by Victor Bruno
Crack!
The same again. “I’d like to use a REAL cane on you, my beauty!” The voice was thick with lust.
Crack!
“That’s it girlie ... squirm ... squirm ...”
Christ ... it was hurting more than I had remembered. I squirmed alright.
Crack!
“Agh ... aagghh!”
Crack!
“Don’t you dare be late next time ...”
Crack!
“Aagghh ... n-no ... Sir ... I won’t ...” Thank God that was over. I remained bending over the back of the couch, hearing him fumbling around. I knew what was happening. Well ... it had to happen sooner or later. The sooner the better really.
“Over here, girlie ...”
I got up and turned. Naked, hairy and paunchy, he was seated on an armchair with a half-hard on. Leering. Almost dribbling. Disgusting.
“Suck it a bit, girlie. I’m not as young as I used to be. Could have fucked the arse off you straight away in my time,” he boasted.
I got down between his thighs and did what I had to do. It made me feel sick to the stomach.
“Oh lovely ... lovely ...” he kept murmuring, squeezing my breasts at the same time. Luckily who soon got hard.
“OK, girlie ... get your bottom up ...” I got down on hands and knees and did so, thighs wide. “Mmm ... yes ... what a lovely young cunt.” He got hold of my thighs, I felt the hard knob of him, searching. Then, with a grunt, he rammed.
He was in me.
I felt sicker than ever. But I wanted to get it over quickly. By rousing him. By pretending. So I squirmed my bottom around.
“Oooh ... oohh ... you little darling ... you love a cock, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir ...” I made myself say. “I love YOUR cock. Fuck me hard, Sir, fuck me hard.” I wriggled myself seductively again.
“I sure will,” he said.
Then he began to ram in and out like an animal. Panting, snorting, grunting. Quite out of control. His hands left my flanks and clasped my big breasts again. Painfully.
Faster ...
Faster ...
“Oooh ... you’re a lovely fuck!” he moaned.
Then, suddenly, he was spurting into me, not strongly, but feebly. In moments it was all over. He slumped down on me, still moaning. I gritted my teeth. Enduring it.
But, at least, it was over ... it was over ...
***
A short time later, I was back in my cubicle, having showered myself two or three times. Trying to wash away the dirtiness I felt. Oh that beast! Please God that I never had to endure him again. But, still, I had another beast, of a different kind, to face that day.
In a way, he was even worse.
I slept as best I could, waiting for two o’clock to tick round. Then I made my way down to the cellars where boilerman Jan Havelet had his quarters.
“Come in,” he said as I knocked on his door.
I went in, wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled shoes. He regarded me approvingly but unsmiling. His face was set but I could see the lust in his dark eyes.
“Aching for it, eh?” he said.
“Yes, Sir ...”
“Come along then.” He crooked his finger and I followed him into the next room. It was just as I had seen it on my last visit.
There was a heavy, timbered framework to one side of the small room. Manacles at each of the four corners. Jan indicated I should stand within the framework. I obeyed.
“Raise your arms ...”
I did so, feeling my big breasts rise. He took each of my wrists in turn and fastened them into manacles at each corner of the top of the framework. Briefly he fondled my breasts.
“Good udders,” he said with deliberate crudity. He worked on my nipples and, to my annoyance, I felt them firming at once. He gave me a sideways grin. “Yes, you’re aching for it,” he said. I said nothing. What was the point? This bastard had me helpless. He could play all the games he wanted ... and I could not help my body responding.
Next my legs were pulled apart and each ankle fastened to manacles at the bottom of the frame. I was spreadeagled, starfish-fashion.
Utterly available to him.
“Well, that’s nice,” he said, studying me. Yet his cadaverous features remained almost motionless. Only his dark eyes glowed. I wished to God it was all over, but knew there was along time to go yet. “You kids are all the same,” he went on, “as randy as stoats, yet you won’t admit it. Like to pretend the opposite.”
I said nothing. “Isn’t that so?” he asked.
“If you say so, Sir,” I replied.
A nervous tic flicked in on my cheek and he got up and walked around behind me. He gave me two stinging slaps on my bottom. “Don’t be cheeky with me,” he said. “Or I’ll give you a caning. A good one. I see you’ve had a taste already today.”
“Yes Sir ... I’m sorry, Sir,’ I said meekly. Best to play it that way, infuriating as it is.
Coming round, he began to finger me, concentrating on my clitoris. He looked with a kind of sneering lechery straight into my eyes. Close.
“Nice?” he enquired.
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.
He nodded. “Mmm ... you kids like being frigged. I know. Don’t understand why you don’t admit it.” The pace of his fingers increased. I began to feel myself getting warmer and wetter. I just couldn’t help it. When you’re young and healthy, it’s perfectly natural. It was just horrible that it was this Jan doing it. “Aren’t I right?’
“Yes, S-Sir ...” I answered, my voice shaking. Involuntarily, I had begun to move my haunches. I wanted it. Oh the shame of it ... but I wanted it!
“Tell me when you’re going to come, little hot-pants,’ he leered.
“Yes ... ooohhh ... aaahhh ... yes ... S-Sir ...” I gasped.
