Something to go with the heat of this first day of Summer


Sort of….


“Oh! La! Look at you!  Gone a week, and look at what I come back to!”

Madame Gormosy swept into my bedroom this morning, a riding crop in her hand.  This doesn’t portend well.  I was sitting in a wrinkled chemise, my mob cap over my eyes.  It couldn’t be more than eight o’clock, and my eyes were barely open.  I looked at her blearily and remember her role the other afternoon with my drunken gallant.

“Good Morning to you, Madame Gormosy.  Would you like a cup of tea?”  She glided gracefully to a chair across the tea table from me, and looked at me with pinched mouth.

“I understand, Madame,  you accompanied my ‘husband’ to a tavern.  To be correct, two taverns.  Perhaps a bit excessive, don’t you think, for one afternoon?”  I raised my cup and looked over the rim at her.

“Do not be too concerned, dear lady.   I was quite transformed.”  ‘Her’ voice was a deep baritone. He certainly was a man, regardless the dress he assumed before me.  I jumped with the shock at hearing his natural voice, and he grinned devilishly back at me.

I blushed deeply, the thoughts of how much he had seen me in my ‘natural’ state flooding my mind.  My hands shook as I replaced the cup in the saucer.

“You know, he was quite ill when he came home.  He passed out on the bed as soon as he hit it.  I would thank you to consider I am alone here and have trouble enough out of him when he is sober.”

‘Madame’ Gomosy laughed, a deep rumble from her elegant throat.  “Some men, or devils to think of it, never do learn their limit. Ah! The next time, ask him for me to  accompany him home, and we can put him to bed together.  We can spend some time in front of the fire, putting a fine pair of horns on his head.”

I looked,  my mouth opened wide, my eyes round with shock.  Then I started to laugh.  What a scene before my eyes, my Demon Lover snoring away, and Madame Gomosy on her knees between my thighs!  Apparently, Madame read my mind, for she laughed, but in her usual womanly voice.

“Ah, cheri!  There is much a woman can teach another about pleasure.  Men, now, they take a lick and a stab at it, but they have their minds elsewhere, if not their hands.  Women, we carry our pleasure palaces around with us, and know how to knock at the entrance.  Men, they pound at the door.”

I laughed.  So had it been my experience.  There was an ‘art’, a ‘delicacy’ if you would, most men did not seem to know.

“But enough!  We have much to do today.  Can you guess the reason for this whip?”  She looked at me expectantly, one eyebrow arched elegantly on her brow.

I was afraid to think.  “No, unless we are to ride out on horses.  But surely, too wet a day for such?” .

“Ah!, she scoffed in disgust.  M. Demon told me you were naïve, but I would not believe him! Quel dommage!  Do we start at the beginning? If we must, we must.”

Madame rapped on the table with the whip.  “First, bon Dieu!, we get you dressed. Again, no tricks with your breath, my dear, I will lace you up tight today.  This whip will assure your…ah…compliance, n’est-ce pas?

Oh God.  That corset again.  I had left off wearing it, and now would pay the price.  On top of this, I had been eating toast and cakes with my tea for a week.  I was fatter  in a week of indulgence, and that corset would be a real pain.

“Up!   Come to the bedpost.”  Madame Gomosy swept her wide paneled overdress to the bed, her crop in her hand.  I followed, grabbing off my mob cap and shaking my hair behind my head.  Madame came before me, and lifted my chin with her whip.  She looked carefully at my face and neck, and I started to giggle.  Perhaps Madame Gomosy would transform herself into a French Nazi in years to come.  She certainly handled that whip comfortably.  There came to my mind another reason, but I didn’t want to think of it. I shivered.

Madame tapped my shoulder with her whip and my chemise fell in a pool around my feet. Her usual magic. “Here, step into this.”  She helped pull up the double laced corset over my body.  Bracing myself on the bedpost, with my arms high, she started the lacing. Then, she muttered a low curse under her breath in German (!) and turned me around to face her.  She started to lace me up from the front, from the bottom, which grazed my pubic mound, to the top of my breasts.  She twirled me around again, and started lacing the back.  She didn’t pull the hips too tight, because I was slim hipped, and she was aiming to reducing my waist and containing my too florid bosom.  She started pulling the lacing up close at the top of my back, and then she worked her way down my back to my waist.  She spent quite a few minutes behind me, pulling and tugging, and puffing away and finally  told me to turn around.  She peered at the top of the corset and reaching in with her hands, pulled each breast up, forming a round half melon above the corset, my nipples peeking out the top.

