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Lubricious Musings, or a Dead Bed of Roses first appeared in the short story collection "Once Upon A Midnight Lechery"...

Damali ran the brush over her face, leaving just a slight hue on her cheeks, as she gazed at her
reflection in the mirror with the handle made out of bone. Her fingers matched the joints of the
hand that formed the grip. She smiled as she finished with the rouge, her pale countenance
highlighted perfectly, just how he liked it. Her eyes glimmered in the light from the single candle,
that stood on the little wooden table that was bolted to the stone wall. Its wax formed a little
puddle, that held an enticing aura, as visions of the past fluttered through her head. It had taken
her awhile to adjust to such little light, but she was a good pupil, and learned her lessons well.
Damali wasn't her name when she had come here, but now it was her entire being. She had lost
track of how much time had passed since he had brought her here; to this chamber of ancient
stone. The darkness, and dampness of the walls had at first frightened her. She felt like she had
been thrown into a well, its spherical opening sealed forever. She had begged, tears blurring her
eyes, as she pleaded with him that she had changed her mind, but it was no use.
She stood, her posture perfect, as she took the bundle of clothes from the edge of the table.
Sliding into the simple, black sundress, her fingers brushed against the scars that criss crossed
her frame. She smoothed the fabric out, and adjusted the shoulders, as she traced the long
welts as far as she could reach down her back. Straightening her collar, she glanced towards
the mirror, and smiled at her pallor, beneath the thick leather around her neck. The curves of
her collarbone were exquisitely distinguished in this light, and she pushed her breasts up to
make sure the correct amount of cleavage was showing, just how she had been taught.
Her Master had won her on a bet. She didn't know it at the time of course, but she had been
fresh meat to the sharks; an object to be possessed. Unbeknowest to her, there had been a
discreet competition; wagers made in red lit alcoves, beneath the flashing of strobes, and the
pounding of the music. Whispers behind her back, seductions in her ear; as she took every
lash...every beating. He was charismatic, and for a brief moment in time she had been the prize
in his eye. He had sensed something inside of her; something he could take, and mold into a
masterpiece. Within a matter of weeks she had eyes for only him, as the others faded into the
backdrop with looks of defeat painted upon their faces.
A troubled look came over her face, as she stared off into the candlelight; the shadows leering
back at her. She sat on a small metal stool, watching a slow drizzle of water make its way down
the stone wall; as she absentmindedly picked at the burns that lined the inside of her thighs.
How long had it been...she desperately tried to remember. It was so hard to keep track of time
as the days blurred together; it always seemed as if it had been ages since he had last come to
see her. A ripple of pleasure ran through her as she thought of the rough grip of his hand on her
throat; the ecstacy of the lash upon her back, and she ran a finger between her wet thighs,
bringing it back up, and to her lips. Damali sighed, as the flame danced from an unseen breeze;
he would come soon...he always did.
The beatings had been playful at first. She loved the adrenaline rush; as her eyes passed over
the faces of the onlookers, a sense of lust in the air. She learned what brought him pleasure,
and learned it well. Tied to a Saint Andrew's cross she felt pure ecstacy as she looked into his
grinning face; her body on display for all. She had tasted the fire of the whip, bent double to
receive the sharp sting of the paddle, and floated in the hands of angels; suspended in simple
bliss. She took it all with a smile, as she was molded into his obedient slave. Then the day came
that had decided the rest of her life; she received her Master's collar, and he had taken her
away from the prying eyes, and brought her to her new home.
Damali remembered the anxiety that day, as they had driven up into the forest. It was snowing,
and a cold blanket was draped over the land, as she felt the warmth of the heated leather seats
in the car against her bare ass beneath the skirt he had told her to wear. She remembered his
hand between her legs the entire drive, as he kept two fingers inside of her, and held her tight
with his thumb pressed down on her clit; squeezing as if to say, this is mine now...forever. She
remembered the grey sky above the trees, as they approached a stone building that lay behind
a giant iron gate; unaware that it was the last time she would see the light of day. She
remembered a second wooden gate closing behind them, as they walked into a courtyard, the
leash that was clasped to her collar wrapped tightly around his fist. His warm hands helping her
undress...a rattling, as he secured her to a post that stood in the courtyard...the cold snow
kissing her skin...and then the light leaving his eyes, as his features turned cold.
