Hard Corps

by Claire Thompson

  ‘Yes. That’s right. All wrongs between you are righted now, my little girls. Now make love to each other. Girls can be so tender where men are so rough. Let your bodies come together. Taste that special sweetness of female flesh.’ Her low voice was even lower than usual, husky with her own apparent lust. Still, she made no move to come to us, or to have us serve her directly. As she said, she liked to watch.

  Perhaps it was the freedom of having been given a direct order. Neither of us had to wonder if we were gay or if we wanted this. We simply had to obey orders. Both of us certainly understood that concept. I wondered briefly how this girl, who had called me a ‘dyke bitch’ back at the beginning of the term, was going to handle being forced to interact sexually with another girl, to make love to her.

  I forgot to wonder as she reached out and gently fondled my breasts. Her hands sent an electric current of pleasure through me. As if in a dance we’d practised many times before, we leaned forward into each other, falling slowly together to the soft carpet. Our arms wrapped around each other as we continued to kiss.

  Jean’s hand crept down my belly to my blonde, pubic curls that covered my dark-pink and now swollen labia. I felt her fingers reach out to touch and explore. I moaned with pleasure as she found my clit. I was soaked with desire by now.

  Leaning my own head down, I found her dark nipples already stiff with need. Gingerly, I took one into my mouth. It felt wonderful, at once soft and erect. I rolled it with pleasure between my teeth, eliciting a little moan from Jean. She lay back flat on her back and I followed her, my mouth unwilling to let go of that perfect little marble of feminine flesh from between my teeth. After several moments Dr Wellington again intervened.

  ‘Jean, you’ve done this before. You take the lead. Pleasure this young woman as if she were your mistress.’

  The idea at once frightened and excited me. As I lay back, Jean dutifully crawled between my legs, which she spread far apart. The Oriental carpet felt rough against my still-tender skin. I forgot any discomfort as her tongue crept out and licked my outer lips. I stayed still, but I was very aroused. I wasn’t sure how I was allowed to react. Should I stay still and quiet, as with the beating, or let myself go? After a second, her hot little tongue darted out again, and this time she didn’t stop, but began to explore the folds and secret places of my sex.

  As the pleasure washed over me, I was struck by Dr Wellington’s remark that Jean had done this before. Perhaps a part of learning to dominate involved submission as well. An intriguing idea that was quickly forgotten as Jean’s tongue and fingers shut down my conscious mind, turning me over to complete pleasure and lust. It didn’t matter how I was ‘supposed’ to react: I could no longer control myself. I was in heaven.

  Just as I was about to come, I heard Dr Wellington’s commanding voice from the haze of my arousal. ‘Stop now, Jean. We don’t need to let the little slut come. She hasn’t earned that right yet.’ Oh, God. Shades of Jacob and his constant denials were brought back and I almost cried out in frustration. My pussy was on fire and so swollen I could barely close my legs as Dr Wellington commanded me to get up and stand at attention.

  While I stood, forcing myself not to whimper with frustrated need, she said, ‘Come over here, Jean. Let’s let the slut girl service us both at once. Sit here on the couch with me.’ As she spoke, Dr Wellington lifted her shapely little ass from the cushions and slid off her underwear. With a kick, the little, red-satin panties landed at my feet. Jean eagerly sat next to Dr Wellington, who at once took her in her arms. They were so well suited to one another, both petite and yet curvaceous, though Jean’s body was strong and angular, where Dr Wellington’s was softer and more feminine.

  I would have again felt too big and awkward, except that I was too busy drinking in the sight of those two lovely women caught in each other’s arms. They both spread their legs wide. I trembled slightly as I kneeled before them. Dr Wellington’s pussy was shaved bare, something I had never seen before. Her labia were a lovely dark pink, and already swollen with lust, spreading prettily so that her entrance was exposed. The contrast was striking: the pale, white skin and naked pussy of the professor, and the darker, honey-brown flesh of Jean’s thighs, with the dark, silken pubic curls partially obscuring her pussy. They were both beautiful.

  For the moment, they ignored me completely. Jean unbuttoned Dr Wellington’s blouse, pulling it open to reveal two perfect, little round breasts tipped with rosy, pert nipples. The two women seemed comfortable together; I got the distinct impression that not only had Jean done this before, but with Dr Wellington.

