Students of Submission

by Leigh Turner

  She turned to face him. He remained impassive. Bound, naked and half-shaven, his stony visage seemed to constitute the only card left in his hand.

  ‘I’ve known about your carryings-on for quite some time. You just can’t resist those nubile little morsels, can you? Away from home for the first time, swayed by your air of erudite authority, the roguish charisma you delight in cultivating.’

  Nick’s eyebrow raised very slightly as she paused in her soliloquy.

  ‘There, you see. Your vanity betrays you. And vanity, or pride, as we all know, goes before a fall. You will be brought low, Nick, and humiliated in front of the staff and students.’

  Nick jutted his chin upward in defiance, as Lena continued to work. His once hairy thighs were becoming smooth and white.

  ‘Now,’ Jane continued. ‘I know that one of you girls here has been up to shenanigans, with this tart of a husband of mine. You now have the chance to step forward and make yourself known. The degree of your humiliation and punishment will be lessened if you do so. If you do not confess now, my tease whip may work harder later. So step forward, whoever you may be.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Nick spoke for the first time. ‘She’s got no proof. Don’t.’ He stared resolutely ahead so as not to betray his accomplice by glancing toward them.

  ‘I’ll take that as your confession, Nick, not that I need it. Who is the guilty slut, then?’

  She stared at the four girls in the audience, who remained still. Sally’s heart was beating faster now.

  ‘Very well. The chance of early confession has passed. Let me try a different tack. Nick here is about to be feminised. He is very attached to his facial hair, which he thinks adds to his so-called rough and ready macho appeal. He will shortly be deprived of it. He will then be dressed like the tart he is, and whipped on the arse. I may relent and reconsider this if his lover steps forward. So if you think anything of him, dear, reveal yourself and save his sorry skin.’

  As she laughed, delighting in the manipulation of her power, Sally’s mind raced. Part of her felt sorry for Nick, but another part of her psyche was busy providing rationalisations as to why she should opt for self-preservation. He was married; he shouldn’t have seduced her; he wasn’t that good in bed anyway; it was a quickie with little thought for her feelings … Though she had entered into it in the same spirit. What to do? After all, did Jane actually know anything? Perhaps it was merely a matter of keeping her nerve. Easier said than done with the amount of adrenaline coursing through her.

  Then, suddenly, she heard a voice from her right and the decision was taken away from her. It was Becky, who had risen to her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Taylor. I’m truly sorry. Please don’t shave him any more. I know we did wrong but please don’t take his beard off. You can punish me instead if you like.’

  The pregnant silence which followed was, everyone knew, only to be broken by Jane. She stared at Becky, and briefly betrayed her thoughts as a look of puzzlement creased her brow. But it passed quickly, and she turned and glared at Sally, while speaking to Becky. Sally maintained eye contact despite the discomfort, unsure whether she was expressing defiance or merely a rabbit in the headlights.

  ‘Well. You do surprise me, dear. Yes, I may well punish you. As well as, not instead of. Step up to the stage and we’ll have a full confession.’

  Sally was released from the pinion of Jane’s steely glare as the director watched the penitent girl squeeze unsteadily past her colleagues in the row of seats, then make her way down the aisle and up the steps. The prim and innocent looking Becky; how long had she been shagging the lecturer? As Sally contemplated the hidden depths of Becky’s outwardly innocuous personality, she felt herself diminished, second best in a contest of sexuality. It didn’t matter that it was Nick; she hardly cared about him now. She just felt betrayed, used. That someone else was thought of as equally or more desirable was a blow that struck to the core of her being. Her mind dwelt on it as her rival stepped uncertainly onto the stage. She had not really realised before how much her sexuality underpinned her ego.

  Becky might have been a more prominent notch on Nick’s gun, so to speak, but her strategy in revealing it, Sally thought, left her desperately vulnerable. So it proved as Jane issued a command. Perhaps the girl should have held her nerve, for there was no going back now.

  ‘Strip! Blouse off, skirt off.’

  Becky complied, all eyes upon her.

