Chapter 9
Carl Jacobs felt sweaty, filthy and exhausted as he trudged back to barracks
with the other conscripts after a long day of what the government called
environmental restoration in the rugged hills of northern Wales. It was awfully
hard work, mostly hauling away dead old trees and sawing them into lengths for
distribution as firewood, and the heavy shackles on his ankles didn't make
things any easier. Aside from the weight, they were forever catching on things.
The weather out here was cold and miserable, the officers drove the conscripts
relentlessly from dawn till nearly dusk, and discipline was every bit as harsh
as it had been at Camp Thatcher. Low temperatures had forced the officers to
allow the men to wear ugly orange uniforms rather than keeping them naked, but
even that was a mixed blessing; they were made to strip as soon as they returned
to barracks, and taking off his uniform in front of the stern female officers
always made Carl feel twice as exposed as if he'd just been nude all along. And
what the hell, he thought sourly, was the point of tidying up the forests out
here in this godforsaken little corner of the UK, where nobody in his right mind
would ever want to come anyway? And in the wintertime! This whole project was
just another excuse for the bitches to work them half to death and beat them
black and blue with those leather straps he had come to loathe more than
anything in the world.
Ever since the day of his conscription, when they'd taken away his clothes and
put chains on his wrists and ankles for the first time, Carl had been gradually
building up an immense resentment toward the whole system and everything
associated with it. Camp Thatcher had been quite bad enough, with its early
morning calisthenics, terrible food, cramped little punishment cages, and
leering officers armed with the inevitable leather straps. Camp Bathori, the
punishment centre where he'd been sent after his disastrous attempt to organise
some sort of resistance among the conscripts, had been ten times worse. Even
now, nearly three weeks later, the memories made him clench his teeth and fight
down the urge to vomit. Squirming and thrashing helplessly as they lowered his
tightly bound body upside down into ice-cold water for the sixth or seventh
time; moaning in agony as the heavy set and halitotic Officer Yasmen gave him
that infuriating little grin and drove her knee into his naked crotch; being
dragged from his cage in the small hours of the morning to carry sandbags back
and forth across the yard until he literally collapsed from exhaustion; mud
wrestling another conscript in the middle of a ring of cheering officers to
determine which of them would be allowed to eat that day. Punishment indeed. And
after Camp Bathori they'd sent him straight here, to do a gruelling job that his
slight frame simply wasn't built for. Officer Yasmen, who'd been assigned as his
overseer - so few conscripts ended up at Camp Bathori that each one was
guaranteed plenty of personal attention - had smilingly told him to think of
this as the second phase of his punishment. "I'm sure you'll hate every minute
of it," she had sneered as he was being loaded into the transport car, "but it's
better than you deserve, you scrawny piece of shit." Charming lady.
"Halt!" yelled Officer Ingram, quite unnecessarily, as they reached the barbed
wire fence surrounding the "Conscript Residency Area", which Carl thought of as
a kind of miniature concentration camp. Officer Ingram liked to yell. The line
of two hundred or so chained men waited dutifully as the gates were opened, then
filed inside at another shouted command. They had to stand at attention while
the officers removed the heavy chains from around their ankles, then strip off
their uniforms and drop them in the laundry cart. Their work boots and gloves
went in a small storage shed. They would be kept naked, in the name of
discomfort, humiliation and vulnerability, until it was time to go out again
tomorrow morning.
"Commandant's inspection!" Ingram bellowed. "Line up!" Encouraged by a few
casual blows of the strap, they quickly formed a neat line and came to attention
again. Commandant Caylin was a solid woman with close-cropped grey hair who
always looked as though she genuinely thought she was doing her male charges
some sort of favour when she ordered draconian punishments for them. It wasn't
really much of an inspection. The Commandant moved briskly along the line of
naked conscripts, occasionally pausing to hit a man whose posture she considered
deficient. She was a believer in swift, firm discipline, as she never tired of
reminding them. At the end of the line she turned to Ingram.
"Anyone coming with me this evening?"
"Yes, ma'am!" She glanced down at the notebook she always carried. "Parker for
insubordination, and Stewart, Jacobs and Kennedy for insufficient effort." Carl
sighed as his name was read out. This was his sixteenth night of restoring the
natural splendour of the Welsh forests, and his eleventh trip to the punishment
area with the Caylin bitch. How on earth did they expect him to show sufficient
effort when he was half the size of most of the other men in the work crew?