Hate it as I might, I just couldn’t stop myself. The animal lust was mounting, mounting. His lips were twisting. He was sneering. But I didn’t care any more. I was on a wave ...
“Oooh ... oooh ... I ... I’m coming ... oooooo ... I’m coming ...”
“Come little one!”
I went into a jerking frenzy, squealing loudly as I spent myself. Oh the release ... oohh ... the relief. I went on jerking. I just couldn’t help myself. Then, when it was all over, my head slumped. I knew the degradation of it.
He knew it too.
That’s what the swine loved.
“Randy little bitch!” I could only sob. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes ... yes ... Sir,” I admitted.
Then he left me alone for a while, going into the other room and having a drink and a cigarette. I just hung there helpless. Waiting to see in what other ways he wanted to amuse himself.
Oh the filthy swine!
In fact, within the next half hour, he frigged me twice more. Each time my resulting orgasm was increased in violence. I hated myself ... but, then, I just couldn’t help myself. Oh how he loved it! Making me wriggle and squeal in such an abandoned fashion! I loved it ... yet I hated it ...
Then, as I had guessed he would, he came in with a big rubber dildo. It terrified me, yet at the same time, I somehow wanted it. Inside I was glowing.
“Aren’t you the lucky one,” he said.
“Yes ... Sir ... I answered. He slid it slowly into me. I gasped and squirmed. Oh ... it felt so big!]
“Nice?”
“Y-Yes ... oooohhh ... y-yes ...” At that moment, I wasn’t kidding. I loved the feel of it.
“This is a special one,” he said. “Automatic.” Then he flicked a switch. The dildo began to vibrate energetically. Involuntarily, I squirmed.
“Good, eh?”
“EEE ... ahhh ... oooh ... yes ... yes ... Sir ...”
“Ahhhhh ... oooooooooo ... aaahhhhhh ...” I cried. Already I was almost coming again.
“Better?”
“Ahhhh ... y-yes ... oooooo ... yes ... ahhhhhhh ... ahhhhhhh ...”
His mouth slipped into an exultant kind of grin. He licked his pale lips.
“Oh you are a randy little trollop. Aren’t you ... aren’t you?”
“Yes ... oooooooooo ... y-yes ...” I agreed. The wave of lust was overwhelming me again. In moments I was jerking uncontrollably in yet another climax.
Jan seated himself before me. He picked up another drink, lit another cigarette.
“Have fun,” he sneered.
The dildo went on jerking in and out of me as I hung there helpless.
***
I don’t know how many orgasms I had that afternoon. It was mind-blowing. With me getting weaker and more hysterical all the time. Jan just sat there watching. Revelling in my reactions. In my uncontrolled lust, which he had deliberately contrived.
At one stage I saw that he was playing with himself.
He didn’t want me; he simply wanted to degrade me.
That he did most successfully.
In the end, I more or less passed out. Vaguely, I remember him carrying me back to my cubicle. To swoop down into a sleep of exhaustion.
Tomorrow was another day.
It was Sunday.
When I would have two more men to amuse.
Chapter Four
TO SAY THAT Fiona’s first week at St Justine’s was the most appalling wretched of her life ...
That it was the most shamingly humiliating ...
That it was the most horrifically terrifying ...
That it was the most unbelievingly painful ...
... would be four consecutive understatements!
For, throughout, both mentally and physically, Fiona suffered beyond anything she had previously imagined humanly possible. Yet, if the truth were known, her sufferings were going to intensify in the weeks and months ahead.
It was, of course, coming new to them which made them seem all the worse.
***
Day One
(Morning) After a restless night, Fiona starts the day in tears. She lies wretchedly in her cubicle, mounting fear gripping her heart. The awfulness of everything is like a heavy weight on her being.
A girl looks in to warn her not to dilly-dally. “Just do as we do ... and hurry.” The girl is naked.
Fiona gets out of bed and takes off her powder-blue nightie and follows the girl’s swinging bouncing bottom as she runs to the shower-room. It is a room full of gasping-squeals. Everywhere there are breasts joggling up and down as girls jump and slap themselves. The water is freezing. Soon Fiona is gasping and squealing like the rest. The obligatory time to stay under the shower is three minutes.
Dry. Dress. Don’t forget powder-pink knickers and brassiere.
Breakfast. A wooden table; trestle stools. Fiona has no appetite.
“Eat ... or you’ll be for it,” urges someone in a whisper.
Fiona eats, feeling sick. She is aware, however, that food is nourishing and well cooked.
Assembly. Prayers and hymns. The hypocrisy of it! On a dais, three figures. Terrifying figures. Central, pale and nun-like, is Madame Duerrisse. Flanking her, Miss Ingrid and Miss Hester. But Fiona scarcely has eyes for them, she is both fascinated and petrified by the humped, leather contrivance to one side of the dais.
A Punishment Block.
Where the birchings must take place!
Fiona closes her eyes in horror. A tear trickles down one cheek. Now Madame Duerrisse is speaking, her voice cool and matter-of-fact. Suddenly Fiona is aware of eyes upon her. She hears her name. Terror grips her.
“Fiona ... come up her.”