Her adoring eyes had held a hint of confusion, as she saw him pull a thick leather bullwhip from
a hook on one of the stone walls, his footfalls heavy in the snow as he approached menacingly.
That was the first time she had been truly whipped, as he put the full force of his weight into his
swing. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the blow, as it came whistling through the air.
A deafening crack, as it connected with her thigh, and withdrew; leaving her spasming on the
post, as the wet snow burned the raw flesh it fell upon. It was the first time she had screamed in
his presence, but it was far from the last. The echo had pierced the silence, spreading into the
forest as he circled behind her; letting out a cruel laugh that taunted her. The whip connected to
her pale skin a second time, leaving a red welt across her back, that throbbed in the cold. She
could feel a trickle of warm blood, as one more time she heard the hiss of the leather, as it cut
through the air, slicing down her back, and across the skin of her ass. Her screams carried into
the whispering trees, broken only by the sobs that choked her throat.
Damali remembered the wetness between her legs, as her bladder emptied, the snow beneath
her spotted with yellow and red, as it steamed. His laughter was a sharp slap to the face, as he
slowly walked around her; sizing her up. She whimpered, her eyes shut tight, as she listened to
his boots crunching the snow beneath them. She could smell him near; sweat, and musk
hanging on the crisp air, as her body shook, and she whimpered. Slowly, she opened her eyes,
just in time to see his hand descending on her. Grabbing her by the jaw, he held her head so
her gaze met his. There was none of the familiar warmth in his eyes, as he squeezed her breast
with his other hand, sliding it down her belly, and grabbing her by her sex.
"Did I give you permission to scream, cunt? Did I give you permission to cry? This is your life
now, and this body...this body is no longer yours. It belongs to me. Consider your former life,
nothing but a fleeting dream; a dull fantasy, and nothing more. I own you, Damali."
And just like that, he had turned, and left her there; his footfalls fading into the distance, as she
shivered on the post.
Damali...it was a name she would grow to love, as her past faded like childhood memories. He
came back for her a little while later; the snow had piled above her ankles, and she couldn't stop
her body from shaking. He had punished her with another lash of the whip, before he unhooked
her from the post, and dragged her inside. She remembered that first time he had called her that
so vividly, if not for the suddeness of it, as for the beating she took that day.
Once inside, he had brought her shivering, and limping to a room with a large fireplace; the
warmth of the flames causing her to cringe, as her frozen body had begun to thaw. He removed
the leather collar, that was heavy with the dampness of the snow, and handed it to an old
woman who had appeared from a doorway out of sight; ordering her to clean it, before she
vanished back into the shadows without a word. He then took a new collar from a table next to a
large crimson velour armchair, and secured it around her throat.
It was made of cloth, with a steel ring attached in the center, and she found she good breathe
easier, as her body adjusted to the warmth. Her master had walked over to the fire, staring into
the flames, as her shivering subsided. She took a moment to glance quickly around the room,
its dark wood paneling giving a sombre atmosphere against the light of the fire. It was sparsely
furnished, with only the chair, a round glass table, and a couch visible upon a glossed black
wooden floor that was polished to an immaculate glow. She turned her head back to him, and
found him staring at her with a strange smile upon his face, and she felt herself grow wet
unexpectedly. He pointed at the ground, without saying a word, and she lowered herself to her
knees; her eyes lowered, as she waited for permission to look at him.
