Belle Submission

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘Please, mamselle prefect, I said there were ten planets, and the professeuse said there were only nine. She said nine is a significant number, but I think ten is reasonable.’

  ‘A repeat offence, then,’ Sophie hissed. ‘You are here to learn what is reasonable, not to think it. Last week, you took twenty on bare, with a maple rod, for just the same thing. Do you enjoy being caned?’

  ‘No, mamselle,’ Clara mumbled, a tear forming in her eye, and her breast-jellies trembling.

  ‘Yet your behaviour invites the cane. Very well. Thirty strokes on the bare croup for the offence and a further fifteen on teats for insolence in repeating it.’

  ‘Yes, mamselle,’ Clara said.

  ‘You may apologise to the intendant.’

  ‘With respect, mamselle, it would be unreasonable of me to naysay my belief, until it is beaten from me.’

  Sophie looked at her in disgust.

  ‘You’ll take your thirty à la baignade, in sets of ten, with thirty seconds’ pause between sets. Wet buttocks,’ she rapped. ‘Unless you prefer to go before a tribunal and risk double sentence?’

  ‘The sentence is reasonable, mamselle,’ gasped Clara.

  ‘The flogging to be with a hickory wand.’

  ‘Yes, mamselle,’ Clara murmured, and curtsied.

  Sophie rubbed her brow and loosened the top buttons of her clammy shirt, fanning the air around her breasts, which bobbled loosely, slapping against the moist fabric.

  ‘So hot today,’ she gasped. ‘Not your dry mainland heat, mamselle. It is moist and invades the loins, warming girls to frenzy, unless they are disciplined…’

  ‘Please, not for my benefit,’ Trina said.

  ‘It is for the benefit of New Arras, mamselle,’ Sophie rapped. ‘Dissent must be punished, for it leads to treason. If we were enslaved by the goddammees of New Albion, mere caning would be light relief from punishment.’

  ‘Can’t she buy her way off strokes with fessignats?’

  ‘Academy corrections are not on treasury account. They are internally earned and administered in house.’

  Monitor Dolores Henek led Clara to a short table three feet high, with indentations for belly, breasts and thighs. Clara took off her shoes then unfastened her croup bowtie, allowing her skirt to billow and expose her panties. She took the hem of the skirt and tied it together in front of her in a larger bow, so that her buttocks were exposed. She rolled down her panties, stepping out of them to reveal her massive tangle of wet pubic curls spilling over dark red, swollen cunt-flaps that glistened wet. After folding her panties and handing them to Henek, she stood croup bared for punishment. Henek grasped her neck and forced her face down on to the shiny new flogging bench. A second monitor, Jennifer Tans, strapped her stockinged ankles to the corners of the bench, with her wrists behind her and her arms folded over the small of her back. The wrist rope extended to a rubber cord fastened around her waist.

  The workmaids lined up before a wooden pail; each squatted over it, lowered her panties to span her knees and pissed into the pail. After ten girls had spurted their piss, Henek placed the brimming receptacle below the top of the table at Clara’s head. Henek raised her cane above Clara’s naked buttocks; Tans upended a pitcher of drinking water over Clara’s bare, making sure every crevice was soaked. Clara was sobbing, with little gasps and a choked, mewling sound, and her bare fesses trembled violently, clenching even before a single stroke lashed her. Lattices of old welts crisscrossed her wet nates, and Trina asked why a hardened offender should so dread further punishment. She had heard of women who even relished the lash on bare.

  ‘She is undoubtedly one,’ Sophie said, as Jennifer Tans grasped Clara’s mane and wound it around her fist. ‘They relish the idea of the lash on bare, but not the process. Nudity of the caned buttocks makes for shame. It is the subject’s naked bottom, her female essence, which is touched; while the caner must face the squirming, the bruises, the reddening of flesh… and must be doubly virtuous to resist pride and desire. Bare fesses are such defiance, such intimacy.’

  As her head was jerked towards the piss pail, Clara looked up and cried to Trina:

  ‘Don’t you tremble before bare-ass beating, mamselle intendant?’

  Trina paled. She looked at Sophie, then at Henek and Jennifer. Every girl in the workroom stared at her, including Odette Van Kram, the caned POW who had impishly curtsied.

  ‘Lay it on hard, mamselle,’ Trina snapped to Henek, who saluted; Harriet, quivering, clutched Trina’s arm.

  Jennifer dragged Clara’s head by the hair, plunging it under the surface of the liquid in a flurry of bubbles until the piss lapped her nape.

