This Insatiable Disease of the Blood. Category: Long and satisfying.
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Happy Halloween!
This is a companion piece to a longer short story, ‘The Chatelaine’, which I’m thrilled to tell you is now live as a guest post, published by the undisputed Queen of sex blogging: Girl On The Net. My intention was that ‘The Chatelaine’ should be read first, since there are a few spoilers in this for that story. You may read this first, if you please, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!
This is a Halloween story, so as you might expect, there are some creepy elements. This, and ‘The Chatelaine’, contain themes of blood, being devoured, violence and, in this story, extreme whipping.
In the words of my hero of horror writing, Garth Marenghi: ‘Enjoy. Well, I SAY enjoy…’
Approximately a 15-minute read.
One.
These last few weeks – a tiny blip in time to me – have found me increasingly in a reflective state of mind. I have not previously been much inclined to record my thoughts and memories, but now, the turning of the season and the approaching winter weigh upon me, and the impulse is to commit these reflections to paper.
My thoughts have increasingly returned to my youth —that is, my actual youth, not this simulacrum, which is really just a drawing out. I came from a family of wealth in Hungary. My family desired that I should be eligible to men of standing, and I was dispatched to Castle Cachtice, and into the safekeeping of the Countess Bathory, a recently widowed noblewoman, for the refinement of my manners and comportment. After an agreeable exchange of letters between the countess and my parents, the matter was settled, and I was to travel to Transylvania to begin my studies without delay.
The castle was as grand as I had been led to believe, and I found that I was one of a group of four ladies in the temporary wardship of the countess. We quickly became aware that there was a preponderance of female staff in the castle, as well as the comings and goings of many peasant girls from the surrounding villages, mostly young and attractive.
I became aware of certain rumours.
Two.
It was said – not openly, but in hushed whispers in shadow, in secret – that the countess had unusual tastes, ungodly tastes. When he was alive, her husband was often away and entrusted the running of his estate to his wife. Both were keen on maintaining the proper discipline of staff, and the discipline of younger female staff was the responsibility of the countess. The rumour which stuck was that the countess bathed in the blood of young women, believing it to be the elixir of youth. I did not witness any such event myself, but it was repeated to me often enough that I came to believe it must be true.
I had been at the castle for a week before the first event that convinced me that this was not going to be the sort of ‘finishing’ experience that my parents had intended for me.
My three other students and I had been summoned to the countess’s private drawing room late one afternoon. We were promised that our lesson today would whet our appetite for our evening meal and other things.
Three.
Arriving at the room, we found that only the countess was present. The room was warm, with a lively fire going in the grate and candles otherwise casting a warm glow. Set in the middle of the room was a set of stocks, low enough that one must kneel to present one’s head and hands at the appropriate level.
Our instructions were given quickly and precisely: we were to take turns in the stocks. Our skirts would be hoisted to our hips, and the other girls would take turns warming our derriere with a rod. Meanwhile, the countess positioned herself on a chair on the other side of the stocks, naked to the waist. She reclined, with her feet at the top of the stocks and her cunt pushed forward so that the girl in the stocks at that time would be able to pleasure her whilst she was being whipped. We were assured that if the girl in the stocks was distracted from her task, then the countess herself would take over the flogging and would not spare the unfortunate girl. The lesson, the countess declaimed, was in self-control and maintaining one’s focus even under severe testing.
We were dismayed and shocked at this, but the countess, seeing our reaction, chided us. Did we not appreciate that our initiation into games of this sort was a great favour and an honour bestowed only upon her most able students? And so, what were we to do?
Four.
The countess, having arranged herself, selected the order that she required and the first girl, voluptuous with a fine, rounded ass, was locked into position. She positioned her lips at the countess’s sex and set about her task with enthusiasm; the countess was clearly pleased with her efforts. At her bidding, we took turns with the rod which had been provided to us. The girl gasped and groaned as the stick fell, and soon her quivering rump was covered in livid red lines.
