Annabelle's Dungeon of Depravity A Race for Maidens

It was a bright shiny day!  She had worn her most beautiful white dress to the races, her bonnet in her hair, her parasol over her head to protect her soft white skin from the harsh sunlight.  She could hear her father calling her, but she couldn't respond, because her attention was elsewhere.

They had gone to the stables before the race to examine the horses.  Wandering off, she had come across a tiny, open corral between the concrete of the stands and the stables themselves.  A large stallion was sniffing at a mare, and trying to mount her, as a few owners and stable hands watched and commented amongst themselves.

"What are they doing?" she asked one in her broken French.  "Que font-elles?"

One of the hands, a short burly Irishman in rough clothes and beret answered her in English, to her relief.  "Ah, ya shouldn'ta be watchin' this sorta thing, a nice lass like you."  His eyes sparkled mischievously even though he chided her.

The stallion had his forelegs on top of the mare, who stood passively, trembling as the stallion tried to force his penis, massive, red and shiny with moisture into the opening beneath her flipping tail.  The mare craned her head to look back at the beast atop her.

"Stop him!" she told the hand.  "He's so large!  Surely he'll hurt her!"

He laughed, grinning himself at the sight.  "Nay lassy... I think not.  This is the way of beasts to fuck, or doncha know that by naw?"

He emphasized the obscenity in such a way that she knew he was toying with her sensibilities.  She blushed.

"Oh you, be polite!  Can't you see that I am a lady?"

"Eloise!  There you are!" her father's deep voice rang out.  He was dressed finely, in his top hat and gray pinstripe summer tailcoat.  The girl twirled her parasol and smiled.  The stable hand, sensing the presence of a protector, nodded to her slightly.  She grinned slyly at him as he withdrew.

"Father, tell them to stop those two horses."

"You should be careful that you don't get lost in these stables.  Maybe I should have left you with the others."  He sighed.

"No!  I want to see everything."

Her father looked at the horses and nodded.  "You've seen quite a bit already I take it."

"Make them stop, please?  That big horse is going to hurt that little one."

He chuckled.  "Darling, that's how they make little horses."  He sighed.  "Hasn't your mother explained to you about these things, the birds and the bees and whatnot?"

"No.  Mother never discusses such things in our presence, as you must well know."

"Come with me," he said, taking her away by the hand.

They stood against the concrete wall, her father in front of her as if to block her view.  She arched her neck anyway, watching everything, soaking in the details so she could remember her day at the races in Longchamp.  It fascinated her.

"Your mother comes from a different background than me, dear.  I may have presumed too much to think that she would explain essential details like this to her daughter."

"And what details might those be?"

He rolled his eyes and coughed, shuffling his feet.

From behind him, they heard a small cheer from the men gathered around the horses, and a squealing whinny from the mare, as the stallion penetrated her deeply with his huge organ.  Her hindquarters quivered as the stallion thrust into her repeatedly.  The sight made Eloise wince.  She felt faint.  My corset is too tight, she thought.

Her father blocked her view, pressing her closer to the cool concrete to keep her from watching.

"Look at your corsage," he told her.  She looked down at the large pink rose on her breast.  Her father pulled one of her fingertips to it, and glided it along the edges of each soft pink velvet petal.  "Flowers don't just happen.  The bees have to carry the pollen from the stamens of the male roses to the female roses."

"I know all about that, Father."

"But. . ."

"I know a great deal more than Mother ever wanted me to know."

He arched his eyebrow.  "And how did you learn all of this?"

"Why did you leave us, Father?"

The question was blunt and surprised him.  He coughed.

"Darling, I had business over here, you know that."

He looked quite uncomfortable.  That pleased her.  "I missed you," she said sadly, hugging him suddenly.

"Yes, I know.  And I missed you," he told her tenderly.

"But not enough to come home."  In the uncomfortable pause that followed, she added, "And not enough to let me stay."

He coughed again and looked aside.  "You've grown up quite a bit," he observed.

"More than you realize."  There was pain in her voice.  "Were you comfortable here, all this time?  Without us?"

"Darling!  Comfort has little to do with it!  Business, is business."

She looked at him skeptically.  "It wasn't all business, was it?  It was Mother.  She drove you away!"

He breathed deeply.  "No," he said.  "Darling, it had nothing to do with your mother. . ."

"You don't lie very well!"

He looked so angry, she thought for a moment, yes, he's going to slap me.  Yes, please, slap me!  At least slaps are real.

"This is quite a strange conversation.  Eloise.  I can't explain everything to you.  Some day you will understand.  Sometimes marriages are more complicated than they seem."