  ‘One,’ Sophie cried.

  Vip! The cane landed athwart Clara’s wide, full melons, and the naked buttock-meat clenched, jerking, as the rod gouged a livid pink weal on the satin skin. The girl’s skirts billowed; her head banged the side of the pail and bubbles surged from the piss. Sophie’s voice rang out once more. Vip! The cane landed right in the same weal and Clara’s body jerked rigid, her roped arms struggling against her rubber waist cincher. The pail of piss frothed as her head shook beneath the liquid. The buttocks clenched rapidly after the cane was lifted, having remained caressing the weal for over a second. Vip! Vip! Vip! The beating continued, every stroke delivered to the same welt, now a jagged gash darkening to purple, and the whole roomful of girls was silent, clutching their faces as the flogged maid squirmed helplessly on her table.

  ‘Look at her quim, mamselle,’ Harriet whispered. ‘She was wet before the first stroke, and now…’

  Clara’s billowing skirts revealed her bare pubis, slimed in a lake of oily come. Trina clutched Harriet’s hand, shifting her thighs to conceal the moisture seeping from her own quim as she gazed at the writhing bare buttocks framed by the flounced skirt. At the tenth stroke, Jennifer wrenched Clara’s head from the pail by her hair.

  ‘Ugh! Ugh!’

  The girl spluttered, her face bright scarlet. Her buttocks continued to clench for the full half minute, until she had caught her breath and was plunged once more into the foaming liquid, her wail drowned in the bubbles of girl piss. Vip Vip! Vip! Trina panted, gasping, as Sophie’s voice called out the strokes and Henek lashed the squirming bare nates, now in a second weal crossed over the first. Without relinquishing the flogged girl’s hair, Jennifer refreshed her wet bottom from the water pitcher, and Sophie murmured to Trina that a wet caning was superbly painful. The caner’s muscles and breasts heaved as she brought the rod down with a squelching slap on the bare wet nates, spraying water, mingled with Clara’s sweat. The second set ended with a deep purpling gash stretching across the first weal, which was now puffing to a high ridge of blackened skin. Trina swallowed and wiped her brow.

  The third set began. Henek laid five strokes to vertical, then five horizontal, forming a star shape on Clara’s bare. Trina clutched Harriet’s hand, jumping at each stroke, and started as, at the twenty-eighth, Henek’s breasts burst from her bodice. She continued the caning bare-breasted, her firm, jutting jellies jumping at each stroke of the cane on Clara’s writhing bare ass. Trina sighed, moaning, as the girl’s head was dragged from her pail of seething piss, and as Henek unfastened her ankle ropes, without attending to her own bare teats, Jennifer ripped open Clara’s blouse, scattering buttons. Clara was bound anew by the feet, face up and with Jennifer holding her head down by her hair. Her arm pinion remained in place. Jennifer ripped open her bra, tearing it —‘She’ll have to pay for that on account,’ Sophie whispered — and Henek raised the cane over the trembling bare jellies, whose big cherry nips stood pointed and erect.

  ‘Free delivery to fifteen, mamselle,’ Sophie called.

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Vip! Four rapid strokes slashed Clara’s bare breasts, right across the points of her nipples.

  ‘Ah!’ the girl screamed, wriggling so that her bunched dress fell away from her pubis, revealing her massive cunt-bush, soaked in the come that dripped from her swollen gash-flaps; her
clitoris poked above the vulva, the crimson bud throbbing, hard and extruded.

  Breathing heavily, Henek shouldered her cane and pinched the girl’s scarlet nipples, then ground the heel of her fist against the girl’s cunt, crushing the swollen clitoris.

  ‘Oh… oh…’ she moaned.

  ‘That must hurt dreadfully,’ Trina gasped.

  ‘I imagine so,’ Sophie replied.

  Vip! Vip! The teat jellies writhed as weals coloured them above and below each nipple.

  ‘Ah…’

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ohh!’

  There was a hiss as a flood of golden piss spurted from Clara’s cunt, spouting all over her thighs and belly and dripping in a lake. Her ankles strained against their bonds as the piss soaked her and she wailed, sobbing.

  ‘Dirty bitch,’ said Sophie.

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  Clara’s flogged breasts were a patchwork of crimson weals, their jellies shaking uncontrollably as her belly writhed, her legs sticking rigid from her hips, and the telltale flow of piss continuing to dribble from her cunt, its lips gasping. Trina blurted that she needed the bathroom, and Sophie asked Harriet to escort her.