The countess decreed that we should change positions. The next girl positioned her head between the countess’s legs and was locked into position. The same performance was played out again. The first girl, her face flushed, was quite heavy-handed with the crop and seemed to greatly enjoy the expressions of pain coming from the victim as the implement of pain fell onto the upturned buttocks.
This girl, I remember, was blessed with luxuriant dark hair upon her head, tumbling in curly locks over her shoulders. She withstood the punishment well, and we could discern by the expressions of pleasure from the countess that she had maintained attention to her task; her pretty young face avidly lapping away at the noblewoman’s cunt and smeared with the countess’s spendings as our mistress climaxed, cursing god with the most shocking blasphemies.
I was ashamed to note my own arousal, watching this scene; there was an ache deep inside my cunt, which I longed to relieve.
The first two girls had come from the stocks in a state of arousal, and this added vigour when their hand was upon the crop. The third girl was called forward. I would be last and, it seemed, would suffer the most vigorous thrashing of all. I withheld my arm when it was my turn with the rod, making the strikes as light as I could without the countess noticing, in the hope that this would reduce my own ordeal.
It was a mistake to presume upon the clemency of the others.
Five.
By the time it was my turn in the stocks, the countess was red in the face and exceedingly wet between her legs. She grabbed the back of my head and yanked it painfully forward, simultaneously thrusting her loins at me. Her cunt was mashed against my mouth, and wishing only for this test to be over, I set about my task with determination. At the countess’ bidding, the rod began to fall upon my ass. All three of my tormentors were in a state of high arousal and seemed oblivious to the vigour with which they were bringing the rod down. The stings were almost unbearable, and I could not help but cry out as the blows rained down.
The countess slapped my face. ‘Useless whore! Do not neglect your duties, or you shall find out how an expert wields the rod!’ I returned to my task, but my treacherous fellow students had settled between themselves that they would do all in their power to cause the countess to take up the crop. Their plan worked. The pain of the stokes became such that I could not keep my mind on the job in hand. Although I didn’t want to admit it to myself, my cunt was almost as wet as the countess’s. The burning of my upturned ass was matched by the burning deep inside me.
Another slap to the face. Hard. The countess was up now and moving to the other side of the stocks.
‘Give me that! The rest of you have done tolerably well, but this little slut is too much concerned with her own pleasure to service her mistress properly. She must learn.’
Six.
A flurry of blows fell upon me. I thought I would lose consciousness, so painful was the thrashing. The cheeks of my rear were burning and the warmth spread throughout me. Beads of sweat began to trickle from my brow. My clitoris was on fire, and every blow to my ass caused a jolt to it. I longed to reach it with my hand, but of course, I could not move. Just when I thought that consciousness might finally slip away, the terrible thrashing stopped. The countess had other ideas for me.
‘Frig the whore. Give her what she clearly desires more than her mistress’s pleasure.’
I felt fingers on me then, in me, I don’t know how many – there were several hands, roughly handling my traumatised flesh, making me both wince in agony and gasp with pleasure.
They slipped one at a time, inside me. I was drenched with my juices, so this eased the task, but still, my cunt was stretched out, and unaccustomed to being penetrated; there was again a combination of pain and ecstasy. Fingers, wriggling wet and slick with my cunny juices slipping, thrusting into me, the juices flowing; my cunt squelched obscenely as it was reamed. Another finger now, coated in my juices, being forced into my ass, I gasped and cried out, having never before been abused in this way, yet the pain was exquisite and, shocked at myself, I found myself thrusting my hips backwards, as best I could, impaling myself onto three, four, five – I knew not how many – fingers.
Unable to find sufficient space amidst the tangle of arms and hands busied at my rear, one of the girls, I could not tell whom, came to the side and began to pull and squeeze at my breasts, kneading them painfully and pinching hard at my nipples, causing me to cry out in pain and desire.
‘Look how she writhes in pleasure!’ cried the countess. ‘Did I not tell you what a selfish, depraved whore she is?’