He crossed over to her, the worn, and cracked leather of his boots coming to a stop in front of
her. She looked down at them, as she heard someone enter the room; and glancing out of the
corner of her eye, she saw the old lady approaching with a silver tray. The crone's face was
covered in ancient scars, and one of her eyes lolled off to the side, as she looked down at
Damali with amusement; her spidery fingers gripping the tray tightly in her hands. She wore a
black shawl that tufts of yellowed hair peeked out from, and a simple black dress that went
down to her ankles. Distracted at observing the strange servant, she only realized too late, the
blow that struck her as the woman chuckled.
"Ugne is to be treated as you would treat me cunt. Were you given permission to look at her?"
Another blow struck Damali, that brought all the stars in the heavens to twinkle before her eyes;
as she fell backwards to the floor. His boot came down on the side of her face, and pressed her
head against the wood, as he leaned down and stroked her hair. At the touch of his fingers she
felt a rush of euphoria, and she re-positioned her body so that he could see her chest; her
nipples rigid, as he patted her on the head, and removed his foot. He pulled her to her knees,
and then ran a hand beneath her jaw, raising her gaze to meet his. She could feel the bulge in
his pants in front of her, as she looked into his eyes, and began to run her hand along it. She
could feel it growing, as he gripped her jaw harder; a grin upon his face, and then abruptly he
moved off to her side. She felt like a kid robbed of a summer ice cream cone, as his cock slid
away from her hand, and she frowned as her she lowered her head again.
He slid behind her, and pulled her hair away from her shoulders, as she saw Ugne move closer.
The old woman carried with her a sweet and sour scent, of cloves mingling with apples, and she
moved silently, as if a phantom that would disappear at dawn. He pulled her hair tight, wrapping
it in one hand, as her head whiplashed, and his other hand gripped her throat. She could feel
the breath being taken away from her, and then a slight relaxing of his grip, as she gasped for
air. The moment her mouth opened she felt a quick movement, as his fingers slid with precision
past her lips, and she felt his nails dig into the inside of her mouth as he forced her mouth apart.
Caught off guard she let out a gurgling scream, as Ugne took a step closer, and then knelt down
to her level.
"Did you think you would evade a punishment for your misbehavior earlier? You have no voice,
unless I say you do. You do not speak, unless spoken to. You are not an individual anymore,
capable of choosing whether or not to speak, or scream for that matter. It would serve you well
to be a good slave, and learn that quickly."
With that he pulled her head back, his hands still forcing her mouth apart, as the old crone took
a gag from the tray, and slid the straps around her head. Using the palm of her hand, she forced
the ball into her mouth, and as he released his fingers from each corner, she pulled the straps
through a clasp tightly. Ugne rose to her feet, and taking the tray with her, she disappeared off
to do other duties. With that, her master stood before her, measuring her up as he gazed down
upon her.
He leaned forward, and reaching between her legs, he grabbed her and squeezed. She felt a
sharp pain in her chest as she gasped beneath the gag, and then a sudden wave of pleasure,
as he held her nipple between his thumb and index finger and stretched it away from her body.
Releasing it, her back arched, as he pushed a third, and fourth finger into her. She could feel a
pool forming between her thighs, and he removed his fingers to taste her nectar. That was when
she noticed the rack of implements near the door Ugne had exited from. He was an artist, and
for the next two hours she would be made to his design. Each mark upon her made with
deliberate intent, as he split her skin, and broke her will; her body the canvas he honored with
graceful strokes of pain, blended with prodigious pleasure.
The candles flickered, and Damali sighed longingly. She hated the drafts that would blow at
random throughout her room, swirling around, as they caressed the stone, and chilled her
bones. Perhaps room wasn't the right word for it, she thought, an oubliette seemed much more
appropriate. That is what her life had been, as far as she could remember...a place to be
forgotten. Her life had been one of somnambulism, as she wandered through a thick fog, hardly
noticed by those around her. She had family, and lovers; but to them she had been nothing but
a hollow vestige of their lives. She was a novelty; a broken play thing that wasn't worth fixing,
and was therefore discarded for the next shiny toy. There was no purpose to her life; she just
floated along, that is, until she had met him. He had lifted the veil that clouded her eyes.
