Under Control

by Victor Bruno

  But Miss Mandy meant nothing quite so drastic. She just meant it to hurt. And hurt plenty. Then she ran out the wire and fastened it to the two slave-girls who stood side by side. Yes . . . it was then that Paul knew. He knew he was to be pulled around and around that dreadful room by his own genitalia!

  “Move!” ordered Miss Mandy . . . and Ilse slashed the horsewhip across the quivering female flesh. With the obligatory high-stepping action the girls moved off. The wire tautened, cutting and pulling just where Paul was the most sensitive. And because the steel frame with his body upon it was heavy, that cutting and pulling was all the more severe. He cried out pitifully . . . but above that cry he heard Delia laugh with sadistic glee.

  “What a wonderful idea!” she said.

  “Isn’t it . . .” agreed Miss Mandy.

  “The perfect correction . . .” added Ilse.

  Paul gasped and groaned as the mobile framework trundled on, jerking from time to time on account of the unsteady gait of the girl who pulled . . . which in turn imparted an unsmooth passage to the framework. Chest heaving, near to weeping, he endured the awful cutting pain. And in that moment, Paul recalled that the slave-girls had been set two hours of Saddle Strap. That meant that over an hour and a half of this excruciating torment lay ahead of him.

  “M-Mercy . . . m-mercy . . .” he gasped as the first circuit was completed. “For God’s sake have mercy!”

  But, by then, not only Delia was laughing. So were Ilse and Miss Mandy.

  *****

  Oh God, thought Paul, this thin wire will cut my balls off. Not only my balls . . . but my prick as well! They were trying to make him a eunuch. Panic gripped him, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. The sweat burst out all over his body and he could only pray for some kind of deliverance which, in his heart, he knew would not come.

  Ahead of him the naked buttocks of the two slave-girls who were pulling him along swayed and juddered. They, too, were suffering, he realised. But surely not as much as he!

  He passed the Birching Hurdle where so recently he had been thrashed. He passed the Whipping Block with the slave-girl still secured over it, her bottom ablaze with deep red welts where the heavy strap had fallen. He saw, even in his own anguish, the flesh still twitching and quivering in his torment. This is a terrible place, he thought. Here there is NO mercy. None!

  He passed the cruelly amused faces of Miss Mandy . . . of Delia . . . of Ilse. Delia was actually still laughing, one hand held over her mouth, her big breasts heaving under their flimsy covering.

  What a joke . . . Christ what a joke! Tears of self-pity came to his eyes. And his mistress did not even know what was happening to him. She did not care, of course. She had even put Miss Mandy in charge of him. That sufficed.

  His brain seemed to reel. Oh how can I endure? For so long?

  Yet, in fact, Paul was at the beginning of the painful process of finding out that he was far tougher than even he had thought himself.

  *****

  Miss Mandy remained in the Punishment Room to watch Paul complete half a dozen or so painful circuits. Obviously she found it unusually entertaining and enjoyable to have a male slave to deal with rather than one of the large troupe of slave girls. So did her two assistants, Delia and Ilse.

  With gritted teeth, Paul strove to endure the relentless cutting of the wire noose about his genitalia in silence. All the same, low whimpers were forced from him repeatedly. He had, he knew, somehow to try and come to terms with the perpetual pain the pulling slave-girls produced. For, if what was bad now, what would it be like in half an hour’s time? An hour’s time? Gradually he realised that his fear that the noose would sever his manhood completely was exaggerated. The human form . . . bones, gristle, muscle and flesh . . . was always stronger than the individual imagined. Nevertheless that did not compensate for the perpetual pain. Oh God, the bitter injustice of it! His sufferings were simply the natural male reaction to close contact with young female flesh following an afternoon of repeated visual titillation. Could he really be blamed?

  Of course not, he realised. He was simply a ‘guinea pig’ for the amusement of these sadistic women who served Mrs Dupont’s monstrous regime.

  Before him constantly was the bouncing, quivering bottom flesh of the two slave girls undergoing the cruel discipline of Saddle Strap. They too were being cut where they were most sensitive by the thong drawn viciously tight between their legs and up between their nates . . . a torment made all the worse by the high-stepping gait they had to perform. Even in his own plight, for which they were involuntarily responsible, Paul felt sympathy for them.

