by Victor Bruno
They entered the building and, in a high ceilinged entrance hall, Paul saw numerous squads of slave-girls lined up . . . with a couple more slave mistresses, clad cow-girl style like Delia, calling the roll, inspecting them and issuing orders. This must, Paul realised, be one of those days when some girls came off duty and others went on. He saw at once mute evidence of the strict disciplinary regime . . . in the profusion of reddened, weal-and-welt striped buttocks. Not to mention thighs, some of which carried signs of correction both back and front. Naturally he could not take in the bewildering scene all at once but he could take in enough. Now he was one of the company. A male slave amongst scores of females!
He heard the thwack of a strap on bare flesh and heard a girl’s high-pitched gasp. Turning his head, he saw a tall, very beautiful young woman, with rich auburn hair, still shuddering with pain. She wore only a lacy red-and-black suspender belt, fishnet black stockings and a pair of bright red high heeled shoes.
“Have you not read your orders?” demanded the slave mistress before her.
“Yes . . . yes . . . miss . . . I . . . I . . .” the girl stammered.
“Then why are you not wearing a pair of knickers?” came the second demand.
“I . . . I must have misunderstood, Miss . . . I . . . I thought . . .” began the girl again.
Tthhwwacckkk! The strap, similar to Delia’s swung again, curling round the girl’s flank. She gasped again, squirming and shuddering as she absorbed the burning pain. “You don’t think . . . you OBEY!” the slave mistress almost snarled. “Now . . . go and get a pair on, double quick. I know your master likes you to wear a fancy pair until he’s ready for you . . .”
The girl scurried off, leaving Paul to contemplate the significance of what he had just heard. Obviously this beautiful creature must be the designated plaything of one of Mrs Dupont’s guests! My God, he thought, what enormities must be perpetuated here for the sake of their amusement! Despite the fascination of the scene (like being in some kind of harem of naked and half-naked beauties) Paul felt a chill of dread go through him. Suppose a pervert wanted some kind of amusement with him!
Paul’s thoughts were interrupted when one of the other slave mistresses approached Delia as she proceeded across the hall. “Hi, what the hell have you got there?” she asked.
Delia grinned. “It’s a male slave,” she answered. “Belongs to one of Mrs Dupont’s guests. Just arrived.”
“Well I’ll be damned!” said the slave mistress, studying Paul. She like Delia, was blonde, but was a bigger woman, aged about 30. “Is he going to STAY?” she asked.
“Sure thing,” replied Delia. “Don’t worry. He’ll be no trouble. I understand Miss Mandy’s got some plans for him.”
Paul pricked up his ears. Plans? What plans? Paul felt an increased sensation of dread as Delia strode on through the hall. They entered a corridor, lined with cell doors on either side. Delia unlocked one. “In,” she said, nodding at Karen. “And you,” she added, looking at Paul. His heart gave a thump. Was he to be left alone in the cell with this naked young creature? His mind began to race hotly. Those breasts . . . those buttocks . . . everything . . . at least he could feel, if nothing else!
Then he saw Delia shackle an iron collar round Karen’s neck . . . a collar which was fastened to the wall above a plain plank bed on one side of the cell . . . and in a matter of moments Paul was similarly secured, so that he could do no more than lie or sit on the wooden planks. Karen was yards away, out of reach. So much for his hopes of gaining some lustful satisfaction from that young body!
“I’ll be back for you two later,” said Delia ominously.
Then the door slammed and was locked.
*****
Face to the wall, Karen sobbed quietly. She had been doing so for some five minutes, ever since they had entered the cell, refusing to answer Paul’s tentative, whispered questions. He gazed at the shapely naked bottom, one hip curvingly up thrust. At least he could do that. From time to time the reddened flesh twitched. He could understand how tender her soft, girlish bottom must be . . . because his own tougher and far more experienced male flesh was uncomfortably sore.