Her legs are like jelly. She flushes crimson. Yet she must obey. Trembling, she walks down the centre aisle.
“Up here.” She mounts the dais. “Turn around ...”
Fiona turns, flushing even more deeply, to see all eyes upon. Oh the humiliation of it!
“This is our newest pupil at St Justine’s,” announces Madame Duerrisse. “Her name is Fiona Von Bal and she is Austrian. Aged 21.” A pause. “Her uncle sent her here.” Another pause. “Partly because she made little effort when she was at her previous boarding school. Partly so that she can learn to behave herself better.” Another pause. “Here, I assure you and her, Fiona will make a very considerable effort. And she will also learn to behave herself in a exemplary fashion.” Deathly silence in the Hall. Fiona goes back to her seat.
“School ... dismiss!”
Now they hurry to the dreaded classrooms. Fiona sits at her small desk, still quaking. Before her is the Strapping Stool. A girl has taken down those three straps from the wall and is zealously oiling them. Everyone stands up as Miss Hester sweeps in with a cheery:
“Good morning, girls!”
“Good morning, Miss Hester,” they chorus and then sit down.
“English Literature,” announces Miss Hester, opening a book. “First we will test last night’s prep. Una will start. Your ten lines from “Paradise Lost”, girl.”
A chair scrapes. A girl’s voice starts reciting:
‘Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from the ‘ethereal sky
With hideous ruin and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire
Who burst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms ...’
Fiona listens dully. How absurd, how galling, to have to learn such drivel! She had never bothered at school. The thought of the kind of mental effort she was going to have to make in future makes her want to weep.
“No mistakes,” says Miss Hester. “You may sit down, Una. Leila to continue.”
Another voice. More archaic lines of verse are recited.
“Two mistakes, Leila. Come out here.”
Fiona’s heart leaps to her throat as she sees Miss Hester rise and take down the double-thonged strap. Leila is a seasoned pupil of almost five months. She rarely gets the single-thonged strap nowadays. Either double or triple. The dark-haired girl kneels on the step of the Stool. She has a single, long pigtail, carefully plaited.
“Knickers down, Leila ...” Those dreaded words which always precede pain!
The little pink briefs are lowered. Miss Hester clips up Leila’s skirt. Her naked bottom is exposed to all eyes. It is a smallish bottom but firm and well-rounded. That of a thirteen or fourteen year old, although Leila is actually seventeen. The girl stretches over and her wrists are secured.
“Two strokes for each error, Leila ...”
With a viciousness which shocks Fiona, the strap falls.
Tthhwwaacckkkk!
Breathless gasps. Like those under the showers. The head jerks up; the taut bottom squirms. Two bright pink-red swathes encircle the flesh, mainly over the right buttock cheek. Miss Hester changes sides.
Tthhwwaacckkkkk!
This time the left buttock cheek takes the main brunt.
“Ah-ah ... ooooouuuuuu ...”
Back to the other side again.
Tthhwwaaccckkkkk!
The thongs fall almost precisely over the first two smarting swathes.
“Oww ... oowww!” Leila squirms more violently. Miss Hester is really getting through to her that morning. Swinging with full force.
Changing side again. The fourth and final stroke falls on the left buttock cheek. Deliberately overlaid again.
“Aahh ... oooww!”
Fiona is appalled by the severi
ty of the punishment. All that for just two simple mistakes! She is amazed too, that the girl did not scream with pain. There was just those breathless gasps. Those ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ows’. Incredible!
The wrists released. The knickers pulled up. “Back to your place. I’ll test you again later.”
Biting her lips, but dry-eyed, Leila returns to her desk.
“Next ... you Susan ...” Another recitation begins.
So it goes on, until all eleven girls have been tested. Fiona, of course, is exempt.
But she has to watch two more strappings. Another one of four strokes and one of six. It is the girl at the next desk who gets six. She had only been at St Justine’s for about a month. She makes far more fuss over it than the other two, even though Miss Hester only uses the single-thonged strap on her.
The girl’s reactions are much more understandable to Fiona. She wants to close her eyes. She wants to flee from that classroom. But, needless to say, she dare do neither.
The hour drags on. They have to write a short essay on their favourite poet. And say why. Fiona tries ... but feels she has not done very well.
It has to happen, of course.
Inevitable, sooner or later.
It happens in the next class. Which is Maths. Never one of Fiona’s strong subjects. She makes four errors in a series of ten Long Division sums. She takes her solutions up last, two girls having been strapped for mistakes already. Miss Hester’s lead pencil slashes big crosses. She rises, takes down the single-thonged strap.
“Over you go, Fiona,” she says, nodding at the Stool.
Fiona almost panics. The desire to flee is nearly overwhelming. How can she shame herself before all those watching eyes? She turns this way and that, seeing Miss Hester’s hard green eyes upon her.
“An extra one for delay, Fiona,” say the Form Mistress.
Shaking with sobs, Fiona kneels on the leather step.
“Knickers down ...”
She pushes them down, feels her skirt lifted up and clipped. Her sobs intensify. She stretches forward. Her wrists are clamped by the rings. Oh the shame of that immodest posture!