  In due time Miss Mandy left the Punishment Room, accompanied by Ilse, thus leaving Delia as overseer. The curvaceous blonde leaned against one of the whipping blocks, smoking a cigarette, watching the little cavalcade of torment. Occasionally she cracked the horse whip menacingly . . . warning the two girls to keep their limbs moving high . . . and reminding them they would feel the lash if they fell. The only other occupant of the Punishment Room was the girl Paul had seen being strapped by Ilse when he had arrived. She remained secured down to a whipping block and Paul was confronted by her naked bottom, covered with red-purple welts, every time he completed another circuit. On one occasion Delia strolled over and spoke to the girl at some length. Being mostly out of earshot, Paul heard little of what she said but that she was not using words of comfort was pretty obvious! For, as he passed, he heard Delia saying: “You thoroughly deserve what you’ve got coming tomorrow, my girl!” . . . referring to the second strapping the girl was due to receive.

  After half an hour or so, Paul had become somewhat adjusted to the incessant cutting pain. Not that it lessened. Rather to the contrary. But, to an extent, he had become inured to it, since his experience of enduring pain had enabled him to build up a kind of inner resistance to it. But how long he would be able to maintain that was another matter. Perhaps for the whole two hours, he thought.

  Let it be remembered that the terrible cutting of the wire noose was not all that Paul had to endure. There were, too, the burning-throbbing weals that Delia had raised across the rump!

  Paul saw Delia yawn . . . and felt a sudden flair of hatred for her callousness. She was actually becoming bored! Quickly he suppressed the emotion. It was very dangerous to hate those who had complete power over one, he knew. Because it lessened one’s ability to submit utterly to them. One must not submit to the hate and bitterness . . . but with the feeling that was honoured to be the slave of one’s dominatrix and that there was a ‘rightness’ in it! That was the mark of a TRUE slave. Such as he was.

  A short while later Paul noticed that Delia had moved. She was using a house telephone set in an alcove in one wall. “Send Janice to me,” he heard her order crisply. “And tell her to bring the massage oil with her . . .”

  The next time Paul saw her he was both startled and fascinated to see that she had removed the brief bra and panty set she had been wearing and was standing nonchalantly naked but for her thigh-length red leather boots. Despite his torment his eyes fastened upon her almost greedily. He noted at once that, unlike the slave girls whose body hair was shaven, there was an enchanting triangle of blonde down at the apex of her smooth white thighs. Had she done this to tantalise him further, he wondered. If so, she was succeeding. He was torn between desire and despair . . . and he gritted his teeth even more firmly as he was pulled so helplessly and humiliatingly round the room.

  Shortly afterwards a pretty young, raven-haired slave girl came hurrying in, carrying a small urn and it then became apparent why Delia had stripped. For she stretched herself out, face down, on a leather couch set in the centre of the room and the girl Janice at once began to rub oil from the urn into Delia’s lush body and then massage her. Soon Delia was sighing softly under the treatment and stretching voluptuously under the kneading hands. It became apparent before lon
g that this was more than a simple relaxing exercise; by the movement and placing of Janice’s hands it had sexual overtones. Delia, uttering little moans, became an island of pleasure in the sea of pain surrounding her.

  Delia had been on the couch for about a quarter of an hour when another incident occurred. The double door at the far end of the Punishment Room were flung open and the blonde, Germanic-looking Ilse came striding back in again. This was obviously the customary form of restraint on such occasions, Paul realised. Like cattle, he thought. We are rated no higher.

  The girl was tall and strong-looking with rich red hair and her pleas could be heard above her sobs. “I . . . I’ll do w-what he w-wants, Miss . . . w-what m-my master w-wants, Miss . . . I swear it . . . I will . . . I will . . . please . . . Miss. . . oohh . . . please . . . n-not the whip . . . Miss . . . .”

  Paul saw Delia prop herself up on one elbow and survey the scene with amused interest, while the raven-haired slave girl continued her gentle but insistent ministrations.