“Ah! Now you look more presentable.”  I could barely breathe, and  was uncomfortable.  And I was cold.

“Ah, my dear girl.  I will warm you up fast enough.”  Madame read my mind, and I didn’t like it one bit.

“Now, cheri, walk up and down the room for me.”

“Madame! Please let me put something on my bottom.  I am freezing!”

“Non, mon petit.  I want to see you walk, and I want to see how your gait effects your..ah…hips.  We are going to work on the ‘Art of Seduction’ today.”

“Ah, Madame, isn’t that now a bit like closing the barn door after the horse gets out?”

I looked at her with my own eyebrows raised.

She looked a bit confused, and then her face cleared.  “Ah! You think I work here only for the pleasures of M. Demon, yes?  Non, stupid girl…It is M. Abigor  I worry about.  He is a most discerning Devil, ma cheri.  If he is not pleased with your deportment, he could…how do you say?  Ah! Turn you to burnt toast.”

Something like that, Madame.  So I was being groomed for M. Abigor?  For what reason?  Before I could form a question, she answered me.

“My dear, M. Garrett’s future depends much on the impression you make to M. Abigor.  He has gone out on a long limb to champion M. Garrett.  We must labor here, both of us, to put you in the best light in M. Abigor’s eyes.”

She sat down on one of the chairs, pushing her skirts gracefully from behind her.  “Now, please walk up and down the room as you would dressed each day.”

I did as she asked, feeling silly, walking on a cold wood floor naked except a tight and exposing corset.  I heard her sigh behind me.

“Ah, it is sad  we aren’t all endowed with Venus’ charms.  Your, ah, bush is scant and too light.  And your, ah, pleasure mound is not impressive.  You don’t move your hips at all, dear.  You walk like a savage in a straight line.” She looked at me sadly.  “Come here.”  I went over to her, feeling silly standing in front of her.

“Turn around.”  She whacked me hard across the left buttock.  Then, the right.  I jumped and turned around, my face in shock.

“Now, I want you to feel the pain on each cheek. I want with each step for you to be aware of the red welt growing on your derriere.  I am going to come behind you and beat you just a little as the pain recedes.  Nothing now, to arouse you, cheri, just a tap to make you aware of what you do here.”

Hah! Arouse me?  Pain never aroused me. Or, at least I never even thought of the possibility.  I had spent my life, it seemed, avoiding pain.  And this was pain that was combined with humiliation. Ah, Madame Gomosy!  We are separated by more than centuries!

She made me walk up and down the room for a good half hour, and I really tried to ‘swing’ my hips elegantly.  The trick was to roll my hips downward, and to keep my breasts and chest area completely unaffected by what was happening beneath.  All my belly dancing didn’t seem to matter much here.  My arms were to be held elegantly rounded and low by the front of my gown, if I ever wore one again. Madame continued to hit me sharply with her crop whenever I forgot to think with each step.  Finally she told me to go lie down on the bed on my stomach.  I was more than grateful, for I was a mass of stinging, little welts.  I apparently was a slow learner.

Madame Gomosy came and sat on the side of the bed, and loosened the corset in the back.  She gently smoothed her hands over my backside and the top of my legs, and even where she missed and got me in the back of my thighs with her whip.   Her aim was not always good.  She had some cooling ointment in her hands, and she spread them over my skin for quite a while.  I was falling asleep when her fingers began to stray deeper into the top of my thighs.  I turned on my side to look at Madame, and in her place was a very handsome middle aged man, with powdered hair.  His face was flushed with his emotion and I noticed that his cock was standing straight up in the air outside his breeches.  It quivered there, shuddered actually, and Monsieur had his eyes closed.  His breathing was shallow and as I made a noise in my throat, Monsieur opened his eyes and stared into my face.  He grinned at me, shrugged his shoulders, and before my eyes, transformed himself back into the elegant Madame Gomosy!  I had to laugh.  His expression was so human.  There was more to this devil than I knew.  I wondered if she/he had been a courtesan in previous lives.

