The lash continued to fall, striking randomly, leaving little burning trails of fire across my naked body. I struggled to regain control, to remain silent, to breathe deeply and flow with the pain. As Bill’s skilful lash continued to rain against my flesh, I fell into the rhythm of the whipping, my skin adjusting to the heat, becoming numb.
I could feel the sway of the metal chain that held the clamps together. I became aware of my wet pussy as the whipping continued. Had my sopping vagina stained the red satin, revealing my obvious lust to the audience? I squirmed slightly, aware that they had an excellent view of my spread and barely concealed pussy. I was now so aroused by the situation, the whipping, my bonds, Bill’s sensual, heady scent in my nostrils, the awareness that all eyes in the room were on me, that I could have come from a touch to my aching pussy.
I became aware after a moment or two that the whipping had stopped. Every part of the front of my body was burning from the lash. Then Bill did another thing that was not choreographed into our show. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek, while slipping a hand into the satin of my wet G-string. As his fingers brushed roughly past my clit and pressed into my wet and open entrance, I again sighed aloud, my body arching toward that lovely, hard hand. I shuddered, one stroke away from coming right there on the stage. The audience seemed to sigh with me. I had disobeyed protocol, but what could I do? As usual with me, lust had won out over discipline.
His lovely hand was withdrawn, leaving me aching and frustrated. I felt the bonds being released, and then the blindfold was also removed from my face. Mark had joined us centre stage, and we bowed, heads low, until the lights dimmed and, mercifully, the curtain fell.
We rushed backstage to clean up and dress. Dr Wellington liked to see her performers when they were done. I was scared to see her. I had been so overtly aroused and sexual on the stage. In the few shows I had seen, the slaves were very controlled and rarely let any emotion escape, even during a strenuous whipping.
I pulled on the pale-yellow silk dress I had chosen for the occasion. Dr Wellington had asked me to dress because after the show she wanted me to sit at her table. She asked that I please wear something other than khaki, something feminine for a change.
Her head was thrown back, her throaty laugh filling the air as I came out on to the floor to sit at her table. The talking stopped as I arrived at the table and I felt all their eyes boring into me as I kneeled next to her, waiting for that cool touch on my shoulder that would indicate that I could rise. It came after a moment.
‘Remy, love. You did splendidly!’ I was speechless with surprise. She went on. ‘Sometimes these shows can be so dull. I mean, they are beautifully executed, minutely choreographed little whipping scenes or whatever, but they lack heart! No emotion, no real indication that the slaves are even alive, much less moved by what is happening to them. But you, Remy — when Bill clamped your nipples, and at the end when he finger-fucked you — God, I could feel it with you! You became sex, raw sex, raw desire, raw need. It was terrific.’
I felt myself blushing hotly at her praise. I was at once intensely relieved and delighted at her effusive comments, as well as embarrassed by the attention. A man at the table, who I recognised as one of the two that had been at my ‘audition’ said, ‘If she were mine, I’d whip her to shreds for that blatant display. She’s nothing more than a slut.’
‘Well, she isn’t yours, Maynard, so you’ll have to content yourself with your own fantasies. She’s mine, and I like my slaves full of lust and life. She’s real, for God’s sake, not some automaton. Who wants a blow-up doll that can take a beating, for God’s sake?’
Maynard was quiet, looking malevolently at me. I looked down quickly, not wanting to be accused of being forward by looking directly at a master. But inside I was glorying in her defence of me and my behaviour.
‘I thought it was a most impressive show,’ said a woman who I hadn’t met. She smiled at me and said, ‘I liked the colours — the red little insects trapped by the black spider, or the blood red of the welts and the black of the evil master having his way — very theatrical, very poetic. I liked it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I whispered. Inside I was thinking, thank God it’s over!
Chapter Ten
The Life
Once I had been admitted into the Corps on a permanent basis, things became almost routine. If you can call being regularly whipped, bound, and forced to sexually serve a variety of masters and mistresses ‘routine’.
