As she shuffled along mini orgasms coursed sweetly through her.
She was intimately merged with a machine and she was rewarded for her efforts in the most basic way possible. It felt good to be useful.
‘Hi, Maddy. You wanted to know the sort of work I’ve been doing. Well today I did some cleaning in an underground station, which is more fun than it sounds…’
Chapter Eleven
With Bolt now eagerly pushing them along towards graduation they had something to look forward to, even a sense of a challenge, helping them overcome tests that stretched their minds and bodies. Weeks became a month and more. Despite the challenges of their assessments as time passed and their confidence and experience grew, the three of them began to feel that there was nothing they could not do, however painful and degrading. They were obstacles to be overcome with pride.
An odd feeling was growing in Mel that if she could just do this right it would have proved something important and help her straighten out her personal troubles, though she was not sure what or how. All she did know was that the collapse of a close family could scar you far more deeply than any lashing.
Mel was getting to know Bolt and Cam very well, but in a curious way. Her knowledge of their bodies due to forced and sometime now unforced physical intimacy was delightfully extensive. She could also anticipate their reactions to lessons, their opinions on TV or films they saw together, teachers and other details of the microcosm of the school world, but she only knew disconnected and inconsequential snippets about their personal lives before they came here. She still did not know their real names or those of any other pupils. However, Mel was in no position to criticise them. After that first day she had been doing exactly the same thing. It seemed that they had all erected a barrier between their past and present lives. Perhaps it is the only way to survive here because allowing their past in would only highlight the bizarre, shameful and degrading life they were living in Gryndstone. This disconnection made it tolerable. Perhaps that was half the idea of giving them new part names. Or was it simply as Wire had said that they were all flawed or damaged in some way? Shame might flow in reverse if past guilty secrets were revealed. That was what made the public confessions so moving and surprising…
‘What do you have to confess, Wire 142?’ Bradawl asked.
Wire was chained between the posts of the confession device, with the spiked domes clamped to her breasts, trembling but resolute. As the whole school looked on, their sexes sucking on their impaling phalluses in anticipation, Wire said: ‘I had money and a good education and I screwed it up! I should have been grateful but I was spoilt and selfish. I let people down and abused my body in many ways. I was wasting my life. I’ve been bad. I deserve to be punished. Please punish me, Masters!’
The canes lashed out across her slender body and she screamed.
Later at break time out in the playground Mel kissed Wire’s sore breasts again.
‘I had no idea about your life,’ Mel admitted. ‘You’ve been, well, so friendly and helpful to us.’
Wire grinned ruefully. ‘I’m glad you thought so. I’m the last in my trigyn to confess because I felt I had a lot of bad things to make up for. It was about the hardest thing I’ve ever done but I’m so glad I did. Maybe knowing other girls here have survived far worse helped straighten me out. Now I can start fresh being useful in Shackleswell. Our grades are good so we’ll probably graduate tomorrow. I hope you’ll all come along tonight to say goodbye properly.’
‘Of course we will,’ Mel assured her.
She looked at Mel searchingly. ‘After the way you’ve all come on recently, are any of you going to be confessing soon?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got to start thinking about that,’ Bolt said after they had surrendered their places near Wire to other girls who wanted to congratulate her. ‘We should start working on our confessions. Better space them out, though. It wouldn’t look right going all at once.’
Cam chewed her lip. ‘I was wondering about it. I’m frightened, but, yes, I think I can confess. It’s probably what I need to do.’
‘Great,’ Bolt said. ‘What about you, Spring?’
Mel gulped. The very thought of such a thing was so appalling that she had put it right out of her mind. Now the idea terrified her. How could she ever confess her sins?
‘Don’t look so miserable,’ Bolt said. ‘Just make something up that sounds good. That’s what I’m going to do. My past is no business of anybody else, right?’
Mel blinked. The idea of lying in confession had never occurred to her.
