Kurt von Kolb/Ursula
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He is an older man with a perverse streak, she a seventeen-year-old tired of her virginity.
"It's warmer by the fire. Come sit in my lap."
She's smarter than the other girls, he'd said. Already a woman when the others were but giggling girls, he'd said. Wouldn't she prefer to spend time with him in the manner of adults, just the two of them, he'd said? "Yes," she'd replied, as she does now, sitting in his lap in the Rococo chair, her arm wrapped around his shoulder, the blue smoke of his cigarette wrapping around her in turn. His monocle glints in the firelight as he runs his eyes up and down her body, the black velvet dress she'd caught him admiring her in.
"You wore it just for me," he murmurs; not a question but a statement of fact. "Already, you know how to use your womanly wiles upon a man," he chuckles upon a plume of smoke through uneven teeth, through thin, cruel lips. It's a mouth that will soon kiss hers, and the thought makes her heart race, makes her wonder if the prey does not feel a perverse thrill before the predator, moments before it's eaten alive.
Fandoms: Conrad Veidt - Fandom, Thief of Bagdad (1940), A Woman's Face (1941), Escape (1940), Bella Donna (1934), The Student of Prague (1926)
25 Jan 2015
A tribute to Conrad Veidt’s hypnotically charming villains, dark seductors and the occasional Byronic hero. As only the dark prince of cinema can deliver.
Kurt shaves Ursula's bits, ties her up, whips her and takes her over the piano. As you do when you are a sadistic Nazi baron and have a 17-year-old horny schoolgirl to debauch.
"Not here," he says, slapping her on the pussy, sending her jerking. He gets up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Over the piano."
"The piano?" She'd much rather do it on the bed, or the sofa, at least.
"Yes, the piano," he says as he ushers her out of the bathroom, his hand a command upon the small of her back, brooking no argument.
And there she lies, in broad daylight, splayed out on her belly over the piano. Kurt has spread her legs horizontally--he had watched the girls in secret during their daily exercises and had noticed Ursula had been the most flexible of them all, he'd said. And now he wants her to prove it, to elevate this flexibility to a real, worthy purpose: the enhancement of pleasure. Thus, he has arranged her into a near-full split, her pussy just on the edge of the piano, the lips of it spread out by his expert hands so that the entire weight of her pelvis is pressing her clitoris into the surface.
Within the mirrored hallways, upon the chequered floors and amidst the Rococo furniture of his pleasure-palace, Baron Kurt von Kolb teaches his 17-year-old fiancée, Lady Ursula, everything she must know about the perversions of a true aristocrat.
She'd thought she'd feel a princess the day he finally took her to his castle, but instead of the sumptuous dinner she'd been expecting, he had but led her to a marble bathroom and presented her with razor and enema syringe instead. So that her sex would be bare for his pleasure, he'd said; so that he would be able to see and touch and taste everything, he'd said; so that she would be clean for him tonight when he'd take her more deeply, more completely, more thoroughly than she'd ever been taken before, he'd said.
He runs the spur of his jackboot up her breastbone, dipping it into the hollow of her throat.
"Good girl," he purrs, smirking through his monocle. "You did not flinch once."
"Thank you, sir," she says, squeezing her shivering hands into fists, proud of her self-control.
For now, she rests in a state of complete nakedness at his feet, he towering over her in his uniform as she lies there upon his drawing room floor.