Many of the women leave their cells on tethers during the day. And others are pulled out at all hours. I have a feeling about this, it seems there are sexual implications brewing behind much that I see going on here, though I have no confirmation of that fact. We eat two meals a day of bread and beans, and use buckets as toilets that remain in the corner of our cells.
After three days, I’m led from my cubicle with five other women. We’ve been collared at the neck since the day we entered this prison, and before we’re moved, there are metal cuffs fixed to our wrists and ankles. Our hands are bound behind us and our feet chained together so it’s difficult to walk.
Moving as a line of sad faces we’re led from the cavern into full daylight. After so much time, it seems strange to see a huge sky above my head. A few yards from the cavern stairway, we climb another staircase, entering a nondescript wooden structure. Perhaps here I’ll learn something of my fate.
All six of us miserably bewildered women are led into a stark tiled room, told to mount a foot high wooden platform. We face a panel of three men who have been waiting for our appearance. I wonder that my submissive nature has led me to this horrible trial. I wonder just how my demented mind created my imprisonment—I have loved sexual confinement in the past. I wonder too why my body beats as sexually as it might when faced with a lover’s bulging crotch. Such a bizarre mélange of images appear before my mind, before that first official booms in a voice that knocks every thought from my brain.
“Stand up straight!” he orders.
We six thrust back our shoulders.
“Better, much better.”
The man giving orders is wearing black, and rising from his chair in front of us, he strolls around the table. His companions remain in judgment as he begins to inspect us with a sick looking sneer.
“Undo their hands and remove the chains from their feet,” he orders. Minutes pass as we endure the sound of metal clanking and scraping, and feel the heaviness in our arms and legs subside as the chains are taken away. I feel blood rush into my veins as I shake out my aching shoulders.
“Remove your clothes,” he says.
The order shocks us. I turn to the woman at my right, seeing her blush. Tears start to well in her eyes. She is no hardened criminal. My own face grows hot, as does my body. My palms sweat.
“Remove your clothes!” the order is given again because no one has obeyed. “I don’t think you’ll like the results if you don’t.” He strides to the side of the room and takes a horsewhip from the wall. Cracking the leather against the tile floor we all quake in fright, while hands fly to buttons and ties to remove what little we wear. The six of us are attired in an assortment of dresses and skirts and tattered blouses. In a minute’s time they are all in a pile at our feet, then whisked away by a man who quickly moves before us grabbing them into his arms. Before the critical eyes of our three inquisitors we continue removing our underwear. For me this is just a pair of panties and I am as naked as the others.
“Very good, my fine whores,” the stalking man sneers at us again and he replaces the horsewhip on its nail.
Striding to the first woman in the line up, he begins a thorough physical inspection of her, starting with her teeth, and then her neck. Moving down to her breasts, which are quite large, like two pillows, he pats them with a hand and watches the flesh jiggle. Her aureoles are large and very brown, just the tiniest of nipples at the center, which he tweaks meanly to see her jump and squeal from the pain.
“Turn around and bend over,” he commands. She obeys readily, while every bit of her voluptuous flesh quakes with fear. While the man waits, he pulls a thin glove from his pocket and covers one hand. Then turning to the woman’s naked ass, he bats at her inner thighs to make her part them wide, and then fondles the crack of her ass with his gloved hand.
“Ah, no!” I hear her gasp. Though I cannot see for sure, I believe he’s just driven fingers in her anus. He prods her harshly, while I and my companions look on knowing that we’ll soon be given the same demeaning treatment. As the man withdraws his fingers, he dispenses with the glove and inspects her cunt, tugging and poking until she gasps again in pain. Giving her a solid hit on one ass cheek, he orders her to, “stand up and turn around.”
The compliant woman breathes easier realizing that the worst is over—well almost.
“Open your cunt for me,” he tells her.
“But you’ve already seen it!” she reminds him.
An angry hand cuffs her on the cheek. “You balk again, and I will whip you!”
Embarrassed even more, the chagrined prisoner spreads apart the hair and labia that protect her sex, and one more time the magistrate physically grovels at her portal. “That’s all,” he says as he moves on to the next woman in our row of six.
