The Coin

In the darkness of his world and the narrow constraints of his experience, these sessions came to be the only contact that Constantine had with the real world apart from the hours of gloating that his former wife treated him to every day.

The pain became a tonic and the sex became a release.

Until at last the two women tired of him.

The torment became stale and the anguish became routine.

*** Part V

Vergine found a new victim in the beautiful daughter of a ‘twice consul’ who had refused to marry the Isaurian Lord that she had been sold to. She was so very delicate, with her flaxen hair, pale soft skin and slim body. Here was meat for the Abbess, a victim that was still sensitive to every malicious violation, a victim who would sob all night as the mistress of the convent abused her silken body.

And Maria?

She tired of her victim’s lack of sensibility. No longer did he react when he was whipped. No longer were the taunts effective and no longer did he show signs of struggle. Constantine, former Emperor of the world’s greatest empire was now a rag doll that his former wife could use to amuse herself with.

But, a rag doll is inert.

So he drew water from the well.

He pushed the yoke that milled the corn.

Constantine became the drudge by day that was used by all the nuns at night.

They had their overweening desires and presumptuous needs.

Sordidly and squalidly enacted on his flesh with whips and cunts.

Not all of them, strictly Christian practices! The rag doll of the corpulent Maria became the night time slut of the Convent. He was fucked and used by those nuns and passed from one cot to the next like a toy. Pierced by the wooden simulacrum that the nuns often used for their own pleasures, he knew a new kind of rape.

It was not often that they had a male victim, so they made him serve them in ways that only women steeped in wickedness and then chosen for service by a demoness like Vergine could envision.

Until at last he faded. Fucked in the broad bed of the Abbess. The Emperor, Constantine the sixth, expired and breathed his last. There was a hand on his mouth and his thrusting prick in Vergine’s cunt, as she ensured that he drew only just enough breath to climax.

And no more.

*** Act II

The Russian Empire Late 1750 AD The palace of the Kremlin.

*** Part I

The rustle of silk over the marble floors signaled the entry of the Queen and her ladies in waiting. Courtiers stood to the right and left as the small group slowly swept up the throne room until at last the Queen herself stood facing her throne.

It was a magisterial progress, a moment for all to hold their breath and hope that they were not to be singled out for her very special attention in the next hour.

For a moment she seemed to ponder the empty seat as if almost reflecting as to whether or not she should take her rightful place on the broad throne.

This was a moment that she always enjoyed.

The moment when she took her place, about to dispense justice to all the malefactors and miscreants that would be presented to her. This was the moment when she would administrate her vast Empire and meet the supplicants from neighboring states and accept their pleas and supplications.

Catherine the Great, Queen, no! She was Empress of Muscovy and Mother Russia. Protector of the Orthodox Religion and mistress of all she surveyed. She was the arbiter of lives and status in all of her wide domain.

What she decided brooked no rebuke.

What she laid as law was final and irrevocable.

Catherine the Insatiable, the woman who assuaged her lust for power over all men with a slight movement of a hand and a comment that could raise a favorite high in imperial favor or send them to the cells. Those places of punishment that filled the cellars under her fortress in Moscow with the sighs of the lost and the groans of anguish as they paid for slights real and imagined.

Her hand strayed to the small pocket in her wide spreading dress and robes and touched the small gold coin that was her talisman, her amulet of destiny. A coin that bore the portrait of her predecessor in Imperial power, the Empress Irene of Byzantium.

Her predecessor, because the rights and privileges had passed from the Emperors of the second Rome to the Romanov’s of the third Roman Empire.

A single touch of that cold gold awoke in Catherine the craving that she bore.

The hunger to expose her supremacy and extend her jurisdiction.

Coin between her fingers, concealed amongst the pearls and silk, she turned to face her captive audience. The fear was on their faces, the terror that they would be chosen by their Empress to serve, be punished or be destroyed at her whim.

There were the old Boyars, the estated lords and their slatternly wives and mistresses. They held the power of life and death over their bonded peasants like she exercised it over them. The last of their class, they knew that she sought to bring them under her whip hand.

Only a subtle balance of power protected them from her wrath.

There were the new lords, the marionettes that she had created, whose whole focus was on interpreting her every move and word. They lived to please her and maintain their position in the ever anxious court. They were her creation.

Her slaves who maintained their estate by careful maneuvering and courtly intrigue.

They all bowed as she sat sedately on her throne, genuflected and looked down as her gaze roved the hall. She owned them all, she was goddess on earth and arbitrary demoness, the woman who made men flinch, die in agony and fill her capacious bed for nights of erotic nightmare.

A small movement of the hand.

Flanked by her maids of honor, her sluts in silk and pearls, she allowed the audience to begin.

First the emissaries of the Kahzars. Dressed in fur and red linen they were the outliers to the south of her domain. Known now as the Kozzaki, Cossacks of the plains. They approached the throne bearing the gifts of their lands, salt and bread, earth of supplication. All three of them were proud and tall, but they bowed at every step as they came forward to lay the gifts at her jeweled feet.

