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Collected by Djian

DEBT SLAVES III
Prelude to Heartbreak







Introduction – Extract from ‘Places of Interest in Our Area', 1978

‘Heartbreak Oy may sound a curious sort of name, but is it more so than Westward Ho! Or Badgers Mount? (I think I prefer that last one without he apostrophe) In the present case, the history of the small near-island goes back, the archaeologists tell us, something like six thousand years. That, we are reliably informed, is the date of the earliest settlement found; indeed, those learned fellows have also informed us that the narrow causeway that connects the heart-shaped, largely tree-covered island to the surrounding hills is, in fact, a product of the thirteenth or fourteenth century, when irrigation in the surrounding area lowered the water-table. Thus, for something like five thousand of the six thousand years that people have been living on and around the place, it has been a true island.
It was an island when the Vikings came, first a-raiding and then to settle. Their legacy is not only in the faint traces of a long-house and soap-stone artefacts; it is also in the name. They wouldn't have missed the shape of the place, so it is more than likely that they called it ‘Hjart O' (that's two dots above the ‘a' and ‘O'), which is Old Norse for ‘Heart Island'. Just what quirk of dialect or usage retained a corrupted version of ‘O' is unknown, but there is ample historical evidence for the transformation from ‘Heart' to ‘Heartbreak'.
Until the archaeologists turned up, everyone assumed that the ‘break' was added to ‘heart' because of the series of failed enterprises that had used the island as far back as Georgian times. There are myths and, indeed, vague though unsupported records of a Hellfire Club-like establishment, supposedly run by blades seeking a remote location for their activities; and of a fire that destroyed the place, along with many of its habituees. What is quite certain is that a 1830s attempt to run a spa, using the rather stretched claim that the water of the lake had recuperative properties (they had, in fact, quite the opposite, as the startling number of recorded deaths shows) failed. Then an enterprising local decided to run a sail training school in 1855; innumerable capsizes and five drownings later, he too went bankrupt. A tuberculosis sanatorium later in the nineteenth century had the highest recorded death-rate of any of its kind, while a similar establishment using the same buildings to house influenza (bird flu!) sufferers in 1919 had a identical problem.
What the archaeologists found did nothing for the place's reputation or the doom-laden portent of its name. There was clear evidence that the island had been a leper colony in the twelfth century and a charnel-pit in the sixteenth, plus enough disturbing traces of mangled skeletons at various levels to show that violent deeds had been done on that ground over a period of many centuries. Heartbreak indeed.'

All of which made it an absolutely ideal location for the sort of establishment that a shadowy but eminently powerful man called KP Mitchell had in mind. And its name was all too prophetic for some of the would-be occupants.
Preface

This is the third book in the series started by ‘Debt Slaves' parts 1 and 2. Indeed, the name ‘Heartbreak Oy' may be familiar to readers of that latter work. What follows is a brief summary of the events which have brought us to the present volume:
John Griffin, a successful, ruthless but still ambitious businessman was being tormented by revelations about his nefarious past dealings by a young newspaper reporter, Jill Bentley. The information she was writing was extremely and unsettlingly accurate, indicating that she was obtaining inside information from someone in Griffin's employ. If the stories were allowed to continue, he faced the possibility of even more embarrassing information coming to light, something which could lead to financial ruin and possibly criminal prosecution. Jill Bentley had to be stopped.
Griffin's salvation came in his fortuitous choice of friends and in a piece of newly enacted legislation: the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, whose effect was to place debtors in the service of their creditors until such time as the debt was repaid.
‘Debt slavery!' howled the liberals
‘Not at all,' replied the government blandly. ‘There are good and sufficient safeguards against abuse of the system.'
So there were, in the form of supervision by the police and frequent inspections by a nominated medical officer of all indentured persons. It just happened that two of Griffin's friends happened to be George Chambers and Colin Atkinson, Chief Superintendent of Police and Chief Area Medical Officer respectively. Add to that the fact that a third, Peter Robinson, was a bank manager and financial wizard and it wasn't long before Jill Bentley was straddling Griffin's own variation on the theme of torture horse, which turned out to be a remarkably efficacious instrument of persuasion. Not only did Jill provide the name he needed, she became, as time and torture told, an unwilling though enthusiastic sex slave for him and his friends. In due course she was joined in that unhappy state by her informant, Carol Wilson. Then the four men had two young women to play with, two objects to share the agonies and the vile and degrading sexual demands made of them.
It was at about the time of Carol's contrived conviction for theft that Paula Parsons also came on the scene. Paula, a strikingly attractive (then) forty-year-old, is KP Mitchell's personal assistant and, by coincidence, an experienced slave-mistress. Not un-naturally, since she shared her master's tastes: KP Mitchell was a slave-owner and trainer, with an appetite for sex that belied his seventy years. It was he, in fact, who had been the driving force behind the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, with an aim to doing precisely what, in an act of coincidence, Griffin and his friends had.
Griffin's accommodation for Jill and Carol had always been somewhat improvised; in fact, a secret dungeon in his headquarters, which meant that the group was restricted to evenings and week-ends for their sessions. Having sampled the delights of sadism and the sexual gratification that came with it, Griffin had planned to create his own slave training establishment, an eminently satisfactory idea, but one fraught with potential problems. Paula's arrival changed all that. A word from her to KP and the idea of an executive rest home on Heartbreak Oy was born. Griffin and Paula would be joint owners, with the three others as share-holders and paid consultants. KP Mitchell would become non-executive chairman of the board and full-time permanent senior resident. It solved what could have been a massive problem, but there remained a huge amount of work.
Which brings us to the present, or very nearly. Unfortunately, four of the cast have disappeared into a literary heaven (or the other place; suit yourself): Jill and Carol served with increasing docility for almost nine months before the group, which now included Paula and occasionally KP, tired of them. They were sold at a slave auction in Amsterdam, eventually falling to bids from an American dealer who needed stock for a brothel in Texas. The profits went on the purchase of a Greek and a Turk whose initial hatred of each other almost matched that they felt for their new owners. That mutual animosity didn't last, of course, but it provided our principals with a good deal of amusement in the early days. Now, after six months' service they, too have gone. As yet, they haven't been replaced.
The other absentees are Peter Robinson and Colin Atkinson. On their way to London to enjoy the hospitality of Underhill, a slave-training establishment in South London, they ran into a patch of fog and several dozen other cars and lorries on the M1. Both died. So now our group is three which, with the imminent appearance of KP Mitchell, will soon become four once more.
As the story opens, the new establishment is within six weeks or so of completion and our group is hard at work making plans for its administration, operation and security. That doesn't mean, though, that there isn't time to indulge in their favourite pastime…




Chapter 1

Chambers leaned forward and flicked at a speck of mud on the trouser leg that was crossed over his knee. Satisfied that he'd got it, he relaxed into the deep leather armchair and sipped at his drink, his eyes going to Griffin, who sat on the other side other the fireplace in an identical chair.
"I can't see them finishing the place," he said. "It's like a large hole surrounded by mud."
Griffin smiled, the expression of one both confident and experienced. "It's always like that at this stage; you'll be surprised how soon it comes together." A slight frown crossed his brow, "The only problem I've got is convincing the site manager that all those special little rooms are necessary for wine and food storage. I have the distinct feeling that he thinks I'm barmy."
Chambers' face echoed his friend's mild concern in a somewhat amplified form. "He's not going to make waves, is he?"
"Not if he wants that bonus he's been promised. And somehow I think that that will overcome any problems." He glanced at his watch. "She should be here soon."
Chambers said nothing. He simply went still, his eyes on those of Griffin. The silence drew out. "No hint on the phone?"
Griffin shook his head. "You know what she's like about phones, especially mobiles."
"I don't blame her. Still, we'll know soon enough. When's she due?"
"Two minutes ago. Oh, she says that she has a surprise for us."
"Snap."
Griffin's eyebrows arched. "You holding out on me?"
"Yes. I wanted Paula to be here so I don't have to go through it twice."
"I'm surrounded by conspirators," said Griffin, smiling. "I just hope it's worth the suspense."
Chambers looked smug. "Wait and see." He peered into his empty glass. "Bugger having no slaves! I suppose I have to refill this myself?"
"It's the main reason God gave you legs, my boy."
Chambers levered himself up, but stopped half-way, still crouched. His head tilted to the side. "She's here," he said, continuing the movement.
Griffin looked round. "You sure? I didn't hear anything."
"Policeman's ears, old lad. I heard the tyres on the gravel."
Griffin stood. "Then we'd better go and greet her."
Chambers had been right. There was a gleaming black Bentley Continental on the gravel drive in front of the door, its windows dark to obscure any view of the interior. As they moved down the stone steps to it, the back door swung open and she looked out.
"Hello, perverts."

"Hello yourself, trollop," replied Griffin, smiling.

She looked anything but a trollop, more a thirty-something lady who looked after her figure with care. A professional and rather forbidding thirty-something lady, with her dark blonde hair pulled back severely, her rather broad but attractive face strong. In fact she was close to forty-two now and that severe expression could either melt into the ecstasy of passion or become something one could sharpen razor blades on if she had a cane in her hand and a slave kneeling in front of her. That hair could stay as it was or cascade into an abandoned fan, depending on her mood.

Chambers made to go to the boot. "Any bags?" he asked.

Paula climbed out unheeding of the expanse of thigh she was showing. She had showed and shared much more than that with both men. "No, don't," she said. She rapped on the driver's window. "Get out of there and get the baggage," she snapped in tones that both men had heard often enough. It left them in no doubt about the status of the driver.

The door opened quickly enough, but the black-clad figure within seemed to take an age to get out. Much to the surprise of the two men, Paula didn't follow up her initial order with further impatient commands to hurry things up, as she normally would. Instead, with an amused glance at the two men she stepped up to join them, folded her arms and watched.

With agonising slowness, the figure extracted itself from the driver's seat and stood by the side of the car. It was a woman, as both Griffin and Chambers had expected, though neither had anticipated anything quite like this. She was tall: very tall, for despite the fact that they were standing on the steps looking down at her, it was clear that she was very nearly six feet in height, just a couple of inches shorter than they and a good four taller than Paula. She was slim to the point of gauntness, the tight black chauffeur's jacket and long, equally tight skirt that was slit to the knee to allow sufficient movement for driving accentuating that. Although she wore polished boots, the heels were flat, so none of that height could be attributed to them.

Her hair was a dark reddish-brown, curled and cut high to reveal a fine, delicate neck that set her rather small head well away from her shoulders. Her face was exquisite, all its features finely drawn to the point of inherent haughtiness, though at present contorted with what they knew without asking was pain. A lot of it, borne for a considerable period, their now-experienced eyes told them. The eyes were huge, but now showed little but suffering; there were dark patches beneath them and lines were etched from either side of the nodes to the sides of her mouth. Her tall, wide brow was furrowed, while her teeth chewed at her lower lip.

"Get the bags," repeated Paula peremptorily.
Those huge eyes went to her, pleading. "Oh, God! Please…"
"Don't beg, bitch! Get on with it!"

Despair clouded that beautiful face; the eyes dropped and she turned to the back of the car. Even a movement that small was made stiffly and gingerly and was accompanied buy a whimper. The steps that followed were tiny, mincing, as if the boots were full of broken glass. Griffin looked at Paula, wondering if that's what it was, but if she recognised the question in his eyes and that of Chambers, she simply smiled knowingly.
More whimpers and barely-stifled cries accompanied her painful progress to the rear of the car. She looked to be in her early twenties, Griffin judged, though that strained expression could have aged her by a year or two. At last the boot lid rose, revealing two huge suitcases and a small over-night bag.
"Hand me that bag," ordered Paula. She took it and slung it over her shoulder, her eyes dancing with amusement as she flashed a look at the two men. "Never let it be said that I don't help out," she said. Then she turned back to the chauffeuse. "What are you waiting for, you idle bitch?"
"Oh, I… Oh, please!"
The blonde dominatrix took a step towards her. "Listen, you dozy, idle cow: you were five minutes late getting here. Remember what I promised you? If you don't get those bags out of there and inside within five minutes, it'll be double!"
Terror crossed the face. The mouth opened in an ‘O' of horror. "Oh, no! I hurt so much! You can't!"
"I can and will, as you well know! Now get on with it!"
The suitcases were obviously extremely heavy and the girl just wasn't built for that sort of job. But sheer desperation gave her the strength to do it. Within a minute both were out of the boot. Scant seconds later she was hauling one of them up the steps to the front door using both hands on the handle as she panted with the effort, every expelled breath an indication of supreme effort and the pain it was costing her.
"She's a model," said Paula, sitting in the arm-chair that was flanked by those of the two men. The chauffeuse stood before them, looking even taller and thinner now. Her head was held up because Paula had ordered it, but no orders had been given for the rapidly-blinking eyes, teeth gnawing at the lower lip or the fingernails that seemed intent on driving themselves through her palms. All three knew the signs: the woman had been driven very close to the edge. Now it was a question of watching and enjoying as Paula pushed her just those few inches more, until she teetered and perhaps fell. "Or she was until a few weeks ago. Weren't you, bitch?"
The chin trembled; visible moisture formed at the corner of those huge eyes. "Y… yes, Mistress."
"And she's something else. What are you, cow?"
"A… a thief, Mistress." She squirmed, her voice hinting at desperation. "Pleeeeese, I huuuurt! I have… have to pee."
"Wait."
"Oh, God! Please!"
"I said ‘wait'. What did you steal, you treacherous whore?"
"Your designs, Mistress."
Paula glanced sideways, first to Griffin, then Chambers. "No, I haven't suddenly developed artistic talents. I just happen to own the fashion house that this dirty little sneak-thief worked for. She was caught with most of the designs for the new season on her. Off to Paris with them weren't you, worm?"
A tear fell. "Y… yes, Mistress. I'm so sorry, Mistress."
"You have been. You will be," she added darkly.
"Aaaaaagh!"
"Personally," said Chambers bluntly. "I've always thought that the only thing worse that a woman obsessed with fashion is a man obsessed with fashion."
Paula grinned. "Oh, I've no time for the vacuous females – or males – who twitter and flutter around the game, but don't let the nature of the business fool you: there's some very hard people in it, believe me. Because there's money in it: real money."
"Ah!" said Chambers. If Paula talked about real money, then it was not to be sneezed at.
"And this… stick insect," went on Paula, putting venom into the words, "was going to steal it. My money!" She stared at the unfortunate woman who was now sobbing openly her knees bent as she pressed her thighs together, hands clenching. "You want to pee, bitch?"
"Yes!" It was a plea of sheer desperation. "Oh yes, please. Mistress!"
"Then you can do it here, in front of these gentlemen. If they're interested in seeing that worthless body of yours, that is?" She glanced at the two men again, acknowledging their smiles and nods of both agreement and appreciation.
There was utter humiliation on that face now. "Oh, no! Oh, please!"
"You want to pee or not?"
"Oh, God!" It was a cry of utter despair. "Yes, Mistress!"
"Got a bucket handy, John?"
"I should think so," he said. He levered himself to his feet, glancing at the desperation on their victim's face before looking down at Paula with a wink. "It may take some time to find, though."
"Take your time. There's no great hurry," she responded.
"Oooooooh, pleeeeeease!"
Griffin took the time to select a few bottles of wine for dinner before making a rather languid way back to the room where the girl was now practically writhing in an upright position. Her pallid face went, if possible, even paler when she saw the bucket. He put it down in front of her before resuming his seat.
"Well, there's the bucket," said Paula. "So…. Oh, but there's just one little thing first, isn't there?" she mocked.
The face twisted even more. "Yes, Mistress. Oh, Mistress, please!"
Paula laughed, a sound full of her love of sadism and the enjoyment she was taking from all of this. "All right, then get that skirt off."
"But… Oh, no. Please, I…"
"You'll be doing a lot more than just showing yourself off soon enough, you stupid bitch. But," she leaned back with a satisfied smile and then uttered the words that she must have used a thousand times before in similar circumstances. "It's up to you."
The moments of agonised indecision were brief; it was clear that there was more than just the need to urinate that had been driving her. And when her hands went to the fastener at the waist and the material dropped to the floor, the men saw just what it was.
She was naked from the tops of the boots to the hem of the jacket, cut short to navel height. The legs were enormously long, terminating in a rather bony pelvis surmounted by a very narrow waist. Circling that was a tight metal belt, its inner surface padded for protection. From it, also padded on the inner surface ran a broad rubber band under tension. At its lower end was what looked like a triangular metal bar that disappeared between the thighs, parting the labia and clearly pressing with unrelenting cruelty into that tender flesh.
"Turn round, you stupid bitch! Let the gentlemen see!"
Sobbing, the slave turned, every slight motion making that thing dig into her. That bar was curved so that it conformed to her body's shape; where it ended, a short leather belt joined it to the waist-band, a buckle providing the means by which it could be tightened.
"I got the idea from that lovely bar of yours," said Paula, referring to Griffin's torture horse variation.
The two men looked at each other. That thing had been in place as the woman had driven all the way from London. No wonder she was in agony; it must have been sheer murder every time she hit the brake or accelerator. If the gears had been manual… well, it just wouldn't have been possible.
"Turn round," snapped Paula.
Again that painful shuffle.
"Did you shave her?" asked Chambers.
"No, that's her own idea," replied Paula, looking up at the tortured face. "I think she likes feeling her girl-friend's tongue. I've let her carry on with it. Not that you've felt much tongue on there for the last few weeks. Have you, cow?"
"N… no, Mistress."
"Been too busy getting hers up me. And very good at it she is."
Griffin was examining the skin of the backside and thighs. They were covered with welts and weals, some of them fresh. He'd seen marks like them before; seen them applied, too: Paula favoured a plaited crop. Those welts were her trade-mark.
"How many have you given her?" he asked, hearing the sob that the remark provoked but ignoring it.
"Tell him, bitch."
"A h… hundred and e… eighty, sir."
"Master!" cracked Paula.
"M…Master. I'm s… sorry, Master, Mistress."
"You'd better be," growled Paula. "How many have you been promised?"
"A… a… a thousand, Mistress." She swallowed, hard. "Unless… unless I… I behave."
"A thousand?" asked Griffin, looking at Paula.
She was leaning back on the chair, having unbuttoned the jacket she wore. Those magnificent breasts of hers, unfettered, pressed against the sheer material of her blouse, the semi-erect nipples betraying a degree of arousal. When she looked at him, he saw that her eyes had begun to smoulder, too. It was a look he knew well and one which helped to suppress his lurking impatience about the news she was carrying but which she'd given no sign of divulging. Perhaps she was indulging in a little game, but it was also possible that she'd become engrossed in the game she was playing and had forgotten. For the moment, he was quite happy to let this go on.
"What I said," she said, "was a thousand in three months, as long as she behaves. Less if she's very good. Do you want to take that little contraption off, slut?"
"Oh, yes, Mistress! Please!"
A thin smile crossed Paula's lips. "Only four hours or so! No staying power, these young people. All right, take it off."
The thin hands went behind with almost indecent haste, long, elegant fingers tearing at the leather strap. Her fingernails had been cut short, of course: leaving a slave with ten weapons just wasn't smart.
"Ooooooooh! Aaaaaaaaah!" she cried, easing the wicked thing from between her legs.
Paula laughed as the wicked, curved bar was allowed to dangle in front while both the slave's hand went, unashamed, between her legs to sooth the tortured parts. "Never mind all that," she snapped. Hold that thing out of the way while you pee."
The eyes were wide, pleading again. "Mistress, please! It's…. awful!"
"Put it back."
"Noooo!"
"You've got thirty seconds, bitch! Start peeing or start buckling!"
"Oooooooh!"
It was, of course, no contest. After a few seconds hesitation, those long legs straddled the bucket and, with eyes tightly closed, face blushing red, she urinated noisily and at length into the bucket, holding the metal bar up out of the way as she did it. At long last the flow ceased, though she held the position for a long time, shaking her hips from side to side as if to shake off the drops. The two men found out why when Paula held out a tissue.
"Open those eyes at once! Did I give you permission to close them?"
The eyes flew open. "N… no, Mistress!"
"That's a few more on the list. It's growing! Now, take this. You know what to do."
Hand shaking, she took the tissue. Her legs were still spread wide over the bucket as she put the scrap to her vagina and wiped. A long hesitation and then it was carried up to her mouth, inserted. She retched, paused, chewed, retched again, closed her eyes, opened them when she realised what she'd done, retched and swallowed.
"Filthy animal," smirked Paula.
The face twisted. The was an inarticulate moan of despair, generating a laugh from all three onlookers.




