Erica approached, looking embarrassed in his French maid’s uniform, a simpering smile on his plump face, his round glasses steaming up and twisting his little white apron between his fingers.
‘. . . Erica is the queen. ’
She slashed Erica’s bottom with her crop, making him jump towards Cecil.
As Cecil eagerly lifted the queen’s skirt and ran his hand underneath, Erica closed his eyes, pursing his lips together. He thrust his hips towards the fumbling man.
He gave a gasp as Cecil found his target. He was breathing audibly. Then his hips jerked forwards and backwards while he masturbated openly in Cecil’s hand.
His trembling hands felt for Cecil’s organ, pulling open his willing seducer’s flies. Grabbing at the man’s erect cock, Erica sank to his knees and took it in his mouth, his own hanging down in full view.
He began to suck, all the time playing with Cecil’s member, rousing its sensitivity, encouraging it to grow. Cecil’s mouth fell open; he moaned loudly and his knees buckled. His face came level with into Erica’s and they began to kiss. Slow kisses. Kisses moist and prolonged.
Animal noises came from the men as they gave way to their emotions. Half-finished words - unfinished sounds - fluttering hand movements -
Cecil gave a sudden, short, wild scream. He flung Erica face down on the ground and, yammering incoherently, pulled back the French maid’s skirt as far as it would go. Ripping the fragile cami-knickers away, he exposed the twitching bum. With a half-strangled cry, Cecil flung his body on top of the squirming maid. Their voices mingled.
‘Fuck me. ’
‘Fuck! ‘
‘Fuck.
‘Fuck!’
As they screeched wildly, their movements became a whirl of thrashing arms and legs. Over and over they rolled, each trying to climb on top of the other.
At last, the movements stopped. There was silence in the hall as the lovers twitched out their last few drops of love juice. A silence that was disturbed only by shuddering sighs from some of the onlookers.
Wanda stepped forward.
‘Ayes?’
Every hand shot up.
‘Noes?’
Nobody moved.
Wanda smiled.
‘Well done. But now,’ she said, ‘for something more serious. ’
The audience, released from tension, sat up again.
‘While Cecil and Erica rest, the remainder of the slaves will take part in a Time and Motion Study.
They will line up in front of this row of graduated bottles. Quickly!’
There was a rush to obey.
‘The bottles are graduated in tablespoon measures. The object is for the slaves to wank themselves into the bottle in front of them. The spunk is caught in the bottles. When all the come has been collected, a slave who has given 10 tablespoons will be eligible to sit for the qualifying examination of the College of Strict Discipline. This is the diploma which is sought all over the world. The holder can put the initials “CSD” after her or his name, and can be certain of getting a position in the highest household in the country.
In addition, thanks to continual research, a free copy of our monthly bulletin, called “Sadie’s Standing Orders”, containing reports of the latest S & M techniques, CP and auto-erotic practices, is sent to every diploma holder. ’
Once again she paused. After a few moments she went on, speaking more slowly.
‘But - if a slave gives LESS than 10 tablespoonful’s, he will be punished . . . Indian squaw style. ’
A shudder went through the audience. A low groan of anticipated pleasure came from the slaves who trembled although none had any idea of what the punishment was.
Restrained giggles ran through the assembly as suggestions were whispered among the onlookers. A few fingers were seen to pass gently over hardened nipples and around quims which were jerking uncontrollably.
Chapter Twenty Five
‘Each slave will be allowed five minutes,’ Wanda continued. ‘Five minutes to produce 10 tablespoonful’s of come. Are you ready? Go!’
The slaves grabbed their tools and began wanking feverishly.
Indian squaw style! No one wanted that without knowing what it was.
An elderly slave began to whimper.
‘I can’t do it,’ he moaned. ‘Haven’t got anything left. ’
Wanda heard him
‘So, Montague, you’re dry, are you? It’s the Indian squaw treatment for YOU, then. ’
Montague fell to his knees.
‘I’ve never failed before, mistress. Just give me time, I beg you. ’
‘Four minutes to go,’ said Wanda, ignoring his plea.
Montague stared hopelessly around the hall. Seeing a pillar supporting the ceiling, he ran towards it and started to rub himself against it. A series of fierce thrusts against the support, combined with running his fingers over his nipples, made his languid weapon stand up.
Most of the slaves were now spouting juice into the bottle in front of them. Some had lifted up their specimen bottle to see how much they had given. In a few cases, the bottles were taken away. These were the lucky ones; those who had exceeded the target.
‘Two minutes. ’
Montague was rubbing himself frantically. Only two more minutes to go and still no juice had come. The Indian squaw treatment seemed to be inevitable.
‘One minute. ’
His cock was now rubbed raw. Every stroke on his tool felt like fire. He knew he would not be able to give the required quantity in time. Resigned to his fate, but not stopping his movements, he watched Wanda in horrified silence.
‘Twenty seconds left. ’
It was almost all over now.
‘Five - four - three -’
A drop of moisture appeared on the tip of his prick.
‘ - two - one - Stop. Remove the bottles. ’
Montague had not passed a drop.
