Students of Submission

by Leigh Turner

  ‘Naturellement, chérie.’

  They both tilted their heads back and broke into peals of laughter.

  ‘Well. After the apologies for spunking all over my hand and face when I tickled his balls …’ Inez chuckled. ‘He was most attentive for the rest of the night. Is it not wonderful how these young men can rejuvenate themselves so quickly? He has a lovely cock; I gave him a little tuition in its use. I think he is in love with me, poor dear. But that is OK.’

  ‘Hmm. You have done well.’

  ‘He will be no trouble, I am sure.’

  ‘Good. Stay with him, then, as your responsibility. We must start getting these remaining boys properly trained, now.’

  ‘Of course. Is that all?’

  ‘For now, Inez. We’re doing the blindfold stabling this morning. Have him ready for about half-past ten.’ Jane added an afterthought. ‘You haven’t milked him dry, have you?’

  Inez paused on her way out.

  ‘No. He will be OK. But maybe I find a chastity belt for him till then, no?’

  Jane’s expression was somewhere between amazement and amusement as she failed to find a suitable verbal response. It was impossible to register disapproval when faced with Inez’s charm. Poor Simon was no doubt completely under her spell after a night of lovemaking. Besotted. He wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  So. Oliver and Lena. Perhaps the only flies in her ointment. As she thought of this, Vanessa knocked and entered.

  Her report was much as Jane had expected. She had gone for a moonlit stroll with Greg, chatted to him about his life and aspirations, feigned an inordinate interest in his rugby-playing antics, followed by inviting herself to his quarters.

  The eager puppy, rapt and bewitched, had stripped at her command once they had turned the catch on his bedroom door. He hadn’t noticed, or did not care about, the slight change in her normal tone of voice.

  While he was still in the middle of asking if she was going to undress too, he found himself clasped in a tight hold, his balls quickly gathered in her right hand. From here, a passionate assault, her lips kissing him, hungry yet assertive, ended with him tumbling backward upon the bed. Then, naked, his balls and cock were endlessly manipulated as Vanessa made herself comfortable upon him. He was able only to loosen her skirt at the side zip, but further progress was denied as she manoeuvred herself astride his chest. His weakness enveloped him, emanating from his captured genitalia and infecting the rest of his body.

  As she felt his efforts to remove her garments become more feeble, she took the chance to station herself further back. Hitching her skirt up and clambering with her legs over his arms, he was pinioned, face under a tight-pantied cunt. The odour entered his nostrils and she sensed his heavier breathing, each intake leaving him less able to resist the incursion of the determined dominatrix.

  He could not have expected this from Vanessa. The exhibitionist waitress of the earlier few days had turned, showing him just how powerful a woman could be. At length, half-suffocated in the atmosphere of sweaty crotch imbued with the most personal of scents, he had been allowed respite. He had been offered a truce from further assault, on condition that he agreed there was no question of him playing the role of master in their relationship. Staring up at her as she stepped out of the loosened skirt, his pummelled cock twitched its desire as she stood above him, hands on hips, black stockings, white suspenders under large white knickers, white blouse revealing the outline of a strong white bra. She was the embodiment of voluptuous and confident womanhood. No boyishness, no slightness of build, but curvaceous and proud of it.

  His answer was a mere formality when she asked if he would do as she said now. The fight was out of him, had it even been there in the first place.

  He assented, with a murmur, to her conditions, and was rewarded with a merciful release, as she bent over his cock, grasped it at the root, and enveloped the bulbous end in her mouth. Neither did she recoil from the inevitable and prompt ejaculation, but rose inscrutably afterwards, mouth closed. Her gaze seemed to indicate that with his semen, she felt she had captured some part of his soul. His body too was hers, as, within seconds, he succumbed to sleep.

  Jane congratulated Vanessa, her friend from earlier days. At first a curious tourist at Jane’s enterprise, she had by this year embraced the experience fully, and had grown into a reliable ally, enjoying her dalliance with the variety of roles she was enabled to play.

