The stand proved to be an elegant little carved ebony rack, very obviously designed specifically for the purpose, with small female nudes cradling the lean yellow length in their outstretched arms. Madeleine wondered if this elaborate ritual object was ‘my’ cane because it belonged to her, or because it was used on her. Probably both she decided, remembering that Zena submitted to punishment too, up to, and including, Black Rod itself. Well, this was no black rod, thank God, but it was going to be a problem, nevertheless, if this diminutive vixen decided to work the bruises left by her husband, and she was certainly capable of such calculated cruelty.
Shuffling back on stiffening legs, limping slightly as her bruised hamstrings protested at having to work in their inflamed condition, she dropped on one knee, with an extra twinge, and presented the whippy stick.
“The cane, Madam,” she said, as she laid it on her temporary mistress’s knees.
“Good, you’re learning fast,” she was told, “now turn around and let me see your meat.”
More twinges as she rose and turned to display her beaten behind, and again as she was made to bend and display her decorations more fully, stretching the already blistered skin, under pressure as it was from the swelling bruises beneath the surface.
“Well, well, My dear husband certainly worked your best pieces. He said you were ripe to burst, and he wasn’t wrong. Still,” she mused, “it would be a pity to do it straight away. Don’t you think it’s always nicest when one makes oneself wait for one’s little treats?”
Madeleine thought that a reply was not called for and help her peace, trying to control the shuddering caused by the thought of this vicious girl/woman splitting open her swollen welts, and then cutting into raw flesh.
“No, I think we’ll have a much better time if I spin it out a little, so we’ll leave those lovely plummy stripes for later. Just now we’ll have you sitting on the bench, please.”
She was made to sit on a plain low wooden bench, rather out of keeping with the rest of the Whore’s Boudoir furnishings. With her hands on the top of her head, she winced as her welts made contact with the hard wooden surface, stirring them into further agonised protest. She was made to put her bottom overhanging the edge of the bench, and lean forward, so that her buttocks protruded into fresh air behind her. Zena took up position to one side.
“I’m going to cut down, so as to save your plums for afters, so keep leaning forward, and stick your bum right out. You’re going to get a dozen to start with and, if you flinch, I’ll give you an extra. I want it where I can carve it like bacon.” And carve it she did.
The first stroke whirred through the air. This woman had an arm and a wrist that must be tempered by exercise, Madeleine thought, listening to the pitch of the parting air, then the thought was driven from her mind by the impact of the cane. It was unspeakably painful. Quite different from the strokes she was used to, this blow, cutting her on the top centre of her buttock cheeks seemed, as Zena had promised, to carve her open. It probably wouldn’t bruise so much in the long run, but that was small comfort now, and the glancing cut seemed to tear every nerve end in the pale skin the covered the crowning curves of her rounded bottom. The pain was atrocious, and her body jerked upwards but, terrified of incurring extra cuts like that, she bent forward at once, presenting her haunches for the next slice, and emitting a series of sharp oohs to mark her distress.
Two, three and four joined the shocking first, each as bad as number one and seemingly cutting her to the bone. It was a difficult position to maintain, far worse than clinging to a desk, or bent over a chair. Her body writhed and shook. She twisted from the waist, as if trying to shake off the sting in her tail, and, as her body threw back at each stoke, her gyrations set her breasts to swinging on her chest, and her hair whipped about her like a loose sail in a gale. All the time she whined and moaned, as she fought to retain her proper pose, hands on head, trunk leaning forward, and soft hinds protruding over the edge of the hard wood on which she sat, open and vulnerable to the thin yellow peril that sliced inexorably down, to add a fresh searing agony to the already burning mass.
She wanted to clasp her hands to her stinging cheeks, and rub away the hurt but her pride, and her fear of earning extra, kept her from trying to ease the pain of five and six. Zena declared seven null and void.