Chapter 2

"If you look closely," said Paula, "you'll see that she really has got tits. See why I call her ‘Stick Insect'?"
The slave was naked now, with even the belt gone. Paula had been exaggerating slightly: there were breasts, but they were very small. The girl's head was up again, her cheeks red with shame as she was discussed, but she held herself upright, her body tense, trembling only slightly.
"See that gap at the top of her thighs? You could drive a horse and cart through there," went on Paula, clearly enjoying the humiliation she was dishing out. "Frankly, if she wasn't so good with her mouth I'd kick her out. But I thought she might amuse you for a while. Get on your knees, slut! I'm sick of having to look up at you!"
She wasn't used to the constant gnawing at her pride, that was obvious from the look in those almost luminous eyes. But she took it because she was terrified of more pain. She knew that there was more to come: a thousand strokes promised and only a hundred and eighty delivered; that from a woman who didn't make such threats lightly. That humiliation might have been almost impossible to bear, but the operative word was ‘almost'; the alternative lacked it.
"That's better!" crowed her Mistress. "Now, let's hear that little speech you rehearsed."
The mouth worked, the eyes going to the seated woman, pleading. "Please…"
Paula lifted a hand, finger pointing. "My crop's in that bag. You know it's there, because you saw me pack it. One more word out of place and you'll be fetching it. Now, bitch, by my reckoning you've earned yourself something like twenty strokes in penalties so far today. We're already well behind quota to meet that thousand strokes inside three months, so I'd guess that… what? Seventy would just about do it, I think."
That had Griffin and Chambers looking at each other. They had never handed out a punishment anything like that.
The girl whimpered, seeming to shrink. "I… I'm sorry, Mistress!"
"I should bloody well think so! Now get on with it!"
The slave's head hung for a moment, but she pulled it up, mouth quivering, the look in her eyes now one of pure tragedy. "M… Masters," she mumbled. "I…"
"Speak up!"
She flinched as if she'd been slapped. "S… sorry, Mistress. I… Masters, I… I am a… stinking l… lesbian. I…" she paused as a sob shook her.
Chamber and Griffin exchanged another glance. This was obviously a prepared speech. Prepared, of course, by Paula, who was staring at the unfortunate kneeling woman intently, as if willing her to make a mistake. Any excuse to use the crop on her. Not that she needed one, of course.
The girl knew it. Practically wilting under that gaze, she licked her lips and plunged on. "I… I have… have been f… fucked by only one man. I… I…" She seemed about to stop, but she met Paula's eyes and quailed. "I have ne… never sucked a m… man's c… cock or… or… or t… taken one up…" she began crying. "Up my… my a… a… arse. I… aaaaaaaaagh… I beg y… you to c… correct th… these de…deficiencies. Aaaaaaiiiiggh!" Her face crumpled, her head dropped, hands coming up to cover her face as she dissolved into tears.
Paula stood and looked down at the men, a smile on her face. "I'll go and tuck her up for a while, shall I? Let her have a couple of hours' rest and bring her back later, eh?"
Griffin had bought this house nine months before, largely so that the group could meet and enjoy themselves. He'd had some changes made, one of which was the provision of cells, a job done by a builder recommended by KP.
"Good thinking," he said.
"But I think I'll just give her a little reminder first." Paula walked over to the overnight bag, unzipped it and took out her crop, looping the thong over her wrist with a practised motion before moving back to the sobbing woman, who hadn't, apparently heard or seen any of that, so sunk in misery was she.
Only when Paula nudged her with the toe of her boot did she look up. She saw the crop immediately.
"Nooooo!" she wailed. "Please! I did it!" She began crawling away from the implacable gaze of her Mistress, her fingers digging into the soft pile of the carpet.
"This isn't for failure, it's for sheer bloody stupidity; and because I want to do it. Get back here."
"No! You can't! I hurt so much! Please, I'll let them fuck me!"
Paula barked a laughed. "Don't do them any favours, will you? Your Masters," she laid heavy stress on the words, "will fuck you any time they want to. You'll suck them, too. And do you know what else? You get on your hands and knees, hold the cheeks of that skinny arse of yours open and beg them to bugger you. Do you think that you'll have any choice in the matter? Now get back here and put that arse in the air, or it'll be twenty-four instead of twelve. And then I'll put another fifty on to give myself some exercise before I go to bed."
"Aaaaaaagh! Oh, God! Please, I'm sorry!" wailed the slave, who could see the inevitable when it stared her in the face. Slowly, she began to crawl back towards Paula's feet, her body shaking with a combination of sobs and terror.
Paula showed no mercy, despite the fact that the slave had clearly reached a point close to the extremity of both physical and mental resources. At least that was the opinion of the two men, but they both recognised that the blonde dominatrix was far more experienced than either of then, so they held their tongues.
The slave was bowed at Paula's feet, her face close to the standing woman's shoes, hands on the carpet in an attitude of supplication. "Please, Mistress! Please, no more! I've suffered so much today!"
Paula looked down at her and sneered. "Not so haughty now, are you? Miss that swaggering up and down the catwalk peering down that nose of yours at all the mugs, do you? Forgotten that you're nothing but a common tea-leaf, have you?" She was working herself up. "Well I haven't, you pathetic streak of uselessness. The only thing you're good for is having your holes stuffed with something hot and hard! And that's just what you'll get in this house, if the Masters can be bothered with something that looks like a living skeleton. I want you on you feet, bent to hold your ankles, legs spread!"
"Mercy! I beg you. Mistress, I'll lick you better than anyone ever has!"
"Up, you thieving cow! Let the Masters see what little you have to offer them while I give you twelve. And God help you if you don't stay in position! Up!"
Whining, groaning, moaning and weeping the slave struggled to her feet. She took one look at her Mistress's face, a beseeching expression on her own then sobbed bitterly when she saw the implacable determination. Trembling, she bent at the waist and wrapped her arms round her knees in a remarkable display of flexibility. It wasn't what Paula wanted; the crop whistled down and cut into the thin flesh of the buttocks.
"Aaaaaiiieee!"
"That one doesn't count! I said spread those legs to show the Masters what you have! Do it!"
"Oooooooh! Aaaaaah! I…" It may have been the start of a protest, but with that welt bright on the skin, she had little alternative but to obey. The arms unclasped and the legs separated, revealing her sex and anus to the watching men. The sob that accompanied the motion was one dragged from the depths of humiliation.
Paula turned to them. "Can you see her cunt and arse-hole, gentlemen? Only used once between them, so she tells me."
"We'll soon change that," said Griffin, grinning at her, seeing Chambers nodding as he did the same.
There was a muffled sob. Paula smirked. "That's what she asked for, after all. She's a bit bony, but you can force-feed her if you like. Put some flesh on those bones. It's a bit like being in bed with a clothes-pin at the moment." She turned back. "How many did I say, slut?"
"T… twelve, Mistress."
"You sure. Not twenty-four?"
"No!" shrieked the girl. "Twelve, Mistress! Truly!"
"If you say so. Get those legs wider so we can see all the way inside. Imagine being in that position waiting for a lovely thick cock to go into that tight little bum-hole." There was a dreadful groan, which drew smiles. "What a lot of fun you have to look forward to. But just for now, it's this."
The crop whistled and bit. The meagre flesh shuddered.
"Aaaaaiiieeee!"
Knees buckled; she almost pitched forward.
"Still! Legs straight!"
"Oooomph, oooooh! Please…. Eeeeeeeeek! Oh God Oh God, no! Aaaaaaiiiieeeeee!"
The strokes had lashed in fast and because Paula had moved slightly between them had crossed over each other. The slave almost pitched forward, but managed to catch the movement while still howling. Her career had been built around lack of flesh; now she was paying for it. She had buttocks that were so thinly covered that her sex, which had thick and fleshy lips, protruded almost to the same level as the skin. When the crop landed, it was catching those lips, increasing the severity of the punishment by several degrees. It didn't deter Paula, who put in three more fast strokes that were far from the hardest that the men had seen her deliver.
Nonetheless, her shrieking victim could no longer keep the pose that she'd somehow held until then. She buckled, falling forward on to the carpet, her hands going to cover and soothe that bruised flesh as she writhed, gasping and moaning in agony.
"Horse the bitch!" cried Paula.
"Do what, my dear?" ask Chambers.
She rounded on him, heaving breasts almost unconfined, since several buttons had come undone. "On your back, George! Haven't you seen it?"
"No, but I get the idea. Hold on." He climbed from the chair and bent to the sobbing figure. As he grabbed her with expert hands, she shrieked again, once more beginning to beg for a mercy that wasn't going to come.
Griffin was glad that Chambers had elected to do the task. It may have been a long time since he'd handled protesting bodies, but he made the job of picking up the struggling, howling woman look easy. Those yells re-doubled in intensity when she realised what was happening: her arms went over his shoulders to be held, firmly, so that she lay with her front against his back. All he had to do was lean forward and she'd be presented for the crop.
Which he did, and which Paula took no time at all to take advantage of. Once more – and far from the first or last time in that isolated house – the tormented howls of a woman punished echoed around its walls. When the last stroke had fallen, Paula un-looped the crop and tossed it to one side as Chambers lowered the near-comatose, sobbing figure to the floor before turning to see her standing like some ancient warrior queen, bare-breasted and magnificent, a faint sheen of sweat on her skin.
"Are we eating out?" she asked.
"It's being delivered," said Griffin, who had no servants for obvious reasons.
"No matter. I need a long shower and someone to help me with it. Fancy getting wet, George?"
The policeman smiled, his eyes gleaming, the front of his trousers betraying his arousal. "Wouldn't mind," he said, feigning a nonchalance that fooled nobody.
"Then lead me to it," she commanded, turning her head to Griffin to wink. She seemed to have forgotten about putting the slave to bed.
Griffin knew that that wink meant a number of things: she was apologising for not asking him, though it wasn't necessary, since they had an unspoken agreement; that he was, if he wished, to take advantage of the groaning figure on the carpet; and that Paula would more than likely arrive in his bed at some time that night. Despite the difference in their ages, the two had a strong attraction for each other; stronger, possibly, than that which existed between her and KP. He replied to the gesture with a small smile and an inclination of the head: ‘I fully understand.'
After they'd left, he sat looking at the feebly-moving, groaning figure on the floor. She was certainly thin, but that face of hers was certainly beautiful. But the face of a woman freshly beaten has an attraction all of its own; unfortunately, he couldn't see it.
"Hey, you!" he said sharply. The figure didn't move, but there was a sob. "I can use that crop, too, you know. And a bloody sight harder than your Mistress if I want to."
That worked. She stirred then pushed herself on to hands and knees before dropping her lower body to rest on her thigh, so that her backside didn't come into contact with the carpet. She supported herself on outstretched arms, palms flat to the floor, head held up to look at him. The smudged, tear-stained features, twisted mouth and disarranged hair were testimony to the power of pain.
"M… master?"
She had breasts, though he doubted that she'd ever need a bra. The aureoles were large, though: large, slightly wrinkled circular areas that had prominent nipples at their centre. But for those swelling hips, bony though they were, she'd have a boyish figure.
"Kneel up," he said. "Legs astride. I want to see you."
The pain was too fresh for her to think of disobeying, though her movements were slow enough to be weary and resigned. Until he made his impatience clear.
"When I tell you to do something I mean now, not tomorrow!"
"I… I'm sorry, Master," she blurted, scrambling to obey. "I… I hurt so much," she added, using those koala-sized eyes on him.
"Forget it," he said. "I've whipped more women than you've had hot dinners." From the look of her, it might just be true. She was practically emaciated. "Put your hands behind your back, holding the elbows."
She did it. It did little to improve the size of that bosom, which remained stubbornly and practically non-existent.
"You haven't got much in the way of tits, have you?"
The eyes went down. "No, Master."
"Look at me when I talk to you. At all other times, look down. The only exception is if another slave is being punished; then you watch. Understand?"
The eyes cane up, horror in them, probably because he'd reminded her of what she'd become. She probably didn't know that there was no going back for her; when they and Paula were turned of her, she'd end up in Amsterdam or Copenhagen just like the rest. Unless Paula had some special plans for her, of course.
"You need feeding; put some flesh on you. Meat is what you're going to get."
"I… I'm vegetarian, Master."
He threw back his head and laughed, long, hard and genuine. Then, mirth subsiding, he looked into her puzzled, troubled and agonised eyes. "Not any more you're not. You'll eat what you're given. That'll be meat of one sort or another." He smiled as he saw the frown of incomprehension. "I'll give you a clue," he said. "In a minute, you're going to be enjoying some meat that I've got for you." He spread his thighs. "Move in here."
Understanding bloomed, immediately followed by sick disgust, which was chased in turn by resigned, pain-driven acceptance. "I… yes, Master," she muttered, shuffling forward,
He waited until she was between his thighs then took her chin in his hand, forcing her head up, "What's your name?" he asked.
"Sh… Shtashy, Master," she mumbled, speech impeded by his fingers.
"Stacy Stick-Insect. I like that; it suits you." He still held her chin, his voice dropping. "Now you listen to me, Stick-Insect. If I say that you're going to suck my cock, you say ‘Thank you, Master' with every show of happy anticipation. Because if you don't, you'll find that what you've just had is a flea-bite in comparison to what will happen to you. Do you understand me, Stacy Stick-Insect?"
There was terror in the eyes as he released her. She swallowed hard, twice. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"Sure?"
She nodded almost eagerly. "Yes, Master."
"Good," he said softly. "I want you to take out my cock and suck it, Stacy Stick-Insect. What do you say to that?"
He could see in her eyes what she thought of that, but her mouth said: "Thank you very much, Master," in a dreadfully strained sort of way.
"That's good," he said, falling back and pushing his hips forward. "Take it nice and slowly, because you have a lot to learn. Do what you're told and those stripes on your backside might just be the last you get today." Though I rather doubt it, he thought, as her hands crept on to his lap and began fumbling, trembling, with entirely unfamiliar clothing.



Chapter 3

"I thought she was going to have a rest?" said a familiar voice.
Griffin looked round. Paula and Chambers. Both dressed in pale blue towelling robes were standing inside the door. He glanced away from them, down to the head of the girl, her tongue bust laving at his rampant erection.
"Hold it by the shaft," he instructed. "Finger and thumb. Draw the skin down then slide your mouth over the knob again. Teeth! Better. Use the tongue. Suck. Good. Further down; keep sucking and using the tongue. Good." He waved them in, but he was too late; while he'd been giving instructions they'd come in to stand on either side of the chair.
"How's she doing?" asked Paula.
"Surprisingly well for someone who hasn't done it before," Griffin replied. "Hold on. Stop, Sticky."
He heard Paula laugh, but felt the mouth, lips and tongue cease their ministrations, though she didn't pull back. She'd been at it for almost forty minutes; he had been hanging on for the last ten minutes."
"Move off," he said.
The head moved back and she looked up at him, eyes showing how tired she was. An even better illustration was the mouth hanging open, dribble joining it in drooping, fragile strings to his penis.
"What are you going to do?" he demanded.
That familiar look came into her eyes. It was the one of sick anticipation and dread that had been there more than once in the past forty minutes.
"Suck you off, Master," she said, her voice slurred by tired muscles.
"And?"
"And… and keep… keep your… your spunk in my mouth, Master. Until you tell me to… to swallow." She was clearly not looking forward to either event.
"You lucky bitch," breathed Paula, meaning it. She was staring down at Griffin's erection, her eyes hot. Then she glanced at his face. "Sorry, John."
"She's your bitch, love."
"Ours. No, carry on. But if she doesn't do the best job she can, I'll take the skin off her arse. In strips."
The kneeling girl shuddered violently.
"Right," said Griffin. "This time. Take it in your mouth, all the way. Lips and tongue, but watch those teeth. Use your hand to work it while you move your head up and down. Remember, you're a spunk-bucket. Faster. Suck, you bitch! Better. Use the hand. Aaah! Good. Yes, coming soon and don't you dare pull back! Just keep sucking."
He was very close now, despite the fact that her efforts were weak and feeble. Much of that must be due to the fact that she could have practically no strength left in the muscles of her mouth and jaw, though there was obviously an element of horrible dread involved, too. This would be the first time in her life – given that she hadn't lied – that she'd so much as tasted male sperm, let alone had anyone as virile as Griffin spurting into her mouth. His hands, which had been resting on his spread thighs, moved to her bobbing head and took hold, fingers twining into her hair.
She must have known or sensed why. There was a check in her movements, a whimper in her throat that both warned and titillated him just that enough to push him beyond that subtle point of no return. His hands clamped, inhibiting any movement on her point, despite the fact that she tried, desperately, to pull back out of sheer, panic-driven instinct.
"Don't you dare swallow," he cried, thrusting his hips forward. He felt the head of his penis bump against her soft palate, her hands pushing feebly against him as she made a choking sound. And then he unleashed into her, controlling her suddenly frantic efforts to escape with ease. "Aaaaaaah!" he cried in an expression of relief, aware that the sound was alien to him, but understandable in view of the prolonged foreplay.
Now she was struggling again, mewling, retching sounds in her throat being muffled by the still erect penis in her mouth. Her eyes, he saw, were wide, the nostrils flaring. Her hands were either side of his, on his thighs, pushing. Then he saw a flash of pale blue behind her and looked up. Paula, who stooped to pick up her discarded crop and, without waiting to loop it, applied a brisk stroke to the struggling girl's hindquarters.
She bucked, the sounds in her throat changing to a muffled scream.
"Still, you cow," rasped her Mistress.
The body between his legs went rigid for a moment. Then it seemed to slump, all attempts at resistance gone. He flashed Paula a smile. "Thanks," he said. "I rather thing she wanted to be sick. Have you still got my spunk in your mouth, Sticky?"
There was a feeble nod.
He released her head, pushing it off his still-erect penis. "Keep that spunk in your mouth or I'll ask your Mistress to put another dozen on," he growled.
She shuddered, her lips clamping shut. Her face looked pinched now, her throat working in the manner of one who is trying desperately not to vomit. Tears had started again.
"If you puke it'll be that dozen and another dozen on top," he warned.
Eyes widened; the head shook. And the throat stopped convulsing. She was very still, her lips pressed tightly together, exaggeratedly-huge eyes on him, like those of a dog, punished. Time for a little reinforcement, he judged. And a bit of fun.
"Can you taste it?" he asked, leaning forward and ignoring the fact that his penis was still rampantly exposed. Both Paula and George had seen it often enough before.
The compressed lips twitched slightly. She nodded.
"Nice, is it?"
The headed nodded; the eyes didn't. Paula, who had drifted round to the side of the chair, laughed, as did George.
"She's a poor liar," said the latter.
"She'll get used to it," said Griffin. "All right, Sticky. You can swallow it now."
It was clearly the moment she'd dreaded. Her eyes closed, the stomach heaved visibly. Equally visibly, she fought the impulse, knowing the consequences. Sweat popped on her brow, her nostril flared. Then, eyes squeezed tight, the throat worked. She heaved, but fought it back, breath hissing through her nose, then from her mouth as she opened it. The deed was done, though he fancied, from the look on her face, that it had been very close.
He looked up at Chambers in his robe. "Fancy a try, George?"
"Not just now. Besides, she's about as attractive as a dog turd."
The girl flinched and began to cry. Chambers was good at that sort of thing: it gave their self-esteem a battering when they were at their most vulnerable.
Griffin tucked away his diminishing organ and stood to zip. "Paula, do you want some?"
"What, after that lovely cock I've just had up me? That would be like following a banquet with a rancid chip," she added, playing the same game. She looked at the two men, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Besides, we have the odd bit of business to discuss, haven't we?"
"So we have," replied Griffin easily, as if the thought hadn't been gnawing at his subconscious for hours. "Why don't I take her away and tuck her up for a while? Has she been fed and watered recently?"
Paula gave the slave a contemptuous look. "Give her some water. She can eat under the table later." The girl sobbed, for which she received a half-playful cut with the crop across her shoulders. It was enough to draw a yelp. "Be grateful for what you get, slut! Now thank the Master for allowing you to suck his cock and swallow his lovely spunk!"
It was at the same time the easiest and hardest thing she'd been forced to do so far. She knelt, one hand on a knee, the other on the carpet, looking up at Griffin pasted a fringe of disarranged hair and what must have been a mist of tears, for she was crying copiously.
"Th… thank you, M… Master for a… allowing me to su… suck your c… c… cock and s… s… s… swallow your sp… sunk," she stammered.
"That's all right," he said airly. "Any time, Sticky Stacy. Come on, I'll tuck you up for a while."
When he got back they other two had dressed. Probably each other, judging by the smiles on their faces and in their eyes. Griffin might be Paula's favourite man, but she and Chambers got on like a house on fire. And there was no place in their relationship for jealousy. He glanced at his watch. "Food in a couple of hours."
"Good," said Paula. "Are you having that monster box-thing again?"
The box-thing was a huge food transporter designed by Griffin's engineers. The food was cook almost to completion at an exclusive restaurant a few miles away, then loaded into special heated compartments so that the cooking was complete during the journey. It was an intricate and expensive affair, but far better and more secure than having strangers in the house. It was large enough to contain a full four-course mean for five, yet could fit through the – admittedly oversize – door of the kitchen, where it was plugged in to the mains supply.
"Yes," he said. "Menus are in the usual place. KP's coming up tomorrow, as arranged?"
"No, I'm afraid not. He has things to do."
"Oh. Never mind. Drinks?"
They nodded, so he crossed to the table. As he did so, he caught sight of those suitcases standing just inside the door. Taking the whisky bottle, he half-turned. "Is there anything in those cases you we'll need?"
Paula had settled into the centre arm-chair, her usual position when the three of them were together. "Not unless you fancy reading the nineteen fifty-five edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica," she replied. "Or rather the first thirty-odd volumes."
He completed the turn, the cap of the bottle half-unscrewed. "The what?"
She smiled. "I bought it in a street market. Made her carry them up to the flat a few days ago then down again today. Fair knackered her."
Paula's flat was the penthouse suite on a twelve-storey block in Knightsbridge. It wasn't surprising that the girl had been knackered. And if… "Was she wearing that thing?"
"She was today."
"Ouch!"
"Funny, that's more or less what she said!"
He poured the drinks, adding a little ice to Paula's, a splash of soda to George's and leaving his own neat. Walking back to them, he felt his stomach tightening in that familiar pre-risky-deal sensation. Except this time it was worse, because the entire pattern of their lives hinged on what was said in the next few minutes. He handed them their glasses, went to his chair and settled.
"What did you think of the Stick Insect?" she asked.
"Bitch," said Griffin without heat.
He earned himself a flashing smile. "Down, boy."
"I'm beginning to feel the way the slaves do," put in Chambers from her other side.
She turned to give him the same treatment. "It's worth waiting for," she said.
Griffin's heart leapt. "You mean…?"
She took a long, studied sip, the glass lingering at her lips. Then it came down. "Approved," she said.
For a moment he felt light-headed as the breath, unconsciously held, whooshed out of him. He was vaguely aware of a whoop from George. Then his senses cleared and he was aware of her looking at him, her eyes alight with the same excitement that he was feeling.
"That's wonderful!" he cried. Then he regained control. "Any restriction, terms, conditions?" He saw George coming to earth beyond her, hanging on the words.
"KP really pulled the stops out on this one," she said. "Lots of favours called in, masses of careful pressure. No restrictions to speak of; we can have the pick of the prison population, near enough."
"Bloody hell," breathed George, who was content to leave the detailed questions to Griffin.
Griffin was thinking. "Any quid-pro-quo involved?"
"A couple of life memberships and the occasional favour for a prison governor and/or chief warden. You now the sort of thing: the occasional visit for a bit of R and R."
"And we can pick anyone we want?"
"Within reason. In fact, there's no theoretical reason that we can't pull the same stunt that you did with your first pair of bitches, with a slight modification: you buy the debt from the creditor and things get sort of fuddled in the bureaucratic process. Poor old Peter and Colin never had those sort of resources."
The mention of those two names cast a pall on the proceedings.
"They should be here," said Chambers soberly. "They'd have loved this."
"We'll drink to them," proposed Griffin.
Glasses clinked; the toast was drunk. In seconds, the mood was light again.
"We can't have just anyone, of course," said George.
Paula shook her head. "High security's out, of course; not that I'd fancy a murderer or psycho, anyway. Nobody too high profile, either; nor anyone with too many connections to make a fuss if they vanish."
"Given that we've got something like fifty thousand females in prison that still leaves plenty," said Chambers.
Chambers looked at his friend past Paula, who was also a friend, of course, but of a different sort. "Didn't you mention that you had a surprise, too, George?"
A smile. "So I did," said the policeman. "Forgot all about it in all the excitement. You remember, John, way back when we had the first slut?"
The memory was still fresh. "Of course."
"And you said that you had an idea about who it was she was getting her information from? Turned out to be the Carol slut instead?"
Griffin felt his brow tighten as anger clouded his brain. "That double-dealing bitch!" he spat.
Paula looked at him curiously. "Am I missing something?"
He swallowed the anger as far as he could. "When I got hold of the Bentley tart I already had an idea of who it was who'd been helping her. Or, to be more precise, I had a name in mind because I liked her looks and hoped it was her. Mediterranean, black hair, eyes you could drown in and a figure like something you dream about. Italian bitch, living with an Englishman; always fighting, it seemed; she had a hell of a temper, but she was bloody good at her job, the bitch!"
The ferocity with which he spat those last two words had Paula clearly wondering, though Chambers simply smiled; something that Griffin didn't see. "If she wasn't the one, why are you so bothered about her?"
"Because just after we snatched the other one – the real informant, the Wilson tart – the bitch took off with over a hundred thousand pounds of my money! She'd been systematically embezzling the company for months!"
"And which John couldn't report to my colleagues because he had two slaves tucked away in that dungeon," said Chambers.
"And which I was too bloody ashamed about to tell anyone else. Including you, Paula. So thanks for reminding me, George," he added bitterly.
"Not at all. I just thought that you might like to renew acquaintances with the young lady, that's all."
Griffin's jaw dropped. "You what?"
Chambers grinned easily and took a sip of his drink. "Maria Lombardi, right?"
Griffin was still dazed by this, of top of the euphoria of earlier. Now he felt a savage, pounding, driving exhilaration. "That's her! How the hell…?"
"Pure accident, old lad. She got picked up in Naples by the Carabinieri during an anti-terrorism operation. Her current boy-friend was on the fringes, apparently and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Added to which they found a large amount of British currency on her, so they put her on the Interpol web for checking, with as much background information as they could get; normal procedure. I have a search engine that's set to respond if any of our names or associations comes up and it threw up a reference to your company; she must have been carrying something with the name. Viola!"
The blood pounded in Griffin's temples. "Can you get her back here?" he asked hoarsely.
"Oh, yes. If you really want her, that is." It was said with a smile.
"Want her? By God I want her! I'll strip the skin off her arse!" He paused. "And then I'll fuck her rigid!"
"Leaving some for us, I hope?" said Paula.
That calmed him. "Sorry, But being ripped off like that really gets to me."
"You're just like KP," she said. She looked at Chambers. "How are you going to swing it?"
"Special Branch, half of whom haven't got a clue about what the other three-quarters is doing and promptly forget it if they do. It'll get her back here on a suspicion of terrorism charge, which I can parlay into mistaken identity, but with outstanding charges of a lesser nature outstanding. I can back-date a complaint from you, John – you'll have to sign it, by the way – and then we can translate the theft into an un-repaid loan."
"Which makes it a debt under the terms of the Act!" cried Paula. "What a clever boy you are, George!"
"I do my modest best."
"You're a bloody marvel!" said Griffin enthusiastically. "Wait till you see her! She is a real cracker! And she's going to pay for every penny she stole! In," he added with a gleam in his eye, "every possible position!"
Paula separated some skin from the breast of her coq-au-vin, took it delicately between her fingers and tossed it on to the plastic sheet that covered an area of the floor beside the table. On it knelt the gaunt figure of their new slave, who had good reason for the tears and sobs she was still issuing: twelve new welts marked her bottom, put there ten minutes before by Paula.
"Eat that," she said. "And if I hear another whine about you being vegetarian I'll decorate that backside again. Liar!"
"I… I'm sorry, Mistress," snivelled the slave.
"Shut your lying mouth! Helena Tarrant, indeed! Stacy Smith! Eat that food this instant! And I want that plastic as clean as a whistle!"
With a sob, the head bent to the scrap of food. It was eaten with little enthusiasm and then the floor licked clean. It wasn't the first time that she'd done it: they'd been tossing scraps down to her for some time.
Paula looked at her companions. "Does either of you want a suck? George? You haven't tried her yet."
"Perhaps in a moment or two, my dear. I would rather like to do this wine justice, if you don't mind."
"Oh. I don't mind at all. I don't suppose that that this lying, thieving slut does, either. Do you, Sticky Stacy?"
"No, Mistress."
"You mean you don't want to suck your Masters' cocks?" demanded Paula, whose mood towards the slave had hardened when she'd found that the name she'd known her by was a false one. The real name – or the Christian name – had slipped out when Griffin had had her alone. Infuriated by what she considered deception, Paula had extracted the surname with her crop. Not that that had been entirely necessary, other than to relieve the wielder's feelings. Which was as good a reason as any. Now the mental torment had started again, this time with more edge to it: or rather ‘double edge', since she was using the impossible-to-answer-correctly trick to rack up the pressure.
"Oh, no! Mistress, I do want to suck my Masters' cocks!"
"So you lied again!"
"Yes, Mistress! No Mistress!" cried the desperate, bewildered woman, fresh tears joining those already running down her cheeks.
Paula laughed, sharp and tight. "You're a lying cunt. What are you?"
"A lying cunt, Mistress!" There was relief in the voice. Pain had been avoided, for the moment.
Paula returned her attention to the food. It was excellent, as was the wine. She took her glass and lifted it to the two men. "Good times," she proposed.
"And many of them," responded Griffin, smiling at her.
"Likewise," said Chambers.
They ate for a while in companionable silence, broken only by the faint whimpering from the slave, a distraction silenced by a barked command from Paula.
"Is there plenty left?" she asked.
"Enough to serve one more," replied Griffin.
"She can have that and what we leave, then. Get some flesh on the thing." She paused, fork part-way to her mouth. "What about plastic tits?"
"Can't stand them," said Griffin promptly.
"Nor me," added Chambers. "They're for show, not use. Who wants a handful of plastic?"
"All right, point taken," said Paula. "But I can't see this one being much use looking as she does."
"Give the feeding a chance," said Griffin. He grinned. "That and plenty of protein. Are you going to leave her here, by the way?"
"Leave? I'm staying."
Both men looked up, surprised. "Staying? I thought you had to get back to KP?" said Griffin.
"Arranging that deal for…" she checked herself, remembering the slave on the floor. "That deal was his last. He is now officially retired, which is why he has loose ends to tie up and why he can't be here. But we have the computers here, so I can stay in touch with everything."
"It will mean that this place is never unattended," said Chambers. "Good thing, if we have a slave… or slaves," he amended, grinning at Chambers, "in the place. I never felt entirely easy about leaving them alone at the office."
Both men were still working at their respective jobs. In a few weeks Griffin would officially retire, too, leaving the day-to-day running of his companies in the hands of competent managers. Not that he cared all that much: the retainers that KP had already paid, plus the profits from the new establishment would pay far more than he'd ever earned in business. Now it looked as if he and Paula would be sharing the house for a while, a not unattractive prospect.
Chambers would keep working, with no obvious or even hidden link to the others or to the project. His position was essential in keeping the whole thing secure, and in the provision of new material, though there would be safe-guards and fall-backs should anything happen to him. Those were items on the agenda for discussion during this week-end; things which would need meticulously careful planning.
"In that case," said Griffin, "and with all due respect, my dear, I forego any claim on your company for this week-end in favour of George."
She kicked him, but then rubbed the spot with her shoe-less foot. George smiled. "That's very handsome of you, John. And I accept with alacrity. If Paula agrees, that is."
"Don't mind me," she said distantly, the grin on her face belying the words. "I'm just a piece of baggage!"
"Just be thankful you haven't come through Heathrow, then!" said Griffin. "Or you wouldn't be here. Do you want a crack at skin and bones down there, George?"
Chambers stretched, arms over his head. "Wouldn't mind a suck, I must say."
"You hear that, you useless slut? The Master wants his cock sucked. And you'd better make a bloody good job of it!" snarled Paula.
"Yes, Mistress." The tears started again.




