Sweet Submissions II

by Kim Knight

  Raising his visor, Sir Mortimer’s piercing gaze fell upon the Prioress and his ravaged, naked daughter. But his words were not what I expected to hear. The rescue of Sister Cecelia had been the last thing on his mind and thinking back I realise that I should not have been surprised, for he had sent her to the convent precisely for the purpose of servicing the Abbot and the monks.

  “Mother Superior, I beg your forgiveness for my desecration of your chapel, but it could not be helped. My fellow knights have brought to my ears disturbing tales of weary travellers being offered rest and succour in the monastery only to be set upon, robbed and subjected to all manner of hideous sexual perversions before being murdered by the monks.

  “So I came to find out the truth and in the monastery I discovered the true extent of their evil. I found the black altar and all the paraphernalia of devil worship that these evil beings used in their glorification of Satan. I could not allow them to carry on with their foul doings and by my vows as a Christian knight, it was my duty to send them to hell where they belong. This I have done.

  “No blame lies with you and your nuns for I truly believe that you had no knowledge of what was happening so close to you. You may carry on in peace with no fear of interference from me.”

  Sister Cecelia had been sheltering in the arms of the Prioress and it was she whom he addressed next.

  “Cecelia, you are no longer a daughter of mine but a daughter of the church. However now that I see you naked, abused and distraught, with the Abbot’s sperm dripping from your box, I offer you a choice. If you so wish you may return with me to the shelter of the castle, or you may remain here. I offer you this choice once only, so decide wisely.”

  The Prioress held her close, lightly stroking her breasts and one hand slipping between her thighs to caress her leaking love hole as Sister Cecelia made her reply.

  “I thank you my father for allowing me to determine my own future. I am content here with the Prioress and my sister nuns and by your grace I will stay with them.”

  “So be it. Now I depart and possibly may never set eyes on you again. Live long and be happy.”

  And then, it was to me that his attention was attracted. I was no longer needed in the convent, he told the Prioress and he was therefore returning me to his own household. Joy overwhelmed me. I was to be set free once again to enjoy the magnificence of knightly life and I was not sorry to be leaving, although I did feel a small pang of sadness at parting from Sister Cecelia.

  As we left the chapel I saw that she appeared to be suffering no such sorrows, for she was passionately embracing the Prioress, her tongue eagerly searching for the Prioress’ own and her hands squeezing and fondling her ample breasts.

  Yes, I thought, Sister Cecelia will be happy here.

  As we thundered out through the chapel doors, and I have never known why, I felt a great compulsion to take one last look back into the haven of contentment that I had enjoyed while being responsible for Sister Cecelia’s discipline and continuing submissive behaviour. And for the second time that fateful night, I was shocked to the core. The chapel was alive with the wailing of tortured souls; banshee wails that were shrieking from the mouths of the sisters. Sisters who were now swooping through the chapel on flapping leathery wings.

  And the shrieks were awful blood-curdling screams that I had last experienced one hundred or more years earlier when I had been in the service of Sir Mortimer’s grandfather and along with him had been included on a mission to free the Holy Land from the Muslim hordes. It is said by those who falsely claim to know, that the Knights Templar found the Holy Grail hidden away in a secret chamber beneath the temple in Jerusalem; but I know that that is not so, for I had seen then the same awful thing that I was seeing at that moment - hideous, blood sucking apparitions from Hell.

  Vampires!

  Monstrous creations of Satan with whom The Brotherhood had been in constant battle since time immemorial, until in one final night of slaughter they believed that they had finally rid the Earth of the foul creatures. But they had been wrong. It was not only a secret chamber that lay beneath the temple but connected to it were a series of catacombs, and in those dark, dank surroundings the Templars discovered a nest of surviving blood drinkers. And it was the task of destroying those vile creatures of the night that kept the knights occupied for so long. They did nothing to dispel the rumours that they had discovered the Holy Grail as it kept the inquisitive from probing too deeply into their affairs. No one must be allowed to find out that vampires were loose in the Lord’s Holy city and so they let it be known that keeping the Grail safe was their Holy responsibility. Anyone trying to find their way into the chamber was threatened with death. After a few summary executions, the lesson was well learnt and very few ever again tried to do so.

  One by one, the evil monsters were hunted down and executed by plunging a stake through its heart until once again they believed that none of them remained. Christians could once more sleep soundly in their beds. But now it seemed as if that were not so, for there they were, before my very eyes!

  And worst of all, as Sir Mortimer urged his steed onwards, I saw the Prioress lift her head away from Sister Cecelia’s searching mouth. Her lips curled back and two razor-sharp fangs dug deep into Sister Cecelia’s neck; her jugular spurting a fountain of the scarlet elixir of life. But what could I do? I am mute, incapable of speech and so I was carried away back the castle by an unknowing Sir Mortimer. A Sir Mortimer who apart from his many other duties, was pledged to fight and destroy those evil, blood sucking, soul-gathering creatures of the night that now had enslaved his daughter and consigned her to an infinity of wretchedness. Like them, she would ever onwards have to dedicate her life, not to the glory of God, but to the never-ending quest for fresh human blood.