"Yes, some day.  Perhaps very soon.  Mother says it's time for me to marry and start a family.  Someone with good breeding, she always says."  She glanced back at the horses copulating behind them.  "I think maybe I just irritate her."

"Don't you feel that you're ready?  You're so beautiful.  I know you must have a number of suitors in Boston."  He sighed and looked at his hands.  "I'm such a terrible father, that I haven't been home and kept aware of everything that is going on with my children."

"Yes you are terrible."

He chuckled.  "You agree too quickly."

"You loved Paris more than us, didn't you?"

He gripped her arm.  "No.  Never have I felt that way!"

"Really?"  Her voice became sweet but venomous.  "Oh, but Daddy.  Tell me about life in Paris, Daddy!  So are the French whores really that good?" she asked him casually.  "I mean, they've kept you company so long."

His face turned red.  "Now, wait a minute!  Your mother. . ."

She smiled bitterly.  Now he will hit me.

"Oh Father.  Rumors do fly faster than birds, especially in large families such as ours.  Don't you know that?  No, I'm not a child, father.  I know that you have a very different temperament from Mother."  She laughed.  "I'm sorry, Father.  I can't help needling you like this!"  She smiled innocently.  "I'm so bad."

She looked at the few women that strolled by, not even glancing twice with either disgust or interest at the horses copulating.  "France is so different. . ."

Her father brooded.  "Yes it is, I'm afraid.  And I also fear that it might not be a very good influence on you."  He stood back and examined her as if for the first time.  "We're not from the same stock, you, your mother and I.  I wanted you to have the advantages of a better class of people."

She looked thoughtful.  "When we arrived yesterday, Mother let Johnny take us to the hotel in a carriage.  At one point, while we were stopped for traffic, we saw a woman standing in the street.  She was very beautiful, but she was dressed in a most improper manner.  It was quite fascinating."

She spoke casually, even though she could feel her father tense.

"Her neckline was very low, Father.  It displayed an intemperate amount of cleavage.  Her stockings were clearly visible under her skirt.  When she walked, she picked it up in a vulgar manner, flirting with the men of the thoroughfare.  And her face. . .  Oh Father, she had on so much makeup!  I wouldn’t have known where to get such makeup in Boston.  Her lips were so red, Father.  Red and shiny.  I asked Johnny if she was what I thought she was, and he laughed and told me, yes, she's a French whore.  Just like on the playing cards!"  She laughed.  "Oh, you didn't think I'd ever seen those before?  I told you, I'm not a child!"

He glared at her for a moment.  She wondered again if he was going to slap her, but then, his face broke and he choked out embarrassed laughter.

"No, I guess you really are not."  He hugged her tightly.  Tipping her hat back, he kissed her on her forehead.  His breath was warm on her face. He whispered, "You think to shock me but I'm not so easily shocked, my dear.  You're still only a little girl to me."  He was wistful.  "I wish I could have been there when you grew up."

She felt like his grip might suffocate her.  Her corset was too tight!

". . .But you weren't."

He backed off.  She continued.

"It was quite amusing, once I discovered this.  Sarah had no idea what we were talking about, of course.  She is such an innocent little piffle.  I begged Johnny!  I told him, please, go ask her, how much she charges for her services!  He was in a mood to indulge my curiosity, and he stopped the carriage.  I peeked out the window as he walked up to the woman and talked to her.  She was so bold!  They even kissed, right there, with me watching and holding Sarah down so she wouldn't see.  After a moment's discussion, he ran back to us and we took off, the woman looking quite perturbed that he had left her in the middle of negotiations.  I had to wipe the paint off of his face with a handkerchief, or else Mama would have had some quite embarrassing questions for us."  She giggled.

"Aye, darling, this is not Boston."

"No, it's not.  It's so dirty and wicked and full of life.  I love it here."

He shook his head, trying to hide an amused and embarrassed chuckle.

"It made me think, quite a bit.  Later I went shopping.  I found a place that sold makeup.  I've never worn makeup before.  I showed the lady the color of the paint on my handkerchief and asked her to find the same exact color.  It was one of the cheaper ones.  She didn't even give a second thought to what I was asking for."

She reached into her purse and brought out a small compact full of the red paint.  She took the small brush that came with it and dabbed it in the paint, examining herself in the mirror.

"I couldn't wait to go back to the hotel.  While Sarah and Johnny were occupied, I tried it on in the mirror.  I loved the way it made me look."  She began to dab it on her lips.  "I hate Boston so much."  Another dab.  " I hate the life that you left me with, so sterile and clean and prim and proper."  Another dab.  "Mother would never have allowed me to put on makeup like this.  It would just never do in Boston."  She ran the brush over her lips again and pouted in the small mirror.  "Especially not in a family like ours."