  Jane walked over to Lena, who had risen to her feet after finishing the shaving of Nick’s legs. A quiet word in her ear provoked a shrug, an extension of the arms. I can only do one thing at a time, the gesture seemed to indicate.

  Jane nodded to Tom, and they both disappeared behind the curtain. Lena began to shave Nick’s hairy chest, pulling his bonds aside where she needed to. Sally noticed Inez enter the auditorium behind the audience. She carried a small valise. Descending the slope, she stationed herself at an end seat, behind their guardian Celia.

  Jane reappeared, with Tom. She had taken off her roll-neck sweater, revealing her upper body encased in a black corselet or long-line bra. The wide belt at her waist had remained on, with her skirt. She carried a short whip, black, heavy handled. Little more than two feet long, the business end was tapered, but not to a great degree. Almost half an inch across at the rounded end, the thong was wound in leather and did not fall from the handle, but supported itself with a supple rod within the binding. She crossed to Nick and gave his rump several sharp strokes as if to test the instrument. He winced slightly. Those not watching the other spectacle on stage noticed his cock begin to rise once more.

  The other spectacle was Becky. Tom had brought a length of soft clothes line and used it to bind her arms behind her, the forearms folded parallel upon each other, emphasising the unprotected vulnerability of the buttocks below them. Becky accepted the impingement without demur, from the unclipping of her skimpy white bra, to the final thorough trussing of her arms behind her. Tom completed his task by winding the surplus rope round her front, so that two strands of it crossed under her breasts, highlighting their braless exposure. He stepped back.

  Jane walked over. She began a session of treatment upon Becky’s tight and boyish buttocks with her whip. Her strokes were gentle, almost casual, yet unremitting and consummate, so that no one part of the increasingly rosy arse was more of a focus than another. Rather, every inch of each hemisphere was eventually kissed by the instrument, according to her whim.

  Nick’s face was contorted in displeasure and at last he could restrain himself no longer.

  ‘Leave her, Jane. I’m the culprit.’ He paused, stopping short of volunteering for punishment.

  ‘So, what do you suggest, Nick?’ she replied.

  ‘Punish me instead.’ He looked down, an unexpected hint of sheepishness surfacing in his personality, cracking the macho façade.

  ‘Don’t worry, Nick, you will get your wish. Quite soon, in fact.’ She smiled thinly, a smile of deep satisfaction. The gambit of forcing Nick to ask for his own punishment was clearly a key element in her game.

  She addressed her other victim.

  ‘How do you feel now, my dear? Have you had enough?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Taylor. Thank you.’ The thanks seemed incongruous, a reflex action imprinted from Becky’s polite upbringing. They were insufficient to save her from what followed.

  A swift stroke across both buttocks brought a stifled yelp from the bound girl.

  ‘Mistress. Call me mistress.’

  ‘Mistress. Yes, mistress.’

  ‘Good.’

  A less vicious stroke followed. Its purpose was to emphasise the older woman’s total dominion over the rosy-arsed girl, who stood before her in only a white suspender belt and grey stockings with white Mary Jane pumps.

  ‘Do you accept my complete dominance over you?’

  ‘Yes, mistress. Absolutely, mistress.’

  Jane sneered.

  ‘Huh. You are too easy, girl. Now, if you acqu
iesce to a state of slavery, I shall desist from the whipping. What say you?’

  ‘Will you release Nick, mistress? If I accept?’

  The attempted negotiation seemed to incense Jane.

  ‘How dare you, you insolent little bitch.’ She stared down at the whip in her hand. Seemingly, she did not trust herself to wield it with control, for she transferred it to her left hand and crossed to face Becky. With her open right hand, she delivered a short, sharp slap to the side of the girl’s face.

  ‘You are in no position to request anything. It is a straight choice. I shall whip your insolent little arse until you cry, or you will agree to become my slave. Which is it to be?’

  Jane’s display of petulance had suddenly raised the ante, and Becky, looking panic stricken, turned to look at Nick for guidance.

  ‘Do as she says, Becky,’ he said. ‘Jane, I’ll get even with you for this.’

