Down for the Countess -
an Erotic Femdom Book by King Key
Down for the Countess - Femdom
Down For The Countess, A Femdom Book in Paper and E-book Format
Price of this Femdom Book: $7 (E-book) Purchase it directly from
Bereft at the loss of his wife, artist Ivey Marks finds himself manipulated
into joining Countess Natasha Vronsky in her domain at Russleder (Russian
Leather) in Siberia. She initially plans to make him her figurehead Count. But
Ivey rebels, and Countess Vronsky brings him to his knees as just another of her
twelve slaves. In his humbled position, Ivey discovers there’s a slave rebellion
afoot—a scheme to overthrow the Countess with the help of a mysterious outlaw
who calls himself Strelnikov. Ivey, ever the loner, tries three times to escape
by himself. But the Countess tracks him down each time with the help of her
comrade, Dr. Sasha Khachaturian. Ivey gradually realizes his Goddess lets him
flee for the sport of recapturing him, then humiliating him with a whipping in
front of the other slaves. The Countess Vronsky delights in seeing how harshly
she can abuse him. And while Ivey’s secret and perverse delight in being under
Countess Vronsky’s heel disturbs him, he can’t help but be drawn to her powerful
This beautifully crafted femdom book weaves a tale steeped in Female domination
and male submission. Its graphic content includes intense scenes of physical
beating, whipping, restraints, forced feminization, intense humiliation,
chastity, dildo sodomy, enema, piss play, financial and psychological
emasculation and female worship.
Purchase this femdom book directly at
The Cruel Countess by King Key, Femdom BDSM
Though Ivey's third attempt to escape this formidable femme is met with the same
brutality as his previous attempts, he can't help but be drawn in by her
Copyrighted © 2009 King Key, all rights reserved.
My boots crunched through the snow frozen on the ground, now mostly a white
mantle of ice left over from a freak snowstorm in northeast Siberia during
November 2007. Despite the bitter cold, the low precipitation that time of year
usually produced no more than flurries. The wind whipped through my clothes,
numbing my senses with even more frigid air. My hands and feet turned into
popsicles before the big freeze glazed my face and shaved head, penetrating my
arms and legs, branching into my torso.
Maybe this time I’d reach the next village, or the big city of Khabarovsk
itself, and find sanctuary, warmth, and safety—if the local Russian police
overlooked my undeniably Western features. They’d peg me as an American right
away. The best I could hope for was that they’d slam me in jail.
But knowing my luck, they’d drag me back to my cruel Mistress, Natasha Vronsky,
Countess of Russleder. Never mind that Russleder, pronounced ‘ROOS-lay-der,’
doesn’t exist on any map. Local authorities eagerly turned a blind eye to
Countess Vronsky’s sadistic but harmless (to them!) despotism whenever she
settled the issue using Russia’s one reliable currency: bribery.
My best hope lay with the locals helping me escape. If I could stay out of the
clutches of the authorities, I believed the ordinary citizens would sympathize
with me. Russians like Americans, even if they dislike our leaders—mirroring our
sentiments toward Russians. Perhaps some Slavic saint, curious to learn about my
country, would harbor me from the authorities. If I could trudge through another
mile or two of frozen snow, freedom would await me over the next hill.
Even in my misery the sun, intermittently beaming over the horizon to my left,
painting the fleecy clouds in beautiful pastels, dazzled me. The morning hour,
the humidity, and the tilt of the earth’s axis in November dusted the eastern
horizon with soft red, pink, lavender, and mauve. I longed for a sheet of
Bristol board and artist’s crayons to record the burst of hues. I could dash off
a striking sketch or an elegant painting for Nicole, who lovingly collected
every picture I painted during her lifetime. What she did with them, I had no
O, Nicole! I wouldn’t be in this predicament if she were alive. Someone stole
her heart, but I knew I’d win her back. Nicole embodied the classic Big Blonde,
whom I called Ms. Carrington when she acted bossy, although she was only five
years my senior. When she acted wild and frisky, I called her Nikki. But she
became a casualty of our open marriage.
My mind turned to a perilous escape option. Rumors persisted that a mysterious
figure who called himself Yury Strelnikov gave sanctuary to Countess Vronsky’s
ex-slaves—the escapees and those she ruthlessly dumped. Some of the Countess’s
current Slaves swore that Strelnikov planned to overthrow the Countess. But
anyone who joined his band would become an outlaw. Strelnikov reputedly killed
for hire, dealt drugs, and committed grand theft for fun and profit. But no one
had solid information. He may have wounded a Russian police officer at the
Khabarovsk train station when I arrived, or a copycat may have shot the Russian.