  She disentangled herself from Jean’s embrace long enough to say to me, ‘Get to it, slave. You may worship my pussy with your mouth while you use your hand for Mistress Dillon.’ She pulled my head forward, grabbing a handful of my hair, mashing my face into her hot, open crotch. For a moment I was paralysed. It was one thing to allow another woman to kiss me there, but to do it myself? To lick someone’s spread pussy? To suckle and kiss the hot little folds of flesh? I didn’t think I wanted to. I was scared; I was shy. What if it tasted funny?

  A sudden thwack to my back startled me enough to cause me to yelp. Dr Wellington had used the crop on me and at the same time she said, her voice less patient, ‘Slave, obey orders. Now.’

  That was that. I had no choice. Licking my lips nervously, I opened my mouth, and allowed my tongue to cautiously taste the musky scent of her pussy. In truth, she didn’t have much of a taste at all. But there was a heady, spicy scent, mingled with her perfume. I liked the feel of her silky lips against my mouth. As I started to lick and suckle her the way Jean had just done to me, she let out a soft moan, which was muffled by Jean’s mouth on hers.

  I remembered that I was expected to pleasure Jean, too. Reaching out my right hand, I found her delicate little pussy and pressed my finger into her opening. It was so hot and tight as the muscles clamped down on my finger. I continued to kiss Dr Wellington, exploring the folds of her hot pussy with my mouth.

  Dr Wellington fell back, opening her legs further for my access. She took my head in both her hands and held me in position as she gyrated on my face. Jean leaned over her, suckling her nipples. Faster and faster Dr Wellington moved, mashing my open mouth against her very hot, swollen pussy. I could feel the little nub of her clit against my tongue. But I wasn’t kissing her; she was using my face and mouth, fucking herself on me. After a few more moments she tensed and shuddered, crying out with passion as she came. She let go of my head and let her own fall back against the back of the couch.

  I leaned back on my heels, watching as her spasms subsided. Her face and neck were flushed. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked down at me, giving me a lovely smile. Then she said, ‘Not done with your duties yet, slave girl.’ She pointed toward Jean, who smiled like a cat as she lay back, spreading her legs wide.

  I moved over toward her. My jaws were aching and my face was smeared with my own saliva and Dr Wellington’s juices. But I didn’t even have a chance to wipe my mouth against my shoulder when Jean grabbed my head and forced me down on her lap. At once I started to lick and tease her pussy. She tasted different from Dr Wellington: slightly salty but not at all unpleasant. I concentrated on the task at hand, hoping she would come soon so I could rest.

  I wasn’t disappointed. After only a few moments, Jean’s breathing quickened. She started to shudder and moan and I continued to lick her hard little clit. Suddenly she pushed my head back and rubbed her own pussy with her hand. With the other hand she slapped my cheek, hard.

  Tears leaped to my eyes and a hand flew to the spot where she had struck me. Jean ignored me, coming hard and long, with Dr Wellington cooing over her and kissing her breasts as she did so. As her orgasm ebbed, Dr Wellington held her in her arms. I felt very alone and naked at their feet, confused and frustrated.

  At length, Dr Wellington noticed me there. ‘Oh, look at our poor little lamb. Are you worried that you somehow offended Mistress Dillon here? Don’t
worry, it’s just a little quirk of hers. She likes to slap someone when she is coming. Such a pervert!’ They both laughed, Dr Wellington with a low, throaty chuckle, while Jean’s laughter was higher-pitched and girlish.

  I wasn’t particularly amused, but I was relieved to know I hadn’t done anything wrong. My own pussy was still throbbing with denied release. I wondered if Dr Wellington would allow me to repeat the performance of the initiation night.

  But no. She was sated and no longer interested in me or my desires. She stood slowly, stretching like a cat. Then she beckoned toward me. ‘Help me out of this, slave. You’ll find my “day” clothes in that wardrobe over there. Jean’s army-issue monstrosity is in there too. Get them.’ I did as I was told, my head still fogged with unrequited lust.

