by Victor Bruno
Paul heard several unrestrained sobs come from Karen, who continued to stand rigidly beside him whilst Ilse’s eyes continued to range, cruel and contemptuous over them both. “And it?” she asked pointing at Paul.
“He owner ordered that he gets the same . . . at the same time,” said Delia. “Just by way of introduction to Bel Air, I imagine.”
Ilse laughed. “I like that . . . a nice touch. Any preference for the one you deal with?”
“I’ve already given him a taste of leather,” said Delia, “so I think I’ll stick with him.” Apart from the newly discovered pleasure of thrashing a man, Delia was keen to find how just how tough Paul was.
“Suits me,” nodded Ilse. Indeed it did. She gained the maximum pleasure from disciplining girls who were not only as young and plump as Karen was but also as inexperienced. She gave the girl’s bottom a light slap and grinned at her. “I’m just in the mood to give it to you good and hard,” she said viciously. And the wretched Karen broke into another torrent of heaving sobs.
The Punishment Room, Paul realised, was not simply a place where one was brought, disciplined and then taken away. It seemed the policy was to have one remain there for quite some time. Absorbing the atmosphere, one might say . . . enduring the gradual build-up of mental and psychological tension that was heightened again by the sight and sound of others being punished. There was, Paul already realised quite an unpleasant degree of difference in being ‘privately’ disciplined by one’s own mistress and in this ‘public’ fashion. There could be no doubt that this Mrs Dupont knew what she was about when it came to slave control, thought Paul, as he continued to gaze with sympathy and understanding at the still-quivering nates of the girl who had been so soundly strapped.
Suddenly the doors at the far end of the Punishment Room opened and a tall, magnificently queenly looking figure came striding in. Paul realised at once that this must be Miss Mandy, the chief slave mistress . . . and he was taken aback to discover that she was of Creole origin. Strikingly beautiful, with only faint traces of the Negroid in her features, her skin was light coffee-coloured. As with many of her race, her features were haughtily proud, as was her bearing, and she moved with the lithe grace of a panther. Behind her she led two naked slave girls, each on a collar and chain.
The striding figure came nearer and Paul saw the glittering of black diamond eyes. He saw too the quiver and bounce of breasts beneath a gossamer-thin, white shirt-waister blouse. He saw the swing of a short pleated skirt of white leather and heard the click-clack of high-heeled white boots. Paul was so thunderstruck by the realisation that the new woman who would effectively control his life from now was coloured . . . and by her outstanding beauty . . . that he temporarily took leave of his senses. He was even unaware that Karen had dropped to her knees as, naturally, he should have done. His throat went dry and all his nerve ends tingled as this superb creature drew nearer and nearer. Then she was suddenly right before him . . . and Paul was brought harshly back to reality by receiving a violent blow in his solar plexus from Miss Mandy’s fist. It robbed him of all breath and strength and, sagging, he doubled up. “You get on your knees in my presence, you ape!” he heard Miss Mandy rasp from above.
Still doubled up, Paul went to his knees, absorbing the crippling pain of the blow. What a fool he was. Of course he should have realised he must get to his knees. As the pain began to ebb fractionally, he heard Miss Mandy giving orders, presumably concerning the two girls she had brought with her. “Saddle strap . . . for two hours,” she was saying. “Harness them side by side . . . each and every fall earns them five strokes a piece. And use a horsewhip while they’re in motion . . .”
“Certainly, Miss Mandy,” came Ilse’s eager voice. Then there was a short pause, whilst high heels clacked to and fro. Paul opened his eyes and saw the tips of Miss Mandy’s white boots right before him. The boots moved back a few inches. “Kiss the floor where I have stood, ape,” came the order. Quickly Paul began to slobber on the hard, smooth wood of the floor. To delay for an instant with such a woman, he realised, would be inviting disaster. From above he heard grunts from Delia and Ilse and whimpers and squeals from the two new arrivals. Obviously something painful was being fastened on them.
“Tighter,” ordered Miss Mandy. It was the one word she spoke during the preliminaries . . . and the whimpering and squealing intensified.