  Falconer is a unique talent who delights in taking the genre into new territory every time he writes. He is also one of the very few writers; Francine Whittaker being the only other who springs to mind, who can successfully write male dom and fem dom. Falconer has also written;

  Tales from the Lodge (with Sean O’Kane)

  The Brotherhood

  The Pit of Pain.

  His fem dom titles are:

  The Daughters of de Sade

  Slaves of the Bloodline.

  Last Resort

  or

  YPIOG

  by

  William Avon

  William is an immensely talented artist and writer. His illustrations for Slaveworld and Royal Slave are familiar to members of the readers’ club. Here he offers a pungent and sharp little tale.

  They kept Lesley in a box of thick marine-ply sheets, bolted solidly together. It had a single door at one end with a small viewing slot cut into it, which was covered by an external hinged flap like a letterbox. When this was closed the box became a cramped prison cell, which would have been totally dark except for the light filtering through the rows of small vent holes drilled in its sides. It was too low for her to sit up in, and only just long enough to stretch out full length. The floor was padded with a foam rubber matt and a single pillow. She was kept naked at all times, of course, and there were no sheets, but as the cell room was warm that was the least of her worries.

  While in the cell box her wrists were manacled together and the middle of the chain was clipped to a large ring mounted on the broad black leather collar buckled about her neck. A metal tag hung from the ring like a dog tag. On it was stamped: “BITCH 3”

  Had she been able to use her fingers she could have unclipped the chain and unbuckled her collar. But her fingers were enclosed in thumbless, mitten-like padded gloves of black rubber that were themselves buckled firmly about her wrists. Nothing she would be required to do while in captivity required any dexterity on her part, while the effective loss of her fingers only added to her helplessness and shame.

  No
rmally she could never have slept under such conditions, but by the end of each day she was so exhausted she fell asleep almost before the cell door was closed behind her. It was only the rattle of the padlock being unfastened the next morning that roused her to another day of torment...

  ‘Get your sorry ass out here, Number 3!’ a man snapped in deep, commanding tones.

  It was Mike Last. Lesley trembled at the sound of his voice and hastened to obey.

  She had to crawl backwards out of her cell. As soon as her head emerged Last grasped her collar and clipped a chain to the ring. He was a lean, strong man, with coffee-dark skin flowing over rippling muscles; his perfectly toned body barely concealed by tight singlet and shorts. Taking hold of the other end of the leash he walked her along at his heel like a dog.

  Moving on hands and knees with the manacles in place meant Lesley had to shuffle forward with her nose almost touching the ground, her full breasts rubbing over the boards, tormenting her treacherously erect nipples, and her bare bottom wiggling in the air so that her deep-cleft pubic pouch was blatantly exposed. None of this, she was sure, was unintentional. The stinging slaps Last delivered with a rubber-bladed paddle across her invitingly upraised buttocks as she went were certainly deliberate. She gasped as each blow landed but said nothing, knowing her captors never left marks that would show later.

  She shuffled past a row of cell-boxes identical to hers. At least three were occupied at this moment, but of course she would never know the names of the women inside them or even see their faces. Occasionally she heard them responding to their keepers or else moaning and yelping in pain as they were punished, but they were referred to only by their numbers. Their actual names were never mentioned in the hearing of their sister prisoners. Like her, all that happened here would remain a dark secret bound by shame.

  Next to the cell-room was a bathroom fitted with a Turkish-style toilet. Lesley shuffled round and squatted over it. Keeping her legs wide and eyes lowered she voided her wastes. When she was done, Last made a note of the quantity she had excreted then pressed a plunger button on the wall. Water jets washed her groin clean.

  Still dripping, Lesley was led into the next room. It was a large chamber partitioned into a number of cubicles, each containing its particular torment.

  In the first cubicle a plate of food was already set out on the floor. She had to eat it like a dog, without using either cutlery or fingers. Chopped fruit and whole grains mixed with a little sunflower oil, which bound it into soft lumps. It was highly nutritious but lacked bulk, so that she felt hungry even after she had dutifully licked the plate clean.

  Given little time to digest her spartan meal, she was then put on the treadmill.

  Lesley’s glistening breasts bounced as she pounded the endless track. The sweat dripped onto the rubber belt under her feet, making it slippery. But she dare not fall, nor could she even rest.

  The sides of the treadmill had been filled with sloping perspex panels, so it was impossible to step off onto the tread boards that flanked the belt. She could not run forward or back off the belt because of the restraining plug up her rear.

  It was a mushroom-headed prong of rubber, mounted on the end of a metal arm that extended from a stand behind the treadmill. The arm was pivoted and had a sprung telescoping middle section, which meant it followed the motion of her body as she ran and did not impede her stride. But this was a strictly limited degree of freedom.

  Sensors in the arm measured the compression of its joints. If Lesley slowed down a control box would send electric shocks of increasing intensity along wires taped to the arm which terminated in crocodile clips clamped to her labia; clips that with her gloved hands, of course, she could not release.

