by Victor Bruno
*****
“Did I not tell you I was fond of riding?” Delia was saying. Paul knew that no answer was expected and made none. “This form of mount makes an interesting variation . . .”
Something over quarter of an hour had passed and many more circuits had been made. Delia had moved from the front of the trolley, where she had been displaying herself so provocatively, and was now seated on Paul’s shoulders. The red boots dangled down before him; the soft-warm white thighs gripped and closed his neck, the sides of his head and his cheeks. The female scent of his tormentor filled him and he felt the warm lubricity of her sex on him. By moving her haunches and pressing herself close again him, she was literally rubbing herself off on the nape of his neck. Despite the never ceasing torment, Paul found his mind and his body pulsating with the sheer sexuality of it. In every sense Delia was overwhelming him. Just using him for her pleasure . . . and, though Paul’s submission was enforced, for him, inwardly, it became more complete. He gasped and sobbed under Delia’s weight and the unrelenting tug of the wire noose. At the same time he heard her giving softer and more joyful gasps as her lust mounted.
“Oh how I enjoyed caning you, you bastard . . . “ he heard her say between those gasps. “Yes . . . making a man yell is a real joy. Better than any girl, I guess. Ahh . . . yes . . . yes . . . and I shall do it again . . . slave. Often . . . ahhhh . . . aaahhhhh . . . y-yes . . . often.”
The jerking of Delia’s haunches suddenly became more urgent. Willy-nilly, Paul’s body jerked too and thus his pains were intensified. They came to climax as Delia reached hers. He bellowed out hoarsely whilst, bending forwards over him, she panted and moaned as she spent herself with wriggles of lustful joy.
Chapter Four
Paul could not remember the culmination of his ordeal. All he knew was that, at some stage it was at last over, that the wire had been unnoosed, and that he was crawling across the smooth wooden floor behind Delia’s red high-heels as she led him on an iron collar and chain. The pain in his genitals did not seem to have lessened despite his release.
Then he found he was fastened by a shortened length of chain on the collar to a large ring set in the side of a kind of stone horse-trough filled with water. The two naked slave girls who had unwittingly brought him such agony were also fastened to the ring, one on each side of him. He felt their hot and sweating flesh quivering as it pressed to his. Finally the girl who had been fastened to the whipping block was added to the iron ring. The comparison with cattle once again came to his mind . . . especially when the girls began to plunge their head and face into the water to cool them and also to drink greedily. Paul did likewise and slowly began to revive somewhat. I must have survived again, he reflected . . . though at one time it seemed he must lose his manhood. Stoically he absorbed the pains in his tenderest of flesh and the throbbing weals across his buttocks. The girls crushed alongside him would, he knew, be enduring similar pains. It was unthinkable that he should show himself weaker than they. As he had often done before, he fought down the feelings of unmanly helplessness within him and summoned up reserves of will and strength.
After a while he cautiously raised his head and looked around. Delia seemed temporarily to have disappeared. The four of them were alone, shackled together. Slaves of Delia . . . of Miss Mandy . . . owned body and soul by Mrs Dupont! Paul turned his head and looked at the girl on his right. She was the brunette and slightly more curvaceous of the two whose nakedness had been squirming and juddering before him for the last two hours. Her pretty features were distraught and her dark eyes looked at him with a kind of blank horror.
“It wasn’t . . . your fault,” he whispered hoarsely. There was no response. “I forgive you,” he added. Then, on a sudden impulse, he raised a hand and fondled one of the girl’s fulsome, pendulous breasts. What was there to stop him? Why should he not take advantage of any such rare opportunity? He felt her shudder and recoil a little.
“Don’t . . . oh . . . d-don’t . . .” she choked hoarsely.
“Why not?” said Paul, continuing to fondle her avidly. “We . . . we’re both . . . slaves. And . . . I haven’t had a woman for . . . for months . . .”