Everyone embroidered this psycho’s legend.
No, I couldn’t cast my lot with Strelnikov.
So, I resumed my search for a kindly Siberian to shelter me. Thank goodness it
was November; winter weather would’ve frozen me to death already. But with all
possible landmarks covered in white, how close was I to escaping?
The distance became a moot point.
Over my shoulder I spotted a troika barreling toward me with amazing speed.
Countess Vronsky’s signature burgundy latex catsuit peeped though her dark furs
and glistened in the emerging sun. She whipped her three horses
vigorously—signaling how severely she’d lash me, crushing my fragile dreams and
shackling me in the cold, harsh reality of her small dungeon. My Domina’s fiery
countenance, framed by her flowing, dark-chocolate hair, stunned me with fear.
Countess Vronsky’s inevitable victory gripped me. I embraced the twisted desire
to wallow at her booted feet, soaking up her harsh degradation just to gaze on
her wild beauty and bask in the proximity of her supple five-nine body. I’d
documented the Countess’s beauty in mineral spirits mixed with artist’s crayons
to create countless portraits, predominantly full-length with an occasional
head-and-shoulders pose. She loved herself enough to model for me. But she
stamped her image into my mind so indelibly I usually painted her from memory.
She confiscated every painting I poured from my heart, framing and hanging three
in her mansion, the Ice Palace. My tangible homage to her beauty probably spared
me from a near-certain death.
As an afterthought, I noticed Percy Willingham, the Countess’s zombie-puppet,
sitting beside her, half-frozen. His last name fit him: His upturned nose and
puffy jowls looked porcine; he acted the perfect ham in his role as consummate
ass-kisser; and ‘willing’ described his sycophantic behavior towards Countess
Vronsky. I hoped my permanent eyeliner and eyebrows—shadings the Countess had
etched into our skins to make us look perpetually feminine—looked less
ridiculous than Percy’s. True, we were Countess Vronsky’s slaves, but at least I
had the balls to try to run away.
Try was the operative word. While my third attempt to escape headed toward
decisive, predestined humiliation, I realized Natasha wanted me to flee—so she
could recapture and pummel me. I played right into her hands. And, sickeningly,
I surreptitiously got perverse kicks from being her plaything. Countess Vronsky
was my addiction, as destructive as any drug and totally irresistible.
She contrasted sharply with Nicole, who let me stray before reeling me in to
chastise me with spanking, embrace me, and take me in her loins. Then I was
home, and I was hers. When I wandered away from Countess Vronsky, I felt as if
she snatched my testicles and penis fiercely, and I’d damned well better follow
her lead, or she’d make me her bitch anatomically.
Ahead of me, a Russians police van accelerated to arrest me before Countess
Vronsky could spirit me away to her lair. The paddy wagon looked old and
worn-out, as if from a nearby village, not the populous Khabarovsk. Wherever
they called home, I became the football in their sport with the Countess. The
van lurched to a stop in front of me while the troika drew within a hundred
A hardy woman, fleshy yet comely, piled out on the passenger side. Her
authoritative air indicated she was the officer in charge. “Name,” she said.
My numb lips barely functioned. “You speak English.”
I sighed in resignation. “Igor Vladimir Marks. ‘Ivey’ comes from my initials.”
Her expression resembled a smile with skepticism. “Communist?”
“M-A-R-K-S. No X.”
She frowned. “You look American. But…?”
“Russian grandmother. Dad’s mother.”
I pointed toward the troika. “Sh-she has them.” Trapped like a dog, I succumbed
to the bitter cold.
“Illegal immigrant. Come with us for questioning.”
“Countess Vronsky will explain.”
The Russian licked her lips. The Countess’s reputation preceded her. The officer
ran her gloved forefinger along my eyelashes and the permanent eyebrows Countess
Vronsky had etched at my eyes with a technology similar to tattooing. “Pretty
My blush failed to materialize in the frigid air.
Two other uniformed women, younger and thinner, but homelier, hopped from the
van to join their chief. Countess Vronsky arrived soon and reined her horses to
a stop within feet of us. The officer in charge greeted her. “The Counterfeit
Countess. Is he yours?”
