Students of Submission

by Leigh Turner

  Max told her to work her arms, exhibiting a concern for her, yet his expression was businesslike. How different from the chauffeur who had ferried her here, now that he was in proximity to his mistress, acquiescing to her sway as he curtailed Sally’s exercise and reached for the restraints.

  These took the form of wide leather straps in a sort of figure of eight, with two outer buckles acting on narrower holed straps above the wide ones. Thus the metal of the tightening arrangement did not have to come in contact with the skin.

  It was soon obvious how they worked, with Peter and Max busying themselves either side of her. Each double cuff tied the thigh to the wrist. So her legs were relatively free, but her arms almost straight by her side, once again shackled. The position of the thigh cuffs, so high near her crotch, would surely toy with her sexual feelings at some point, but for now, exhausted, she was only too willing to comply with Max’s permission for her to climb into Nick’s vacant bed. She was dimly aware of Max applying similar bondage to the panty-girdled Peter, who had been allowed to take his boots off. He was then prompted to climb into bed alongside Sally. Max pulled the large duvet over the bound pair, dimmed the lights to the minimum, and exited to Jane’s boudoir.

  Sally would normally have speculated as to whether Max would stay with Jane and Nick, enacting some further outlandish scenario, or whether he would be packed off, naked and drained of spunk, back down to the kitchens to emphasise Jane’s power over him at Lena’s expense. She was sure the cook had designs on him. Maybe some sexual politics might yet be played out in that direction. For now, though, she was a prisoner, no better. Grateful for the sumptuous pillows, she slept.

  She had woken in the small hours before dawn. Groggily, she wondered where she was and why her hands were restricted. Then, quickly realising and remembering, she became aware of Peter’s close proximity. He lay at the side of her and now, perceiving her awakened state, pushed toward her. At her hip she felt his panty-girdle. There was no mistaking the hardness which the smooth fabric stretched to constrain.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he asked in a small voice.

  ‘Mmm.’ Sally’s tone was non-committal, as though not fully conscious.

  If she thought this might deter him from further advance, she was mistaken. Shuffling over her, he used a leg placed right over both of hers to gain purchase. He lay on top of her, breathing excitedly, a clumsy dead weight unable to support his body independently.

  ‘Get off!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ With this, he tried to roll back to his original position at her side.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s just that it was hurting me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t contain myself.’

  ‘Here.’ Sally manoeuvred herself so that she was able to kneel. Straddling his right leg as he lay back, she was able to find the gusset of his constraining garment. She pulled it aside and freed his desperate cock, then carefully tucked it to the side so that his balls were also fully extracted. The tight material impinged at the base of his ball sac, creating pressure which ensured his erection stayed firm, veins bulging.

  Too tired to attempt to straddle the penis, she resumed her previous position, lying on her back. This time she used her legs to push the duvet away, then spread them wide, her knees raised.

  Peter manoeuvred himself to the base of the bed and knelt upon it. Seeing her pussy displayed so fully seemed too much for him to resist, and he swooned forward, flopping like a seal coming ashore.

  Sally resisted the temptation to laugh, and gasped as he positioned himself and she saw his tongue extend.

  What ensued was delightful for her, and she was now sure that this keen exponent of cunnilingus had worked on her earlier, teeing her up for the coup de grace of Max’s cock. There was no mistaking the skill with which this tongue teased, tempted, and tormented her.

  But suddenly he had stopped. Red-faced and panting rapidly, he hauled himself upward over her body until his penis pressed down against her hairy crevice. With neither of them able to place a hand on it to guide it home, Peter, beside himself with desire, humped and pushed, desperate for any pressure against his rampant member.

  Sally was able to gain a degree of satisfaction by feeling the penis pressing upon her clitoris under its folds of skin, as it rubbed up and down. As she wrapped her legs around Peter’s and tightened her thighs around him to clamp his body to her and increase her pleasure, it became too much for his senses and he almost bellowed his relief as the climax took him. It seemed to last minutes as the organ pumped its liquid down onto the sheets.