Chapter 4

The week-end wasn't all fun. In fact, primed with the information that Paula had brought, the three of them probably worked harder over the course of those two days than they ever had in their lives. It wasn't an unfamiliar task, of course: they had all been heavily engaged in planning and organising for months. What remained were the million and one details that, once solved, seemed to spawn another million or so.
They had a lot of help and advice available to them: from KP and from the delightful – and even more experienced than Paula - Underhill couple, Roberta Richards and Peter Ransome. All three made contributions in conference calls and always seemed to be ready with help if it was needed. Not that that was anything new: it was a procedure which had become habit. But they were engaged in something that had never been done before in Britain, at least on the scale that they were planning. More, they were all acutely aware of the fact that what they were doing was criminally illegal. Not that they were in much danger from authority; what bothered Griffin particularly was the chance that the newspapers and/or TV might start sniffing around. And memories of the way he'd felt while Jill Bentley had been exposing him still haunted him.
But if it wasn't all fun, then there remained quite a lot of time to indulge in the odd frolic. In Griffin's case, because he had forfeited the chance to dally with Paula, this meant that he was left with the gaunt and angular Sticky Stacy. Not that Chambers had any reason not to take the new slave; indeed, in normal circumstances he'd have jumped at the chance. But to have the opportunity to spend time in intimate company with Paula was a privilege that was not to be passed up: she was an experienced and passionate love-maker with a voracious appetite that left both herself and her partner pleasantly exhausted, or, as Robinson had once put it: ‘euphorically knackered'.
She was kneeling on the carpet of the bedroom, watching him warily with those huge eyes. She'd had only three or four strokes to add to her punishment since that last real beating from Paula, but she hadn't missed the fact that he'd taken a cane from a cupboard and laid it on the bed where she could see it. If her glance moved from him, they went to that length of bamboo with a sort of horrified fascination that transmitted to her body in a convulsive shudder.
He had been watching her covertly as he had moved round, doing nothing much. She wasn't kneeling properly, but then Paula hadn't had much time to train her what with one thing and another. Besides, the dominatrix had wanted to bring her here more or less fresh. As a result, the girl – who was twenty, he'd discovered – was kneeling up, knees pressed together, her hands crossed over her groin. Not un- naturally, she wasn't squatting down on her heels: her backside was far too tender for that. She looked pale and washed out, which was again natural, because she'd taken some pretty rough treatment; not least the drive up with the vicious bar pressing into her sex, plus twenty-four strokes of the crop and a couple of introductions to oral sex. To say nothing of all the will-diminishing humiliation that had been heaped on her.
She'd look a lot better with some make-up on, he decided. That wasn't something that he usually liked on his slaves, because the stuff tended to get smeared everywhere in the course of a session. But on this one it would tend to take one's attention away from her bonier aspects. Not that she'd stay like that if they continued to force her to eat as much as earlier: there wasn't a scrap left and most of it was inside her.
Her turned, seeing her flinch, the eyes widening as they moved up to his face. "Not hungry, are you?"
"N… no, Master. I'm… I'm too full, Master."
"I'm not surprised. You made quite a pig of yourself down there."
The eyes closed for a second at the unjust distortion, a tear forming. She had very nearly vomited several times as she been forced to lick all the plates clean after devouring every last scrap of food. It was when he'd spat on it that she'd rebelled, which is where those strokes had come from. As persuaders, by which time she had to contend with the fact that Chambers and Paula had done it, too.
"You want the toilet?"
"Yes, Master. Please."
"In future, ask immediately. It doesn't matter what you're doing. Because if you make a mess, you'll suffer for it."
"Yes, Master."
"All right. The bathroom's over there. Leave the door open and don't move out of my sight. If you think you will, call me. Understand?"
"Y… yes, Master."
He nodded at the bed. "Remember, that's waiting if you screw up."
Her eyes followed his. To the cane. Her pallid colour went even paler, her mouth twisted. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"I'm not as good as your Mistress, but I can hit a lot harder. Just imagine what that would feel like on that arse of yours. Or on the thighs, front or back; or even on those mole-hills you call tits."
She shuddered. "I… I'll be good, Master."
"I know you will. The question is: will you be good enough, fast enough? Know what I mean?"
"Yes, Master." Another whisper.
"While you're in there, have a look in the cabinet on the wall. There's some make-up in there. Choose what you like, but use it sparingly; I don't want to end up looking like a bloody Indian brave."
Her expression told him that she hadn't missed the implications of that last bit. He grinned at her. "That's right," he said, lightly and pleasantly. "You're going to get fucked. And then you're going to get buggered, so you'd better bring the Vaseline out with you."
Now she was crying. "Master, please! I hurt so…"
"Wrong attitude, Sticky. Or have you forgotten that little persuader over there? How many do you think it will take for you to be asking nicely to be fucked and buggered?"
"Oh, no more! Please, no more!"
"I didn't hear any requests in that."
She was distraught. But she was beaten. Tears cascaded as her body shook with the sobs that racked her. "Please… Oh, please, Master! It's so…. So… Oooooh! Please f… fuck and b… b… bugger me. Please don't hurt me any more!"
"Much better. All right, get yourself in there and get sorted out. Take your time, but when you come out I want no more tears or dying swans. Got it?"
"Yes," sniffle, "Master."
It took her almost half an hour, but it was worth it. When she emerged, she looked far from the drivelling, sobbing slave she'd been earlier. The make-up seemed to have given her a new poise and confidence, though that was strictly comparative, of course: she hadn't forgotten her situation or – it would have been impossible - the pain, but she moved with some of the grace and elegance that she must have shown in the cat-walk. And that despite have a backside that looked like a patch-work quilt and thighs that had taken their share of strokes.
The greatest transformation, though, was in her face; Her eyes remained tragic, but eye-shadow and liner had brought a soft elegance to that, while lipstick and blusher softened and accentuated, respectively, her lower features. Eyes lowered, she went to kneel where she had been positioned earlier, but he stopped her.
"Walk up and down," he demanded.
She did so, revealing that hip-thrusting gait that must have come as second nature. The odd thing was that it hadn't been there before. Odd, he decided.
"All right," he said. "Kneel down again." She'd tidied her hair, too, he noticed. "Does that feel better?" he asked.
The question appeared to startle her. It was, perhaps, the first humane thing he'd said. "Y… yes, Master. A little."
"It looks a lot better."
"T… thank you, Master," she replied unsteadily. Then she realised what she'd just done and bit her lip.
Griffin kept his face impassive, but his brain was grinning. That had been a small milestone, had she but known it. It was a sign that she was beginning to accept what she'd become.
"Spread you knees wider and put your hands behind you back."
Her head jerked, the expression on her face changing to one of quick shock. Any support and solace that make-up gave couldn't help now. She moved to obey, though slowly, her head dropping.
"Head up! Look at me! I won't warn you again about that!"
Up it came. The tragedy was back in the eyes.
"Wider. And pull your shoulders back. There's no tit to speak of, but make the most of what little you have."
The knees crept a little wider. The other was easier for her, since she had so little to show.
He reached behind him and took the cane. She didn't miss it; panic showed and the knees jerked another six inches further apart.
"More," he demanded. "And I hope that's not a tear I can see. Is it?"
"N… no, Master," she blurted, clearly fighting that as well as outraged modesty. "Please, I…"
"Yes, what?"
"I… I'm a woman, Master."
"I can see that."
The cheeks flamed red. "I… I… I meant…"
"I know what you meant, Sticky Stacy. But it doesn't matter, because you're not a woman any more: you're a slave. So if I want to look at your cunt I'll look at your cunt and you'll do everything possible to make sure that I get a good view. Yes? Or do we discuss the alternative?"
"No! Please, no!"
"All right. Nice and wide now."
The thighs separated further. Not as widely as they could have done – and would, as time passed – but wide enough.
"That looks a bit sore," he commented. It looked a lot worse than sore.
"Y… yes, Master. It's awful!"
He could believe it. That bar of Paula's had really bruised the sex.
"Do you masturbate? Keep that head up!"
She swallowed, but her lip, the colour flaring again. "Y… yes, Master."
"How often?"
A hesitation. "T… two or three times a w… week, Master."
"Would you like to do it now?"
"Oh! Oh, please, no! It hurrrrrts!"
"What's this, modesty?"
"Oh, please! Yes… I mean no, Master! It hurts so much!"
He smiled. "Well, my dear," he said mildly. "That gives you something of a problem, doesn't it? Normal women have a half-decent pair of tits, so they can offer a chap a tit-roll or tit-wank. But no tits, no roll." The colour was still in her face, while there was a mortified expression in her eyes. Somehow, though, she managed to hold the tears back. "That leaves three orifices you can use to satisfy me tonight. Care to enumerate them for me?"
"I… I…" She blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "Ple…," she started, then thought better of that. "I… I can s… suck you. Master."
"You've come to like that, have you? Feel free to ignore the pun."
Her face twisted. "Y… yes, Master."
"You'll have to learn not to lie, at least no so badly. In future that sort of insincerity will earn you a walloping. Want to try again?"
"I… I'm sorry, Master!" He eyes showed her desperation as she searched, frantically for a way out. "It… it wasn't as bad as I… I thought, Master."
"Much better! Yes, you can certainly suck me. Actually, you show promise as a cock-sucker, which is just as well since you fall short in the attraction department. Men can value a good cock-sucker more than they do looks. You might not appreciate it now, but that's good advice."
She clearly didn't appreciate it. "Yes, Master," she mumbled.
He grinned. "All right, you'll see. Now, the next problem you face is that I like two or three good comes a night, usually in different holes. Let's say that the first and last can be sucks. What does that leave?" He loved this taunting, humiliating word-play. One could see the victim squirming mentally, trying to find a way to stop, but entirely unable to do so without risking that all-too-present pain. It was ‘conversations' like this, he was certain, that really created slaves.
She knew what she had to say and a few seconds more thought told her that there wasn't a way that she could avoid it. It was a simply choice, but one was barred because of the agony that still flared from her abused sex, while the other was both repugnant and potential excruciating. It had to be done, though; she just had to satisfy this grinning, taunting devil. And then face the consequences.
"My… my… my bottom, Master," she managed.
He lifted his eyebrows. "Your bottom? Just what do you mean by that?"
Her eyes closed, just for a second, a gesture of utter resignation. "M.. my a… arse-hole, Master."
"You didn't bring the Vaseline. I think I'd rather have a fuck."
"Oh, no! Please, no! It'll kill me, Master!"
"Getting my cock up that pretty little bum-hole isn't going to be a bed of roses, you know."
"Oh God oh God! Please, Master! I'll bring the Vaseline!"
"Sure?"
Now the tears came. He was surprised that it had taken so long.
"Yes, Master!"
"All right. Go and get it. " He wondered if she'd thought about what would happen when he was inside her, with his belly rubbing against that bottom.
As it turned out, he never got that far. Quite apart from the agonising state or her backside and sex, her anus was particularly small and tight, while Griffin was far from the smallest of men. As a result, the noise which erupted when something as big as his penis attempted to enter something as small as her anus, even with the application of large dollops of Vaseline, was ear-splitting. He quickly reached the conclusion that without prior stretching, she wasn't going to be able to accommodate him, a state that no amount of punishment was going to cure. So her gave up, forcing her instead to masturbate him with both hands while she knelt, mouth wide, the head of his penis resting on her protruding tongue. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it was satisfying enough.
Just as it was on the second time when he woke her in the small hours. And the third occasion, when she woke him, as ordered, with her mouth.



Chapter 5

It wasn't that Maria Lombardi didn't like men, she simply thought of them with complete contempt. Of course, as a hot-blooded woman she loved to feel a thick cock inside her – what real woman didn't? The problem was that almost every man she'd met kept his brains in his testicles. Which made them easy to use, if hard to like.
Relationships, to Maria, were all one-sided. She might pretend affection, attraction, even love, depending on the man, but it was all faked. She had the looks to snare them and the wiles to keep them, accepting the gifts, occasionally enjoying the sex - though most of the time the only orgasm she had was by using her fingers – then simply discarding them when they'd outlived their novelty or utility.
It wasn't much different here in the Palacio – the half-ironic, half-dread name that had been attached to this prison centuries before. The guards were even less attractive and intelligent than men outside, but that didn't stop them having a quick fumble when they thought no one was looking. It didn't stop them using the peep-hole in the door to try to catch her naked, or using the stinking can that passed for a toilet, either. She gave the door the horn-sign now, just in case one of the sneaky bastards was there.
She stared at the graffiti-covered wall, beginning to worry about the fact that they hadn't let her out. They couldn't seriously imagine that she was in any way involved with the idiot so-called terrorist group that Ambrosio had got himself mixed up with, could they? All they had to do was check with the neighbours to discover that she'd been staying there only a matter of days. And only then because he was hung like the stallion the English sang about; not that he knew how to use it better than any other man.
They'd found the money, but it was a mere fraction of that she'd taken from that English company when she'd been with that stupid Shaun. What an idiotic disaster he'd turned out to be! Thought he was God's gift to women and knew everything about everything. Pathetic worm knew nothing and did less, especially with his prick. Pity she couldn't have had a go at the boss… Griffin. He looked as if he knew a thing or two and she'd seen him looking at her a few times. But she was stealing his money and didn't want to get involved in case she let something slip. Besides, in the last three months that she'd been there she'd hardly ever seen him. Still, Griffin could have been an interesting diversion. Pity. But at least she'd got away with his money; how had he looked when he'd found out? The thought made her snigger.
All right, they'd found the money, but she'd told them it came from betting in England. Which some of it had: she'd taken a load to a casino in London, cashed it in for chips, lost a bit then changed it back. It could be checked. The rest was in a Swiss bank, hidden away from them. So why hadn't they let her go yet? Or was that greasy bastard of a Commandant waiting for her to spread her legs for him? Fat chance, fat boy!
"This is a cane, Sticky. You've seen it, haven't you? Now you're going to feel it!"
He and Paula had tied her over a whipping block, adjusting almost to the limit of its upward travel to accommodate her height. It had been going to be the usual low caning stool, but they'd soon realised that her thighs were too long to fit her over that while still having her presented in a way that was convenient and comfortable for them. Now those long legs were spread, the ankles tethered to the bottom of the outward sloping legs. Her upper torso lay flat over the leather covered surface, held down by a broad strap, while her arms were pulled out and down round the sides of the block, straps on her wrists holding them down.
Only her head had any real freedom and this was tossing as she tried to find their eyes with her own desperate gaze, a hopeless task since both stood behind her, examining the display they'd created of her; that and the damage that had already been done, all of it Paula's work. She was making noise, too, quite a lot of it.
"Master, I'm sorry! I hurrrrrtt so! Please! Oh, please let me do it! Please fuck me, Master! Bugger me instead, pleeeeease!"
Griffin and Paula exchanged glances, ignoring the cries and pleas. They could see that it hurt: her sex was just a large bruise, much of that due to the fact that it protruded beyond the protection of her backside and had collected its fair share of the crop strokes that Paula had applied. On top of that was the fact that the inner flesh still hadn't recovered from that bar that she'd worn the day she'd arrived. The thinly-padded backside was multi-hued, bluish purple predominating, the latest stripes still clear visible. It looked bad, but the thighs were still relatively unmarked.
Paula looked at the anus, which hadn't completely closed after Griffin's last use, only a couple of hours before. That would be adding its share of pain, too, especially considering his girth. She pursed her lips, frowning then shook her head slowly.
"It's not on," she said.
"I agree. I hadn't realised that she looked that bad," he said, tossing the cane to the floor. "I don't like the look of that cunt."
"She'll recover. Sorry, my dear. My fault."
"Don't blame yourself. The dirty little thief deserved every stroke."
It was said in full knowledge that the girl could hear, a fact confirmed when the twitching flesh jerked slightly.
Paula gave him a grateful look. "Will you tell her?"
"I awarded them, so I'll do it."
They walked round to the head end. She'd heard it all and much of the noise had died, but the face that strained back to look at them was still tear-streaked and agonised. "Th… thank you, Ma…."
"Shut it, slut!" ordered Griffin. The babble stopped immediately. "How many did I promise you?"
The eyes grew dreadful. "Ei… eighteen, Master."
"Why?" he snapped.
"Be… because I… I made a fuss, M… Master. When… when you wanted to f.. fuck me."
"Precisely. Well, we've had a look at that worthless arse of yours and decided that it would be a waste of time putting any more stripes on it at the moment."
"Thank you, Master! I…"
"I said shut it! That's another six you'll get when you're fit!"
The mouth clamped shut. Mixed hope and dread filled the eyes.
"We're going to give you a rest for a few days. That doesn't mean that you won't have work to do, because that mouth you make so much noise with is still perfectly capable of doing something useful. When you're fit, you'll get that eighteen, plus the six, plus as many more as we decide you'll get because you managed to get yourself into this state in the first place. Understand?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. Do I understand that you are going to be very co-operative from now on?"
"Oh, yes, Master, Mistress!"
"We'll just test that and see how grateful you are for our kindness. When you get off that thing, I want you on your hands and knees, giving your Mistress the best orgasm she's ever had. Then I want you to do me."
"Yes, Master!"
*
"Bugger this for a game of conkers!" spat Sandra, throwing the blouse she'd been sewing on to the floor.
Work on the benches around her stopped and woman and girls dressed, as she was in the regulation white blouse and blue skirt looked over at her. The supervisor, a woman in her late forties, bespectacled and greying of hair, sensed the disturbance and looked up. Then she sighed resignedly, put down her pen, pushed her chair back and walked over.
"What's wrong this time, Walker?"
Sandra pushed a strange of sandy-brown hair away from her eyes and shot a spiteful look at the older woman, her pretty face twisted. "I'm sick of this bloody rubbish!" she snarled, sweeping the pile of garments still waiting work to the floor to join the blouse.
The supervisor sighed again. "You chose this work," she said.
"I didn't know it was going to be so fucking boring!"
"Please don't swear. And you did know the nature of the work, because it is precisely the same as you were doing before you absconded."
"It's even more fucking boring, then!" Sandra shouted. "This whole fucking place is fucking boring!"
"I am placing you on report for foul and abusive language. Not for the first time, I might say."
"I don't fucking care!"
Another sigh. "All right, Walker. Governor's report."
"Fuck the governor!"
"All right, that's enough. Go to your room and wait."
"Good! At least I won't fucking well be doing this!"
The official report later determined that there was no available member of staff to escort her to her room; besides, it was a low-security establishment, the inmates of which were in Category E3. That is, prisoners serving a sentence for debt when the principal creditor had declined a period of indenture and therefore not requiring escort within the establishment's premises. She left the work-room, but was not in her room when sent for. A search revealed the fact that she had absconded.
She was arrested six weeks later, having been found living with a group of travellers. At a hearing held before Mr Justice Levinson she was re-categorised E2(a). In view of the fact that she is 24 years of age, fit and healthy and that this is the third occasion upon which she has absconded, a recommendation was made that she be found a place on an enhanced or extended labour scheme or be made available for debt re-purchase with a view to entry into such a scheme.
*
"Who?" cried Maria, feeling her knees go weak, completely forgetting that those piggy eyes were devouring the breasts that shifted beneath the prison shift.
"The English anti-terrorist police."
"What for?" she howled, hearing her voice going up two octaves.
"They did not give me that information, but the examining magistrate is satisfied."
"No!" she yelled, stamping her foot, oblivious of the fact that her unconfined breasts, bouncing around under the shift were giving the ogling governor an eye-full. "You cannot send me to England! I won't go!"
"You have no choice in the matter," He paused and she suddenly became aware of his hot eyes moving over her body. A pink tongue came out to moisten his lips. "But you can do something to determine the way you travel. And how you spend your time before you go."
"What?" she blurted, her mind still reeling from the shock of what had happened. She meant that she wanted him to repeat what he'd just said, but he misunderstood, or chose to.
"Well," he said, slowly, shifting his bulk in the chair so that it creaked. "They don't want you for a week. So while you're waiting you can stay in a nice, warm cell with a bed, pillows and maybe even a television and fly there in comfort. Or," he let eyes travel up and down her, leaving no doubt about the purport of the proposition, "you can do it the other way."
She could almost feel those eyes crawling on her flesh. "You filthy fat bastard!" she shrieked. "I wouldn't let you touch me for a billion lire!"
The pudgy lips clamped and the eyes became like flints. "Then spend your time with company, whore! And when you travel, it will be on the night train, standing all the way!"
"Fuck you!"
The cell was dark and wet. The company was things that squeaked and rustled. Half an hour after they put her in it, the single, dim bulb in the corridor that was the only illumination went out. But she didn't give in: Maria Lombardi was made of sterner stuff than that.
*
"So you think you're trained, do you?"
"Yes, Mistress. I am your slave, Mistress."
Roberta twirled the stem of her glass between finger and thumb without slopping the contents. Just as well, considering the price of the wine in it. She was reclining in an easy chair in the underground rooms that formed Underhill, an ingenious construction beneath a London park that had housed and trained slaves for centuries, an establishment run by the ancestors of the man who sat beside her, Peter Ransome. "What do you think?" she asked.
"She seems willing and eager enough. When did you last get a thrashing, Tinkerbelle?" They used pet names for all their slaves; it helped to diminish pride and also served as a reasonable means of identification. It wasn't the first time they'd used that particular name, but it was a favourite for both of them, especially when they had a slave who was small but well built.
"Six days ago, Master. You gave me twelve. Six on the inside of each thigh."
"So I did. Lie back and show me."
The girl, who had been kneeling in the mandatory Underhill posture with her hands behind her head and knees well spread, slid on to her back, raised her legs straight and spread them wide. She was, of course, entirely naked, though unshaved. Roberta and Peter preferred then that way.
"Nice and parallel," said Roberta approvingly.
"Thank you," he replied with no trace of irony. He had taught her. In fact, she had started out as a potential slave herself. Their relationship had blossomed over a period of three years since then; it was now as close to love as it was possible to get. "When were you fucked last?"
"I was buggered by Master Paul three days ago, Master. I haven't been fucked for nearly two weeks."
"That long? Well, we do have so many of you now. Would you like to be fucked?"
"Yes please, Master!"
"Roberta?"
"I wouldn't mind her in bed. She has a good mouth, if I recall. Are you any good?"
Tinkerbelle held her pose, the legs so wide that the pink of her vagina's inner flesh could be seen contrasting with the slight darker lips and the black hair that curled around them. "Yes, Mistress! I love sucking your cunt. You told me I was good, Mistress."
"You can get back on your knees, Tinkerbelle," said Ransome, grinning at the eagerness. He waited until she was back in position. "You'll be on bedroom duty tonight, girl."
"Thank you, Master!" She sounded genuinely enthusiastic.
He looked at her for several moments. "Do you know what happens to slaves when they leave here, Tinkerbelle?" he asked at last.
The slave's fell, a moment ago shining and happy, fell and darkened as if a veil had dropped. Her voice too, changed, becoming doom-laden. "No, Master. Please, I…"
"Talking out of turn? I thought you knew batter than that, my girl?"
"I humbly crave my Master and Mistress' pardon. But please, I want to stay here and serve you!"
He and Roberta exchanged glances. They'd heard that particular plea a hundred times before. It was strange, given that they'd spent months beating the living daylights out of those same slaves and forcing them to perform sexual acts that some of them had never even dreamed of. It was the old story, of course: the hell you know is a lot better than the hell you don't.
"It's not quite that simple," said Ransome, his voice close to gentle. "We take you in, train you and then hand you back to your husbands, or whoever it was that sent you here. In your case, your step-father."
"But he's dead, Master!"
"I know. Which gives us a problem: what do we do with you? In the past, we'd have shipped you off to somewhere on the Continent to take your chances. But now there's an alternative."
The girl, aged nineteen, was crying. "Please, Master! Keep me here!"
"Sorry, Tinkerbelle, no can do. But I'll give you the choice: go to the auction on the Continent, or to a new establishment that going to be opened shortly, run by some friends of ours. You'll still be a slave, mind you."
The tears ebbed a little. "Will I be beaten?"
"Oh, yes. But you won't be damaged. And you will be used, just as you have been here. And some of the people using you will be quite old men."
She was silent for a moment. "Will… will I ever see you again, Master? Mistress?" I was notable that she didn't ask whether she'd ever be free again; it confirmed their joint opinion that she was reconciled to slavery.
"We will be there from time to time, yes."
"Then if I can't stay here I would like to go there, Master."
"I think that that is a very wise decision, Tinkerbelle."