But it didn't matter, of course. He meekly lined up with the other victims of
the evening, and allowed the Commandant and an equally pitiless Officer Reaghan
to herd him toward the dreaded Iron Rails. There were three long bars, all
parallel; one was at ankle level and the other two waist-high, a few feet apart.
By now Carl knew the routine, and he submitted with the best grace he could
manage as the Commandant grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and roughly bent
him over the nearer of the two waist-high rails, cuffing his wrists to the other
and his ankles to the one at the bottom. She slapped his upraised bottom with a
heavy, calloused hand.
"Conscript Jacobs," she said, almost cheerily. Punishments always put her in a
good mood. "Been seeing a lot of you, haven't I? I think I'll save you for last
tonight." Carl shivered in the cold air and kept his eyes on the ground as he
heard Caylin and Reaghan finish securing the other conscripts. There was a
moment of silence before the harsh crack of the Commandant's wooden paddle on
bare male flesh, followed by the inevitable gasp of pain. Another few blows and
the gasps would become moans, then screams and sobs. Carl remembered it all too
well from previous nights, and now he shuddered and gritted his teeth as he
heard one man after another break down and beg the Commandant to stop, please
just stop hurting him. It usually seemed to happen around the fourteenth or
fifteenth blow, but he had never heard Caylin give less than the full twenty-one
no matter how much crying and pleading she had to listen to.
Finally it was his turn. He felt the instrument of correction lightly touch his
buttocks as she measured her aim, the only warning she ever gave, and then that
first agonising crack a moment later. Bloody hell, it hurt! Commandant Caylin
had a very strong arm, and his arse was still tender and a bit bruised from
yesterday. He felt the tears well up right away, and bit down on his lip to keep
from crying out. It didn't help that the Iron Rails were in full view of the
mess hall, where the officers and men would be eating together and watching
through the windows. He held out as long as he could, just like he always did,
but when the eighth blow whistled down across his poor tortured buttocks he gave
his first little humiliating yelp of pain. At the eleventh, he really started to
scream; by the sixteenth, he was babbling incoherently for mercy. He couldn't
help it. And the firm, even rhythm of the paddle never slowed, never changed,
never stopped until the twenty-first blow had left its mark on his flesh.
"That's it, boys," said Caylin's deep voice. "Work hard and do as you're told,
or you can expect more of the same. I trust you've all learned your lesson?"
"Yes, ma'am," Carl mumbled, along with the others. If you didn't, she'd hit you
more.
"Good." She started unfastening the men. Reaghan, I'll take Jacobs round to the
nurse - he's bleeding a bit - and you get the others back to the barracks. No
supper for them tonight, of course, and no recreation time. Straight to bed
unless an officer wants one of them."
That was how things worked here. If you were a good slave, you got to eat dinner
with the officers and relax for half an hour afterwards. The games room had
darts, billiards, cards, and a small library of morally appropriate literature,
and usually a few of the officers would stick around to socialise. You still had
to address them respectfully, of course, and they never quite let you forget
that at the end of the half-hour they would be going upstairs to cozy little
bedrooms with all the amenities while you were herded into a locked dormitory
with steel bunk beds and no sheets or pillows. But it was still a chance to talk
to them almost naturally, and even do a little flirting with some of the less
uptight ones. At bedtime each officer could take one conscript upstairs with
her, if she wanted, which was the only sexual activity the men were ever allowed
unless they earned masturbation privileges through good behaviour. Competition
for the attention of the officers was intense, although being taken upstairs was
never exactly guaranteed to be pleasant. The younger and prettier officers loved
to tease men to distraction with their bodies and then leave them frustrated,
and the older ones - as Carl had found out one night through experience - often
liked to slap and pinch and spank. Officer Mellott was the one the conscripts
all really tried to get to notice them. She might be plump, buck-toothed and
greying, but she was always gentle and usually let her man cum before sending
him back down to be locked in for the night. It was funny how all their
priorities had changed now that the women were the ones in charge.
When Carl finally got back to the mess hall after a brief visit with a very
peremptory nurse, he found that one of the officers did want him. Officer
Raymond, an athletic-looking black woman who had a reputation as one of the
arch-teasers. Even as she led him up to her bedroom she was already stroking his
freshly ointmented buttocks and giggling over the welts and bruises. Carl,
aroused by her touch without wanting to be, sensed he was in for a long and less
than enjoyable evening. He took a deep breath as she pushed him into her room
and handcuffed him to the bed, and thought darkly of escape and vengeance. The
bitches could hurt him, they could starve him and beat him and work him to
exhaustion and beyond, and they could even rape him, but breaking Carl Allen
Jacobs was another matter entirely. He would play along, but he wouldn't give
in.