As Amelia had promised, I was subjected to hours of training classes, sometimes with other slaves, sometimes alone, where I learned how to kneel gracefully, how to maintain uncomfortable positions for long periods of time, how to take a whipping without so much as a whimper. We also did aerobic and isometric exercises to slim and hone our bodies. All of this was done in the nude.
Even when not in slave classes or on assignment, we were reminded of our positions. One day Sergeant Sinclair split the group that was scheduled for that day’s physical training into two sections. One section he sent off to run several courses with his assistant drill sergeant. I recognised several members of the Slave Corps around me, but of course gave no indication of this. Nor, appropriately, did any of them. The sergeant opened a large duffel-bag full of small packages. He called us up to take one each.
We were dressed in shorts and T-shirts that day. Unwrapping our packages, we each found a mediumsized butt plug. It seems everyone in our little section was a slave! And Sergeant Sinclair, of course, knew who we were. Laughing at our embarrassed confusion, he instructed, ‘Slick it up as best you can and stick it up your collective butts. Keep it in till lights-out. Then you can dispose of it as best you can. Don’t let anyone find it though. You’ll all be severely punished if any of these plugs turn up anywhere.’
He watched with amusement as we licked and spit on our anal plugs. Sam Brady was next to me, and his blush, as usual, was vivid on his pale, freckled skin. But we all did it; by this time we were well trained, I suppose, both to follow orders by a sergeant and by a master. Going through the day, the erotically uncomfortable anal plug making me squirm in my seat during classes made me so horny that my panties were soaked by the end of it. I would look around my class, seeing a person here and there who I knew was in the same situation as I. The kindredness and connection I felt toward them is hard to describe.
To tell the truth, I don’t know if I’m describing any of this right. It wasn’t just about being humiliated and tortured. I felt something somehow sublime in my condition, my situation. It seemed to affect others as well. Sam had tried to describe it to me before I had joined the Corps, and I was clueless. But now I understood. Something about being controlled, used and abused by a whole cadre of people who could snap their fingers and make you do things you would never have dreamed you were capable of, with the constant thick overlay of sexuality. It was an intense experience.
Amelia especially seemed changed by the life. Those not in the Corps probably assumed it was just the rigorous military training that had changed her. It wasn’t that she had lost a lot of weight, though she did seem somehow firmer, stronger. She stood straight, with her head up now, instead of shyly eyeing the ground when others spoke to her. She seemed proud, not only of her ability to serve with grace, but of her own natural beauty. She confided in me that for the first time she didn’t always turn to food for comfort. She had found herself in her calling to serve others as a slave.
Interestingly, I had found peace within myself as well. I was no longer driven to be the best at PT or in my classes. Yet ironically, perhaps because I let go, I was doing very well in all my courses and in my training. The Slave Corps seemed to suit me.
I loved the excitement and perverse pleasure I derived from submitting to strangers who could demand whatever they wished of me. I loved the stage shows where I got to perform with other exhibitionistic slaves for the little gatherings of dominants down in the bell tower basement. Occasionally I had twin
ges of longing for something more romantic, but usually I was too involved in the scene, in serving and pleasing and testing the limits of my sexual endurance, to ponder anything deeper.
I was just completing my freshman year, having been a full-fledged slave for some months now, when the colonel called me back. I had found an envelope, as usual, in my box. Opening it, my heart gave a little involuntary lurch as I saw the words ‘Colonel Ronald Hewitt, 1900 hours, Thursday.’ At 1900 hours! That was 7.00 at night! I had never had a night assignment before. I wondered about the logistics of it, and then remembered that Thursday was a special night-time training programme. We would all be out all over the place running drills. I would never be missed.