Chapter 6

Three dark-blue-uniformed officers brought them in, two of them flanking the pale-olive skinned girl with the mass of black hair that fell thickly and abundantly to her shoulders. The moment she saw Griffin, she stopped, those black eyes blazing hate, the full lips drawn back in a snarl. The men to either side of her found that she'd stopped only when the cuffs brought them up short. She resisted, furiously, their attempts to move her.
"Bastard!" she cried, aiming her fury at Griffin. Then, as her exasperated guards exerted a little more effort to pull her forward, she sprang past them in his direction, stopping just short. She glared at him, eyes wild, then pursed her lips and spat in his face. "English bastard! You'll get no work from me!"
The guards, recovering, jumped forward and, grabbing her by the upper arms, dragged her back away from him as he wiped his face with his handkerchief. The one with stripes on his arm looked apologetic as he struggled to hold the writhing, cursing woman. "I'm very sorry, sir! She was giving all sorts of trouble earlier, but she'd calmed down. Do you want to make a charge?"
Griffin tucked the handkerchief away and looked at her. She'd stopped struggling and was gazing at him with venom. Not for the first time he saw just how beautiful she was, with that distorted expression on her face making her even more attractive, particularly as he contemplated what was coming to her. It was all he could do not to smile. She was wearing a pale blue official-issue smock that could not adequately hide the figure than was beneath it.
"No," he said. "We'll put it down to strain, shall we?"
The man looked relieved; no doubt a report would put him in hot water. "Thank you… Mr Griffin, is it?"
Griffin nodded, letting his eyes move to the other one, who'd watched what had gone on with studied indifference. She was wearing jeans, flat shoes and a checked skirt buttoned all the way up to her neck. Her hip was cocked to one side as she managed to insert every possible ounce of impudence into the slouch. The little finger of one hand was at her mouth, picking at her teeth and when she saw him looking she have a little toss of her head and looked away. It was as clear a demonstration of silent insolence as he'd ever see. Going past that, she had light brown hair, cut just below the ears and rather sharp features that would have been pretty if it hadn't been for the sneer she affected. Her figure was slim, with good breasts and hips She was taller than the Italian girl: about five feet seven, he guessed; he already knew that she was twenty-four to the Italian's twenty-eight.
The sergeant was looking at him, still slightly anxious. "Do you have quarters for them, sir? Will you hold still, you bi…!" he snarled as Maria decided to have another tug-of-war session with the handcuffs. Then he recovered, looking sheepishly at Griffin. "Sorry, sir. As you can see, this one's a real handfull. The other one looks quiet enough, but she's run three times, as you probably know. If I was you I'd lock the bitc… lock them up, sir."
Griffin smiled. "Don't worry about that, Sergeant. I do have other workers here, plus a Matron who knows how to handle the tricky ones, if you know what I mean."
The two men on either side of the dark girl looked at each other, down to her then up to him. Both were grinning. "Yes, sir," said the sergeant. "I think I do. And if I might say so, it couldn't happen to anyone who deserves it more. Where would you like us to put them, sir?"
He pretended thought. "Matron's attending to something at the moment and she has the keys. Why don't you cuff them to the banisters?" One of the things that had appealed to him about this house was the fact that the main room in which they now stood was huge and had a balcony running round its circumference, creating a mezzanine which gave access to the upper floors and which served as a library. The staircase he now indicated ran from the floor to that level. "I have some regulation ones on the table, to save you losing yours."
The man smiled. "Not a problem, sir. The cuffs come free. With this one," he helped his mate to tug Maria to the stairs, none too gently. "We'd happily throw in an extra pair!" They weren't feeling as generous as far as their charges were concerned, it seemed, because they fastened both women to points half-way up the stairs, the shorter Italian to the higher point, just to make their point.
Griffin was secretly very satisfied: with no prompting from him, the guards had very neatly put the two new slaves – as yet entirely unaware of that status – into the best possible position for their introduction to heir new life.
"Can I offer you chaps a drink?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir. But we have more deliveries to make. If you'll be good enough to sign here?" The sergeant produced some papers from his inside pocket. "Oh, and the medical officer asked me to point out that the dark one has some bruises and marks on her. They were there when she arrived; someone seems to have, er, taken advantage, sir. Not in a serious way, you understand, more a question of mauling."
"That's terrible!" said Griffin, sliding two fifty pound notes between the pages.
The sergeant, who'd seen the money, met his eyes with complete impassivity. "It is, sir. Terrible. And thank you very much, sir."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
He waited until the sound of the diesel had faded before walking over to stand in front of the two new acquisitions. Maria seemed to have sunk into a sullen depression because she kept her head down and wouldn't look at him. The other, though, was suddenly vocal.
"Hey!" she said, tossing her hair. "This is fucking uncomfortable!"
He looked at her without replying. With her hands over her head, arms half-bent, her figure was more apparent. The waist was narrower and swell of his broader than he'd thought, though it was difficult to judge her breasts because of the flattening effect of her position.
"Hey! You! This isn't regulation! Get me the fuck out of these cuffs! It's fucking painful!"
"Things," he said quietly, meeting her defiant eyes. "Will become a great deal more uncomfortable and painful before you leave this house." He saw Maria's head come up and felt her eyes on him. The English girl, though – Sandra – didn't seem to have the same prescience.
"Don't try and scare me, mister! I've had experts try! I know the rule book back to fucking front, so fuck you and fuck your threats. Now get me out of these fucking cuffs before I put in a section 15 complaint!"
"You see the lady beside you? She was making all the trouble a while ago. See how quiet she's gone? Care to stop and wonder why?"
He said it because he'd just glanced at Maria. Her body was suddenly very still, her gaze more intent; she knew – or sensed – that all was not as it should be; that there was threat here.
"Fuck you!" spat the younger woman. "Get the fucking Matron!"
He heard the door on the other side of the wide hall open. "That," he replied, "could be called perfect timing. You want to meet the lady who's going to be looking after you? Here she is!"
"About fucking ti… Fucking hell!" Her eyes bulged as she stared over Griffin's shoulder. "What the fu…?"
He knew what she'd seen and wasn't too interested in her reaction, more those of the Italian woman who had sealed his interest in her when she spat in his face. As far as he was concerned, things between her and him had become very personal indeed. In fact, very nearly as personal as it had been with his very first slaves: it added a special spice to things. Now he slid his eyes sideways to her. She, too, was staring at across the room, though her expression was far less readable that that of the English girl. For a moment he thought he saw fear there, but as he watched and the eyes began moving in his direction, he saw that change to a new and all-consuming hatred. But before their eyes could meet, he swivelled on his heel.
Even in Colin and Peter's time, there had been a standing joke within the group about the weird and wonderful get-up that dominatrices are supposed to wear, an attitude more than shared by Paula, who scoffed at the common conception of leather mask, corset, knickers and knee-high boots with spike heels. Especially the corset: "I like room for my tits to swing," she'd said.
Yet when he turned, there she was, in the full fig, all the way down to the corset, which had her breasts pushed up so far that they were practically under her chin. He had to admit, after a moment when he almost burst into laughter, that she made a striking and impressive figure, particularly with those heels adding a couple of inches to her height. It was no wonder that the girl's eyes had almost popped out. And if the outfit – which she was wearing after they'd discussed this entrance – wasn't enough, she held, in her right hand, the ends of two leashes. At their other ends, collars round their necks, were the naked figures of Sticky Stacy, still recovering from her over-beating and Tinkerbelle, newly arrived from Underhill.
The two slaves were on their hands and knees and scuttled after Paula as she stalked – it was the only word to described it – over the floor, those heels sounding like rifle shots on the parquet floor. Her eyes met his, level. He shifted his to the left: ‘concentrate on that one', he indicated. He saw acknowledgement and knew that the other part of their plan was under way. Ignore the Italian, concentrate on the English girl.
"So, they're here, are they?" asked Paula.
Griffin moved to her side and turned. She was practically his equal in height now, he noticed, thanks to those heels. As he turned, he chanced a quick look at Maria; she was staring at the two slaves. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, but then her eyes moved to him, so he shifted his look to Sandra. Her expression was everything that Maria's was not: her mouth hung open, her eyes bulged, flicking from the two slaves, to Paula, to him. She, too, swallowed, her mouth closing to allow her tongue to come out and wet her lips. Then she recovered enough to attempt bravado.
"What the fuck are you dressed for, Grandma?" she demanded, the quaver in her voice betraying her.
Paula flicked the crop against her boot. It cracked, bringing it to the attention of both girls. Again the tongue came out of Sandra's mouth; her eyes took on the first aspect of fear.
"I'm dressed to meet the she-wolves," said Paula softly. "And tame them."
There was fear in the eyes now. They switched to Griffin after pausing on the two slaves. "A… all right, mister. Fucking joke's over. Ha-ha and all that. Now let me the fuck out of here before I start screaming."
"The practice won't hurt," said Paula. She turned. "Would you like a tongue to sooth that sore cunt of yours?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"All right, then. Tinkerbelle, I want you to go over to the carpet with Sticky Stacy. Let her go on top, because her bum's still a bit touchy. Have a nice sixty-nine for a while. All right?"
"Yes, Mistress."
Paula dropped the leashes and both she and Griffin turned to watch the two naked slaves crawl over the floor to the carpet, where Tinkerbelle lay down and spread her legs wide. It was far from the first time she'd done this. For Stacy, it would be the first gentle touch her sex had felt for weeks.
"You're fucking perverts!" shrieked Sandra, "A pair of fucking psychos!"
He flicked a glance at the Italian girl, his real target, the one he wanted to hurt and humiliate the way he had the Bentley and Wilson sluts. There were bonuses with this one: she was even more beautiful that either of that pair and, according to the reports that Chambers had seen, she was a damned sight more resilient. But he was a great deal more experienced now than he had been then; he was going to make her transition from proud, haughty and defiant to grovelling acquiescence a long and – for him and his friends, anyway – pleasurable experience.
Her head was turned away from him; she was looking down, the clear message being that she wasn't interested in watching what was going on, that she didn't care. Bravado, of course, but it showed her strength. He felt his pulse quicken as his eyes swept up the raised arms to the hands. They'd left her rather stretched and uncomfortable, the cuffs biting into her wrists. As he watched she lifted on her toes to ease that pressure. Good. Let her suffer even that mildly while she heard what was happening. She might be pretending unconcern, but she'd be listening to everything. Listening and wondering.
"I want to make an official complaint!" shouted the sandy-brown haired girl. "Get me the governor of this fucking place!"
He wondered how much of her behaviour was bluster. Was she really as tough as she acted, or was it all a brittle façade that would crack at the first stroke? It would be interesting to find out. And to have a look at the body under that shirt and jeans; it showed promise. Not, perhaps as good as the new girl, Tinkerbelle, who was a pocket Venus – and a talented one, as he and Paula had found out last night – but very acceptable. With that permanent insolent sneer wiped off her face she'd be quite attractive, he decided.
"You can address any complaints you have to me," he said.
"Fuck you! I want the organ grinder, not the monkey! And get these fucking cuffs off me!"
He had to grin. There was fear in her eyes, but she was still trying. Perhaps there was real spirit in her. So much the better. "Sorry," he said. "What you see is what you get. About that complaint?"
The eyes strayed beyond him, he thought to the two naked slaves who were just beginning to make arousal noises. They flickered to Paula then to him. Now she was really worried. "You… you can't do this! I'm state-indentured!"
"Ah! There you are in error. The state has washed its hands of you. I bought your debts. Which means, in effect, that I bought you."
The mouth dropped open. From the corner of his eye he saw Maria jerk. The mouth close, opened then closed again. Sandra swallowed, her eyes revealing the sudden tumult of her thoughts. Then she found her voice again. "You can't fucking do this! It's fucking illegal! What have you done to them, you bastard?"
"You really have got a filthy mouth, haven't you?"
She pulled at the cuffs, anger overcoming fear and confusion once more. "Who fucking cares, perv? Get these things off me and let me go and I might just forget this!"
"Sorry."
"I'll fucking run! You can't keep me here. And when I get out I'll blow the whistle so fucking loud it'll hurt your fucking ears!"
He turned to Paula. "I think a dozen with the jeans on to start with," he said.
She nodded, the flesh of her mounded breasts protruding above the corset quivering. "Plus six for the language," she said.
"Good idea." He turned back to the girl, whose face had gone pale. Her eyes were back to apprehension and fear, too. "Hear that?" he asked.
She licked her lips. "You can't! That… that's illegal! You'll go to prison!"
"It's cleaned your mouth, anyway. Take a look at that pair with their tongues a foot up each other. Does that look as if I care what's legal?"
"Fucking perverted bastard!"
"True," he admitted. Behind him, her heard Paula's heels cracking on the floor. She was going to one of the curtained recesses, he knew. He knew why, too. "In a moment I'm going to free your hands," he began. "If…"
"Come near me and I'll kick you in the fucking balls!"
"Ah, you see? That is precisely what I was going to caution you against." The footsteps came back, accompanied by the whirr of wheels. He didn't turn. "Because, in a moment you're going to face down over that thing. Just how many stokes you get after the first eighteen will be up to you."
"Strokes? You mean…? No!" she shrieked. "You caaaaaan't!"
He heard Paula snap the locks on the wheels of the caning block. It was perfect timing, before the girl got too hysterical. He fished in his pocket for the small key to the handcuffs and moved in, fast.
She obviously wasn't expecting it; she was too busy protesting for that. When she realised what was happening, it was too late. Her protests turned to panicked screams as he took her round the waist, his free hand going up to her wrists with the key. He'd had a lot of trouble with that in the past, but assiduous practice had made the task easy. The key slipped in and turned, the cuff opened and he lifted her up and away from the wall, at the same time smothering her struggles by pulling her to him with both arms wrapped round her. A few steps, a turn; Paula's hands coming to help and then the now non-stop screaming girl was face down on the leather squab. Moments later the straps were fastened, that dangling handcuff removed and he and Paula straightened to smile at each other.
"Was that a record?" he asked.
"We're getting good at it, aren't we? Shall we let her watch the show before we start?"
"If she's gagged first. That's a terrible row!"
The row was silenced with a penis gag that was buckled into place, giving them some peace and the bound girl something else to think about. Correction, thought Griffin: gave her and the Italian bitch something else to think about. It would be becoming obvious to the black-haired woman that she was in the hands of people who knew what they were doing by now. That wouldn't be very comforting for her, he thought with a fierce surge of joy.
Griffin sometimes had problems telling when a woman had reached orgasm, particularly when they were performing as Sticky and Tinkerbelle were. Paula always knew, as more than one slave had found out when she'd tried to fake it. She knew now.
"Did you both have a nice come?" she asked them.
The scrambled to their knees, faces shining with the secretions of the other. Tinkerbelle squatted back on her heels, thighs wide, hands behind her neck to thrust her breasts forward: the true slave display position, though there were variations. Sticky, on the other hand, knelt with her legs almost closed, her hands loose in front of her and her backside – for obvious reasons – well away from her heels. Her expression, though, under that shining mask that covered half her face, was that of a dog eager to please.
"Yes, Mistress," they chorused.
"Mmmmmmph! MmmmmmMmmmmph!"
They ignored her.
"Sticky," said Paula. "It's time you learned how to display. Look at Tinkerbelle and copy her."
She made a fairly good job of it, but her backside still hovered a foot over her heels.
"Very good," said Paula. I can see those sloppy cunts of yours. So can little miss foul mouth up here."
"Mmmmmmph! Aaaaaaarrrglmmmph!"
"Sticky, I know that your backside's a bit tender, but I want to see it on your heels."
Those enormous eyes clouded. "Oh, Mis…"
"Don't!" warned Paula. "Just do it."
She did, with much squirming, wincing and squealing.
"See?" said Paula with a smirk. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"
It looked a lot worse, judging by the tears that flowed. "N… no, Mistress," sobbed Sticky, who was learning fast.
"What do you think of that hair that Tinkerbelle has?" she asked, looking at Griffin.
She was referring to the tufts at Tinkerbelle's armpits.
"I quite like it."
"Me too. Must ask George what he thinks. Sticky, do you want to get that backside off your heels?"
"Yes please, Mistress!"
Paula laughed. "All right. Get on your hands and knees and show this thing on the block what happens to thieves, vagabonds and women with dirty mouths." Sticky, it seemed, wasn't the smartest of women; she looked bewildered. Paula sighed. "On your hands and knees, girl! Show this thing your backside!"
Griffin risked a quick look. Maria was watching, her mouth twisted. She saw him and whipped her head round, back away from the scene, but he'd seen her eyes. And the look in them.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmph!" The sound was pitched much higher than those that had come earlier. Which wasn't surprising, because she'd just seen the havoc that the crop had wreaked on Sticky's backside, thighs and sex. It wasn't a pretty sight for Paula and Griffin: to Sandra, it must have seemed like a glimpse of imminent hell.