He would play along. Officer Raymond slipped out of her grey officer's shirt and
leaned so close he could feel the heat from her firm brown body, and her breath
against his face. Her perfume was light and floral, her smile predatory.
"Looks like you're all ready to get started," she giggled, rubbing her palm
roughly across the head of his desperately stiff cock. "Come on, you pathetic
little runt. Tell me how much you want to fuck me."
* * *
Claire Nesbitt couldn't help but smile as she watched Clive squirm in his
handcuffs. He was still sprawled naked on her bed, damp with sweat and
dishevelled, a condom plastered to his half-erect penis. And looking petulant
beneath that lovely mane of dark curls. He obviously hadn't liked being left
tethered while she went off to shower and get dressed after what had been a
truly epic session of lovemaking, but at least he hadn't actually whined about
it much. Maybe he was learning.
"Come on, Claire, let me up," he said finally.
"Just let me take a picture first. I'll put it in the album, right beside the
one with you in the miniskirt and stockings."
"Shit, Claire, I thought you were in a hurry."
She glanced at the clock. "Oh, all right. But you do look good - like a defeated
Greek warrior after being ravaged by Amazons, or something." She went to the bed
and unlocked his cuffs; he grabbed for her, of course, but she skipped back and
slapped exasperatedly at the hand he extended toward her bosom.
"Stop it! I can't turn up at Lady Briddington's place looking all rumpled."
"You don't have to turn up there at all, you know," said Clive, sitting up.
"Jealous, darling? Don't like me seeing Richard?"
"I guess not. But I don't want you getting mixed up with that woman, either. She
sounds like a first-class bitch."
"I know. But luckily, I'm going to visit Richard, not her." She grinned.
"Besides, you're just afraid she'll give me ideas. Amanda already offered to let
me borrow her discipline strap next time, along with the cuffs."
"Amanda's back on duty next week."
"Then I'll just have to get my own strap, won't I? You can order them on the
net, you know. Made to official specifications, or even one that was actually
used if you're willing to pay a hundred quid for it. Tried and tested on dozens
of male arses just like yours, Clive."
"I need a shower. Weren't you about to go?"
"Yeah. Be good." She kissed him lightly on the lips, gave his bollocks a
friendly squeeze, and headed out to the car. It was a long drive to Lady
Briddington's estate, which might be just as well. She still had no idea what
she was going to say to Richard, or how she was going to explain to him what was
going on with Clive. It would have to be done delicately. Clive was sweet, and
every time they got into bed together he seemed willing to go just a little
farther for her, but he wasn't much more than a pleasant diversion. Richard was
a different matter, and she was determined not to lose his devotion. The main
thing was that he had to be made to keep her in mind, whether that meant looking
eagerly forward to a passionate reunion in 2007 or writhing in the grip of
jealous thoughts about what she might or might not be doing with Clive Johnson.
She really couldn't wait, though, to get him back when it was all over. She
imagined the Richard of the future: fit, polite, respectful, cured of petty
vices, and above all eager to please. In other words, the perfect husband. Come
to think of it, Clive wasn't doing badly in the eager-to-please department
either, these days. Was there any chance she could somehow manage to hold on to
both of them? They'd make a pretty pair, handcuffed side by side in her bed just
like Clive had been today. Two defeated Greek warriors for her Amazonian
enjoyment. She'd make them kiss each other, spank each other...
Claire had got well beyond kissing and spanking by the time she approached her
destination, but as she drew up to the wrought iron gates and identified herself
to Lady Briddington's staff through some kind of intercom device she made a
conscious effort to focus on the matter at hand. The gate opened automatically
and she drove inside, a bit awed at the size and opulence of the grounds
surrounding what was obviously a very old manor house. The place made her feel
small, awkward and quite ordinary, despite her carefully chosen clothes and
meticulous preening. Another servant came out from the house to park her car,
and at the door a very professional looking older woman was waiting to show her
in.
"Ms. Nesbitt, I presume?"
"Yes," said Claire, a bit nervously. "How do you do?" The other woman wasn't
especially glamorous, but her direct stare and heavy build gave her a vaguely
intimidating presence.
"I am Ms. Bonner, one of Richard's handlers. Your visit with him will take place
under my supervision. If you would please come this way?"
Claire followed her toward a wide spiral staircase, past antique furniture and a
suit of armour. It was like something out of a fairy-tale. "You mean I won't be
allowed to see him alone?" she asked.