Countess Vronsky’s eyes, angry slits, opened wide and flashed in glowing brown
triumph in the emerging sun when she and I made eye contact. Even in my utter
defeat, her arched-eyebrow pose exhilarated me, and I felt the sensation of
licking her milk chocolate eyes and dark chocolate hair with my eyes. Her most
ruthless air remained eye candy to me. “He’s my Slave. Want him?”
“Nyet. No slavery in Russia. His papers…”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“His papers are at my mansion, the Ice Palace. Come with me, Olga. Your
associates, too. I’ll punish him. You watch.”
“We punish. Put in jail.” She struggled to keep a straight face. “Maybe he
sneaked across border from China. Looks Mongolian.” Olga laughed at her own
Countess Vronsky handed the woman a thick stack of rubles. “I’ll flog him. Make
bets with your associates on how long he’ll last. Use this money.”
The Russian officer fingered the bills to draw a rough estimate of their worth.
“From where comes so much money?”
“He gave it to me.”
Olga laughed heartily.
Countess Vronsky coaxed her. “Olga, you can’t lose gambling with his money!”
“Da!” the officer exclaimed.
“Watch this.” Countess Vronsky handed the reins of the troika to Percy. “You
drive.” Turning to me with wrath etched in her face, she systematically stripped
away my last vestiges of dignity. “Crawl to me, you stupid, worthless swine!”
I obediently prostrated myself on the frozen snow. Despite my numbness, the
jagged shards repeatedly nicked my flesh through my thin gloves and light
clothing—totally inadequate for Siberia—abrading my frigid hands, chest, and
thighs. If I rose to my hands and knees, the Countess would snatch the whip from
Percy and beat me severely, gleefully—as I learned during her ravages after my
two earlier attempted escapes. Every inch of my crawl magnified my defeat and
glorified her triumph.
When I reached the troika, Countess Vronsky dangled her booted feet through the
door. I licked her boots as if receiving the tastiest treat imaginable, obeying
her tacit command because of another cruel lesson: Countess Vronsky kicked me
swiftly in my face when I dared to balk at kissing her boots after my first
escape. My defiance cost me two teeth, replaced with implants to keep me
Why would any sane man return to this cruel Countess? Why would any man, sane or
crazy, seek her torture? Natasha drugged my common sense with the narcotic of
her eroticism, but at some point, reason should awaken. Her most
thoroughly-seduced victim should be able to recover long enough to utter that
classic: “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”
Unfortunately, I was both crazy and stupid for Countess Vronsky. She prepared to
sedate me with her charms again—a repeated ritual as cloyingly predictable as it
The Russian policewomen had seen enough of my slavish devotion and departed for
When I crawled into the troika, I noticed Percy’s permanent eyeliner, eyebrows,
and mascara looked even more hideous close up. Countess Vronsky spread her furs
wide before wrapping me inside, snugly against her body-heated latex—one thin,
rubbery layer away from her flesh. Nestling in the warmth and protection of my
fearsome Goddess, sheltered from the bitter elements I’d inflicted on myself by
defying my Goddess, I felt a serenity surpassed only by the afterglow of sex
itself. I cannot describe the ecstasy of depending totally on Countess Vronsky,
encapsulated from harm, absolutely at her mercy.
All I can say is, her benevolent dominance erased her degradation, humiliation,
and physical torture—although she cooed sweet promises to inflict pain more
intense than my wildest imagination, because of my latest folly.
“Your attempts to escape are hilariously futile,” she said, lacing her acidic
words with musical laughter. “I delight in beating you senseless after I
recapture you.” She brushed my hood back when her gloved hand enticingly stroked
my slick head. “Don’t try my patience. Find other ways to justify my whipping
you within an inch of your life.”
“You are your own justification.”
Gloating at my servile, verbal ass-sucking, she pulled my hood back, pressed my
face into the rubbery material straining over her breasts, and wrapped me inside
her furs again. We lay facing each other. Tempting me with her divine flesh,
sequestered in latex to forbid direct touching, she tacitly dared me to attempt
any gesture remotely resembling a sexual advance. She deigned to accept my rigid
erection as my tribute to her, but if I tried rubbing my cock against her
luscious, unattainable body, she’d crush my testicles with her lethal, lovely
I curled my body into the fetal position pressing my face into the latex
covering her breasts and my knees against her thighs, preventing my cock from
touching her. My spirits soared with her contact but ached because her vaunted
arrogance would deny me any affection. The smell of her latex and my nascent
trickles of sweat—from nervousness and body heat under her thick furs—focused my
dreamy bliss into delicious reality. I wanted to eat the Countess.