Chapter 7

"Don't! Stop it!" cried Sandra desperately.
Griffin had positioned himself near her head. He – as had the rest of them – had found that it was a lot more fun watching the face of the victim than it was seeing stripes appearing on the backside. Sticky Stacy was back on her knees, her expression betraying the fact that she was sitting on her heels; Tinkerbelle's face hadn't changed: she simply looked up at Sandra without emotion. How many punishments had she witnessed before this one?
"All set?" enquired Paula, entirely unnecessarily.
"No! No! Stop it! Bastards! Filthy fucking bastards! You caaaaaan't do this!"
Crack!
"A…a…aaaaaaiiiiieeeeeeeee! Oh, you fucking bitch! Stop this!"
Thwack!
"Whooooooo… whooooo… yaaaaaah! Bitch! Bitch! Fucking old cow! Ow, oh!"
Whack!
"Yiiiiiiieeeee! Oh, oh! Oh, no… stop! Stop! This is…. Oh, don't!"
Thwack!
"Aaaaaaiiiiieeeeee! Oh, oh oh, oh, oh! Oh God, no! Stop, stop!" her head came up, frantic eyes seeking contact with Griffin's. "Make her stop!"
He smiled down at her. "It seems to have improved your language," he said.
"Fucking bastard!" she howled. "Bitch! Fucking old bitch!"
Crack!
"Aaaaaagh! No! Stop, stop! Bitch, fucking fucking bitch! Stop!"
Whack!
"Nooooooooo! Aaaaaiiiiee! Stop, stop! Ple… Stop, you bitch! I'll fucking kill you, you fat cow! Oh, oh, oh God, stop!"
Whack!
"Eeeeeeeeek! On no! Please, no! Please stop!"
Something wet splashed on to Griffin's hand. A tear or spittle thrown from the gaping mouth as her head thrashed. He glanced down at the kneeling slaves. Sticky was crying, Tinkerbelle still impassive. But he hadn't missed that first crack in the defences: that ‘please'.
Crack!
"Aaaaaiieeeeeaaaagh! Oh, stop, please! You're killing me!"
Whack!
"Nnnnneeeeeeeiiiiiiaaah! Please! Please!"
Thwack!
"AaaaaaaAAaaaaaaAAaaaaaaaah! Aaaaiiiieeeee! Pleeeeeese, no more!! Mercyyyyy!"
Crack!
"AaaaaaaaAAAAaaaaaaAAAAaaaaaaaiiiiiieeeee! Oh please! Please please ple…"
Thwack!
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek please please please please please pleaseeeeee. Oh God, please! Stop! Mercy, mercy!"
She babbled on, not realising that it had, for the moment stopped.
Paula stepped back, glancing over her shoulder at Maria before moving up to join Griffin. She was breathing just a little heavily, but she controlled that as she looked down at the sobbing Sandra.
"Can you count, you foul-mouthed little slut?"
"Oh, oh, oh! You… No more!"
"It's a good thing you stopped yourself there, missie, because I don't take kindly to insults. I don't like being ignored, either, so I'll ask that question just once more before I go back down to the other end and start again. Can you count?"
"No! No more, please!" There was a pause as the pain-hazed brain seemed to absorb the question. "Yes, I can count!"
"That's good, because you probably noticed that you've had twelve strokes. Not very hard strokes, but still twelve."
"Not hard? Oh, God!" There was another pause while the brain worked. When she'd got there, the head jerked. "No, please, no more. Please don't! Mercy, please! I'm sorry!"
"Ah! So you remembered? Yes, you were promised eighteen. So that's six still to come."
"Nooooooo! You can't! No more, please!"
"Don't interrupt, it makes me cross. As I was saying: you had six to come, but you upset me so much with all that swearing that I've decided to make it twelve more."
"Oh, noooooooo!" shrieked Sandra, the sound rising in both pitch and volume. "You can't!"
"Who's going to stop me?"
"Oh noooooooo! Please, please, pleeeeeeeease!"
"Do I take it that you don't want the extra six on top of the six to come?"
"No! Yes! Please, it hurts!"
"It's supposed to hurt. That's why I do it."
"You're a fiend!"
"Ah, ah! Much more of that and I'll take away the choice you're about to get." The silence was almost instant, broken only by a stifled sob. "Well, want to hear it?"
"Y… yes." The voice was hesitant and laced with suspicion. As well as pain, of course.
"Well, you can have another dozen, or…."
"No! No! Not that!"
"I won't tell you again about interrupting me," said Paula, steel in her tone. It softened just a fraction. "Where was I? Oh, yes: twelve more like the last ones, possibly a bit harder. Or just six. Which?"
"Six!"
"On the bare."
"Wh….," there was another pause. "What? On… Oh, no! please, no! Haven't you done enough?"
Paula chuckled. "I've only just started, slut."
"Don't call me that!"
"You don't have a choice in that. The only choice you have is between twelve and six. And if you're worried about your modesty, take a look at the pair on the floor in front of you. Still, I won't influence you: it's entirely up to you."
"Aaaaaaarrrgh! Why did they send me here! Oh, God help me!"
"Five, four, three, two…."
"Six!" Sandra yelled then burst into tears.
"Six? Are you sure?"
"Y… yes."
"All right, we'll just unfasten you and let you get undressed."
The straps were unbuckled. As soon as she was on her feet, her hands went to her backside as she looked at them, tear-laden eyes wide, jogging from one foot to the other as she rubbed the injured part.
"Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you?"
Griffin laughed. He couldn't help it. Paula didn't, but she had to cover her mouth with her hand to mask the smile. When she replied, however, she looked as serious as she had while administering the beating.
"Because, you stupid slut, we own you."
The eyes darted from one to the other as she writhed, hand busy rubbing. "Own? You can't own! That…" horror started in the eyes. She cast a panicked glance to Tinkerbelle and Sticky, then back to Paula. She backed a step. "That's… that's slavery!"
"Clever girl. Now let's have those clothes off."
The head shook in disbelief; she took another backward step, eyes moving from them to swing round as she searched for an escape route without being to obvious about it. Griffin wasn't worried: there was no way out of that room unless he activated the interlocks that had come into effect the moment the front door had closed behind the guards. Still, he watched her carefully, ready to go after her when she bolted.
"No! I'm not getting undressed for you, you fucking dyke slag! Take that fucking thing and stick it as far up you as it'll reach!" She'd been backing away all the time she was talking. Now she spun on her heel and ran for the door she'd been brought through.
"I'll get her," said Griffin, making his way after her without indecent haste.
She tugged at the handle frantically, spinning when she heard his footsteps. Her back flattened against the door, arms spread, hands flat. The pain was, apparently, forgotten at least temporarily. Her eyes darted, looking for a way. He slowed as he approached her, aware that eyes other than Paula's and the two slaves' were on him and not wanting to be made a fool of with a dart and a feint, which she was sure to try.
"You're wasting your time and stocking up strokes," he said.
"Fuck you!" She broke to his left then jinked right, ducking to avoid his grasp.
And ran straight into his stiffened fingers. All he'd done was hold his hand out, wrists and fingers locked, and she ran directly on to it, the impact an inch under her sternum. It was a trick that Peter Ransome had taught on a trip to Underhill. The breath whooshed out of her and she went down like a sack of potatoes, gasping and heaving as she struggled to get it back. As he bent to pick her up, his eyes met those of the Italian. The depth of hatred that passed in those seconds before she tore the contact was almost physical. It made him feel very glad that she was the one with the handcuffs on, not him.
He dumped the girl on the floor at Paula's feet. She was still wheezing.
"I'd suggest that we let the two sluts undress her," he said.
"An eminently sensible suggestion," replied Paula. "There's no point in having them if you don't use them." She rapped an order.
Sandra had just about got her breath back by the time she'd been stripped. She had recovered enough to give voice, albeit weakly, at just about the same time that the last strap was snugged into place, leaving her firmly attached to the caning block once more. But this time she was naked. And this time they'd spread her legs. She was to be denied no humiliation.
"How many?" asked Paula, looking over her back at Griffin.
"No! Oh, God, what are you doing?" wailed Sandra. Her face was simultaneously a picture of outraged modesty and dread terror. "You can't, not again!"
Griffin ignored her. "Hundreds," he replied, "but in practical terms, I'd say another dozen tonight, with at least a dozen on the slate."
"Twenty-four on the slate. She did call me a slag."
"Agreed."
"No!" The voice cracked as it rose. "You can't! It's inhuman!"
"All right," said Paula, voice suddenly reasonable. "I'll let you off if you come to bed with me and give me a nice, long lick until I come."
"No!" the girl shrieked. "I'm not like that!"
"Oh, good," said Paula, her voice oozing self-satisfaction as the unfortunate woman fell into her trap. "That means that you can really enjoy what's coming next. Before the twelve, that is. Sticky, take her mouth, Tinkerbelle, the back end. I want your tongues in her until I tell you to stop."
The head thrashed, arms and legs heaving as she bucked and writhed as far as the ties would allow. "Nooooooo!" she howled. "Keep off me, you bit… Mmmmmmmmmaaargh!"
Her voice was muffled as Sticky grabbed her by the hair and/or ears, lifted her face and mashed her mouth down over that of the bound girl. She hadn't been told that she'd be punished for failure, but she'd learned enough to know that that came naturally when you were a slave. So although Sandra tried hard, she was powerless against someone who was even more desperate than she was.
As Sticky approached her task with determination, Tinkerbelle bent to hers. She had the easy end, one which couldn't thrash around as the other could. All she had to do was bend, open the lips of the sex with her fingers then apply her tongue to the vaginal entrance, pressing it in. Then, just in case she could be accused of deliberate misinterpretation of instructions – a trap always present for a slave - because the instruction had been ‘back end', she moved up a fraction and thrust it at the tiny puckering of the anus, alternating between the two ever few seconds.
"That will do," called Paula after a couple of minutes
Instantly, the two slaves pulled back.
Sandra moaned, shaking her head and spitting.
"Would you like some more?" asked Paula.
"Aaaaargh! Filthy!" cried the captive, bursting into tears. "Leave me alone!"
"Did she try to bite you, Sticky?"
"Yes, Mistress. But I twisted her ears."
Paula smiled at her, eyebrows rising. "Then you're not as dumb as you look. Clever girl."
"Thank you, Mistress."
"Go back to your places." She waited a moment. "So, little miss foul-mouth, not only do you spurn my generosity, you try to maim one of my slaves. I do not take kindly to either. So that's another six I'm adding to that slate. You'll be spending quite some time on that block at this rate."
This time there was no reply. The head had sunk to the leather as Sandra sobbed into it, her shoulders heaving.
Griffin looked at the buttocks. Twelve near-parallel lines marched across them, evidence of those earlier strokes. Paula had been telling the truth, they hadn't been at all hard, not by normal slave standards. Introductory thrashing rarely were; they didn't have to be, since they were invariably inflicted on virgin flesh; or in this case, flesh inadequately protected by two thin coverings of cloth. But Paula was nettled now; the twelve to come would have more sting in them. On the bare.
She didn't waste any time. The crop rose, then lashed down. A shrieking howl erupted as the head flew back to reveal features that seem to be gaping in unison as new agony was piled on. Twelve times the crop fell, but the shrieking didn't seem to stop at all between strokes, mainly because there wasn't time. It was a dreadful paean of agony that rose and rose until her throat gave out and it cracked into a hoarse, rattling noise. By coincidence, that happened on the twelfth.
There was colour in that backside now, predominantly red, on flesh that jerked and quivered as the sounds of agony diminished into equally dreadful groans of torment as the flesh burned and throbbed.
"Do you want to fuck her?" asked Paula.
"No, another time," he said, jerking his head backwards.
Paula caught the movement and its significance. She nodded. "Then she can go to a cell to contemplate life," she said. "Anything you want to say?"
"No… yes," he modified. He leaned close to the head from which awful sounds still came. "I'm going to have a dictionary put in you cell, open at a random page." he said, "From tomorrow, you'll learn all the words in one column, together with the definitions. Then I'll test you. One stroke for every mistake you make. And one more thing: if I ever… ever hear you swear again, it will mean twenty-four strokes. I know you're feeling sorry for yourself at the moment, but I hope you got all that. I do hate having to repeat myself." He straightened and smiled at Paula.
"She won't remember all that," she said.
He shrugged. "So much the worse for her. Are you hungry?"
"The exercise has given me an appetite. I hope there'll be some more fun later?"
He said nothing. But he winked.



Chapter 8
"This is quite an exceptional wine!"
Griffin smiled. "You should know," he said. "You supplied it."
"Did I?" responded KP, his eyes twinkling. "One forgets."
"Hah!" contributed Paula. "The day you forget anything will be the day the gates of hell ice up!"
She received an equable smile. "I do hope," he said. "That I am not depriving you of food." He accompanied the words by cutting a slice of steak and popping it into his mouth, chewing happily while he looked at his erstwhile mistress, personal assistant and partner and his protégée and partner, Griffin.
The telephone call had come while they were putting Sandra into her cell. She couldn't or wouldn't walk, so she was supported by Tinkerbelle and Sticky, with Maria left to her own devices, to hang against that wall and wonder what was going to happen to her.
It had been KP, calling from his helicopter with the announcement that he was on the way. There had been communications problems, so he'd been unable to get through earlier. The upshot was that he'd be arriving in five minutes. Which he did, the helicopter touching down on the paddock behind the house. KP had dismounted carrying only a small overnight bag.
"You aren't depriving us at all," Griffin said, attacking his own food. "Though you might get a vote of thanks from Sticky Stacy down there: she's been eating everything in sight after every meal. Not by choice; we're trying to put some flesh on her."
KP cocked his head and looked at the kneeling girls, who could not have been more in contrast: the lanky, gaunt figure of Sticky and the petite, voluptuous Tinkerbelle. About the only thing they had in common was the dark hair, though Sticky's had a reddish tinge to it. "I see what you mean," he said. "But her mouth looks promising."
The mouth in question twitched as she heard herself being discussed in disparaging terms yet again.
"Oh, she's come on in leaps and bounds with that," said Griffin. "Mind you, it's all she had, since we've had to stop using the other end."
"My fault," Paula admitted. "But she has practically no flesh on her! Show your Masters you backside, Sticky."
Biting her lip, the lanky woman swivelled on her heels, going to hands and knees, her back to the table.
"You know better than that, girl!" snapped Paula, the easy-going tone vanishing in a split second. "Get those thighs apart! Don't think because we've let you off being walloped on that backside of yours for the time being that we can't put a few strokes somewhere else? Like across those non-existent tits of yours!"
There was a wail. The knees spread wide, the back dipping to emphasise the presentation of the rear end.
KP popped more steak into his mouth and chewed. "Ouch!" he commented. "That looks a trifle tender. It's certainly an interesting mixture of colours!"
There was a muffled sob from the backside's owner, entirely ignored by those seated at the table. And, it has to be said, by the other kneeling girl, whose impassive face gave no hint of her thoughts.
Her name had been Pamela Turnbull, but she'd almost forgotten that. She knew that she was nineteen years old, because her birthday had been just three weeks away when her stepfather had sent her to Underhill. Nobody, especially herself, had celebrated her birthday. Her Master and Mistress probably knew about it – they seemed to know everything else – but gave no indication, while she was in such a haze of pain, distress and humiliation that birthdays were the very last thing on her mind.
Now she was Tinkerbelle – officially, Tinkerbelle VI, though she didn't know that – a fully trained and conditioned sex slave. Trained and conditioned to serve her stepfather, whom she had hated from the moment that she'd seen him. Her mother had been feeling a little unwell on the day that she married him, a vague indisposition that suddenly bloomed into cancer just three months later. Within another two months, he was a widower and she was left, at the age of seventeen, at the mercy of a man who could not hide his desire for her; not that he made any attempt to demonstrate that in either word or deed. Which had, in a way, been her undoing: she had taken that reticence as an indication of his weakness and begun to taunt him, to flaunt herself in the belief that she was invulnerable. The hatred she already felt turned quickly to contempt as the months passed. And then one day, she woke up in Underhill.
Being underground wasn't the only similarity that that place – which she knew only by its name – had to Hell. For such it was for the girl who soon came to think of herself only as ‘Tinkerbelle', an object with a body that contained three holes for the pleasure of others. Holes that had to be used freely, enthusiastically and expertly to maximise the satisfaction she gave. That she would have to give the man who had sent her there when it was considered that she was ready.
But he had died before that training was complete. One part of her had exulted about that, but another had been filled with apprehension and dread. By that time the worst of the pain was behind her; she was very nearly fully trained and was close to being an expert in giving pleasure with her body. Indeed, so conditioned was she that she took her own pleasure in the no longer forced acts of depravity she performed. And now she was here, in a strange place, with people who weren't entirely strangers. All three seated at the table were familiar to and with her; she had serviced them all on their visits to Underhill, the older man several times. She didn't need to have seen the arse – slaves used basic terms – of the pencil-thin woman or watch the beating on the block to know that they could hand out punishment: she had felt the crop, cane or quirt from all of them on those visits. ‘Just for encouragement', they'd said. As if that was needed, but a slave with any sense doesn't argue or protest about injustice: she just sucks, licks or works at what she's doing a little harder to try to make sure it doesn't happen much more.
Last night she had shared the bed of the Master John and Mistress Paula, together with slave Sticky. Or she had until the people who mattered were replete. Then she and Sticky had got out to sleep on the floor. Sticky was undisturbed, but she only until they had woken her so that she could be buggered while she gave her Mistress an arse- and cunt-tonguing. There'd be more of that here than there had been at Underhill, she knew; there had been more slaves there. Besides, she was the youngest and best-looking of them, though the woman they'd left fastened to the stairs was very beautiful. Why hadn't they punished her as they had the sandy-haired one? Not that it mattered, other than that she might divert their attention away from her.
While keeping her face blank, she listened carefully to what was being said at the table above. She had two reasons: she didn't want to miss an order, which could have painful consequences and she wanted to hear whether they had anything planned for the black-haired woman. After all, they'd put the other new girl and Sticky out of action as far as punishment was concerned. That left only the other woman and Tinkerbelle herself. With the utter selfishness that slaves develop early, she longed for it to be the other and not her.
"What about that other one?" asked KP. "The one that's cuffed to the stairs out there?"
Griffin and Paula exchanged glances. "Ah!" said Griffin, "she's a bit special."
KP's eyebrows rose. "Special, eh?" he chuckled. "I like them special!"
"Then you'll love this one," put in Paula.

*

Maria eased herself up on to the balls of her feet to take the pressure off her wrists. She'd been making it look as if she was hanging from them so that they might relent and take them off her. That hadn't worked though, and now there was no one here to see. But discomfort, feigned or otherwise, wasn't the most pressing of her thoughts. The man who was was enjoying his meal in another room with two friends, waiting only for the arrival of Chambers before he turned his attention to her.
Mercifully, Maria didn't know that, though there was nothing comforting in the thoughts she was having. Griffin, the bastard! And here she was handcuffed and helpless in his house! Those bastard police had said that the terrorism charge had been mistaken identity, but then they'd arrested her for theft! Then that tall one – who seemed to have been in charge - had explained something about ‘transference of statutory responsibilities' and ‘transmutation of offence'. She hadn't known what the hell he was talking about, but now she did: they'd handed her to Griffin!
There was a sick knot in her stomach that wouldn't go away. She'd seen that woman in the ridiculous get-up. But she'd also seen those two naked women and what they'd done on her orders. And then, although she'd done her best to pretend that she wasn't bothering to look, that she was unconcerned, she'd seen – and heard – what had been done to the girl who'd been brought here with her. All of that added up to only one thing: slavery! That thin woman with the hideous backside and the girl with the good figure – who for some reason didn't seem to have any marks on her – had been forced into performing that vile act. And Griffin had stood and watched with every show of enjoyment!
He'd stood and watched the sandy-haired girl suffering. He was enjoying it! She'd seen his eyes move to her a couple of times when he thought she wouldn't see. He'd looked away quickly, but what he'd seen on his face and in those eyes had done nothing to ease the dread. She had been able to defy that fat slob of a Commandant and endure the dark, rat-infested dungeon because she knew that it couldn't last very long. It had been even easier on the train with that pair of guards who'd spent the first three hours groping her; until she'd let loose a scream that had brought the guard at a run. They'd left her alone after that, but she'd had nothing to eat or drink for the rest of the journey.
Here, - that knot began to ooze acid – there was no time limit, or none that she knew of. There was no doubt in her mind about what had been going on here: those naked women were no better than slaves, utterly at the mercy of that merciless pair. So was she. And she'd stolen his money. But they'd find that Maria Lombardi was no weak-kneed girl!



