And when she felt his sperm at last pump inside her vagina, her own dam burst for the second time.
For long minutes she hung over him totally satiated, their bodies gummed by sweat where they touched. She could hardly have felt more content.
‘Good girl …’ he said gruffly, ruffling her hair.
Perfect.
Seven
VANESSA WOULD ALWAYS cherish her next week in the Glen as a special time.
She had a whole valley to explore in which she and the other chain girls could be uniquely themselves. Here their nature was not only tolerated but encouraged and celebrated. It was the same sisterly warmth that existed in the Shiller building and level B3, but on such a scale that she could easily imagine the world had changed to accept the presence of slave girls as a normal part of everyday life. She was surrounded by them being used as they desired by people free to do so without any pretence or sign of guilt. In the midst of constant domination, forced labour and bondage she could be free.
It was a natural consequence to her recent insight about the possible selfish nature of her submissive side that she began to wonder if slave girls might even be said to lead a pampered existence. In the castle dungeons they were firmly but good-naturedly cared for by the staff who treated them according to proper Shiller discipline. They did not have to worry about food or shelter, their health was closely monitored and they even had people to flush out and grease their bottoms for them, and they were all doing what they most wanted to do. Didn’t that seem like pampering?
In the normal world a pampered environment usually produced spoilt people, and yet the chain girls were the nicest bunch you could hope to meet: supportive, lively and apparently quite unselfish.
The fact that it didn’t spoil the girls or, she hoped, herself, had to be down to the practical consequence of their chosen lives. Regular punishment, no consideration for privacy, zero freedom of movement for long periods and forced sex for the pleasure of others soon taught you that your wishes counted for very little. Of course living like that would normally lead to spiritless, terrified creatures too fearful to take any initiative, which equally bore no relationship to the apparently well-balanced girls she knew.
Did that mean Shiller girls existed in some magical state of equilibrium between the two conflicting forces? Were they simply content because they were fulfilled and guilt-free? Was it down to Shiller’s guiding principles and their unique chain training? Or had she got it all completely wrong? She made a mental note about another possible column to start in GN: the psychology and philosophy of slavery.
The day following their arrival the new chains were allowed to sleep in to recover from their exertions of the previous evening and given a late breakfast, during which they recounted their bedroom activities and sore pussies and smacked bottoms were displayed and sympathised over. Kashika looked tired but pleased with herself after satisfying the demanding couple who had won her in the egg race. Jade Chain, who had served in the Glen before, they were then taken off for other duties, while Cherry Chain and Vanessa knelt on the big square of matting in the middle of their dungeon dormitory so that Slavemaster MacDonald could gave them an orientation lecture.
Yes, an orientation lecture for slaves, Vanessa thought. It was marked down on an office planner hung up on the wall: CHERRY CHAIN – 8.00AM TO 12AM: REST AND ORIENTATION. The planner showed with appropriately tinted blocks and bars what each chain’s duties would be for the coming days. Next to it hung a helpful plan of the castle and glen, which showed the location of the tennis courts, stable yards and boathouse, amongst other facilities. She and the other Cherry girls had huddled excitedly round the chart earlier, speculating about the meaning of some of their forthcoming duties, which included PRIVATE DUNGEON DUTY, PONY TRAPPING, HOUSE SERVICE, GAME HUNT, GALLEY CREW, DOG WALKS. Coming up in ten days and intriguingly marked in red was: HIGHLAND GAMES.
Surely only Shiller slaves, Vanessa thought with pride and delight, would have their activities so neatly colour-coded.
They listened attentively while the Slavemaster expanded on his brief lecture of the previous evening, making it clear what was expected of them during their time in the glen. Using the map he then indicated key locations around the castle and glen. Sometimes they would be participating in planned events or entertainments and at others they would be made freely available to the guests for their own use, either in the castle or grounds. There was a rota for serving on day or night shifts.
