by Toby Abbott
Then it was a case of patiently attaching all the cuffs and straps to their correct hooks on the insides of the boxes: ankles out and forward to the bottom front corners, wrists back to the rear top corners, nipples up and sideways. An elasticised double hook from the back of the collar went over the head of each woman and into her nostrils. This kept the head up and the eyes looking forwards, for these, in addition to their other functions, were grandstand seats for the torture chamber in their midst. Sitting in one of these exclusive boxes was designed to be an educational as well as a painful experience.
The first didactic entertainment was to be provided by Lieutenants Helen and Atthis, but before he proceeded with that lesson Sir Roger decided to clean the sweat of battle and the stench of fear off his circle of new slaves. A complex system of plumbing ran round the top and bottom of the hold, the latter to collect wastes, the former to deliver water. Above each box were hot and cold taps, plus the option of a powerful hose. The sailors now set all the taps running, the hot far more liberally than the cold, and added plentiful doses of liquid soap to each box. The Amazons were wedged so firmly in the drain holes that what was pouring in at the top only trickled away at the bottom, and soon they were all up to their chins in hot, soapy water. Sir Roger called a halt there, but before turning to the sawhorse he had the crewmen go round the circle to scrub the slaves’ greasy faces, and apply shampoo to their hair. Then, while the steaming Amazons watched the fate of their officers from their slowly dwindling hip baths, thoughtful sailors circulated with towels to ensure that condensation did not spoil their view.
Felicity’s confessions had been so frank and full that Sir Roger did not really need to interrogate Helen and Atthis. As subalterns they were, in any case, less well informed than the ex-major. But the object here was to demonstrate to the boxed Amazons how easy it was for men to break their officers, how cravenly those admired figures would betray their sisters, how shamelessly they would offer themselves, if only their new masters would spare them pain. In this way the mock interrogation of the two lieutenants would prepare the ground for the rapid breaking of the rank and file.
Ever one to move with the times, Sir Roger made electricity the central theme in the taming of Helen and Atthis. He armed himself with a prod on a long lead which, as he srolled about with it, assessing his targets, made him look like a cabaret singer trailing a microphone. Sir Roger did not burst into song, but he did hold forth to the boxed Amazons rather in the manner of a master of ceremonies recommending the next act to the notice of the audience.
“Now, ladies, pay attention to this magic wand,” he said, flourishing the prod above his head. “It was invented by an ingenious young friend of mine, here present - take a bow, Ogden.” The hope of the Frankenheimers was one of the Millionaires crowding the walkway behind the boxes. “I will not attempt to explain its technical details to you. They would be far beyond your comprehension. Suffice it to say that this sliding scale enables the operator to use it as a pleasant tickler, like this...”
Here Sir Roger insinuated the tip of the prod into the armpit of Lieutenant Athis (extremely ticklish, as Felicity had just revealed), and soon had her giggling wildly in spite of her terror.
“Or it can be used as a murderous stunner, like this...”
Now Helen was the guinea pig, as Sir Roger adjusted the prod to full power, and brushed it lightly against her shoulder. The shock was as severe for Atthis as for Helen, and as the two officers thrashed convulsively on their painful perch, it seemed that permanent damage to their nipples was inevitable. But Sir Roger was a master of this as of all other arts of punishment. He knew to a nicety how much to apply, and for how long. In this case he was confident that for the rest of the session he could obtain everything he wanted with much more modest applications of pain, aided by the memories and inflamed imaginations of his victims.
Now Sir Roger introduced the prod, its power lowered to not much more than a tickle, into the space between the bellies of the two women, while they squinted down beside their linked breasts, in dread of what he might choose to do with it. When he moved it slightly towards Atthis she shuffled backwards as fast as the weights on her ankles would allow, quite ignoring the painful effects of these movements on her cunt. Helen did the same when the prod moved back in her direction. With their nipples ringed together they could not move far apart. Soon their faces were pressed firmly together. Sir Roger was amused to see that they were trying to kiss, for mutual comfort no doubt, in spite of the handicap of the gag. Felicity’s revelations had included sensational details of their sado-masochistic relationship, a recital that had proved seriously embarrassing to Helen, the submissive.