Halfway through the second inspection, he dismisses the woman and she’s taken away for reasons that are mystery to the rest of us. Continuing on, he completes the inspection of the third woman and then it is my turn. I find his hands cool, strangely smooth, almost slimy. Perhaps it is another woman’s juice that remains on them. I turn, bending over as I am told, discovering as I obey his commands that indeed he does prod my back door with what I believe are a good three fingers covered by thin latex. I suppose it’s good I’m used to this, though it has been some time. My anus balks at being stretched. After he removes the glove and begins to feel my pussy, I almost scream myself finding that he pinches my labia in several places digging his nails into the skin until I make an obvious response. He snickers as I rise and turn around, and then without being ordered, I open my cunt for him to see. I feel the shame of this deeply, but I remain proudly mocking him—as I might have once mocked Keven. His ingratiating smile makes me want to slap his face, though I’m not that stupid.
“And what is this?” he says, turning me so that the others on the panel can see Keven’s brand on my flank. When I say nothing, he slaps at my brand. “Answer me!”
“I was branded.”
“That is obvious, by whom?”
“A lover.” I stick to my story.
“You let a lover brand you?”
“It had some meaning for us at the time.”
“And what was that?”
“It is hard to explain.”
“Well, we’re willing to listen,” he says arrogantly.
“He liked the idea of his claiming ownership of me. That is really the whole reason.”
“For the tattoo as well?” he asks, jerking my forearm forward so he can show the tattoo to the others.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Obviously that ownership didn’t stick.”
“It was only a sexual thing and, no, it didn’t stick.”
“Humph. I say you’ve escaped some captivity. You will remain with us until your owners can be found.”
He says no more, but continues the inspection, thoroughly violating the shy woman to my left. I feel sorry for this one, especially. I believe she is a virgin both with her ass and cunt, considering the kind of responses she gives. She has no means to bear up at all and cries the entire way through. I think this might have warranted the horsewhip on her backside, the way she twists and turns. Thankfully, this jailer of ours has some mercy. The poor girl gets away with a few hearty smacks to her ass and nothing more.
Finishing with the sixth woman in our row, we all breathe more easily with this trial over.
“You are being detained in this encampment while the truth of your fate is determined. Some of you might be released, others shipped back to your owners if it is proven you are slaves, and others imprisoned by the governments that have jurisdiction over you. This is simply your way-station between one world and another, so don’t get too used to the amenities here.” He and his companions chuckle like this is some joke. “You will earn your keep. There will be no slackers. Every morning, you will be exercised in the yard, then washed and disciplined. The discipline is not something you’ve earned, but it is a useful reminder of the way we en
force your compliance. Hopefully, with a daily reminder of the power we have over you, you will find yourselves content to stay here and do as you’re told. If you are not, and find yourselves waging some personal rebellion, you can be sure that the measures to punish such behavior will be far more ghastly to you than you can imagine. I often use a horsewhip like the one on that wall.” He lets us digest his words and then moves on. “After the discipline you’ll dress in the clothes we provide and work in whatever industry you have been assigned to. I believe you five will work in the fields. We are self-sufficient here, raising our own vegetables. It’s hard work, but you seem up to the task as young and hearty as you appear. As time goes by, some of you will leave this place for your final fate. While you’re here I’d suggest you comply as women in this new world order are wise to do. Obey and there will be no problem.” He says this smugly, as though there are many things behind the remark left unsaid. I imagine our duties here are not quite as simple as he outlines. If it means sex, I don’t worry for myself as much as I do the young one beside me and the others that have not led the same lewd life I have.
***
I find my days go by with little thought. That’s surely better for my spirit. I submerge my emotions and go through the activities I’m condemned to, often in a spirit of how they affect me physically for the good. The exercise makes me stronger as we run naked around the yard ten times every morning. It is fortunate that we are above the yellow fog, and can breathe deep of this cleaner air. Once our exercise is complete, we return to the same tile room where we were first inspected. Our cuffed wrists are attached to rings in the wall above our heads. Then we’re hosed off with a blast of water. Some days an attendant runs a soapy cloth over our bodies. But most days it’s just the water cleaning all the grime and sweat away. One day a week, a nozzle is run up our ass ends and our bellies are filled with water that’s often painful to release. And everyday, while we still drip from the shower, we face the wall, bend over and receive our lesson in discipline.