‘Outside of your quarters and unless serving a guest, when your degree of restraint will be at their discretion, you will be properly confined, corralled or chained down. Whenever you need to be moved within the castle or grounds it will be in a standard chain coffle.’ He glanced at Vanessa. ‘When necessary I or one of my men will take charge of your leash, girl.’
Vanessa would have liked to be linked to the Cherry Chain, but rules were rules. She wanted to share everything with them and not feel her white collar meant she was being treated specially. Of course it might simply be inconvenient to accommodate her as they were used to handling girls in batches of twelve. The restraints were designed for that number … or perhaps having thirteen girls on a chain was considered unlucky.
‘This’ll be a good time to show you the private dungeons through there,’ he continued. ‘The guests don’t usually require them this early in the morning …’
Chained in a coffle with the Slavemaster holding Vanessa’s leash, they were led through the access door into a set of corridors lined with heavy studded dark oak doors. The walls were unpainted and there was no rubber matting on the floor, so the stone slabs were cold under their bare feet. The dungeon was lit by what at first appeared to be medieval flaming torches mounted on scrolled wall brackets, but on closer inspection they proved to be large flame-effect moulded electric bulbs with flickering multiple elements inside them. They cast a dim yellow light and sinister deep dancing shadows. Instant medieval mood without having your lungs filled with smoke and soot, Vanessa thought.
The Slavemaster showed them the inside of a few cells. They were filled with hanging rings and chains and numerous ingenious devices of iron plate and heavy pegged and bolted timbers. There were chairs, frames, racks and posts, spikes, screw threads and unyielding rods. The girls goggled at them nervously, both awed and impressed. The Slavemaster noted their reactions and grinned.
‘Pretty things, aren’t they? A guest can keep a girl in one of these for up to twelve hours. I never think you’re a true Shiller girl until you’ve served your time in a Castle Lothy torture cell.’
Vanessa knew it was only another part of the castle cellars dressed up to look sinister, but the atmosphere was quite different to their own section. These felt like classic dungeons where unlucky maidens might be imprisoned to face unspeakable torment and degradation. It was clichéd, frightening and yet also tempting. How well would she survive twelve hours in one of those? It was almost like a challenge to prove her credentials as a true submissive.
They were allowed a brief interval for a light lunch. Then they were formed up again into a coffle. This time Mister Stewart, one of MacDonald’s assistants, strapped rubber bits between their teeth. Vanessa had noted on the planner that Cherry Chain’s duties for the afternoon were: 1.00PM TO 5.00PM: GALLEY DRILL. She hoped it did not mean a maritime cookery course.
‘Like all good castles,’ the Slavemaster said, taking up the leash of Amber 1, who was the first girl in the coffle, and leading them to a dark corner of the dungeon, ‘we have a secret passage.’
He unbolted a small door that opened onto a narrow tunnel mouth little higher than their heads. He threw a switch and a string of electric bulbs lit up, curving away into the distance.
‘This leads along the loch shore to the boathouse from where a branch turns inland to the stables,’ the Slavemaster continued, enjoying the look of wonder on their faces. ‘It was dug a few hundred years ago in less settled times when the owners of the original Tower of Lothy
, before it was extended to form the manor you see today, still feared being laid siege to by their warlike cousins and thought a clandestine means of egress might be a good idea. We find it serves as a convenient means of moving chains from the dungeons to the stables and galleys without having to take them up through the house. Follow me …’
They padded after him, a string of flesh charms on chains. Mister Stewart brought up the rear leading Vanessa by her single leash.
The tunnel sides were of natural rock interspersed with sections filled by dressed stones. What the original builders would have thought about its new use Vanessa could not imagine. She hoped they would at least be intrigued by the image of thirteen naked girls chained in a tight coffle passing down the tunnel they had so laboriously hacked through earth and rock. After perhaps three hundred metres they passed a junction where the tunnel branched left. Then ahead of them was a flight of steps closed at the top by a wooden trapdoor. The Slavemaster climbed the steps, threw open the trap and led them on up after him.