  They chatted for a while, reminiscing about the times they had worked together in the Health Service years ago. Those days when girlish hearts rode the rollercoaster of emotions, soaring and dipping seemingly at the whim of some half-oblivious, half-uncaring, handsome registrar to whom they had taken a shine.

  Now, hardened by life, the field was theirs. And especially here, in Jane’s private and almost enchanted domain. Theirs were the whims, the passions undenied. Men existed merely to please them. If one fell short, another was soon to hand.

  Vanessa raised the conjecture of how Frank, Jane’s first husband, would have reacted to all this. She smiled, waiting for Jane’s reply.

  The topic was no surprise to Jane. These conversations with Vanessa always seemed to lead back round to it. And the answer was always the same. A shrug, for how could they know? The question was hypothetical.

  Frank was gone, from a sudden heart attack in his prime. A multi-millionaire industrialist, he had left Jane very well provided for, in shares, funds, and this Hall at the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds, where she spent much of her time. It had previously been a facility for his various companies to lay on corporate training courses, bonding weekends, and the like, but she had hived it off into her own name now. Not that the companies, in which she held directorships, were in any way precarious; but she preferred the degree of security which a healthy personal fortune allowed. Although she made the Hall available from time to time, mostly to the companies who had previously used it, she enjoyed the privacy that ultimate control brought. After all, why work too hard when one could play?

  Vanessa was the only one privy to the real story behind Frank’s sudden death. Jane had revealed it to her in a moment of unguarded confession. They went back a long way, when all was said and done. The wine had been flowing and it was still within a year of the funeral.

  Jane realised she could never put the cat back in the bag, so to speak. She was thankful that Vanessa was such a faithful confidante. Although she trusted Celia and Inez equally well, she had no desire to blurt the story to them also. Why spread word of one’s indiscretions more than strictly necessary? She regarded the incident, in some ways, as a moment of weakness.

  After Frank’s death, she had taken up a place at university to study psychology. It was here, later, that she had met Nick. The subject had interested her and provided a diversion from her inevitable trips to London for board meetings. Thankfully Frank’s managing directors had been sympathetic, mostly honest and polite. The degree had provided an outlet, an escape. In some ways, it was of Mickey Mouse stature compared to boardroom politics. It shared the characteristic of being rather too far up its own arse, though, which amused her.

  For a project on the criminal mind, she had researched the lives of the Mafiosi. It was hard to find reliable reportage that was not sensationalised, yet she had gone into some depth on the subject. What had struck her most was the bizarrely skewed moral compass bred by daily life as a member of a secret society.

  These people belonged to a tradition where Catholicism held sway over the common populace, a religion basing its psychological hold on the principle of confession. Yet the “Men of Honour”, as such they termed themselves, would live their whole lives, if necessary, seemingly unburdened by the most heinous of crimes which they had committed.

  Was it the membership of a brotherhood of like-minded murderers that gave them the strength to live by the code of Omerta, of silence? Surely no normal socialised being could endure such pressure alone, were they not a psychopath? Yet, on the other hand, consider t
he average everyday murder, if one might term it so. Most murders seem to be committed close to home, within family. It’s where the police first look. Yet how many people confess? None. Who wants to face years in jail? So perhaps the perpetrator of the crime passionnel is no different from the Mafioso in that respect just far less professional about it.

  In her own case, the issue was less precipitous. She would not be frog-marched to penal misery should the entire story enter the public domain. She was sure no barrister could prove any culpability on her part. Nevertheless she preferred not to watch films which featured the archetypal noir femme fatale these days.