An attendant makes his way down our row of five, eyeing us carefully until he stops at one fair ass. For a good five minutes straight—what seems like an eternity—he beats each of us brutally. He usually applies the discipline with a two inch wide leather spanker. But on other days, he applies a horrendous wooden paddle that stings sharply from the first hit. The discipline is shocking every time. I do feel it as pain, though I try to remember how such extreme sensation often arouses me. Of course, I wouldn’t let on to the man that lays on the punishment. When he uses the leather, I’m often successful in turning the pain into pleasure. I can almost make a private joke of it. While I scream like the others, I’m feeling a distinctively lovely warmth all about my ass. The farther the man gets into my discipline the harder it is to do, but when he’s finished, I truly enjoy the rush that moves beyond my ass to the far reaches of my sexual body. It keeps me awakened, I think.
I cry with the women in my group, and agonize for these poor ones, who, every day, dread it start to finish. If I could only explain the possibilities. But then, I suppose what I feel is not a rational thing, not something anyone would understand unless they too find the same satisfaction in corporal punishment. One women does admit she likes the feeling afterwards, but never during. Oh, yes, we do talk to each other. Quietly, when we’re in the vegetable fields, we whisper things about ourselves. As the days go by there’s a camaraderie between us that keeps our imprisonment from being wholly bleak. You have to cling to small things. A woman who call herself Bette tells me she knows where my marks came from.
“I don’t think so,” I whisper to her.
“Oh, but I do. You got them in the North. That brand is the insignia of the Brannoch priest of the Utopian province.”
I don’t reply, even though her knowledge shocks me. It would be dangerous for an overseer to see me respond, though my heart seems to jump into my throat at the mention of my husband.
“How do you know of this?” I finally whisper back.
“I was through that region two years ago, and learned a good deal of their culture. It was far too confining for me to stay, even though the beauty of it was remarkable.”
“That’s like me.”
“Ah, but you were marked. You must have lingered some time.”
“I was arrested,” I lie to her. “And this was what they did to me, so that everyone would know that I am a woman of absent moral character.”
She snickers as though she understands.
“And these are why you’re here?” she says.
I nod, agreeing with the strange irony, and am about to speak again when we hear the overseer silence us with a threat.
“You two bitches talk too much,” he snarls, as he moves me down to the far end of a row of green beans we are harvesting.
As I suspected, within a week of our imprisonment, we find other tasks demanded of us. It is the middle of the night when the door to my cell clatters from keys opening the lock.
“Come with me,” I hear a voice whisper and I’m led away by a hand that clutches my arm tightly.
The night is cool. While my shift is warm enough during the day, the thinness of the garment makes me shiver now. I pad beside the man barefoot as he leads me across the yard to the quarters of our jailers. I enter a room that completely stuns me the moment my eyes adjust to the light cast on the walls. I’m in a carpeted drawing room with walls papered in gold, furnished with velvet lounging couches and wooden furniture I haven’t seen the likes of since Utopia. And even this seems more grand than what furnished the modest home of the Brannoch priest.
I’m immediately stripped and pressed into service by men that welcome me with lust-filled smiles.
“This is the one I told you about,” one man declares for several others. I recognize the jailer that inspected me. Now he looks quite different clothed in a casual shirt and pants, stripped of the official looking garb he usually wears. He draws me into the center of the groping men and I become their orgy. Pushed to my knees I find my body responding to the play of their hands, even while my mind screams, “No!” Every inch of me is felt-up. My pussy is sucked by a man lying on the floor underneath my crotch, while I keep attentive to the several cocks at my mouth. I let go. What purpose is there in fighting this? It’s hardly brutal and for a sex-staved woman with passionate sexual hungers I refuse to let my mind argue virtue. Somewhere in my psyche I’m still hanging on to the vows I made to Keven, but now I put that all aside.