Chapter 9

"So what will you do to her?" asked KP, looking at Paula.
She, in turn, gazed at Griffin, who was feeding Sticky a piece of steak from his fingers, ensuring that she licked his fingers. "I don't know," she replied. "But I'm hoping that he's thinking ‘horsie'."
KP's eyes widened. "Ah! That little device that you were so enthusiastic about." He frowned. "I never did get to see that in action."
"Didn't you?" asked Griffin, wiping his hand on Sticky's hair. "I thought… No, we didn't use it on the last two tarts, did we?" He looked at Paula, smiling. "In fact I had thought of it, but the trouble with it is that it's just too damned effective. Juicy Lucy was as good as beaten after just a couple of sessions. Not that I knew that at the time, mark you. I want this one to last a long, long time so that I savour every step of it."
KP gave him a knowing look. "She really has got under your skin, hasn't she?"
"Yes," Griffin admitted. "She stole a lot of money, apart from anything else. Add the fact that she's a haughty bitch who seems to think that the sun shines out of her fundamental orifice."
"And you fancy her like mad," added Paula.
He grinned at her. "True. And I want to get back to the way it was the first time, without making the same mistakes. Hence my reluctance to use it too early; but if you both want to see it…"
KP held up his hands, palm out. "No, don't go against your instincts on my account, please. But if you don't mind a suggestion?"
"I'm all ears. Besides, we can't start until George arrives. I promised him."
*
Maria heard the front door open and tensed. She was beginning to tire now, having been in that same position for what seemed several hours, during which time no one had as much as looked into the room. She was beginning to be hungry and thirsty, too, though she wouldn't admit that to them for anything.
The door opened. A tall figure stepped through and her heart leapt. The policemen! Then the hope shrivelled as she saw him look at her, saw that expression of his face. His eyes went up to the cuffs, then down, sweeping over her body. Just like the fat Commandant.
"Bastard!" she spat.
The smile broadened, but he didn't speak. Nor did he come within range of her feet. He stood looking at her for a few moments then turned on his heel and walked to a door, the same door that the others had used. It closed behind him. She was alone again.
*
"Ah! The man himself!" cried Griffin as Chambers entered.
Chambers sketched a mock salute, smiled a greeting to Paula before nodding to the silver-haired man. "Hello, KP," he said.
"Not too surprised to see me, then?"
The grin stayed in place. "Not when I've had four separate patrol-car reports about a blue and yellow helicopter landing somewhere round here, I'm not." His eyes went to Tinkerbelle, who was still kneeling beside Sticky on the plastic sheet. "Lovely tits, Tinkerbelle."
The face tilted up. "Thank you, Master," she said, voice soft. "They are for your pleasure."
"I love the way Roberta and Peter train them," the policeman said. "Speaking of which, I very nearly stopped to have a fumble at the Italian piece out there, but the look in her eye told me that I'd get a kick in the balls for my trouble. Haven't you tamed her yet?"
"Haven't so much as touched her," replied Griffin. "In fact, we were just discussing a suggestion from KP when you arrived. Do you want to eat? Have a fuck or suck?"
"All three tempting, but a drink will do. A Scotch will be just right." He pulled out a chair and sat. "Anyone using Tinkerbelle for the moment? No? All right, Tinkerbelle, come over here and kneel up so I can play with those lovely tits. Sticky, get me a Scotch." He put out a hand, palm cupped so that Tinkerbelle could insinuate her breasts into position to allow him to fumble without having to change position. Sticky hurried to the drinks table and poured the drink, bringing it back on her feet, but sinking to her knees before proffering it.
"Welcome home," quipped Paula, drawing laughter from all, including Chambers.
"It would be if it was true! Just remember who it is that has to do all the bloody work while you lot laze about here!" He took a drink, "Ah! Marvellous. How's that backside of yours, Sticky?"
"Better, Master," said the slave, back to her original position. "But it still hurts."
"Hmmm. I fancy buggering you."
Her face almost twisted but she managed to turn it into a tormented half-smile. "Th… thank you, Master."
"Make it tomorrow, George," said Paula. "All you'll get tonight will be whining. I'll get Tinkerbelle to smear some witch hazel on her tonight. It'll get some of the bruising down, at least."
Chambers gave Tinkerbelle's breast a final squeeze and pat. "Down you get, little one, I have to concentrate." He swivelled, plonking his elbows on to the table. "You have my undivided attention," he said.
*
Despite the discomfort of her position she was almost dozing when the door opened. Her senses still slightly dulled, she watched as all four entered, the two younger men, both tall, crossing to floor towards her with long, swift strides, their faces grim. The woman, now dressed in a skirt and jumper and the older man stood at the door watching.
Then they were on top of her, unspeaking. She'd been expecting them to stop and look, perhaps taunt her, but they didn't. The speed and silence were un-nerving in themselves, as was the way that they separated and came at her from both sides, dividing her attention as the alarm bells went off in her head.
Too late. The policeman flattened himself against her, simply crushing her body against the wall with his, giving her no room at all to fight. She opened her mouth to shout, but something was forced down over her head, something soft and warm. Black. Darkness. There was a flash of panic; the scream died in her throat as she though for a second that she couldn't breathe. But she could, she found. By then the hands were at her wrists. The handcuffs clicked, fell loose, but her wrists were captured in a strong hand. The two men moved in unison, bringing her clear of the wall. All in silence, perhaps the most frightening thing.
And now she screamed, but that hood seemed to absorb it so that she felt she couldn't hear it herself. Then she started shouting and cursing in Italian. It did nothing, of course. She was lifted, the sounds of their feet muffled. Down. Down! No! Not down. Down was cells and dungeons! She fought the panic that surprise had brought and that their silence sustained. ‘Don't panic!' she told herself. ‘Panic's what they want!'
A door opening, a hand protecting her head as they went through. Didn't want to hurt her. Yet! Panic flashed; she fought it back. They put her down on a hard, cool floor. Tiles. Plastic, not ceramic. But one of then kneeling on her upper body, the other blanketing her legs. Hands! Hands on her hands and wrists, still held by Griffin – must be Griffin – one released, to be grasped by yet another, her arm pulled tight while someone wrapped cloth round her wrist. Bandage? Why? Then the other. Silence! That damned silence! Not a word spoken! Something else on her wrists, pulled tight then tighter still. What? Why?
Don't panic. Breathe! That stuff loose, blocking her mouth and nose, clinging. It felt like velvet, thick. There had to be light, but none filtered through. Nor sound. Talk; say something, one of you! Silence! She screamed again, but the only one to hear her was herself, encapsulated in the tiny world of that clinging hood. The body pressing her down shifted, but only so that her arms could be pulled down and back until her hand were brought together at the small of her back. Someone fumbled; she felt something click. And no one had touched her breasts or groin: what were the doing? What were they going to do?
The weights on her body lifted. She was lifted, strong arms taking her, one of them crossing under her breasts, though it was impersonal. Now she was on her feet, hands behind her, though no one held them. She made to bring them to her front, but they wouldn't move. Tied! Handcuffs again? If only they'd say something! But now there were hands at her throat, at the base of the hood. Lifting it. Thank God! She'd be able to see the, talk to them, scream at them. Curse them. Then it was off.
Pitch darkness, absolute. So unexpected that she thought she'd gone blind. She whimpered, panic starting again, but then something slipped over her head and down over her eyes, something that was tied of behind her head, her hair pulled up and out of the binding strap. She heard feet moving, a click as from a light switch, but she was still in darkness. At least she could hear properly now. And speak. They were all here, she though, because she could sense their bodies from tiny sounds and movements.
"Filthy bastards!" she yelled.
The reverberations told her that she was in a medium-sized room that lacked soft furnishings. That was all; there was no response. She drew breath to let loose a torrent of Italian when she heard the rattling, clicking sound. The yell died in her throat as the sound continued; then she felt the first tug at her wrists, a tiny pressure that grew and became irresistible as that rattling continued. Her arms had to respond to that by lifting up and away from her body, away from her back, the point of lift being whatever it was that was tight on her wrists.
More, further. And then she knew what they were doing. "No!" she screamed. "Stop, you bastards!"
It didn't stop. The noise went on while her arms were pulled further up and back, forcing her to bend forwards as the pressure came on her shoulders, her feet shuffling as they followed in a useless attempt to ease the pressure.
"Bastards!" she howled, throwing back her head and letting loose an inarticulate scream that seemed to bounce off the walls. It achieved nothing, because the pressure continued, forcing her arms further up, her body further down. A position her own ancestors called Strappado, presenting her backside for anything they wanted to do with it. She screamed again before clamping her mouth shut, realising that screams too were what they wanted.
*
Griffin glanced down at the figure tethered to the hoist, arms held high above her back, forcing her to bend at the waist, her backside presented. Not that it could be seen at the moment; it was covered by that pale blue shift that draped over it, moulding to the curve, but falling loose over her stretched legs, the tension betrayed by the tight skin behind the knees. He checked once more that her heels were on the floor.
His head lifted, eyes moving to his companions. As if that was a signal, their heads came up almost simultaneously, all eyes meeting his. There were smiles and grins, a ‘thumb's up' from George. He nodded, gesturing with a sweep of his arm to the comfortable chairs that were spaced around the walls. They moved to them, all going for places where they could see her face when he tied the hair to the rope. All held that silence; all tried to move with stealth so that the tension she must be feeling was maintained.
He stood looking down at her, listening to her quick breathing, seeing that trembling of her body brought about by the strain of her position, in part: the rest was fear. There remained only two things. Moving a quietly as he could, he moved to her head, taking a length of braided nylon cord from his pocket. Her hair, thick and way, black as pitch, hung down, the strap of the mask beneath it, not interrupting the natural fall. He took a good hank in his hand; she jerked away, uttering the first sound for some time.
"Get off me, bastard!"
It was the only sound while he looped the hair, threading the cord through it and pulling it tight. There was an art to tying hair to nylon cord so that it didn't just slide off when pressure was applied: there was one way to do it right, as he'd found after finding most of the wrong ways. But his fingers were assured as he made the knot and, pulling it back so that her head followed, lashed it to the rope holding her wrists. It brought a protest.
"Aaaaaaaaagh! Bastard!"
It also lifted her head so that the watchers could see her face clearly. Not they eyes, of course, where most of the expression lay, but that was the price one paid for depriving her of sight. But she was tough: she wasn't making defiant noises to bolster her spirit, despite the fact that she must have some idea of what was coming.
Now just one more thing to do. He delved into his pocket again, bringing out the clothes-peg that Paula had unearthed from the kitchen. The smock, buttoned down the back, was an inelegant garment befitting its status as prison-issue. Just what she was doing wearing it was beyond him, but he had no intention of removing it. Being the sort of garment it was, it hung at the front from her neck in a line sloping down to a point in front of her feet, while the back covered her thighs. It was a problem foreseen, hence the clothes-peg. Stooping, he gathered the loose material below her and brought it up to meet the material that fell over her thighs at a point between her legs. That touch brought a flinch and the gasped beginnings of a protest, bitten off as he clipped the peg and stood. Now the smock was stretched over the rounded cheeks and thighs, giving him just the access he wanted.
The strap wasn't his favourite instrument, but he knew it was the right tool for this job. He moved to pick it up; it felt insubstantial in his grasp: just a quarter-inch thick, perhaps three feet long. It was leather, oiled to a walnut sheen, the handle cut and formed from its body then padded and bound with twine to give a grip. For a moment he stood, gazing at his target, before his eyes moved up to the head, strained back by the cord. Time to break the silence. Briefly. He moved, light-footed to stand at her face.
*
She could hear him moving and had felt the cloth of the smock being moved. But he didn't lift it off as she suspected her would. Instead of that, she felt it pull tight across her backside and thighs. It stayed tight when she felt the hands leave. It didn't need too much imagination to work out why that had been done. Oh, God! If only they would say something!
Sounds. She turned her head to locate them, but that damned tie that pulled it back meant that all she could achieve was an odd sort of semi-circular rotation. Then the noise stopped. What was going on? What was he doing? Was it him or that woman? Or the policeman? Old the older man? If only she could see!
*
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock," he said, looking down at the face.
There were lines etched from the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth, whose lips were drawn thin, twisting as her head rotated against the tether in her hair. She seemed to be trying to locate sounds. As he spoke, the entire body reacted with a flinch and the mouth twitched, seeming to act of its own accord.
"What?" she ejaculated. Then it snapped shut; she went still for three of four seconds. Then: "No!"
Griffin glanced at the others, slightly disappointed with the lack of response. Chambers and Paula were absorbed in watching her face, but KP looked up and gave a nod. Approval? Well, that might change if he didn't do a good job with the relatively unfamiliar strap. He moved back to the rear; he feet were shifting slightly, the backside moving with them. That could complicate matters, but there was nothing he could do about that.
He took his position, judging distances as precisely as he could, aware that they were all watching him now. Normally, it wouldn't matter took much, except that, with the strap, you didn't want to be too close because of the exaggerated over-lash, which wrapped around to conform to the shape of the object being hit. The tip was naturally moving far faster than the rest of the thing, so the point that that hit suffered more than anywhere else, particularly it there was any ‘curl in'. The trick, especially when using the strap, was to make sure that its end struck at the same time as the rest of it.
That was particularly important now, because he was going to give her six very precisely aimed strokes down the left side, working down from backside to the thighs. He didn't want the strap to cross to the right, which he'd be targeting later, nor make the punishment too severe by having the tip wrap into the crease or round into the inside of her thighs.
He took his time, waiting for that movement to stop, at the same time prolonging her anticipation, letting her wonder what was coming. He didn't know how tough she was, this one, but he wanted the entire process of breaking her to be long, slow and enjoyable; it would make her ultimate capitulation all the more gratifying. The strap trailed, its tail brushing the floor as he swung forward, leading with his hip, the arm following, letting the strap create its own impetus with only a little added.
Thwuck! A meaty, substantial sound, the strap biting into the thinly-covered flesh of her buttocks. The body bucked forward, brought up short by the rope tied to the well-padded leather cuffs on her wrists.
"Aaaaaargh! Aaaaaiiee!"
Two separate sounds, the first one of shock and pain mingled, the second pure pain as her spasmodically jerking head made her bound hair jerk against its restraint. Neither sound was one of pure agony nor, indeed of great pain. But it was the beginning.
To his great relief, he'd got it right: the tip had stopped just short of crossing the crease between the cheeks. All he had to do now was put on two more just like that before he moved to the thighs. Then he'd have to do it all over again on the other side. Using his back-hand, which was not his best side. Still, he could take comfort in the fact that she would be enjoying it a very great deal less than him.
Thwuck!
It drew a grunt, no more. She shuffled forward a bit, but that was all. He looked at the spectators, eyebrows raised. Paula looked back , shaking her head. No expression that end, either. Good. She really was a tough one, then. This was going to be good.
Thwuck!
Another grunt, a slight hissing breath expelled, a tiny squirm. And he was annoyed, because that one had strayed a bit too far, the tip brushing into the crease.
Doing that joint between the backside and thighs is tricky with a strap, so he didn't even try. Her movements had loosened the clip, but not enough to make much difference. Good, strong legs, well rounded, firm. Plenty to aim for. Back a bit or it'll wrap in. There.
Thwuck!
‘Aaah!' Surprise again; she hadn't expected it there. Well, now she knew.
Thwuck!
The feet danced; another grunt, held back. The leg cocked, straightened. He waited for it to settle down. Was that her panting? Or a gasp? Groan? No, not a groan, not yet. But she knew that the last one was going just above the knee. Or suspected it. Which is why it didn't.
Thwuck!
‘Aaaaaah! Oh!' That was surprise again, plus pain, with the head jerking once more. It had been high up, just about where the buttocks joined the back, but still well clear of the kidneys. It had been herder, too. But perfect.
He let it dangle and moved back. The lips were tighter, with a hint of teeth gnawing at the inner flesh. The tendons of the neck were more prominent now, the lines on her face a shade deeper.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock," he said, using the same intonation as the first time he'd said it.
"Bastard!" It came out like a pent-up gasp, none the less vehement for that.
*
He'd made her cry out! Shame burned as much as the marks he'd made. It had been shock for that first stroke and again for that last, which she'd expected to be lower on her thigh. Clever, sadistic bastard! And then she'd felt as if she was ripping her hair out and that had made her yelp. But she'd vowed that she wouldn't!
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock," she heard. Same voice, same man. Griffin!
"Bastard!" she spat.
Silence, but for the faint sounds of feet moving round her front to the right. More? God, he was going to do the other side! ‘Ask to remove the smock?' Oh! Oh, no! Ask and it stops? Was that what he meant? Bastards! No, never! Not if that was the worst they could do!
But something inside her told her that this was by far from the worst he could do. She pushed that thought away.
*
He had offered Chambers the chance to work on her right-hand side. It would be the policeman's natural strike side, since he was left-handed. But the offer had been politely refused.
"She's your bird, old boy," he'd replied. "I'll pick one of my own later."
It was what he'd expected, but he was nonetheless gratified by the gesture. This bitch was recognised as his, though he could draw on them for ideas and support in breaking her. But now he had to concentrate on the job in hand: the tricky bit loomed.
She uttered no sound of any kind as they landed, the only sign that she was suffering at all being the shifting of her feet and the odd toss of her head, He lingered over the last stroke, making he wonder, then put it just above the knee. Even that didn't draw a vocal reaction. And that was the end of the punishment for the day. The others stood silently and filed out, leaving the woman to her own devices.



Chapter 10

"She's tough," said KP, taking a drink from Sticky with a nod.
"So much the better," replied Griffin, settling into an armchair. "The longer she holds out the better I'll like it."
"Nice strokes, big man," said Paula, flopping into her own chair.
Griffin lifted his glass to her in acknowledgement. "The back-hands had me sweating," he said.
"Not as much as her. They were harder, but she held back well. What time do you want to start again?"
"Shortly after I get up, I suppose. What time is it, by the way?"
"Eight-thirty."
"Don't time flash past when you're enjoying yourself?" He grinned and looked at Chambers. "You staying tonight?"
A shake of the head. "No, I have an early meeting tomorrow and a car arranged. It would not be a good idea to have it come here."
"True. In that case, would you care to indulge before you have to go?"
"I had thought that five minutes with Tinkerbelle would be agreeable."
Paula laughed. "That'll be some five minutes! What do you say, Tinkerbelle?"
"It will be an honour to serve my Master, Mistress."
"Go on then, George," she urged. "Have a good time!"
The others watched in amusement as the tall man and the diminutive, naked slave head for the door hand in hand. When they'd left, Paula turned to Griffin.
"That's George lost for the next two hours. How long were you planning on leaving her down there?"
"Just long enough to finish this drink. Then I'll unstring her and put her in a cell." He was proud of the improvements he'd made to the house, using some very discreet builders recommended by KP. The problems of space and security that had worried him when he was using his company headquarters were gone: now he had a dozen separate cells, every one equipped with toilet facilities, plus three separate, fully equipped rooms in which to enjoy games. That was apart from the room in the main part of the house where they now sat and which they'd used earlier that day. Even so, the specially-designed features that would exist at Heartbreak Oy would leave those here in the shade. It was going to be worth waiting for.
In the meantime, he had other things to look forward to.
*
It was just a small cell whose walls and floor were in studded beige-coloured shatter-proof tiles. The ceiling was white; a recessed and protected light providing illumination. The bed was a specially developed slab of plastic, its upper surface softer than the rest to provide a measure of comfort. A small measure. There were no supporting struts, nor any sign of pillows or blankets.
There was no window, not even in the door. She thought of cameras, but couldn't see where they were or, indeed, if there were any. And that, apart from the stainless steel toilet bowl fitted in the corner, was it. There wasn't even, she thought, a rat for company or any graffiti to read to pass the time. All she could do was lie on that dark-blue, yielding plastic and think, partly about her throbbing bottom and thighs, but mostly about what was coming next.
*
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock," he said.
There were only two spectators this time, but everything else was in every respect the same; he'd even used the same cord to bind her hair.
She made a tiny sound in her throat, quickly suppressed. Fear, he wondered. Maybe she'd just realised that this little charade would go on until she did ask, then again for the underclothes, those horrible prison-issue garments that some unforgiving Matron must have handed out. He knew about the because of the cameras in her cell; they'd watched as she had lifted the smock to examine her backside, which didn't seem to be much damaged, though it must have been throbbing. The smock had been clean when she'd come; now it was showing signs of the handing she'd had.
So was she. They'd probably bathed her in the reception centre; it was standard practice. But she hadn't washed since she'd been in the house and that faintly, acrid scent of sweat was on her. That would get stronger as this day passed; and unless he was mistaken, there be the tang of fear added to it, too.
The peg had been replaced, stretching the blue material. Now he positioned himself, feet slight apart, ready to start and determined to make it as good as or better than yesterday. It was a matter of pride.
*
The painfully thin, very tall girl had brought her food and water at some time after she'd been put in the cell. She didn't know how long it had been nor what time it was: the passage of hours and minutes seemed to have no meaning in the tiny, brightly-lit world in which all she had for company were her thoughts and those throbbing welts on her backside and thighs.
Maria had tried to get some information out of her, but the girl, whose own bottom showed signs of what must have been a dreadful beating, would say absolutely nothing, nor give any sign that she'd so much as heard. She simply brought the food – which seemed to be some sort of gruel – in a bowl, together with a spoon and cup of water. All the utensils were plastic; the food just tasted as if it was.
With nothing else to do, she'd slept. Fitfully and shallowly, jerking awake frequently as consciousness and sub-conscious collided and with that burning ache always there to remind her. That and the knowledge that it was just the beginning.
She had no idea just how long she'd slept, only that she felt very little refreshed when she was woken. There was barely time to register the fact that she felt sticky and grimy, her eyes gritty before she felt their hands on her. Some time after she'd last fallen asleep they'd turned the light out, so that she woke to darkness and that sudden violence. She screamed, kicking, scratching, trying to bite, but they were all over her. She sensed that it was Griffin and the older man again, not the policeman, but she couldn't be sure. Not that it mattered, because they had her controlled.
After that first scream she stayed quiet, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing her. If they wanted to play that game, then so could she. And they were doing it again now: there was no word spoken as that blindfold came back over her eyes and she was carried out. Once more the incongruity of a hand on her head to protect it as they passed through doors, once more the fastening of bandage to her wrists, once more the careful positioning, leaving her strung up exactly as she had been the last time, arms pulled high over her back, head pulled back, legs straight, almost straining, backside presented. He was going to do it again. On flesh that still burned and throbbed from last time.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
Same voice, same inflection. Give in? No! A pause, wondering why she shouldn't, but that was swamped in the surge of defiance. She was Maria Lombardi! It was a matter of pride.
*
Thwuck!
"Eeeaaannnnngh!"
He'd expected that: it was no more than one could expect after the first stroke on flesh already tender. A mere indrawing of breath, not much more, but even that bitten off as she regained control. But the tiny, tell-tales signs were there: the feet shifting and dance their tiny steps just that bit faster, the hips moving, the head showing the hint of a tossing shake that was all the tie would allow her.
Thwuck!
Nothing, not even a step or twist. She was good! She'd known what she was doing and was fighting it. She wanted to give them nothing until she had to. Pride.
Thwuck!
Nothing.
Thwuck!
A grunt, deep in the throat. The left foot rose, held the leg bent for a moment, then went down.
Thwuck!
Breath hissed from her nose. A twitch from the leg, nothing more. He glanced at Paula, who nodded, pointed at the face and compressing her lips, aping what must have been the expression she was seeing. Yes, the woman was fighting hard. But he was in no hurry.
He let it drag out, just as he had yesterday. Made her wonder.
Thwuck!
Just above the knee. The leg twisted, tucked in, knee to knee before straightening again. Another grunt. Enough for this side. He went back to the head.
There were beads of sweat on her brow, strands of that thick black hair sticking to it. The face was more strained that before, the suffering beginning to show. That, of course, was purely relative: this was no suffering at all compared with what was to come.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock," he intoned, looking down.
*
God! It hurt! The bastard! And now he was going to do the other side again! Oh, God help her! It hurt so! The lefty side of her lower body was one huge aching mass. Bastard bastard bastard man! He was looking at her face, seeing the pain written all over it because she could do nothing about that. Give in? No! Give him nothing!
*
The head twisted against the cord, seeming to shake a negative at him. An unconscious gesture? Perhaps, though she made no sound. Good.
Thwuck!
Nothing.
Thwuck!
Nothing.
Thwuck!
Nothing.
Thwuck!
A twist, a shake of the hips. Otherwise nothing.
Thwuck!
Nothing.
Thwuck!
Nothing.

*
"She's very tough," remarked KP, taking a coffee from Tinkerbelle.
"Let's see just how tough," replied Griffin, pressing a button on the remote control.
She was on the plastic block, lying on her side, her knees drawn up to her breasts, her hands pressed to her buttocks, rubbing them and the thighs.
"Aaaaaaagh!" she groaned, a more or less continuous sound; low, but expressing her feelings as much as the posture.
He clicked the picture off. "Not bad," he commented. "But I think she'll crack tonight."
KP glanced at Paula, who was helping herself to a sausage left over from breakfast. "What do you think?"
She shook her head. "She'll give voice tonight, but she won't give in. Tomorrow morning for that."
The older man put his finger to his lips for a moment in a gesture of thought. "Possibly. But I have a fancy that she'll last until tomorrow evening. One stroke will do it, I think."
"Don't suggest bets," Griffin said. "The pair of you have caught me too often. Let's just wait and see."
"Work," said Paula.
The men groaned.
"Sorry, I'd rather play with the slaves, too. But we have matters of staffing and security to sort out. To say nothing of administration, maintenance and about six thousand odd and sods."
KP grimaced, looking at Griffin. "She was like this before I retired. Proper slave-driver."
"Guess who taught me," she retorted.
"That was before I got old."
"Oh, yeah? Do I ask Sticky how many times you came last night?"
"Touche," KP grinned. "By the way, speaking of her, can I have her for a while?"
That earned two surprised looks and the full attention of his two companions, to say nothing of the slave herself, who was standing holding the coffee pot, waiting to serve them. Naked of course and showing few signs of embarrassment; she was getting used to it. Tinkerbelle was beside her with cream and sugar, but unlike her far less experienced colleague, did not allow her gaze to show any interest.
Paula saw it on the tall girl. "Keep your ears to yourself, slut!" she barked. "Go and get some fresh coffee in that pot!"
Sticky seemed to cringe as if the words were lashes; which, indeed, they could portend. She scurried off, having learned another lesson, this one not as painfully as most.
Paula returned her attention to KP. "Sticky? You want her again? What's wrong with Tinkerbelle?"
KP glanced at the diminutive but perfectly-formed figure, pausing at the breasts – everyone did that with Tinkerbelle. "There's nothing at all wrong with her. In fact, she'd a delightful slave. I just happen to have taken a fancy to the other one. She has such a lot to learn."
Paula looked at Griffin, who returned the stare. Then she looked back at the older man. "Fine by me," she said.
"Me too," put in Griffin. "But just how you're going to punish her beats me."
"He'll think of something," said Paula darkly, her eyes still on the face of her smiling ex-boss. "He always does. You two carry on to the office while I sort out a couple of domestic details."
The men left to the secure area; a place where the slaves were strictly forbidden entrance. The things that they had to discuss were very much for a limited number of ears. In the main room, Paula turned to Tinkerbelle.
"Take food down to the pair in the cells. You will personally deal with the black-haired girl, with the same constraints as last night: no talking, no communication of any kind, not even eye contact. Understand."
"Yes, Mistress." She did, too: she knew that the unfortunate Italian-looking woman was under a special punishment regime and that the silence was part of it. Her only feeling on the matter was that she was very glad that it wasn't her. The instructions would be obeyed to the letter.
"Let Sticky do the other one, but keep an eye on her. You can remind her – Sandra, I mean - that she's supposed to have learned a full column of the dictionary she has in the cell, but you aren't to help. When you've done that, you will spend an hour instructing Sticky in arse-licking and rimming, but I don't want the pair of you coming all over the place. If either of you has an orgasm, it'll be a dozen for you, as senior slave. Understand?"
"Yes, Mistress." They'd be on video, she knew. She was also acutely aware of the unfairness of it, but that was but a fleeting thought, unworthy of resentment: she was a slave and things like that happened to slaves.
"Good. Have the table set for four by eleven thirty – don't forget the plastic sheet for you two - and knock on the door of the conference room at eleven-fifty. Do not attempt to enter that room in any circumstances! Clear?"
"Yes, Mistress."
Paula softened. "Good girl." She put out a hand and caressed the slave's cheek. "Would you like to wear a little make up?"
The eyes shone. "Yes, Mistress! Yes, please!" She'd seen it on Sticky and was intensely jealous, thinking it a mark of privilege.
"I'll see what I can do. Not very much, mind, because we don't want it smeared all over the place."
"Thank you, Mistress!"