  It was sufficient for the death certificate to read “myocardial infarction”. Surely no one would want to open the door to the world of inconclusive litigation which might ensue had it read “heart attack due to inability to draw sufficient breath exposing an underlying health problem which no one knew about until a large-arsed woman pressed down firmly upon him while performing the act of cunnilingus, enveloping his face under her ample rump and being so carried away by the felicitations of his tongue and the spectacle of his priapic loins that his sudden stillness left her shocked and bereft, unable to initially comprehend the reality of her lover’s departure from his place on life’s stage”.

  No. Nobody wanted that. They shared a moment of silent contemplation.

  Eventually, Jane spoke.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘Frank would be glad that we seem to be avoiding dispatching these young men in droves, despite your evident propensity for a spot of heavy queening.’

  ‘I do try,’ said Vanessa. ‘Not to kill them, I mean. Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. After all, Frank was found on his own in bed, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to go. Bring the lad down for 10.30.’

  ‘OK.’

  The sounds of activity around the house had increased. Jane walked with Vanessa into the hallway.

  ‘See you later.’

  ‘OK, Jane.’

  They looked briefly at one another. Each knew the friendship to be steadfast. Vanessa climbed the stairs and walked toward the east wing.

  Sally, in her stable, was stirred at the sound of footsteps. Standing, she looked out over the low door, unabashed, like a curious foal.

  It was Tom who approached. He was dressed in cream jodhpurs and a plain white shirt. The morning was already warming up, and the top three buttons remained undone. Black leather boots, coming to just below the knee, contrasted sharply with the shirt and breeches.

  Sally’s romantic fantasies were triggered almost at once. However, there was little that Jane Austen would have directly described about the flow of juices in her cunt which had now begun to accompany them.

  She decided to remain bold, continuing to stare at the paragon of masculinity as he approached. He paused near her stable gate, thinking. Returning her gaze, he spoke. Her heart skipped at the desired result, although his words were mundane.

  ‘Well, how are you?’

  It was a thoroughly stupid question, really. She was provoked into a barely more imaginative rejoinder.

  ‘Um, let’s see. I’m naked in a stable on the end of a chain. Apart from that, I suppose I’m absolutely fine.’

  He was nonplussed, searching for a reply.

  ‘Right. Yes, I see your point. I must get on, though. I’m not supposed to speak to the submissives.’

  She was stung by the word and came back with a strong reply.

  ‘What are you, a man or a mouse?’

  A frown shaped itself on his handsome features. He paused, but no further response came. Then he turned and moved toward the other stables.

  She cursed her boldness. It was good to be forthright, but here it had cost her any further interaction. She should have been subtle, seductive.

  She thought of Tom’s cock constrained within the tight breeches, far from her reach. Remaining at the stable door, she began to finger herself as she listened for what might be happening further along.

  Various knockings and clickings were followed by the spectacle of Nick and Peter coming out of their stables. She peeped over her gate to watch and saw Tom take a four-foot whip down from a hook on the wall. He spoke to the hapless two. They were still girdled, Nick in the pink waspie and stockings, yet without the girlie wig. In this state, he looked even more conquered, somehow.

  ‘Come on then, sissies. Let’s go for your shower. No misbehaviour, please, I don’t want to have to bridle you.’

  With that, one stroke of the whip upon each shemale arse was enough to establish mastery, and the two trotted out, tottering on their heels.

  Tom paused near Sally’s door. She noticed Becky put her head over the gate of the adjoining stable as he spoke. She continued to play with herself. He would not see this unless he came closer and peered over.

  ‘I’m taking these two for their shower and ablutions. I’ll make them strip each other down so their little outfits don’t get wet. Somebody will be along for you two girls shortly.’

  This recitation of facts did little for Sally. In her idealised fantasy of Tom, she craved some spark of intellectual intercourse, but the reality thwarted her. Perhaps he was just an ex-military meathead physical training instructor. Perhaps that was all there was to him. She went for broke.

  ‘Prefer to watch the sissies soaping themselves, do we? Can’t cope with the thought of a wet pussy waiting for you in here?’

  He stared a moment, then his face broke into a smile.

  ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  As he turned and left, she analysed the result. He had exhibited self-control, and, therefore, mastery over her. She had presented herself as a cock-craving, brazen tart.

  Although with head held high, she had still lost the encounter. Perhaps she should keep herself on the boil till he returned, in the hope something might happen. She sank back on the bean bags, wanking slowly and deliciously, eyes shut.

  When she opened them ten minutes later, it was to see not Tom, but Celia, staring down at her over the door.

  When Jane entered the kitchen, she saw just Liz and Fiona at the table, eating cereal. While Liz remained in her suspenders, stockings, and apron, Fiona was completely naked. There was no sign of Lena. Neither girl was able to tell Jane where she had gone.

  Jane left them and continued her tour. In the dining room, Oliver and Simon were taking a late, leisurely breakfast with Inez. The young men’s towelling robes ensured decorum for now. They would be divested soon enough, thought Jane.

  Vanessa and Greg would be on their way down soon. So … no Lena.

  She left them and went back down the corridor to the back door. Walking around the stable block, she came to the showers at the small gym. Looking in, she was treated to the view of Nick bending down to clasp a suspender on his waspie. Showered and fresh, his hair slicked back, the pose was one of artistic elegance save for the erotic note struck by his semi-erect cock.

  The sight pleased her greatly. While a pang of sympathy for his plight struck her, it was mixed with satisfaction and delight at her ultimate triumph. She almost wished to sample his athletic body there and then, the more so as he looked up at her and his cock grew to fullness.

  But there was no time for that now. And certainly not in front of the servants, as the saying went. She looked at Tom, staring disinterestedly at the hapless Peter, who had finished towelling and was pulling his roll-on girdle up, an action that no man or woman on earth was able to perform with poise.

  ‘Carry on.’ She turned and left, knowing that her tightly encased arse in the jodhpurs would ensure Nick’s continued torment. In no way would his male pride permit him to wank in front of Tom, even had his supervisor allowed it. So he would have to make his way back through the open air to the stables, erect and unsatiated. His consciousness would be filled, big, jodhpured arse pushing out any rational, everyday thoughts. This thought entertained her, but another na
gged at her. No Lena yet. The options were running out as she crossed the gravel toward the garages, Max’s domain.

  Her footsteps crunched across the gravel. Any potential miscreant could not help but be alerted to her approach. Almost imperceptibly, her pace quickened.

  As she entered the main garage she saw Max by the workbench behind the Jaguar. Lena was indeed with him. There was no real awkwardness about the pair, yet no conversation either, as though they had heard her approach and suspended whatever discussion they had been having.

  Jane gazed at them as she bade them good morning. Max was in his car-washing attire: white singlet; blue shorts, and bare feet in trainers. He eschewed the modern long and baggy shorts, which Jane thought did nothing for a man whatsoever. She approved of the ones he wore, which, although loose and comfortable, lived up to their designation, and revealed most of his stocky thighs.

  Lena’s outfit consisted most strikingly of black leather high-heeled boots, which came to just above her knees, a notch at the rear enabling the leg to flex. Above them, black nylons could be discerned, before the shocking contrast of the pleated white skirt which ended just above the boots. Her upper body was clothed in a scarlet vest top, fairly thin straps hiding her bra, yet revealing her shoulders.

  Jane thought the combination decidedly lacking in taste, the transition from demure to raunchy at the hemline too abrupt. Yet there was no denying its eroticism. Lena was one of those girls who could make almost any clothing combination look good. She found herself wondering what underwear would be revealed were the honey-skinned beauty to strip down.

  The incipient daydream of Sapphic admiration distracted her as Lena replied, ‘Good morning, Jane. What brings you over here?’

  Jane paused, her intended remark unformed. Instead, she responded with the obvious rejoinder.

  ‘I might ask you the same question.’

  ‘Max and I were just chatting. He was telling me about your sports car.’