The Empress Next Door by Mistress Severine
I sit here writing with scarcely the strength or virility to recount yesterday’s events. It began so ordinarily, on a balmy afternoon, as I stood gazing out my kitchen window, baking, daydreaming. I’d haphazardly thrown together a recipe for oatmeal cookies, gone through all the preparations of mixing the ingredients, and then foolishly remembered I lacked brown sugar. In a rush, I threw on a light jacket and approached my next-door neighbor, a young woman I’d yet to meet, although had glimpsed several times leaving late at night, always cloaked in black.
I sheepishly approached her Gothic manor, small in size but foreboding nonetheless. I rapped on the door several times, with no response, and then peeked through the nearby window.
“Can I help you?”
A soft voice came from behind. I turned around, slightly frightened, but was quickly overwhelmed with a sense of tranquil speechlessness at the figure before me. I had never seen such an exquisite creature before, delicate yet womanly in frame, with large brown eyes that seemed to encompass the entirety of the universe in her stare. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, though her presence conveyed she’d lived for centuries.
“I, uh,” I stammered, suddenly forgetting my reason for being there. “Need sugar brown for cookie making. I’m your neighbor boy, Jay.”
She tilted her head, slightly amused at my idiocy, and then invited me in. “I have some in the pantry, but I have to look for it. Wait in my parlor,” she cooed in a breathless yet commanding tone. She pointed down the dark, wooded hallway full of portraits of beautiful raven-haired girls whom all slightly resembled her. I eagerly followed her orders, enticed by the way she said parlor. It sounded erotic. She spoke like someone from another time. And her house- it looked like some sort of museum- I felt as though I’d fantastically time travelled and found an ageless empress I’d only read about or seen in movies. But nothing I’d ever read could have prepared me for her “parlor.” I entered, awestruck, looking around at all of her various instruments and contraptions. I was both terrified and tempted. It looked like a medieval torture chamber, complete with hanging cages, St. Andrews crosses, wooden stocks, and electrical chairs, and had rows of chains, ropes, whips, canes, and ball gags neatly organized on the walls. I knew little about what most of these gadgets were for, but thought, if She were behind the implementation, there’d be no limit to what I’d subject myself to in order to remain in Her presence. My cock grew hard at the prospect of being Hers. In submitting to her and losing myself, complete with all my stresses and anxieties, I’d become an extension of Her superior self, my useless thoughts replaced by Her orders.
“I see you’ve found my parlor,” She announced, now clad in a tight black latex dress that showcased her flawless silhouette. She held a long whip in her gloved hand; completely exuding the essence of the immortal monarch. Everything fantastical I’d sensed from first meeting her dark, sublime gaze was realized before me now. I knelt before Her and wept.
She laughed mockingly. “Stop crying, you imbecile. Are you not ecstatic at the though of being my pet?”
“I am, my queen,” I shuddered, afraid that if I did not take care to show her my complete gratitude, She might reject me entirely. “I live to serve you.”
At that instant I was collared and leashed, and promptly lead over to the cross. I felt my subjugation natural, as my submission was my only means of processing my sudden worthlessness at the sight of her implacable beauty. She was heavenly and cruel, dark and nurturing, an exquisite contradiction whose mystery enslaved me. It was Her youthful charm that initially lured me, but it was Her sweet sadism, pure and cold, that would come to ensnare me for life.
I melted as She tied me to the cross, her touch soft but firm. “Are you going to punish me?” I stammered, finally aware of my physical helplessness. She harshly slapped me across the face and seized my balls.
“You are mine and I will do what I wish,” She said, hypnotically penetrating me with her stare
“Yes, my queen,” I complied, my eyes pointed toward the ground. With that I got spanked, lashed, and flogged until my butt cheeks and cock began to bruise and bleed. It stung immensely, but knowing it came from Her made it all the more pleasurable and worthwhile, as I could see from her smile that She’d enjoyed it, too. Her ears twitched at the sight of my blood dripping down my groin, and she began to sniff almost animally. She extracted an empty glass vial from her necklace and collected a sample. My cock, still throbbing, pulsed at the proximity of her hand.
“Over here, you disgusting lump of flesh,” She said, leading me over to the leather four-post bed. I’d considered myself utterly undeserving of her flesh, and imagined such a union improbable and impossible. My heart raced when She blindfolded me, relinquished my leash, and told me to slowly lie down in a sensual, soothing voice, but I was suddenly shocked by a rough thud. She had enclosed me in some kind of box, I thought as I took off my blindfold and felt my wooden surroundings, which were exactly formed to my body. I was in a coffin!
She stood over me and laughed innocently. Soon her laughter became mischievous, and I could sense her roguish desires taking hold. Over my fresh wounds, she pissed, angelically, like a harpsichord, then aggressively, filling my wounds with a distinctly familiar sweet scent- brown sugar.
“What you needed,” she quipped with a smile, apprehending my thoughts before they had fully formed. She spit on my face, again filling me with her sugary extract.
My bloody wounds and welts, now sealed with her essence, took on an almost otherworldly importance as her piss began to mix with my pain. I lay there; both destroyed and revived, a skeletal yet purer version of my former self, and managed to whisper, “Thank you,” as though I were reciting a prayer.
“It’s time for a cocktail,” She said, once again extracting the vial of blood. She poured my suffering into a martini glass and stirred.
“The secret to my eternal allure- slave’s blood. I’ve existed for centuries feeding on fools like you. I think I look pretty good for being 5,000 years old!” She snickered, waving to her shelf full of crimson vials before closing the lid of my coffin.
Entombed in Her ambrosial essence, reinvigorated by her power and grace, my wounds began to heal.