my balls were empty of fluid.
The silence that greeted me was deafening.
“Jeremy Edward Compton the third, what?” His voice was almost too low, too controlled. I began to tremble in fear. In that instant I knew that he would keep me here for hours, paddling my ass until my poor cheeks were black and blue, having my cock drained over and over again, having cocks enter but never feed me.
“Answer!”
I’d been pressed into a corner. I groaned in agony. I longed to respond properly but could not. My very words would condemn me. And yet, when I looked into my deepest heart of hearts, I knew that I longed for those lips and cocks and yes, damn it, even the paddle.
Acknowledging that to myself liberated me and suddenly I knew what was required.
“Jeremy Edward Compton the third, Master!” I shouted.
A roar of approval went up through the room that nearly deafened me.
When it subsided, Roderick said, “And your Master finds you a slow learner, Jeremy.”
I felt something touch each of my burning ass cheeks and I jolted. My bottom was too wounded to be able to decipher just what these objects were, although I later realized they must be fingers. Something hard zeroed in on my anus and tapped at the opening. My mind reeled at the possibilities even as I began to feel titilated and horrified.
Without fanfare, a cock thicker and harder than any I’d imagined, entered me. I cried out as it pierced my virgin hole, “Sir, I am far too small to bear such fleshy admittance!” But too small or not, the cock that entered me continued on inside, shoving my rectal walls apart viciously. It barreled in accompanied by my screams until I felt ripped asunder, and then it came to a stop.
Flesh pressed against my hot ass cheeks, irritating them, and I knew in an instant that it was Roderick’s groin, and his cock which impaled me utterly. Roderick. My Master! Hands clutched my hips and held tight.
“My name?” he said.
“Master!” I cried, the word forming readily on my lips as though I’d said it all my life.
With that he withdrew his fleshy sword, which caused me an unexpected grief, and I cried out again.
“Jeremy, you are indeed slow, and famished for proper attention, yet perhaps we can sharpen your natural abilities. You will join me and the others here nightly, just after sunset, an hour before final bells. I detest tardiness, therefore you will be on time.”
That order led to a full year of nightly fuckings, penis after penis possessing my rectum, cock after cock filling my mouth. My ass was constantly welted and it is a wonder I was able to concentrate enough to study at all. And yet I willingly submitted myself night after night, to a Master whose face I never saw.
That first time, they untied my wrists, and the group left the room one by one.
I was stiff, stunned really, and could not readily move, but stayed bent over the table, my trousers around my ankles, my cock beneath me throbbing, my ass pulsing with divine heat.
“Jeremy.” It was Roderick’s voice and I turned my head to look at him. He stood in the doorway tall, stately, a dominating air about him that I found very seductive. Once again, his face was shrouded, but for the first time I could see him from the neck down. The stance of the man alone sent shivers of excitement through me, and I had an almost overwhelming desire to taste his cock again, in either of my orifices, in both of them. “Yes, Master?”
“Do not wear those ridiculous undergarments again!”
Chapter Three
The great gates open and our carriage pulls through as if the horses are about to give up the struggle. We rock and sway, buffeted by great winds all along the path to the house. Because of the deluge and a blackened sky, I cannot clearly see the manse itself. When lightning streaks the sky, what is illuminated is a dark structure, very Gothic in design, and I feel a foreboding I cannot fully comprehend.
Finally, and not a moment too soon, we arrive. The carriage lurches to a stop at the great doors.
Jeremy jumps out first and I see him tossed about as the hail stones and great winds nearly wash him away. He manages to keep his footing.
“Come on!” he yells at me. I half stand, not at all eager for his help. Better the coachman than my imbecile traveling companion.
I try to indicate I neither need nor want help, at least from him, by waiving him on into the house, but he reaches into the coach, grasps me about the waist and yanks me out roughly, then places me on the ground.
Immediately I am drenched in the chilly downpour, for the hail is accompanied by rain. We both dash up the steps for the portico, which barely shields us from the precipitation, such is the strength of the wind.
