Chapter 11
"Richard, look at me."
Reluctantly he raised his eyes to his mistress. Even in her wheelchair, she
towered over him as he knelt naked on the floor. Decked out in her best jewelry
and one of her long black evening gowns, she seemed more elegantly beautiful
than ever, and more regal. Everything about her radiated wealth, power and
sophistication, and Richard was painfully aware that no onlooker could possibly
have mistaken the two of them for anything other than a commanding mistress and
her trembling slave. And he was trembling almost literally, his cheeks hot with
the shame of what lay in store for him.
"I don't understand why you're so nervous about this, dear," she said with a
hint of annoyance in her voice. "You won't be doing anything you haven't done
before."
"But please, ma'am, it will seem so different with all your guests there,"
Richard said earnestly. "I'll be naked in a whole room full of strange women,
and you've already said you'll let them touch me and play with me if they want
to. And punish me, in front of everyone, if they aren't completely pleased with
me. It's different with you - you own me, ma'am, and I'm used to serving you.
But these will be strangers, and they'll be able to see if I cry, or if I get
aroused or - or anything at all. What are they going to think of me?"
She laughed - not one of her sinister chuckles, but a gusty laugh of genuine
amusement. The festive season, or something, had done wonders for her mood
lately. "Really, Richard, you never cease to amaze me. What are they supposed to
think of you, you stupid boy? They'll think you're a helpless little slave,
being hurt and embarrassed for their pleasure, and they'll love every minute of
it. Every one of them has told me she's looking forward to meeting you."
"Please, ma'am-"
"Oh, hush. It won't be so bad if you behave yourself. If you don't, of course,
you may find it to be a rather long and, shall we say, less than enjoyable
evening. I'd hate to have to really thrash you in front of the ladies, Richard.
It would be an embarrassment for me, an indication that your training had been
insufficiently rigorous, and if it becomes necessary you may rest assured that
you won't be sitting down properly for a week. Understood?"
He sighed, bowing to the inevitable. He wanted so badly to scurry back down to
his little cell in the basement and hide from the dozen or so "ladies of the
better sort" who would be descending on the mansion for Lady Briddington's
Christmas party, but it seemed hopeless. "Understood, ma'am," he said quietly.
"Excellent. They will begin arriving very shortly - we must see that you are
properly prepared. Ms. Bonner!" The woman appeared almost instantly, an ominous
bundle of gleaming metal things in her hands. Richard wondered what further
preparation was necessary; he had spent a good part of the afternoon being
bathed and groomed by Ms. Reynolds and Sara, and listening impatiently as they
dithered over what sort of cologne to put on him (he hadn't caught the brand
name, but the stuff smelled flowery, effete, and about as masculine as a
bridesmaid's dress) and how much of his body hair to remove (they'd left his
pubis and underarms alone, but his chest, limbs and bottom were now smooth).
"Begin with the control belt," Lady Briddington directed. "I look forward to
demonstrating all of its functions for the guests. And of course the nipple
clamps." Richard winced as they gripped him, although Ms. Bonner didn't tighten
them as much as usual. He supposed that meant they wouldn't be coming off for
quite some time.
"And try the bells. I want to use them unless they look completely ridiculous -
after all, it's Christmas time. They'll jingle delightfully if we make him dance
for us." Ms. Bonner actually gave him a brief, sympathetic smile as she hooked
the little bells with their long red ribbons onto the clamps. Fortunately they
weren't very heavy, but when Richard was made to take a few experimental steps
they tinkled with every footfall. Lady Briddington giggled and actually clapped
her hands.
"Perfect!" she exclaimed. "It's too bad his hair still isn't long enough for
more ribbons. And now the collar."
Richard sighed and bowed his head as Ms. Bonner padlocked the chain around his
neck. It was a mark of ownership, pure and simple. A metal tag with Lady
Briddington's coat of arms, a silver leopard on a black field, dangled from the
front.
