My Depraved Pastimes

By Volta

The bell tolls soft and low, resounding through the wood where the church resides. It is nearly time. Catherine, a lady I have been courting, is soon to arrive. Her family is well known for their great wealth, and they have safeguarded her virginity in keeping with their financial interests. It is not the allure of Catherine’s beauty that seduces me — a feature easily ascertained by the town’s promiscuous women and banal men. Rather, what I find irresistible about Catherine is the security of improving my station and the opportunity to defile her untouched innocence and purity.

The imminence of our engagement inspires my preparations with a sense of urgency. I gaze downward and meet the eyes of one of my servants. She is positioned on her knees, her hands secured behind her head by a set of black feather handcuffs. Her matching black maid uniform is saturated with her drool. Her mouth has been salivating heavily, as if she has been starving for the meaty cock that I’m ramming into her throat. I stop momentarily and slide her head off my dick, which springs erect once it is free of her O-ring gag.

I wait for her to catch her breath, admiring the two delicate dangling chains fixed between the gag and the clamps on her nipples. Her chest heaves and she carries an expression that combines her resolve to endure with an eagerness to please. The lids of her eyes are heavy from the weight of exhaustion and it seems as if she could pass out on a moment’s notice.

“I am going to finish now,” I inform her as I lift her chin upwards. She nods agreeably and tries to say something, but only muffled sounds leave her gag. Clasping at her chains, I thrust my manhood into her skull. As I bring the chains around my hips and force her onto me, I can feel her soft, smooth, and full breasts rub against my thighs. The sensation brings me to the edge and with one final thrust, I coat the back of her throat with my thick voluminous sperm. Instinctually, she recoils and starts coughing violently. Her bound hands move in vain to push herself away.

I hold her there. The servant’s coiling throat feels like the quivering climax of the deepest parts of a woman’s essence. My imagination becomes fixed on the excitement of procreation, but reality anchors me to the practical task of the moment: force feeding my lust to the shameless maid before me. “Thank you, Master,” she manages to exhale upon the removal of her gag. Observing her utter depletion, I rest my hand on her cheek and tell her to wash up for our guest.

Two rows of servants greet me on either side of the hall. They are all young females from the nearby town. My effort to give them employment has been deemed charitable and honorable by many, but the use of their labor is completely lewd and self-serving. To be honest, I have long forgotten their names. Their identity lies in their respective function -  to which I condition them through the repeated use of a remote control which initiates a vibration in a butt plug that each of them wears. I use this to summon them for whatever I require. Each maid is a number followed by a function.

Catherine finally joins us and we are seated at opposite ends of a long table. The atmosphere looms heavy and cold in accordance to my preferences. I “summon” the girls to start our meal. We are presented with an amuse-bouche of blue potato canapé with caviar.

It is the personal moments with Catherine that I dread. Her conversation is littered with trifles, trivial facts, opinions, and utterances characteristic of the minds of the masses -- whereas I seek wit, humor, and discourse beyond the random firing of a few brain cells. I keep my distaste to myself, however, and manage to be charming despite the repugnant conditions I must endure. I will, of course, have what I want. I always get what I want.

After some time, the main course arrives. It is a ribeye steak with a summer squash gratin. As I cut into it, I notice its gray coloring—and the color reflects my disappointment. I have always preferred my meat raw: juicy, flavorful, and evocative of the primal knowledge that I am consuming a creature’s life. I excuse myself and enter the kitchen.

“What is this?” I demand; my eyes hinting at my seething disposition. I throw the meat on the floor and the gaze of my head chef reluctantly searches for the source of my anger, for the source of her responsibility. I never understand what people believe they will accomplish with futile excuses. It is not long after that I decide I have heard enough. I promote the sous-chef and strip both title and clothes from my former chef.

“Is there a spot at the servant’s table?” I inquire, turning to one of my maids. I refer, of course, to the table my servants sit at to eat. Each seat has a cage and a hole for a face to protrude through. Any individual in the cage must wear a dildo on their face. The rules of my household are simple: good servants eat and are pleasured, while bad ones are punished and humiliated.

“There are no spots left,” number 3 informs me. “Secure her to the table then,” I order. Soon the former chef is bound by rope to the table, her legs spread and exposing her shame for everyone to see.

I procure and present a lighter with a drip candle to a servant. “Rare means the meat should be a dark red color;” I remark in observance of her genitalia, hinting at my intentions. “See to it that she can recognize the color.” I nod to the maid and she responds with excitement and anxiousness. Before leaving I lean over the chef and gloat, “Maybe you will learn how unpleasant over-cooked meat can be.” As I leave, I lock eyes with the victim. My glare expresses everything and I gently shut the door.

The final course is ready and I push a button on the remote for the servant to bring dessert. As she brings around the meal, I notice that the vibration function must be broken because it won’t turn off. A faint hum resounds from her posterior and the reverberations cause the silverware on the tray to clink together. When Catherine is served, her face suggests that she notices something is peculiar. The situation threatens to spoil the decorum of the environment that surrounds her. Dinner resumes shortly thereafter, when the servant manages to muster the propriety to excuse herself.

The dessert is a favorite custard of mine. I smirk as she takes a bite. She takes credit for my enthusiasm — as if she could inspire genuine amusement. In truth, I am a man of particular taste and have found the milk fat in breast milk to be quite pleasing for a variety of dishes. One could argue that the pleasurable traits are derived from it being the only milk meant for human consumption. The milk is produced fresh daily from my stable by a former prostitute who came to me seeking financial assistance. Truthfully, my elation comes from knowing that the product of my sinful and depraved pastimes is being ingested by the quintessential example of piety, Catherine.

Arousing the passions is forbidden in the echelon of society in which I participate. Not wanting to risk my position with Catherine, I wish her a pleasant farewell and see her off at the closing of our meal.

I am left wanting. As I reenter the dining room, I see one of my favorite servants, number 8, picking up the dishes. Approaching her from behind, I push her button on the remote. She is startled and quickly notices my firm passion rub against her vibrating cheeks. I gently move my hands over hers and have her place the dishes back on the table. My hands travel to her hips and I pull her in close.

“Tonight,” I whisper as my chest presses against her, heaving with each aroused breath, “you will be Catherine.”

-- Submitted by Volta


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