“You’re wriggling around too much,” she said, “I’m not getting at you properly. The cane is just skidding off your arse.” She poked at Madeleine’s knees and belly with the lithe yellow tip. “Sit further back. Further still, get your arse six inches over the edge. Put your hands behind your neck.” she ordered. “Now open your legs, and get your belly down between your thighs. Come on, lower than that. I want it all spread and stretched, so’s the cane can get right into it.”
And spread and stretched it was, the extra strain on her skin exacerbating the soreness in her beaten buttocks, the bench edge pressing even harder into the dark bar of welts that adorned the rear of her thighs at their very top. She endured the six remaining of her promised dozen, gasping as each sliced her protruding rump, and moaning in between as her upper body twisted in agony as she tried to contain the pain in her hinds. After the last stroke Zena kept her in suspense for a very long count of ten, while she fought to maintain position. There was no way she was going to justify any more of those venomous cuts by getting up without permission.
“Well, I must admit you can take it,” her diminutive tormentrix conceded. “Hardened slut! You should be beaten like this every day. OK, You can relax now.”
Released from the invisible bonds created by the threat of extra, Madeleine tumbled forward onto the carpet and lay there, on her belly, writhing like a cut worm, her hands clasped to the fresh wounds on her backside. Zena stood over her, admiring her handiwork.
“I’d say that complements Helworthy’s work admirably,” she remarked. “My dear husband scored middle and bottom, and now I’ve painted in top. Becoming quite colourful, your bottom, though not as rainbow as it’s going to be. I intend to add a touch of scarlet to those lovely purple and blue bits by the time you leave. Now stop blubbing like a baby, and follow me. Since you’re so fond of the floor, you can stay on your hands and knees while you do.”
CHAPTER TEN
‘Relaxing with Richard’
Crawling on hands and knees like a beaten animal, Madeleine followed her mistress for the night. Zena led her to a bathroom, and her heart sank. Bathrooms were always bad news. Bathrooms meant degradation or humiliation, disgust or discomfort, most often all these at the same time. In bathrooms you could be made to undergo regimes that sealed your bladder till it felt it would burst, that distended your bowels until you seemed in the last months of a painful pregnancy, and which led to your being soiled with your own urine or faeces, or even someone else’s wastes, to smell and stink and taste of corruption. Nor was she wrong. For an endless age Zena piled humiliation on horror. Madeleine’s belly swelled and ached from the vast amount of liquid forced into it. Her thighs ran with the remains of the revolting effusions she had subsequently been unable to contain. The opening of her urethra throbbed and ached with the soreness left by the cruel clamp that had sealed it while she had been forced to swallow the water poured down her throat.
In a modern version of the ‘Question Ordinary’ and the ‘Question Extraordinary’, she had been strapped on top of a bench, on her back, her feet on the ground on either side, parting her thighs widely, her arms drawn back and tied to the front legs. First Zena had forced a Bardex nozzle, attached to a thin hose, into her unwilling anus. She had used a squeeze bulb to inflate the rubber bladder round the neck of the nozzle until it expanded into a hard balloon, about the size of a tennis ball, within her rectum, thus sealing in the nozzle against any attempt to expel it, or any liquid which might be injected through it.
While she was trying to assimilate the discomfort of this gross intrusion into her gut, she was startled into a cry of protest at a sharp and tearing pain in her v
ulva. Zena had parted her outer lips and applied a powerful spring loaded steel grip to pinch up, and seal shut, her tender pee hole. As she lay gasping like a stranded fish under the influence of her stuffed bowel, and cruelly cramped urethra, her torturess forced the neck of a long stemmed funnel into her mouth, almost into her throat, certainly she could get no purchase on it to expel it, then clamped a clothes peg on her nose, effectively sealing her nostrils. Now she lay helpless, all her orifices filled, breathing through her mouth.
She stared with bulging eyes as Zena came into her range of vision carrying a plastic bucket. The funnel filled, cutting off her air, and she swallowed quickly so as to be able to breathe.