"Turn around, Richard. You really do look marvellous, you know. Don't you think
so, Ms. Bonner?"
"Truly delightful. I'm sure your guests will find him very charming."
"And sexy, if I may say so," said Sara, sticking her head in the door. "But we'd
better send him down - Mrs. Asquith's limousine just came through the gates."
"All right then, Richard, your hour is at hand. Greet each woman at the door,
wish her a Happy Christmas, take her coat, and escort her into the sitting room,
just as you've been practicing. You will answer any questions politely, and of
course submit if one of my guests wishes to touch you. And be sure you tell each
of them that if she finds your behaviour in any way offensive or displeasing I
will be only to happy to have you disciplined to her satisfaction. Are you
ready?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Off you go, and kneel in front of the suit of armour in the hall
downstairs."
He had only been in place for a moment when the doorbell rang, and he jumped to
his feet and pulled it open. Mrs. Asquith turned out to be a hugely fat mountain
of a woman, considerably bigger even than Officer Desalle back at Camp Thatcher,
and her luxuriant fur coat and thick mane of black hair gave her an almost
barbaric appearance.
"Good evening, ma'am, and Happy Christmas," he stammered as she swept into the
hall. "May I take your coat, ma'am?"
The woman shrugged out of it and handed it to him as though accustomed to such
conveniences. She reached out and casually ruffled his hair, as one might pet a
friendly dog. "So you're Gloria's new plaything. Oh, I like those little bells!
I can't wait to get better acquainted - she was always good about sharing her
toys, you know, even as a girl." Her tone was light, but her dark eyes glinted
ominously. Richard had a feeling it was going to be a long evening, even as he
showed Mrs. Asquith into the sitting room and told her nervously that she could
have him beaten if he displeased her.
* * *
Although not unaccustomed to kneeling, Richard was beginning to feel a dull ache
in his legs. The women seemed to have forgotten him for the moment, having
retired to Lady Briddington's spacious parlour for refined conversation and
after-dinner drinks and chocolates. He knelt beside Ms. Felton-Withers'
conscripted slave, a shaven-headed and smoothly muscled young black man who
answered to Aladdin ("He's really called Dudley," his mistress had explained
gaily, "but I thought that sounded silly"), both of them ready to spring into
action if one of the women wanted her glass refilled, or her feet massaged, or a
hard male body to play with. Before dinner the two slaves had been very much the
centre of attention, as they'd been fondled and spanked and made to assume a
whole series of ridiculous and humiliating poses. Lady Briddington had
demonstrated all the functions of Richard's control belt until he'd been moaning
and writhing on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, those damned bells
tinkling with every spasm, and both men had been made to kneel down and kiss
each woman's feet in turn. But some of the novelty had worn off by the time they
went into dinner, and from then on Lady Briddington and her guests had been
treating them more like common servants.
Richard was still not quite sure what to make of the guests. They were eleven
well educated and accomplished women, all white and all very much in agreement
with Lady Briddington's politics. The vast majority seemed to be members of the
Civil Society Party's inner circle, although only one - the corpulent Mrs.
Asquith - actually stood in elections. Several had noble titles, and nearly all
of them gave the impression of being fabulously wealthy; the only real
exceptions were Dr. Lancaster, head of that creepy-sounding research team at
Cambridge that experimented on conscripts, and Mrs. Chesterton, the offical head
of the Conscription Office, both of whom seemed to have been invited as a sort
of reward for their professional efforts. All evening they had been discussing
everything from international politics to great composers to linguistics to the
annoying habits of mutual acquaintances with a familiarity and sparkling fluency
that Richard found almost breathtaking. It had quickly become clear, among other
things, that Mrs. Lewis was a widely admired painter and Ms. Felton-Withers the
owner of one of the largest private butterfly collections in the country. But
for all their brilliance and cultivation, they also struck Richard as being
vain, petty, and hopelessly beholden to a set of social conventions that was as
restrictive as it was elaborate. He wasn't sure whether he ought to be feeling
admiration or contempt.
