That was the time when, after school, he had been pushed into the girls’ lavatory block and made to take his trousers down. Each girl had then ruler-spanked his cock under threat of his being reported by Angela to Miss Singer for chasing the girls in the playground.
Each afternoon, on his return home, he had to give his mother a note from Miss Fox saying whether he had been punished that day and what the punishment had been.
His mother then pulled her dress up above her knees, placed him across her lap and smacked him on his bare bottom, giving him as many smacks as he had been given at school.
‘For being a cry-baby,’ his mother used to say. She had never got over the fact he was a boy when she had wanted a girl. She always called him ‘Erica’ and made him wear frocks in the house, regardless of who was there.
Now, years after his humiliation as a schoolboy, he was again at the mercy of a woman; this old one who was squeezing and squeezing him, making him cry like a baby again; making him admit his inferiority to a female.
With a twist of her wrist, the old woman flung him down, face to the ground. As he turned his head sideways on the floor he saw the old crone tear her clothes off. He shivered as he felt her strip his clothes from him, leaving him naked.
With a loud cry, she fell on him. Turning him over, she took his member between her gums. The friction felt as though she was dragging an electric current through his cock.
Her sweat covered him, making him as slippery as she herself was. Saliva dribbled from her mouth, filling him with disgust.
He didn’t know whether he would be able to stand this onslaught much longer. But he did know that should he fail to satisfy her, he would have to account to Mistress Wanda. Somehow, he had to please her.
Torn between his fear of Wanda’s crop and his urge to submit to a woman, he gripped her lanky hair, pulling her head back. This jerked his cock out of her mouth, enabling him to fasten his own mouth on her lips. He heard her stomach rumble.
That meant either she was hungry, or, perhaps, that she was on the point of submission - and submission, to his mind, was unthinkable.
There was a way of satisfying both possibilities. If he filled her mouth with spunk, it would feed her and make her understand his subservience to her.
Rapidly, he pushed his cock back in her mouth and began to thrust and withdraw it, using her gums as a friction board. Faster and faster he rubbed, not giving her time to object.
He was getting frantic now. Would he never come? Harder and harder he rubbed his cock in that toothless gap. The old woman squirmed beneath him.
‘No you don’t, old bitch,’ he thought. ‘You wanted to know what it’s all about - well, this is it. ’
At last, the lovejuice poured from him, choking her with its flow, making her swallow the sweet substance.
As she swallowed, her hands rose to his member. She began to suck, grunting with pleasure, making him think of a pig at a trough.
He shuddered as a sense of joy and harmony flowed through him.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Next morning Cyril was told to put on his best maid’s uniform and report to Lashley. Wondering about the reason for these instructions, he tapped timidly on the Head Dominatrix’s door.
Inside the room, the elderly severe woman who had bought him at the auction was sitting erectly on the settee. Lashley had a faint smile on her lips, showing gratification and approval of arrangements that had evidently been discussed between them.
‘You know who I am,’ said the severe mistress to Cyril.
He went down on one knee as he had been taught.
‘Yes, mistress. I am your bought slave. ’
She grunted.
‘The slaves’ quarters in your new home are not yet ready,’ she said, ‘but I have a party tonight and I’ll need more slaves to please my guests. You’ll be sent there now and returned tomorrow when your entertaining duties are finished. ’
Cyril bowed his head in the approved manner.
‘Mistress!’ he breathed to show he understood.
‘Hasn’t he got ANY will of his own?’ the severe mistress snorted.
‘He’s too well trained to show it, even if he has,’ Lashley replied. ‘It’s all been thrashed out of him. ’
‘Come here,’ said his new mistress.
She placed her hand under his cock which started to stiffen immediately.
‘Good reactions,’ she said approvingly. ‘He’ll be a nice centre-piece. I can’t wait to see him perform . . . ‘
She looked at Cyril and gave a slight laugh.
‘Right,’ she added briskly, ‘you’ve already been bum-ringed so you can get straight on to the transport waiting outside. Show the driver the Owner’s Mark and you’ll be told what to do.
‘Turn round and bend over,’ she ordered.
She pulled down his knickers. He jumped as he felt a sharp sting on his left buttock. A sharp slap on his naked bum followed.
‘Be still! You’ve been marked with my sign. Wherever you go in future your pedigree will show you started with me. If I sell you, your new owner will add her own mark beneath mine.
Now go to the lorry waiting outside. ’
He looked at Lashley who nodded her consent.
The tarpaulin-covered lorry was waiting outside the back door when Cyril emerged from the house. A fat young girl in greasy overalls stood beside the vehicle, polishing her nails. She looked up as he came through the door.
‘Lady Swisher’s party?’ she asked.
Cyril nodded. He had not heard his owner’s name before, but he had no doubt she was Lady Swisher.
‘Show me your mark?’
Wordlessly he pulled down his knickers and showed the girl his bottom.
‘Right! Get in the back and wait there. ’
Her voice was cold as she spoke. A feeling of self-pity came over him. Was this how he would be treated in his new mistress’s household?
Not daring to say anything, he obeyed the girl’s instructions.