That evening the girls said goodbye to Wire, Spar and Bush in proper gynaton fashion. They were in three adjacent bed cages, borrowed from their neighbours, waiting to receive guests with open legs. The visitors mounted them in turn and they had gentle “ring on ring” sex as their nipple and pussy rings chimed together. There was much rubbing and kissing leading to the gift of a small, intimate orgasm to remember them by.
It was as Mel coupled with Wire and their slippery sex lips slid through each other and their hard clitorises kissed, that she was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization of very normal this felt. Wire had been right about how adaptable they were, but could the process ever be reversed?
The next day Wire, Spar and Bush graduated. Mel felt a lump in her throat as they watched them being led down the playground by Bradawl. Of course they had promised to keep in touch but it was like seeing older students leave school and knowing they were moving up to take their place. It also meant she was one step closer to leaving herself.
‘You’ve very fortunate,’ Bradawl said as he prepared Mel, Cam and Bolt for their next work experience day.
They had already guessed this would be different from their previous outings. They were going to miss assembly so it had to be special.
‘The Fillister family is one of the oldest in Shackleswell,’ Bradawl continued. ‘They’ve always supported this school and over the years they’ve taken many pupils for work experience on their estate. Today they’re looking for a trigyn to serve as pets and pleasure companions. This will apparently involve a high degree of mechanical interface. I’m sure they’ll have the latest systems so that will be very useful experience. I needn’t say you are to be on your best behaviour.’
They did not travel to the Fillister’s residence by anything as common as the underground. The family sent their own car that picked them up from the back of Miss Trunnion’s office. It was a black 4 X 4 with tinted windows and was driven by a Mr Cleaver, a lean masterful man who introduced himself as the Fillester’s gynaton keeper. Mel, Cam and Bolt raised their eyes in surprise above their gags. They actually had a special keeper for slave girls! This also clearly impressed Miss Trunnion, who came close to simpering over Cleaver.
In the back of the big car were three slave cages into which Mel, Bolt and Cam were loaded. Twenty minute’s drive took them out of town and into the countryside where the Fillister’s estate lay. Mel could not see much through the slots in her cage cover except for flashes of high walls, security gates and a long driveway winding through landscaped gardens.
They were unloaded at the side of an imposing Georgian country house that overawed them far more than the prospect of sucking cocks all day in the station. Beside the house was an old stable block and it was into this that Cleaver led them. Inside the walls were still hung with bridles and gleaming sets of buckled harness, but they were not designed to fit horses. There were also several gynaton-powered machines, but it was the three strange coloured rubber costumes, one red, one yellow and one blue, laid out a big table in the centre of the room that drew their eyes.
Cleaver lined the girls up before him and then spoke earnestly. ‘You’re going to be Old Mr Fillister’s toys for the day while the family are out. Only he’s not what he was. He’s getting a bit vague but he does like to have Gryndstone girls around him. They always make him happy. He used to be a school governor years ago. Just be patient and humour him and he’ll be
fine.’
It sounded to Mel as though their temporary master to be was going senile. This was not a reassuring prospect.
‘Old Mr Fillister also likes dogs,’ Cleaver added. ‘So that’s what you’ll be today: pretty bitch-dogs to keep him amused.’ He indicated some wooden steps resting against one end of the table. ‘So up you get, bitches…’
As commanded they knelt or lay on their backs with legs in the air on the table while Cleaver dressed them in the tight rubber garments, which had been dusted with talc to slide over their skin. It was strange to feel fabric enclosing their bodies after weeks of almost total nudity even if it did not cover their most sensitive parts. There were thigh-length boots with wires extending from their inside top rims that clipped to their labial rings. There were shoulder-length gloves and tight basques that nipped in their waists, cupped and pushed up their breasts without covering them and braced their backs. Wires from the tops of the basques were clipped to their nipple rings. Cleaver pulled matching bridles over their heads that had fake dog ears stuck on their sides. Straps went across the bridge of their noses, under their chins and across their mouths, where instead of a bit they supported stiff rubber coated wires that hooked into the side of their cheeks and supported the ring bases of soft pink rubber tongues that slipped over the ends of their own tongues and lolled out of their mouths.