The immense oak doors are opened by a dour woman, rather painfully slim and plain-looking, with a decided downturn to her lips. I enter quickly, with Jeremy close on my heels. The driver of the carriage brings our valises in while we remove our soaked outerwear.
The maid, for that’s who I assume her to be, takes our wet things in silence and carried them out of the hallway lit by dozens of candelabra. Now that I’ve a moment to compose myself, I shake the water from my hair and skirts as I examine my environment.
The hallway is enormous, with vaulted ceiling and walnut wainscoting. A suit of polished German armor stands sentry between a staircase leading to the second floor, and a door leading below. I sense this family’s history is long. As to whether or not it is illustrious, I have my doubts. The walls are cluttered with gigantic canvases of what are no doubt Usher ancestors in various states of repose. These contrast sharply with normal portraits of upright human beings, but the Usher’s, it appears, were a tired lot who preferred reclining.
We are led unceremoniously by the cheerless, drably costumed maid into a drawing room of sorts, lit only by the fire glowing in the marble hearth. Both Jeremy and I stop just inside the door, transfixed by a figure in a grey silk dressing gown by the window, a man, rather tall and slender, his back to us. He is mostly in shadow, staring out the bay window at the storm, as still as a statue, yet I have the sense of someone older than I, perhaps close to forty.
The maid retires at once, closing the door behind her.
“You are late. I do not tolerate tardiness,” the man by the window says in a voice laced with harshness. Alternately shivers of fear and expectation crawl up my spine.
“Late?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“Master Usher,” Jeremy begins, in a most obsequious tone, “please forgive...”
“Not only I,” the man in shadow says, “but my sister, whom you will regret angering.”
“Sir,” I add, “the mode of transport was by coach, not by rail. One cannot predict arrivals and departures with much accuracy, even were we in the best parts of this country.”
The figure turns slowly and, despite the shadows in which he stands, I behold the hint of a profile, so classically handsome my breath catches in my throat. Instantly he is obscured again, although I recall his hair was silver and his brow black, his cheek and jaw sculpted and firm. Instantly I recognize the similarity in physique to those of the ancestors I’d just seen lining the walls. If anything, he resembles an angel of purgatory, neither of the light nor the dark, and I am at once aware of feeling nearly overwhelmed by his presence.
Although I cannot see his eyes, I feel them fix on me in a most penetrating manner. It is as though he has the ability to see past my clothing to my naked body and my womanly parts. My nipples tingle, and I feel heat rise from my neck and know I am blushing uncontrollably. Embarrassed, I look away.
“Master, I...” Jeremy begins to move across the room.
“A tongue quick as a cat of the nine-tailed variety.”
Both Jeremy and I spin around. A woman stands behind us, in the doorway. She opened the door, apparently unnoticed by either of us.
She is tall, her hair caught at the back of her neck prematurely silver in the same manner as the man’s, and her jaw is just as firm. She possesses the identical slimness and alabaster coloring, or as much as I can see through the several layers of thick grey veil she wears over her face. Her body is not that of a girl, but of a woman, and I judge her to be of similar age to the man. I wonder if they are related. I hope they aren’t married, I think, and feel embarrassed that I should care.
The fire light picks up a steely glint from her eyes, a gaze as cooly penetrating as what I felt from the man. Although I can barely make them out, her lips appear to be thin and sharp, although well defined. Some might say erotic. Her bodily beauty is that of an athletic woman, one accustomed to functioning on equal footing in a man’s world. Indeed, she wears gophers, a matching jacket, a riding hat with the long grey veil, and carries a riding crop in her hand, although she could not have been riding in this storm.
At once I feel a mixture of emotions foreign to me. I both admire her and feel intimidated. I also feel wanting in my appearance, for water still drips from my hair, and my boots are soggy. This makes me a tad insecure and perhaps short.
“I should like to know who is addressing me,” I declare.
“You are Charlotte O’Hara,” she says in her crisp, firm voice, more a statement than a question, ignoring my question.
“Yes, I am.”
