Captives of Cheyner Close

by Adriana Arden

  Sian appeared though the curtain in the top hat and jacket to introduce the next act. Her cheeks were still flushed and she walked with her thighs clenched and hand clasped to her pussy. The audience chuckled.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special musical item for your pleasure. I’m sure you’ve all heard of the “Doh, Re, Me” song from “The Sound of Music”. Well, now the Elite Mammary Campanological Choir present a version like you’ve never heard, or seen, before. Move over, Julie, we’re busting to get started!’

  The curtain parted to reveal Tara, Gail, Hazel and Daniela kneeling over the backs of a row of chairs facing the audience. Their arms were folded neatly behind them so that their breasts dangled freely. Bells of different sizes, scavenged from the sets Narinda had used, were clipped to their nipples.

  Clasped between her teeth Tara had a pair of strikers made from hard rubber balls mounted on sticks. Sian took these from her and waved them about like a conductor’s baton before starting to pummel the row of eight breasts before her, making the dangling bells ring. As she struck each breast the girls sang out the note and part of the song associated with it. When she reached the end Sian went back down the line hitting the bobbing mammaries harder, this time just getting a tuneful oww! and a jingle each time.

  The recital was received with great appreciation. The girls gave a mass jingle of their nipple-bells as the curtain closed.

  After a moment Gail came out dressed as the compère, having quickly removed her nipple-bells.

  ‘Pets can be so embarrassing at times, and girl pets are the worst,’ she said. ‘They’ll put their noses just about anywhere, even where they don’t belong. But it’s no good telling them off. It’s their nature to sniff out exciting scents and of course they’re completely uninhibited. Which can be quite a problem for owners, especially when they’re trying to maintain their dignity at all costs. We present Hazel, Daniela, Sian and Cassie in: Walking in the Park.’

  The parting curtains revealed cut-out trees and a lamppost had been added to the stage. Sian and Cassie entered from opposite wings. Their breasts were still bare, but they wore old-fashioned feathered hats and scarves with long loose skirts, and swanked along to suggest they were clothed in the height of fashion. They were holding Hazel and Daniela on leashes, who padded along on all fours like dogs, sniffing at the cut-out trees and pretending to cock their legs on the lamppost.

  Sian and Cassie greeted each other, speaking in exaggerated cut-glass accents.

  ‘Why, hallo!’

  ‘Oh, hallo! Such a long time since I saw you last …’

  As the women chatted, Hazel and Daniela sniffed cautiously at each other’s faces, then bottoms. Obviously liking what they smelt they cocked their legs for the other to lick their pouting pubes.

  Sian and Cassie suddenly realised what their pets were doing and pulled them apart, smacking their bottoms and telling them not to be naughty girls. Hazel and Daniela squatted down mournfully, looking at each other with lolling tongues as their owners continued to talk. Then an idea appeared to strike them.

  They put their heads up their owners’ skirts and began to lick them out, to the delight of the audience. The women were clearly too embarrassed to admit to what was going on, apart from surreptitiously slapping at the bulges moving under their skirts, or what it was arousing them. So they continued to talk in ever more strained and high-pitched voices about how hot the weather was getting, giving them an excuse to fan themselves with their hats in an attempt to control their emotions.

  The pair eventually orgasmed with such force that they fainted theatrically, leaving Hazel and Daniela free to mount each other face to fanny and consummate their affection, noses and tongues buried in their eager clefts.

  The applause was still ringing round the room when Tara, dressed as compère once more, pushed her way through the curtain. She was holding one hand modestly over her pubes.

  ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, Masters and Mistresses, we come to the finale of our little show. We hope you have enjoyed it as much as we have. And we hope you’ve given us lots of points for effort, because we all know what that means: not prizes but fewer pricks in our tits! And now we take you back for a second visit to the Follies … but this time for some hot anal action!’

  She took her hand away from her pubes to reveal a very large upstanding carrot. The base of it was lodged in her vagina and it was held erect by a sling and supporting belt of garden wire. The tapering end had been trimmed slightly with a potato peeler to resemble the head of a penis.