  The stimulation as it pulsed against her was the last Sally was to feel, for Peter then rolled over and was almost immediately unconscious. Typical man, she reflected, panty-girdle or not. Clearly, transvestism was not the exclusive preserve of homosexuals, as so many people seemed to assume.

  It took a little while for her arousal to subside, but she was not sufficiently beyond control as to seek satisfaction by rubbing herself on his foot, though the outrageous thought did occur. Such was the fate of a shackled slave, to view bodily extremities as mere rubbing posts to satisfy base instinct, like a bitch on heat.

  Eventually she had dozed, and it was Jane herself who interrupted the torpor. She was busy, in her robe, undoing Peter’s bondage. Sally saw the bedside clock registering 7.01 a.m. Peter had also been woken by Jane’s presence, clearly remiss of him in her eyes. His prick hanging loosely outside his panty-girdle was attracting the dominatrix’s derisive gaze.

  ‘So, as well as being late for your duties, you have been up to mischief with our guest. Did you beg for release or did she take it upon herself to examine your …’ She paused, trying to summon a suitable description. ‘Your undisciplined and pathetic little cock. Well, you shall pay, to be sure. Strip and go down naked. Report to Celia first and tell her to fit you with a pull-on girdle and stockings. And plain court shoes with heels; you can forget those little boots of yours.

  ‘I will inform Lena that you will be even later while you are attired for the day. If you wish to display the cock, we shall ensure it. And be aware that punishment will be meted for the night’s transgression.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘Do not speak to me. Go!’

  At this the craven waiter stepped out of his girdle and Sally watched as his firm, round arse disappeared through the door to the corridor.

  ‘Now, my pretty; time to see to you.’

  Jane’s smile was almost kindly as she released Sally’s straps. Sally dared not entertain any feelings of trust, for she had already realised how capricious the director was capable of being.

  ‘You have an hour, dear. Use it well because your day will be less easy. I shall return at eight and we will discuss your options. Avail yourself of any soap and perfume you wish.’

  Jane had then relocked the door Peter had used, and exited via the adjoining door to her own room, leaving Sally to enjoy 55 minutes of precious privacy.

  Chapter Nine – Scullery Sluts

  Sally sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a luxurious, thick bath towel. She had wrapped her hair in a smaller towel, in turban fashion. Otherwise, she remained naked.

  Strangely, she considered donning the awkward suspender tights again. They seemed to be a symbol of her demeaned status, yet still she was drawn to consider wearing them. Would Jane be pleased? Why did she even think such things?

  She remained undressed. She had sneaked a look in one or two drawers and wardrobes. Clearly it was a man’s room, with Nick’s suits in evidence. There was no female apparel. Even had there been such, Sally doubted she would have had the boldness to don anything without permission. No doubt some form of retribution would have ensued.

  The minutes passed. It was 8.05 before she heard noises in the adjoining chamber, and a further few minutes before she saw the door handle turn.

  Sally was sure that a degree of stage management was taking place, giving her time to dwell on the ominous phrase with which Jane had left h
er.

  ‘Your options.’ What were they? Might she be expelled, humiliated, and disgraced? Had she turned into too much of a wanton slut for even this place to tolerate? Surely not. Yet her heart beat a little faster as the door opened.

  It was no surprise to see Jane enter, dressed in a demure calf-length skirt of black. The burgundy woollen top she wore with it had full sleeves, while at the top revealing a little of her neck and throat where the material was cut lower in a fold of double thickness. Her footwear too seemed practical rather than titillating, for although the black leather boots were presumably knee length, disappearing under the hem of the skirt, their soles were flat. The supple leather, though, was no cheap high street line, and the design of the tie-up front, with its many eyelets for criss-crossing laces, led the eye to dwell a little.

  Jane was not alone, nor had Sally expected her to be. As she wondered what minion had been brought along to help ensure her compliant behaviour, the answer was provided when Inez entered behind Jane. She too seemed dressed for work rather than play, in her white medical smock. Thigh length, it revealed just a little of a black skirt below it, with dark grey stockings providing a slight contrast to black high heels on her feet.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Jane, smiling. ‘Are you refreshed and ready?’

