Driving Lady Victoria
Lady Victoria steps out of her grand mansion, her presence commanding attention even in the quiet of the morning. She halts abruptly, her piercing gaze falling on her four-wheel-drive left ungaraged in the driveway. The audacity of such incompetence fuels her irritation. She tightens her grip on her riding crop, her mind already envisioning the suitable punishment for the oaf responsible. Yet, practicality prevails; since the car is there, she may as well make use of it.
Sliding into the driver’s seat with an effortless grace, she presses the accelerator, sending the vehicle hurtling down the driveway, gravel scattering chaotically in her wake. Her lips curl into a sneer as she dials the stables on her phone, her tone icy and controlled as she demands Mistress Vanessa identify the culprit.
The tyres screech as she pulls into the stable yard, slowing only as the vehicle rolls through the pungent muck of manure and water pooling in the square. The filth splashes against the vehicle’s sides, but Lady Victoria remains unfazed; this is a place of order under her rule, no matter how dirty the work. Her sharp eyes survey the scene: a gaggle of ladies laughing cruelly as they toss buckets of water onto a groaning slave sprawled in the filth. A satisfying sight, she thinks, but her mood remains darkened by the morning’s failings.
Lady Victoria’s hand falls to the heavy leather bullwhip carelessly left on the passenger seat. The sight of it only deepens her displeasure. Such an egregious oversight; her whips are to be cleaned, polished, oiled, and stored impeccably each evening. This neglect speaks of sloppiness, and someone will pay dearly for it. She remains seated, observing with an expression of detached disdain as the slave regains consciousness, his pitiful moans grating against her sense of order.
Mistress Vanessa approaches, her manner deferential, knowing full well the weight of Lady Victoria’s displeasure.
“Who failed to garage my car last evening?” Lady Victoria demands, her tone razor-sharp.
“Him,” Mistress Vanessa answers without hesitation, her finger darting toward the soaked, quivering slave in the mud.
“And who failed to clean and polish this whip?” Victoria presses, her grip tightening on the worn leather handle.
“Him,” Vanessa repeats, eager to absolve herself of any potential blame.
Lady Victoria’s eyes narrow, her words slicing through the air like the crack of her whip. “Make him crawl over here.”
The stable girls comply without delay, their boots connecting with the slave’s side as they force him to grovel through the muck. He writhes forward, stopping at the edge of the vehicle, his pathetic gaze rising to meet hers.
With a single, deliberate motion, the heel of Lady Victoria’s boot strikes him in the head, sending him cringing and squirming next to her car. She sneers down at him, her disdain palpable as she presses her boot into the dirt, scooping up a grimy lump.
“Lick it off,” she commands, her voice dripping with venom.
The slave obeys with frantic desperation, his tongue working feverishly over her soiled boots, cleaning away every trace of filth. Her gaze shifts to a nearby snail crossing her path. Without hesitation, she crushes it beneath her boot, the crack and smear of its demise momentarily satisfying.
“Clean this as well,” she orders coldly, watching as the slave licks the remnants of the snail from her sole, thanking her for what she mockingly refers to as his “meal.”
Her eyes narrow at the spattered muck on the car. “Lick it clean,” she snarls.
The stable girls and Mistress Vanessa chuckle with cruel delight as the wretch sets to work, his tongue dragging over the vehicle’s surface. Lady Victoria watches with cold satisfaction, her presence towering over him in every sense as the ladies relish his humiliation.
“Get those tyres spotless,” she snaps, her voice brooking no argument.
The task takes far longer than it should, but Lady Victoria allows no less than perfection. When he finally finishes, the tyres gleam with a polished shine, the black rubber reflecting the effort forced from his broken form.
Leaning forward, she dangles the tip of her bullwhip across his back. Her voice lowers, icy and menacing. “I’m going to skin you alive,” she promises. “Hose him down again and get him in the barn. I want him wide awake for what I’ve got in mind.”
The ladies encircle the slave, their kicks driving him further into the muck as he’s dragged toward the barn. As water sprays over him in merciless torrents, Lady Victoria turns her attention to Vanessa, her tone laced with irritation.
“This morning has been nothing but disappointment,” she remarks. “I trust you’ll ensure it’s the last time I have to deal with such incompetence.”
Her stature, her presence, and her absolute control are as immovable as the realm itself. The filth of the stables, the groans of her slaves, and the laughter of her peers are mere background noise to Lady Victoria’s orchestrated rule.
The barn is a chamber of complete control, a space crafted for discipline and order under Lady Victoria’s exacting standards. The beams overhead creak slightly as the slave’s wrists strain against the ropes that suspend him inches above the ground. His legs, stretched wide and secured by iron hooks set into the floor, render him immobile and vulnerable, his entire body exposed to the will of the dominant women surrounding him.
