by Sarah Steel
‘Observe,’ the dowager instructed, expertly shuffling the deck in her hands. ‘You see? Now I cut the pack. A six. Now I shuffle the pack once more. What will the next card I cut be, I wonder? Higher than a six, or lower?’
Rubber fingertips strummed Freddie’s anal whorl as she desperately tried to think straight. Somehow she knew her answer would prove vital. Get it wrong and the strawberry-blonde bitches behind her would have lots of fun with her bare bottom. She had to try and think straight. The odds, what were the odds? Fifty-two cards in a pack, ace counts high, so that made twenty and… and… she could not think, she could not calculate. She felt a strangely delicious wave of panic surge up inside her and harden her crushed nipples.
‘Higher,’ the dowager demanded, ‘or lower?’
She closed her eyes. It had to be higher… no, it was lower…
‘Open your eyes, girl.’
Still trying to calculate the odds she failed to obey the stern command, and a length of hard leather cracked down across her bare bottom, kiss-lashing her satin smooth mounds. She spat out the gag and screamed.
‘Answer,’ the dowager insisted, fingering the edge of the cards.
‘Higher!’ she sobbed.
The manicured fingers teased out a four of clubs and placed it against her lips. ‘Kiss it,’ the silver-haired woman whispered.
Freddie’s dry lips pressed obediently, submissively, against the cool plastic card.
‘Four!’ the dowager barked, and instantly Lara swiped the vicious leather strap four times in blistering succession. Shrieking, Freddie struggled to escape the burning strokes of hide across her reddened buttocks.
‘Higher,’ the dowager demanded softly as she held out a nine, ‘or lower?’
Freddie mumbled a response. ‘Lower.’
The older woman teased out a ten of spades from the deck. ‘Ten strokes,’ she ordered.
Perspiring slightly, her damp vest adhering to her round breasts, Lara obediently plied the hide, leaving the English girl’s buttocks ablaze.
The dowager forced Freddie to choose twice more, and twice more she lost.
‘Bad run of luck,’ the austere woman said. ‘Another seven strokes, if you please, Lara.’
Afterwards, a sobbing Freddie was made to don a tight rubber mask. It encased her head completely, denying her sight and speech and forcing her to stop crying. Tiny air holes at each nostril allowed her to breathe, even as the sticky latex wet her hot face with perspiration. That was all she wore as they tied her hands together above her bare bottom, and then attached vicious little peg-clips to her nipples. Terrified, and yet also deliciously, disturbingly aroused, she trembled and awaited her fate.
‘Bend her over, Kristina. Lara, the cane, please.’
The dowager’s commands were executed promptly with one blonde forcing Freddie to bend over while the other swished the supple length of whippy cane in a practice stroke.
‘Far flaps,’ the dowager stated.
Kristina’s fingers picked at the rubber flaps, and a rush of noise bruised Freddie’s eardrums, making her gasp.
‘I know you can hear me, girl. Kristina, you may also select a cane.’
Freddie shivered as she heard the glass cabinet being opened, followed by the dry rattle of a bamboo cane being plucked out. Kristina returned, and took up her position directly opposite Lara. She sensed them flanking her, but she could not see them.
‘Examine her.’
The tips of the canes kissed the swell of her bare buttocks, dimpling her soft cheeks. Expertly, the Slavic beauties worked their canes so the flesh at her crease was opened and exposed.
‘Dryish,’ Lara announced.
‘Excellent. Now we’ll see how wet gambling gets the little whore.’
They peeled off her rubber helmet and undid the bonds at her wrists, pulling her upright again. Her legs quivered as the dowager reached out and fingered the peg-clips biting into her nipples, first the left and then the right, and she felt a scream building up inside her.
‘An even bet for you, girl. Which one will I snatch away first, hmm?’
Perspiration trickled between Freddie’s breasts, turning the shadowed curves of her orbs a lovely glistening rose.
‘I’m waiting,’ the dowager prompted menacingly.
She closed her eyes in despair. ‘The left,’ she whispered.
‘Wrong.’