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Sally, almost conversationally, responding to Jane’s relatively friendly tone. Something in her mind clutched at the prospect of normality. Had Jane had enough of their kinky relationship now?

  Her continuing cordiality gave cause to entertain such an idea, for there was no rebuke for Sally’s lack of deference in her reply. Jane simply told her that Inez would give her a short examination, and drifted back into her own room.

  Inez indicated to Sally to sit on the chair near Nick’s desk at the side of the large room, and carried out some routine checks on her, using thermometer, blood pressure sleeve, and stethoscope, which she had brought in the large pockets of her smock. When her towel was gently pulled away from her prior to checking her chest, Sally’s mood became unsettled. Her nakedness was incongruous in this setting; soon Jane would enter, in her businesslike attire, confidence personified. Her status as an underling would be re-established, her nudity emphasised, the brief civility of their earlier exchange proving to be a false dawn.

  And so it transpired. Jane came in and asked Inez how “our subject” was, standing with arms folded as the doctor explained that, although a little tired, “the girl is in the best of health”.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Jane. ‘Go down in a minute and get today’s schedule off Celia. I want you to just check the others over individually before they go downstairs today. But just wait until I have a word with the girl here.

  ‘Right,’ she declared, turning to face Sally. ‘You are to resume your duties as my slave today. You will be participating in the day’s events with the other members of your group, but even though you remain in the competition, your subservience to me personally will continue as before until I say otherwise. Do you understand?’

  There was a pause. Sally felt emboldened, unwilling to merely acquiesce like a lamb.

  ‘I suppose so.’ She shrugged very slightly. She might be naked except for a towel on her hair, but what were two women going to do to her? Inez had declared her fighting fit, after all. Let them do their worst; she had youth on her side.

  Jane’s frown was instant, metamorphosing into an expression of irritability.

  ‘How tiresome.’

  No sooner had she said this than she nodded at Inez, who, ready for such a glance, responded to the subtle command and sprang upon Sally, hooking her right arm under Sally’s left. With an immediate switch of her weight, she pulled and twisted, and Sally was wrenched out of the chair, to be pitched across the room, landing unceremoniously, face down upon the carpet.

  Before she had chance to turn over, Inez was upon her, crouching above and then sitting, her weight pressed on the small of Sally’s back. Any remaining spark of resistance was quashed as Sally felt one of Jane’s leather boots pressing firmly down between her shoulder blades.

  The larger woman leant down and wrenched Sally’s towel off her head, after which she grasped a thick handful of the loose tresses and pulled Sally’s head back.

  ‘You insolent little slut! What do you think you are doing? Clearly you do not know your place. Allow me to show you.’

  With that, the pressure on her upper body was released, but Inez was quick to compensate, and moved up Sally’s back, settling upon her and pulling her arms up and back behind her. She had seriously underestimated the athleticism of the slightly built Frenchwoman, who had been impeded hardly at all by her heels and skirt. Sally was now in a position that was becoming all too familiar, pinioned and subdued.

  The next thing she felt was a sharp slap on the left cheek of her bottom. It was followed by five more, administered as far as she could tell by some sort of varnished wooden paddle. No sooner had that stopped than the same treatment was meted out to the right cheek, fiercely, quickly, and wordlessly.

  By the end of this, Sally’s lip was trembling with emotion, and she fought back a tear as the shock and pain hit home. The stinging sensation was subsiding into a suffused hot glow when Jane finally spoke, standing above her.

  ‘So. Have you learnt, or do you need more?’

  Sally looked up, and could see the wooden hairbrush in her assailant’s hand, wielded with the slightly rounded smooth surface extending from her palm. There was little choice in what she should answer. Taking a moment to compose herself, choking back a sob with her pride and rebelliousness turning to dust in her mouth, she spoke in a hoarse and faltering voice.