The conversation had turned, perhaps inevitably, to the conscription system and
its boundless promise for reforming and improving British society. Lady
Briddington was in fine form, holding forth at length on what was clearly among
her greatest passions in life.
"...but as I have been saying all along," she declaimed, "the real challenge is
to ensure that the lessons a man learns during his period of conscription are
not forgotten afterwards. We have got to make conscription the centrepiece of a
whole new system of social standards - deference and even obedience for men, and
an unprecedented assertiveness for women. It really will not do to have young
men return to their reckless, selfish and often destructive behaviour at the
moment of their release. It is imperative that what I have come to think of as
the feminine virtues, such as patience, tact and practical common sense, come to
play a larger part in our national life, both public and private."
"Especially private, I should hope," laughed the blond and wispy Ms. Keating.
"But it's almost inevitable, isn't it? After two years of slavery a young man
ought to know his place. Just look at them." She nodded to where Richard and
Aladdin were quietly kneeling, and Richard dropped his gaze at once.
"Yes, but they're as helpless as little pet lapdogs, and they know it," said Ms.
Felton-Withers. "My Aladdin hardly ever disobeys, because he knows that there
will be immediate and unpleasant consequences. I generally bend him over the
nearest piece of furniture and spank him black and blue, and then send him to
bed without any supper. He's such a darling, the way he squirms and whimpers and
gives me pleading looks with those big dark eyes of his. You're a good boy,
aren't you, Aladdin?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said in his deep, resonant voice.
"But as soon as he's a free man," she continued, "wearing clothes and not
subject to corporal punishment, I'm sure it's all going to change. We've talked
about it, actually, and he tells me that what he's going to do the day he's
released is buy himself a good supply of whiskey and spend the next week or so
making up for the deprivations of conscription. Deplorable, but I'm sure it's a
common attitude among our conscripts. What do you think, doctor? Are there any
young men who don't think that way?"
Dr. Lancaster was easily the least glamorous person present, and had been saying
little. She blinked owlishly behind her thick glasses and leaned forward. "I
think it's really a question of circumstances," she began hesitantly. "The
general trend in our experiments at the Centre has been to show that the
immediate environment is crucially important in dictating behaviour, just as you
said. And especially the social environment. If you tell a young man to perform
some task he finds absolutely nauseating - I won't revolt you with the details
-"
"Oh, do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Asquith. "What do you make them do?"
Dr. Lancaster blushed. "Insert large objects into their anuses, sometimes. Or
swallow a concoction they know will make them violently sick, with cramps and
vomiting - that's a favourite, actually, because we can make them re-ingest the
vomit as a sort of follow-up."
"I instruct Richard to drink his own urine on occasion," Lady Briddington
remarked.
"Yes, that sort of thing. Well, if it's something really awful and degrading -
drinking urine would be a typical example - we've been finding that no more than
ten to fifteen percent of our subjects will carry out the task when firmly but
politely told to do so, even though they know perfectly well that they're likely
to be punished for disobedience. When you have an officer actually standing over
the man with her strap, yelling at him to drink up or else, the percentage of
compliance climbs dramatically, as you might expect. But it still rarely exceeds
forty percent or so. But if you introduce another man, one who has been
pre-trained and will drink urine without hesitation, the subject is much more
likely to be compliant when he sees the other man obeying. And if there are
several pre-trained subjects in the room, compliance becomes almost perfect,
especially with an aggressive officer giving the instructions. A young man
thrust into that situation will readily pick up a bowl of urine and drink it -
something he would never, ever, contemplate doing ordinarily - rather than go
against the trend of the group. You see?"