“Karen . . . “he tried again. “I can’t help being a man. I can’t even touch you, can I? Don’t be shy. After all I’m a slave too.” Karen sobbed louder, shoulders heaving. “Oh stop it . . . stop it . . . I . . . I don’t want to talk . . . I c-can’t bear any . . . any . . . m-more . . . “
They were the first words she had spoken, so Paul was encouraged.
“I’m afraid a slave has to bear more than he . . . or she . . . thinks they can,” he said gently. “I know. I’ve been a woman’s slave for some six months now. As cruel and vicious a woman as you could meet. Oh yes, I know.” He paused, “how long have you been here, Karen?” he asked.
“Th-three w-weeks . . .” whispered Karen. “No . . . it must be nearly a month now . . .” her sobs were subsiding.
“Ahh,” said Paul, “then it’s all very new to you, then. I understand. In so many ways it’s much worse at first. You must be brave. Later - when you are harder and when you have learnt to submit - truly submit - it will not be so bad . . .”
“Oh - how can you even SAY such things,” cried Karen indignantly. At last she turned round and sat up, her big breasts swinging. Seeing Paul’s eyes on them she flushed slightly and covered them with her hands. “Oh . . . oh . . . you don’t know how awful it is,” she went on. “They beat you for the slightest fault. For nothing! Day in, day out. And . . . they make us go about . . . like . . . like this. Naked. It’s awful . . . ohh . . . awful . . . and worse . . . for a w-woman than a m-man . . . can’t you understand?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I understand,” said Paul quietly. The main aim was to gain the girl’s confidence. One never knew what might come of it. “There isn’t really any need to cover yourself like that,” he continued. “As you know I am a slave. We are fellow slaves. We must trust and help each other. In any event I have already seen far more than what you are showing me now for most of the afternoon.”
Karen flushed more deeply and bit her lower lip. All the same she slowly lowered her hands. “I suppose I ought to be used to it by now,” she said wretchedly. “I . . . I haven’t had a stitch on since I’ve been here. Oh my God . . . the way they look at you . . . and . . . and . . . the things they do to the other girls . . .” Karen lowered her head. “One day they’ll do them to me too, I know.”
Paul nodded sympathetically. “I can only counsel you to be brave. And not to resist. I know that is against all natural instinct . . . but you must try. The sooner you learn to obey instantly and submit completely the better. I know it’s hard, but you must try.”
The girl looked at Paul with blue eyes still misted with tears. “In a way I realise you’re right,” she said miserably, “already I’ve learnt that.” Her face puckered. “Of course it’s better to obey than be beaten . . . but . . . but . . . it’s so difficult . . . and . . . and they expect so much. Sometimes it’s impossible!”
“I can only say, Karen, that it will get less difficult,” said Paul kindly. He was finding this conversation and growing understanding most pleasant. It was the first ‘human contact’ he had had with a woman for months! “How did you get here?” he asked.
“I was abducted. Drugged and abducted. From college,” answered Karen. “They made it appear I had run away . . . dropped out, you know. One moment I was leading a happy life, the next thing I remember is waking up here . . . in a cell like this. Naked and chained.” Karen began to cry softly again. “Within half an hour I was being taken to the Punishment Room to get my first caning.”
“Please don’t cry,” said Paul. “It doesn’t do any good, you know.”
Karen did her best, not very successfully. “Th-thank you for talking to me like this,” she said. “It’s a comfort . . . in a way. Of course
I’ve talked to some of the girls . . . but that’s not the same somehow.” It was a response that delighted Paul. “They only seem to care about what’s happening to them, not to anybody else. You’re different.”
Paul smiled wryly. “Oh I care all right,” he said. “I’m not exactly looking forward to the Punishment Room later.”
A spasm of dread crossed Karen’s pretty young face. “Oh God . . . oh God no . . . no . . . I don’t deserve it . . . do I? DO I? How could I help it?” The big breasts bounced up and down with agitation.
“No, you didn’t deserve it,” agreed Paul. “It’s just part of the disciplinary regime. Designed to break you. In body, mind and spirit.”