The girl moaned . . . and went on shuddering slightly. Then she closed her eyes and seemingly resigned herself. What else could she do, chained in such close proximity? Despite everything, Paul’s lust increased and he began to do the same to the girl on his left. She too shudderingly resigned herself. Paul, an amalgam of pain and pleasure, was unable to control himself despite being hideously aware of the dangers of his action.
Oh God . . . how marvellous it was to be able to feel and fondle a woman’s body again! Not under command . . . but because he wanted to. Because he and these two girls were equals. For all of them were slaves.
“You . . . you beauties . . . you lovely little beauties,” he panted hoarsely, “how I’d love to fuck you . . . both of you!”
Momentarily the menace of Delia was forgotten. Nothing else mattered but that close proximity of female flesh.
Despite the awful intensification of pain where the wire had cut, Paul quickly came to full erection again. The thought of mounting one of the girls from the rear occurred hotly to him before he realised the impossibility of doing so. First there was the hideous danger of Delia’s return - and the certain fearful consequences - and then the length of the chain on which he was held was too short to allow any such thing. So he had to consent himself with fondling the soft, quivering female flesh and other intimacies while each girl whimpered, cringed and twisted away as best she could. Accustomed as they might be to such attentions from Madame Dupont’s guests, it was no easier to bear to be thus treated by a fellow sufferer!
The sound of the door of the Punishment Room slamming made the hair on the nape of Paul’s neck rise. Swiftly he jerked his hands away and wished he could as quickly subdue the evidence of his lust. Delia would show no mercy, he was sure. Like the sound of doom, her high heels came clacking across the floor of the chamber. Paul began to pray inwardly.
It seemed that this was answered, for Delia made no comment of any kind as she unshackled the chains from the ringbolt. Had she noticed? Or was she ignoring the incident?
“Feel better for the drinkies?” she enquired in a sneering voice. There was a murmuring of affirmation and humble thanks from all four of them. Such fawning and grovelling, Paul had quickly realised, was an essential requisite of this new mass slavery in which he found himself.
“Come along then,” continued Delia, “you’re to be locked up for the night.”
Leading her flock behind her, she made off long-striding across the chamber. All four were still on hands and knees, since no order to the contrary had been given, but Delia’s pace made it virtually impossible to continue in that fashion. As did the others, Paul came up on all fours. The soft haunches of the girls on either side of him bumped and slapped against his as they hurried forwards. What a spectacle we must make, thought Paul. Once again the resemblance to animals pierced him.
Having left the Punishment Room Delia proceeded to lock away her charges in various cells. Paul’s turn came last. He was unceremoniously booted in by his new, young slave mistress and fastened to the wall by the chain. “Miss Mandy will be seeing you in the morning,” said Delia with a menacing grin.
Paul felt the sickness of dread rise up within him as he looked up at this lovely creature, now so briefly and fetchingly clad again in red leather. It scarcely seemed possible that she had brought him such torment that evening. Yet she had . . . she had . . . and would be only too happy to bring him more in the future! “Yes . . . Miss..” he nodded wretchedly.
Then Delia turned, the steel door opened and slammed with a hollow ring, the key turned in the lock. Paul was alone again . . . but, of course, for the naked sleeping figure of Karen chained to her bench-bed on the far side of the cell. Understandably, she lay with her
lush hindquarters uppermost, though they were partially turned towards him. He surveyed the vivid, bright red weals that encircled the girl’s buttocks, knowing just how much each one of those had hurt. For had he not received precisely the same? Indeed, the pain from his own weals seemed scarcely to have ebbed at all and he turned on to his side to ease it a little. He continued to contemplate Karen’s shapely nakedness whilst recalling memories of the intimate contact he had so recently had with the other two slave girls. The lust began to mount in him again. .
It was at that moment that Paul realised that his wrists had not been secured to the iron collar about his neck, as was customary . . . nor had a leathern restrainer been put on him! No doubt, unaccustomed to male slaves, Delia had over-looked these small but important details!
