It was with a pang of undeniable guilt, therefore, that he witnessed the loving kiss; envied the rousing flesh between Adam’s thighs; swallowed the bile of inefficiency as such responsiveness evoked in him all of the willingness but none of the joyous reaction he hungered for. A sour guilt, it was sweetened only by the knowledge that, whether or not Petra’s errant behaviour had caused his impotence, his love for her was strengthened by her willingness to sacrifice her pain on the altar of his pleasure.
With difficulty, he dragged his eyes from the exhibition and set to releasing Petra.
***
Peter wasn’t the only one with a tactile bent. Petra, too, enjoyed touching even when she couldn’t feel anything. One of her pleasantest duties was as handmaiden, made doubly enjoyable with two men to serve.
With Eva seated on the lavatory from where she had no choice but to chew her gag, look and learn, securely held by thumbcuffs, Petra commenced the demonstration.
Peter first, the men stood beneath the shower while - still rubber clad, the vacant hood dangling in an obscene parody of an empty scrotum - she lathered and rinsed them from head to toe.
The odour of richly masculine shower gel penetrated her mask with the bracing power of menthol, clearing the fuzziness from her tired brain. Despite vision even more impeded by the steaming up of the outside of the eyepieces, she dwelled lovingly over her task. The glossily wet rubber gloves slid smoothly over Petra’s body, filling each fold with foam, soothing the suds across the firmly fatted skin as lovingly as a baby’s.
In contrast to her own depletion his dark indumentum held a fascination for her: her moist pink sleeve versus his dry, swarthy rod peering from its foreskin tube with the disposition of a trapdoor spider; the soft resilience of her body versus the irresistible crushing weight of his; the subtle cycle of her ovaries versus the spuming glory of his balls.
She hefted his cock in one black palm and teased froth around the heavy helmet. Flaccid now, she knew it wanted only for the moment, the inspiration to rise to the occasion with the valeur of a veteran.
Adam’s slimmer, almost ascetic body, its fair hair virtually invisible except on the groin and lightly stockinged legs, was no less delightful to pamper. His prick impressed her with its slender length and clean, circumcised lines. Lacking Peter’s substance and obtrusive purple veining, its potential was no less forceful, no less importunate; though more rampant, as her manipulations proved. It stood proud; a rapier to Peter’s broadsword; but no less lethal for that! She lingered over his genitals, partly for Eva’s edification but mostly as pure self-indulgence. what healthily middle-aged woman would deny a spark of jealousy at the sight of such virility encouraged by her touch. And whereas Peter’s bag was a thick, hirsute orb carrying his balls like potatoes in a sack, Adam’s had a thin-skinned delicacy which outlined each oval like eggs wrapped in a silk handkerchief and seemingly as fragile.
She pictured with exquisite envy Eva’s hand ferreting in his pants to disinter the pods. Imagined her cupping their wondrous weight. Caught herself hating the thought of the silly girl sucking those precious delicacies onto her tongue, lifting and rolling them, no more alert to her prize than an oyster to the grain that forms the pearl.
Serve the cow right. What she’d got coming was well deserved!
***
Once the men had been satisfactorily towelled and talcummed they dismissed themselves, leaving the women to their own ablutions and the preparation of breakfast.
“Let us repair to the workshop,” effused Peter. “You can see the rest of my marvels.”
The workshop was the Hospitality Room. Every second oak panel concealed a treasure designed to fold away. ingenious it was. And deadly serious. These were not toys, being crafted from hardwood and stainless steel.
“Tested every one myself,” Peter declared, waving a proprietorial arm over a display which could only have exuded menace by the addition of flaming torches round the walls, a mildewed smell of moat, echoing cries of fear from unseen dungeons. “I reckoned if they’d hold me, they’d hold anyone,” he added as if the fitted clamps, straps and chains didn’t speak for themselves. “The choice, my young friend, is yours. Feel free to browse, without obligation.”