"Unfortunately not. However, I'm to inform you that Lady Briddington has
promised that Richard will not be punished for anything either of you might say,
so please speak freely. But remember that you're not allowed to touch him, or
give him anything."
"That's fine."
"He's in here. You have half an hour - enjoy your visit, Ms. Nesbitt."
She couldn't help but stop in her tracks - Ms. Bonner almost bumped into her -
when she saw him sitting there in that plain little room. He was completely
nude, as she'd expected, but she was surprised to see that he was actually
shackled to his chair. His wrists were locked to its heavy wooden arms, his
ankles to its legs. And there was something around his waist, a kind of metal
belt that also enclosed his cock and balls. There were a few bruises on his face
and naked body, but he actually seemed to be in excellent physical condition,
more toned and muscular than she had ever seen him. He looked strange, though,
with such short hair.
"Richard!" she exclaimed, finally coming forward to take the chair opposite his.
"Claire. I - I'm so glad to see you. But Jesus, this feels strange. I wish I
could kiss you."
"Me too, Richard. Among other things. You're looking awfully good, you know."
"Please, Claire. You don't know what they do to me here."
"No, you really are. I've never seen you looking fitter. I can't wait to get my
hands on you."
"Well, you're going to have to," he said bitterly. Twenty two more months. And a
bit."
"Oh, I have things to do in the meantime. And so do you, I suppose. Does Lady
Briddington make you work very hard?"
"It's not work, really. It's training. And torture." He glanced apprehensively
at Ms. Bonner, who was standing unobtrusively in a corner, but the woman
actually gave an encouraging nod. "Every day they wake me up before dawn for
exercises, just like at Camp Thatcher," he went on in a voice that made Claire's
heart go out to him. "Then I get slop for breakfast, a cold shower, and training
most of the rest of the day. Obedience lessons, or I learn how to serve tea and
polish silver, or practice pulling her little pony cart. Afterwards I get
dinner, if I've done well, and then I go downstairs for a session." He gave the
final word a special emphasis, as though he had named some terrible disease.
Claire was thoroughly puzzled.
"A session of what?"
"Torture, basically. They lock me in a Spanish Inquisition kind of room, and
Lady Briddington gives me orders on the intercom. I have to pose for her, play
with sex toys, chain and torture myself - whatever she's in the mood for. If I
don't obey, she hurts me with the control belt."
"The what?"
"The thing I'm wearing now. She has some way of operating it remotely. It can
give me electric shocks, or squeeze my bollocks harder than the officers at Camp
Thatcher ever did. It hurts so much, Claire! And sometimes she uses it to sort
of massage me, so I get all turned on, but it's just teasing. I never get to -
to finish, you know. And the sessions all end the same way." He was squirming,
pulling at his restraints, practically in tears. Claire wanted so badly to go
over there and take him in her arms and cover him with comforting kisses, but of
course that would never be permitted. What could she do but listen, and
sympathise? Discipline and sadistic little games were one thing, but what he was
describing sounded a little too cruel for comfort.
"How do they end, Richard?" she asked gently.
"They - I - Claire, I shouldn't be telling you this. I'll survive."
"Richard, I want to know what she's doing to you. Please."
"Ms. Bonner always gives me a lot of water to drink beforehand," he said in a
barely audible voice. "At the end of the session I have to pee in a special
bowl. And then she - Lady Briddington, that is - she tells me to drink out of
it. At first I just had to lap a little, but after I did that twice it suddenly
wasn't enough any more. She always tells me to pick up the whole bowl and drink
every drop, and I can never bring myself to do it. So she makes me scream a
little." He gave a very awkward shrug. "I suppose there are worse things, but it
hurts terribly, and it happens over and over, every single night... This evening
she'll do it to me again..." And with that he did start to cry, just sobbing and
sobbing like a baby. Claire was appalled. If this place was a fairy-tale palace,
it belonged in one of the old Germanic versions, where the witch always got to
devour a few children before finally meeting a gruesome end. She actually got to
her feet before she caught Ms. Bonner's warning glance and sat down again,
trembling in pity and anger.
"I'll help you, Richard. I don't know how, but I'll find a way. I promise - I
love you."
"No you don't. Amanda told me about you and Clive Johnson. Every night while I'm
down there screaming you're fucking him, aren't you?"
That was basically true, though she hated to admit it even to herself. Her
fantasies of captured Greek warriors suddenly seemed silly and unimportant.