Thursday found me waiting outside the colonel’s office at the appointed time. I was disappointed not to see Eloise there, though it made sense, since it was so late. We had never gotten together, as she had suggested. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to: it had just never seemed to materialise. I realised the fact that she wasn’t there that evening made me a little nervous. Colonel Hewitt was not a man I felt very comfortable being alone with. But at the same time, I was pleased that he had called me back. I felt I had come so far since that day when I was still a novice, the day he had his secretary crop me while he signed papers and looked bored. Hopefully today’s session would be more successful!
Timidly I knocked on the office door. I noticed this time the small, gold plate with the words, COLONEL RONALD HEWITT etched into it. I heard his voice say, ‘Come in.’
Opening the door, I pushed and entered. As before, he seemed engrossed in his work. Papers were spread everywhere as he bowed his head over his work. I had come a long way in the patience department. I stood calmly, at attention, waiting to be acknowledged. At length he looked up and said, ‘Slave. Strip. Then lock the door.’
That was it. No preamble. No welcome back. Just strip. I did, as quickly and quietly as possible. Then I walked to the door and turned the deadbolt until it clicked into place. For some reason the action didn’t make me feel particularly safe. Rather than taking comfort from the fact that no one could walk in, a part of me now felt locked in myself.
‘Come closer.’
I approached him, wondering what was next. Pulling open a drawer, the colonel withdrew a small chain with two clips attached to it, one at either end. It was a pair of nipple clamps. Other than that time on stage, I had had little experience with clamps. I hadn’t forgotten their sharp little bite, though, and my nipples tingled in dreaded anticipation of what was to come. These clamps were different from the ones Bill had used. Those had been tipped with rubber, while these were little alligator clips, with nothing to protect delicate flesh from the sharp, metal teeth.
Without speaking to me, the colonel reached out and took hold of both my nipples. He roughly pulled and twisted them until they were erect. I couldn’t suppress a soft moan of pain as the clips closed around each nipple like a vice. Oh God, it was much worse than the other ones! It took all my willpower not to pull them off. But after a while the pain subsided and was replaced by a dull tension that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The colonel tugged at the chain. He seemed satisfied that it was secure, and let it drop. I dared to look at his face while he was busy in a drawer. His expression was blank, neutral, but his eyes were bright, piercingly intense. I shivered slightly, resisting the urge to wrap my arms protectively around myself.
Next he drew out another chain. This one, I saw, had only one clip on the end. On the other end was a clasp of some sort. I watched, more curious than afraid, as he attached the chain by the clasp to the centre of the chain dangling between my breasts. With a sudden, blinding realisation, I knew what the third clamp was for.
‘Spread your legs. Expose your clit.’ He spoke in almost a monotone. He seemed bored. Just a few months before I couldn’t have done it. The thought of those sharp, metal teeth biting into my delicate pussy flesh would have been more than I could have borne. But months of training in submission and endurance made me know I could take it.
Hoping he didn’t see that my fingers were trembling, I spread my own labia, offering up my little hooded clit for his pleasure and torment. Deftly, he attached the clamp to the hood of my clit so quickly it was over before I knew it began. He had obviously done this many times before. The instant he was done, my body registered the pain. It was excruciating. I began to breathe deeply, willing myself to handle the pain, as we had been taught in our slave classes. I stood still, naked and chained in front of the colonel.
He wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking down at his papers again. Without looking up he said, ‘Bend across my desk on your back. Here.’ He cleared a wide path through the papers with a sweep of his arm. With a strong hand he pressed back against my hip, forcing me back on to the desk. My legs spread as I struggled to maintain some kind of balance. I finally settled on tiptoe, my knees splayed outward. The effect was that I was bent back with my naked pussy clamped and in full view. The chain felt cold against my belly.
The colonel ignored me, it seemed, as he continued to read his papers, occasionally scribbling something in red in the margin of his work. The wood of the desk was cool and hard under my bare back and buttocks. My clit had numbed somewhat, and the pressure was bearable. It was very disconcerting to just lie there, without having anything done to me.