I delight in the head of one particular penis that’s thrust in my face. It’s owner is one man I would have flirted with in another lifetime. He smiles boyishly at me, and runs a gentle, though sexually motivated hand through my hair as though he loves the feel of my natural brown curls. Licking his stalk, I reply back happily. He has a fine one, with a curious arc shape that I imagine would tickle the inside of me delightfully if it were to screw my cunt. The small head has been trimmed of its foreskin, and I go down on that head running a happy tongue along the underside and about the rim. Then I suck it with my jaws closing in around the deep purple, and begin to take the whole of it far down my throat. I notice that my other suitors have left me, seeing how enthused I am by this one prick—all but the man at my cunt, who still laps me into a climactic frenzy. I cum the first time while I’m still occupied with this lovely prick, the sensation swooning through me is a lovely wave that will last some time before I’m tired at all.
After the initial jolt, I attend to the prick again as I think of how this will feel deep within me. The farther I allow it down my throat, the more this broadening thing opens my mouth, the more I suck and swallow and dream of that first delicious thrust. When the boyish guard pulls me to my feet, I am pleased. He has my breasts in his hands, his mouth quickly covering one nipple to make it erect. He hardly needs to do that, they have been erect since I entered the room. But what he does with his mouth connects to my cunt, and I feel another wave of pleasure tickle me.
Leading me to one side
of the room, there’s a more private alcove with a simple velvet-covered mattress that becomes our bed. As he descends to me, I welcome him with a smile. His cock buries itself deeply, while I wiggle into it eagerly.
“Ah, fuck me hard!” I exclaim.
He rises and falls against my body, his groin moving and groveling against my clit as he presses himself against my pubis. We tear at each other, me as crudely and angrily as I dare, and it gives him inspiration. I cry, “fuck, fuck, fuck”, and whimper sighing, and moan, “more, more,” and then as he shoots himself into me, I shudder with spasms that leap everywhere. And as my clit pulses hotly, my vagina grabs his penis as though it will suck everything this boy has into me.
He falls on me exhaustedly afterwards.
I’m hardly given a moment to rest when there’s that first official at my side.
“Here, see the tattoo and the brand.” He’s talking to several other men. “My administrator tells me she enjoys being disciplined.”
I gaze up at the man, while this last lover still holds me in his arms.
“You do like it, don’t you?” the hovering jailer asks me.
I don’t know what to say.
“I know you do, bitch. Why don’t you come show us how much. Tell us, do these marks of yours have anything to do with your dark passions?”
I still don’t speak because it makes no difference what I say. I’m hauled from the comfort of my lover’s arms and pushed to a simple apparatus in the corner of the grand room. I didn’t notice this when I first entered, but I can see immediately how it will be used.
There’s a simple pole that allows my arms to be stretched high over my head. And on the floor there’s a bar where my feet are attached to either end. Unlike the daily discipline I receive, this will be blatantly sexual. The man that strings me up and secures my feet has his hands all over me. He feels how wet I am with juice and a man’s cum dripping from my fucked cunt. That juice runs down my legs and he swaths the concoction over my thighs like it’s cream. Bringing his wet hand to my mouth, he presses his fingers to my lips and I suck them. This fragrance is hardly delicate, but something potent that climbs right inside the center of my lust. He toys with me more and I jerk against the pole. Then backing off, someone starts to lash my ass. I don’t bother to hold back my response, or muffle my enthusiasm for their nasty appetites. I make love to that post with my pussy pressed against the smooth column, while the whip keeps up a steady rain of stinging strikes to my skin. When my cries become livid, the whip stops and another man descends on me, pawing my flesh to a climax. When he backs away, I’m whipped again, forced to fuck the post, feeling yet another climax starting to build. This one takes a long time, though I really have no clue how long. I’m so intoxicated by the lashes that pain me, and the hands that soothe me. Those twin sensations bring me a jarring climax. I swear my ass must be ripped to shreds by the time they finish, but with all this nasty sexual darkness swimming about, I hardly care how my body wears this punishment. When they finally pull me from the whipping post, I descend into the soft cushion of a hundred pillows that swarm about me like the men that want me. Their hands move over my body fluidly, though many want only what is between my thighs, and that is taken repeatedly long into the night, until I am too exhausted to respond at all.
Chaos in Paradise Page 11