Seven.
She came back around to the front of the stocks, wrapped a fistful of my hair in her hand and yanked my neck back agonisingly. I choked and spluttered as she spat into my face, then smeared her saliva all over, wiping with her hand as though she were so disgusted by my countenance that she wished to erase it.
Two of her fingers, then, were forced into my mouth and to the back of my throat. I retched and spluttered, the drool dribbling down my chin, mimicking what was happening at the other end of me, which was still being mercilessly impaled on however many fingers. I was trembling uncontrollably, and tears pricked my eyes even as I became aware of the first tremors of the shockwave building between my hips.
‘Yes! Cry, whore!’ She spat into my face. ‘Weep for your worthless life and your damned soul; lost now in filth and degradation!’
I cried aloud as the waves of pleasure began to radiate out. They were so powerful that I was scared for myself; I had never experienced this before. My own gentle explorations in my bed at home, quietly at night, were as nothing in comparison.
Fingers everywhere, jammed into me; thrusting inwards, wriggling, stretching, impaling me. Two now in my ass, thrusting mercilessly. How many in my cunt? The sound of sodden squelching – obscene noises as my fluids were pumped from me. My tormentors laughed with glee at the perverse gurgling coming from both ends of my helpless frame. The fingers in my mouth, making me choke and retch. Oh Christ, oh god, oh Mary and all the saints save me.
Eight.
The paroxysms of my orgasm – the spasms, the cries for mercy and beastlike guttural moans- must have made those abusing me think a demon had inhabited me, so intense were the sensations and my reaction to them. I was drenched in my own fluids. My face was covered in spittle and, from the sensation, my legs with the copious spendings which had flooded from me at my moment of crisis. I continued to jerk and twitch as the fingers were withdrawn, sucking, slithering sounds accompanying the retreat.
The countess crouched before me, holding my lolling head up with a hand firmly gripping my drool-covered chin. In the other, I saw she had the crop and, holding it to her mouth, she drew it across her tongue, as if she were savouring the sweetest treat. I thought I might have seen blood upon her tongue. She leaned in and kissed me full on the mouth, and I tasted the metallic tang. Her teeth pressed sharply against my lips.
So sharp. I would feel them again several nights later, in the middle of the night, when she visited me in my chamber. My life would change from that point onwards. Irrevocably.
Nine.
Several months went by, and although we did receive some instruction in ladylike manners, that was not the real reason the countess had taken us in. We became toys for her lust. She seldom touched us herself but liked to watch us with each other. She enjoyed setting us up like a director would his players and would narrate the scenes which we were to play out for her, while she sat, gown open and frigged herself or had one of us lick her to climax.
Her favourite tableau was to have us all naked but for necklaces and rings; her own jewels and adornments lent to us for these spectacles, and instruct what we were to do to each other until, invariably, we were all together, fingers and tongues in each other, sweating in our endeavours to bring each other off and licking up the spendings from fingers and cunts.
We, all four of us, were thoroughly defiled by our mistress and, most shocking of all, we came to long for her ‘lessons’ in these wicked practices.
On one occasion, a clumsy arm struck me about the face when we were arranging ourselves on the rug before the countess’s chair. Wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, I found that I was bleeding from the nose. The countess was down on the rug in a moment. Taking my face in both her hands, she licked at me, her hot tongue snaking across my lips, my chin and drinking the scarlet as it trickled from my nose. When she pulled back from me, I saw my own blood smeared across her cheeks. Her eyes were glowing embers, and she gazed into mine with a look of lust-filled debasement. I cannot explain it, but I felt my cunt throb again, and I longed for her to eat me up. It was the following night that I received the visit to my bed-chamber.
Ten.
I have wondered whether, if I had not spent those months at Castle Cachtice, I would have come to have normal tastes, married a suitable gentleman, and lived ever after in happy satisfaction. I think not, though. Apart from this insatiable disease of the blood, which she bequeathed me, I recognise that my taste for the softness of women’s flesh was there all along. It’s my nature, and it would be futile to deny it.