  ‘Harriet was an honours student here,’ she said, ‘until she opted for life in the watch.’

  The bathroom was large, shaded and airy, with the scent of soaps and unguents. There was a tin bathtub and a porcelain toilet pot. Trina scrabbled to unfasten her skirt and had rolled her panties down, slopped with come from her gaping cunt, when she saw Harriet still present.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want me to leave, mamselle,’ Harriet said impishly. ‘We’re both the same. You first, mamselle, or both of us together?’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘You need to masturbate, don’t you, mamselle?’

  Trina closed her eyes, swallowing, as her fingers plunged towards her oozing cunt-flaps and erect, swollen clitty. She thumbed the throbbing organ, jerked as a flood of electric pleasure jolted her and began to frot herself. She looked at Harriet, who had her panties already down and her cunt-lips between her fingers. With wide, sweeping strokes Harriet began to masturbate, staring at Trina’s wet cunt. Trina nodded.

  ‘Both together,’ she whispered.

  The snip-snip of shears was the only sound in the bathroom, above the gurgling of pipes, save for the sobbing of naked girls. They sat, roped by wrists and ankles in dentists’ chairs, with their thighs wide, showing naked cunt-basins. Workmaids of the academy, clad in bra and panties and barefoot, carefully sheared the pubic fleeces, the clusters of curls falling to the floor where they were swept up and each girl’s hairs placed in separate buckets. When a girl’s pubis was completely bare, including the downy hairs of her perineum and anus, she was released from her bonds and permitted to dress. She had to don her scholar’s skirt backwards, so that the parting showed not her buttocks but her shaven hillock, and the flaps of her dress were pinned back to fully expose a pair of gauze panties that revealed her pubic nudity. They sat huddled on a bench beside a row of sewing machines, tended by seated sewing maids who stitched the shorn hairs into pubic wigs. Sophie picked up a glossy vison from a pile, by one of the sewing maids, and sniffed it.

  ‘A hybrid,’ she said. ‘Made from the hairs of two or more maids — I would say Florence Glow and Virginia Marble, two of our most succulently hairy maids.’

  The hairs of the enormous vison were both blonde, but not the same shade: one a corn yellow, the other an ash hue, the colours mingling in tufted ribbons. The wig was designed to cover not only the pubic mound but to stretch its fur as far up as the navel and dangle luxuriantly beneath the cunt-flaps, while crawling generously to the rear over anus and perineum, with little curling fronds to peek at the bottom of the ass-cleft. Some of the cunt-hairs were mere kiss curls, while others were sprawling lianas six inches in length.

  ‘We call that a pompadour,’ said Sophie. ‘Yours, mamselle, fashioned from the hairs of Devora Dykes, will be a maintenon, with hairs from only one maid. Dykes is quite our most prolific sprouter.’

  The monitor in charge beckoned to one of the shorn girls, who rose, trembling and sobbing. Her naked cunt-mound was red from the shears and razors and she scratched it incessantly, until the monitor brought her cane cracking across her fingers and laid a thin stripe on the plump bare mons, at which the girl’s sobs were broken by a whimper. The girl put her hands behind her back to be swiftly fastened by twine, and she lowered her head as ropes uncurled from the ceiling. Sophie handed the pompadour to the monitor, who ordered the girl to squat, parting her legs. A scholar in her underwear crouched and fitted the wig against the girl’s cunt, poking its every tendril into the folds and niches of her buttock-cleft and cuntflaps, until the cunt was visible only by the thick red lips that swelled above the blonde billows of the vison. She removed the wig, and a second scholar slopped pungent magnolia sweet gum on to its skin backside; after twenty seconds, the crouching maid slapped the vison in place, pressing it firmly around the girl’s cunt and buttocks, then slapping it hard as the girl wailed. The dangling rope held a metal bolt in which a dozen or more knotholes were punched. Both maids kneeled to loop strands of the newly fitted vison through the holes, knotting them tightly until the bewigged maid was hoisted to her tiptoes by her tethered hairs. A rubber cord from the ceiling was looped around the girl’s waist. At a signal from the monitor, the rope jerked, abruptly hoisting the maid into the air where she dangled, shrieking and sobbing, and the skin of her mons pulled into a tight envelope inches above her pubic bone. She dangled, squirming, before the rubber rope sprang up to slacken the pull on her cunt-hillock. Thereafter, her wig hairs stretched taut but did not snap as they took her full weight when the protective rubber strap sprang away, yielding her to the rope’s suspension. For moments, she hung by her cunt-mound alone.