The final touch was curving hollow rubber dog tails. These were mounted perpendicularly on one end of “U” shaped rubber-coated spring clips. The other end was slid up into their rectums and pinched through their flesh against the end with the tail on which now rose from the base of their spines. There were also springs inside the tails and the slightest movement of their hips set them bobbing. Finally every element of their costumes was linked together by a web of tight straps, pressing into their flesh.
Mel knew there was more to the costumes than met the eye. The boots had integral coil spring braces along the sides of their knees holding them bent at forty-five degrees and allowing only a small amount of flexibility. She could feel pins on the inside of the boot toecaps, warning them against standing upright. Their gloves ended in padded fingerless mittens and were braced by more hidden springs at the elbows. There were odd thickenings in tops of the gloves and boots, suggesting devices hidden inside them, and all, straps included, were studded inside with metal contacts.
When they were all dressed as pseudo-dogs, Cleaver ordered them to clamber down off the table, which they did awkwardly, edging down the steps. Lining them up on all fours with tails wagging he took up a radio control unit fitted with tiny joysticks and selector buttons matching the colours of their costumes.
‘This stimulates your major muscle groups and controls you individually or all together. Just respond as feels natural…’ He touched a control.
Their legs and arms twitched by themselves and Mel found herself shuffling forward side by side with Bolt and Cam. It was eerily like invisible strings were jerking her about and she whimpered and dribbled about her fake tongue while Bolt and Cam rolled their eyes fearfully. Her instinct was to fight it yet she knew that would be futile. It was only a subtler form of bondage and there was only one proper response for a gynaton: total surrender.
For a few minutes Cleaver sent them shuffling round the room to get use to the system. The tiny jolts of current that stimulated their muscles did not hurt much and it became easier as they let their reflexes take over. They learned fast, but then they had no choice. Soon they wheeling about, stopping and backing up, nuzzling into each other’s bottoms and even cocking their legs against the walls. A jolt to the base of their tongues was a signal to bark. There was even a sequence of muscular twitches that prompted them to sit up on their haunches, pull their arms up under their breasts with paws handing limp and beg. They did not have to be told to whimper and roll their eyes as well. They still had their school ties on which made them look even stranger, but they were so far into fantasyland by now that hardly mattered. It was utterly degrading so of course Mel felt her pussy growing hot and slippery.
Cleaver lined them up in front of him again. ‘Just keep thinking like bitches and you’ll do fine. But if you’re slow to obey or disobedient…’ he touched another button.
Their nipple and labial rings became hammers in their flesh, sending a searing jolt of hard current through their bodies. They howled round their fake tongues as they convulsed and rolled up into balls of pain.
Then it was gone, leaving them trembling and shaking. Warning twitches sent them struggling tearfully back up onto all fours.
‘So will you be good?’ Cleaver asked.
They nodded and wagged their tails pathetically.
He steered them out of the stables and then along a path that led around the side of the house through a gate and onto a terrace. Here a breakfast table was laid out under an awning. Seated at it were a smart fortyish couple and a girl of about Mel’s age with auburn hair who was dressed in riding boots and jodhpurs.
They were being waited on, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, by what Mel supposed you had to call a gynaton maid.
She wore a tiny frilly cap perched on the top of her head. Her mouth was occupied by a red ring gag that held her lips open in a perpetual mute “O” of surprise and readiness for oral penetration. She wore a French maid-style bib and tiny apron, except they were made of soft clear plastic that hid nothing of her naked body. Light silver chains linked her wrist cuffs to side rings set in the belt of her apron, which was padlocked in the small of her back. A short hobble chain joined her ankle cuffs, forcing her to take tiny steps on her high heels.
