"I'll cut them off here and now for you if you don't get a fucking move on," the prince roared at the cowering servant. Suddenly breaking out into a huge grin as the man began to sob as he again flicked the reins to break the horses into a shambling trot.

Behind the coach, the horses' modest lengthening of stride was sufficient for the countess to have to stretch out her long legs in a fast trot. The iron bound chest bouncing painfully against her shoulder blades as she struggled gamely to keep up. Each time she lagged behind, the rope snatched cruelly at her arms, threatening to dislocate her elbows as it yanked her forward.

Every few yards Henrik turned to look back at his mistress' pale form bounding along in the moonlight. The retainer was terrified that the countess would trip and be dragged along behind, or worse still, trampled under the hooves of the ill-tempered warhorse trotting along beside her. For his part, Prince Vulkan was content to lay back and enjoy the gentle rocking of the carriage and the cool night air sighing gently past.

"You know Henrik," the prince said at length, "if you keep staring back at the countess like that all of the time, she's gonna get the idea that you just like to watch her big tits bounce."

"Please sire," begged the footman miserably, she's bound to be exhausted by now, it's been over a mile."

"True enough," agreed the prince glancing around, "she looks well fucked to me – pull up."

With an exclamation of relief, Henrik hauled back on the reins, yelling and cursing at the top of his voice for the team to stop.

Vulkan jumped down and strode to the back of the coach where he found the countess doubled over, hands resting on her knees, her breath coming in a succession of harsh, racking gasps that made her ribs ache. Nonchalantly, he checked the rope-work, tightening here and there, smirking as he wrang a series of moans from the luckless female where her sweating flesh had been burned raw by the tightly bound fibres.