Defiant submission … Play at being slaves … Fool the residents into thinking you’ve had been broken … Let them take their revenge but live to fight another day … They’ll have nothing to show for it and we’ll still be the Elite …
Well, that last aspiration was certainly dead and buried. The Elite was no more. And the residents would have something tangible besides memories as mementoes of their revenge: a library of high quality S&M images to enjoy during the long winter evenings. Would some of them be masturbating over a picture of her ten years from now? The idea made her stomach churn.
If that possibility had occurred to her on Friday night would it have made a difference? She was not sure. She was not sure of so many things now. Everything had changed.
There was Gail lapping up her food like a dog. She was holding herself stiffly but had a contented expression on her face. As she ate she was exchanging knowing smiles with Hazel and Daniela that clearly meant: ‘Tell you about it later,’ and was receiving similar glances in return. It was disturbing how readily the three of them had settled into slavery after the fear they had first shown. Even Sian looked relatively at ease. Or was she putting on an act? Only Cassie appeared morose, flashing accusing looks which Tara responded to with bland unconcern.
The Elite was finished and she no longer cared for what Cassie thought of her, except in so far as it affected her own circumstances. All that mattered was getting though the next four days.
After their morning exercise, Warwick announced that, as they were making so much use of the place, it only seemed right that they mow the back lawn of Number 2. But they would not be using a conventional mower. Louisa and Narinda had brought a curious selection of items out of the house while he had been speaking, and now they set about putting them to use.
The girls were arranged in a row shoulder to shoulder on their hands and knees. A long pole fitted with six regularly spaced snap hooks was then slung from their collar rings, ensuring they kept in line. Their ankles were tied to those of the girls on either side and then spread with short lengths of bamboo. One end of a length of wire had been twisted round the middle of each of these bamboo spreader bars. The other end had been skewered through the middle of a rubber ball, folded back on itself and twisted tight. With the help of a little vaseline, these balls were pushed up the girls’ rear passages.
It was an indignity to which they were becoming accustomed, and there were only a few muted grunts as the balls were forced inside them. But beyond encouraging them to shuffle forward on their knees in small increments, and not to stretch their legs out behind them, Tara could not see what other purpose they served. However the residents had not been lacking in ingenuity so far …
A garden glove was placed on their left hands and a pair of spring-handled clippers were taped to their right. Six black plastic bin bags were then produced. These had rings of wire taped to their mouths to hold them open. A loop of wire threaded through a short plastic sleeve was fastened to each ring. The sleeves went into the girls’ mouths like horses’ bits, leaving the bags to trail under their bodies.
The girls were shuffled into line facing down one side of the rough lawn and commanded to start cutting. Once again Louisa had her camera out to record their shame for those residents away at work.
While resting on her left hand, each girl clipped the patch of grass immediately in front of her with her clippers. Then she rested on her right hand while scooping the loose cuttings into the bin bag with her gloved hand. When they were all done they shuffled on to the next patch.
Now the true purpose of the wires running from their ankle spreaders to their anuses became clear. As the bags filled with grass cuttings they dragged more heavily against their ankle rods and the bulging ends started to roll over them. The wires held them in place, though the bags pressed with increasing force on their anal balls. But then it was not intended to be comfortable.
Neither was it the fastest way to cut grass, Tara thought, as the sweat began to pool on her back and trickle down the cleft of her buttocks, but in a perverse way it was ecologically sound and energy efficient. And who would not rather have a bevy of sweaty slavegirls on their hands and knees with their backsides on show than a roaring smelly petrol mower?
The grass was so thick and rough that their bags were almost full by the time they reached the end of the lawn. They were briefly allowed to straighten up while Warwick emptied the bags into a bin. Narinda took a bottle of water along the line and they drank from it gratefully, spilled drops falling onto their already glistening breasts. Then the bag handles were put back between their teeth and they were turned around and set off up the lawn to cut a second swathe.
Tara tried to estimate the rate they were going and doubted if they would be finished by lunchtime. Still, although it was uncomfortable it not the most humiliating thing they had been made to do, she decided. It must be one of those tasks the residents had concocted to teach their ‘spoilt’ captives the value of honest hard toil. Did they really think it was that simple? For Hazel, Gail and Daniela perhaps, she conceded, but then that trio were already so lost in playing at slaves they’d do anything they were told and probably enjoy it. But Sian and Cassie were unlikely converts to the work ethic. As for herself – well, it was giving her ideas …
With the heat and mechanical repetition of her task, her thoughts began to wander. The six of them did make a pretty sight. After this was over maybe she could find a few girls willing to cut her lawn naked and bound like this, while she watched over them. Hazel, Gail and Daniela, perhaps? She felt her juices begin to drip onto the bag between her legs at the exciting thought, then started in alarm.
She was getting excited about having naked girl-slaves in her garden! Worse, she was leaving a sign of her arousal on the sack where it would be seen when it was next changed! God, what was happening to her?
Then she thought: so what if she was getting excited? They were trapped in a weird sex game so it was perfectly natural to have pervy daydreams. And the residents couldn’t know exactly what she was thinking. Besides, they’d already seen her do far more intimate things. Modesty was suspended for the duration. She was a slave and expected to act perversely. It was a sort of freedom, she supposed.