  ‘Oh, will you now?’ Jane glared at him and transferred her whip back to her right hand. She seemed about to march across to him, then paused, taking a few moments to regain her icy composure. When she spoke to Becky again, it was in almost dulcet tones, the sugar that coated the bitter pill of submission.

  ‘Which is it to be, my dear? Sally and Liz have already acquiesced, and Fiona belongs to my assistant, Celia. You are merely joining the stable. And, while in no way absolving you from further punishment if I so wish, I can tell you that Nick is my main target in this matter.

  ‘You are young, naïve, seduced by an experienced older man. You are not the first to have been so deceived by him. So agree now, to slavery, or things will be worse for you.’

  She stepped around and administered a stroke to Becky’s buttocks. This reminder was all it took.

  ‘Yes, mistress, I agree.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To slavery. Mistress.’

  A single stroke followed.

  ‘You must learn to be a little quicker giving your mistress her proper title. Now …’

  She moved nearer to Becky and whispered in her ear. She stepped aside as Becky turned to fully face the audience. A single stroke to her buttocks brought forth the quickly learnt response.

  ‘I am Mistress Jane’s complete and utter slave and submit to her dominance. I shall address her as Mistress or Madam at all times.’ She paused, perhaps wondering if she had forgotten anything.

  ‘That will do. Now wait at the side. Respond properly to your first command.’

  ‘Yes, mistress. Yes, mistress.’

  The newly fledged slave’s eagerness pleased Jane, and she turned her attention to the other side of the stage, secure in the conquest of Becky.

  As the audience’s eyes followed Jane, they saw that Nick was almost denuded of hair; quite a feat by the efficient Lena. She was working on the last strands of his beard and moustache. Jane waited until she had finished. As Lena stepped back, Jane came forward to admire the handiwork. Wordlessly, she brushed the tip of her whip against his now hairless cheek.

  Sally, watching the drama unfold, felt herself becoming aroused. The subjugation of Becky and now the denigration of Nick, like a lion deprived of his mane; it was a heady brew which was beginning to excite her inordinately. Had she been alone, watching this on a film, she realised that her hand would now be straying to her crotch. She touched her stockinged leg and fought the impulse, which only strengthened it.

  Jane had promised Nick a whipping once he had been shaved, and she did not disappoint. While not threatening to break the skin, it was less merciful than that which had been administered to Becky. Eventually she paused, holding the whip against his arse, ready to resume when she willed it.

  ‘Bend for it.’

  They were the first words uttered since Nick had been fully shaven. Sally was shocked to see him bend forward without protest. His cock had risen to its full prominence. She delivered a sharp, yet not fierce, stroke of the whip.

  ‘Still want to get even with me, Nick? Or do you begin to crave the caress of my leather wand?’

  She struck again, employing a similar degree of restraint. Her anger at his faithlessness seemed to have dissipated after the initial attack, and now the strokes exerted their power through psychological rather than physical means.

  ‘Do you agree to be a good boy, Nick, if I release you from your bondage? I should find it so tiresome to have to ask Tom and Max to overpower you again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The whip descended. Thwack!

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, madam. I agree to the condition, Madame Supreme.’

  Sally was amazed that Nick’s defiance seemed to have dissolved, as if disappearing with his hair. He even seemed to be secretly enjoying a game in which he was versed.

  Tom was summoned, and undid the bondage. In this interval, eyes strayed stage right, and those looking that way were treated to the sight of Lena performing her barber’s act upon Becky’s pubes. Soon the girlish crack would be there to view, when the water from the bowl was used to sponge the remaining foam away.

  Meanwhile, Inez now came forward. From her valise she extracted a garment. It was a pink waspie corset, embroidered in black. This she clasped around Nick, who stood, obedient to his recent vow, cock hardened, revealing his innermost pleasure. Celia climbed the steps and walked across. She helped Inez pull the garment tight, clasping his waist and emphasising his ample pectorals above. Black seamed stockings from Inez’s case were drawn upon his legs as Jane and the audience watched. The promise of obedience was fulfilled as he raised each foot in turn to accommodate his dressers.