They were all staring at her blankly. She blushed again and twisted her hands
nervously. "What I mean," she explained hastily, "is that if you want women and
men to adopt new social roles, the easiest way is with a combination of
authority - especially for the men - and positive example. By all means tell
them how you would like them to behave, but also show them how to behave. I
would recommend putting conscripts in the public eye as much as possible, and
making sure they are seen deferring to the officers, and to other women as often
as can be arranged. Show off obedient, polite conscripts in a whole variety of
situations, including some in which they look almost like normal people -
clothed, happy, not obviously abused - except for the fact of their complete
obedience to their female overseers. If this can be done consistently, I think
you'll find that the idea of female authority and male deference will begin to
seem more and more natural to the general public. Men will see conscripts taking
orders, women will see officers giving them, and gradually both sexes will find
themselves imitating the behaviour they're observing, reinforced with positive
messages about the value of female leadership. Just as it's easier to convince a
man to drink urine when he can see others doing the same, it will be easier to
convince them to defer to the women in their lives if they are constantly
bombarded with images of conscripts deferring to authoritative, confident
officers. And when the conscripts themselves are released, they'll find
themselves being released into a society in which they're expected to look up to
women and listen to them, just as they've become accustomed to doing anyway."
Lady Briddington pursed her lips. "I'm not sure I like the 'clothed and happy'
part," she said pensively. "But I suppose it could be arranged on a temporary
basis, if absolutely necessary. All this fits in very well, of course, with our
plans to assign conscripts to a wider variety of tasks. So far we've been
keeping them largely on government projects, with some obvious exceptions." She
lifted her chin toward the two kneeling slaves. "But things have been running
smoothly so far - better than anyone had dared hope, really - and I think we
ought to seriously consider renting large numbers of conscripts out to the
private sector when the next rotation comes around. Corporations in this country
and abroad could pay a fairly small fee for the individual slaves, and rather
more for the services of the officers that would be required to supervise them.
I can imagine their being useful in a whole variety of roles. We could hire them
out as unskilled workers to private factories, as well as the special
government-controlled ones, and some of them could end up waiting tables or
ringing up groceries at the supermarket."
"And working as secretaries and receptionists," Mrs. Chesterton put in. "That's
been working out very well in the Conscription Office, although some of the
female staff can hardly keep their hands off the lads."
"Which only points to the need for brothels," laughed Mrs. Asquith.
"And there ought to be a conscript mud wrestling league, don't you think?"
"They could be painted and chained to the walls in art galleries!"
"Upside down!"
"I think every pub ought to have at least one human dartboard."
"With all this talk of drinking bodily fluids, they could be put in stalls and
used as public toilets."
"Or made to stand around with their arms outstretched in case anyone needed a
coat rack."
"Or forced to pull carts, like little ponies."
"Oh, they're already doing that one," said Ms. Keating nonchalantly, as the
peals of laughter tapered off. "They have them up in Edinburgh - not naked, now
that the weather's colder, but you can still get yourself a ride in a
conscript-pulled rickshaw for a few quid. And you can strap the lad, too, to
make him go faster."
"I have a little cart here that Richard pulls," added Lady Briddington. "He's
built up quite considerable stamina - he can take me round and round the gardens
at a very decent pace. When I want him to really work I bring Sara along for the
ride, in a slightly larger cart."
Mrs. Asquith raised her eyebrows. "I don't suppose a demonstration could be
arranged?"
"Why, I'd be delighted. Ms. Bonner!"
The woman appeared almost instantly. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Take Richard outdoors, will you, and hitch him to my pull cart. You needn't let
him dress - he won't be outside long, and I believe it's a rather mild evening.
The small cart will do, I think - no, hold on a minute, so long as we've got two
carts..." She turned to Ms. Felton-Withers. "Would you mind, dear?"
"Why, I think it's a splendid idea. Surely we must race them?"
"Oh, yes!" chirped another of the ladies, the little brunette whose name Richard
had forgotten. "With the losing man to be thrashed by the winner. Let's all go
out."