Tara slipped back into her happy fantasy …
What about the other games the residents had played with them? Could she do to those three what Hilary and Rachel had done to her the previous night?
Her daydream was cut short by a sudden commotion from the bottom of the garden.
Somebody was shouting loudly even as the timbers of the back fence shook. There was the sound of a body crashing though the overgrown shrubs in the lower boarder and then heavy feet pounding across the lawn.
‘What have you done to them?’ a man cried in horror as he ran into view. ‘I’ll save you, Miss Tara!’
It was Simon Pye.
* * *
It was absolutely the worst moment of Tara’s life,
She thought she had plumbed the depths of shame and degradation over the last few days, but to have Simon Pye of all people see her like this was too much to bear. He was a simple-minded gardener who worked for her father, for God sake! Tara cringed, suddenly acutely aware of her nakedness, and futilely tried to cover her breasts and pubes by hugging the half-filled grass bag to her. On either side of her the other girls were doing the same. They had grown used to the residents seeing them naked, but Simon was an intruder from outside, a shocking reminder of their old life where what they were doing right now was unthinkable and degrading.
Simon Pye was arguing with Narinda and Major Warwick and pointing angrily at the girls, while trying not to actually look at their naked bodies. If they didn’t let them go right now he’d call the police and –
All the time Louisa Jessop had been working the controls of her camera. Now she held its screen up in front of Simon’s flushed face.
‘… is Simon, you know, all right?’
From where they crouc
hed on the grass they could hear the audio playback. It was Cassie’s voice, and with sudden horrible clarity they all knew where and when the images to accompany it had been recorded. Tom Fanning had done his job all too well.
Tara winced and lowered her head out of a sense of shame even deeper than that she had felt only moments earlier. The absolute worse moment in her life had just been surpassed. One by one the others did the same, not wanting to meet Simon’s eyes. Relentlessly the recording played on, and as it did so Simon’s face turned from anger though confusion to misery.
‘… that’s what this week’s for: to remind them exactly where they belong.’
Louisa turned off her camera. Warwick put a hand on Simon’s shoulder and led the young man into the house, leaving the girls in the charge of the two women.
Narinda clapped her hand briskly. ‘Back to work. You’ve a job to finish.’
They bent to their task without a murmur, grateful to have something to occupy them, happy not to have to look into each other’s faces.
An hour later Warwick returned to the garden alone. The living mowing machine was halted and the girls permitted to sit back on their heels to listen to what he had to say.
‘Simon Pye now understands why we’ve been treating you like this,’ Warwick told them gravely. ‘He’s seen recordings of your confessions and knows everything you’ve done to us over the last eighteen months. Needless to say he will not be attempting to rescue you again. Being an honest young man he thought you should be turned over to the police –’ Tara’s heart skipped a beat and Gail drew in her breath in alarm ‘– but I have persuaded him that justice will be served if we continue our course of private punishment. On this understanding he has agreed to keep both your crimes and our retribution secret. He will also maintain the illusion that you are away on holiday and mind your camp and possessions.’ His gaze lingered on Tara, Cassie and Sian as he added: ‘Some of you must realise how badly you both insulted Simon and spurned his trust, apart from implicating him as a potential accessory to your activities, which could have got him into serious trouble had things worked out differently. At some time you’ll have to make your peace with him, one way or another. But for the moment we shall continue as before.’
They went back to work again.
As they clipped their way across the seemingly endless lawn, Tara fought a silent battle with her conscience. Of course Simon wasn’t important as such, but unlike the residents of the Close he had done nothing to harm her. He had been totally loyal and trusting, he’d known his place and had actually been worried enough to come looking for her when he thought she was in trouble. And in return she had used him rather callously. It had been a challenge to pursue her war against the Close, whereas wrapping Simon round her little finger had taken next to no effort or ingenuity at all. It was nothing of which to be proud.
It was mid-afternoon before they finished cutting the lawn, and a positive relief to be locked into their bed frames and rest their aching backs. But there was no swapping of stories between Gail, Daniela and Hazel, nor sniping from Sian and Cassie; just a long awkward silence, which Daniela eventually broke.
‘It was nice of Simon to try to rescue us,’ she said simply.
‘Yeah, he’s a real fuckin’ white knight,’ Cassie said scornfully. ‘Now we’ve got to live with him knowing what we’ve been through.’
‘He’s not working in Fernleigh Rise ever again,’ Sian said. ‘How could we have him in our gardens after he’s seen us like this? You can get rid of him, Tara. You must!’
‘He was just doing what he thought was right,’ Tara said impatiently. ‘Warwick said he’d keep quiet and I believe him.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Cassie exclaimed. ‘What if he changes his mind and tells on us?’
‘Buy him off,’ Sian said desperately. ‘Set him up somewhere else. You want to tear down his house anyway –’
‘Shut up!’ Tara snapped. ‘I’ll do whatever I choose about Simon when it comes to it, but for now I’m just thinking about getting through the next few days.’