"I'll stop if you want me to. I really will."
"I don't believe you. This is just another fucking game, isn't it? Did Lady
Briddington tell you what to say?"
"No, she didn't. Please, Richard, just listen. I love you. I had no idea what
she was doing to you. I thought it would just be housework, sex, and the odd
spanking. This is barbaric, and I'm not going to stand for it. I'll stop seeing
Clive, and I'll find a way to help you. The first thing I'll do is talk to the
press, the liberal press I mean, and then - oh, hell, I'll think of something.
And I'll be back next month, unless you'd rather see your mother."
"If she wants to come," said Richard. "But warn her that she's going to have to
see me naked and chained up. Claire, do you really mean it? About loving me?"
"Yes. I want to marry you the second you're discharged, or whatever it's
called."
He was delighted, of course. From the sound of things he hadn't had a single
kind word since falling into Lady Briddington's clutches. They talked about it
for the rest of their half-hour, about houses they would buy, children they
would have, and long evenings of lovemaking by the fireside. By the end of the
visit Claire herself was crying a little, her make-up hopelessly smudged; she
thought she'd started when Richard had promised to always put her wishes ahead
of his own, and apologised for the way he'd taken her for granted before being
conscripted. Even as he was suffering so horribly, he was learning the humility
she had hoped for in the ideal future Richard of her daydreams. It made it all
very confusing. Ms. Bonner watched the whole conversation impassively, and
finally interrupted with a polite cough.
"Your thirtieth minute is up, Ms. Nesbitt. Thank you for visiting. If you would
come with me, please?"
"Yes, all right. Goodbye, Richard. I love you."
"I love you too, Claire."
"This way, please. I'm sorry, but you really do have to go now."
"All right! But listen, can I see her Ladyship before I leave?"
"That's really quite impossible."
"Please, Ms. Bonner. You saw him in there, the way he's suffering. I didn't
think conscription was supposed to be torture. He's the man I love, and I really
am concerned about the way he's being treated, to say the least. Can't I please,
please have a chance to tell her Ladyship how I feel?"
"You must understand my position, Ms. Nesbitt. Between the two of us, I feel a
good deal of sympathy for Richard as well. But Lady Briddington's behaviour
toward him has been perfectly legal, if not necessarily humane, and I am
contractually obliged to carry out her orders. I never hurt him more than is
strictly necessary, if that helps, and neither does my colleague Ms. Reynolds."
"But her orders are horrible! If I could talk to her, just for a few minutes,
maybe I could make her see that. Won't you at least let me try?"
"Her Ladyship is not easily persuaded. You would likely make things worse for
Richard, not better. It really would be best for you to leave now, Ms. Nesbitt.
And as a word of friendly advice, I would think very carefully before -"
"No, Ms. Bonner, it's all right," said a cool voice from the other end of the
hall. They both started, and turned, and Claire was amazed to see a blond woman,
surely not older than forty, in a massive wheelchair with a lot of knobs and
buttons. Every inch of her looked positively regal. Her hair hung like a pale
curtain around creamy shoulders that her long black gown left bare, and Claire
didn't think she had ever seen a more dignified, finely sculpted face in her
life. Cool, intelligent green eyes glistened beneath a very high, pale forehead.
Even seated in her wheelchair, she somehow looked tall, as if through sheer
elegance and grace of bearing, and Claire had no doubt that she was face-to-face
with the Lady Briddington herself.
"It's all right," she repeated. "Ms. Bonner, give Richard his dinner and have
him in the Playroom in an hour's time. Claire, you may follow me to my study."
The wheelchair whirred as she spun it around and started back the way she had
come, without another word. Claire hurried after her, smarting at being treated
so dismissively but determined not to lose the opportunity that had suddenly
presented itself. The study was breathtaking, full of old books and magnificent
portraits, but Claire was more interested in the display on the monitor over the
ornate writing-desk. It showed a room that, as Richard had said, could have been
furnished by the Spanish Inquisition.
"Is that your ladyship's Playroom?" asked Claire, trying to keep the bitterness
out of her voice.
"Why, yes. You sound as though you don't approve. I thought I did a rather good
job of creating the proper atmosphere, myself."
"Oh, it's a superb torture chamber. I just wish it didn't see quite so much
use." Lady Briddington gave her a quizzical look, and she continued hastily. "I
know Richard needs to be disciplined sometimes, and I know it can be fun to make
men suffer once in a while. He's your slave; you can do anything you want with
him. But with all due respect, I wish you wouldn't be quite so brutal about it.