Adam circled the room, pausing in front of each exhibit to picture Eva in situ and savour the thrill of anticipation in his loins. He dismissed the cross - he wanted her bending, the skin stretched tight over her ass. Likewise the pillory ,too much freedom for her hips. The stocks were wholly inappropriate, as was the overhead beam. And the rack was a flat-out non-starter.
Spinning on his heel. he surveyed the room again. He fancied a ritualistic approach. He wanted her bent, but not too far so that let out the padded T-post. She had to be high enough for his natural swing, which made the horse ideal but it was in the wrong place; he didn’t want Eva tucked away down the end, oblivious to whatever Peter put Petra through. His gaze kept returning to one particular item. It was perfect. Almost too perfect. He still hesitated. He found himself reluctant to lay claim, though whether that was due to nerves or a wish to prolong the anticipation he couldn’t decide. His pulse quickened. An ache constricted his throat. Then that old hot flesh started its give-away trek from the middle towards his extremities. He swallowed.
“That one, I think.
Peter nodded. “We’ll just put the unneeded ones away and then breakfast. High carbohydrate, for energy. Low protein, to maintain the blood supply to the, er, muscles. Sound right to you?”
***
Breakfast was a minimalist menu. The women drank a blend of yoghurt, honey and raw eggs. The men ate meusli with yoghurt, followed by wholemeal toast and honey washed down with coffee: “To give us an edge until the adrenaline kicks in.”
While the dregs were drained, Petra cleared the crocks, Eva being left once again like a bemused innocent accused of some unnamed crime. She sat in the corner, choking on the humiliating ease with which three or four inches of ratcheted steel around her thumbs reduced her to a demoralised wreck, hypersensitive to the admonitory silence which shrouded her like a cloak of invisibility. Although little more than arm’s length away, she felt so distanced from the others that a scream of frustration would have done no more than echo faintly off their implacable backs.
Even Petra had condemned her. Not having the thumbcuff keys, she had been obliged to wash Eva, too; contriving to make it as unpleasant as she could. She showered her with freezing water, rubbed soap in her eyes, and was so over enthusiastic in applying the loofah that Eva’s sensitive parts would have fared better from paint stripper and wire wool.
So it was with more than just trepidation that Eva watched Petra accept the key and the dismissal back to the Rubber Room to await their Master’s pleasure. Once Eva was freed, the women flew apart like repelling magnets to sit at opposite sides of the room like captured conspirators glaring mutual accusations of betrayal.
Assiduous introspection gave Eva no answers. Just why Petra had perfidiously discarded the role of kindred spirit, she couldn’t fathom. And, squatting dejectedly in the blue corner, her anomie was aggravated by one inconsequential thought that battered her brittle composure into melancholic shards: Heather wouldn’t turn on me like this!
However, the absorbment properties of self-pity can constitute its singular advantage. As the ‘Parkinson’s Law’ of the mind, it overwhelms minor considerations, inculcating a sense of unreality which forms the final bastion of sanity. An effect which her absorption achieved so well that, when the door eventually swung back to admit Adam and Peter, she had quite forgotten their mission. With a welcoming smile of relief, she jumped to her feet.
“Adam! Oh, Adam! It’s been horrid...”
Adam scowled and growled: “Silence! Stand still!”
Eva clammed up and planted her feet on the spot. Her petulance evaporated as rapidly as the self-pity when she saw ho
w the men were equipped.
Peter hulked the doorway like a featherweight Sumo wrestler, his mammoth cock drooping ponderously over leaden balls. He carried coils of thick white cord, plus some elaborately shaped pieces of metal which she was fairly sure were not Good Conduct metals. His expression was, as usual, amusedly non-committal.
Adam, on the other hand, had changed. And not solely in terms of dress. True he had donned another pair of her boutique acquisitions - black Lycra briefs which moulded to his bollocks like toffee round a nut cluster - but she sensed that they symbolised a decision to formalise the proceedings by interposing a barrier between them. Those few square inches of material obfuscating his proud wedding tackle reasserted that she was not naked but bared - at his behest.
