Down For the Countess – ebook



Down For the Countess by King X. Key

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 allure. When Strelnikov materializes as a very real challenge to Countess Vronsky’s authority, whose side will Ivey choose? Or does it matter? Are they both out to kill him? Even as Ivey is caught up saving himself from the Countess and Strelnikov, he longs for the breathtaking Sable Brandenburg. But with the Countess in charge, his acute desire to be subject to this beautiful mistress is little more than a pipe dream.

This beautifully crafted story weaves a tale steeped in Female domination and male submission.

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Cover Art Image © Umbar Shakir –


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 boots.

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 victory.

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 other.

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 wore slippers.

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, Mrs. Roman.

Pointing dramatically to Percy, she decreed, “You’re exempt. Monitor the others.”

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 enjoyed Showtime.

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.”


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