She closed the compact.  "It feels so strange, knowing that nobody notices me like this.  I can stand here like this, like a painted whore, talking to my father, and everybody thinks only of which horse will win the race."

He struggled for words.  Finally, "Why are you doing this, punkin?"

Her scarlet painted lips formed a cynical smile.  "I haven't heard you call me that in years!"  She placed her parasol over his shoulder, drawing him closer.  "I wondered all those years, who is my Daddy with now?  I knew it wasn't mother.  I heard so many rumors about the French.  Mother hates them and considers them beasts.  Did you know that?  But she considers you the same way.  And I would always think, Daddy is a beast, and so am I.  You thought you could mix your peasant genes with Mother's and breed your way into a higher class, but you didn't.  Because I always knew who I was, deep down.  Mother did, too.  It's obvious in the way that she treats us, both ashamed and afraid that we might display our baser natures at any time, exposing her in some foolish manner.  For all those years after you left, I thought of you over here in Paris, rutting like a beast, with the naked and whorish women from the playing cards.  I wondered, what do they do for Daddy that Mama didn't do?  They must be doing something to keep you so well occupied over here.  My imagination ran wild with wicked and voluptuous thoughts!  Even in a place like Boston, you hear rumors about the things that adults do to entertain themselves in places like this."

Using the parasol like a hook, she pulled him even closer.  She pouted her lips and kissed him sensuously on the tip of his nose.  She left a trace of scarlet paint on his nose that she carefully lapped off with her tiny cat-like tongue, leaving him speechless.

"I thought of you, and what they must be doing to you.  Johnny told me about you and your mistresses, Father.  Don't hate him.  I'm quite diabolical when I want to get something out of somebody.  I had him describe them for me in exquisite detail.  He told me about those many women and the way that they fawned over you and him.  I made him tell me what kinds of things they did for money, how shamelessly they used their fingers, their tongues, their bodies to please in such filthy and carnal ways.  I would lie in bed, later, just rolling around and wishing that I could be with you in Paris!!  I wished that I could be the one that was touching. . ."

"Stop it!!!!" he exclaimed.  He gripped her by her arms and was about to shake her.  "You're. . . You're. . . hysterical!  That's what you are!"

She laughed at him, her face twisted with spite.  "I don't care if you hate me!  I've come to hate myself, too!  And Boston!  And Mother!  And even you!  I hate this whole charade you thought you could leave me to play for you!!"

He shook her limp shoulders and demanded, "Tell me the truth.  Are you still a virgin?"

She covered her open mouth and stared at him speechlessly for a moment,  her eyes wide in shock.  She tried to laugh, but it was forced.  "Oh, my!"  She looked away.

"I know your Mother hates me but I can't believe that she would hate me enough to poison your mind like this!"

"You know it's not Mama!!  It's you!!  It's your blood!  It infects me and boils in me and makes me think of doing terrible, terrible things. . ."  She was stricken.  Her face turned pale.  Her mouth shaped into a soundless oval.  She turned and wiped at her lips, the tears coming.  "Oh, my."  And then, "Please don't make me go back to Boston with them?"

He took the handkerchief from her and hugged her, kissing the tears from her face.  He used the moisture of her tears to wipe away the smeared red paint.  When they were clean, he kissed her on the lips and soothed her trembling body with kind words.  People walking by thought nothing of what they saw.  For all they knew, it was just two lovers kissing tenderly and whispering terms of endearment.  Perhaps it was a quarrel.  Perhaps a tearful goodbye.

---

Later, they strolled through the stable looking yet again for a horse to wager upon.  One mare, named Bourgeon Vilain, raised its tail and released a huge steaming dump of horse droppings, right in front of them.

Eloise was shocked for a moment, and then covered her mouth, laughing.  Her father laughed too.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he said, "This is the one we shall wager on!  Number seven."

"Why?"

"Because it carries less baggage."

She giggled and buried her face in his shoulder.  "Will you buy me some peanuts, Daddy?"

---

They positioned themselves at the very front of the stands.  The tension and the clamor among the crowd rose as the horses entered the starting gate.

"Eloise," her father whispered in her ear.  He held her from behind, whispering in her ear that she might hear him and him alone through all the noise.  "Do you see gate number seven?"

She nodded.  His hands felt large and heavy resting on the curves of her hips.  The sound of a bugle announced the imminence of the race.