  The professor allowed me to help her dress, turning gracefully to allow me to zip her up, and lifting a dainty foot for me to slide on her conservative pump of fine leather. I started to stand after putting on her shoes, but a touch of her cool hand on my bare shoulder kept me at her feet.

  Jean dressed quickly, looking again like the familiar clone cadet in the uniform of the day. It was almost hard to remember the hot little girl in her leather corset and stiletto heels.

  Dr Wellington spoke to me for the last time that day. ‘Remy. Once again I congratulate you. You are a slave. You’ve made it. I am taking Mistress Dillon out to celebrate now: she’s made it too. You stay here, on your knees, until we are gone. Then you may play with yourself if you like, dress, and get back to classes.’ She consulted her watch. ‘You have about fifteen minutes.’ With that, they were gone.

  Part of me was angry. Angry to have been left alone, naked, on my knees, while they went off to celebrate. But then, wasn’t this just right? Wasn’t this just where I belonged? All my life I had striven to be the best and the toughest. Right now I was just a slave girl. One who had made two beautiful women come. And my mistress had given me permission to come as well.

  Need overcame any false pride and I lay back to rub my hot little pussy. In a very short time I came hard, images of Jean and Dr Wellington filling my head. What a lucky little slave girl, indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  Said the Spider to the Fly

  Well, it’s one thing to watch other slaves up on the little stage, going through their carefully choreographed routines. It’s quite another to be up there yourself! But Dr Wellington had decided it was time for me to get up like the rest and give a little demonstration of my supposedly acquired grace and discipline. I was assigned to perform with two males, one submissive and one dominant. We were to coordinate our own programme.

  The only requirement for our particular show was that we use ‘The Web’. The Web was a cleverly designed sort of restraining device that someone had built. It consisted of a black frame of aluminium metal pipes, built in the shape of something like a soccer goal net. The netting consisted of soft nylon ropes crisscrossed in every direction and attached up and down the frame so that it really did resemble a spider’s web. At various intervals along the rope were little leather cuffs with velcro closures that could quickly but securely bind someone in place. It was kept in the bell tower and used in the various torture chambers. I had seen it, but had never seen it ‘in action’.

  Bill and Mark met with me one afternoon to choreograph our performance. We had already talked over the basic premise for our show. Even though Bill was dominant, he didn’t try to control things, which I appreciated. He encouraged us to participate as equals, with the basic goal to create a sexy and exciting show.

  We decided to do a kind of dance, with a theme of Bill as a kind of spider who would capture each of us and use us for his pleasure. Mark was a gymnast and very flexible, while Bill was athletic and very strong. The performance was to be twenty minutes long. That may not sound like very long, but when you are trying to make it interesting and sexy, it can seem like forever.

  The night came all too soon when we were scheduled to perform. How odd to peek from backstage and see the little tables filled in the dim, little room. I saw Dr Wellington, of course, and Sergeant Sinclair. Even Ellen Roster was there, sitting with several men at a table to the side of the stage. I saw Sam Brady, looking attentively from his place on the wall where he waited with other slaves to respond to a beckon or nod from anyone at the tables who needed a fresh drink or anything else. I remembered how, only a few months before, I had had the honour of sitting at one of those tables, watching Sam on this very stage.

  Now it was my turn. My stomach clenched and it felt like I was in an elevator whose bottom had just dropped out. Even though I was barely dressed, I felt hot: my palms and underarms were wet with nervousness, my mouth was dry. My outfit was a red satin G-string and large, red satin ribbons that crisscrossed over my body, only barely covering my breasts. I looked like a present for someone to unwrap. Mark was similarly clad, his cock and balls secured in a bright-red pouch. Bill and the slave assigned to help us backstage secured Mark and me into the web.

  We had decided to show off Mark’s gymnastic abilities, as well as his capacity to suffer. He was positioned with his hands and feet on the ground, his body arched up so that his cock and balls were raised appealingly in their red covering. He was secured against the web by one wrist and one ankle, his head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing. I was completely suspended against the web, secured by my wrists, waist, thighs, and ankles. My arms were raised high around my head and my legs were spread far apart. My feet were resting lightly against Mark’s upraised torso. Because of the angle of the web, which tilted back slightly, I was actually rather comfortable, with my back leaning into the give of the mesh created by the rope. As a final touch, we were both blindfolded in the same crimson satin.

