"What do I do with the third one?" she asked, slipping down her panties and tucking the dress up round her waist.
He gave a slow ironic grin.
"Middle for diddle. You saw what the note said, keep it balanced, and what's the middle of your middle eh? Just clip it on your clit and you'll be in perfect balance."
She gulped. Perfect balance indeed; more like perfect hell, but she kept her legs open and fished out a clip.
It hurt more than she had imagined. She could hardly bear to let go of the handles and let the full bite sink in. The fat labia bulged out either side of the jaws as they bit into the tender girl meat and she hissed with pain, but she had made up her mind to go through with it and wasn't going to be deflected now. She gave herself a few moments for the worst of the bite to dull and reached for the second. Again a hissing intake of breath, teeth set hard in her lower lip, and the deed was done. She straightened a moment to get on top of the pain, then bent her legs slightly again to open her thighs and reached for the third beastly biter.
With two fingers of her left hand she parted the labia where they drew together at the top of her unaccountably sopping slot, exposing the engorged pink bud of her clitoris, protruding fattily from its sheath. It was a very definite organ, no shrinking violet, a tomato red, pea-sized gland which when, as now, aroused from its soft warm fleshy nest, was as big as the top joint of her little finger. No difficulty in applying one of these savage little clips to this significant presence except, of course, finding the courage to place it there and face the anguish she knew for certain it would cause. She rubbed the waking bud a second to bring it fully erect and placed the cold hostile metal against its tender and vulnerable bulge.
At first she couldn't do it. She let the jaws close over the throbbing piece of sexual tissue and opened her fingers slightly to let the teeth take hold, but she couldn't bring herself to go all the way, and squeezed down on the clip again to relieve the pressure. Henry watched her struggle fascinated at the sight of her fighting herself to achieve the victory she so desperately craved.
"You're wasting time," he said at last, "the others will be here any minute. Just count to three and let it go."
She closed her eyes and began to count, a half sob punctuating each numeral.
"One... Two... Three... Aaahh!"
She danced from foot to foot, bent half double for a few moments, her fists beating the air while the teeth sank into the delicate morsel between her legs, and she tried to contain the pain. It was nearly a minute before she could straighten, red faced under the degrading coating of cow mud and follow him back to the car, waddling with her legs wide parted. Henry gave her a moment to recover then passed the next envelope:
Clue Six
At Six Mile Bottom a six barred gate,
Look low and left to find your fate.
The gate has six bars like miles to bottom
Make certain yours has also got'em
"Well, you can take a short rest," Henry informed her, "Six Mile Bottom is way the other side of the valley, past the next village. It'll take all of twenty minutes I would say. Can't get up any speed on these lanes, so you can lie back and nurse your wounds."
As she accepted the invitation to lie back while she could, she realised that things were getting serious. It didn't take a genius to work out what was happening here. Strangely she found her strongest reaction was not rebellion, or even fear of what sounded unmistakably like an invitation to a beating, but fear that she might not be able to take it and would disgrace herself.
The twenty minutes passed all too fast, but at least, by the time they reached the spot Henry had sought out, the worst of her pangs from the cruel jaws in her tenderest flesh had subsided to numbness. The gate was like any other, a solid timber construction between sturdy posts, five horizontal bars with a sixth running diagonally across it to brace the whole structure. It led off a little lane at the bottom of the valley, where a copse of birches stood near the little river that ran through it. Low and left, fastened to the timber with a thumbtack, was a plastic envelope with the inevitable neat white card advising, 'Cut a rod from the hedge. Lay them on the bare, one for each bar. Only strong clear welts will count.'
She gulped at the stark message. One last protest seemed in order.
"Don't you think it's a bit risky, beating a girl's bottom? You never know what damage you might do," she said hesitantly.
Henry was unimpressed.
"That just goes to show how much you have still to learn," he remarked. "Provided you stick to the old tradition, a rod as thick as a man's finger, you can't go wrong," he assured her. "A healthy girl's bottom is a sound well-padded structure, with all the muscles and sinews nicely wrapped in fatty tissue with plenty of nerve endings near the surface to guarantee its sensitivity. It's so perfectly designed for the purpose that one can only suppose that it has evolved that way for the better regulation of relations between the sexes."
She wasn't sure she was convinced by this original application of Darwin's theory, but thought it better not to argue at this sensitive juncture, when it seemed her bottom might be on the line.
"Anyway, no time to worry about that now," Henry said briskly. "You've got a rod to cut; a rod for your own backside, as the saying goes," and he led the way to the birches, taking a large clasp knife from his pocket as he went.
"Right," he said, as they reached the gently swaying trees, "select your rod. You can gauge it against this," and he held out his hand with the fingers outstretched.
She looked doubtfully at it. Normally she thrilled to the strength of the man, and his solid build, but now even the least of his fingers seemed frighteningly thick. A rod that thick would be a tree trunk!
"Eh. How long?" she asked nervously.
"Nothing very great," he said casually. "Just a bit longer than my arm will do."