Through him she had found a purpose. Through him she had felt passion for life...a lust for
pleasure...a sense of purpose, in a world where she had been nothing but a glimpse of a
shadow. He had given her hope, amd then left her in this hole. An oubliette...yes, that was what
this room was.
That first day had been a challenge, but she was determined not to let him down again. After
toying with her for a little bit, he had thrown her to the ground. Taking a length of rope, he had
tied her legs together, and secured them to a ring that hung from the ceiling; the chain it
dangled from rattling softly. Her senses hypersensitive, he had thrown open a heavy curtain that
had blended with the darkness, and she was blinded by the bright winter light that had been
hiding behind it. Walking ovee to his selection of implements, he had picked a heavy walnut
paddle, and with a swift kick to her midsection, rolled her over. Digging the heel of his foot into
her ass, he tapped her lightly with it a couple times, as he chuckled.
The paddle came down hard the third time and her legs spasmed, as he struck her 4 more
times in quick succession. She could feel the bruises, as the capillaries burst, and he gave her a
kick to the tender spot he had just created. His boot came down on her hip and she struggled
against the gag to catch her breath, when the paddle hit her again. She shook, as the chain
rattled above her, and he picked up a thin piece of bamboo, that resembled a ruler. He held her
ankles in one hand and brought it down with a crack in the center of the soles of her feet.
Shrieking behind the gag, he kicked her in the shins, and scraped the edge of the bamboo
across her heel.
She curled into a fetal position, her legs swaying in the air, as he went back to the rack.
Returning with a flogger, he brought in down on her in a fury, as tears poured down her face.
The lashings cut open the wounds the whip had made, and she could feel blood mixing with
sweat, as her body was set on fire. She felt like she was going to die, and for a terrified moment
she struggled to scream against the ball that was shoved into her mouth, choking on her saliva.
Her noises spurred him on, and he berrated her with kicks. Her eyes burned as sweat dripped
down her face, and then a sudden rush of air, as he ripped the gag off of her. Panting, she
blinked her eyes, and asked her master for more.
She could see the snow still falling outside, as he loosened the rope a little. Her body shaking,
he grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked her to her knees. With her feet bound, he had to do
most of the work; as she clawed her hands into the wood floor attempting to find balance, and a
blow to the back she received for being too slow. She bit her lip, determined not to let him down,
and stifled the sounds that wanted to escape her throat. Finally catching her balance, she put
her arms out before her, and pressed her face to the ground, as if she were prostrating before a
Her ass in the air, he swung the paddle three more times, the wood connecting each time to her
flesh with a loud thwack. She held back her screams though, and his rough hands grabbed her
by the waist to adjust her. He kept a constant pressure on her lower back, and she heard him
unzip his pants. Then with one fluid motion, he penetrated her, sodomizing her as her moans of
pleasure echoed throughout the house. His spilt seed filled her up, and then withdrawing his
blade, he kicked her to the ground, and left the room.
She had slept like a kitten in his arms that night. The pillows felt like clouds, the throbbing
sensation of the bruises, and lacerations along her body lightning, that struck around her. After
untying her legs, Unge had helped her to a bath, and taken sponges to her body. The smell of
lavender soap had lifted her to another plane, despite the discomfort it caused the wounds he
had inflicted. She felt as if she were in heaven, as the old lady had gently washed the blood,
and sweat from her hair.