But although my sole purpose was Going Down for the Countess, she seldom granted
me the privilege of going down on her. I gave good face. She conceded that. But
she parceled out cunnilingus as a special treat that I must earn. Her exquisite
intimacy bought my soul—again. For her warm embrace, I’d let her destroy me.
As if she needed permission…
Dying in my Goddess’s arms would be a fitting end to my life. Nicole was gone,
and Countess Vronsky had stripped me of all the millions of dollars Nicole had
left me, siphoning my residual income directly into her account. My passing
would have made little difference.
In exchange for giving her all of the assets I owned or would ever own, the
Countess condescended to give me a taste of the voluptuous delights of her
body—two nights of divine bliss strategically spaced six months apart, so that
I’d absorb, internalize, and cherish the celestial ecstasy she willfully denied
me except for those two nights. Her mega-version of tease and denial brutalized
my soul more than her whip or her extensive repertoire of ingenious torture.
Soon the troika skidded into the seven-foot-diameter tunnel through the
ten-foot-thick granite walls surrounding Russleder. Two of Countess Vronsky’s
Slaves slammed shut the huge, round one-foot-thick gates at either end of the
tunnel—resembling bank vault doors—putting gigantic periods on my Goddess’s
As the troika skidded along the interior of Russleder, I admired the Ice Palace,
Countess Vronsky’s magnificent mansion. The Russian motif of building massively
sufficiently impressed visitors, but the flashy minarets and onion-shaped domes
added panache. In fact, the structure mimicked the architecture of historical
buildings in Moscow, four thousand miles to the west.
I stumbled into the medical room over the smaller dungeon for Dr. Khachaturian
to examine me. The Good Doctor rubbed me with oils and lineaments to ward off
frostbite, but her smug expression mocked me as a weak, vulnerable American at
the mercy of her Motherland.
For good measure, Countess Vronsky drew near and slapped me twice, forehand and
backhand. “That’s for leering at Sasha.” The three of us knew quite well the
Countess had taught me months earlier—painfully—to lower my eyes respectfully
for either woman to escape such punishing blows. But we also knew Countess
Vronsky did as she damned well pleased, and if I objected, I could go freeze my
ass to death. When they exchanged giggles, my cock rose.
Countess Vronsky bade Percy to bring piping hot mugs of borscht to the three
Russian policewomen. After assuring that the nourishment satisfied the lady
guests, he wrapped a coarse robe around me and gave me a mug of borscht, and
dutifully refilled each mug upon request. Percy and I complied with the will of
the Countess. I ate ravenously to bolster my stamina for the Countess’s whip.
She was so eager to beat me she nearly salivated. Percy fulfilled his servile
duties to comply with the whims of the Countess—although he and I despised each
Our Goddess fostered hostility among us Slaves by shrewdly segregating us. When
she forced a Slave to perform menial chores, such as Percy clothing and feeding
me, she beat us savagely if one Slave spoke to another. Some assholes spoke to
other Slaves intentionally, enduring their own beating just to punish Slaves
they detested. After Countess Vronsky turned total strangers into sworn enemies,
she judiciously doled out basic comforts like food, clothing, and shelter to
fuel our jealously and manipulate us into hating each other.
God only knows what we Slaves would do to a slave suspected of receiving
individual, sexual favors from Countess Vronsky! She entertained us with group
masturbations, and I was about to become her costar.
Strapping a collar around my neck and attaching a leash, Countess Vronsky led me
to the massive Great Hall in the Ice Palace. I left my trusty boots in the
operating room after the foot gear had served me so well on the tundra. Now I
The stone walls arching high to the cathedral ceiling lent the occasion a
quasi-religious feeling. Nothing in the Ice Palace, of course, actually
resembled ice. The mansion took its name from the frigid Siberian climate and
the temperament of the woman who designed it—an American descendant of Russian
grandparents, Catherine Roman.
In the blink of an eye, the Countess whisked my robe away and shackled me,
spread-eagle, with two manacles suspended from crisscrossing oaken beams and two
more anchored to the stone floor. She tied my neck leash on a hook in one of the
beams so that I would, in effect, choke myself if I let my knees buckle.