In company with most of the others, he sank to the ground. His one hope was that in the excitement, his bottle would not be identified correctly.
‘Montague!’
This was the moment.
‘No spunk. ’
At a sign from Wanda, three slaves took hold of the miserable man and flung him on to a rough blanket spread out on the ground between four posts.
Then they tied him face down, his arms and legs stretched out separately to each post so that he was suspended a few inches above the blanket.
The sight of his foolish little cock dangling helplessly like a ludicrous little flag brought howls of laughter from the audience.
Montague’s colour deepened in his humiliation.
‘Send in the children. ’
A group of laughing naked little girls came running on to the stage. Each held a leather strap.
‘Now, children,’ said Wanda, ‘this is your bogeyman. He’s a very naughty bogeyman - and what happens to naughty bogeymen?’
‘They get WHIPPED, miss,’ came the chorus in answer.
‘Yes. And who whips them?’
‘Little GIRLS whip them, miss. ’
‘Do little boys whip them also?’
‘No, miss. Little boys have to be WHIPPED. ’
‘And why are little boys whipped?’
‘Because FEMINA DOMO HOMO. Little boys have to be whipped, miss. ’
‘Good. Now whip the naughty bogeyman. ’
The little girls crowded round Montague and started to lash him with their belts. Soon he was howling, begging for mercy. The louder he howled, the harder they lashed. Many of them could hardly bring their belts down on his bare flesh for giggling.
‘Please, miss,’ called one little curly-headed poppet, ‘his thing is growing. ’
�
��That’s because he wants you to whip him harder,’ said Wanda.
The little poppet brought her strap down viciously on his cock, drawing a scream from the wretched Montague.
The girls started to mock him.
‘Silly bogeyman. His thing grows bigger and bigger. ’
‘Mummy says Daddy likes her to play with his nuts. Let’s whip his nuts. ’
The belts slashed on Montague’s balls, bringing agonized howls from the tied-up man.
Montague knew that from now on he would be laughed at by everybody. Even the children were his mistresses. Having been whipped by the children meant that no one would have any respect for him. His abasement was complete. With that knowledge came the understanding that he had been completely humbled. He had every scrap of pride and self-esteem removed. He was the lowest of the low. A true submissive - to be thrashed and used by anyone who wanted to do so.
Strangely, he was happy. Sore - frightened - but happy. He knew his place as servant. As that realization came to him, he found his cock starting to swell. At last he had found his role in life. Servant to all.
Squaw to the College.
Chapter Twenty Six
When his name was called, Erica came to the front of the stage. With his stooped shoulders and his bald head, the torn cami-knickers hanging down beneath his short French maid’s skirt, a foolish simper on his face showed him willing to carry out any order given to him. His spirit had been completely broken and his training as a modern man had been successful.
He made no attempt to hide his fear of his mistress, Wanda, who swished her riding crop by the side of his quivering bum-cheeks.
She laughed as he flinched.
‘Kiss the crop, Erica. ’
He gave a little squeal of fear as he fell on his knees and pressed the leather to his lips.
‘Kiss my pussy, Erica. ’
Quickly he raised his head and obeyed.
‘Please my pooper, Erica. ’
He hastily crawled round his mistress and buried his face between her bum-cheeks.
‘I can’t feel it, Erica,’ she warned.
A smile came over her face as she felt him starting to lick and suck her cleft. The audience burst into loud laughter at his frightened response.
‘Now, Erica, I have a special job for you. ’
She snapped her fingers.
An old woman wearing a torn dress with one grubby tit hanging out loosely, a pair of broken shoes and dirty grey thick woollen stockings sagging in loops down her skinny legs, shuffled on to the stage. Her hands showed her wrinkled skin was grimy, her bitten fingernails were rimmed black. An unpleasant odour of silage came from her armpits.
On her dirty hair she wore a pale blue ragged bow; a bow many years before taken from a box of chocolates. It was her only pathetic attempt at beautifying herself.
Her mouth, clown-like, was smothered with bright red lipstick. Yellowish powder had been slapped haphazardly on her face and a large red spot of rouge had been daubed on each of her cheeks.
Her faded blue eyes looked listlessly at Erica, giving no hint of her thoughts. She said nothing.
Wanda waited a few moments for Erica to absorb the sight that was before him.
‘This is Fairy, your new girlfriend, Erica,’ Wanda said, ‘She badly wants to have a man, don’t you, Fairy?’
The old woman grinned, showing she had no teeth in her mouth. She nodded vigorously.
‘She’s never had a cock in her, have you, Fairy? Never even held one, have you, Fairy? But you’ve often wondered what it would be like, eh, Fairy?’
The grinning old woman kept nodding.
‘I have chosen you, Erica, to teach her about Love. Kiss her, feel her up, show her what to do with her hands - it’s all up to you. She’s a virgin, Erica, so you’ll have to start right from the beginning. So start NOW!’
With that she brought the crop down on his bum.
Erica approached the woman slowly. When their bodies were almost touching, she giggled and began to play with herself. Little grunts and wheezes came from her. Her old eyes became glazed and her body started to move rhythmically.