The student I earlier described, with long, curly, raven-black hair, became my lover, although the countess would have flogged us had she discovered our secret. We sneaked into each other’s chambers and spent our nights fucking – practising the perversions we had been taught and exploring more tender ones of our own. It was inevitable that it would come to an end; it had to.
King Matthias II demanded an investigation into the rumours of murder, depravity and blasphemy which by this time had reached his ear. I had been at the castle for half a year by this time and, fearing implication in the countess’s crimes – it was said that many hundreds of girls had perished over the years to supply her with the blood which she craved – I fled. I heard that the countess was spared death, being of noble blood, but others implicated in her crimes were not so fortunate.
I could not return home, in disgrace, so I took the money pressed on me by the countess before she was arrested and fled as far as I could go. I spoke fluent French, as did all persons of noble position, and so France was the natural direction of my flight, eventually bringing me to the quiet of Provence. I would remain here a few years until the furore died down, then perhaps head to Paris. It was the end of the eighteenth century before I decided to act on that original plan. Still, my enquiries led me to understand that Paris had become a hotbed of dissent: a person of noble birth, even one who kept herself to the shadows, could not be assured of their safety, and I reconciled myself to my fate here.
Eleven.
I shall continue this account tomorrow. We have a guest, a young woman from one of the local villages, seeking an interview. Men are easier. I cannot relate to them, but women, especially ones still in the bloom of youth, remind me too much of myself. They remind me of what I have lost and what I can never regain: their blood, sweet with the vitality of life that only satisfies for so long before I am ravenous again.
I see condescension in the eyes of men. Even local peasants have an air about them, wondering where the man of the house is. I don’t think twice about tearing their throats out and watching their final, gurgling moments; their cock twitching inside me even as their heart beats for the final time.
A girl is different. I want to save them from my fate. Save them from becoming one of the cobweb-covered shadows, left to fade into darkness. I see them as myself, as I was 300 years ago. The notion of satisfying one’s lusts for eternity, never growing old, is appealing at first. Still, the reality, which takes centuries to reveal itself, is that this is a half-life, robbed of the very vitality and colour which made one love life at first. The decrepitude of my home reflects my own crumbling condition: beautiful without, a decaying, mouldering tomb within.
I wonder if this girl will bring some colour and vibrancy to the shadows, if only for a little time. I’m told that she is sleeping in the study. I will go and observe her and, stepping inside her dreams, perhaps I will find what I seek without blood this time?
I remember that time when, so ravenous for blood and with nothing else to slake the thirst, I took a bird; caught it in my hand with my cat-like reflexes. Reflexes of a predator. Its little heart was beating so fast as I held it, gasping in fear. It was a mercy to dispatch it.
I’m fooling no one, especially myself.
Love, Jaimie xx
Links and Stuff
Elizabeth Bathory is a real historical figure, and what I have written about her is broadly in line with what is known or, at least, rumoured to be true. The stories of her bathing in the blood of young women to maintain her youth are disputed, but hundreds of women and girls are said to have died by her hand, and that is what eventually led to her imprisonment.
What seems to be almost beyond doubt is that she was a sadist who derived sexual excitement and satisfaction from abusing – and probably murdering – young women. Certainly, she would seem to have had some pretty extreme turn-ons. She was said to beat girls with the aim of making them bleed and would become sexually aroused while doing it (or watching someone else do it). It’s a fairly small step for a writer to imagine a supernatural element to her bloodlust. In fact, it is rumoured that the tales about the Blood Countess were part of the inspiration for Bram Stoker when writing ‘Dracula’.
***
When I wrote about how I do the photos for this site, I explained how I set my camera up and then trigger it remotely using an app on my phone. In the picture at the top, you can see me doing just that. Normally, I ensure that my hand and the phone are out of shot or cropped out afterwards, but, unusually, I prefer it in this picture.
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