Vanessa had seen the boathouse on the map of the glen. It was constructed partly over a natural inlet where the woods came down to the shore. But she had not realised how large it was. It had three berths formed by the landing stages that ran about the inside and projected out into the waters of the loch that lapped and slapped lazily about the hulls of the craft moored within.
She hardly noticed the rowing boats and pedalos in the first berth. Her eyes were transfixed by the craft next to them. They were two miniature oar-driven galleys, one about twice the length of the other.
The Slavemaster led them along the wooden decking. ‘Most other duties in the glen will be familiar enough to you, but the galleys are something you won’t have come across before. They’re one of our unique attractions. The guests take them out onto the loch to admire the scenery or to carry them across to the islets that can be reserved for special parties. So we train new chains on them from their first day so you’ll be ready to serve properly when called.’
The two craft were of similar general design. Vanessa was sure they were not in any way accurate historical reproductions, even allowing for their reduced dimensions, but they looked right. They were long and low with an ornate carved sternpost that curved up and over the rear deck and eyes painted either side of the inward-curving bow stem. Rows of benches ran down each side with shipped oars by each one. A planking catwalk ran between the benches connecting small decks at the fore and aft of each vessel. The smaller galley had six benches on each side and the larger twelve. On the smaller galley, in contrast to the utilitarian backless benches, a pair of comfortable reclining garden loungers had been mounted on the rear deck under the overhanging sternpost. Behind them was a waist-high rod hinged to a pair of steering paddles that pivoted through rowlocks and hung over the stern.
‘They take one or two chains to crew with options for personal slaves as decoration,’ the Slavemaster explained.
As they got closer the modifications for slave-girl use became apparent. The benches were fitted with upright pivoting dildos, chains and ankle cuffs. The oars had matching wrist cuffs and both bow stem and sternpost were fitted with chains and cuffs. There was an electronic control box of some sort resting on one of the loungers, each of which had lashes in holsters hung from their sides. The rod linking the steering paddles also had a dildo rising midway along its length and chains and a belt hanging from it.
Vanessa had already fallen in love with the sheer perverse purpose of the vessels. This was classic exploitative slavery, combining forced labour and humiliation. Forget a hundred sweaty men in rags hauling on the oars Ben-Hur-style, what about twelve or even twenty-four shapely naked girls chained in their place?
‘Before you board them there’s the matter of safety,’ the Slavemaster said. ‘The galleys have integral buoyancy chambers, so they won’t sink if holed, but in case they should somehow capsize or you get thrown into the water, you’ll be wearing these at all times …’
Hanging on rows of hooks were what looked like heavy leather slave torso harnesses. The Slavemaster took one down and showed it to the girls.
‘These function as self-inflating lifejackets. In addition all the cuffs onboard are secured with soluble hinge pins. If they get wet they’ll come loose in seconds.’
Vanessa mentally kicked herself. She had not even thought of the safety aspect. She just wanted to get on board the galley. Of course girls wearing metal collars and chains were not the most buoyant of objects. Fortunately she and the other girls were under the control of people who did think about such things.
The harnesses were buckled onto them, with straps going over their shoulders, crossing their sternums and then about their chests above and below their breasts, squeezing their flesh and making them bulge slightly further. Looking at the other girls Vanessa thought the additions emphasised their bondage.
They made their way onto the smaller of the two galleys.
While Vanessa was taken to the back of the vessel, the Cherry girls were arranged according to size, girls of equal strength on opposite sides. They were positioned over the benches, which were covered in black vinyl-wrapped padding, with the hinged dildos projecting through slots in the cushions. Vanessa now saw the dildos were banded in metal down their black rubber shafts and there were cables running out from under each bench.
‘Sit!’ the Slavemaster commanded, and a dozen anus rings bulged and gave way as they were breached and a dozen hot rectums were filled as bottoms squirmed and settled on the wooden benches.