There was another silence, then Gail said: ‘Whatever anybody else does, I’m going to apologise to him. It wasn’t right getting him involved in our business like this. He could have got into real trouble if the police had found out.’
Hazel and Daniela murmured their agreement, and Hazel asked: ‘Tara, how much did you tell him about what we were doing?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Tara said.
‘But how much?’ Hazel persisted.
Tara sighed. ‘Just that we wanted to stay in the woods quietly for a week as a joke. He didn’t ask anything else. He was good like that. He did what he was told.’
‘He won’t be so good in future,’ Daniela observed.
‘Do you think he’ll, well, try to get his own back at us in some way?’ Hazel wondered.
‘Oh, God!’ Cassie moaned. ‘Don’t say we’ve got to worry about him stalking us? Why couldn’t you have found somebody normal, Tara?’
‘It didn’t help you and Sian calling him “simple” and “stupid”,’ Gail pointed out. ‘Anybody might get angry after hearing that.’
‘It’s not our fault!’ Sian snapped. ‘All this is down to Tara and her stupid bloody war on Cheyner Close. That’s what got us into this.’
‘I didn’t hear you complaining while we were having fun,’ Tara said. ‘You’ve had eighteen months to say something. Having regrets just because things have gone wrong and now you’re feeling sorry for yourself?’
Sian didn’t answer. After a moment Daniela asked quietly: ‘Are you sorry about the things we’ve done to the people in the Close, Tara?’
There was a long silence before Tara said thoughtfully: ‘I think I misjudged them …’
The soft tomato burst with a stinging smack against Tara’s right breast, momentarily driving her hard nipple back into its fleshy resilience, and spraying pulp and seeds all over her. Its remains slithered down her body, mingling with the slimy streaks of egg and rotten apple that already plastered her. Tara swayed about on her treacherous mount, her thighs trying to clench. She was filthy and bedraggled and humiliated … and she was going to come at any moment.
The evening’s entertainment was taking place in Gerald Spooner’s garden once again. It was a variation on the old-fashioned pillory.
A heavy rope had been slung high up between two trees and drawn tight. Thinner ropes were slung over this and tied to the girls’ wrists, which had been strapped in front of them, and then pulled tight, drawing them up until their toes dangled clear of the grass. Then the pogo sticks had been fitted.
They were not actual pogo sticks, of course, but wooden rods about the length of walking sticks with crosspieces screwed into place close to their lower ends. The upper ends of the rods were capped with fluorescent-coloured play balls, bristling with soft rubber prongs.
These had of course been forced up into their vaginas, making them gasp and shiver as the prongs worked their way into their tunnels of ribbed flesh. Their ankles had then been spread and strapped to the crossbars. The lower ends of the rods dug into the ground, leaving the tops to sway about as they shifted their weight, half-supported by the sticks and half by their bound wrists. This motion stirred the pronged balls lodged in their warm wet elastic sheaths. The only way to minimise the torment was to hold as still as possible. But being suspended from the same rope meant they kept shaking each other off balance as they wobbled about comically, like counterweighted toys that never quite fell over however much they rocked and swayed.
If that was not enough, the residents had lined up before them with boxes of old tomatoes, eggs and apples, and started hurling them at them. Even old Spooner himself joined in. The impact of these missiles made them flinch and gyrate even more, as did their almost entirely futile but instinctive attempts to dodge, only adding to their perverse misery.
They were being used for malicious target practice, no better than some fairground
coconut shy, Tara thought. It was mean and so utterly humiliating … and still her juices were running down her thighs along with the other muck coating her.
Gail’s buttocks twitched and clenched. She gave a long sigh and then sagged forward, her back bowed and her lovely big filth-streaked breasts hanging pendant like ripe fruits. The rain of eggs, tomatoes and rotten fruits turned to the remaining five girls.
So that was how it worked …
Tara clenched her inner muscles tight about the pronged ball on which she was impaled and squirmed about desperately, willing herself to come. Panting and gasping she rode the rod until the blissful knot in her loins burst and flooded her with raw pleasure. Letting go she hung limp, not trying to dodge any more, surrendering herself in the hope the residents would obey the rules of the game. And they did.
The girls were in such a sticky smelly mess by the time the game finished that Stan Jessop unrolled a garden hose and sprayed them over to wash off the worst of the muck. Each resident was nevertheless advised to give their slave for the night a proper shower when they get them home. Still, everybody agreed it had been a good game.
It was only as she hung from her wrists dripping wet and shivering that Tara thought to wonder why she had not tried to fake an orgasm to remove herself from the firing line. After all the deceptions she had perpetrated, why not this most minor and excusable one to save herself unnecessary discomfort? Why had she become so determined to play the residents’ games by their rules? Was she trying to prove something to herself?
Tom Fanning worked the shampoo well into Sian’s thick black hair. She twisted her head about, screwing up her eyes as the lather rolled down her face.
‘Don’t squirm so much, girl,’ he said, directing the jet from the shower to rinse the suds away. ‘You want to get properly clean, don’t you?’
Sian spluttered and blinked and gave a resentful nod.
Captives of Cheyner Close Page 13