  The warning shocks were both painful and perversely stimulating to her vulva, so that after a while she was not sure if they were a punishment or a reward. She pounded on in a confused haze of misery and excitement with hard nipples and erect clitoris, while humiliating lubrication trickled down the insides of her thighs to join the sweat staining the track.

  Midday was always testing time. Lesley’s heart thudded as she was led through the door of the testing cubicle.

  Jasmine Last was always present for testing. She was dressed like Mike and her body was equally well toned. Her erect nipples crowned the firm rounded swells of her breasts like thimbles. Holstered in a belt slung about her slim waist were not only a rubber-bladed paddle but also an electric cattle prod. Beside her was a high-backed wooden frame chair fitted with an ominous array of straps.

  Together the couple removed Lesley’s manacles and sat her down in the chair. She struggled feebly as they were strapping her in. This was merely a reflex response and quite pointless as they were too strong to resist. A light slap across the cheek from Jasmine drove the flicker of resistance from her. When the spring-toothed jaws of crocodile clips trailing electric wires closed about her nipples she gave only a stifled gasp of pain.

  When she was secure they stepped back, looking her over with expert, slightly contemptuous eyes.

  Broad rubber straps crossed her chest between her heavy trembling breasts, dug into the soft swell of her stomach, secured her wrists to the tops of the armrests and encircled her knees and ankles; dragging her thighs wide so they could see her plump, golden-fleeced pubic cleft. The chair had no proper seat, just narrow padded boards forming a “V” under her widespread legs. Beneath her exposed, fleshy buttocks was a plastic bucket.

  Under her captors’ gaze Lesley trembled, both from shame and guilt. It was all her fault that she was here. How could she have been so weak-minded? And now she was going to be made to suffer for it...

  ‘Now, let’s see what a miserable specimen you really are,’ Mike said. He pressed a button marked: “TEST”, which was mounted on a box of electronics connected to the stand on which the chair rested.

  The box beeped angrily, a red light flashed and a synthesised voice shouted: ‘Fail! Fail! Fail...’

  With each damning word a jolt of electricity stabbed into Lesley’s clamped nipples. She shrieked and writhed in her bonds.

  The pain was such that she lost control of herself and fitful spurts of urine were driven out of her into the waiting bucket.

  After what seemed like an eternity, though it could not in fact have been more than ten seconds, the jolts ceased. Lesley hung her head, sobbing in her bonds, her blonde mane tumbling over her bare shoulders. But Mike grasped a fistful of hair and jerked her head up so that she looked into his eyes.

  ‘You’re a stupid, fat, white bitch!’ he said. ‘What are you...?’

  ‘I’m... a stupid... fat... white bitch...’ Lesley mumbled back.

  ‘And what are we going to do to you?’ he asked.

  ‘What... whatever you have to,’ Lesley whispered.

  ‘Even if it hurts?’ Jasmine asked, a malicious grin on her pretty face.

  ‘I... deserve to be hurt. I’ve got to suffer... to learn not to be so stupid again...’ As always Lesley felt dizzy with wonder at her own words. It was perversely good to confess her sin aloud, even though she knew what it would mean.

  They freed her from the chair and threw her back down onto her hands and knees. As Jasmine knelt before her and took hold of her collar, Mike stripped off his shorts, releasing his swelling manhood.

  Kicking Lesley’s ankles wider he knelt between her shins.

  As he took hold of her hips she felt the velvety head of his cock brush across the cleft of her buttocks as it sought the mouth of her vagina.

  He forced his thick shaft into Lesley until it was buried to the hilt, driving a gasp of pain from her lungs as she was stretched wide. Jasmine stroked her cheek and smiled at her discomfort. Lesley knew this act of disciplining would leave bruises, but not where they would show.

  As Mike began to pump her hot wet depths, he bent forward and growled
in her ear: ‘What would your friends say if they could see you now?’

  Lesley sobbed in shame even as she felt herself helplessly responding to his cruel thrusts. Her friends would not believe it, of course. But they would never know...

  He clasped her swaying breasts, kneading their hot fleshy fullness, then pinched and twisted her nipples.

  ‘Whose fault is it you’re here?’

  ‘Mine!’ Lesley whimpered. ‘It’s all mine...’

  ‘And will you do what you’re told and work hard?”

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  She orgasmed even before he came inside her; which was both a blissful release and deeply shaming. While she was still sprawled on the floor, Mike pulled his glistening cock out of her, wiped it dry on a handful of her hair, then jerked her head up.

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Thank you...’ she mumbled. ‘Thank you...’

  On some afternoons she was put in the sunroom to continue tanning her too-pale flesh to a more acceptable tone. However the process was nothing so restful as lying on a simple sun bed. She had to work while she tanned.

  Her mittens were removed so that she was totally naked apart from protective goggles. Transparent plastic straps were used to secure her wrists and ankles to cables running through tension reels. These dragged her into a standing spread-eagled posture in the middle of the circular room, which was ringed by UV tubes. A plastic rod coiled about with bare copper wire and trailing an electric flex was slid up her rectum. The rod was too thin for her muscles to expel. Its flex was connected to another electronic control box.