“Where do you think M. Pompadour learned her skills, my darling?  And Nell Gywnne  and Diane de Poitiers?  All the great whores learned from my teachings.”  She sounded very proud of herself.  She read my mind again.

“Proud? Well, kingdoms rose and fell on my teachings.  Just like the royal cocks they entertained.”  Madame was vulgar and witty today.

“Each woman became a skilled whore under my tutorage.  Of course, they all had a certain beauty.  But they were wanted by their masters for different…ah…talents.  Madame Pompadour was good with her mouth, she learned well to cover her sharp little teeth.  Nellie Gywnne was known for another part of her figure.  She had the most lucious derriere possible.  Ah! Round and rosy and it was clearly superior to her front.  Charles II used her in that fashion more than any other.  It surprised me that she had two children by him.”

Madame had quite a history.  I was blushing in spite of myself.  But my backside didn’t hurt like before.

“Now, my dear young woman, I want you to get up and walk some more.  Let me see how you turn at the end of the room.  Remember to take small bites of the floor!”

I walked as she directed, but still she was not pleased.  She came in front of me, her arms on her hips and holding my glaze, she put one strong arm around my waist and drew me to her.  She placed the handle of the riding crop at my naked mound and gently rubbed it there.  I started to jump back, but she held me firmly to her dress.  She was strong for a woman, but then again, she was also a man.  Ah!  She applied more pressure to the whip and slipped it into the moisture there.  She certainly knew what she was doing.

Suddenly she released me, and said in a sharp voice.  “Now, walk around the room like you have just been fucked by your lover.  Float on your spent passion and think of his cock in you only minutes before.”  I staggered around the room, her whip affecting me without a doubt.  However, something in my gait pleased Madame, and she allowed me to pull on a petticoat and place a shawl over my shoulders.

“Bonne, my cheri!  You must use what you have.  Many attributes  are hidden.  You can’t rely on your lovely red and blond hair.  You must push forth the part of your body that is best.  Your breasts, though unfashionable in my time, are full and bountiful. I know that M. Abigor likes big breasts.  Perhaps we can fit your dress and chemise so your nipples peek out above the lace like little mice noses. Ah! That would be sweet!”

I wonder at Madame’s taste.  Mice noses.  She followed me with the whip, applying the handle to my buttocks, my stomach, my breasts….not hurting me, but correcting me with the handle, pushing my buttocks under my hips, my stomach in, my back straight. She wanted me to pout out my breasts, complete with the mouse noses, yet the corset held me flat.  She wanted a miracle here.  She showed me some pictures of women posing for portraits, their breasts exposed, the drapery of their gowns pulled down and arranged artfully around their shoulders.  She wanted me to put my breasts on display,  exposed to all eyes.  To lead into the room with them.  To tantalize all eyes with their presence, whether to envy or arousal.  To frame my breasts with holding my arms close to my body,  to lean towards company, maintaining my eyes with theirs, and dropping them modestly to my own cleavage.  Hah!

We practiced my sitting, my back rigid to the chair, my legs not crossed over each other, but relaxed from the hips down and open under my skirt.  That was supposed to be alluring in her society, and was an invitation for imagination as to what was under those voluminous skirts.  Since no pantaloons were worn, the imagination was inflamed with the chance to slip up a hand onto the tops of the thighs, and if there was little protest, to slip a finger into the heat of a woman.  Whether she was willing or not did not matter much, because the game was played with force on the male part, and resistance on the female.  She was to give up her treasure, or at least the tease of her treasure with resistance, but she was expected to give it up, nevertheless, to the petitioner.  It seemed that sex was a game of give and take, between rooms in passing, in the hallway, thrown up against a wall, one leg raised and fastened around the waist of a man.  Also, perhaps with the petticoats thrown over the backsides, and the woman leaning on the staircase, the man plowing her from behind.  The backs of sofas were convenient, as was leaning over a wide and deep windowsill, with the skirts raised to her waist.  There was also the variation of a man under her skirts, with them pulled over his head and body, she leaning against a wall, or perhaps her lower body obscured by a balcony, where she waves to her husband, who is walking in the garden talking to his steward, while her lover’s tongue is deep in her nether lips, putting a fine set of horns on her husband.  She must remain detached and aloof from all, and not moan or groan her delight.  A gasp is allowed, like she has been bit by a fly, but she must, above all else, maintain her decorum.  Even though what she does  would ruin her reputation and put ridicule on her husband for a time.