Or was she? For while one hand held a strip of plastic, his other clutched a rumple of black material which must surely be knickers for her, too. Before she could speculate further, Adam spun her round, jerked her wrists behind her and clinched them with the plastic tie. Then he pulled her back to face Petra, maintaining a steadying grip on her arm. A chill of foreboding traversed her spine as Petra regarded Peter’s approach.
The cord was expertly applied, never using one loop where several would do. Petra’s arms bent behind, each fist against the opposite elbow. Trussed with countless turns of cord, the forearms soon resembled a Boy Scout’s lashing for a broken tent pole. The free ends were passed round her chest and wound tightly about the bases of her heavy breasts. Only when each mammary was bound into a grotesque travesty of an udder was the cord tied off behind her neck, mocking a halter bra.
Petra bore it all stoically, her gaze fixed on some abstract point. Eva decided she was privy to a display of affection that was as moving as it was confusing, though that thought did little to allay her own foreboding.
The application of the next coil was more intimately cruel. Taking several passes round her waist, he pulled until they bit deep into her plump flesh and knotted it at the spine. Tucking both ends tidily between her buttocks, he fed them through her legs and, after ensuring they nested neatly within her sex lips, forced them up under the waistband. To have tied them off there would have been bad enough, but he went on e step further. Leading each end down and under the arch of a foot, he tied it to the ankle. Using oddments of cord, he secured each length above and below the knee. That prevented her from reducing the pressure on her clitoris by squatting. When she walked - as Peter doubtless intended she would - her delicate sex would suffer excruciating chafing.
Eva glanced at Adam who stood, impassively taking it all in. Was this what he had in mind for her? She swallowed hard as his blue eyes met hers without confirmation or denial. Perhaps - for the first time in her life - she was profoundly grateful for being blessed with small breasts. It would be more a matter of practicality than preference. But that wouldn’t stop him from... She surreptitiously pressed her thighs together and offered a silent prayer.
Peter went to the door and treated them all to a full view of his hairy, flat-buttocked ass as he retrieved something he’d left outside. There was a clinking sound. Turning, he displayed a mixture of brass, steel and chain which caused Petra’s eyes to widen, her mouth to open for an audible breath and her shoulders to crank forward as if to shield her breasts.
For a second or two Eva thought that she detected a twitch of response from Peter’s penis - but no! It stiII had that hangdog look. His expression was different, however. The hint of wry amusement had been supplanted by a leer which hovered on the brink of wickedness. Petra swayed on her heels at his approach but made no move to retreat. Her mouth remained open, dragging slow, heaving breaths as she stared, transfixed by the gleaming collection.
The penny dropped in Eva’s jack rabbiting mind. Nipple clamps! She watched in fascination as Peter pinched Petra’s dark teats. Inserting each one between the flat presses, he nipped the screws to hold them in place. Dissatisfied, he adjusted them until the thick, dimpled nipples resembled slices of purple bread in miniature toasters. Petra gasped, throwing her head back in pain. He flicked the clamps. Grimacing, she shook her head but made no sound. He tightened the screws some more, watching her face intently.
“Hhaaaaaaah-h-h,” she sighed.
Another tweak, another twist.
“NNNNNN!” Her breath became quicker. Her head flopped forward, eyes unfocussed through the mist of agony.
Satisfied, he shook out the chain into two short lengths sporting a clip at one end and a blunt hook at the other. Clipping one to each clamp he let the chains swing with the heaving of her ribs. Petra froze, waiting. The turned-brass cylinders he held up had a ring protruding from one end. To these he attached the hooks, cupping weights in his palms.
Eva bit her lips, hypnotised; hoping there would be no audience participation in this particular scenario. She almost cried out a warning when the hands tilted, rolling the polished brass nearer the precipice where they teetered precariously.
He moved. Leaning forward, he pressed his thin lipped mouth against his wife’s. She responded, briefly blotting out her predicament with a deep exploring kiss. They parted while Eva held her breath, trembling in Adam’s grasp. The palms turned. And the weights fell into space!