Paul continued to lick and kiss the floor fervently. Getting a dozen was quite enough; he didn’t want to invite any more.
“Get stepping!” It was an order from Ilse, followed by the whistle and crack of a horse whip. Once . . . twice. More and louder squeals. Then the click-clack of two pairs of high heels in unison. What was going on, wondered Paul, but naturally not daring to look.
“Up!” He sprang up at Miss Mandy’s voice, the pain in his midriff now a dull ache. Alongside him he was aware of Karen leaping to attention too; her heard her heavy breathing as her dread mounted. “I want that thing off him . . .” said Miss Mandy. “I want him bollock naked.”
“It’s padlocked on . . . his mistress has the key . . .” explained Delia.
A key arced through the air, thrown from Miss Mandy’s hand. “The key has been given to me, from now on he’s in MY charge.” Paul felt a chill of terror. Magnificently beautiful as this Creole woman was, the merciless viciousness of her radiated out like a shock wave. He felt Delia unfasten the padlock and the leather restrainer came away and he stood naked before the rapacious eyes of the three women. Those eyes seemed to devour him. At the far end of the room he could see the two slave-girls, fastened side by side, high-stepping their way round. As they came back towards him, he saw that a broad leather belt nipped in each waist and a thin leather thong drawn tightly round and underneath them, cut cruelly into their most tender woman flesh. The look of anguish on their features was very understandable.
“Why, in fact, is he here?” asked Miss Mandy. “I proposed to give him his Initiation later.” The chill terror in Paul intensified at the implication of those words. Delia explained Gloria van Meer’s request and Miss Mandy nodded. “Very commendable,” she said. “Well, he can have those first . . .” The two slave-girls went high-stepping by, breasts bouncing rhythmically. “Move!” commanded Miss Mandy. One arm thrust sideways and a finger pointed peremptorily to the far side of the room. “The birching hurdle will be convenient for this, I think. There’s room for two.”
Paul turned at once, as did Karen. The girl, beginning to sob fearfully again, was ahead of him. He could not keep his eyes from the soft bounce and quiver of her reddened buttocks. The sight of them fascinated him and, despite what lay ahead, he was aware of the surge of desire in him. He wondered if she was recalling his words about trying to be brave. It was not easy for a young and inexperienced girl. They approached a kind of hurdle set into the floor. It consisted of two stout uprights and a rounded cross bar, about the thickness of a flagpole, running between them. The crossbar was about three feet off the floor and in the floor were numerous attaching rings.
“We’ll have them over it, facing opposite ways,” said Miss Mandy.
Paul stood so that the lowest part of his belly was pressing against the cold solidity of the crossbar; Karen was placed on the other side of the bar, just to his right. He saw that she was trembling uncontrollably, and, though he kept his head straight, his eyes instinctively turned to watch the rise and fall of her heaving breasts. Ilse came into his line of vision, flexing an unpleasantly stout looking rod which she must have just selected from the array he had already seen on a nearby table. He heard the click of Delia’s high heels behind him and it did not take much imagination to guess she was doing the same. In fact, at that very moment, he heard her swishing the cane experimentally through the air. Familiar as he was with the sound, it never ceased to set the butterflies whirring violently in his stomach.
“Bend over,” ordered Miss Mandy, who it seem
ed, was to secure them. Paul obeyed at once, hearing a hopeless despairing moan from Karen as she did likewise. He felt the softness of her flank pressing to his; he felt too, the stretching and tautening of the flesh of his nates. Just to the right of him he saw Karen’s white calf, the muscle twitching. She was secured first. Miss Mandy fastened on leathern ankle cuffs to which were attached short lengths of chain, each of which had a kind of dog-leash clip at the end. Each clip was latched on to a ringbolt in the floor, these being about eighteen inches apart. The wrist cuffs of a similar kind were put on . . . and these were pulled back between Karen’s legs and fastened behind the ankle attachments. This gave the maximum tightness of curve to her hindquarters and stretched her arms and legs fully. Paul glimpsed the girl’s distorted features, inverted, as her head came back between her calves, the blonde hair hanging down to sweep upon the floor. She was sobbing like a small child.