Catherine made a small, almost impatient gesture and pouted her lips.

The habitants of her court could read her mood like they could feel the water when it rained or sense the chill of approaching winter in the late summer.

Catherine was dissatisfied.

Already they knew that her last lover, the Margrave of Novgorod had displeased her last night. The rumor had already made the rounds of the court that he had cried out once too often under the jeweled whip that she ruled her bed with. Now Ivan Illich Vassily lay in the cells under her rooms with the knowledge that his privileges were at an end. All his power and hopes were now confined to the cell where he was given time to realize how he had failed to quench the insatiable desires of his Empress.

The audience continued.

Justice was dispensed.

Boyar Krillich was rewarded with estates in Poland whilst three rebellious Nobles from the south were consigned to hard labor in Ekaterinaburg.

After an hour of displaying her Majesty for all the attendants of her court, Catherine signaled that the audience was at an end. Concealed behind her white makeup she did not betray the sudden feeling of lust that was sweeping over her body like a red tide.

Her hand strayed again to that coin.

Her body was trembling with suppressed hunger for satiation. Not the satiation of power that she had, with a flick of the hand, condemned seven to the attentions of her executioners. Nor was it the giving of estates and gifts to her favorites that satisfied her so often.

This was the tingling, the prickling of desire that heralded days of aching lust. She knew the feeling well. It came and went as her cunt craved gratification. Her breasts needed pampering and her body needed a strong prick to fill her to the hilt.

There was no denying this yearning except to gather her maids and minions and explore the nether worlds of her fevered creativity.

A gesture and a word was all it took.

The throne room emptied in a respectful bowing of fearful courtiers, women and attendants and Catherine was alone with her maids.

“We need a day of rest,” she announced to the remaining few.

It was the clear signal that the Empress was hungry for gratification.

She stood in a rustle of stiff silk.

The chains of pearls that adorned her dress clicked and the gold of the chains around her neck sounded like falling riches in a treasury. With small steps, and slowly, she led her harpy maids to the apartments that no man hoped to see.

The place where favor lasted as long as a rose took to rot. Where the bed was a playing field for games that had no rules but those that Catherine the Great invented on a whim and changed without warning.

The corridors of the Kremlin echoed with her footsteps, the diamonds on the soles of her shoes clacked on the pavement of marble as she went through the wide doors of the throne room. A few guards, matchlocks at the ready, halberds dipped to the ground in respect, stood like statues as she went to the inner depths of that porphyry palace.

*** Part II

Bed is too small a word for the playground that Catherine allowed to dominate the high ceilinged room where she acted out her games. Massive bog-oak, from the Pripet Marshes and a deep layer of raw silk in linen coverlet that offered sweet repose for Catherine. Soft and beckoning it seemed to her but it was a place where only the Empress gained gratification.

For all others who participated it was by turn heaven and hell.

Gold chains and fetters hung ready for use and bejeweled whips hung by phallic handles, ready to hand for her milk skinned hands.

A man lay stretched out on this field of combat. Pinned to her bed like an insect ready for preservation he sweated with fear as the ladies of the court entered the room and took position around his fettered form.

His body was marked with the stripes of a casual whipping that he had sustained, stripes of bruised flesh staccatoed with small cuts that the sharp gems woven into the braids of the whips had traced on his vulnerable flesh. A velvet bag with silken purple drawstrings lay by his head and a discarded flogger twisted amongst the gold woven sheets.

Catherine swept into the room and smiled like the lioness that has caught a buck.

Here was her entertainment for the night!

Here was the man that would yield his all to Empress.

Not willingly, but nevertheless eager to please her body.

She noted with approval that one of her maids stood at every corner of the bed to tighten the gold chains should she call for it. Three others were prepared to divest her of her robes when she required it. Not always did she assuage her lust in the nude. Oft times she allowed no single peek as she took her due from her chosen victim.

But, this time, this night, was one of the full moon. A feeling of lust overcame her at the powerlessness of her prostrated victim, the stripes of punishment left her gasping for more and the proud erect prick beckoned her to swallow him whole.

For a moment she circled the bed, deciding whether to continue the flogging of the previous night or to follow a new course of action.

A discrete motion and her maids came to her.

Carefully avoiding touching her naked flesh they disrobed their mistress with practiced movements. Layers of silk and stiff corset fell from her like an autumn tree shedding leaves, until her full body was presented to all.

Not perfect!

But responsive!

Already her nipples stood like puckered mounds, awaiting their contact and the slit of her sex was parting like an opening flower. A carnivorous rose surrounded by the stiff thorns of her pubic hair. The parted lips exposed a slick cavern that would swallow any man and spit him out after consuming his manhood.

A word of command and a long tailed whip was placed in her right hand.

The left was clutched around her talisman, the gold coin of Irene.

*** Part III

Dmitry cried out as the first strike of the whip curled around his chest and neck. It left a roadmap of pain on his flesh and scored the delicate skin of his neck with a line of ruby pearls of blood.