The girl buried her face in her hands. “Yes . . . yes . . . “ she moaned. “Oh . . . how can they be so cruel? I . . . I just can’t bear to think of . . . more punishment. Especially a caning. I’m . . . I’m so tender and burning already . . .”
“I realise that . . .” said Paul. “But, remember, I am to be punished equally. And for nothing at all. Just my mistress’s whim.” He saw Karen looking at him with more sympathy. “What time is Miss Delia likely to return?” he enquired.
“Q-Quite soon,” replied Karen with a little shudder. “Evening punishment sessions are at seven o’clock.”
“There is another session then?”
“Yes,” answered Karen. “The morning session is at eleven o’clock. Sometimes they divide a punishment. Half in the evening. Half in the morning. Just so you can spend a sleepless night thinking about it, I suppose.”
Paul nodded. He knew all about the mental anguish of divided or suspended punishments. Gloria was an artist at it.
At that moment there was the sound of a key being turned in the lock. Karen uttered a startled cry and Paul felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise. The moment had come.
*****
To say that Delia made a striking picture would be an understatement. She had changed her previous garb and now wore a pair of scarlet thigh-length boots, which laced all the way up, and had six inch stiletto heels, a pair of very abbreviated scarlet leather briefs and a brassiere of the same material and colour which was only fractionally more than half cup in size. Her blonde hair was piled high and in the lobes of her ears, on long, slim gold chains, hung two glittering rubies. Her hard blue eyes glittered almost equally with the jewels. There was one other item she wore. It was the strap she carried for on-the-spot correction . . . something she never went without. Now it hung from a scarlet leather belt, which, gold-buckled, was slung low about the jut of her smooth white hips.
The sight of her certainly took Paul’s breath away . . . and, as a slave trained and tamed, he recognised in her a true dominatrix. A woman WORTHY of being a slave mistress, one who inspired in him something of the same kind of servile adoration as did Gloria herself. He felt all this, accompanied by a surge of intense desire, despite the fact that he knew well enough how she would treat him, both immediately and in the future.
“You will be wanting to know the result of my recommendations to Miss Mandy,” she said gaily as she unshackled Karen who was cringing wide-eyed and fearful back to the wall, trembling uncontrollably. Paul studied the superb sweep of Delia’s broad white back, the swell of her hindquarters so briefly and tightly clad, the smoothness of the tops of the long white thighs. The sense of adoration in him increased. He knew that he would indeed truly consider it an honour to serve Delia as he sometimes served Gloria. Already he felt a deep ache to be so permitted and privileged. “I will tell you the result,” went on Delia as, freed, Karen got to her feet and stood rigid by the plank bed. “She accepted it.”
A whimpering moan came from Karen and her eyes filled with tears again. Then Paul’s head was filled with Delia’s exotic scent as she unshackled him in turn. He trembled at the nearness of her lush beauty and the desire to touch just a fraction of her superb body was almost irresistible. Fortunately for him he resisted it. As Karen had done, Paul leapt to attention immediately he was released.
“My recommendation, as you remember,” went on Delia, looking from one to the other, “was for a caning. I further suggested it should be one of fifteen strokes.” Paul heard Karen gasp . . . and experienced a shiver of inner dread himself. “However, Miss Mandy thought ten strokes would be adequate under the circumstances.” For both victims it was cold comfort, but at least something. “We finally compromised on a dozen,” concluded Delia, “so that’s what you’re going to get. Follow me!”
She turned and strode out through the door, Karen stumbling after her on high heels, continuing to sob. Paul humbly brought up the rear, his gaze fastened on the swing and bounce of Karen’s soft bottom flesh. Poor girl, he thought. She is so much younger, more sensitive and less experienced. No wonder she is in such a state. Was he not himself in a state of keen apprehension? Already he was going through that familiar build up pattern of summoning up his reserves of resolve and will so that he could withstand what lay ahead with some show of fortitude. It was better, he knew, not to break too early whatever the punishment.