It was dark inside the lorry. He sensed rather than saw there were other men standing in the lorry. A hand came towards him as he raised himself on to the platform and heaved him aboard.
As he recovered his balance he heard a low voice say,
‘ANOTHER one! How many more bleedin’ maids ‘as she got?’
‘Stuff it, Winnie. Give the kid a chance. ‘T’ain’t HIS fault. He’s doin’ what he’s told, like all of us. ’
The voice came from the depth of the gloom.
‘I know that, but we got enough maids already. What we need is more ‘elpers. We got enough poncey prick-suckers. A few more muscles and fewer arsec rawlers ‘d make all the difference. ’
‘Shut up, blabbermouth. Her outside ‘ll hear you and we’ll all get the cat. ’
The new speaker sounded older and wiser than the two who had spoken before. There was no reply to these words.
The drop curtains at the back of the lorry parted.
‘Hasn’t that maid been chained up yet? Or do I have to come among you with my crop?’
There was a clinking sound as Cyril heard a movement coming from the interior.
A hand ran round his bum. Coming to the bum-ring in his right buttock, the hand pulled his knickers down and a chain was run through the ring. The chain was tightened, drawing him close to a body that he could smell was sweating with fear.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t got much room. ’
‘None of us have,’ came the gentle reply. ‘We’ll be lucky if we get away with the space we have already. ’
Cyril began to feel a number of hands running over his body, probing his anus and searching between his legs. Fingers started to rub him around his balls. His cock rose.
‘What�
��s your name?’ asked the gentle voice.
‘Cyril. What’s yours?’
‘Alex - but everyone calls me Annie. ’
‘Cyril, eh?’ The voice came from behind him and was distinctly rougher in tone. ‘Reck’n you’ll be Cissy to us. I’ve got me ‘and on your cock. Feel it?’
Cyril nodded.
‘Yes. ’
‘Well, I could make yer come any time - only if I did, the mistress’d tan the daylights outta yer fer comin’ wivout permission. Yer needs permission fer ev’rythin’ ‘ere. Permission to sit. Permission to pee. Permission to come. ‘ere - gimme yer ‘and and run it over me . . . just ‘ere. That’s it. Wha’ d’ya feel?’
Cyril felt something raised like scars.
‘I . . . I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Feels like ridges. ’
The rough voice gave a low laugh.
‘Ridges? Them’s scars. Scars from the cat. Nine lashes I ‘ad. Caught peein’ wivout permission. Never agen, I tell ya.
Stick wiv me, Cissy,’ the voice went on, ‘an’ you’ll be safe. ’
The curtains at the back parted again.
‘Who was that talking? You, Brasher? Eh? Want another taste of the cat, then?’
‘No, young mistress. ‘tweren’t me. I’ve learned me lesson. No more cat. Please, young mistress. ’
The rough voice had a note of terror.
‘Well, if I hear any more talking, it’ll be the cat all round. ’
The curtains dropped again.
‘One o’ these days,’ Cyril heard the rough voice mutter, ‘I’ll get ‘er on ‘er own, ‘n I’ll shove me cock all over ‘er, you’ll see. ’
As the morning wore on, more and more men were put in the back of the lorry. The routine never varied. After inspecting the owner’s mark, the girl told each newcomer to climb aboard. Then the chain was passed through the newcomer’s bum-ring, increasing the pressure of still more bodies.
By the time the lorry was loaded, the sun was beating down on the tarpaulin cover making the air inside hard to breathe. A smell of stale urine rose as pressure on bladders could not be ignored any longer.
One after another the men called out.
‘Permission to pee, young mistress?’
After they had called out their names, the reply was always,
‘Permission granted. ’
But water had to be passed where they stood.
Cyril held his water as long as he could, but in the end he had to give way. He felt ashamed that he had wetted his new uniform but there was nothing he could do about it.
He heard the engine start. With a jolt which flung the chained men heavily against each other, the lorry started off.
The driving was erratic. Speeding, braking suddenly, taking bends at sharp angles, the men inside were flung heavily on top of one another several times.
The gloom beneath the tarpaulin was not entirely due to lack of sunlight. As the time passed, the occupants knew they were getting nearer to the place where they would be introduced to unrestrained female lust and cruelty.
Cyril heard a gentle sobbing coming from his neighbour.
‘Annie?’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong, Annie?’
A hot face, wet with tears, buried itself in his armpit. At first, Cyril was unable to make out what was said. Gradually, as the sobbing calmed down, he was able to distinguish most of the words.
‘I’m afraid of the cat,’ Annie quavered. ‘I’ve seen what happened to Brasher. It’ll kill me if they cat me, I know. ’
Cyril wrapped his arms around the weeping man’s shoulders, soothing him as though he had been a child.
‘Ssh! Ssh!’ he murmured. ‘There’s no reason for them to give you the cat. Just do what you’re told and they’ll leave you alone. ’
‘No, they won’t. They always go for the weaker ones first. I’ve seen it. If they want to cat you, they need no excuse. ’
Cyril stroked the man’s bum, unable to think of what he could say to reassure the miserable wretch.