With something like a moan, Paul gripped the hard solidity of his root. He could scarcely believe what had happened . . . and the opportunities it gave him. Such was the strength of his lust, the risk element seemed remarkably small. At least, in the heat of the moment, he told himself it was. Oh God . . . how long was it . . . how long since? He hand began to pump luxuriously. Oh the joy . . . the delight . . . the relief! After so, so long! How many times, he wondered hotly, will I have strength to do this tonight? For the moment, tomorrow did not matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the fierce ecstasy of desire that was throbbing through him.
Slow . . . slower . . . he told himself . . . or it will be too soon. Slow . . . oh slower . . . yet how could he? It was too good. Mouth slack, eyes glazed, he focussed on Karen’s ripe nudity and let memory after memory click through his heated brain like a swift-operating photo-slide . . .
The naked girls in the orange grove, exposing themselves so blatantly while Delia wielded the strap . . .
The intimate revelations that continued as they made their way back to the big house . . .
The scores of other naked beauties he had seen . . .
The intimate revelations that continued as they were herded back to the cell . . . and when they were subsequently thrashed simultaneously . . .
The juddering flesh of the slave girls enduring Saddle Strap . . .
Delia herself . . . so blonde, so beautiful, so utterly dominating . . .
The stark, close-up nakedness of her magnificent body . . .
Oh God . . . oh God . . . he could not hold out . . . no longer . . . no longer . . .
Oh . . . oohh . . . the utter, utter joy of it . . .
Nothing . . . nothing else mattered . . .
Then, gasping and groaning as the final explosion hit him, Paul’s whole mind was being filled by a vivid image of the woman who, above all, truly dominated his life . . .
That woman was Gloria. Gloria the supreme being. Gloria, of whom he was in adoration. Her very basest slave . . .
Gloria . . . ahh . . . yes . . . yes . . . it was Gloria he was truly serving . . .
She . . . the supreme Goddess . . . she . . . she . . . Yes . . . she . . . she . . . aaaahhh . . . aaaahhhh . . . she . . . she . . . . aaaaahhh . . .
Aaaahhhhhh . . . aaahhhhhh . . . aaahh . . aahh . . . aahh . . . ahh . . . ah . . . ah . . .
Paul, eyes closed, body quivering, utterly slaked, slumped face down huddled up on the hard bench . . .
For the moment he was content.
*****
At mid-morning on the following day, Paul was being whipped by Miss Mandy, the Chief Slave Overseer of Bel Air. She was carrying out the normal ‘Initiation’ of any new slave. He was stretched naked, in star-shape fashion, on a timbered contrivance which was kept permanently ready in an ante-room to Miss Mandy’s private quarters. Gasping bellows of pain jerked from Paul’s throat as the snaking cowhide lash cracked unerringly across the stretched muscles of his back. Miss Mandy, in white hide boots, white briefs and bra, was swinging a dusky arm rhythmically and happily . . . having already informed her victim that this was precisely the same whip that had been employed on her dear Grand-Mammy by a white overseer some decades before. Was it not therefore appropriate that it should be used in reverse? Grovelling, mouth pressed to the hide of the boots of the woman in whose full charge he now was, Paul had slavishly agreed.
Prior to this, weak as a kitten after his night of sexual self-indulgence (was it five or six times? ) he had been led from his cell by a slave-overseer unfamiliar to him. A well-muscled, gaunt-faced woman in her early forties, she had made her presence truly felt by implanting a breath-taking punch to Paul’s midriff; after that she had led him amidst a gaggle of naked slave-girls to the communal shower room. Here freezing jets of water had brought him starkly back to life and, just like the girls around him, he had jumped, gasped and squealed with the shock of it. It was the normal beginning to any day at Bel Air. Among these girls, packed all around him, had been Karen . . . Karen who, having woken, had watched his final frenzy of self-abuse with a mixture of horrified disgust and fascination. He remembered telling her, in those moments, what he would rather have been doing to her. In the crudest terms. And what he would have her do to him. It had increased his illicit pleasure no end. Shivering, Karen had ultimately covered her eyes and sobbed quietly and hopelessly. Paul had not minded; this was a night of unrestrained lust of which he had to take full advantage. Whatever the consequences.