Raising the power level slightly, Sir Roger touched the prod to the ring linking the four nipples. Helen and Atthis jerked violently, their foreheads grinding together, and their cunts bouncing excruciatingly on the sawhorse. A surprising volume of sound emerged from around the double gag, and a stream of saliva ran off it to lubricate the cushion of breast below.
His power sufficiently demonstrated, Sir Roger was now ready to interrogate the lieutenants. He moved behind Helen, whose eyes nearly rolled out of her head as she tried desperately to follow his movements. She could not see what he was doing, but she soon felt the prod gliding down the crack of her arse. It was enough to set her jumping and sliding towards Atthis again along the ridge of the dreadful V. Sir Roger repeated the procedure for Atthis, and in no time the lovers were pressed as closely together as the sawhorse and anatomy would permit. It was now possible to remove the gag and give the lieutenants a chance to unbosom themselves of their painful secrets.
“Now ladies, your late major, the lovely Felicity, has set you a good example by dropping her silly nom de guerre. It is time for you to do the same. Lieutenant Helen, what name was your father so good as to give you, and you so ungrateful as to reject?”
“Helen is my real name.”
“Slaves address me as ‘Sir Roger’. Again!” he said, running the prod along her thigh.
“Yeooow! Helen is my real name, Sir Roger.”
“Is she telling the truth, Lieutenant Atthis?” he asked, hovering the prod above her thigh. “Such confidences must have featured in your pillow talk.”
“Yes ... Sir Roger!” - as the prod made contact - “she really is called Helen, Helen White.”
“Very well. And your own name? It certainly can’t be Atthis.”
The answer was a stony silence. Even when Sir Roger brought the prod to the side of her breast she screamed but made no other answer.
“Helen, my dear,” said Sir Roger, transferring the prod to her breast. “You can surely tell me?” It had barely made contact when the answer was blurted out.
“Sheila, Sir... - oh please! - it’s Sheila, Sir Roger.”
“Sheila what?”
“Mackenzie, Sir Roger.”
“Sheila! It’s charming! Why should you be ashamed of so quintessentially feminine a name? In some parts of the world, I believe, it is even synonymous with ‘woman’. To teach you to value your own name, Sheila, let me hear you proclaim it loud and clear. Say ‘my name is Sheila, Sir Roger’.”
Silence again, as she glared furiously at Helen. With the prod turned off, Sir Roger stretched it down between the two women in search of the barbell through Sheila’s clit hood.
“What is your name?” he asked once more, his finger playing with the button. There was no reply, so he turned the prod to half power.
“Ow! Sheila! Ow! Sheila, Sir Roger! Please stop, Sir Roger, it’s Sheila.”
“Not very clear. Again!”
“My name is Sheila, Sir Roger.”
“I can’t hear you. Louder! And keep repeating it until I tell you to stop.” All the time the prod hovered over her clit.
“My name is Sheila, Sir Roger. My name is Sheila, Sir Roger. My name is Sheila, Sir Roger
, My name...”
“Very well. Miss Helen and Miss Sheila, you may now consider yourselves as having resigned your commissions and rejoined the ranks of womankind. But there remains the question of your sexual deviations. You cannot be true women while you indulge in such childish pursuits. To convince you how disgusting they are, I want you to describe them to this company. Felicity has given an outsider’s view of your perverted practices, but only you two can give the full story. You begin, Sheila. Tell us all about your very last session with the blushing Helen. She is the only prude here, I think, so you may be explicit.”
“Please, it’s...”
“Yes?”
“It’s private, Sir Roger.”
“There’s no privacy here. Proceed!”
“But I’m ashamed.”