Chapter 11

"First things first," said KP as she came in and locked the door behind her. "Lunch menu!" He handed it to her.
"Naturally," she said, glancing up at the bank of monitors on the wall. They showed all the currently relevant places, particularly those in which there were slaves and those which, if entered by them or an intruder, could be a security risk, a precaution backed up by motion detectors and alarms. All, it appeared, was well, though she noticed that Sandra had tossed or thrown the dictionary into a corner of her cell, where it lay unheeded. She opened the menu. "Seen that?" she asked.
"You mean Miss Piggy?" replied Griffin.
Paula grinned. "Good name. Yes. The dictionary."
"Spotted it a while ago. That's worth a dozen."
"And she won't have learned anything. There's another. What's she up to now?"
"About five or six dozen, I fancy," Griffin replied. He looked over the table. "You're the bastinado expert, KP. How about a dozen?"
The older man had been looking at the screens, too. "Be a pleasure. That's her first ration that she's wearing?"
"Yes," replied Paula.
"So you'll put a dozen on the backside with my contribution as reinforcement?"
"Perfect."
"A light cane, then." He rubbed his hands. "Haven't done a bastinado for months!"
"I thought that that's what you had planned for Sticky?" she asked, looking at the menu rather too obviously.
He grinned. "Don't fish. You'll see when she deserves it.
"Speaking of fish, I'll have the salmon," she said.
"Three steaks, one salmon."
"Four steaks," she corrected.
"Eh?"
"You forgot that we're force-feeding Sticky."
"So I did. I'll make it five, then: Tinkerbelle's going to be needing all her energy tonight!"
"Which," commented Paula, "brings us very neatly to the issue of a resident doctor for Heartbreak Oy."
The two men groaned.
*
It was an incongruous thought, but she still had it even as she struggled, vainly, against the two big men: they'd just finished lunch. In fact, there was a grey-haired man at the table, together with that she-devil of a woman, still eating grapes, sipping wine and exchanging words as they watched what was happening to her. There were those two naked girls, too; they were kneeling on a plastic sheet on the floor close to the table, also watching her.
Struggling did her no good, any more than her shouting and yelling, though she did managed to hold back on some of the swearing that had annoyed them yesterday. Her bottom was still very painful and sore from that beating the foul woman had given her. Surely they weren't going to do it again!
They'd dragged her out of the cell, still naked, carried her, struggling into the same big room. There was a difference, though; one that lifted her spirits for a moment: that box affair that they'd strapped her to yesterday wasn't there. What took its place was a trapeze-like thing hanging on two ropes from the ceiling. Though she saw that there was no real ceiling: it was the beams and trusses of the roof, all in dark polished wood.
A chain went round her waist, Her hand and arms were lifted behind her while the bar of the trapeze was pushed under so that it snugged into her armpits and pressed across her shoulder blades. That alone had been enough to push her tits out - something that, to her instant shame was remarked on by the grey-haired man – but which was made worse when she felt the handcuff go on to her wrists before they were fastened to the chain round her waist. She was tethered in place like a plucked chicken on display. But they still hadn't finished with her. One of them controlled her legs while the other bent to fix a bar with a padded loop at each end to her ankles. When the second was fitted, her legs were spread wide: it wasn't just her tits that they could gaze at, she realised, her face blushing a red as deep as the colour that suffused her backside. It was too much.
"Dirty fucking perverts!" she shrieked. "Having a good look, are you?" She saw the tall girl close her eyes and wince, but ignored the involuntary warning. "Dirty fucking bastards!"
She fell silent as that blonde-haired woman pushed her chair back from the table and stood as the two men resumed their seats at each end of the table. Suddenly, she found, her mouth and throat had gone very dry, while her voice seemed to have found pressing business elsewhere. The silence was engendered more by the sight of the crop dangling from its strap at the wrist that anything else.
*
Paula, who had changed into a woollen two-piece before lunch stopped in front of the suspended girl, who was watching her with an expression akin to that of a rabbit caught in headlights. As she watched, the tongue came out to dampen dry lips.
"Still got a bit of that nasty language, I hear," she said.
"Leave me alone!" It came out as a croaking plea.
Paula smiled. "Oh, no. I've started, so I'll finish."
"What do you want from me?" shrieked the naked woman, who had suddenly found her voice.
"Obedience, among other things."
"You're mad, all of you!"
Paula cocked her head to one side and studied her. "Don't think so, dearie." Suddenly she reached forward, fist clenched, crop dangling, her forefinger crooked. Using that, she jounced the girl's left breast.
She recoiled as far as she could with her feet spread, the ropes restricting her movements.
"Get off!" she shrieked. "Keep your hands off me, you pervert!"
Paula let her hand drop. "You got a new name today," she said. "Given to you by that handsome man over there." She turned to nod at Griffin, who lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Miss Piggy. That's you from now on."
"No! You can't! My name's Sandra!"
"Your name's what we say it is. And we say ‘Miss Piggy'." Her head moved to the other side. "And since I see the beginnings of a spare tyre round that tum of yours, I think he made a good choice."
Tears started. "Leave me alone! You can't do this!"
The change from easy-going to steel-hard dominatrix was instant. "Can't? What do you mean, can't, slut?" she snapped. "Forgotten yesterday?" The crop licked out to curl round the woman's flank, drawing a scream. "Forgotten that?"
"No! Don't! Please!"
"Ah! Coming back to you is it? Pity a few other things didn't stick in your mind. Or did you think we were joking? Or that we'd forget?"
The head tossed. "Oh, God! This isn't happening to meeeee!"
"Isn't happening to me?" mimicked Paula cruelly, voice high-pitched. The crop came up to rest in the brown bush at Miss Piggy's groin. The action drew another squeal and a violent twist as she tried to escape. "Does your backside feel as if it didn't happen to you yesterday? It must need a reminder!"
"No! Please, no! Oh, have mercy!"
"Mercy? How do you spell that? You earn mercy, Miss Piggy! You earn it by learning to use that foul mouth of yours to give pleasure. You earn it on your back, or your knees, or any position we want you, so you can put that cunt and arse-hole of yours to use!"
"No! You can't do that! You can't! You can't!" She was distraught, the tears flying as her head tossed, her mouth a gaping slash in her face.
Paula ignored the distress. "Let's have a look at that arse, shall we?" She walked round, the tied woman's head following her, her need to know what was going to happen overcoming the need to express her feelings. "Oh, dear! Amazing what twenty-four light taps can do, isn't it? We could use that arse as a colour-swatch if we were thinking of decorating!" Her tour brought her back round to the front, where she stopped.
The girl's eyes locked on her. "Please," she whimpered. "Don't!"
"Don't be absurd, woman! Two dozen's nothing! Besides," she smiled into those distressed eyes. "You've earned far more, one way and another."
"No! Please!" She tugged at the cuffs, twisting her hips so that her breasts swung and jiggled.
"Keep that up. I'm sure the boys are enjoying it."
"Oooooooh! Bastards! Oh, please! Don't!"
"Stupid cow! How can you learn without pain?"
"I don't want to learn! Leave me alooooone!"
"You're becoming boring. Let's hear a different tune."
Crack!
"Aaaaaaieeeee! Oh, no! Please!"
It had landed high on the thigh, backhanded, positioned quite deliberately so that the tip curled in, cutting into the inside flesh. Miss Piggy twisted and jerked, her breasts once more swinging.
Paula moved, the woman trying to anticipate her by swinging her body, but she was hampered by the separated feet.
Crack!
"Aaaaaaaaagh! No, please!"
Forehand that time, on the other thigh.
The watching men saw that Paula's lips were drawn back, a sign that she was intent on the job she was doing. She always hit harder when that happened.
Crack!
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeek! Aaaaaaaah! Not there! Oh, oh, oh! Oh, please!"
It had caught her low on the backside. It hadn't been a mistake, as the next one was to prove.
Crack!
Aaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiigh! Please, no, please! Not there! Oh, God, please!"
"Feel like offering that mouth now?"
"No! No, I won't! Bastards!"
Crack!
"Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiiahhh!"
Back on to the front of the thigh, this one delivered from a fraction back from the side so that the tip hit the front. Miss Piggy writhed.
"I like the way those tits gyrate," said Chambers. "They're bigger than I thought. Be nice for a tit-roll."
"Or with some oil for a nice long tit-fuck," added Griffin.
The three men exchanged grins. Paula, who heard the exchange, pausing in her stalking.
"Hear that, Piggy? What about it?"
"You're fucking vile!" screeched the tormented woman. "Oh, stop!"
Crack!
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
"That wasn't very loud. Getting used to it, are you? I think I'll put another one in the same place to be on the safe side."
"No! St… Ah… aaaah…aaaaaaaiieeeeeeh!"
It had been on the right thigh, already marked by a previous stroke and the one that had landed a second or two before. The repeat fell within a hairs-breadth of that one and was considerably harder. Pain overcame shame as the captive twisted and turned once more.
"Don't want them round the back? Well that saves me walking," crowed Paula, turning half-right to swing her backhand at the left thigh.
Crack!
"Aaaaaaaiiiieeeeee! Oh, no! Stop! Please!"
Crack!
"Aaaaaaaaiiiiiiaaaaaagh!"
Backhand again, the same thigh. Not as close to the previous stroke as those on the other side, but bad enough.
Crack!
"Aaaaaah!!
A deliberate relief for this one, given across the outside of the thigh, not too hard.
Crack!
"Aaaaahhhh!"
Another relatively gentle one over the other flank, a psychological preparation for the last two. The three men, who'd seen Paula at work before, leaned forward.
She waited, watching the panting, sweating weeping woman watch her. A smile curved her lips, a terrible sight for a woman who'd already taken ten strokes.
"Wondering, are we? Two to come and the last two taps?"
"Plea… Aaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The head flew back, spittle spraying from the gaping mouth as the scream tore out.
Devilishly clever, Paula had shortened her grip on the crop and sent a backhand whistling into the gap between the spread thighs, as high as possible without the crop's tip striking the other leg on the way in.
"One to come. How about straight up the middle?"
"Nooooooooooo! Noooooo"! Pleeeeeease, noooooooo!"
Phfthwick!
"Aaaaarggggggg…Aaaaaaaaaiiiiieeeeeee… Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! Aaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaiieeee!"
The ropes holding the trapeze twisted together and twined as her body threw itself into contortions to try to escape the pain that had erupted from her crotch. Paula couldn't possibly have intended it, other than in a very general way, but the tip of the crop had so neatly bisected the labia that it had landed precisely on the hooded clitoris. The feet left the floor, the knees bent and straightened several times as the howling went on and on.
Paula stepped back and watched for a moment before she turned to the wondering faces of the men and shrugged. Then she grinned. "I think I found her G spot," she said.
KP laughed as hard as the others, standing as Paula sat, but only so that he could walk over to the hanging woman, whose shrieks had diminished to agonised groans. She looked at him through tear-filled eyes, suddenly jerking into new life when she saw the cane in his hands. The ropes had come untwisted, but now they very nearly did it again as she threw herself away from him with a wild, terrified cry.
"No! No more! Stop, for the love of God! You can't do any more! Oh, God! Please, please, please!"
Chambers and Griffin had stood just after KP. Now they joined him, standing slightly to one side so that Paula, still at the table, could see the girl.
"You earned that dozen yesterday," said Griffin. "In fact, you earned that dozen plus at least a couple of dozen more yesterday, but your Mistress will no doubt get round to giving you those in the next day or two."
"No! You can't! No more!"
"Do shut up. I suppose that I should be grateful that every second word isn't ‘fucking', but I would rather like to finish what I'm saying without interruption. It could well be in your long-term interests to let me do that."
Eyes wide, brimming with tears, teeth biting at her lips. Chest and bosom heaving with barely-suppressed sobs, she gazed at him in a mixture of terrified fear and dread.
"Good," he said. "I'm glad you can use what little brain you seem to have. Ah-ah!" he added warningly as the mouth started to open. It clamped shut. "If you remember, you were given a task to do yesterday. Not only have you failed to do that task, but you quite deliberately threw the dictionary at the wall of your room."
"But… Oh! Oh, God! No!" The eyes widened, then filled with new tears.
"I'll ignore that because I'm feeling generous. I'm feeling a lot less generous about you disobedience and downright insolence. So what you're getting next is for that, nothing else. If I was you I'd really try very hard to get it right next time."
"Please! I'm sorry! I'll do it, I promise!"
They ignored the babble and unfastened her handcuffs, removing the chain from her waist. Then she was simply lifted off the bar and laid on her back, the bar between her ankles still in place. Precisely what she though was coming next was clear.
"Rapists!" she yelled. "Cowards! You're not men! Oh, God, I hurt!"
KP had moved to the wall. Now he operated the control that dropped the trapeze. When it was low enough, they lifted her feet, connecting bar and all and slid it over the trapeze bar. From there it was simple enough to lash her ankles to the trapeze.
She'd gone very quiet as that was happening, clearly bewildered by the fact that one of them hadn't jumped between her spread thighs and begun rogering her. Nor, apparently, could she work out what was going on with her feet up while she was still on her back. She didn't catch on until KP appeared in her line of vision, the cane flexing between his hands. Her eyes bugged. Then she started screaming.
She didn't stop once for the next ten minutes, during which time they became very loud indeed.
*
"We need a couple more slaves," said Griffin as he closed the conference room door behind him.
"Four not enough for you?" asked Paula, shuffling papers.
Griffin meandered over to his chair and sat. "Four's fine. But when we have George for lunch, which is going to happen more and more often now, we run short when it comes time to relax afterwards."
She looked at him speculatively. "You're right. We have to give him first crack because he has to get back to work, which leaves just one between three of us. As long as the other pair's being trained, that is. Especially," he nodded to the screens, "since we'll have to go a bit easy on that one. We seem to be developing a habit of doing that."
Paula followed his gaze and snorted a quick laugh. The sandy-haired woman was lying on her side, one hand rubbing the welts on her thighs, her feet held away from any possible contact. The expression on her face was one of continued agony, presumably thanks to those bastinado strokes, though she held the dictionary in the other hand and was studying it intently through tear-filled eyes.
"The one I'm using is fit enough now," said KP. "But if you want, I can bring up a couple of mine from Underhill."
"You hang on to Sticky if you have plans for her. But Babs would be good," said Paula. "She can cook."
KP nodded approvingly. "True. And I bought a new one when I was down there last. Toots, they call her: blonde, nice big tits. And practically untrained; perhaps George would like to have a go at her?"
"George likes enjoying them a lot more than training them. Perhaps it's because he spends all his time ordering people around as a policeman," Griffin replied. "But I have to say I like the idea of having a cook in-house; there's nothing wrong with having it brought in, but it's a bit tedious. Well, we've got the space, KP; and with you and Paula here most of the time the security angle is more or less covered, too. It's up to you."
"I'll have them sent up. Two enough?"
"For the six or seven weeks we have until Heartbreak opens, probably. Enough to keep us all warm in bed, anyway!" Griffin looked at Paula, who was scribbling on a pad. "What's all that about?"
"Extra groceries," she said. "Someone has to look after the details."



Chapter 12

"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
She sobbed, the lips quivering as if a word or words was hovering there, waiting to be said. He thought that if one came, then the rest would tumble out, ending it. Then her nostrils flared and the lips clamped, though he noticed that she was trembling. As well she might: this was her evening dose of twelve on top of the twenty-four that he's already applied that morning and the previous evening. It was a long-drawn-out series of minor punishments that whose effect was cumulative. That sob and those trembles were the first tiny cracks; the next few minutes would determine just how tough she was.
He took position, noting that the tremble was in the hindquarters and legs, too, though here they were jerkier. She'd probably cry out at the first stroke simply because it was the first, but also because that spot had had one more than anywhere else if he aim had been accurate – which he was sure it was. So why not give her the first on where number two usually went? Just two there so far and leave that first position for last? Give her something to think about and look forward to? Good idea, Griffin.
Thwuck!
"Mmmmaaaaah!"
She couldn't keep it back, apparently. Not really surprising, given that it was just that bit harder on tender flesh that had been given time to marinate, as Paula had once put it. But did that signal the breaking of the dam? The next one would tell.
Thwuck!
"Mmmmmph!"
Good! She was going to get through this session without giving in. His heart exulted as he steadied himself, careful not to let the singing in his brain put too much effort into his arm.
Thwuck!
Nothing, but the legs and feet were much more active now, while backside was beginning to gyrate. She was not enjoying it. He was.
Thwuck!
That on just under the backside. Her mouth was open, he could tell by the sound of the gasp and the panting. The lips would be wet; perhaps she was dribbling. It would be nice to see the eyes, but the blindfold precluded that.
Thwuck!
The leg jerked up as if he'd hit a reflex point. It did that jerking dance again, the breath sucking in as she fought to keep silent. Incongruously, he found himself willing her on in that effort.
Last one on this side. He started to get into position but then paused. Do it now or make it the last one after he'd done the other side? He smiled to himself. Keep her guessing. The strap dropped.
*
Now she knew what they were doing to her. Or she though she knew. Morning and evening, twelve strokes of what felt like a strap with her blindfolded and them keeping silent, both intended to work on her nerves. In between times, left in that cell with only the short girl entering twice a day top give her food and under orders, obviously, not to speak or make eye contact.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
She could smell herself, the sweat-stink sweet and sharp in her nostrils. They could, too, she was sure. Would they think it fear, or had they done this so often that they could tell?
The welts that he'd put on her still burned and throbbed as they had since this morning. Now he was going to do it again! She couldn't take much more! Soon she would scream and soon after that she would say what he wanted her to say. Then she would have only those ugly under-things that the grim-faced Matron had given her. They wouldn't last long. When they had gone she would be naked, as naked as those other women. As vulnerable as them, as available as them; eventually, as abject and willing as them. To do precisely what Griffin demanded of her.
No! She became aware that her lips were parted, trembling: she clamped them shut. Then heard quiet feet moving. She squeezed her eyes closed under the blindfold, trying to control the tremble of her body, hampered in that by her strained position. She tensed, waiting for the blinding pain.
Thwuck!
Not where she'd expected! Bastard! "Mmmmaaah!" Stupid bitch! Quiet! God, it hurt! Think! Can't! Oh, God!
Thwuck!
"Mmmmmph!" No! Quiet! Stop moving! Can't!
Thwuck!
Did it! Stop the feet! Smell the stink, rising.
Thwuck!
God, the pain! Bastard! Bastard! And them watching, enjoying it all. Bastards! Stop panting! Can't! Oh, God!
Thwuck!
Oh God oh God! That hurt! Leg twitching. Still! Can't! Oh God, no! Now where it's really going to hurt, at the top! Hold it; be ready! Don't cry out!
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
"Bastard!" Did I shout that? Why didn't he do six? It was five, wasn't it? Or is he leaving that until last? Swine! How I hate him! Them!
*
"Bastard!"
Griffin smiled; he was really getting to her now. He looked at the others, George incongruous in his business suit because he hadn't had time to change. They were enjoying it.
*
Which way had he gone? Back to put that last one on or to the other side? She hadn't heard! Where was it coming? Hold on, Maria! Your name is Maria Lombardi! You…
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaah!" The other side! That wasn't a scream, bastards! Just surprise! Don't do it again! Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaah!"
*

The cry surprised him, but then he realised that it had probably caught her unprepared. That or she'd been expecting him to go back and apply the last one on the other side. What fun! Perhaps he'd stop after four or five, just to wind the tension a bit.
*
Thwuck!
The backside jerked, but she had control again.
Thwuck!
A twitch, feet dancing a real Irish jig now.
Thwuck!
A gasp? More jerking. Decision time. Yes, move round the back as quietly as possible. Surprise time again.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaiiiiaaaaahhh! Bastard!"
He almost laughed, but held it back. At least she knew where the last two were going. If he played fair.
*
"Aaaaaiiiiaaaaahh! Bastard!"
Bastard! Bastard! She hadn't heard him move! Oh, the swine! God, that hurt! Just when she thought she had it under control! Christ! What was he doing now? Not there again! Mother of God, not there again!
*
He played fair. He played fair because he knew that if he hit her there again she'd scream for real and he didn't want that yet. He wanted her to scream from the very first stroke tomorrow morning. And that very first stroke was going just where he'd put that last one. He knew that and she knew that, or he thought she did. If she could hold back that scream then, then she'd be the toughest one he'd seen. What an exciting prospect that was!
The last two strokes, delivered precisely where they were supposed to go, were almost mild.
*
The last two were comparative taps compared with the one that had been so unexpected. There was a message there: that's where he was going to start in the morning. She wasn't sure she'd be able to take it, any more than she could stop the tears that dribbled out from under the blindfold.
*
"Playing mind games, were you?" asked KP with a quizzical look.
Griffin smiled. "Fun, isn't it?"
The smile was returned. "Oh, yes. She'll remember this one for the rest of her life. You really are a natural, aren't you?"
"Just what I've been telling you for damn near two years!" protested Paula.
"I know you have," he retorted, the smile becoming benign. "But there's natural sadists and natural slave-trainers. Now you, Paula, are a natural sadist and a bloody good slave-trainer. I am a natural sadist and a more than adequate slave-trainer. John here has just shown that he has the makings of a master slave-trainer."
She frowned slightly. "Am I missing something?"
Another smile, while Griffin found his drink suddenly very interesting. "Didn't you see that conversation they had?" asked the older man.
"Conversation? There was no conversation!"
The smile widened as he looked at Griffin then back to her. Chambers leaned forward, suddenly absorbed. "In those last three strokes, he said to her: ‘I'm going to put the first stroke tomorrow morning just where it's going to hurt most. Think about it.'" His eyes challenged Griffin's. "Am I right? And don't go modest."
Griffin actually blushed. "More or less. Though it wasn't quite as clear-cut as you make out."
"It never is. The point is that you communicated through the instrument of punishment: that's the master touch. Peter has it and so has Roberta. A certain lady of my acquaintance by the name of Anna-Lisa has it. And you have it: that's a very select company you're joining, young fellow."
"Who's Anna-Lisa?" asked Griffin, for whom this conversation was becoming embarrassing.
KP took the hint. "Swedish. Slave Mistress to an organisation that you wouldn't believe me if I told you about, which I won't. So don't ask."
"Wouldn't have anything to do with Guataragua, by chance?" asked Chambers.
KP looked both surprised and discomfited. "Er, pass," he said. "Press no further, please."
Griffin looked at them both in turn. "What's going on?"
"State secret, old man," replied Chambers. "Too much has already been said."
"Ah! Then consider it forgotten. Still, I'd rather like to meet this Swedish lady."
"I'll see what can be arranged," said KP. "But do not hold your breath. Someone change the subject, please."
"I'll do better than that," said Chambers, putting his empty glass down and standing. "I'm going to have a shower and change. Can I take Tinkerbelle?"
"As long as you put a shower-cap on her; her hair gets into a mess otherwise," said Paula. "Oh, and I said that she could put a bit of make-up on, if that's all right with everyone?"
"As long as it doesn't smear," KP said.
Her eyebrows arched. "Worried that you'll get a lipstick ring on your cock, dear?"
"Oh, I don't mind that. It's just that I rather fancy a," he peered at Paula's face, "deep reddish-purple colour."
She laughed. "Well, that's novel, anyway. Accepted. And it's not reddish-purple, oaf. It's called ‘Nightshade'."
He shuddered. "Don't explain," he said. "I might not like what I hear. You going to be back in half an hour or so, George?"
"About that, I suppose. Depends on how I get diverted."
"In that case, since we have only Sticky, I suggest that she gives us all a suck and when George gets back I'll show you the little gadget she tried on last night. How about it Sticky?"
The tall slave was kneeling at the side of his chair, head down, looking at the floor, hands behind her back, which they'd decided was more practical than the behind-the-head poses. At the sound of her name, she looked up to the older man, though there was alarm in her eyes and a shudder in her body.
"Y… yes, Master," she stammered.
Chambers disappeared through the door with a wave, Tinkerbelle following. The others watched Sticky, who was showing the first traces of stubble at her groin, the labia clearly displayed by her open-thighed position.
"We'll decide how high according to the quality of suck, shall we?"
Panic showed; the lips twitched. "Y… yes, Master."
He looked at the other two. "Who's first?"
Paula pointed at Griffin. "John's been working. Him."
"All right, Sticky. Off you go."