  The sight set the audience chuckling as Tara took off her hat and jacket and tossed them aside, then went back through the curtains. The cancan music started up and the curtains parted.

  All six girls came on and formed a high-kicking line, all showing off phallic carrots mounted like Tara’s. As they danced, the vegetables bobbed about in their slots, alternately stretching their labia as though in a yawn, then rubbing up against their clitorises.

  A renewed flush was colouring their cheeks as they sang:

  ‘Now we are about to go,

  we hope you enjoyed our sexy show!

  You’ve seen our bums,

  seen us kiss and seen us come!

  Then there was the spanking,

  and the peeing and the wanking!

  Now as a send-off,

  we’re going to screw our ends off,

  Just to please you!

  What a farce,

  to have a carrot up the arse!

  Up our bums!

  Up our bums!

  Here we come,

  here we come!’

  As they sang they formed a circle, clasping the hips of the girl in front as they went round high-kicking with their outside legs to show off their stuffed pussies and puckered bumholes. The line got tighter and closer as each girl found the anus of the one in front with the tip of her vegetable dildo and then shoved her carrot-cock into it. They gasped and shuddered as their rectums were plugged, then their hips began to pump urgently.

  It was not faked. They were all caught up in the wild rhythm of the music, the perverse exhilaration of doing something so abandoned before so many eyes, but above all the need for release from the state of arousal that had grown within them through the show. They sank to their knees, clasping and kneading the breasts of the girl in front of them, pinching erect nipples, while all the time driving into her rear even harder. They were shredding the carrots smooth with their frantic sodomy, staining their bottoms orange, sweating and straining until they shrieked and came, collapsing into a sweating, panting, exhausted heap of naked girlflesh.

  Dimly they were aware of the music trailing off, but it was drowned out by the wave of wild applause.

  Still woozy from their exertions and cushioned by the post-orgasmic glow suffusing their bodies, the girls slowly gathered themselves together. They pulled the battered remains of the dildo carrots from their sopping and now orange-lipped vulvas, then formed a line across the stage, kneeling submissively with their legs wide and hands clasped behind their necks, ready to accept the judgement of their captors. At least we’ve done our best, Tara thought, feeling oddly proud of the fact.

  After the exchange of nods and muttering between the residents, Major Warwick stood up and addressed the girls.

  ‘That was a highly entertaining show. Well done to you all!’

  Tara felt a ridiculous glow of pleasure at his sincere praise. Out of the corner of her eye she saw smiles on the faces of the others.

  ‘And since you’ve performed so well and shown proper contrition,’ Warwick continued, ‘we have decided you will suffer the minimum punishment we can let you get away with. Just five strokes each!’

  Tara shivered, but five was a lot better than twenty-five.

  ‘As it’s fine I think we can leave the frames out in the garden,’ Warwick said. ‘Now, for the last time, on your feet and march out there smartly.’

  They did so, followed by the residents.


  The evening air was cool. The last flush of sunset was still tinting the sky. Somebody switched on an outside light while others produced torches and, of course, cameras. This would really be their last performance, Tara thought.

  Their hands were cuffed behind them. Thoughtfully the residents had towels ready to rub dry their sweat-streaked bodies and water bottles to replenish the fluids they had lost during the performance. Ball-gags were then pushed between their teeth and blindfolds bound across their eyes.

  Dumb, blind and helpless, they were guided to the place on the frames that matched their cup-size.

  Tara trembled as she was bent over, unseen hands guiding her breasts into the waiting bowls. She gave a muffled squeak as a pinpoint grazed her left breast. Then the rims of the bowls enclosed her dangling mammaries and the top of the supporting rod pressed against her sternum. The strap was buckled across her back, holding her tight. Her ankles were tied together about the base of the sprung upright rod so she could not brace herself. She wobbled and another tack point grazed her.

  The bowls enclosed her breasts completely, making a seal where their rims dug into the surrounding flesh, so that she felt a warm humid closeness building about them. Her rising nipples brushed the bowl bottoms.