"I want you to keep your eyes on number seven.  Don't take your eyes off of it for even a moment, for that is our horse.  You want to win, don't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered.

"Not even for a second.  We're going to win this race."

There was slight hush in the crowd, a sobering moment, and during that moment she could hear as well as feel the hot breath of her father on her neck.  Hot like the breath of that stallion, she thought.

And then the gates burst open.

Instantly, everybody was up and yelling, cheering for their horses in French.

"Come on number seven!" she shouted, clutching the guardrail.

Her father swept away the stray hairs from her bun, and leaning forward, kissed her on the back of her bare neck.  She shivered!  But her eyes remained glued to number seven.

"Come on, number seven."

His hands stroked her hip gently for a moment, patting her, and then he removed them.  She sighed, missing his contact.  And then she felt his hand lower down, pressing tenderly against her thighs through her billowy dress, rubbing them gently and sensuously.  It made her squirm and twist.

"Come on, number seven!" she shouted.  Their hooves sounded like the rumble of distant thunder.

His hand slid her skirt higher, reaching under the slip and bustle, stroking her ass through her ruffled bloomers.  It felt so good. . . but. . .

She furtively glanced left and right, afraid to turn around, afraid that others might be watching. This is Paris, she thought. They all rut like animals here, but surely...

Nobody could notice anything in this mad crowd.  They weren't just French.  They were gamblers and they had wagers and they were excited at the prospect of winning or losing.  Trembling hands clutched tickets everywhere.  Men and women hung over the guardrail, even as she did now, testing its strength in a most dangerous manner.  Even the most staid of matrons among this crowd were shivering with passion and shouting "Vite!  Plus vite!!!"

She felt him rolling up her dress from behind, like a drape.  And then his hands were there, underneath, on her stockings, and sliding higher.  She clenched her buttocks nervously.  Those huge hands lingered lovingly on the cool naked flesh of her thighs above the stockings.  She shivered and clutched the guardrail, trying not to close her eyes, not to be distracted from her horse.

"Come on, number seven," she hissed.

He shouldn't be doing this, she thought. Not here.  Not my father!  But she pressed her butt back against him, so nobody would see what was happening.  His relentless hand slid higher, petting, teasing, stroking, making her feel like she would swoon.  Her corset was too darn tight!  She breathed in short little gasps.

"Come on, number seven," she panted.

Her father worked an insidious path under her bloomers, playing with her flesh.  He grasped the flesh of her buttocks, kneading her roughly and crudely.  Suddenly, she lurched as she was forced forward over the guardrail!

"Come on, number seven," she gasped.

Further, further he explored, reaching deep between her legs, to her most secret place, the soft wet place between her legs that had become a dripping wet cauldron.  They both inhaled sharply.  She arched her back, cooperating with him, her face flushed and red.

Number seven strained and galloped to pull ahead, the leather straps of the harness digging tightly across her face.  The jockey, in his purple silk, leaned forward, pushing at her neck, making her go faster and faster.  Pushing, pushing. . .

Her father's fingers pushed inside of her, rolling and sliding and exploring, rough and persistent.  He touched her too roughly and she twitched violently, pulling away.  But he dug between her legs again.  His moist fingers found her clit and stroked it hypnotically.  She arched back against him, wanting more.

Make me your mare, she thought.  Fuck me like a beast.  His fingers thrust inside, rhythmically, and she moved back against them with each thrust, rolling her hips.  Her long hair came loose in all of the excitement.  The stray hair caught in her mouth, sticky and wet and she pulled it between her teeth.

Number seven started to drop back.

"Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!" she cried out.

Fingers working inside of her, nasty thumbs twiddling her clit, legs shivering and buckling.

"Faster!!!!!!!!!!  Faster number seven!" she cried out.

They were coming around the turn in the last quarter of the race.  The jockey in purple raised his crop for the first time.  It gleamed in the sunlight.  Eloise's glazed eyes opened wide.

"Yes!  The crop!  Use the crop!" she shouted and pleaded.  "Make her go faster!!"

Fuck me, Daddy.  I'm a thoroughbred, too.  You wanted me to have good breeding.  Breed me.  Spank me.  Strike me with the crop.  Again and again!

His fingers were merciless.  Her knees were so weak that she felt that surely she would fall down if not for the guardrail that her white knuckles grasped so tightly!

"Faster, Daddy," she shouted.  Number seven gained on the leaders.  Oh my God, she's so close, so close!  The sweat ran from the horse's sides, foam on her lips.  The jockey struck her on the hindquarters in irresistible rhythm with each long gallop.  She rocked on her father's fucking fingers.