Her eyes flickered open again in terror. At her nipples she saw the manicured fingernails closing in at each clip, and a sudden snatching movement plucked both pegs away simultaneously, leaving her puckering buds red and ravaged with pain. She screamed.
‘Roulette,’ the dowager announced placidly. ‘Bring your canes with you.’
All through the long afternoon the wheel spun and the ball rattled, clinking as it came to rest. Betting wildly Freddie became engrossed, unaware of how much debt she was amassing. Then she sobered up abruptly and counted her losses, to be paid in cane strokes. She had lost heavily and she panicked, realising her bottom was to be beaten by the blistering bamboo.
‘But before we settle your debts, admit it, Frederica,’ the dowager urged. ‘You enjoyed your game, didn’t you?’
She nodded mutely.
‘Lara.’
The firm-lipped young woman fingered Freddie’s pussy with clinical precision. ‘Wet,’ she pronounced, holding up a glistening forefinger. Freddie reddened furiously, hating the indignity.
‘Exactly as I thought. Time to settle your debts, girl, before you go to bed. Sixteen strokes.’
Kristina and Lara took turns lashing her, their canes swishing down to criss-cross the proffered buttocks with crimson lines of torment. The canes clashed above the tortured bottom after the seventh stroke, clattering noisily as their polished lengths collided. Then Lara tossed hers aside and knelt, hugging Freddie’s thighs and pressing her face into the captive flesh while Kristina continued to whip her cane down, making Lara scream softly each time the bamboo kissed her cheeks through her tight white shorts. She lapped at Freddie’s thigh, tonguing her satin-soft skin as the punishing cane swept down.
Freddie squirmed in her narrow cot. She slept fitfully, lapsing into troubled dreams filled with stern blondes and even sterner punishments. When she woke the sheet beneath her sex was damp with the juices of her nocturnal arousal.
They came for her a little before ten o’clock the next morning. Bundling her into a tepid shower, they soaped and scrubbed her before dragging her out onto the tiled floor of the bathroom to towel her dry.
She fleetingly toyed with the idea of bribing the two slavish blondes, but as the towel fiercely raked the cleft between her cane-striped cheeks, she knew it was futile. These stern beauties served the dowager exclusively.
She was dressed in a simple white cotton robe and served a meagre breakfast consisting of an apple, bread and butter and a single cup of weak tea. The tray was then promptly whisked away and she was taken to sit in front of a television with a video player perched on top of it.
‘No,’ the dowager said briskly as she stepped into the room, ‘remove her robe first.’ She was dangling a thin leather belt from her left hand, while what appeared to be a rolled up ball of cling-film nestled in the palm of her other hand.
Lara pulled on the belt holding Freddie’s robe closed and peeled it away, forcing her to stand up and shrug it off. She blushed with shame to feel so completely owned and controlled. Resentfully, she risked a last bid for dignity by furtively inching her hands down across her belly to protectively cup and cover her pubis.
‘Hands up on your head, girl,’ the dowager snapped impatiently, and slowly, Freddie obeyed her.
‘Dress her in these.’
Kristina took the clear plastic panties from her mistress, and flapping them open gently, she knelt at the English girl’s feet. Freddie stepped into the strange un
derwear obediently, hissing softly as they were smoothed tightly up between her thighs, and clouded over almost at once from the heat of her pussy.
‘Now, girl, push them down,’ the dowager instructed. ‘No, just a fraction.’
Puzzled, Freddie timidly obeyed, pushing the soft plastic down over her hips until her soft bush was exposed and the panties formed a tight, restricting band around her thighs.
Rolling up the leather belt the dowager handed it to Kristina, who kept it tightly coiled while she carefully positioned it at Freddie’s vulva, and then suddenly pulled the plastic panties up again to hold it in place.
‘We’re going to the races, girl. Exciting, hmm? But I want you to try to contain your excitement. I know now how much gaming arouses you. That is the key to your cure. But first, try to contain yourself. I will be watching you very carefully. And as you are visible to me, I shall see if you become wet.’
Freddie, blushing deeply, averted her gaze.
‘Wet that belt, girl, and I’ll whip you, understand?’