There are ways to enjoy a man that don't involve pain and abuse, aren't there?"
She was trying to keep her outrage well in check, but even so she was afraid she
might have gone too far. But the other woman only gave her a kindly smile and
motioned her toward a comfortable armchair.
"My dear Claire, you're still very young," she said patiently. "You really have
no idea how stubborn and contradictory men can be. If Richard is going to be a
proper slave, he needs to have every shred of absurd masculine egotism beaten
and spanked and shocked and starved out of him. Young men need to be broken in,
just like horses. I'll admit I do get a certain amount of enjoyment out of the
process, but it's also good for him. You mustn't let his outbursts worry you."
"Outbursts! He broke down and cried like a baby right there in front of me. He's
living in a world of agony."
"It's not as bad as it looks. You had a little shock when he started to pour out
his raw emotions in the visiting room - I was eavesdropping, of course - and
it's upset you. It's a difficult time for him, but he won't be damaged, and
after he becomes more compliant I may be able to ease up a little."
"And what will happen then? When you've broken him in, as you say, what will you
do with him?"
Lady Briddington shrugged. "Use him. I host very exclusive soirees occasionally,
and perhaps I'll trot him out for the delectation of the ladies. And when the
weather starts to warm up he can pull me around the grounds in my cart, while
Ms. Bonner runs alongside with a riding crop to urge him along. I've always
wanted to make a man do that. And of course I'll still have him taken to the
Playroom from time to time."
"More degradation and torture, in other words. Aren't you - your ladyship, I
can't believe I'm going to say this, but aren't you going to take him to your
bed? Or have him attend you privately? An obedient man can be delightful, and
I'm sure he'll obey better if you reward his efforts once in a while. He'll
learn his place, and serve you, but he won't be trembling and terrified all the
time. It hurts me to see him like this."
"I really have no interest in his nasty little thing, apart from its uses in
punishing and controlling him. I don't like having men close to me. That is why
I prefer to give him instructions over the intercom, rather than in person."
Claire took a deep breath, and decided to rush on before she had time for second
thoughts. "But your ladyship, it's so much better in person," she exclaimed.
"Think of having him there, tied down and helpless, and you able to do anything
you wanted to him. Hurt him, caress him, kiss him, just feel that strong male
body under your hands - anything at all. And there's nothing quite like hearing
a man pleading with tears in his eyes for you to make love to him." Her
experience with Clive was coming in very handy.
But Lady Briddington was actually blushing. "I - I think that's very rude of
you," she stammered, sounding discomfited for the first time. "To imply that I
would enjoy hearing a male creature talk of - of rutting with me, of taking his
nasty thing and poking it into my private parts. Utterly disgusting."
Claire forced herself to stop staring at the other woman's fidgeting hands. What
was wrong with her? "But you wouldn't have to let him do any of that," she said
gently. "And if you didn't like hearing it, you could gag him. If he desires you
- and he will, when he sees how beautiful you are - he'll be more in your power
than ever. If you try it, and decide you don't like it, what's the harm?"
"Oh, you think I'm beautiful?" Her voice had become a hard sneer. She reached
down, awkwardly, and began to draw the long skirt of her dress upward. Claire
watched in shocked fascination, her mouth gaping and her eyes wide. She couldn't
help herself. Lady Briddington's legs were a scarred, lumpy mess, hideous and
misshapen. They looked as though they'd been run over repeatedly by a tank. No
wonder the poor woman couldn't walk. "As you can imagine," Lady Briddington went
on, "my experience of men is decidedly limited. Even if I had Richard brought up
to my bedroom, I wouldn't know where to begin with him."
"I could show you. Please, your ladyship, I know you'll find it better than just
making him scream in pain."
"You impertinent - you have no idea what you're asking of me."
"Try it just once, and I promise I'll never bother you about it again. If you
decide afterwards you'd rather just keep torturing him, I won't argue. I'll even
help you, if you want."
"All right. We'll go down to the Playroom together, and you can give me your
little demonstration. But however I decide to continue his training, I expect
you to cooperate fully - come here to help from time to time, and help convince
his wretched mother that what I'm doing is best for him. It will be good to have
you involved; after all, when he's released you'll be taking charge of him. And
he'll be more than willing to be taken charge of, by that time, if everything
goes according to plan."
It took them a few minutes to settle on the details, but they were ready by the
time Ms. Bonner shoved a very apprehensive looking Richard into the Playroom and
locked the door behind him. Claire couldn't help but feel sorry for him,
although she hoped that today's session would mark a dramatic change for the
better in his training. She watched him pace and fidget on the monitor until
Lady Briddington finally spoke into the intercom.