  “Too late, my girl,” came Ilse’s rasping reply. “You should have thought of that . . . and done that . . . earlier . . .”

  Just before Paul turned once more at the end of the long room, he saw the girl being led towards the whipping post. She was almost on her knees and Ilse was virtually dragging her.

  “Merc . . . eee . . . merc . . . eee . . . . “ cried the girl piteously.

  “Susan been playing up again?” called Delia from the couch. “Quite a spitfire that young madam, isn’t she!”

  “Quite!” replied Ilse. “But I’ll tame her . . . never you fear!”

  “I’ve no doubt of it,” laughed Delia.

  The girl Susan’s cries and pleas grew louder and more piteous and when Paul turned once more he saw that her arms had been stretched above her head and her wrists fastened to manacles set at the top of the whipping post. He was so gripped by the spectacle that, temporarily at least, his own torments took second place. She had a superb body, he saw, with broad, straight back and very fulsome hindquarters. The latter were criss-crossed with thin cane weals but the former creamy-white, was unmarked. What, Paul wondered, was the girl’s offence? It seemed, from what he had heard, that in some way Susan had displeased the man - no doubt a guest of Mrs Dupont’s - to whom she had been allocated.

  “Disobedience is the most serious crime in the calendar,” Ilse was saying. “Especially to your master!”

  “I . . . ooohh . . . I d-didn’t m-mean it!” cried the girl. “I’ll do it now . . . I s-swear I w-will!”

  But Ilse was already taking down from the wall a vicious looking whip. Four snaking feet of tightly-plaited rawhide, Paul shuddered for the girl. Gloria had, on occasions, used such a whip on him.

  “Merc . . . eeee!” shrieked the girl in final, hopless desperation, “Merc . . . eeee!” But Paul knew there would be none . . . and suspected the wretched Susan knew it too. He felt sudden burst of sympathy for this lovely naked creature - a fellow slave - and at the same time he experienced one of those shafts of hatred for Delia. She lay on the couch, smiling and eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure, whilst her own haunches quivered softly from the lustful attentions she was receiving. Here, indeed, was a dual delight for her!

  The whip snaked across the floor as Ilse took up her position. She was a powerful and fearsome sight.

  “I’ll tame you to the most instant and absolute obedience . . . if it’s the last thing I do,” she snarled.

  Then the whip swung up and, with a retort like a pistol-shot, cracked across the broadness of Susan’s white back. A vivid red weal leapt up and an animal-like howl of pain was torn from the girl and, like a puppet on string, she jerked and twisted frenziedly in her bonds. That awful howl went up and up, louder and louder, echoing from wall to wall. Paul did not see the next five strokes that were laid on. But he heard them cracking viciously into Susan’s soft flesh at five second intervals. He heard too, her heart-rending screams of torment. Was disobedience - WHATEVER was demanded - worth this? No . . . no . . . it could not be! One must obey. One must submit.

  When Paul turned yet again, he saw the terrible weals striping Susan’s one white back. He saw too that Ilse was now concentrating her attention on her victim’s plump bottom. With the same methodical strokes she lacerated it cruelly . . . and even Paul was amazed at how frenziedly that lush, soft womanly flesh writhed, the whole mass bouncing, juddering and quivering madly. It epitomised the degree of Susan’s agony . . . and it fascinated. Yet Paul could not but admit to himself that it fascinated for other reasons too.

  “That got through to her I reckon,” came the drawling voice of Delia when the whip ceased to fall.

  “I reckon so too,” replied Ilse, surveying the still-juddering female flesh she had just beribboned. Then she tossed aside the whip and began to unshackle her moaning victim. Paul partly saw, partly heard, the wretched Susan being more or less dragged from the Punishment Room on the end of her collar and chain. And, before the doors closed he heard Ilse’s rasping voice again. “Now we’ll see if you’ll TRULY obey your master!” she said.