  Bill was dressed in a black shirt and pants, to represent the spider who would capture his prey. Bill was African-American, and his dark skin gleamed attractively against his black collarless shirt which was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing his hard-muscled chest. At a signal from him, the music started, a slow, instrumental piece of African origin with drums and pipes. I could hear the slow, ratcheting sound of the curtain rising, my sense of hearing heightened by the blindness. Actually, I was grateful that I couldn’t see the faces out there, watching, waiting expectantly to see our little show. I only hope the nervousness I felt didn’t show in my face or body. I could actually feel Mark’s heart pounding against the soles of my feet.

  The first part was easy, for me at least. Though I couldn’t see it, I knew what was happening, as Bill approached Mark, a single lash in his hand. He moved slowly, edging toward Mark like a spider languidly secure that he had captured his prey in his sticky webbing. He lay the lash vertically along Mark’s taut body so that the handle end touched his cock. Mark had to stay very still to balance the whip. Bill slid his hands over Mark’s body, and under it, sensually cupping his ass cheeks, his balls, tweaking his nipples, placing his large hand around Mark’s bared throat. I didn’t hear a clatter, so I had to assume the whip had stayed in place, thank God, during this mood-setting scene.

  Then I heard it, just a fraction of a second before Mark must have felt it: the whoosh and whistle of the lash as it flew through the air to land on his naked flesh. Again and again I heard the whistle, and then the slapping sound as the lash met with skin. Mark moaned softly with each strike, but stayed in position under my feet. Luckily for me, Bill was quite talented with the whip, and he managed not to strike me by accident while whipping the poor slave below me.

  The audience was silent as the whipping continued. I felt Mark’s body grow wet with sweat from the exertion of maintaining his position while being so cruelly treated. When it was over, Bill released the simple bonds that held his charge and helped Mark to stand. We had chosen the single lash because of the lovely, long lines of fire it leaves on the skin, especially fair skin like Mark and I have. I knew that Mark was now displaying his marked and sweat-glistened body to the audience, for their review and approval.

>   Then the sound of Bill leading Mark, still blindfolded, to a spot behind the web, where he stood, head bowed, symbolically ‘claimed’ by the spider, who now moved on to new prey: me. I could smell Bill as he moved in close to me — his sweat mingled with a spicy cologne as he leaned in to touch me — to prepare me, as he liked to say, for my whipping. Though I knew it was coming, I shuddered slightly when his hands began to touch my body. I only hoped no one had noticed from the audience, as that could be interpreted as non-compliance, and punished.

  His strong fingers caressed my cheek, the movement soft and sensual. They trailed down my throat. Then I felt the sudden tug as he gripped the flimsy bands of satin that barely concealed my breasts and belly and pulled until they ripped away, leaving me naked save for the small piece of fabric covering my mons.

  I felt his hand on my right breast, which he cupped and then let fall. Then I felt the lovely sensation of his fingers tugging and twisting at my nipple, first gently, then less so, until I was breathing hard, pressing my lips together to keep a cry from escaping. The second breast was similarly teased, the nipple twisted and flicked until it stood as hard and eager as the first.

  Bill then did something which wasn’t choreographed into the scene. It took me a moment to register what was happening, and, as he clamped first one and then the second clip on to my poor nipples, I cried out softly. The little teeth were covered with a soft rubber, but still the press of nipples gripped tightly in the little vices took some getting used to. This was not part of the programme and, even as I became accustomed to the sharp pull against my tender flesh, I felt a rush of anger that he had dared to change the scene without clueing me in. But I was hardly in a position to protest at that point. I had never had clamps applied to my nipples before but, of course, I knew that was what it had to be.

  Ironically, I was so intent on my own resentment at the clamps that I forgot to mentally prepare for the single lash, the little stinger that was about to mark my body from head to toe. When the first stroke came, I cried out in earnest in a voice certainly audible all over the little theatre. Now my heart was pounding, and I was terrified because of my indiscretion. These shows were silent, a test of the slaves’ endurance and grace, to be borne without an undue display of emotion. What would happen to me?