All this and more, Madame Gormosy instructed me through pictures in her book and her recounting experiences. Whether she related her history as a man or a woman, I did not feel free to ask.  But she certainly had a rich history of such debauchery.  I had a bit of a problem with the book she was trying to instruct me from.  It was Aretino’s Amours, and some of the positions, like the ‘wheelbarrel’ looked impossible to achieve. Some of the positions d’amore sent me into hysterics.   The muscular cheeks of the women, along with the men, did little to arouse me.  Madame slapped me with her whip to restore decorum.

But of course, this was only half of the instruction.  The more ‘pointed’ event was what a lady was expected to do to her lover.  Apparently, oral delights were expected in return.  Madame could see that I was tiring, was hungry, and having to pee, and she gracefully delayed the rest of the lessons for the morrow. I was grateful, for a couple of hours in Madame Gormosy’s company had something of the effect of a week with the Marquis de Sade.  Perhaps the whip contributed to this.   She left me after the noon hour, and it took me another to get the damn corset off me.  Madame, knowing what I would likely do, had tied the lacings, front and back, into nautical knots, and if she knew how I struggled, she would have had her revenge.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008,2010

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2 Responses to “DEVIL’S REVENGE, Chapter 29”

  1. Malcolm Miller Says:

    This is a great story with many unexpected twists. It deserves to be in book form on the library shelves. For some reason the scary things about demons and devils still fascinate us, and you have expressed this ambivalence wonderfully!


  2. ladynyo Says:

    ROTF! Malcolm ….

    THIS story will get the bluehaired ladies with pitchforks after me faster than the Shari’a.


    I doubt that it will ever make any library shelf….It’s too much erotica in some chapters for comfort.

    It’s funny, though, Malcolm….it was the second novel I ever attempted, and the beginning is improbable…but so it went. Later, it built on the relationships…which just seemed to form of their own volition. There is NO WAY I could have ever thought these characters up without something hitting me over the head.

    There are chapters I dare not post on this public blog…had to think of this last one whether it would be ‘appropriate’ and then decided….wth. We spend so much time second guessing ourselves, and the stories can be a real conduit to other people’s lives and interests….which is part of the fun writing….it’s not the shock value of what we form here….but the great joy to me is when someone gets glee or a chuckle or a shiver. Then we have done something of our job.

    The bdsm part in this chapter was formed at a particular time and interest. Wink, wink. Then it passed….LOL!…so…I have had to ‘dumb it down’ quite a bit. I didn’t want it to be an obstacle to readers, because the story is bigger than those incidents. Shifting through the mess here.

    What surprised me most, Malcolm, was the vibrancy of the devil’s characters. I have no previous knowledge or interest in these things…nor do I have any in vampires….but these boys seem to have a life of their own. They appealed to me because they were outre….but the stream of sorrowful humanity within them still…well, that is what I think makes us able to ‘connect’ with them.

    Now….I haven’t posted much of the real demon…Obadiah….yet. He is thoroughly a bad guy. He is a horrible sadist….beyond the picking wings off flies type. There is almost nothing redeeming about him, but I realized it was too easy to dismiss him with contempt the way he formed himself. So, I had to dig around and find some ‘redeeming characteristics’ there so we could relate somewhat to him.

    I do believe when a characterization is so out there….that we lose touch and interest. We have to bring him back into the fold somewhat to have some sympathy.

    When we have no sympathy for a character…..he doesn’t live or haunt. And haunting us is what we want as writers…..or so I think.

    Going back to the well of their humanity…at some point, even in prehistory…..which Abigor certainly is….still makes us able to connect in some way.

    I could never write horror….but I find the horrific in the examples of humanity gone very wrong.

    Thanks, Malcolm…for reading and commenting. It helps, it helps…..



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