She looked again at the long sinewy limb he extended and gulped.
"Come on, don't hang about," he urged, "I want to get this over with and be on our way."
Not half as much as I do, she thought mutinously, but reached up into the tree and began to select her rod.
"No," Henry called, "much too thin," as she gripped her first selection, "That'd only tickle you. We have to raise real welts, remember. Ah, that's better," he approved, as in panic she grabbed the thickest, whippiest limb in reach, "I can do some real work with that. Cut it off near the trunk and then trim off any buds and twigs. It's in your own best interest. Don't want any broken skin do we."
She did not, and worked hard to ensure that the rod was as smooth and free from projections as she could make it, conscious every moment she held it that this would soon be lashing into her unprotected buttock flesh.
They scrambled back to the gate, Henry absently swishing the rod through the air with a menacing hissing noise as they went. Her hinds clenched beneath her flimsy dress at every cut.
"Right," he said, as they reached the gate, "knickers to your knees, and hike that dress well up off your rump and tuck it into your belt," then, when she was bare behind, with the air caressing her naked hinds, "step up on the bottom bar, with your legs a couple of feet apart and bend over the top rail. You can reach down and grip one of the middle rails to steady yourself."
And that was how she had come to be bending over the gate in this awkward and uncomfortable position, fearful that, at any moment, someone might come along the lane and see her there, bare-arsed and bent, though what their reaction might be she could not guess. This was a very strange valley, where women's lives were very different from those in the 'outside' world, as she was discovering with every minute that went by. She flinched again as Henry made the rod sing in the air again.
"Get ready," he warned, and she tightened her grip on the rail below her.
There was a pause that seemed to last for ever and then the ai
r sang before the rod again. This time though it did not end in silence, but in a loud thuck as the limber stick sank deep into her stretched bottom.
A feeling almost of cold flashed across the bent hinds then the full fury of the cut burst and she let out a strangled shriek of shocked pain. It was awful, far worse than she had expected, a flaming burning in her seat that swept through her whole body below the waist. She let go of the rail and arched up clasping her wounded bottom in both hands as she teetered on the lowest rail.
"Get back," he ordered sternly. "I'll let you off this time, seeing as it's your first, and you're not used to this sort of thing but, I warn you, let go of the rail again and the stroke won't count."
With the tears starting to burn at the corners of her eyes, as much from shame at her weakness as from the throbbing pain in her backside, she went dumbly back over the bar, feeling it pressing into her bare belly again, stretching the skin of her bent buttocks, where the livid line of the welt had now darkened and started to rise above the surrounding flesh. Her body rigid, she awaited the next.
When it came she was better prepared. The element of surprise was gone and there was the fear of earning more than the necessary tariff to hold her in position. She grunted at the impact, and hissed through her teeth at the rising after-tide of agony, but kept down. Henry looked on with knowing approval. As he had thought she was promising material for this sport. She just needed handling right.
Three crashed in just above the parallel tracks of the first two, and she took it well but, before he gave her the next there was something to attend to; a reinforcing of the control he was imposing on her.
"You're clenching," he told her, "let you buttocks hang loose. The rod works best when it can swing up into slack flesh. Relax your thigh muscles and stop clenching your bum."
She moaned but obeyed, and again Henry gave a nod of satisfaction. He hadn't misjudged her; she was going to be all right. She was made of the right stuff. He swept in the fifth with an added turn of his wrist that had her gasping and rising on her toes, her buttocks swinging from side to side, as if to shake off the pain. As she steadied, she pushed herself up from the awkward bent position, but kept her hands from her welted bum with its five blatant purple line.
"I thought I told you to stay down," he said accusingly.
"B... but it's over," she blurted, "that was five, and the gate only has five bars."
"You need to brush up your arithmetic," Henry advised. "What about the brace? Now get back down at once, or I'll add extra."
With a sob she obeyed, The two half globes spread and open, the vulva once more peering back at him through its russet fringe, the cruel brass jaws still firmly embedded in the tender tissues of labia and clit. Stepping a little back, and to the side, Henry measured his mark, then sprang forward onto one foot and dropped his wrist, laying the thick bendy switch diagonally across the five parallel burning bars on her bottom, in perfect imitation of the pattern of the gate. She gave a small gargling screech as the rod's track crossed each of her earlier, and now throbbingly tender, welts.
"Now you can get up," Henry said, with the satisfaction of a man who knows his work has been well done.
He gave her a few moments to recover, holding her close in his arms, while she sniffed against his chest.
"Your first beating ever?" he asked, gently stroking her hair.
She nodded dumbly.
"Well I don't suppose it will be the last," he said. She didn't reply.
By now she had quietened and he led the way back to the car and pulled out the next envelope:
Clue Seven
In the silent woman's room,
Number three will spell your doom.
In the china box appears
How to save your partner's ears.
Once again she could make nothing of it, but Henry had no doubts.
"The Silent Woman," he said. "Pub in Handy Birches. Got a great inn sign, a woman with her head under her arm."