Richard exchanged a glance with the other conscript. They were going to race
against each other, naked on a winter's night? And the winner was going to be
made to beat the loser? But there was no time for anything but that one quick
glance of shared apprehension, as Ms. Bonner took each of them by an arm, hauled
them to their feet, and began steering them outside. The ladies were already
sweeping toward the front hall like a flock of vain, brightly plumaged
songbirds, giggling and all chattering at once. Richard felt as though he were
helpless in the power of a mob of demented, overgrown schoolgirls. But
ridiculous as they might seem, he was completely at their mercy, and he shivered
with more than the cold as he stood outside the garden shed watching Ms.
Bonner's capable hands lock a complicated leather harness onto Aladdin's body
and chain his wrists to the rails that extended from one of the pull carts.
There were boots for the black man's feet, and a helmet with attached bit,
blinkers and reins for his head. He looked desperately nervous and uncomfortable
by the time Ms. Bonner warned him to stay put and went over to see to her other
captive. Although Richard had been made to don the harness and helmet for any
number of previous rides in the garden, it still took an effort to hold still as
Ms. Bonner buckled the heavy and unforgiving leather contraption into place
around his naked torso. For once he was thankful for the control belt, which
gave him a bit of protection from the thick strap that came up between his legs;
the beltless and undeniably well-endowed Aladdin seemed to be finding that
particularly unpleasant. He was also glad to be rid of the nipple clamps and
chain collar, which had to be removed before the harness could be properly
attached.
Ms. Bonner disappeared for a moment into the shed, only to emerge with a
formidable looking riding crop. She drove Richard and Aladdin with their empty
carts along the path to Lady Briddington's favourite trail for fast riding, a
straight thoroughfare with a row of cherry trees on either side. It wasn't
paved, but the dirt was level and smooth-packed and the surface kept clear of
the light snow that dusted the rest of the garden. Lady Briddington and her
guests were waiting with undisguised impatience, and there was a chorus of
excited murmuring as the slaves made their appearance.
"Here they are!" announced her ladyship grandly. "I suggest that the race be
from this tree here to the statue of Bacchus at the far end of the lane. The
winning slave will receive a handful of sweets, as an appropriately equine
reward, and will administer two dozen lashes to the losing slave. I have the
perfect implement indoors, rather like a naval cat-o'-nine-tails, with leather
thongs that sting horribly."
"I was hoping we would see a whipping," Mrs. Chesterton exclaimed. She seemed to
have shed any lingering inhibitions about asserting herself in such refined
company. "But surely Richard must have some handicap, to compensate for his
greater experience."
"Perhaps a little extra weight?" Mrs. Asquith suggested archly, slapping her
belly in a surprisingly coarse gesture. She reached out and squeezed the firm
muscles of his shoulder. "Not that it could be expected to slow him down too
much."
"It's not as if my Aladdin is a weakling either," Ms. Felton-Withers protested.
"But I suppose it's only proper that Lady Briddington and I stand aside and
leave the driving to others." She turned to Mrs. Asquith. "If you will take
Richard, who is to have Aladdin?"
They all wanted to, of course, but in the end Ms. Felton-Withers was invited to
decide and unhesitatingly chose the diminutive brown-haired woman who had been
so enthusiastic about the race in the first place - "because I know you'll give
him plenty of encouragement, Annie dear." It was also quickly decided that the
owner of the winning slave would have the privilege of borrowing the other man
for a week in January.
"And the winning driver?" asked Mrs. Asquith with another of her mischievous
smiles.
"Why, a lock of hair from each slave, as a memento," laughed Ms. Keating.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Ms. Felton-Withers dryly. She ran a
hand over her slave's smooth scalp where it showed between the leather bands
that made up the helmet, but Ms. Keating only grinned wider.
"Not from their heads, silly."
"Then it's settled," laughed Lady Briddington. "Locks of hair for the winning
driver, borrowing privileges for the winning owner, and candy for the winning
slave. And lashes for the losing one, of course." She gave the men a cold smile.
"How do you feel about that, Aladdin? Would you like to make my Richard squeal a
little?"
"More than I'd like the other way round," he mumbled.