  She heard the residents moving about, felt the frame tremble as the other two girls who shared it with her were strapped into place. Who was beside her and who was mounted on the companion frame opposite? Whoever you are just try to keep still, she pleaded silently.

  The first stroke of the cane seared into her buttocks without warning. She yelped in pain and jerked by reflex. Her big breasts bounced within their tack-lined prisons. Tara screeched again through her gag as her soft flesh was impaled upon what felt like a hundred pinpoints. Panting, she tried to steady herself for the next stroke.

  There was a swish of displaced air, the cut of flesh, a yelp of pain, the frame rocked, setting her breasts bobbing again and inflicting a few more lesser pricks. Whoever it was bound beside her had received the stroke. A few seconds later the frame vibrated again, but not quite so severely.

  They were punishing them in rotation, administering one stroke at a time.

  Waiting for her turn was agony. She just wanted to get it over with, almost willing the next stroke to land, welcoming the pain, because it meant she was one step closer to the end. The tanned heat in her buttocks she could cope with, but the bee-sting fire coursing through her breasts was so sharp it was nearly unbearable. Yet in a twisted way it also felt wonderful because it meant it was nearly finished!

  Then the last stroke fell and it really was over.

  She heard Warwick announce: ‘Your punishment is complete. We’ll leave you here to think over what you’ve learned this last week. At midnight you will have fulfilled your part of the bargain and no longer belong to us. Then you will be released.’

  Tara heard the diminishing rustle of footsteps, the click of the outside light going off, and all was still in the garden.

  She drank in the silence, the tranquillity, the cool air soothing her burning buttocks, wishing only that some of it could flow round her pincushion breasts. But it was over. She heard a hiss and splutter as one of the other girls relieved herself on the grass. It sounded very loud in the stillness.

  The minutes slipped by towards midnight and freedom. And then back to the real world to do – what? She was not sure.

  Then Tara became aware of a moving presence in the garden.

  Even as she strained her ears, a pair of hands took hold of her hips, the head of a cock parted the lips of her pussy and slid up into her. There was nothing she could do as the man shafted her, not even struggle. Her breasts still bobbed against the pins as they coupled, but only lightly because of his steadying hands. She was actually responding when he came inside her. She heard him sigh, then he pulled out of her now hot slot, which let him go reluctantly.

  ‘Well done,’ a voice whispered in her ear, and then was gone. She was almost sure it had been Warwick.

  And why not? He only said the punishment was over. They still belonged to the residents to do with as they wished until midnight.

  A few minutes later fingertips brushed across her outthrust bottom. She tensed, but instead felt the frame begin to shake as somebody else received a secret visitor.

  Cassie had flinched so hard when the fingers first caressed her pudenda that she inflicted more pricks on her sore breasts. The fingers were replaced by a probing tongue that took full advantage of her pouting and exposed private parts, making her shiver with helpless delight. As it did so another pair of hands caressed her body and then warm lips were pressed to her ear and whispered: ‘When you stop acting like a stuck-up bitch you’re quite nice.’

  It was Hilary Beck.

  With fingers and tongues the pair gently but inexorably brought Cassie to a contained but intense orgasm. She felt suddenly very alone when they finally left, and had to console herself by listening to the other nocturnal visitors as, one by one, they paid their last respects to their chosen playthings.

  Gail knew who had come to her from the rough strength of his hands, even before his penis tunnelled into the depths of her lovemouth. She relaxed completely as he used her, not minding the few additional jabs her breasts received in the process. It was still her due to pay and she did so happily.

  When he had done he whispered: ‘I’ve never had anything prettier than you in my workshop …’

  Hazel thrilled at Roberta’s touch when it came out of the night. She wanted to say so much as the older woman kissed and caressed her, but her gag allowed only muffled sighs of pleasure. As her fingers stirred the slick hot depths of Hazel’s honeypot, Roberta said softly: ‘Be good, little puppy …’

  Narinda Khan’s touch roused Cassie from her post-orgasmic reverie. She was surprised to get a second caller. It surprised her even more when she felt a man’s hands grasp her hips from behind and then a very hard stiff cock slide into her still wet pubes.