The Russian policewomen made wagers in one corner. The other ten slaves,
shackled ankles linked by heavy chains, shuffled as close as Countess Vronsky
would allow them. Although Countess Vronsky intended to have a dozen Slaves at
all times, her hot temper drove a slave or two away occasionally. They were in
various stages of sliding condoms on their cocks; many already had boners at the
sight of Natasha’s lithe body highlighted in burgundy latex.
Countess Vronsky was to beauty as Lon Chaney, The Man of a Thousand Faces, was
to horror. She could change her countenance dramatically enough to make a
chameleon jealous. The fire she’d flashed on the tundra now froze on her face at
the Ice Palace. She became the Ice Queen, a true disciple of her benefactress,
Pointing dramatically to Percy, she decreed, “You’re exempt. Monitor the
I gritted my teeth and looked stonily ahead, but nine other pairs of eyes stared
daggers into Percy. Countess Vronsky’s favor guaranteed retaliation from the
other slaves. They’d punish Percy at the earliest opportunity, and the Countess
would either turn a blind eye to Percy’s agony or beat the other Slaves
senseless. Her mood would determine her mode of pleasure.
Countess Vronsky stepped behind me and cast her whip like a fishing line,
snapping the tip as it touched my flesh, slicing open my first wound of this
session. Ten Slaves cheered loudly. My cock stood ramrod straight, proud to be
the instrument of the Countess. Over in the corner, the three Russian women
stared wide-eyed, actually licking their lips. They forgot their bets while they
My Goddess adroitly cracked her whip again, drawing more blood and eliciting
another roar from the slaves. “Do you hate me yet?”
“I shall always love you.”
She lashed me twice, savagely, in quick succession. “Strong words from a weak
man. I’ll break your will.” Her whip lacerated my skin once more. “Again. I’ll
make you my bitch.” Crack! “Again.”
Gritting my teeth and wincing, I braced myself and shouted firmly, “I love you
so much I could burst out in song!”
Silence fell on the great hall. I tried not to tremble in fear. What would she
do now? Countess Vronsky swaggered past me, turned, and jutted her face within
inches of mine. “So you could ‘burst out in song.’” Her sneer was distilled
scorn. “Prove it. Serenade me!”
My desperate mind latched onto the tune of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll”
and scrambled to improvise lyrics:
“I love Countess V
Enough for her to pee on me.
She has so much class,
I’ll lick her feet and then her ass.”
Despite herself, she burst into laughter. “Nice try, you worthless swine.”
Resuming her post behind me, she hummed “I Love Rock and Roll” and flayed my
skin harder. “Will you love me later tonight? When Dr. Khachaturian pours
alcohol on your open wounds?”
Her strokes came harder and faster. Her frenzied breathing measured her rising
ecstasy. “When you ache so much you could scream.” Crack!
“I’ll still love you!”
“But I’ll crush you if you scream.” Crack! Crack!
“I’ll worship and adore you!”
“You’ll cry in pain.” Crack! Crack! Crack!
“Crying out my praise for you.”
“While I kick you senseless with my beautiful, ruthless boots—symbol of my
power, icon of your worship.”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Do it, beloved Countess!”
Silence again. Her breathing seemed to rack her lungs. Her panting and grunting
fascinated me so much I was surprised to realize she’d stopped whipping me. Her
moans nearly made me ejaculate. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You’re making me—”
“I win!” A voice interrupted the Countess to announce he was the first slave to
I could have strangled him. Because of his interruption, I figured the Countess
would start the beating all over again, from the beginning until she reached
Instead, she kept stroking herself purposefully, expertly. I could visualize the
crotch of her catsuit zipped open, her gloved hand plunged into her pussy, her
middle finger strumming her clitoris—a stunningly magic image. The memory of her
bravura performance, seared into my brain, made me gasp for breath. Watching her
would’ve driven me berserk. When her climax induced her to bellow her guttural
yell of exultation, my cock quivered in empathy.
The crunching whir of her zipper brought us all back to reality. She wasn’t
through with us. She stepped to my left side and held her right hand near my
mouth, tacitly demanding that I lick her juices off her gloved fingers.
“Thank you!” I exclaimed. My mouth engulfed her index finger, and I sucked