Forced to kneel before the video screen, Freddie watched the replay of a steeplechase. A bunch finish, with the horses fresh and keen, flew past the two-furlong post. Then pause and freeze-frame the horses straining and lunging motionless towards the line with all four feet above the grass.
‘Choose,’ commanded the dowager, ‘and choose wisely. Your odds will be paid out in stripes should you lose.’
Her assistants giggled softly, clearly relishing Freddie’s anguish.
The screen flickered, and the horses dashed headlong past the one-furlong mark. Number three looked good, the jockey riding hands and heels, but number five, a length off the pace, was looking even stronger. Then the horses froze once more above the grass.
‘Choose!’
Her breasts felt heavy, her tummy muscles fluttered, and down at her hot hive, honey wept freely. The sheer thrill of calling the bet – number three or number five – was propelling her towards an orgasm. Her labia spread apart, riding the coiled hide and silvering it with her wet heat. Number three or number five? It was too delicious trying to decide between them… she was starting to come… ‘N-number five,’ she groaned.
A manicured nail jabbed down on the control button. The horses drew level, flashed by the winning post, and continued running for another circuit.
Writhing under the belt swiping across her bare bottom, Freddie squealed and pressed her tearstained face up against the screen as, two minutes later, number six flashed by the winning post. Number five trailed in fourth. The belt, wet with her climax, whistled and snapped relentlessly, driving her headlong into another savage orgasm.
‘I’ve spoken with your father, Frederica. You are to remain here until you’re completely cured.’
It was Freddie’s fifth night in the dowager’s Notting Hill lair. ‘You shall be cured, my girl, I assure you. It is quite simple. Gaming gives you great pleasure, and so, I have discovered, does being subjected to dominance and discipline. No, do not try and deny it. Therefore, I propose to hand you over to one of my two Slavic beauties. Under the thumb and crop of Kristina, or the heel and the cane of Lara, I think you will be cured once and for all. But which is it to be, I wonder?’
She shivered with delicious dread. Kristina, so cruel with the whippy crop, always happy to flick the little loop of leather up between Freddie’s parted thighs to lick her labia with little tongues of fire. Or sweetly vicious Lara, who after several searing strokes of the cane had the disturbing habit of inserting the tip of her quivering weapon between Freddie’s striped cheeks, probing the wet pinkness of her tight little anus.
Lara or Kristina?
‘Full or empty?’ The dowager held out both her hands closed into fists. ‘Choose.’
Tempted, Freddie succumbed to the wager and tapped the clenched right fist. ‘Empty.’
The dowager opened it, and a glint of gold winked up at Freddie. ‘Full,’ the dowager murmured. ‘You lose, girl. I name Lara as your dominatrix.’
Freddie bowed her head, as usual avoiding the stern green gaze.
‘Double or quits?’ the older woman whispered.
Freddie glanced up. It was the ultimate wager – freedom to walk out into the traffic of Labroke Grove, or servitude beneath the lash of the beautifully vicious strawberry-blonde. She took a deep breath, and nodded.
‘Heads I win,’ the dowager stated, and spun the golden coin in the air, and heads it was.
Freddie paled, and then began weeping. Hours of humiliation stretched out before her into days and nights of unmitigated torment.
The dowager opened her palm. On it, gleaming softly, Freddie saw her double-headed sovereign. ‘I’ll cure you, my girl, you can bet on it.’
Caught Behind
The late summer breeze sighed at the bedroom window, wafting the drawn curtains and making them shiver. Lying on her bed in the darkening room, Susie dug the rubber-spiked fingers of the stolen cricket gloves into her wet pussy, parting her labial lips. Shiny-wet with her arousal, they too shivered. She grunted impatiently and dug deeper, pinioning and punishing her slit with savage tenderness. A single spike skidded up her slippery flesh, catching her clitoral thorn, and she squealed softly. Grinding her buttocks frantically into the prickly surface of her green candlewick bedspread, she grunted in response to the sweet burning ache between her thighs.
Out in the deepening dusk, high up in a shivering elm, an owl hooted, a soft, sorrowful note. On her bed her legs lewdly spread, Susie dragged her gloved hands up through her tightly coiled bush, across her pale stomach and up to her naked breasts. At each trapped globe of flesh the cruel gloves squeezed, and her nipples rose thicker and harder than the red rubber spikes pleasuring them with sweet pain.