Cleaver brought Mel, Bolt and Cam up to the table and then had them sit up and beg.
‘The Gryndstone girls, sir,’ Cleaver reported.
The man and woman looked them over with reserved approval while the young girl exclaimed: ‘They’re pretty!’
‘They’ll do,’ the man conceded. He frowned down at them. ‘Now, we’re going to be out for much of the day and my father needs his amusement, otherwise he worries. You be good bitches for him, understand?’
They nodded and panted and wagged their tails.
‘Oh, can’t I play with them?’ the girl said petulantly.
‘They’re for Grandfather,’ the woman reminded her. ‘Anyway I thought you were going out riding with Tessa for the day?’
‘She’s getting boring. Why can’t I play with them? Grandfather’s only going to fall asleep and he won’t remember afterwards anyway.’
‘Don’t talk about him like that, dear,’ her mother chided gently.
‘Well it’s true!’
‘Don’t talk back to your mother!’ her father snapped.
There was something in his tone that made the girl drop her eyes and murmur meekly: ‘Sorry, Father.’
‘All right,’ the man said to Cleaver, ‘take them down to the summerhouse.’
The summerhouse lay beyond the terrace wall and a little way down the low rise the house occupied. It was an airy structure with a veranda, a shingle roof and lapped wood walls looking out across the trees and gardens to a lake. Inside, facing the open double doors, a distinguished white-haired old man sat in a reclining chair with a blanket wrapped round his legs. On a large cushion beside him knelt a pretty blonde maid without a gag. She was holding a book from which she had been reading aloud. She was tethered by a long chain to the doorpost, beside which was also a slave drinking fountain and pee pan. More tethering rings and chains hung round the walls together with a small rack of lashes. By the chair was a table with a phone, a tray of ice soft drinks, fruit and sweet bowls, a pile of books and some medicine bottles. To one side was a large flatscreen television and sound system.
The maid, who had the part stamp: Cog 107, bowed her head to Cleaver.
The old man looked up vaguely and then his eyes fastened on Mel and the others. ‘Oh, I say, what pretty gyndogs. And they’re Gryndstone girls! I used to have a lot to do with the school you know.’
>
‘Yes, Mr Fillister,’ said Cleaver. ‘Your son sent them down for you to try out.’ He handed him the control box.
‘Oh, that was good of him. Where is he?’
‘He’ll be down to see you later, Mr Fillister.’
The old man was stroking the control box. ‘I used to have lots of fun with these when they first came out. You can make them do tricks…’
He began playing with the joysticks. Mel, Cam and Bolt jerked into life and began shuffling round the room barking and wagging their tails. The old man chortled with delight. Cleaver nodded to Cog and quietly slipped away.
Grandfather Fillister played with them for most of the morning. He managed to steer them head to tail so they tongued each other out. Then he had them fetching sticks and balls thrown by Cog. When they brought them back and sat up in begging postures by his chair he happily stoked and patted them, toying with their breasts. Mel had to steel herself not to flinch at the touch of his wrinkled hands as he pawed her over, yet she also felt sorry for him and did not begrudge any pleasure she could give. She supposed his infatuation with gynatons was natural if he had grown up with them, as several generations in Shackleswell must have done. He was simply reliving happy memories.
With spanking paddle in hand Fillister managed to swipe it across their upturned bottoms as they presented them to him. Half the time he hit their tails, making them whip and slap violently from side to side while churning the spring clip ends inside their rectums. The blows that did land on their buttocks hardly hurt and raised only a light blush, but they yelped and wiggled in a show of pain that seemed to please him.
His greatest delight, however, was seeing them pee, for which they had to make many trips to drinking fountain. He had them cocking legs and peeing against the veranda post and nearby trees, and then lying on their backs on the grass with their legs spread peeing into the air so the streams crossed in glittering arcs.
Irontown 1: Student Maids Page 17