  ‘That’s Raj,’ Narinda said softly, taking Cassie’s shoulders in her hands while her husband set about enthusiastically screwing her. ‘Playing with you and your friends this last week has been getting him so excited I’ve had great sex every night. So as a reward I said he could have one of you. And he chose you because he felt sorry for you dancing so badly for Fred.’ She sighed. ‘Men are so funny. Perhaps you don’t agree. But at least he thinks you deserve something. Think how terrible it would be if a pretty girl like you was not even worth screwing …’

  Sian’s slim body trembled as Tom Fanning sodomised her one last time. He did have a thing for girls’ arses, she thought dizzily, gasping from the stretching of her anus and the painful jiggling of her small breasts within the pin-studded bowls. But at least it was a familiar cock. And when he whispered: ‘You’ve got a much hotter bum than Cassie,’ she actually felt proud.

  Louisa Jessop had pulled Daniela’s gag out so that she could kiss and lick her bared breasts while Stan had her from behind. Daniela was delighted to be sandwiched between the two of them once again and hardly noticed the extra pricking her captive breasts received as she bobbed and swayed on her sprung mount.

  When they were done Louisa kissed her and whispered: ‘Don’t be a stranger …’

  Tara gasped through her gag, jerked out of her doze as a garden hose was played over her groin, washing away the drying sperm which had trickled down her thighs. The hose moved on, eliciting squeaks and yelps from the others as they received their sluicing down in turn.

  Her blindfold was removed and she saw Narinda Khan illuminated by the outside light. She worked her way round methodically removing blindfolds, releasing the straps that held them bent over the frames, then freeing their ankles.

  They straightened their aching backs, cautiously lifting their breasts from the pin bowls, a little fearful of what they might find. Narinda had come prepared with a wet sponge smelling of antiseptic and a towel. After the sweat had been wiped away only a blush and a f
ew small pinpricks remained. It had felt so much worse.

  Warwick appeared, having stowed away the hose. He checked his watch and then removed their gags, cuffs and finally their collars. ‘It’s midnight,’ he said. ‘You’re all free.’

  For a minute they just stood there, fingering their now bare necks which felt oddly exposed. They smiled foolishly at each other.

  Warwick handed Tara a torch and pointed to the bottom of the garden.

  ‘We’ve put a stepladder over the fence to make it easy. You can walk back to your camp across fields.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You should know the way well enough.’

  ‘But … what about our clothes and things?’ Tara asked, just stopping herself inserting the word: ‘Master’.

  ‘Oh, we took them round to Simon Pye this morning and told him when we’d be releasing you. I’m sure he’ll have waited up. How he receives you is up to him. You see, you’ve paid off your debt to us, but you still have to square things with young Simon. Of course, if your consciences are clear, then you have nothing to worry about.’

  Eleven

  BAD GIRLS ARE BITCHES

  BITCHES DO NOT SPEAK

  BITCHES OBEY THEIR MASTER

  BITCHES KEEP LOW

  BITCHES BEG TO PLEASE

  THE NOTICE, BOLDLY written in red felt-pen, was taped to the back door of Simon Pye’s cottage. It was clearly visible under the porch light, but otherwise the windows of the cottage were curtained and dark. The girls huddled together under the tiny porch roof while they rang the bell and knocked, but there was no response.

  Their tent, shower and portable toilet were now stowed away in the back of the hired MPV, still parked where they had left it. The vehicle was securely locked and there was no sign of the key, or their clothes.

  However something had been added to the back garden since they had left it a week before. Tucked in to one side of the cottage was what might have been an animal pen, built out of salvaged timbers, chicken wire and ragged sheets of bituminous roofing felt. The floor of the pen was covered with straw and was just high enough to sit upright within. Resting against the inside of its front wire wall was a low galvanised metal trough. Beside it was a plastic bucket of water with a length of clear plastic tube sticking out of it like a large drinking straw. In the far corner there was an empty metal bucket.