Behind her tightly closed eyes Susie squeezed out images of the village cricket team, man by sinewy, sweaty man. The Cocks. The team took its name from the pub where she worked as a live-in barmaid. The Cocks were a virile bunch, very virile, and to the dismay of anxious sisters and jealous wives, Susie served many of their number with more than a foaming pint. Peter, who kept wicket, possessed such wonderfully skilful hands, hands that held tightly and gripped fiercely. Terry, the Cocks’s spin bowler, never failed to deliver fast and furiously. And Greg, the lithe, dark-eyed gamekeeper’s assistant, was so versatile in the field…
The spiked gloves squeezed harder. In the field… her groan melted into a naughty chuckle. The rubber spikes raked across her stubby nipples, and then painfully dimpled her tender orb. She gasped, clamping her thighs closed to contain the juice flowing from her hot pussy. Greg in the field… twisting her face into the bedspread, she tongued the rippling cotton embroidery. Greg had taken her to the secluded paddock behind Lower Grange Farm last Sunday. In the field, bare-bottomed and kneeling, she nuzzled the sweet grass as Greg took her roughly from behind.
Viciously strumming her mulberry-dark nipples, she remembered Greg’s hoarse gasps as he pounded into her faster and harder, his heavy balls slapping noisily against her wet sex as his hard length filled and stretched the tightness between her clenched buttocks. He came, and his hot seed spilled out of her bottom to scald the crease of her cleft. Still thick and at full stretch, he remained lodged inside as he spanked her, his hand swiping down to deliver a stinging crack across her helpless buttock. She remembered her shrill cry piercing the silence of the dark spinney behind them. He spanked her a second time, and then came the soft slapping of his balls again as, faster and faster, he shafted her between her smouldering cheeks. Smothering her full-throated scream of raw pleasure, she was forced to bite into a clump of pungent clover just as Greg hurriedly pulled out, and contemptuously shot his sticky load down onto the nape of her bowed neck.
Greg in the field… memories of the paddock last Sunday drew the batsman’s gloves down to her wet heat again. Spreading her sex lips wide, she drummed the spikes furiously. Tightening her butto
cks, she jerked them up off the bedspread, submitting her glowing clitoris to the firm caress of a spiked index finger.
Greg… she remembered rubbing the shiny wooden bails slowly between her thighs afterwards, slowly and deliberately, as his cooling cum flowed around her neck like a rope of liquid pearls. And recalling the sweet rank smell of his semen in her nostrils, an orgasm welled implacably up inside her. She groaned softly, and twisting her slippery naked body over, she came suddenly, taken almost by surprise by the sweet savagery of her climax. She angled her gloved hand down just in time to thrust a spiked finger up between her tightening cheeks, sobbing with delight. The red rubber spikes bit into her anal passage, rocketing her into a fresh spasm, and opening her mouth wide, she bit her pillow to smother a shriek just as she had bitten into the clump of clover… bitten into the pungent clover as Greg knuckled her pussy tenderly last Sunday in the field.
‘Come along, Romulus. Heel, Remus, heel.’
Approaching The Cock across the village green, Virginia Emsley, president of the Women’s Institute, trod the soft turf firmly down beneath her polished brogues. Beside her, scurrying in her majestic wake, Alice Sneesby struggled to keep pace. And bounding alongside them in the twilight, two red Irish Setters defied the stern commands of their mistress.
‘The Cocks should take the County Cup from the Stumpies tomorrow,’ Alice panted.
‘Langley Parva certainly deserves a win,’ her companion snapped, the tartness of her waspish tone barely concealing her reluctance to call the home side the Cocks.
Alice shivered even though the summer evening was warm. ‘Why are they called the Stumpies?’ she wondered aloud, too timid of her dominant lover to ask the question directly.
‘Leave it, Romulus… Remus, come!’ Virginia barked, whipping her dog leads smartly against her thigh. ‘Damn animals,’ she muttered, rattling their chains impatiently. ‘Dead squirrel. Why are who called what, my dear?’