Ankle cuffs were clicked into place, holding their feet against bracing rails and forcing the girls to sit with their thighs splayed. The dangling cuffs on the oars were clipped about the girls’ wrists. The galley was untied and pushed clear of the landing stage, allowing the oars to be slid out though the rowlocks and into the water. The oars were not long and light enough for even inexperienced rowers to use.
Now it was Vanessa’s turn to become an intimate part of the vessel. Her hands were cuffed before her and then attached to a slack chain hanging from the arching sternpost that hung over the stern deck like a tail. There were chains and cuffs bolted to the deck and these were clipped about her ankles, again leaving some slack in the chains. The linking rod that connected the two steering paddles was behind her with its dildo nuzzling her bottom. The Slavemaster lifted her up onto her toes and impaled her upon it, filling her rectum with a hard rubber plug. He buckled the belt hanging from the rod about her waist. Two chains ran off either side of it to rings in the steering rod. She could not lift herself off the dildo and could only shuffle to the left and right as far as her restraints allowed, moving the steering paddles with her. Now she noticed an electric cable with a crocodile clip end was coiled about the linking rod on each side of her. The Slavemaster unwound them and clipped one to each of her nipples. Vanessa could guess how they would work. She’d become a living remote-controlled rudder.
Kashika, chained to a bench three rows back, flashed her a quick smile of sympathy round her bit.
The Slavemaster seated himself on one of the loungers and picked up the control box. From her position behind him Vanessa could see the box simply held a couple of buttons and a joystick. Meanwhile Mister Stewart took up one of the holstered lashes and strode along the catwalk between the girls on the benches.
‘Now we’ll just activate the system,’ the Slavemaster said, pressing a button on the box.
Electric needles stabbed through Vanessa’s nipples, making her flinch, while the other girls jerked and whimpered, instinctively clenching their knees together.
‘Did you all feel that?’ the Slavemaster asked.
They all nodded, a few blinking back tears.
‘Good. Now the guest only needs to use the joystick to select direction and speed and this box turns it into signals controlling you. Vanessa Nineteen will steer and you will provide the propulsion. She’ll feel steady pulses in her teats to hold a course and uneven pulses to tell her to move
left or right until they become balanced again. You’ll feel a regular sequence of pulses in your arse dildos, from weak to strong and then down again. That’s the stroke rate. Starting position is bent forward with oars in the water ready to pull. You pull as the pulse gets stronger, lift your oars and return to starting position as it diminishes. Pull, lift, return and dip. The faster the pulses, the faster you row. The box can control each row of you separately so the galley can be turned. The command to back water, that is to push with your paddles, will be signalled by two rapid sharp even pulses, with another two to resume normal action. Three rapid pulses means raise your oars clear of the water. We’ll practise until you know the responses by heart. You don’t want to be seen thinking when guests are onboard, just obeying …’
He pulled the joystick backwards. The girls whimpered as the command shocks jolted through them and fumbled clumsily with their oars, backing water. Vanessa felt pinpricks begin to pulse through her nipples. The left side was slightly stronger. Clenching her anus about the dildo inside her she shuffled sideways, feeling the resistance of the water against her steering paddles, until the pulses evened out. Slowly they backed out of the boathouse onto the open water. The Slavemaster shifted the joystick sideways. The left row of girls continued to back water while the right fumbled to change direction. Mister Stewart’s lash swished across their bare backs, encouraging them to concentrate. What was required now was simple mindless instant obedience to their electric commands, Vanessa thought. They must become part of the vessel.
The joystick went forward and they set off parallel with the shoreline. Gradually, encouraged by Mister Stewart’s lash, the girls found their rhythm, rocking to and fro about the pivoting dildos inside them, their breasts swaying in time. The joystick went forward and they picked up their stroke rate. Their knees spread as they made the return stroke and came together as they pulled, flashing their pouting clefts.
The Girlflesh Castle Page 13