‘Teach her what to do, Erica. ’
The crop slashed across his bum again.
The smell from the woman was overpowering, but his fear of Wanda’s crop was greater.
He pulled the woman’s hands away from her clit. Then he took her in his arms and, with a shudder, pressed his lips on her mouth.
She gave a little scream.
‘Ah!’
Then she clutched at his shoulders and sprang up his body, wrapping her legs around his waist. Taken by surprise, he was caught off-balance and the couple fell to the ground, rolling over and over each other as their passions caught fire.
Frightened by what she took to be his attack, she bit his upper lip, drawing blood. He yelped. Her grubby hands tore at his maid’s skirt and waist.
She was clearly puzzled at not finding any breasts. She pulled her free tit upwards and forced it between his teeth.
‘Suck!’ Her voice quavered.
Surprised, but having been brainwashed into obeying the slightest feminine command, he began to draw on the shrivelled nipple. The wrinkles in her tit swelled and subsided as he built up the pressure.
The strength of his suction pierced through her and into her womb, making the old woman fling her head up and down like a seesaw in her frenzy of desire.
He pulled himself away. It was getting out of hand. She was beginning to accept him as being in control of the situation. Remembering the College motto, he knew it was his duty to allow himself to be dominated by her.
Whatever she had been previously, there was no escaping the fact that she had to be an active force in his life from now on.
The woman was rolling to and fro on the ground, moaning as though she had been beaten. He had to make her master HIM if he was to avoid being lashed by Wanda.
Panting, he tried to think what he should do next. He felt her grip his balls. At least he had taught the old woman that much - that he was insignificant, he thought.
The grip tightened.
It was not long before the pain became unendurable. Tears came to his eyes. Tears such as he had not known since he had been a schoolboy over 45 years ago. Memories of the treatment he had received in those days came back to him. He remembered his class mistress, Miss Fox. She had been a dumpy woman with a squint, fond of taunting the weakest boys in her class.
She had a large heavy bust which resented being confined in her tight dress. The result was her nipples pressed hard against the material of the dress.
‘Get up on your desk, Eric. The whole class must see you,’ she used to say every afternoon. Then she would tell him to recite Keats’s poem, ‘The Realm of Fancy’.
In those days, as a schoolboy he wore short pants. Whenever he stumbled or forgot the words, she smacked the back of his bare knees with a ruler. By the time he reached the line ‘Then let winged Fancy wander’ his skin would be stinging, reddened, and hot tears would be pouring down his cheeks.
He could never remember the whole poem. Miss Fox knew that. Yet she persisted in ordering him to recite it, to the delight of his classmates.
‘Ask him the next line, miss,’ they used to call out.
And she always did.
‘Go on, miss. What’s the next line?’
The girls in his class called out the loudest.
‘Give it ‘im, miss. Make ‘im say it. ’
The more he blubbed, the more prominently he could see Miss Fox’s nipples standing out. Her face grew redder then and her squint became worse.
Sometimes the ruler slipped. Instead of striking the backs of his knees, it struck his little cock. That made him howl, bringing roars of laughter
from the class as he doubled up, clutching himself with both hands.
If Miss Fox was in a bad mood and the treatment with the ruler had not improved his memory, she would send him to the head mistress, Miss Singer, with a note of his misdemeanour.
This always meant his having to take down his shorts and lie face down across Miss Singer’s desk. He could hear Miss Singer’s breath come louder and more quickly then and he used to get strange feelings in his usually soft little cock.
He knew Miss Singer liked to lift his shirt and expose his bare bottom. Sometimes she would run her hand lightly across it.
Miss Singer, a skinny, grey-haired spinster with wild eyes and a hatred of little boys, would then bring the cane down hard across his bare buttocks.
He always shrieked, of course. As each stroke fell he would give a fresh shriek which was heard in the classroom below. After each stroke he had to thank Miss Singer for the lesson she was giving him.
Sometimes he would receive five strokes, sometimes eight. Occasionally, the number would reach ten. His classmates always knew how many strokes he had received, since all they had to do was count his shrieks. In spite of that, when he returned to the classroom with his face stained with tears, Miss Fox made him tell the class.
‘How many today, Eric?’ she would ask. She wore a half-smile as she asked him.
The class always laughed when he told her.
Sometimes she told him to stay behind after class. When that happened, he had to take down his shorts and show her his striped bottom. She used to run her cold trembling fingers over his stinging bum-cheeks and her breath would come quickly.
On one occasion, when Miss Fox had been in a particularly bad temper and had written an especially virulent note, he had received fifteen strokes. That was when the head prefect, Angela Sharp, a tall skinny girl with glasses which slid down her thin pointed nose and who had a loud sniff, had been putting the globe of the world back in Miss Singer’s cupboard.
In spite of Angela’s sniffs, Miss Singer seemed to have forgotten she was present and had given him his caning in front of her. From that day on he had been called ‘Eric-Bare-Bum’, or ‘Fifteen-strokes-Eric’ by the whole school.
Under the Lash Page 13