"Stupid boy. That's not what I asked. Do you want to hurt Richard?"
"No, ma'am!"
"How humane of you. And what about you, Richard? Would you like to leave some
nice, painful stripes on your colleague's bottom?"
"No, ma'am," he answered, in a more subdued voice.
"Hmm. Well, I should warn both of you that the winner will have a decision to
make - either he can administer two dozen lashes to the loser, as we ladies have
agreed, or each of you can take three dozen from Ms. Bonner. Perhaps you might
think about that as you run. Mount up, ladies, and wait for my signal - no, Ms.
Keating's, for the sake of neutrality. Please encourage the lads as much as you
wish. You'll find long leather straps in the carts that should be quite adequate
to the purpose."
The lane was easily wide enough for the two men and their carts to stand
abreast. Richard stole a sidelong glance at Aladdin's muscular body, and felt
more nervous than ever. The fellow might not be used to pulling pony-carts, but
he was certainly in excellent shape. Bloody hell. He knew the whip Lady
Briddington had mentioned, and he knew how badly it would sting the flesh of his
back and bottom, especially in the hands of another strong young man. He felt a
surge of determination even as he felt Mrs. Asquith settle her considerable bulk
into the cart and give a sharp backward tug on the reins, hurting his mouth and
neck a little, as though to leave no doubt about who was in control. The other
women hurried away to the statue that was to mark the finish line, and the
moment they were settled Ms. Keating ceremoniously took off her scarf and waved
it vigorously. Mrs. Asquith's strap, necessarily longer than the ones at Camp
Thatcher and therefore somewhat more severe, snapped down on his left shoulder,
and he surged forward.
Mrs. Asquith felt heavier, if anything, than Lady Briddington and Sara put
together. The straps of the harness cut painfully into his flesh, and Mrs.
Asquith kept up a steady rain of stinging blows on his upper back and shoulders
no matter how hard he pulled. Despite the cold, sweat began to trickle down his
sides and into his eyes almost immediately as he strained and struggled and
panted. The track was soft with the damp of half-melted snow, and the wheels of
the awkward cart were digging in a little; for all his desperate exertions, an
encumbered man could have outpaced him at a leisurely trot. Even Aladdin was
pulling inexorably ahead, though so far only by a couple of metres. The other
man's inexperience was showing in the way he wasted energy by shifting his torso
around in a futile effort to gain leverage, but his cart and driver were both
considerably lighter than Richard's and the reduced weight seemed to be making
all the difference. Richard felt Mrs. Asquith lay on again with her strap,
making the cart jerk painfully against his shoulders as she threw her bulk
behind the blow.
"Hurry up, you lazy little bastard!" she shouted gaily. "I thought you knew how
to do this!"
"Please, ma'am," he panted, "I'm doing my-"
"No excuses! Shut up and pull!"
It didn't matter how much he tried to spur himself on with thoughts of what the
whip would feel like on his naked body, or even how furiously Mrs. Asquith
cracked her strap and screamed abuse at him. He was pulling with every ounce of
force he could muster, and still the gap between Aladdin's cart and his was only
getting wider. The other man was obviously tiring, but so was he, and they were
getting close to the finish line. He could now see the expressions on the faces
of the waiting ladies; Dr. Lancaster looked pensive and uncomfortable, as though
she disapproved of the whole business, but most of the others seemed excited and
even a bit giddy. Several of them were clapping and shouting encouragement to
the straining men, and Ms. Felton-Withers was actually jumping up and down and
waving her hat. Lady Briddington was far too dignified for that sort of
exuberant spectacle, but Richard could feel her eyes boring into him. As he
slipped further behind his rival, pace by hard-fought pace, her smooth white
face became increasingly tense and exasperated. Could a diversion in the garden
really be that important to her? But he had learned to read his mistress quite
well over the past few weeks - she had virtually become the centre of his world
- and her growing consternation was unmistakable. To his surprise, it stung him
far more than the lash, and with a hoarse shout he threw himself against the
cruel harness with more strength than he had imagined remained to him.