“Of course you are, because what you have done is disgusting. It is to prove that fact to you that I insist on the details. If it were something worthy of you there could be no difficulty in describing it. In fact, you may regard this confession as cathartic. You will emerge from it a better and truer woman. But it can also be painful, if you try my patience any further. Now, begin!”
Sir Roger emphasised his words by pressing the end of the switched-off prod against Sheila’s arse, and her story began with a positive gabble.
“It was the night before the mission. Officers had permission to take a slave to one of the playrooms, but I didn’t need a slave. I had one of my own, better than any, and a volunteer. As usual I had given Helen detailed instructions about what to wear. The game was for her to look quite normal to the rest of the Casco world, while I would know she was secretly prepared just for me, thoroughly aroused and completely at my mercy. I arrived at the playroom first and prepared my equipment. There was always plenty to choose from.”
“Stop there,” Sir Roger interposed. “Helen, describe your outfit.”
“Oh Sir Roger, I couldn’t.” Her whole body had gone a beautiful shade of red, and she was squirming on the sawhorse, trying ineffectually to hide herself behind Sheila. Sir Roger fed the prod down between the two bodies again and rested it, at low power, directly on Helen’s mound.. In other circumstances it might have been a pleasant sensation, but the terrifying thought of the power being increased made Helen scream for mercy at once, and rush into her story.
“It was my ordinary uniform, but under the skirt I wore a chastity belt that could only be opened by Sheila’s key once I had snapped it shut. Then there was this baton of wood, a foot long, half inside me...”
“Inside what?”
“My cunt, Sir Roger, inside my cunt. Half in my cunt and half hanging down between my legs. It was in two parts. They screwed together through the chastity belt. And at the tip of the baton, halfway to my knees, there was a metal eye with a chain running through it, and the ends of the chain were attached to my garters. They were strong leather circlets, like cuffs. The chains were short, so I had to walk with small careful steps, and even then at each step the chains would move the end of the baton. The movement, exaggerated, would travel all the way to the other end, deep inside me - deep inside my cunt, Sir.”
“How long did you wear the outfit before going to the playroom?”
“All afternoon, Sir Roger.”
“Could you sit down with this baton in place?”
“It was difficult. I would either have to slump right down in the seat, almost lie in it, or else perch on the very edge. Neither is the way an officer is supposed to sit. It was very embarrassing. I kept thinking everyone that looked at me could tell my guilty secret. I had to eat my dinner in the officers‘ mess sitting on the edge of my chair, with my legs apart. Sometimes, when I tried to shift into a more comfortable position, the baton would strike the chair with a loud crack, and a jolt deep in my... my cunt. I didn‘t dare look up, but I knew everyone was staring at me. It was a great relief when it was time to go to the playroom.”
“Describe her arrival, Sheila.”
“Helen knocked at the door and announced herself. As usual, I made her wait for a few minutes, while I completed my preparations. When I let her come in I was sitting at the point furthest from the door. I had her trot across the room to kiss my hand, knowing what effect the exercise would be having on her cunt stick. That put some colour back in her cheeks. Then I made her do a striptease for me, down to her stockings and chastity belt, and the rank flashes on her nipple chains. I fastened her cuffs to the back of her collar and...”
“Continue, Helen,” Sir Roger ordered.
“Sheila unfastened the chain from my garters, but left it hanging from the ring at the tip of the baton. Then she directed me to an upright wooden chair and told me to sit down. I was going to sit on the edge as usual, but Sheila showed me the seat had a circular hole in the middle, a little bigger than the baton. Without my hands to help I had to position myself very carefully as I sat, to line up the baton and the hole. At the first attempt I missed, and the jolt as the baton hit the seat nearly made me vomit. The second time I made sure I found the hole. The protruding half slipped through it until my chastity belt stopped further progress. Five inches of the baton were now pointing at the floor through the hole in the seat. The position was uncomfortable enough as it was. It encouraged me to keep my back very stiff and straight. Sheila made it even worse by pulling my feet up under the chair and fastening the chain - it was still running through the tip of the baton - to my ankle cuffs. My legs soon got stiff and cramped, but when I moved them the baton jerked deep inside me ... my cunt, Sir Roger.”