They had all eaten dinner together, in a hall made for banquets; a long oak table stretching
down the room. She had eaten at her master's side, the leather collar back around her neck,
and chained to a leg of the table. Her dessert had been in his lap, as he shoved her head
between his legs; his length filling her mouth, as she eagerly took in each stroke, until he filled
her throat with its sweet filling. He had taken her again before bed; legs under his arms, as he
thrust inside of her, her reflection looking down at her from a mirrored ceiling as she came. And
now, as the dawn's light broke the darkness; resting her head on his chest beneath the warm
blankets, she smiled as she felt the weight of his collar around her neck and awaited his
On the second day, her master had arisen, and she dressed him, and shaved him. Unge had
brought coffee into the bedroom at some point, and while he sipped it, and stared thoughtfully
out the window, she knelt patiently at his side with her eyes lowered. He ran his fingers gently
over his handiwork, putting pressure where the whip had struck her back when he noticed her
wince. She didn't make a sound, and he smiled.
"I will be going back to the city for a bit, while I am gone Unge will be instructing you on your
daily duties. These are to be carried out with no mistakes. For every mistake you make, you will
be punished with severity; once by Unge, and from myself when I return, as well. Do you know
what the name Unge means slave? It means fire, and there are very specific reasons I chose
that name for our dear housemate. Learn your lessons well."
He was gone for a week. She spent that time in a simple room, with basic furnishings, and an
outdated floral print that climbed the wall. She was allowed one hour of the day to do as she
wished, but was not allowed outside. The basement was forbidden. The majority of her day was
spent doing household tasks, most of which were fairly easy. Unge hardly spoke a word, except
to bark an order to her, or explain the necessity of proper form while doing a task. Damali picked
it up quick, and things carried on that way for a few months, as she became enamored with her
new way of life. She learned the hidden pleasure that could be found in pain; the joy that
servitude brought her, that had always been missing from her life. Her master would come, and
go on business, always returning to his proud slave. It was on one of these occassions, she had
been looking forward to the return of her master, when she made a mistake.
It had been a quiet day, and she had finished her chores early. Unge had left to run some
errands, and Damali had been left chained next to the sink while she washed the dishes. She
was day dreaming, staring out the window at the seamless snow that trailed off towards the
woods, when she had been startled from her reverie by a thump from the basement. She had
knelt down, and put her ear to the floor to see if there were any further disturbances. The
basement was off limits to her, and from what she had observed, Unge was the only one who
ever went down there. She was beginning to stand up, when another loud thump broke the
silence, and she fell backwards. As she fell, her chain reached its end, and snapped from the
counter it had been attached to. She slid backwards across the floor, confused, and frightened
by her sudden freedom.
The door to the basement was only ten steps away, and nervously she stared at its worn wood.
Slowly, she had pushed herself to her feet, and looking around as if a child getting into mischief,
she had crept cautiously over to it. Resting the palms of her hands on each side, she pressed
the side of her face against the wood. There was another thump, and she inadvertently let out a
yelp, as she stumbled backward. Her chain sounded like a clap of thunder, as it rattled against
the floor, chipping a tile in the process. Anxiety getting the best of her, Damali turned to head
back to the sink to try and reattach her chain. As she turned, she caught the sight of the back of
the old crone's hand, and then there was darkness.
She ran her fingers down the sides of her breasts, tracing the scar tissue beneath her dress,
that ran along both sides of them. He had told her that they were one of his favorite parts of her
body; how he loved to squeeze them until they turned a purpleish hue, and then watch her
squirm as he attached clamps to her nipples. How she regretted that day, that one mistake.
Now, her breasts were a mark of shame...a constant reminder of the trust she had broken. If
only she had done better, been the perfection that he expected her to be. A tear ran down her
face as she stared into the flickering light of the candle, lost in it's fire.
She had awoken strapped to a wooden table, a stockade locked around her breasts so tight that
they looked alien to her, as they bulged out from the wood. They were a deep violet hue, and a
throbbing pain was pounding her chest. Frantically, she looked around the unfamiliar room, and
saw the old lady sitting beside a fire. The wood inside crackled, and popped, as Damali noticed
the poker Unge held to the flame. It's tip was glowing, and when she noticed that Damali had
awoken, she had stood and walked over to her with it.