The lorry lurched as it dropped into a pothole in the road. The slaves were again thrown into confused heaps. The road had become bumpy and the occupants of the back were being bounced around like tennis balls.
Losing his hold on Annie’s bum, Cyril felt himself mounted. It was a man who smelled strongly of stale cheese.
A rigid cock was jammed into his rectum and the prick’s owner was bouncing himself on Cyril’s prone body.
‘Lie still, wanker,’ he heard someone hiss. ‘I’m gonna ‘ave yer before we get there, I can tell yer. ’
Cyril could not see any way of avoiding the attack. He closed his eyes and bit his lip with pain as the cock was pushed in as far as it would go and withdrawn again.
Whoever was rogering him was well experienced. Thrill after thrill run up his spine as the cock drove deeply into him.
Fingers now sought his own cock. The fingers began to squeeze and run along his shaft, bringing it close to bursting point.
At that moment, Annie, who had been whimpering like a puppy, felt neglected.
‘Kiss me,’ Annie whined. ‘You promised. ’
Cyril could not remember what had been promised but he felt nothing could be more important than the rogering and fingering going on at the moment.
Annie tried to push his lips on Cyril’s mouth. It was unlucky for him that at that moment the lorry dropped into another hole in the road.
Annie’s kiss fell on Cyril’s assailant.
That person swore horribly and without hesitation punched Annie on the jaw, jolting him to the end of the chain.
‘So THAT’S what yer after, is it? We’ll settle that straightaway. ’
Annie found himself lifted off the jolting lorry floor. Then he was forced to kneel between a pair of hairy knees, in which position he was spanked while his face was buried in the spanker’s crotch.
The spanking was severe. Too afraid to call out, Annie muffled his cries in the spanker’s groin. Gouts of sticky come pulsed on his face and neck, its hot liquidity blinding him.
‘It’ll be the cat fer YOU, wanker, when I tell ‘em ‘ow ya sucked me orf in the dark. ’
Annie was unable to stop a terrified shriek at that.
The lorry stopped immediately.
The back curtains were parted and the fat girl in the greasy overalls peered into the lorry.
Seeing Annie’s face glistening with come she laughed.
‘It’s the cat for you when we get there,’ she jeered. ‘Want to say somethin’ an’ get a few more strokes?’
Annie shook his head in silence.
The girl’s head withdrew and the curtains dropped.
‘Help me,’ Annie whispered to Cyril. ‘I shan’t be able to stand the cat.
Chapter Twenty Eight
The lorry stopped, throwing the men in a struggling heap on the floor. The drop curtains were raised and the chain running through the bum-rings was released. Then the occupants were told to get out. The order was given in a harsh tone.
When he stumbled out of the lorry, a sharp crack across his bum made Cyril aware he was now in his new home.
‘Welcome to Lady Swisher’s Hall,’ the harsh voice scoffed. ‘You’ve all been trained at the Lashley College of Strict Discipline, so I expect you think you’ll be having the same sort of easy life here as you had there. ’
The speaker was a thin woman dressed in a short black leather tunic and skirt which just came to the top of her curly pubic hair. On her head, her iron-grey hair was drawn back in a small bun and she wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses which were so highly polished that the reflection of the light made it impossible to tell the colour of her eyes.
She was standing with her legs spread well apart and her arms crossed over
her flat chest. A vicious-looking dog whip was curled up in her right hand.
Cyril thought it would take very little provocation for the whip to be brought into use. He tried screwing up his eyes to see if he could get a close look at the lash. It seemed there were specks of dried blood on it.
‘I am Mistress Flayer, mistress of discipline in this establishment,’ she said in a monotone. ‘Of course, every Dominatrix here is expert at giving punishment - and does so, frequently - but from time to time, when it is needed - or even if I just feel it is necessary to make a point of discipline clear - I give the punishment myself. Either publicly or privately, as I see fit. ’
She paused and looked at the slaves assembled before her. Slowly she went towards a short-handled lash hanging from a nail on the wall. Taking this down from its holder, she faced the slaves.
‘This is my favourite trainer. In fact, I call it The Trainer. Sometimes it’s called The Cat. ’
She ran the lash slowly through her fingers as she spoke.
‘You will notice the lash is divided into nine subsidiary lashes. ’
She wetted her lips and lifted each cord separately from its neighbour.
‘Each subsidiary lash has 21 knots - so! Embedded in these knots are slivers of metal and flints. Very painful I assure you.
‘When a subsidiary lash lands on . . . ‘ she was speaking very slowly now, emphasizing each word distinctly ‘ on a . . . NAKED . . . BODY . . . ’
Her breasts were heaving. She paused again to let the imaginations of her listeners run.
‘ . . . the knots . . . tear . . . the skin . . . to shreds . . . SHREDS . . . ’
Her glasses flashed as she turned her gaze around the men who were hardly daring to breathe.
‘ . . . and you can imagine . . . what it is like . . . when . . . NINE subsidiary lashes . . . LASHES . . . land on . . . YOUR . . . NAKED . . . FLESH . . . ‘
Saliva was running from the corners of her mouth.
‘TELL THEM, BRASHER. TELL THEM WHAT IT’S LIKE.’
Under the Lash Page 14