Like a man in one of those classic nightmares of running desperately and
advancing only at a snail's pace, Richard dragged the weight of the cart and the
bellowing Mrs. Asquith forward. He came abreast of the other cart, saw the hard
set of the woman called Annie's face and the lithe motion of her arm as she
lashed out vengefully with the strap, and finally drew up beside the sweaty and
straining Aladdin. Both of them were puffing and blowing, both staggering in
their tracks, but now Richard was creeping ahead. Aladdin glanced at him
venomously and groaned with redoubled effort, but now momentum was on Richard's
side and Lady Briddington's suddenly beaming face gave him all the inspiration
he needed to maintain his pace. As he passed the statue of Bacchus he was a good
two metres ahead. Mrs. Asquith reined in sharply and he came to a halt as
quickly as he could, falling to his knees with his wrists still shackled to the
cart rails. Ms. Bonner came quickly forward to release him.
"Well done, Richard," said Lady Briddington almost warmly. "You have performed
splendidly. Shall we go in, ladies?" They started for the house at once, Ms.
Felton-Withers berating her boy all the way in a bantering, good natured tone.
She seemed to be taking the whole thing far less seriously than Lady
Briddington.
"I suppose the whipping ought to take place in my upstairs sitting room," Lady
Briddington mused. "I have a special bench set up there for when quick, sharp
correction becomes necessary. The facilities in my Playroom are better, but I
would hesitate to inflict the gloomy atmosphere on visitors. The place is a
veritable torture chamber."
"Oh, do show us!" someone cooed, predictably.
"If you insist," she sighed with mock regret. "That way we can go in the
servants' entrance - it will save the lads' tracking mud into my front hall."
There was much giggling and whispering as they entered the Playroom, but Lady
Briddington was quick to call the gathering to order. The prospect of corporal
punishment never failed to excite her.
"I see no reason to delay the punishment," she said grandly. "Richard, will you
go ahead and thrash him, or shall I have Ms. Bonner do both of you? No, don't
look at Aladdin! This is your decision."
Richard wished he could consult, for form's sake, but supposed it wasn't really
necessary. If it was to be two dozen from Richard or three from the formidable
Ms. Bonner, Aladdin's preference would be obvious. He didn't like the idea of
beating another man (a woman, come to think of it, might have been another
matter, after all he'd been through) but the thought that he would actually be
doing his victim a kind of backhanded favour gave him comfort.
"I'll do it, ma'am," he said in a low voice.
"I rather thought you would. All right, then, take him over to the bench."
Richard nodded to the bench and motioned Aladdin toward it, but Lady Briddington
shook her head impatiently. "Not like that! You are to administer correction to
him - he is in your charge. Take hold of his arm and lead him over." Richard
sighed, gripped Aladdin just above the elbow, and guided him unresisting to the
foot of the bench. At Lady Briddington's curt nod he pushed the other man
forward and began to buckle the restraining straps around his wrists and ankles.
They would need to be a little uncomfortable to be secure, but there was no need
to pull them painfully tight. It felt strange, fastening another man to the
bench instead of being strapped onto it himself, and when the task was complete
he could hardly take his eyes off his captive's upturned buttocks and tense
thighs and dangling manhood. He knew from experience that a man felt vulnerable
when bent naked over that bench, but he had never quite realised that one looked
very vulnerable as well. Helpless, and ready for chastisement.
"The pubic hair first," Lady Briddington directed. "Mrs. Asquith is entitled to
a lock from each of you. Get down the small scissors from the wall, and do your
own first - I'll let you out of the belt for a moment."
"Oh, couldn't we leave it off?" someone protested as Richard fetched the
scissors. "He'll look nicer if he's properly naked."
"Why, certainly." She touched a button and the belt unlocked; Richard took it
off carefully and handed it to his mistress. At her command, he snipped off a
tuft of hair from above his penis just as Ms. Bonner reappeared with a little
pink ribbon to tie it into a bundle and present it to the beaming Mrs. Asquith.