“Uuuuuh!”
Petra sagged at the knees.
“Nnnnnnnh!” she groaned And: “Mmmmmmmm.”
The cords bit into her crotch, forcing her upright. The weights pendulummed violently, dragging the tips of her tits down against their bindings; distending the full, delicately veined flesh into an ugly contradiction of femininity.
Eva’s stomach churned. Part of her was shocked. Part of her was obliquely grateful rather Petra’s pain than her own But mostly she was angry. Angry at Adam for never subjecting her to such an intense expression of his love. For, despite her suffering, Petra was more a part of her man - and he of her - than any amount of cock reaming could achieve.
Eva wrenched at the tie holding her wrists. If she’d broken loose she’d have flung it in Adam’s face, along with a tirade of emasculating invective. Fuck the bastard! There was more to a real man than a stiff dick!
***
When Adam turned away from Petra’s plight he saw wide-eyed Eva, high points of colour on her cheeks emphasising the seven shades of pale she had turned beneath the tan. She threw him a defiant look which, had she but known it, served to ignite an adrenaline fuse which burned throughout his body.
“Eva. You have just observed the practical application of a principle demonstrating that true leadership permits uninhibited exploration of, and by, both parties. What counts is the common ground compatibility. And that includes ours. Yours and mine!
“Your persistent disobedience has reduced me to an intolerable state, corrupting constructive, healthy doubts about my career and our future into debilitating insecurity due to your extravagance. You’ve not only undermined my efforts, but driven a wedge between us. I now intend to whittle that wedge down to a splinter in your backside. Is that clear?”
Eva nodded. Satisfied with the impact of his words, he went on: “Not without some shame, I realise my weakness made it easy for you to take advantage. Indecisiveness bred opportunity. For that I apologise, particularly as I will be punishing you to some extent for my own failings. If nothing else, it proves how inextricably involved are actions and consequences for the both of us.
“We have only one future. Mine. To that end I will eradicate every vestige of wilfulness until you think ‘us’, feel ‘us , and become ‘us’ in me. Body and soul. My will be done.”
On that plagiarised melodramatic note he shook out the black cloth to reveal a square bag with drawstring top. With measured care he slipped it over her head and drew the string snug around her throat. Arms bound, hooded: the only thing missing was a noose.
Responding to his touch, Eva walked steadily to the door and hip-to-hip with him down the sta
irs. All signs of nervousness had gone, as though she were relieved the waiting was over.
Adam led the small cortege down to the basement and straight into the Hospitality Room.
Only the reserved items had been left out and he made directly for the ‘Pedestal,’ as Peter called it: ‘Every woman should be placed upon it at least once in her life.’ In appearance it more closely resembled a palanquin, but with eight foldaway arms. Four extended diagonally form the corners at floor level, acting as stabilisers. The rest were paired fore and aft just above the midway point. The pedestal itself was a waist high column of surgically severe stainless
steel, about eighteen inches square. At various points on the upper arms and centred at each side were wide, sweat-shiny saddle-hide straps.
Feeling familiar oak beneath her feet, Eva’s nerve gave out and he had to drag her, sliding, the last couple of yards. Her head swivelled constantly, disoriented by the double-skinned silk bag which moulded to her features with each inhalation. Her shoulders heaved in a last attempt to break free, the plastic tie embedding so deeply it was in danger of lacerating her wrists. Her ribs tossed the perfect little breasts like coracles on choppy water, while the downy soft abdomen fluttered with each gasp. Her slim legs quivered, scarcely maintaining her balance as she probed with guesting toes. As she changed legs, each pert nate mounded beneath its rose-purple tawse tattoo.
The one discordant note was that pubic heart. Adam decided it was too romantic an emblem for the New Order, and that she’d have to shave until he thought of something more pertinent. Cutting her loose, he frogmarched her towards the plinth. As her belly collided with cold steel she went rigid with shock. Shifting one hand to her neck, he grabbed her between the thighs and, with a push and lift, slid her up into place like a plank onto a stack.
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