A slight splatter of that blood caught her breasts and nipples as she pulled the whip with a jerk to put the heavy leather band behind her back.

Catherine laughed in joy.

Dmitry had betrayed her with one of her maids. Now he was less to her than a serf on a distant estate.

Less than a rabid dog on the lonely plains.

Her laugh was not the pleasant ripple of laughter and enjoyment of a pleasant bon mot, but the giggle of a woman who is taking pleasure in the downfall of a rival or enemy. For that was who he was, her enemy. His name was forgotten by her in this moment of indulgence, but he deserved this punishment and he would deserve the fall of the headsman’s sword after she had reduced him to suffering meat.

The coin in her hand imparted its hate, encouraging her to excess and sexual frenzy as she lined up the next evil sting of the long whip that she wielded with such dexterity.

One of her maids moaned in sympathy with the Empress.

A sound of misplaced passion that urged her mistress to further overindulgence.

The atmosphere was tense.

Would Catherine splatter herself with the blood of her victim until he was but raw meat, or would she extract her just portion of lust from his sweating form?

The whip cracked over his head with a snap that made him jump for fright and then the Empress was upon his stricken form. Her thighs closed over his face, forcing him to pleasure her as the maids pulled on the chains to allow him no chance to struggle.

Catherine groaned with her lust as he serviced her from front to back, from ass to clitoris and then that tunnel that would consume him in a fury of desire. Her trembling form rode his face and mouth as she worked herself over him until he became faint with lack of breath.

Finally she climaxed and once again struck him with the whip.

This time it scored the inside of his legs with bitter fury at the moment that she fulfilled herself on his struggling form. But, his struggles were in vain. A line on his erection marked the passing of the braid and a single drop of blood perched halfway up his cock to balance in deep red uncertainty, before trickling to his thigh.

This was the opening chorus of her need.

Catherine dismounted and took up the silken bag.

With a small gesture she tossed it to the maid who had previously climaxed at the sight and sound of the whip. The maid caught it deftly and waited until the Empress had dismounted from her captive ride.

A quick pull and the bag was over his head and the drawstrings were pulled tight to trap him in a velvet prison of sound and darkness.

Now at last Catherine could fuck him.

The prick went deep inside her on the first move.

Her hips opened and her hands spread to allow a maid to support her as she slid over the throbbing prick and down to his very groin went her thighs.

A whispered word and a maid passed the knout.

An evil short weighted braided whip that normally took the lives of the serfs who had tried to escape their masters.

She kissed its leather braids and passed it to her maid to use on the man who had thought that the maid was his lover.

Blessed and approved.

The Empress Catherine relaxed, waiting for the performance to begin, waiting for the first strike, waiting to start the dance that would bring her to orgasm.

The first blow was almost gentle, it created the first tick of the metronome that was a fuck to end all fucks. Catherine closed her eyes and slid up the prick until it almost left her body before the second blow left a savage stripe across Dmitry’s strong chest.

No cut, just a red weal that crossed from nipple to nipple, joining them by a line of agony.

Every blow of the knout made him buck. Every blow came as she pulled almost free of the rigid cock. Every blow cost him a portion of his life but he could not but help himself. His prick strained to reach into her soft tunnel as his body was ripped by the lead weighted whip.

On the fifth blow she opened her eyes to feast them on her unwilling and willing lover.

Unwilling through the agony of their love making, willing as he strained to satisfy and climax.

He strained to come and deliver an end to this parody of sex.

Finally, at the tenth stroke he came in a surge and thrust deep into his Empress. Splashed and splattered by his blood she finally orgasmed, the stimulation of her hands, the agony of her lover and the supremacy that she was exercising, all combined in a rush of excess and satisfaction.

For a moment she looked at his exhausted form. The features covered by velvet, the muscles of the neck constricted by the silken rope and the cuts and bruises that disfigured his muscular frame.

Then she opened her left hand and beheld the coin that she gripped with an intense grasp.

A gold coin slick with blood and sweat.

Dmitry would be disposed of after her maids had had their pleasure. They were harpies, demon sluts, feeders on the sexual scraps that she threw from her table of plenty.

History would not repeat her excesses to historians. They would be concealed from view as the curtain of time closed. She would be known as the Empress who fucked like a man and ruled like a man. Founded orphanages and extended the rule of Mother Russia to east and west.

Her nighttime hobbies would be forgotten by history.

She was the Empress.

Empress of Russia.

Empress of pain.

*** Act III

Revolutionary Russia 1919 AD Lubyanka Square in Moscow.

***Part I

‘Everything changes. Even my own name!’

That was the thought that ran through the mind of Illona Petrayovitch Ekaterinova Romanov as she stared at the yellow brick front of the All-Russia Insurance Company in Lubyanka Square.

It was certainly worth watching!

Pure hate, untainted destruction and authentic show!

A sudden smash of glass, and a desk arced out of the fifth story window to land with a crash and an explosion of splintering wood on the cobbles almost at Illona’s feet.

Not that she flinched.