As the stable girls encircle him, their laughter rings sharp in the cavernous barn, reverberating alongside the dull crack of repeated slaps. Each girl takes her turn, their palms striking his reddening cheeks with a force that grows more gleeful with each rotation. The victim’s moans and pitiful cries for mercy are met with cruel derision, his pleas drowned beneath the cacophony of female disdain.
He writhes against his bonds, his movements only serving to emphasize the futility of his struggle. The stable girls take obvious delight in their work, their faces illuminated with wicked amusement. Their verbal insults, sharper than their slaps, pierce the air, cutting him down to nothingness. The scene is a symphony of dominance, a prelude to the arrival of the orchestrator herself.
The barn grows silent as Lady Victoria appears in the doorway. Her entrance is deliberate, her stride predatory and poised, like a panther stalking its prey. Her black thigh boots gleam under the dim barn light, her perfectly tailored equestrian blouse hugging her slim frame with precision. Her gloved hands swing rhythmically at her sides, one of them toying idly with the braided handle of her bullwhip.
The stable girls part immediately, their respect for Lady Victoria evident in their swift obedience. The slave’s dull, grey eyes widen as her figure draws closer, her feline grace making her presence almost surreal. His throat tightens as terror takes hold, and his desperate attempt to babble an apology results in nothing but incoherent sobs.
Victoria halts a foot away from her victim, her piercing gaze locking onto him with an expression of utter contempt. She studies him coldly, as if appraising livestock rather than acknowledging a human being. The whip dangles lazily in her hand, its braids trailing against her silken thighs, a silent reminder of the torment it promises.
She sneers, reaching out to grip his chin with one gloved hand, forcing his face upward. His eyes meet hers, their watery dullness a stark contrast to the steely sharpness of her icy blue gaze. The silence in the barn is palpable as she speaks, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.
“Oh dear,” she begins, her tone laced with derision. “You’ve been a very silly boy, haven’t you?”
Her fingers slide from his chin and encircle the flaccid object between his legs, her grip tightening to the point of excruciating pain. The slave yelps, but she doesn’t release him. Instead, the leather braids of her whip trail teasingly against his most vulnerable areas, her movements slow and deliberate.
“Did you forget to garage my car?” she asks, her words deceptively soft. “Or to polish this whip?”
When the slave stutters a denial, the barn gasps collectively, the stable girls exchanging wide-eyed glances. A slave daring to speak against his mistress is unheard of, and the audacity leaves Vanessa seething.
Lady Victoria’s expression remains eerily calm as she inquires further, Vanessa scrambling to defend herself and enlisting Mistress Katie as a witness. Katie’s immediate confirmation seals the slave’s fate.
“There,” Lady Victoria whispers with venomous sweetness, her gloved fingers clenching his balls tighter, “you must have been mistaken, boy.”
His scream shatters the barn’s quiet as her grip tightens further, her satisfaction evident in the slight smirk curling her lips. She releases him with a dismissive shove, his head slumping forward as his spirit crumbles entirely.
Victoria steps back, the rustle of her whip against the dirt drawing every eye in the room. She positions herself with practiced precision, her expression serene, almost meditative, as she tests the air with a crack of the whip. The sound, a deafening burst of power, sends shivers through the stable girls and causes the slave to flinch violently.
The whip lands for the first time, its bite harsh and calculated. The slave’s scream pierces the air, his body jerking violently against the restraints. Victoria smiles faintly, savoring the control coursing through her veins. Each strike of the whip is deliberate, a testament to her mastery of the cruel art.
The barn becomes an arena of sound; cracks of leather against flesh, the high-pitched wails of the slave, and the gasps and murmurs of admiration from her audience. Victoria works methodically, her whip leaving jagged red lines that crisscross the exposed skin of her victim. The more he writhes and screams, the more her enthusiasm grows, her movements becoming sharper and more intense.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly with the exertion, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration. The whip becomes an extension of her will, carving its path over flesh already swollen and raw. When the slave finally falls silent, his body limp and unresponsive, Victoria reluctantly lowers her arm.
“Throw some water on him,” she commands curtly, her gloved hand gesturing for buckets. As icy water drenches the lifeless figure, her lips curl into a satisfied smirk. “Perhaps he’ll survive long enough to appreciate what’s yet to come.”
The slave is chained to the back of her Range Rover and Lady Victoria climbs into the driving seat, laughing to herself … “Well maybe not!”
She presses her boot down hard on the accelerator and the huge vehicle surges forwards, the weight attached barely noticed. The vehicle thunders along the rough drive, dragging the slave behind like a rag doll.
As they disappear into the distance the stable girls cheer and laugh hysterically …