“Looking at Helen’s provocative breasts, gentlemen,” Sir Roger said, turning to the assembled Millionaires, “I think I can guess what came next, but tell us, Sheila.”
“Yes, Sir Roger. I took a whip - not a heavy one, because I wanted it to last - and began to flog her. Mostly her breasts, you’re right, but also her flanks, her thighs, her belly. The cunt stick was the only restraint, so she could weave and dodge a good deal. She kept trying to shield her breasts with her elbows, but when she twisted her right elbow round it lifted her left breast into a perfect position for the whip. And vice versa, of course. And the more violently she moved the more the cunt stick jerked inside her.”
“What did it feel like, Helen?”
“It was dreadful, agonizing, unspeakable, I...”
“And how soon did you come?”
Helen closed her eyes, tried to turn herself away from Sir Roger, and hung her head, but with her nipples fastened to Sheila’s there was not much she could do to shun public notice. She was blushing more furiously than ever, and moaning softly.
“Well?” said Sir Roger, touching the prod to Helen’s arse.
“At once, Sir Roger, I came at once.”
“And did she keep on coming, Sheila?”
“I lost count. The more I whipped her the more she wanted it. She gets very wet when she’s excited. Her juices were dripping off the bottom of the baton. It looked like a distillery.”
“And was this whipping exercise enough to satisfy your desires?”
“Only to arouse them, Sir Roger. When I was ready I tore off my uniform and climbed up onto the seat - my feet either side of Helen’s hips - and she sucked and licked me till I came.”
“A feeble pleasure, Sheila, as you are about to learn. Are you and Helen virgins to the male?”
“Helen is, Sir Roger. I was married for a time, but the sex was a torment to me.”
“Then you can both look forward to a joyful, and educational, experience. Take them down from the horse.”
Four burly sailors disengaged the former lieutenants’ nipples, removed the weights from their ankles, freed their arms and, directed by Sir Roger, lifted them off the horse and stood them back to back below a hoist with three dangling hooks. Their arms were pulled up straight and their four cuffs attached to the central one. A strap was run rou
nd the waists of both women, welding their backs together, and then their legs were pulled up and the ankles fastened to the hooks nine inches to either side of the central one, Helen’s right foot and Sheila’s left to one hook, Helen’s left and Sheila’s right to the other. More straps were tied around the womens’ legs, above and below the knee, to keep them rigid. This left the fronts of their bodies terribly vulnerable, with their breasts squeezed out invitingly between their thighs. When the sailors completed their work and stood back Helen and Sheila swung gently to and fro in the centre of the hold, their gaping cunts the lowest points on their bodies, perfectly presented for plunder at cock height to the average man.
“Mark and Reggie,” said Sir Roger, when the preparations were complete, “can I prevail on you to cane these two slaves for me? In this heat it might be too much for an old man.” They descended from the walkway almost at a run. “Let me advise you to undress before you begin, you will find it very sticky work otherwise. Yes, everything, Reggie, the ladies won’t mind.”
The two young studs were an impressive sight, their powerful bodies already glistening with sweat and their cocks semi-erect as they gleefully contemplated the targets set before them. In his usual courtly style, Sir Roger stopped to make introductions before allowing the caning to proceed.
“Helen, may I present Lord Reginald Atterbridge, son of the Marquis of Steyne. Reggie, Miss Helen White. Sheila, this is the celebrated Mark Gertler of Boston. Mark, Miss Sheila Mackenzie.”
As the two ladies had no hands to offer, Reggie and Mark greeted these new acquaintances as Mary had once seen Sir Roger do with Monique Pelletier, by stepping briskly forward and hefting the temptingly offered breasts. It was another club tradition.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss White,” said Reggie, while he bounced her left breast.