“M-Merc . . . ee . . . m-merc . . . eee . . . m-merce . . . eee . . .” he heard her keep choking out, despite obviously knowing the futility of it.
Then, with brisk, practised efficiency, Miss Mandy dealt with Paul similarly. He watched the dusky arms, hands and fingers as they moved, with a fatalistic kind of fascination. This is my new mistress, he thought . . . the woman who now has complete control of the degree of mental and physical torment I shall endure. The posture, needless to say, was a painful one, perhaps more so for Paul than Karen, for his body was less supple. As with a final strong pull, Miss Mandy latched on the second clip, Paul had to fight down that familiar wave of panic that such utter helplessness induces.
Suddenly, Miss Mandy’s hand was before his face. In it was something that looked like a small black dog’s bone. “A little bonus we give trained slaves,” she said. “Open your mouth.”
Paul did so and the ‘bonus’ went between his teeth. They clamped on it and he found it was a bone made of rubber. He realised the purpose of it was for him to bite on . . . and so, maybe, prevent himself crying out. Was this a ‘kindness’ that only added up to an extra cruelty, he wondered confusedly. At all events, he bit hard and summoned up his will. Through his legs, his head inverted, he saw Delia’s scarlet high-heeled boots and tapering white thighs. He saw, too, the rod swinging gently to and fro in her hand. It was as thick as his little finger. No lightweight by any means. Paul bit harder.
Then the rod moved . . . and Paul felt it tapping lightly on his curving rump as Delia measured him. Karen’s whimpering pleas grew louder and more hysterical, so the same must be happening to her, he knew.
“Begin,” said Miss Mandy, with cool, casual authority.
The rods were raised together . . . and together, hoarse and harsh, they whistled down, with both Delia and Ilse putting all they knew into the strokes. Paul and Karen got the searing bite of them together . . . a breath-taking, mind-bending, hot-wire blaze of pain. From Karen came an agonised, howling-scream of pain; from Paul came an equally agonised high-pitched whinny as he bit fiercely on the rubber clenched between his teeth. He absorbed the pain, knowing as he did so, so precisely did Karen . . . feeling her flank squirming and thumping against his.
Then, just when the pain has been absorbed to the full and was beginning to ebb fractionally, there came the relentless whistling sound of the whiplashing rods again . . . followed by a second liquid-fire streak of torment encircling the buttocks, just an inch below the first. Another ear-splitting shriek from Karen . . . another teeth-clenched whinny from Paul . . . with both naked rumps juddering and squirming convulsively.
Oh God, thought Paul, there are ten more like that to come! How could he hold out? And, why oh why was he being put to such torment? Not for any fault of failure but simply on account of a whim of his mistress! The very thought was sapping to the will.
All the same, Paul took six more of the very best that Delia could hand out (and she was a match for Gloria) before a yelping howl was torn from him and the rubber gag ejected from his mouth. With each of those strokes it seemed as if he slipped several more feet down the rope of control to which he clung suspended, losing out all the time with steady accumulation of pain. All the time the cacophony of sound from the wretched Karen increased. Would it now, wondered Paul, his mind as well as his buttocks seemingly ablaze, be a release to scream like that?
Release or not, the first cry was forced from him on the eighth stroke . . . and successively more agonised yelps came from him as Delia laid on the final four strokes with merciless vigour and precision.
She had broken him . . . broken him! And like the writhing female flesh alongside him, he bayed it for all to hear!
Chapter Three
The twelve red hot wires encircled his rump . . . throbbing, throbbing, throbbing . . . as Paul stood erect by the hurdle. It was an all too familiar sensation, with the skin over the area seeming to have shrunk by several inches. There was a mist of tears in Paul’s eyes, of which he was ashamed but could do nothing about, through which he could see the smug little smile of content of Delia’s face. She was tapping the supple rod against one scarlet boot and giving the impression she would have liked nothing better than to have given her naked victim another dozen. Now she appreciated even more the joy of having a male slave!
Karen could not stand after such a cruel thrashing. She had fainted, been given an injection to revive her, but still seemed too weak to get to her feet. Great sobbing groans came from her every few seconds.