  ‘I have learnt, mistress. I have learnt.’

  ‘Good. I hope you mean it.’

  ‘Yes, mistress. I promise.’ Sally almost heard herself saying this as if listening to a disembodied voice which was not her own. She cursed herself for being so quick to voice the craven vow of obedience.

  ‘Very well. We will say no more. Inez, I’m afraid we will have to restrain her. Stay upon her.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  Madame again. Was it more the habit of the French way of addressing an older woman on Inez’s part, or was she too a servile lapdog in thrall to the director?

  Sally decided against speaking to Inez, who remained above her, maintaining a degree of pressure on her arms. Jane soon returned from her adjacent room, bearing a new device to enforce her dominance.

  This time, it took the form of two leather cuffs, joined by a short chain about eight inches long. With Jane and Inez working, and Sally’s lack of resistance, it was a short task to secure it, and presently Sally’s hands were once again tied to each other behind her back. More comfortable than any of her previous forms of bondage, it was nevertheless effective in consolidating her status as Jane’s helpless underling.

  After this, the high-heeled boots with the chain ring attachments were brought. The chain which linked the boots remained detached and Jane was content to leave the ridiculously high heels as the only impediment to Sally’s future walking mobility. Dismissing Inez, Jane guided Sally to her own room with a slap on her rosy rump, where she arranged her captive’s hair in a style pulled back from the face and secured at the rear in a tight bun. She was then instructed to precede Jane downstairs, but before she did so, Jane opened a drawer and extracted a two-foot-long leather-handled wand, which ended in several short leather strands whose ends were knotted into small balls.

  ‘Now, slave. Proceed, or the tease whip will acquaint itself with your sensitised arse!’

  It seemed she was to spend the day naked but for her boots and cuffs. Jane guided her first to the kitchen, where Lena expressed great amusement at her predicament.

  ‘I thought you might let her hands free today.’ She chuckled.

  ‘She misbehaved,’ said Jane. ‘Can’t be trusted.’

  At this, Lena’s mirth increased and she threw back her head as she laughed.
r />   ‘What are we doing with her?’ she asked when she regained her composure.

  ‘Just keep her here, give her something to eat. We’ll be back for her later.’

  ‘OK.’

  When Vanessa had finished her duties cleaning the dining room, she volunteered to assist, and spoon fed the hapless Sally with a bowl of cereal, even following it up by bringing some toast and coffee. Lena looked on with indifference as the saucy waitress helped the captive. Vanessa now sported a uniform of nothing more than stockings, suspenders, heels, and the skimpy waist apron which barely covered her fanny. She appeared to be completely at ease with her lack of normal clothing, plump breasts and buttocks on permanent view.

  While this was going on, Sally saw Peter at the sink, tackling a large pile of pans and dishes. He wore a white roll-on girdle which covered the upper part of his bottom, leaving just part of the crack visible between the two lower cheeks, below which suspenders clasped black stocking tops stretched tight. Perhaps she wasn’t quite the lowest of the low, thought Sally. But not far off.

  Sally sat for a while as the kitchen staff went about their duties. Evidently most of the occupants of the mansion had already eaten, if the mountain of crockery being handled by the feminised slave Peter was anything to go by. However, Lena was now grilling more sausages and bacon, and preparing pans of beans and tomatoes for the hob, so somebody was shortly to enjoy a late breakfast. Like Inez, the cook wore a white smock over a skirt, but her slip-on shoes were flat-soled and practical.

  The door opened and Sally wondered who else might be about to witness her predicament and embarrassment. Perhaps embarrassment wasn’t quite the word; she was surely well beyond such a state by now. Humiliation seemed to fit better, she thought.

  However one might describe it, Sally felt another vestige of normal dignity stripped away as she beheld the newcomer. It was Tom, object of her girlish fantasies since she had seen his muscular frame overcome Oliver in the woodland arena. How she wished for just one garment. But it was no use wishing; she was nude and manacled, bereft of any chance of facing the object of her secret desire on equal terms.