“Good, you get the idea,” said Zena, brightly, “if you want to breathe you have to swallow it all. Let me explain. In medieval times they punished criminals this way, especially traitors and poisoners. You want to read about it, there’s a terrific story by Conan Doyle, you know, the Sherlock Holmes man, called The Leather Funnel, all about how a woman in France was tortured. I’ve always wanted to try it out. Sorry we haven’t a leather funnel, actually hers had a silver spout with her initials on it, but she was a Countess or something like that. You’ll just have to make do with plastic, though I expect the effect will be much the same. Have another drink,” and she poured another generous dose into the funnel. When Madeleine had swallowed it, and could take in air again, Zena continued her explanation.
“For a woman, the Question Ordinary, as they called it, was one bucket, and the Question Extraordinary was a second. I’m not sure how big their buckets were, but these will have to do. According to the accounts I’ve read, your belly will swell up as if you’re about to give birth, and I’m told the sensations are quite unspeakably painful, but you’ll just have to go on swallowing if you want to breathe.” With this, she tipped the bucket again, and Madeleine gulped down the suffocating fluid, fighting to get air.
Pinioned as she was, she was conscious of the utter helplessness of her position. Her whole being was at Zena’s mercy, she could only breathe when Zena let up on the flow of water into the funnel, and she had, inevitably, to go on swallowing and swallowing, feeling the pressure in her stretched belly rising as it became more and more distended. She could feel the pressure mounting in her whole abdominal cavity painfully as her stomach muscles could stretch no further, and her organs were crushed, and yet she guessed from the angle at which Zena poured, that she had barely drunk half the bucket. With mounting panic, she gulped the next rush of water, feeling the pain and pressure rising in her belly. The pressure on her bladder made it want to empty itself, the bitch had given her no opportunity before they started, no doubt a calculated move, but the clip at her orifice, besides causing her added pain, would not permit her to relieve herself. Her bladder shrieked in protest. She would have liked to shriek and protest herself, but the peg and the funnel ensured that all that issued were frenzied grunts and gasps between each new rush of liquid.
Her bowels too were in distress, but here again she could only lie and suffer, for the Bardex nozzle effectively sealed her and her wrung bowel and colon could not discharge their trapped contents. By the time the first bucket was emptied she could barely move, so swollen was her abdomen against the straps that bound her to the bench, and she could only lie and groan.
“That seemed to go down well,” observed Zena, “now, before we proceed to the Extraordinary, we’ll see if you’ve got enough control to hold your water, and the rest, or if you’ll wet yourself like a baby.”
When the clip came off her urethra the pain was even greater than when it had been applied. The blood-starved tissue responded to the restoration of circulation by every nerve-ending screaming its own distress signal. As to holding her water, not a hope, and a golden rush flooded her thighs and the bench between, to be joined seconds later by the Bardex. As it deflated, her bowels expelled it with loud gaseous noises, followed by a noisesome extrusion. As she lay, gasping, in her own filth, Zena took up the second bucket.
“What a disgusting exhibition! Still, it’s time for seconds, so you’ll just have to lie in your own muck,” and once more, the bucket tilted, and Madeleine was swept away on a tide of helpless pressure, pain and panic. The discharge of her bowels and bladder had, in truth, gained her but little internal space, soon made up by the first few swallows and the wracking pains in her guts, together the suffocating feeling of being stuffed to the gills. This mounted inexorably, until she floated in a red nightmare, part drowning, part sucking in blessed air, then panic fear as her supply was cut off again by the rush of water. It seemed to last for ever, but she began to be dimly aware that the flow had stopped and gradually her frantic gasps subsided into rapid shallow breathing, all her distended body would allow. A little while later she felt her straps loosened. As she was freed, she rolled off onto the cold tiled floor and lay there retching, great floods of bile stained water gushing from her throat, while below, wastes leaked from her orifices, to join the contamination in which she was already steeped.