  Weak with fatigue and pain, he experienced a feeling of paralysing dread. It was perhaps worse than ever before. Cruel, agonising and humiliating as his experiences had been as Gloria van Meer’s personal slave (was she not the goddess-woman who had first broken him completely? ) he now realised he was in the thralls of something far more terrible. Mrs Dupont’s regime of mass slavery was more frightening because of its impersonal nature. He was now one of scores of helpless slaves who could be punished mercilessly for the slightest fault - real or imagined. Indeed, one could be made to suffer simply for the amusement of those who had you in their power. As was his present case. It was a bitter and despairing realisation. Particularly so for Paul, who had imagined he had reached the nadir of subjection in Gloria’s hands. Now, it could well be, there were even deeper depths to be plumbed.

  “Halt!” Delia’s voice rang out. The two slave girls dragging Paul stopped at once and Paul’s relief was almost overwhelming. Could it be over? He had sensed there was still time to go yet. Near to tears, he looked at the naked flesh of the two girls before him, the wire now slack between them. He saw the sweat that glistened on their flesh . . . saw the muscles that twitched with fatigue and pain . . . and realised that their sufferings could scarcely be less than his. Delia came into view, blonde and beautifully nude, smiling slightly in that smugly arrogant way of hers. How he hated that. No! No . . . he must not hate! He must submit and accept everything from her. She was his mistress.

  “For the last half hour,” she said, “we’ll try it a little differently.“

  Paul’s heart sank. God, he had been right! His ordeal was by no means over. And what did this smiling she-devil with the lushly inviting body have in mind now?

  He was soon to know. For Delia cane swinging up on to the steel-framed trolley on which Paul was secured kneeling. He was riven by the sight, scent and sexual closeness of her. Tormented! Then she was unloosening the wire which was around both the root of his penis and his scrotum. Paul gave a little low moan of relief, head drooping. Grinning, Delia took hold of his organ and toyed with it casually. “A little uncomfy, eh?” she said. “How long since you had a piece?”

  “Months . . . Miss . . .” replied Paul hoarsely. “M-Months . . .” Despite what he had and was enduring, Delia’s close presence and her touch were beginning to make themselves felt.

  “That explains it . . .” laughed Delia. “But it does not excuse it.” She was obviously referring to the instant reactions that young Karen had produced. “Right, you randy bastard,” she went on, “now we’re going to do it differently.”

  The feeling of panic-terror gripped Paul once more as Delia now looped the wire noose about his scrotum alone, tightening it above his balls. “N-No . . . no . . .” he gasped out. “For God’s sake . . . you . . . you’ll .
. . y-you’ll castrate me . . .”

  “Oh no,” smiled Delia. “Nothing as simple as that. Though, I admit, it will probably feel as if you’re losing your goolies.”

  “Mercy . . . oh God . . . I beseech you . . . have mercy . . .” He was at the end of his tether, literally and metaphorically. It had been bad enough when the wire had encircled the girth of his penis and the scrotum, now, he was hideously aware, to be pulled in this way . . . to be literally pulled by his balls . . . would be even worse.

  Completely disregarding his pleas, Delia stood up on the trolley and turned. Right before Paul’s eyes was the creamy whiteness of her curvaceous bottom. In her hand was the horsewhip. It cracked. Once . . . twice. “Move, my beauties!” she commanded.

  The two slave girls stepped forward. The wire tautened . . . and Paul took the strain. It was a strain made all the worse with Delia’s added weight on the trolley. He cried out in terror and torment and Delia turned back to observe the results of her handiwork.

  Paul gasped and groaned alternately. The pain was excruciating. Worse and more frightening than it had already been. Just before him was Delia. Then, still smiling, she raised one long limb and placed her foot on one of the side rails, thus displaying herself quite uninhibitedly to him in close up. Deliberately. Tauntingly. Cruelly.

  “You’ll soon learn, big boy,” she said, “that here, at Bel Air, there’s no limit to what can be done to a slave.”

  Gritting his teeth, Paul fought to adjust his mind and senses to the increased torment he was enduring. For endure it he had to! And, once again during the next half hour, he was to be made further aware of the amazing powers of resilience that the human body and spirit possesses. They are far tougher physically than imagination lets one believe. And when one thinks one had reached the limit new resources are summoned up.

  It would have been a blessing for Paul if it were not so . . . for the limits of his endurance had been vastly extended by his earlier experiences under the tutelage of Gloria van Meer.