"Breaking your chain." She placed the red hot iron to one side of her breast, the skin sizzling, as
her flesh was seared.
A scream erupted from Damali, as the old lady spoke, "Touching the door of a forbidden place."
The other side of her breast exploded in pain, as the smell of cooking flesh filled the room.
Damali could feel her legs trying to force their restraints away, to no avail, as her head throbbed
in agony.
"Breaking a kitchen tile." Once again, Unge pressed the metal to her skin, this time on the
opposite breast. Her voice had left her, and Damali screamed silently, as the woman looked
down at her with contempt.
She had passed into unconsciousness before the fourth burn, a sweet seduction of death calling
her name, as she faded into the darkness. She didn't hear the clamour of the iron, as it fell to
the floor, nor feel the pain of her burns, as her body went into shock. She was given a sweet
release for a fleeting moment, and then Unge dumped a bucket of ice cold water on her chest,
and she shrieked as she shook against her restraints, snapping back to reality. The old woman
slapped her across the face, as she spit out water; steam rising from her marks of shame.
"Stupid bitch, I will come back for you in two hours..." and with that Damali was left with only the
glow of the fire, and her shame.
Her master had returned, and upon entering the house had shot her a look of disgust, as she
knelt to unlace his boots. In the lowcut dress she wore, there was no hiding her discretions from
him, as the healing flesh was glaringly revealed. She placed his boots beside the door, and ran
off to the kitchen to grab a broom to sweep up any loose dirt that may of fallen to the floor. He
quickly strode into his den, without a second glance at her, and she felt a pang of hurt that he
hadn't spoken to her.
Dutifully, she finished sweeping, and then eyes lowered, proceeded to kneel at his side. He was
reading a newspaper, and kept it at an angle so that she was not within his sight, as her anxiety
grew. She could feel the anger in his silence; as Unge entered the room, and after greeting him,
proceeded to list off her bad behavior. He lowered the paper, and rising to his feet, cracked his
knuckles as he looked down at her.
"You disappoint me."
He turned, and began to walk towards the other room, as Damalia crawled after him, begging at
his heels. She pleaded for her master's forgiveness, tears rolling down her face, but her laments
only fueled his anger. With a quick movement, he turned and slapped her across the face.
The blow took her by surprise, and she let out a gasp of surprise, as his foot came down on her
midsection. Taking a riding crop from the rack of implements near the fireplace, he let loose with
fury upon the marks the old crone had made upon her chest. The pain was unlike anything she
had felt, as the skin that had molded itself over the burns, was ripped away. Damali let out a
wild yelp, like an injured dog, and he gave her a kick to the thigh as she scuttled backwards to
try to avoid another strike from the riding crop.
"Did I say you could move slut?" He roared, as he towered over her.
Cowering, she slowly slid back to him, and he grabbed her by her collar, and lifted her to her
feet with a strength she didn't know he possessed. She tried to sputter out an apology, but he
struck her with a closed fist as he released her collar, and she tumbled back to the ground.
Dazed, she pulled herself back up to a kneeling position, and bowed her head; a silent,
apologetic entreaty. He stared down at her, fire in his eyes, and motioned with a finger for her to
follow him.
Damali stood in her chamber, stretching her joints, as she began a slow stride around the room.
Her fingertips ran along the cool stones of the wall, as she tilted her head back, staring up into
the onyx abyss above. Hopefully he would return today, she was eager to serve; to show her
love for him. She yearned for the weight of his body as he thrust inside of her; his fingers
wrapped around her throat. She needed the pain, that only he could inflict. Her life was empty
without his dominance; without his orders. She knew that soon he would return. She circled the
room in an endless trail, as the hours ticked on.
She was strapped to a table, her arms and legs spread to the corners; as he bled her. With
precision he had cut through her soft flesh, leaving criss crossed cuts, from which streams of
blood were fed. The tears had run dry, as he put his tools down to stop and look at his

Lubricious Musings, or a Dead Bed Of Roses