  ‘Give her twelve minutes,’ Sophie said to the monitor, who curtsied. ‘The glue comes from New Albion; I dread to think what they put in it.’

  She ushered Trina out of the bathroom; behind them, the suspended girl screamed and sobbed and a stream of piss spurted between her thighs. Sophie laughed.

  ‘Yes, it withstands any kind of ordure. She’ll foul herself, probably, but you don’t want to see that, mamselle intendant.’

  ‘No,’ Trina blurted. ‘Let’s see the pomade room.’

  Harriet and Sophie exchanged glances.

  ‘As you wish, mamselle intendant,’ they said together.

  The pomade room announced itself first by its smell, like Tennessee chestnuts in blossom, then by the sighing and whimpering of girls behind its metal doors. And the faint but unmistakable sound — tap, tap, tap. Trina shivered and she tensed her thighs against the seep of come that oozed from her cunt at the noise of bare chastisement. Trina, Harriet and Sophie reached it by winding corridors, where oaken doors with barred windows led to classrooms, Sophie explained. Whenever there was the unmistakable tap-tap of cane on bare flesh, followed by a maid’s groan, Sophie smiled coyly and said she hoped Trina agreed bare-buttock caning was the only tongue submissive belles properly understood.

  Trina begged to know if Sophie was herself experienced in bare-bottom discipline, and received the answer that no mistress should be ignorant of what she administered.

  ‘Yet you accept me as intendant,’ Trina replied, ‘without knowing me.’

  She felt Harriet’s fingers squeeze her butt, right at the lower cleft, and gasped. Harriet and Sophie exchanged glances.

  ‘Virtue is its own swift rumour, mamselle,’ Sophie said.

  ‘We are cognisant of you. The Bank of New Arras, under instruction of Mamselle Carawn, maintains an intelligence service in the Orleans territory and elsewhere.’

  ‘Like Los Angeles?’ Trina mumured. ‘I guess you can’t tell me about secret agent Kimmi Lardeau.’

  ‘Correct, mamselle — supposing I knew of such a maid,’ Sophie replied, putting her finger to her teeth.

  Two monitors stood on guard, at the bolted metal doors
to the pomade chamber. Both girls were nude, save for an armour of metal and rubber straps, with spikes seven inches long extending from steel toecaps, knees, ankles, wrists, shoulders; from their naked cunts, with the visons trimmed to an inch of pubic crewcut, and from the points of their conical and fur-trimmed steel brassieres. They had canes in scabbards at their waists, and rawhide cattle whips coiled to four lengths at the hip, whose steel crotch-thong was also trimmed with fur. Their manes were cropped like their pubic thatches, and they wore spiked helmets with half-face visors slitted for eyes and nose. They turned to unlock the doors and revealed their bare buttocks crisscrossed by a harness of straps, bristling with spikes across fesse and haunch, and with the stoutest, sharpest spike poking right out of the anus, or seeming so. Sophie said they wore battle dress to guard one of the most precious secrets of New Arras. The fur trimming was for good luck, taken from the pubic shavings of those maids who had shown themselves bravest and most silent under bare-bottom correction. Trina said it must be difficult for them to sit down.

  ‘Warriors do not sit down,’ Sophie answered.

  They entered the pomade chamber, and the doors clanged shut behind them. They stood in a vestibule, where a doorway draped in fur hid the main chamber. Harriet opened a closet and withdrew a complete monitor’s uniform. Sophie invited Trina to strip and put it on. Trina stripped naked, sweating profusely in the cramped vestibule and brushing often against the limbs of the other girls. She asked why they were not undressing and Harriet said that, with respect, the intendant must enter the chamber alone: only one fausse monitor might enter at a time to preserve the natural harmony of the work. Trina shivered as the girls strapped her in the several harnesses, the spikes fitting snugly at her limbs, and winced as the steel bra cut the sides of her teats. Harriet strapped it so tightly that Trina murmured in a protest, which the girl ignored. Her buttocks were sheathed in spiked straps, and then Sophie brandished two larger spikes, each with a handle like a scythe’s. She told Trina to open her buttocks and bend over. Trina obeyed. Harriet grasped Trina’s head and held her down with one hand, while the other prised open the buttock-melons. The girl wiped a long, slow finger across Trina’s cunt and perineum and anus, then held the finger to Trina’s lips. It was slimy with her own come. Harriet smiled.