They descended a flight of wide stone steps and proceeded down another cell-lined corridor. At the end was a pair of massive double doors. They were of solid dark oak with big brass handles. Above the doors, in gold Gothic lettering on a white background, were the unnerving words - PUNISHMENT ROOM.
Delia opened the doors . . . and Paul found himself in a place which, at first sight, had the size and appearance of a gymnasium, except that it was lower ceilinged. Indeed, heavy beams stretched across the large, long room and he saw that chains and manacles hung from many of them. Here and there, he saw too, what looked like vaulting horses of varying sizes, and he realised at once that these must be whipping blocks. The buckling straps with which they were festooned confirmed this. He observed too, a whipping post and a whipping triangle as well as various other devices of wood, leather and iron whose immediate purpose escaped him. All this he took in a few moments as he followed Delia and Karen.
That the evening punishment session had already begun was at once evident. A naked girl was secured to one of the whipping blocks . . . a broad strap pinioned her at the waist, her wrists were fastened in leathern cuffs attached by short chains to the sides at the front of the block. Swathes of purpling red striped her juddering buttocks. In fearful fascination Paul watched the figure at the end of the block swing up her arm. A three foot long strap, broader than the one Delia carried and slit into two thongs for its last twelve inches, came sweeping down to crack resoundingly across her the helpless girl’s hindquarters. A gasping howl of pain came from her and she writhed frantically, twisting this way and that over the end of the block. The hindquarters were the only part of her body which had ample freedom of movement . . . and they made full use of it!
“S-Six . . . aagghh . . . s-six . . . M-Miss . . .” choked the kneeling figure when her howl had subsided and she had caught her breath again.
The figure who had wielded the strap turned at the sound of their approach and Paul recognised the heavy blonde woman they had seen in the entrance hall. She was garbed very similarly to Delia, except that her outfit was made entirely of jet black leather. “Hi there, Del!” she waved. Then her eyes settled on Paul. “So you’ve brought . . . IT . . . have you . . .”
“I sure have,” replied Delia. “Miss Mandy not about yet?” her victim, whose nates were twitching and quivering with dread anticipation. “Please don’t let me interrupt you, Ilse,” said Delia politely.
“That’s okay,” smiled the blonde Ilse. Then her features hardened again. “How many was that, Bettina?” she demanded.
“S-Six . . . Miss . . .” answered the shuddering girl.
“How many to go then?” asked Ilse.
“F-Four . . . Miss . . .” came the reply.
“Right,” said Ilse. “Keep counting . . .”
Four more times Pau
l watched the double-thonged strap swing with merciless venom. Each time a howl of pain was torn from the girl’s throat as she threshed and writhed convulsively. Yet each time, Paul noted, she did not forget to gasp out the number of the stroke she had just received. She was, he deduced from this, adequately experienced. Anyone less so would have missed somewhere along the line in the breath-taking agony of the moment. That strap was no lightweight. In fact it was a real brute!
“You’ll get the other half tomorrow,” Ilse told the sobbing girl. “And you can stay there for a couple of hours to think about that.” Paul realised that this was one of those divide punishments Karen had mentioned . . . and he did not envy the girl her session over that block on the morrow. It appeared, he thought with despair, that the regime at Bel Air was even stricter than he had let his imagination believe.
“What’s she been up to?” asked Delia as Ilse turned back to her, lovingly stroking the thongs of the heavy leather strap she had been using.
“ Bad report form one of the guests,” said Ilse briefly. “Lucky for her, in my opinion, that Miss Mandy didn’t order a whipping.”
Lucky! Paul’s mind absorbed the callous cynicism of the word. His eyes rested on Bettina’s quivering, empurpled nates. So Bettina was lucky, was she!
“You’ve brought young Karen along again, I see,” smiled Ilse. “For another taste of what she likes least, eh?”
“The cane, you mean?” replied Delia. “That’s right. I’m afraid the girl’s slow to learn.”