  Black high-heeled shiny court shoes in an appropriate size were then fitted, followed by a pair of satin gloves in black, extending to just above the elbow. Finally, the “pièce de resistance”, as Inez announced it … a ladies’ wig of black hair, straight in a medium-length fringed bob, framing the smooth face.

  The look was complete. Only the red stalk of the cock was at odds, otherwise Nick made a surprisingly convincing female. His knees, often far bonier on men, were fleshy enough to pass muster. The stockings encased legs that, though muscular, tapered reasonably elegantly. They were held up by six suspenders, four at the front, two toward the side at the rear, framing the reddened arse.

  His mistress now addressed him.

  ‘Present yourself.’

  She beckoned. Following her gesture he clicked across the stage to the centre, awkward like a newly born Bambi in his heels. He stood near the front of the stage, facing the audience, his face impassive. Stripped of all dignity, he was to be further debased.

  Jane crossed over to him. As with Becky, she whispered in his ear. A sharp tap with the whip on his rear elicited his prepared response.

  ‘I confess to adultery with Madame’s new slave, Becky. I agree to accept my punishment from her, or whomsoever she may delegate. My subjugation is complete.’

  ‘Good. Now present arse.’

  With this, Nick turned. His reddened backside on full view, he performed the gesture which ensured that no one in the room would forget his abject and total humiliation. Spreading his legs apart, he leant forward, gloved hands on his knees for support. The high heels encouraged his arse to thrust back, and his stance ensured that his balls were on full view. They could glimpse also the tip of his cock, despite its full hardness striving to pull it upward.

  In this position he was compelled to remain, awaiting instruction as free will deserted him. Jane let him remain so posed, for several minutes, as she savoured her triumph.

  Eventually, while still leaving Nick on display, she crossed to the side of the stage and operated a switch. The curtains behind the front of the stage drew back, revealing the wrestling ring in which the previous day’s bouts had taken place.

  Turning to the audience, she announced, ‘These two sluts will now be given the chance to fight for their freedom. A tag match, best of two falls or submissions. To be tagged, the wrestler outside must have hold of the tag rope attached to their corner. After a f
all or submission, the same two wrestlers to resume.’

  Looking to her side, she nodded to Lena, who began to undo the bonds around Becky’s arms.

  She stepped forward. Spanking Nick on his presented arse, she bid him rise and climb to the ring. Then, going to the newly shaven Becky, she gave a stroke of the whip on her backside to galvanise her into similar action. Nick and Becky, having climbed to the ring apron, awaited their challengers.

  Jane, undoing her belt and stepping out of her skirt, was to be one of them. She pulled down and discarded a black panty-girdle, revealing her corselet in its entirety. It extended over her hips and had no crotch piece, ending in a straight hem from which four suspenders supported her black nylons. It was now apparent why, today, she wore flat-soled boots. They offered much better balance in the arena.

  Her partner was to be Tom, who stepped from his shorts and trainers, leaving him in just his white briefs. They climbed to the ring apron, diagonally opposite their intended victims.

  ‘My partner is to be barefoot,’ said Jane to no one in particular, ‘since trainers and nudity are something of an aesthetic disaster. However, otherwise we will remain in our footwear.’

  Nick was thus, at a stroke, condemned to be hobbled in his heels. Sally was not surprised that Jane had stacked the odds massively in her team’s favour. She watched as Tom pulled his briefs down, to stand unconcerned in his nudity.

  Inez stepped across and twisted herself between the ropes to get into the ring. Once more, her black outfit helped identify her with the role of referee. Walking to the middle, she spoke.

  ‘Who is to begin?’

  Tom stepped through the ropes for Jane’s side. On the other, there was hesitation.

  ‘Who is your captain?’ Inez queried.

  The subtle insult was not lost on many of the viewers. Nick, feminised, was not automatically seen as the leader, even with the slightly built ingénue Becky next to him.

  ‘Come, Nick,’ said Jane, ‘or should it be Nicola? Are you going to send your young female in to fight your battles? Perhaps we have succeeded in stripping your masculine pride in its entirety. What a delicious result.’