"You starting without me?" demanded Chambers. He'd changed into a sweat–shirt and track-suit bottom. Needless to say that Tinkerbelle, a step behind him, was still naked.
"Just trying it for size," replied KP. "Hey, that looks really good!"
He was looking at Tinkerbelle, who smiled and flushed. Griffin, too, added his voice to the praise.
"It's really surprising what a touch of make up does," he said. "She looked good before. Now she's beautiful."
"It does a lot for the ego, too," said Paula, her voice holding a touch of warning. "So don't let new ones go slapping it on. Except," she threw a glance at Sticky, "in cases where they haven't got too much else to show. In general, I'd keep it for experienced slaves. But," she added slightly grudgingly, "it does help."
"Thank you, Masters, Mistress," said Tinkerbelle.
"See what I mean?" demanded Paula. "A touch of mascara and lipstick and she's joining in our conversation, the slut!"
Tinkerbelle, experienced though she was, had boobed badly. Her face fell and tears, for the first time in weeks, gathered. "Oh!" she exclaimed, seeming ready to continue, but was stopped by Paula's raised hand.
"Don't, girl! I suppose it's my fault, really." She paused, eyeing her victim. "But it's not me who's going to get the dozen, is it, Tinkerbelle?"
The girl held her head up, eyes on her Mistress, despite the tears. "No, Mistress."
"Who's going to get them, Tinkerbelle?"
"Me, Mistress."
"And the make-up off."
"Oh!" The tears increased, the eyes registering intense disappointment. Y… yes, Mistress."
"Unless," a pause, during which a hesitant though guarded hope entered the slave's eyes, "you'd care to have another six and keep the make-up."
It was a typical slave's choice: pain or more pain, but this time with a twist. The answer, when it came, confirmed Paula's analytical insight. "I… I'll take the six extra, Mistress."
Paula gave the men a triumphant ‘told you!' look. All right, after we've watched this demonstration. Sorry, KP."
She may have been finished, but Chambers wasn't. As Tinkerbelle, tears already drying – eighteen was bad, but quite bearable, especially if it meant that she could keep the make-up – sank to her knees, he looked at KP. "That's one of those exercise belt things, isn't it?" he demanded, examining the broad strap that went round Sticky's midriff.
"That's right," agreed the older man.
"But she's the last one to need that!"
KP chuckled. "Normally, yes. But this isn't a normal exercise belt. Is it, Sticky?"
"N… no, Master."
Chambers wandered to his seat, eyes on the belt.
"Turn round and show us, Sticky," urged KP.
The bean-pole woman turned. The back of the belt, normally just the point where it joined with Velcro, was bulky with batteries. A couple of wires were visible.
Chambers settled, watching in the same way that they all were. Including Tinkerbelle, who knew a punishment session when she walked into the middle of one.
KP handed Sticky some loose wires. She took them reluctantly. "It's only a demonstration," he said soothingly. Then his voice hardened. Unless you want to turn it into the real thing by acting the idiot, that is."
She flinched. "No, Master! I'm sorry, Master!"
"All right. Now show us where the wires go."
Fingers fumbling, her head bent to see what she was doing, the woman plugged the clearly colour coded wires into almost invisible sockets in the belt. That done, she looked at KP apprehensively, almost pleadingly.
"Go on," he said. There was warning in the tone.
"Oh!" she cried. But her head went down again. Fingers once more fumbling and awkward, she sorted through the wires until she found the right one. Her eyes, huge and wide, came up to meet those of her tormentor."
"I won't tell you again," he said.
She sobbed and lifted the wire. Only then did the rest see that at its end was a small crocodile clip. There were grins as she brought that up, jaws gaping, to her right nipple. She didn't have much in the way of breasts, but she lacked nothing when it came to nipples. She paused for a moment, biting her lips then slowly released her grip on the clip so that it clamped.
"Aaaaaaaagh!" she gasped. Then, without waiting for an order – showing very good sense for a slave as new a she – she took the next wire and repeated the operation.
One wire dangled from the belt. Knowing looks were exchanged. Looks that KP didn't miss.
"That's right, lady and gents. The good old dildo! With slight variations." He dug into his pocket and brought out a four-inch white plastic dildo which bore three smoothly-domed metal studs spaced around its circumference at different distances from the head. In the centre of its base was a small socket. He gave it to Sticky.
"Suck it if you have to," he said.
Sticky had spent several hours sucking male and female organs, but she'd never performed an act like the ones she was about to perform before an audience. Haltingly, her eyes doom-laden, she brought it to her mouth, hesitated then slid it in, rotating it. She took too long about it for KP's patience.
"That'll do, girl! You won't make it come, you know! Get it in!"
It came out with a slight ‘pop', such was the haste. Her face bright red, she straddled her thighs by bending her knees, positioned the dildo at the entrance to her vagina and pushed. It slid in easily enough.
"And what did you forget?" asked KP.
"Oh!" she cried. "I'm sorry, Master!"
"You might be. You've got one try with it inside you. After that, things start happening."
"Oh!" she cried again. With trembling hands she took the dangling wire, once more adopted that half-crouched straddle and fumbled at the base of the dildo. By some divine providence, she managed to engage the plug in its tiny socket.
"Good girl." His hand went into his pocket again, coming back with a small remote control unit.
Sticky's eyes riveted themselves to it as he deliberately toyed with it, turning it between his fingers. "You see the principle, of course," he said, voice conversational. "In essence, it's a normally exercise belt: high tension to stimulate the muscles. This one has a little bit more wellie, thanks to those power packs at the back. This little toy," he held up the remote, "controls it. Radio signal." He smiled at Sticky, whose face looked like that of an aristo mounting the steps to the guillotine. "Sticky had a little try last night. Didn't you, Sticky?"
Her eyes were on the remote control. "Y… yes, Master."
"Do you think it'll help you behave?"
"Y… yes, Master. Oh, please, Master, don't!"
"Don't what?"
"D… don't press the button, Master!"
He smiled again. "As you can see, she doesn't like it much."
"Please! Please, Master! I've been good!"
Paula had been watching with her chin cupped in her hand, elbow on knee. "She has, you know. Been good, I mean. But I know someone who hasn't."
Every eye turned to a suddenly quailing Tinkerbelle, including those of a very tall thin girl, which showed a sudden leap from despair to hope. The slave's reaction: someone else, not me. Reprieve. Thank God!



Chapter 13

"You're due eighteen, Tinkerbelle," said KP, elected to the task because it was his device.
"Y… yes, sir," said the pocket-sized girl miserably, She was standing before them as the sat with their chairs in a semi-circle. The belt was round her waist, the wires, attached with her own hands, stretching to her full breasts and down to her crotch. The white base of the dildo could be seen protruding from her vagina.
"Well, we have a little problem, because we don't know much about this thing," he went on, lifting the remote control. "I do know that you'd better hope like mad that there's no one flying a radio-controlled aeroplane in range, or that plane's not going to be the only thing looping the loop!"
Their laughter did nothing to ease her apprehension. She was used to punishment; had endured months of it in Underhill. But nothing like this. Her lip trembled.
"So we're playing by ear," he said. "Or rather, you are. Here." He held out the remote control. She stared at it as if he was presenting her with a live cobra. "Take it, girl!"
She did, handling it like a live grenade with the pin out, staring at it with awful eyes.
"Now," he continued. "There's a little dial on there, see?" She nodded numbly. "At the moment it's set to one. Now Sticky had it to level four, which she didn't like one little bit. So let's call level one the equivalent of a stroke and level two the same as two, etcetera. You have eighteen strokes to come, so you can choose the level you think you can take. You can just press the button and let it go, because there's a timer circuit in there which will give you two seconds, come what may. Of course you can keep your finger down if you find you like it, but that won't count for extra strokes."
Her eyes were still fixed on the tiny device in her trembling hands. She swallowed. "Yes, Master," she whispered.
"You are a bloody genius!" cried Griffin, still basking in the praise he'd received earlier.
"I do my modest best. The button is that red thing, Tinkerbelle."
"Y… yes, Master."
Just wondered if you wanted to know. Oh, and do tell us what level you have it at so that we can count. Feel free to start when you're ready. Any time in the next ten seconds will do."
Paula squeezed his arm. "You're a fiend!" she whispered.
"Thank you," he replied.
"L… level one, Master," stammered Tinkerbelle, her thumbed hovering over the button, Then she closed her eyes and jabbed.
"Aaaaaaaaagh!" The remote flew from her hand and almost hit Sticky.
"Try not to damage the slaves, Tinkerbelle."
The girl stood slightly crouched, thighs clamped together. The control was retrieved and handed to her.
"One's too low. We'll count that as a stroke, but you'll have to go to level two from now on."
"L…l… level two, Master?"
"That's right."
Her fingers fumbled at the dial. Her eyes closed again. She jabbed. This time she held on to it, but her body jerked as if she been hit with a baseball bat. Her mouth gaped, eyes flying open.
"Aaaaiiieeeeeee!"
Now she panted, a hand going down to comfort her crotch, the forearm of the hand with the remote moving up to her breasts.
"That's three strokes, Tinkerbelle. Go to level three if you want."
"Oh, no! Please, Master!"
"All right, leave it where it is. That's another seven and a half, which is a bit awkward. What about another six at two and one at three?"
"I… I'll try, Master."
"What level are you on? You didn't say."
"S… sorry, Master. Level two, Master."
"All right. Carry on."
Her eyes closed once more. The hovering thumb jabbed down. The body went rigid, shaking while the mouth gaped once more.
"Aaaaaaiiiiiieeeee!"
She panted, sweat glistening all over her body. "Oh, Master! It's terrible! I… I don't think I can take another five. And not level three! Oh, please Master! Use the cane or the crop instead!"
"One more." The tone was flat.
She knew that she had to do it. She gulped air, swallowed, closed her eyes and jabbed. Once more the rigidity, once more the agonised scream: "Aaaaaaiiiiieeeeeeeee!" Then the slow uncoiling from the tension, the panting. Sweat dripped.
"That's further than I'd thought," he said.
"I thought that Stacy went to level four?" asked Chambers.
KP gave him a bland look. "I lied. She never got past one. And that only once."
Tinkerbelle heard, but she was too busy panting and recovering from the enervating shocks that the cruelty of it made no impact. Not that it would have mattered if it had.
"She still owes us eleven strokes by my count," said Paula."
"Oh, no," said KP. "I'd say that she's had the equivalent of about twenty or so. This thing's a lot nastier than it looks. And remember that she'd getting it inside. It is not to be taken lightly. Still, I don't think it's done any permanent damage. Do you fancy a fuck, Tinkerbelle?"
The girl lifted a sweat and tear stained face. "If… if you wish, Master."
"Good. Then take that belt off and come and do me. But wait until I lie on the floor."
"Oh, goody," said Paula, completely diverted. "An orgy. I do enjoy a good orgy!"
*
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
The head swung against the rope, but the lips were clamped, if trembling. She was trembling all over, much more violently than she had yesterday.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeeee! Oh, God, no! Bastard!"
She had cracked. All it would take was a couple more.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiieeee! Oh, stop!"
Thwuck!
"AaaaaaAhaaaaaaaaaiiieeee! No! Please… please take it off!"
He had delivered thirty-nine strokes, the last three delivered with real venom, especially the first, the one that counted.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiiieeeeee! I said it! I said it! Stop! Stop!"
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaaaaaiiiiieeeeeee! Oh, God, stop! I did it!"
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! God help meeee!"
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
"Aaaagh! Mmmmmph. Uuuugh. P…please re… remove the sm… smock."
"Why didn't you say that first time?"
"Aaaaaaaargh!"

*
He was going to win today; she knew it. She'd known all along that he would beat her eventually, but those last three strokes last night had told her when.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
She almost said it then, just to spite him. She could feel her body trembling, anticipating defeat. But it was a matter of pride. Thwuck!
Pain, blinding, overpowering, blazing through her like a rampaging beast. It tore through her body and out of her throat.
"Aaaaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeeee! Oh, God, no! Bastard!" The sound of defeat. Almost.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiieeee! Oh, stop!" Nearly there. Hold, hold!
Thwuck!
"AaaaaaAhaaaaaaaaaiiieee. No! Please… please take it off!" Defeat.
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiiieeeeee! I said it! I said it! Stop! Stop!" Why hadn't he stopped? I said it! Oh, God the pain!
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaaaaaiiiiieeeeeee! Oh, God, stop! I did it!" He must have heard! Please make him stop! Agony! Agony!
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! God help meeee!" He was going to go on and on! He wasn't going to stop until she was dead!
"You may ask me at any time to remove the smock."
What? Oh, God, the agony! "Aaaagh!" Searing, slicing pain! "Mmmmmph." What had he said? Pain pain pain! "Uuuuugh." Words! Say the words! He wants the words! Oh, say them! Say them before he starts again! "P… please re… remove the sm… smock."
"Why didn't you say that the first time?"
Bile rose, threatening to choke. Humiliation on top of disgrace of top of pain pain pain! Bastard bastard bastard! The winner. "Aaaaaaaargh!"
Hands on the buttons at the back. Nothing sophisticated, just buttons all the way down. Deft, quick; air on skin. Then it drops away, held by the arms, Something cold on the skin. What? Sound. Scissors. Gone. Pain pain pain, tears running, blindfold wet on her face. What next?
"You may ask me at any time to remove the brassiere."
What? No! Not the same game! God, no! "Bastard!"
Pause. Feet? No!
Thwuck!
"Aaaaaaaaaiiiiieeeee! No, please, no more!" Think! Breathe! "Please remove the brassiere!"
Hands at the back, pressure as he undoes the catches. Then her breasts hang free. Snip. Snip. Pain pain pain. Shame shame shame. Breasts dangling. Tears.
"You may ask me at any time to remove the panties."
She was ready this time. "P… please remove the… the panties." Can't help crying while I say it. Will he fuck me now? Or will he make me beg? He'll make me beg. After he's hurt me a lot more. Snip. Snip. Naked.
"You are very beautiful. You're going to give us great pleasure."
Silence, but for the sound of her sobs.
Chapter 14
He knelt at the side of the desk, a desk that she been spread on more than once to satisfy his lust or his sadism. His and others', as he chose. She was naked, as always. Naked and posed, as she must be in case he looked, her thighs spread wide to show her sex, her hands behind her back, breasts thrust forward. Her head was down, fixed on the floor, as it must be.
If she moved her eyes sideways she could see his legs. They shifted as she watched. What was he doing up there? Writing, she thought. But he'd want to use her soon: he always did. How she hated him! How she hated them all! But how careful she had to be not to show it! One of them had reported her for lack of effort three weeks ago; they had put her over the block and thrashed her: twelve on the backside, twelve on the back of the thighs and twelve on the front while the man who had complained stood and watched. And listened, because she had screamed herself hoarse. And then they had sent her back to him that same day.
Bastards! All of them! Hairy, withered, ancient flesh that she had to lick, suck, satisfy. Bastards! "The rules say I can't make you drink my piss."
"No, Master."
"But there's nothing to stop me complaining about you again, is there?"
Backside and thighs blazing with agony. "Please, Master, may I drink your piss?"
"If you insist."
Bastards!
"What are you thinking about down there, Poppet?"
Her head and eyes whipped up. He was looking down at her! Panic shot through her. How long? Dear God, had he seen her face?
"About serving you, Master," she answered, driving back the hatred. Poppet! She hated it as much as she hated them!
"Liar."
Griffin leaned back in the chair and looked down at her. He remembered the day that she'd cracked, five – or was it six? – months ago. He couldn't remember exactly how much time had passed, but he remembered that event as clearly as if it had happened this morning. It was a day of vengeance almost – but not yet quite – fulfilled, but more than that, it marked his own transformation from journeyman to master slave-trainer. A subtle transition, to be sure, but one which had been recognised by KP and, after some mature reflection, by Griffin himself. That alone would have made her special.
Not that that first crack had marked her complete defeat, not by a very long chalk. It had taken five long, stretched out, thoroughly enjoyable weeks before she'd gone to her knees and said the words that settled it:
‘Master, I am your slave, your property. Please use me for your enjoyment.'
Which is what he'd done ever since. Him, Chambers, KP, Paula and every resident and guest in what had come to be called ‘Hoy', a convenient compression of ‘Heartbreak Oy' that managed to retain its flavour. He knew that rules had been broken in her treatment, largely because he had prompted those who'd broken those rules. He had ensured that she was subjected to every humiliation possible, in both private and public. She had been degraded and abused, taunted and tormented. And he knew that she hated every second of it, together with every single person responsible. That was a lot of hate.
He was about to push her a bit deeper. Correct that: much, much deeper.
He just sat there looking down at her, his chair rocking backwards and forwards slightly. Not a word after that ‘liar' That had frozen the blood in her veins. He knew. He knew that she hated him. He was going to hurt her again. Hurt her the way he'd kept on hurting her so that she just had to perform the filth he demanded; the filth that she did now because she knew how much it hurt not to.
But hating was different. Hating was inside; he couldn't beat it out of her. Or use the horrible belt with its shocks, or put her on that fiendish toothed bar with its electric shocks that had you howling in frustrated torment because there was agony if you did one thing and agony if you did another. He must know he couldn't get rid of the hatred. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try.
"How's your arse-hole?" he asked.
"Ready for you to use, Master."
"All right. Give me a suck first."
"It is an honour, Master."
"Cut the crap," he said crudely.
"Yes, Master." Her hands were at his fly, unzipping. She unfastened the belt and pulled down the trousers as he lifted his hips. It was the way he liked it.
God, it was big! If only she'd known that when she'd first seen him, she'd have ditched the idiot Shaun and made a pitch for him, abandoning any idea of stealing his money. But that was then and she hadn't.
She covered it with her mouth, laving it with her tongue, rolling it round the huge thing. It was all the lubrication she was going to get and this thing was too big for her, despite the number of times he'd forced her to thrust back on to it. The first time had been diabolical, but she hadn't been allowed to stop.
"That will do."
She pulled off, saliva dribbling, turning and crouching, pushing herself over the desk, her hands flat on its surface. It was too wide for her to grasp the far side; besides, she wouldn't be able to do it properly if she did. Her back didn't arch down, it bowed up so that her breasts hung, their lower surfaces barely brushing the leather. That, too, was what he wanted. Her legs separated, She was ready.
The tip touched her. His hands separated the cheeks; it nestled between them to rest on the anus.
"All right. You know what to do."
She knew. She knew only too well. Teeth gritted, lips pulled back, she flatted her hands, pushing down and back, suppressing the cry that rose as the head butted in, beginning its invasion. It would get a lot worse, it always did with him. She had never stretched enough to accommodate him as she had some other the others.
"Easy!" he growled.
She felt her teeth grind. That meant: ‘Don't hurt me!' Don't hurt him! Dear God! More pressure, as gently as she could. Agony flared as that blunt head spread the initial tightness of the muscles of that tiny hole, weakened though they were. Another gentle push back and it was in, the flaring pain turning to a familiar burning sensation as the muscles screamed their protest at the intrusion and its size. Another push and he was in her, deep; she felt his pubic hair brushing her backside.
Some women, they said, loved this. She was not one of them, even when the intruder was small. But it was no time for such thoughts. This was the man of all men she must satisfy, the man who had already called her ‘liar' today. That was bad enough. A poor performance could be catastrophic. Now she must pause to allow him to savour his conquest, pause until he leaned over her back to take her breasts in his hands. It was the reason that they were held away from the desk: to make the grasping easier. So he could grip them and use them to pull her on to him. ‘Poppet's buggery-handles' he called them, seeming to find it amusing. She didn't know why. Oh, dear God! It hurt so! She had only one consolation: if she refused, the alternative was worse, much worse. She knew, it had happened.
Now he pulled back, pain stabbing through her. She mustn't complain; indeed, she must make no sound of pleasure or otherwise. As if there'd be pleasure! But those were his orders. Now she must compose herself, pushing back as he entered, easing forward as he withdrew, giving him the pleasure of her flesh, despite the pain. Because of the pain, because that was part of his punishment. And it would not be momentary, as it was with many: this was a man of stamina, so her suffering would be prolonged.
It was more prolonged than it had ever been. He seemed quite deliberately to draw it out, stopping for long moments when she thought he was close to spewing his seed into her. Sweat dripped from her face to the leather of the desk. Her hands, which had laid flat were now clawed talons as she fought the groans. Her breasts ached from the mauling they were getting. But worse, so much worse was the terrible agony that centred on her anus.
But at last it ended, or the agony did. He stiffened, groaned and then unleashed into her. She felt the spurting, welcoming it as a harbinger of relief, at last, from the agony that had so gripped her for so long. That was almost over, but the degradation wasn't, not yet.
She felt his sperm dripping from her as she knelt and took him, for once almost limp, into her mouth, sucking it in, sucking when it filled her so that she could taste both of them: his sperm, her filth. That done, she must go to hands and knees, head cocked up and back to lick the sweat from the testicles, back along the crease to his anus, where she must linger to pay homage with mouth and tongue before moving back along the same path. And when she was back at the penis she found that her ministrations had stiffened it as they always did. So she sucked and sucked while she felt the sperm dribbling down her legs, knowing that when he spurted again it would be almost over. Almost, because then she would go down on hands and knees and lick the floor clean. And to be certain that no more could foul it, she must clean herself with her hands and use her mouth to clean them, too. Only then would it be over and she could raise his trousers and close them. Until next time. That was what always happened: is now and ever shall be. Amen.
Not today. Oh, she performed all the vile tasks that she knew were necessary, plus the not-at-all-vile one of replacing his trousers. But instead of being ordered back to her position at the side of his chair to kneel and wait like an obedient dog, she was commanded to the centre of the carpet in front of the desk and ordered to assume the full display position facing the door.
Full display position. Arms behind the head, elbows pulled back hard. Knees spread so wide that you could here the tendons creak and feel air on the inner flesh of your gaping cunt. Cunt, because she was a slave and mustn't call it anything else. There was only one reason that you adopted the full display position as a slave: someone was going to look at you and see everything you had to offer. She wondered who it would be. She didn't wonder long.
There was a knock.
"Come in," called Griffin behind her.
The door opened. She couldn't see who it was because her eyes were own. Only that it was a man with baggy trousers and polished black shoes. For some reason a chill went through her.
"I think you two know each other," said Griffin.
"Indeed we do," said a voice that sent bile to her throat. "Signorina Lombardi and I spent some time in the same prison. Didn't we, Signorina?"
She had been addressed. She must look up. Up into those piggy eyes and that fleshy, sneering face. Look up and know that she had to do to and for him anything he demanded.
"Say hello to the Commandant, Poppet," said Griffin. "And do it nicely, won't you? He's just bought you."

End

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