I wanted to do something, to force some kind of reaction from him. But of course I lay as still as I could. I knew the drill. After some interminable period, the colonel put down his pen and stood up. He moved directly in front of me. Leaning down over me, he took the chain in his hand and pulled up. The tug sent spirals of pain coursing through my nipples and pussy.
He released the tension, still not speaking. Then I felt his finger, hard and probing, at the entrance of my vagina. To my embarrassment, I was wet as usual. Naked and in pain on this strange man’s desk, I was totally and inexplicably aroused.
‘Slut,’ he hissed into my ear. I closed my eyes. His face was very close to mine. Again I felt the tug of the chain as he reached down and grabbed it. Suddenly pain flooded into my cunt. I realised as he held it up that the colonel had released the clamp. The resultant blood flow brought all my delicate nerve endings back to life. I gasped from the intensity of it, pressing my thighs together, desperate for relief.
The colonel barely seemed to notice. He was intent on removing the now-unneeded chain from the one between my breasts. Once it was off, he laid it next to me and lifted up, hard, on the remaining chain. This forced my breasts up as my nipples were elongated by the tension of his pull. I cried out and he slapped me.
Jerking my head away, I realised even as it was happening that I was losing control. He realised it too, as he slapped the other cheek just as hard and barked, ‘Get control of yourself, slave! Where is your grace? Take it! You know you need this. You know you crave to suffer and I can give that to you. Take it!’
He slapped my face again and again, still pulling up on the chain all the while. I began to cry. I was still aroused, but becoming too overwhelmed to handle what was happening. It was amazing that he had found the one area that I was especially sensitive to. I still had never managed to get over my fear of having my face slapped. And this sadist had honed right in on that fact.
Dropping the chain, his face contorted with disgust, he quickly released the clamps and my hands flew to my aching nipples. I was crying quietly as he began to speak. ‘None of you Corps slaves can take real torture. You’re just a bunch of pussy sluts looking for an easy master to jerk you off. You make me sick.’ He walked around behind my head so I couldn’t see him. I heard him unzip his pants.
‘What do I expect from a bunch of army brats. Oh, well. At least you can be of some use. I presume they taught you how to suck cock?’
The question must have been rhetorical, because he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he pulled me up further across the desk, until my head was hanging off the other side. After positioning himself in front of me, h
is cock even with my face, he pressed the round, fat head against my lips, forcing them apart. As the cock slid back past my teeth, along my tongue to the back of my throat, I started to gag. But there was no getting away. The colonel was silent as he used my mouth. He didn’t touch me in any other way, just slid his rigid member in and out of my mouth. Tears pricked my eyes and threatened to spill over again.
His pace picked up and I tried to position my mouth to create the most friction. Presumably the faster he came, the faster I could get out of there. He may have been Eloise’s romantic ideal, but he certainly wasn’t mine. After what seemed like forever he finally started to move in a rhythm that signalled impending release. His eyes fluttered shut. Other than that I wouldn’t have known he was about to come; he didn’t make a sound.
Pulling out suddenly, he shot his load across my face and chest. A glob landed in my hair. I lay still and quiet, like an animal that has been trapped and hopes to avoid notice by its predator. The colonel zipped up his stiffly starched pants and returned, face again placid and indifferent, to his desk. ‘Get up. Don’t clean yourself. Just get dressed.’
He sat in his chair, and he leaned back and actually smiled, his thin lips again reminding me of a knife blade. The smile didn’t register in his eyes though, which remained cold. As I pulled on my fatigues he remarked, ‘Not so proud now, eh, cadet?’
‘No, sir,’ I whispered, hoping I sounded humble.
He was wrong though. I was very proud. I had endured him without giving in. I had submitted more truly than I ever had before. I was more than proud; I was exultant. I had made it past the colonel without breaking. I was intact, at least in spirit, despite the gooey come dripping from my hair and staining my uniform.
Hard Corps Page 13