"But what's all this about China boxes and number three?" she wanted to know.
"I'm not sure but unless I'm very much mistaken, I'd say you're looking for the ladies, and the third cubicle, where you'll have to look in the cistern for the rest of the clue."
"Hmm. I think that makes sense. Drive on," she said in mock resignation, "and take me to my fate."
He glanced across at her. She was shaping up nicely.
She noticed that Henry seemed to know the pub quite well.
"You can get to the ladies without going through the bar," he said, as they pulled up in the car park. "See that door in the corner? Go through there and it's on your right. No place for a gentleman. I'll wait here for you."
She climbed out of the car, grateful that she wouldn't have to go through the bar with her dung-smeared face, and shuffled off to the side entrance. Her teats ached, the teeth in her labia was still sore enough to make her walk spraddle-legged, while the clip on her clit was a torment, even though it had numbed a little. Her movements in getting out of the car seemed to have twisted it somehow, and she doubled up momentarily before forcing herself to straighten and get on with the task in hand. Her bottom throbbed and her feet ached as she crossed the yard. With all her other problems she had forgotten about those cruelly hard grains in the toes of her stockings until she put her weight on them again, and she was thankful to reach cubicle number three at last.
She bolted the door behind her, so as not to be disturbed, and cautiously lifted the lid of the china cistern. Sure enough there was a plastic bag in there with a half dozen old stockings and the usual card.
'Fold your panties and push them in your mouth,' it instructed, 'then tie a stocking round your head to keep it in place.'
She stared in disgust at the card for a moment. She was expected to gag herself in this humiliating fashion, and then go out in public. Yuck. She would have been less concerned if she'd been ordered to inflict yet more pain on herself, provided it was not obvious to all, but you couldn't disguise a nylon knotted round your head. Suppose she ran into another woman on her way out? She'd die! She bent and lifted the hem of her dress.
Seconds later the air was cool on her heated bottom and the knickers were wadded in her mouth. With trembling hands she wound one of the stockings round her head over the impromptu gag and tied it firmly behind. It seemed like an act of final and irrevocable surrender.
All the time she was frightened someone would come in and trap her in her hide, but the coast was clear. Even the car park was empty of humans and she was able to slip into the car unobserved.
"Very nice," Henry observed, taking in the gag, "just what every woman needs, I'd say. Except of course when she giving head." She glared at him indignantly, but was unable to reply. Henry reached for a new envelope.
Clue Eight
There's help for you, keep you out of temptation.
Hanging up in the Brock's plantation.
Behind your back they'll be good to use,
To stop you getting rid of clues.
He gave it to her to read, but was aware she could make little contribution in her present state.
"I think I get the location," he said, "Badger's Copse would fit for the Brock's plantation. As for the rest, let's go and see," and he swung the car off the car park and back the way they had come.
This time it was only a short ride before he pulled off into an even narrower track that finally came to a halt just inside a small wood in front of a weather beaten hut.
"Gamekeeper's hut," Henry explained. "A few weeks ago it would be really busy round here; chicks and wire runs in all directions. Old Mellors, the keeper, would probably blow your head off if you trespassed then.
"But the chicks are long grown up and taken to their summer homes, ready to be driven out and blasted from the sky, come the glorious twelfth, so
we'll be quite safe now."
He led the way into the bare little structure. Mellors seemed to be almost obsessively tidy for nothing remained but a clean swept table and shut cupboards. And a bunch of plastic cable ties hanging on a hook in the low ceiling with the inevitable white card.
'Help yourself' it announced baldly.
"That seems pretty explicit," Henry noted in a one-sided conversation, "Just put your wrists together behind your back for a minute please, and we'll have you fixed up in a trice."
Reluctantly she crossed her wrists behind her, and flinched slightly at the feel of the tough plastic strip wrapping round them and being pulled taut. This was something different again. Different and strangely thrilling. Up till now she had retained physical control of her person, even if she had surrendered it mentally. She could have torn the gag from her mouth, taken the fiendish clip from off her suffering clit, even cleaned her disgustingly soiled face. Now she was truly helpless, and filled with excitement. She could feel a hot flower blooming in her belly, and thick sticky secretions gathering in her vagina, ready to overflow and trickle down her legs. Her heightened colour and obvious arousal did not escape Henry's knowing gaze as he led her back to the car once more, and opened yet another clue.
Since it was meant to be her hunt, and her triumph if she could beat the other women to the finish line, it seemed only fair that she should be able to contribute, so he tugged open the knot on the back of her head, and tapped her on the lips with his forefinger, saying, "Open up, sweetie. Let's see if you can guess the next."
She opened up obediently, only too glad to have the load taken off her tongue and the power of speech returned, however temporarily. She'd found it curiously unnerving to be unable to communicate, especially so as she was used to giving pert answers to any observations her partner might make. Now she had had to listen in respectful silence, and she didn't know whether she hated or enjoyed it. It was certainly different; there was something quite comforting in being helpless, she was finding.
Painful Prize Page 3