“You are English. On your father’s side only. Your mother was Irish, a small woman with a full bosom, like your own, who developed an equally sharp tongue to compensate for her stature. You are from the country where such coarseness is indulged and thought to be a blessing.”
“What, have you investigated me?” Indeed, this all seems highly inappropriate. I wrote her, of course, but not of this.
“Your silly ways, yes. And your inability to please, which is why you are here, is it not?”
“I expected a warmer greeting from such a renowned mistress of a sophisticated realm, perhaps even a cup of tea, not an interrogation. But then, we country folk are simple in our needs and are accustomed to offering a proper greeting.”
Before I am aware of her movement, she has grasped me by the upper arm. In three strides she hauls me to the fireplace, whereupon she slams her booted foot securely onto the metal guard and throws me forward over her thigh until I am bent in half and on tiptoes. My face is dangerously close to the hearth. Flames snap as though they wish to lick my cheeks. All this is done so quick I do not realize what is transpiring until I find myself lying across that leg in a compromised position, struggling for balance.
“Lift your skirts at the back, Charlotte. You are about to receive a warm greeting.”
“I shall do no such thing!” I shout. Rather, I try to lift myself into an erect posture, but she presses me down with a strong hand.
Suddenly I feel my skirts being hiked up and tossed over my head. I struggle to return them to their proper position, but cannot get them past that iron hand of hers which now presses the fabric to the back of my neck. I am helpless like this, blinded by a cocoon of fabric, my undergarments exposed to prying male eyes, my dignity assaulted. Being off-balance leaves me not many alternatives.
“What are you doing?” I shout, feeling my bloomers ripped from my bottom downward in one motion. I am mortified. My bare cheeks are exposed to the eyes of both the insipid Jeremy and the peculiarly handsome Usher man.
“While under my tutelage, you shall dull your tongue, Charlotte, or find your bottom in a constant state of emergency.”
With that I feel a terrible stinging cross my bare backside and scream. For seconds I am paralyzed as a dreadful line of pain blazes across my buttocks. Another hard stripe is laid along my flesh and again I cry out, “Stop!”. Blow follows blow to my bottom cheeks in quick succession until she has placed what must be a baker’s dozen across my derriere, all in different spots, without overlap.
Pains wells up from by bottom. I struggle to hold back the tears, but I cannot. Large hot drops of shame burn their way down the cheeks of my face, which are so near other flames. Whether the pain of the crop or the humiliation of being whipped by this domineering woman before these two men is greater, I cannot say. I only know that I have never felt so debased.
Oddly, though, as I lay there vulnerable, I sense a stirring of other feelings in my loins, ones entirely new to me. I am appalled when I notice that they are pleasurable and I refuse to acknowledge them.
She lifts her hand and says, “Stand, and hold your skirts up behind.”
I pause only a moment, but she responds to that hesitation with a smart whack of the crop across my bottom. “You will obey me, Miss, or I shall whip your bottom till all you are capable of is standing!”
Terrified of disobeying her, and of the further punishment she threatens, I gather the rear of my skirts around my waist and stand up. My bottom is aflame and I am keenly aware of that part of me feeling twice its normal size, and so exposed. Now another unexpected feeling surfaces. Pride. The mistress of the House of Usher has whipped me, humiliated me, and yet I feel honored in some strange manner, as if this attention were high praise. I can make no sense of such feelings and am completely embarrassed.
“Turn,” she orders.
The tears that long ago sprang from my eyes still coat my face. I do not know which is worse, letting these men see my seared buttocks or my tears. I cannot lift my eyes to meet theirs and find out.
“Her first tears,” I hear the man in the shadows say, his tone cynical.
“Delightful,” the mistress of the house confirms, in an equally sarcastic tone. She lifts a finger and catches one of my tears, which she drinks as if it were ambrosia. She is close but has turned so that I can only catch the side of her face in the luminescence of the fire, through the thick netting of the veil. I watch the corner of her eye close, the dark lashes falling against her perfect pale cheeks. Her eye snaps open suddenly! The pupil has floated to the outer corner; her eye, grey as death, stares directly into mine.