She wants to win, she wants to be struck with the crop, she wants to be fucked by her daddy, just like me, yes, yes, she wants to be fucked hard and cruel, she wants huge horse cocks inside of her, daddy, huge horse teeth biting on the nape of her neck, the leather so tight across her face, burning, the bit between her lips biting her so cruelly and the crop, yes the crop!  It hurts, forcing her to go faster and faster and faster and faster, make me go faster, daddy, they can never stop us daddy oh please daddy it's almost over don't stop fuck my cunt like one of your whores.

The thundering sound of their hooves shook the stands.  As they came into the final stretch, number seven pulled into the lead.  From all over the stands she could hear the rising tide of "Vas-y, numero sept!  Come on, number seven!"  People were standing up, shaking their fists.  "Come on, number seven!  Bourgeon Vilain!  Venez, Bourgeon Vilain!"  With glazed eyes and sweaty face, she raced them all.

I will be your painted whore!  I will show you I'm not like them, I'm not like her, I'm not cold and empty and disdainful of you.  I'll never send you away like she did.  Make me do nasty things every night, my red lips wet and ready just for you, all my openings available just to you, just dying to fuck and be dirty and natural and real but just don't send me home no no no I can't go back don't you see because I'm dying inside and they couldn't understand why. . .

She humped, hot and wet on his huge fingers inside of her and screamed with them all as she came in, just like number seven, over the finish line, cumming and dripping all over her Daddy's hands, whimpering and biting the hair between her teeth like a bit, her legs like rubber, held up only by the guardrail and the hand that fucked her senseless, making her cum and cum.

The hand withdrew.  She gasped at the sudden emptiness.  The wetness dripped down her thighs.

---

The crowd was stirring, full of excitement, their cheeks as red as hers, but not as sweaty nor fearful.  She smoothed her skirt down over her backside as casually and gracefully as she could.  She whirled, searching everybody's eyes, but they were oblivious to what had happened to her.

She felt faint, and the sky turned gray for a second.  Her corset was too tight!  She couldn't breathe.  She clutched the guardrail for just a moment, panting and dizzy, watching number seven being lead to the winner's circle.  And she turned to her father. . .

Where is he???

She was alone, surrounded by strangers, all jabbering away like idiots in French, some happy, some angry, some ecstatic.  She was alone and felt abandoned.

Where is my father?

Far, far away, at the top of the stands, she could see her father and her mother and her brother and two of her sisters, coming down the aisle through the crush of the people rushing to collect on their wagers.  They waved at her.  She was too stunned to wave back.

Because they were too far away.  There was no way he could have got up there so quickly.

---

"Eloise, did you see it?" Sarah squealed.  "Our horsie won!!!!!  The one in purple!"

"Yes, I know," she answered faintly.

She looked up at the man in the top hat, then hugged him.  Her father hugged her tightly, kissed her forehead, and handed her some peanuts with a smile.  Nobody noticed when she heaved them as far away as she could.

Who was it then?

Her mother was anxious to leave already.  "Oh well, dears, our ship leaves for Boston at dawn and we must be on it."

"Daddy?"

She looked up at him with pleading eyes.

"Please?  Can I please stay with you?"

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, his face seemingly full of love.  Her mother watched them, glaring.

"Well, Doris, Eloise and I talked about it, and she wants to stay."

Yessssssssss!!!   I want to run as fast and free as the wind itself, that blows my mane behind me, nothing in front of me but space, oh empty beautiful space!  Free and faster than them all.  Because they can't catch us, Daddy!  We're not like them!

Her mother's face was like a tombstone.

"Well," he continued, "I mean we only talked about it.  But I think it's time she grew up and got married to some fine young man, don't you?  I can't introduce her to very many fine young men here, the way you can in Boston."

Her tight lips stretched into a triumphant smile.  "Oh yes, somebody with good breeding.  I've been trying to tell her that, but she won't listen to anything I tell her!  And I've tried to tell her, Paris is such a filthy place, it's not fit for young women."

Eloise's blank face was white as chalk.

"It's ok, punkin'. . . I'll come home when you get married."

She clutched the hat in her lap so tightly that the rim broke.

"Eloise?" her mother asked.  "Are you all right, dear?  You look a little peaked."

"Yes," she choked out.  "It's just. . ."  She shook her head.

"Maybe her corset is too tight," suggested her father.

"Of course it is.  It's supposed to be!  Eloise, you'll get used to it, and then you'll be able to wear it tighter and tighter.  You'll be surprised how tight we can make that thing before we're through with you.  Now sit up straight and don't slouch!"