“She can go back to her cell,” said Miss Mandy. “You,” she went on, pointing at Paul, “will carry her.”
Paul was startled, but not slow to obey the order. He bent, gasping as he felt the fierce stab of his fresh weals. Karen gasped too, and tried to recoil, as he clasped and picked up her slumped naked body. Despite the pain he was enduring, Paul felt a wave of pleasure-lust go through him as he felt her lush naked softness against him - at last. He heaved her up in a kind of fireman’s lift and she hung like a sack over his shoulder, breasts crushed against his back. Then he thrust an arm between her thighs and clasped one of them.
“I want HIM back again,” said Miss Mandy as he moved towards the double door with his burden.
“Sure thing,” replied Delia, who was acting as escort.
The doors swung open and Delia, hip-swivelling, moved ahead of him, still carrying the cane with which she had so mercilessly thrashed him. Eyes fastened on her superb body, Paul’s lust intensified. His hand moved up Karen’s thigh until the back of it was pressing to her most softly-intimate woman flesh. Still gasping and groaning, she wriggled to evade him . . . but had no means of doing so. You lovely little beauty, he thought hotly, I’d like to do a lot more than just touch you and feel you naked against me!
Inevitably, the reaction came and, before he was halfway down the stairs, Paul was half in erection. By the time he reached the cells, he was fully so and his organ, stiff and solid, was swinging ramrod-like before him.
Delia observed it without comment, but with distaste, while she re-shackled Karen on her plank-bed. The girl was still semi-conscious.
“You filthy beast . . . get out!” she ordered, when her task was completed.
“I . . . I . . . beg pardon, Miss,” said Paul meekly. He received two more vicious, slashing cuts as he moved to the door and they almost drove him to his knees so intense was the pain.
“Just you wait till Miss Mandy hears about this!” rasped Delia. And, in fear and trembling, Paul followed the long-limbed blonde beauty back to the Punishment Room. By the time he had reached it, his erection had virtually subsided.
Delia reported the incident at once and Miss Mandy nodded in a matter-of-fact way. “I’d expected it,” she said. “That’s what this is for . . .”
She pointed to a framework of steel set upon four caster wheels. Ilse was grinning broadly.
“What on earth’s that?” asked Delia.
“You’ll see,” replied Miss Mandy
. “By courtesy of the young ladies, he’s going for a ride.”
She pointed to the two girls undergoing the discipline of Saddle Strap who were standing meekly just in front of the framework, each with a look of anguish in her eyes. “Get on to it,” ordered Miss Mandy.
Paul stepped on to the platform of the framework . . . and was ordered to kneel. He knelt, the sweat of terror beading his body. It was terror of the unknown. What were these women going to do to him? Whatever it was, he had no means of stopping them. He was a slave . . . and powerless.
At once, Ilse and Miss Mandy pulled his thighs, stretching them wide apart and fastened them with straps to the side of the framework. Next his arms were pulled behind him and fastened painfully tight at wrists and elbows. He was shuddering. Like that, the sheer vulnerability of himself as a male was awful. It was emphasised when Miss Mandy seized him by the prick with her right hand and clasped his balls with her left.
“N-No . . . n-no . . . please no . . . “ he whimpered.
“Right,” said Miss Mandy coldly, “let’s see what I’ve got in mind for you that will cool your ardour, you randy bastard!”
“I . . . I . . couldn’t h-help it . . . “ pleaded Paul.
He got a sweeping, smashing back-hander from Miss Mandy across the mouth. “Silence, you hideous ape!” she bellowed. “Your being brought here has given me enough trouble, don’t make it worse!”
Paul whimpered into silence, tasting the blood from his lips. Oh God, what were they going to do?
Then suddenly he knew. For Miss Mandy produced a length of something that looked like piano wire, noosed at the end. She slipped the noose over his organ and scrotum and then tightened it cruelly. Paul screamed. It was a primeval scream because, for one moment, he felt he was about to lose his manhood forever. Sliced off by the wire. Like no more than a piece of cheese!