"Richard." He immediately dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the
floor. "Today I have special plans you, dear. First I want to make sure you're
good and excited." She pressed a button on the arm of her wheelchair, and
Richard began to squirm in place. Claire knew the cold steel of his control belt
would be massaging his genitals, stimulating and arousing him. She couldn't
begin to imagine what that would feel like to a man.
"Now get up, dear. I see my efforts were not unappreciated, hmm? Now you're
going to go over to the Toy Wall, and take down the clamps we used last time.
Put them on your nipples, a half-twist tighter than before." He hesitated, then
suddenly winced; she must have shocked him. "Do it, Richard. You should know
better by now." He swallowed hard and gasped as his nipples felt the cruel
pressure. Claire had never felt such a peculiar combination of sympathy and
animal lust in her life. Her eyes and her panties were both getting moist.
"Now take down the big black leather hood. Yes, that one. No, don't put it on
yet, you idiot. Walk over to the bench, dear. Lock the straps around your ankles
first. That's it, face toward the bench. You're going to be bending over it. You
look a bit worried, Richard."
"Please, ma'am, what are you going to do to me?"
"Whatever I want, of course. You'll find out in a little while. Now bend over
the bench, and look down. See the wrist straps?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're going to put the hood on, and then lock yourself into them blind. Close
your eyes first and make sure you can find them. Good boy. Now the hood. The
collar part locks around your neck first - I know it's tight, don't think those
pathetic little gasps are going to get you any sympathy. Now button up the
eyepiece. You can leave the gag out - I'm going to want to hear you moan and
squeal. The last thing you're going to do, dear, is put in the earplugs and then
bend over and restrain your wrists. Make sure you pull the straps as tight as
you can." He fumbled around a lot, but after a moment he was secured in place.
Waiting, blind and deaf. The tension showed in every line of his body. The bench
really was a clever thing, built to leave his genitals and nipples readily
accessible from below.
"Do we go down now?" asked Lady Briddington. "Remember, we're doing this your
way."
"No, let him wait and wonder a few minutes. You could have the belt stroke him a
bit, too. Keep him on edge."
When they did go down Richard seemed completely oblivious to their presence -
those earplugs really worked, apparently. Lady Briddington eyed him
suspiciously, the way she might have watched a circus tiger whose cage she
didn't quite trust. Claire couldn't believe it: the high and mighty Lady
Briddington was absolutely terrified to have a man in the room with her, even
one who was naked and completely at her mercy.
"What now?" she whispered.
"I think we can talk normally," Claire replied. "He didn't move at all when the
door opened. It's time to let him know you're here - touch him, or even kiss him
if you're ready for that. Or you could hit him with the cane. You said you
wanted to use it a little."
"Maybe that would be best." The woman did seem to have a penchant for inflicting
pain. She wheeled over to the Toy Wall, selected a whippy wooden thing, and
positioned herself beside Richard. "I've never done this myself before," she
confided nervously.
"Neither have I. I don't think it's hard, though. Just hit his arse with it."
Lady Briddington did, with a vengeance. Richard shrieked in pain and surprise.
For all the painful hours he'd spent in here, he'd never been hurt except by his
own hands and the control belt.
"Who's there?" he yelled in a high, panicky voice. "It hurts - stop it - ow!"
Red line after burning red line appeared across his buttocks, and the tops of
his thighs. Lady Briddington's aim seemed a little erratic, but she had a strong
arm and kept a steady rhythm. After perhaps a dozen blows she lowered the rod,
and the room was deathly quiet except for Richard's whimpering.
"Go on, touch him." When she hesitated, Claire gently took her hand and guided
it to Richard's welted and wealed flesh, stroking it along the marks of the
cane.
"He's so warm," Lady Briddington murmured. She pulled away from Claire and began
to explore Richard's body on her own, stroking and kneading - hesistantly at
first, then with more confidence as she discovered that Richard really couldn't
do anything but squirm and wriggle in response to her touch. He was getting
aroused again, too. His cock had gone down during the caning, shrinking inside
its metal cage, but as Richard felt the cool hands caressing and probing at him
it soon swelled almost alarmingly.
"Ms. Bonner?" he quavered. "What are you doing, ma'am?" Lady Briddington
suddenly grinned, and unzipped one ear flap. This was better than Claire had
hoped.