Fortunately for him, there seemed to be no consequences . . . but in his heart he knew it would have been very different if Gloria van Meer had been in close supervision of him. Nothing like would have ever been permitted . . . and discovery would have meant punishment that did not bear thinking about. As it was Paul had begun to wonder if this new form of slavery might not give him even further opportunities. Was he not constantly surrounded by masses of nubile, naked girls? Would not other overseers, apart from Delia, make similar mistakes? The thought of actually being able to enjoy one of his delectable fellow-sufferers set almost intolerable fires burning in Paul’s being.
But now, for the moment, he was enduring the agony of Miss Mandy’s customary ‘Initiation’. It was an agony all the more intensified when, having striped his back to her satisfaction, she turned the attention of her pistol-cracking whip to his buttocks. There, of course, through previous treatment, he was most vulnerable of all . . . hardened as he was. Unrestrained howls were torn from him as well as gasping pleas for mercy. Yet, even in the extremity of his torment, part of his mind told him how much worse such an initiation must be for a young, far more sensitive woman . . . and one quite unhardened by previous treatment of a similar kind. However, that they equally had to endure it as he was doing, there was no doubt. Little wonder then that they submitted with such alacrity, and with such depths of slavish subservience, to the cruel regime imposed upon them. Had not Karen herself said, hideous as it was, that it was better to obey those who owned one than endure the savage cruelties of rod and lash? Indeed, she had . . . and Paul understood.
When, at last, Miss Mandy was finished with him, Paul’s head was swimming and he was half fainting. All the same, he still had sufficient strength to make the kind of full submission that he instinctively knew was required. “Th-Thank you . . . thank you . . . M-Miss M-Mandy,” he gasped, “for making me . . . making me understand you . . . you are t-truly my mistress . . .”
“You’re going to understand it even more,” said Miss Mandy, her coal-black eyes glinting. Far more accustomed, of course, to dealing with girls, she had found a unique pleasure in flogging a man. She liked having one grovel and lick her boots, too, as Paul did when he was released from the Whipping Frame. He did so without receiving a direct order but out of an instinctive desire to demonstrate his complete subservience to this coffee-skinned beauty. For the time being, at least, she had taken Gloria’s place in his world of servile existence.
A thin smile came across Miss Mandy’s lips as she looked down. It occurred to her that Paul’s mouth could be more satisfactorily employed. In a matter of moments s
he had removed her brief garments and slid down on the couch where so many slave girls had shown their full submission to her.
“Crawl here, white trash,” she said silkily, “and please your black mistress . . .”
Paul crawled, his head going between the dusky satin thighs as they parted. His mouth pressed passionately to the eagerly awaiting lips and his tongue thrust.
He could not have been more grateful for the honour he was being given.
*****
It was several hours later that Paul began to become aware of his ultimate fate at Bel Air.
Miss Mandy had issued explicit instructions to this end and had delegated Delia to carry them out.
He lay on his back on a heavy bench, spread-eagled, secured by straps at his wrists and ankles. Delia, quite naked, sat on his face, turned towards the lower part of his body. Half suffocated by the lush spread of her buttocks, his nose and mouth in her widened cleft, he was tonguing her constantly. She, meanwhile, was shaving the hair of his chest and his belly. Already she had shaved all the hair off his head, to give him the closest possible crew-cut and had also removed the hair under his armpits. That she was very much enjoying her task, and his ministrations, he was well aware. Her soft flesh quivered and she uttered little gasps from time to time as she went about her work. Sometimes Paul’s vision was fully obscured by the crush of her fulsome hindquarters; sometimes he was able to see the curve of her buttocks in immediate close-up just above. He shivered and shuddered as the open cut-throat razor slid over his flesh whilst Delia hummed contentedly to herself. Her task was to remove every single hair from his body . . . as a preliminary to the next stage of the transformation which Miss Mandy had devised. Paul, it need hardly be said, was in a state of the keenest agitation and filled with a hopeless dread. Because he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to change the course of events which had been planned.