Despite the release of the pressure of the water filling her belly, the aches and shooting pains still convulsed her, her crushed organs all making their individual protest at the treatment to which they had been subjected, and she moaned aloud on her bed of hard tiles. It was more than ten minutes before she could be said to have regained even the semblance of control of herself.
“Very satisfactory, I must say. I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like.” A blast of cold water dashed onto her battered body as Zena emptied yet another bucket over her. “Come on, it’s time to finish off the evening. I promised you a bloody buttock, and a bloodied buttock you shall have.”
Weak and trembling, the wretched woman got to her knees, then dragged herself unsteadily to her feet. Her bowels had turned to water, literally; the muscles in her belly had been reduced to pulp by the distension they had endured, and the retching which still convulsed her from time to time, but she managed to totter after the inexorable Mrs Helworthy, towards the culmination of her martyrdom.
She was made to lie face down on the same hard wooden bench where her upper buttocks had been sliced so cruelly an hour before. She could not have maintained any other position, even if she’d had the will left to try, and Zena left her sprawled on her breasts and belly, her arms and her legs dangling on either side.
“Now for the final act, to burst those lovely ripe plums Helworthy sent me,” Zena gloated, “first your arse, and then your thighs.”
It took four hideous strokes before Zena declared that the blood was in full flow, and Madeleine could feel the warm trickle down the outside of her thigh. She could offer no resistance in her exhausted state, and screamed at each cut, her body jerking like a landed fish with each impact, heaving with unrestrained sobs between. Five more implacable cuts and the purple rope across the back of the thighs gave way, and a second rivulet joined the first. When it was over, the woman was obviously quite done, and the chauffeur had to be called to take her, wrapped in a blanket, down to the car, and back to her own home.
When Madame Ruskova rang the next morning to hear her report, she was still in a bad way.
“Stay in bed,” she ordered,” the nurse will be with you directly. Come and see me as soon as nurse says you can get up.”
Two days later, she went to Madame’s apartment, still shaky, and limping from the healing wounds on her buttocks and thighs, but mending rapidly, thanks to the nurse’s healing touch, not least her cunning way with a distressed woman’s clitoris. She claimed this was better than any tranquilliser and once her patient had recovered from her initial physical exhaustion, productive of such paroxysms of pleasure as to astonish even Nurse O’Brien, a lady who was wont to boast that, “Nothing can surprise me, pet. I’ve seen it all.”
Madame expressed herself gratified at the speed of her recovery.
“I was very concerned at the possible effects of the Helworthy woman’s water treatment. The beatings were nothing. A woman’s bu
ttocks are capable of taking any amount of beating without injury to her health, and the client was entitled to thrash you to the blood, and beyond, but that medieval ‘Question’ is unknown territory, and she should have checked with me first to see if it was safe. I would have got a medical opinion, and had you physically examined first, although you’re a fine strong female and seem to have come through all right. Never the less, Helworthy has been warned, and has already taken steps. That woman of his has had a bloody buttock herself, and made to drink a pint of castor oil after, and she’s got the same to look forward to twice more this month.”
Madeleine expressed astonishment. “I didn’t think he would value membership so highly that he would agree to so severe a punishment for his new wife, or that she’d accept it. Anyway, what concerns me most is not having her punished, after all I did boast that I’d take anything that came, so I really had no beef, but what he might say or do about me outside. After all, he does know me, and we work in the same business.”
“I think it’s time to tell you some of the facts of life, “Madame replied, “It’s not so much fear of losing membership as fear of the membership that keeps them in line. Let me tell you a little story. We once had a member who recognised the girl he’d been sent, when he met her at a business lunch weeks later. He tried to blackmail her into granting sexual favours for free, and without the organisation being involved. Well, he used to be quite a good golfer, but his swing’s not so good these days. You see,” Madame explained,” shortly after he’d propositioned the girl, he had an unfortunate accident in the car park as he was leaving work. Some-one backed a car into him, pinning his leg to the wall, and it didn’t mend quite straight.”
Madeleine Page 13