"It's not Ms. Bonner, dear," her ladyship whispered in a cold, menacing voice.
Richard actually yelped, and jerked helplessly at his restraints.
"Lady Briddington? Oh, please, what's happening? What are you going to do?"
She jerked downward on one of his nipple clamps. "Shut up, dear." She refastened
the ear flap and then, to Claire's astonishment, leaned close and gave Richard a
clumsy kiss on the lips.
"Oh, he liked that," Claire murmured in an undertone. "Try it again, and sort of
lick his lips with your tongue."
"He won't open up," said Lady Briddington after a moment.
"Smack him. He'll get the idea."
"Mm... that's nice." A moment later she guided Richard's lips to her neck, and
sighed as he licked and nuzzled. "Has he had practice at this?"
"Oh, yes. With me, and then with a couple of the officers at Camp Thatcher."
"What else has he practiced?"
"He'd probably do a good job on your breasts, or between your legs." The
nervous, almost panicked look came back into Lady Briddington's eyes, and Claire
hastily added, "But there's no need to rush things. Just take it slowly."
"Is it time for his belt to come off?"
"If you like." She zoomed her wheelchair rather eagerly around to Richard's
hips, unlocked the control belt with the touch of a button, and with Claire's
help lifted it away. Without the least bit of encouragement she grasped
Richard's erect penis.
"So that's what a man's nasty thing feels like," she whispered. "It's so big. So
hard."
"Try rubbing it a little. He'll get very excited. Just be careful not to let him
actually spurt. I'll warn you if it looks like he's getting close."
Richard moaned and pumped against Lady Briddington's hand as she began to fondle
him. "Ah. Please, ma'am," he gasped. "Please let me cum. I'll do anything you
say afterwards."
Claire suddenly had a monstrous, shocking idea. It wouldn't be easy for Richard,
but if anything would convince Lady Briddington that this was the way to train
him... "Tell him," she suggested aloud, "that he can cum if he drinks a bowl of
his own piss."
Lady Briddington broke into a broad, sudden grin, an expression Claire could
never have pictured on that alabaster face. She moved back to Richard's head,
unzipped the ear flap again, and whispered to him. He shook his head violently.
"Please, ma'am! You know I can't. I just can't do it."
"Would you rather be teased another hour, dear?" she hissed, a little louder.
"And then left for the night? You won't get another chance soon, I promise."
Poor Richard. Even with his face covered by the hood, Claire could see him
struggling with himself. But just as with Amanda at Camp Thatcher, his pent-up
lust would only let him answer one way, and he finally nodded. He was probably
crying under there.
"I'll do it, ma'am," he mumbled.
"Good boy," she murmured, and went off for the bowl. She was flushed with
excitement as she positioned it under Richard's tumescent cock. It took few
minutes for it to settle down enough to let the urine out, but when it came it
was in a fine, clear stream. Both women wrinkled their noses at the smell, but
Lady Briddington took the bowl around to Richard's head and held it to his lips
as he tilted his head back. "Drink up," she ordered softly. Claire could see him
struggling with himself, squirming and gasping, but finally he opened wide and
began to swallow as she poured the steaming urine into his mouth. Claire was
elated, as much by Lady Briddington's triumphant smile as by Richard's
compliance. She furtively rubbed against the back of a nearby chair as she
watched Lady Briddington pat Richard's head approvingly and then go around
behind to give him his real reward. It didn't take long; a minute or two of even
her ladyship's inexpert caresses, and Richard was moaning and shuddering as his
semen splashed on the concrete floor. Claire moved carefully out of Richard's
line of sight as Lady Briddington lifted his head and unfastened the band of
leather that cut off his vision.
"Hello, Richard," she said softly. "You really are my property now, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am. God, ma'am, you're beautiful."
"I know. Good night, Richard. Don't think anything's changed - they'll work you
hard tomorrow." She put the blindfold back and wheeled out of the room,
motioning to Claire to follow.
"That was - rather exciting," she said as they headed back toward the elevator.
"I dislike admitting this, but I may have been wrong about the possibilities of
personal contact with my slave. Can you come back soon?"
"If you like. I'm always free weekends."
"Why don't we say two weeks from today, then, for the continuance of our
captive's training. And mine, I suppose. I shall be expecting you - I look
forward to seeing you again, Claire. And thank you."
Apparently that was all. But as she headed back out to her car she heard Lady
Briddington calling instructions. "Sara! I want a bath before dinner tonight. I
fear I require one. And the boy was absolutely delightful. I shall also want one
of your special massages."