"Now get some from Aladdin," said Lady Briddington. "From above his nasty thing,
just as with yours." He hesitated, trying to figure out an angle that would
allow him to touch the other conscript's genitals as little as possible. Aladdin
was waiting tensely, his buttocks clenched.
"Oh, just grab it and lift it aside," snapped Mrs. Asquith. "I want my lock."
Richard reluctantly did as he was told, and carefully snipped off a generous
clump of Aladdin's coarse black hair for the other half of her prize.
"And now the whipping!" Lady Briddington proclaimed. "Take down the dread
instrument from the wall - you know the one. Take a practice swing or two." The
whip felt surprisingly light; the tails, rather more than nine of them in fact,
hissed menacingly as they swept through the air. "Good. You're a natural, my
dear. Remember, two dozen lashes, and you'll be punished if you lose count. Try
to distribute them more or less evenly among his buttocks, his thighs and his
upper back. This whip is not particularly severe, and I expect you to strike
each and every blow with nearly your full strength. I want to see tears and hear
screaming. You may begin at once."
Richard moved into position beside the foot of the bench and measured his
distance, feeling awkward and a bit horrified at what he was about to do. But he
had no doubt that he'd be severely chastised himself if he didn't do a proper
job on the poor man, so he gritted his teeth and brought the whip down hard
across Aladdin's buttocks. There were excited murmurs from the ladies, but
Aladdin only gasped and jerked in his bonds. He glanced over his shoulder, and
Richard was surprised to see rage and defiance in the other man's face. It was a
proud, almost taunting expression, as though Aladdin were daring Richard to just
try breaking him. And it made Richard furious. Didn't the idiot realise they
were in this together? Almost without thinking he struck three times in quick
succession, quite hard, and felt grim satisfaction when Aladdin gave a little
whine of pain. All of a sudden it was surprisingly pleasant to be holding the
whip for a change, even if the victim did happen to be male. He was glad Lady
Briddington had told him explicitly to strike hard. He brought the whip down
again and again, and smiled and winked at the ladies when Aladdin began to plead
for mercy. He was shocked at himself, but the other man's tears, the futile
writhing of his powerful body, were almost... delicious. And when he gasped
"Richard, please! Please stop hurting me!" Richard felt a thrill of sadistic
delight at hearing his name spoken in that abject tone. He was almost sorry when
he sent the tails snapping across his victim's thighs for the twenty-fourth
stroke, a particularly vicious one. He immediately lowered the whip, though.
"Well, Richard, I am impressed," said Lady Briddington. "Did you enjoy that, my
dear? Remember that you're not allowed to lie to me."
"I suppose I did, ma'am," he said reluctantly. "In a way."
"Your nasty thing is quite stiff. I think you enjoyed it very much indeed.
Perhaps you'll get another chance when I borrow the unfortunate boy for a week -
we shall have to agree on a date, Barbara. But for now, Richard, get over here
and kiss the floor, to remind you of your station in life, and then put the whip
back. Time to start being a properly humble slave again." He obeyed, a bit
reluctantly, accepting the humiliation but hating every instant of it.
"Could Aladdin be untied now?" Ms. Felton-Withers asked with a touch of concern.
She hadn't seemed to enjoy the beating much, unlike the other ladies; even Dr.
Lancaster had been flushed and excited.
"Why, of course," Lady Briddington replied magnanimously. "That's your job,
Richard. Tell me, Aladdin, are there any hard feelings?"
"Richard's the one with the erection," laughed the irrepressible Ms. Keating.
"A poor choice of words. Any feelings of resentment, shall we say, toward your
fellow slave?"
"No, ma'am," he said half-heartedly, as he rose to his full height.
"Delighted to hear it. Then I think the two of you had better hug and kiss, by
way of reconciliation and for our amusement. Go ahead, put your arms around each
other. And stop holding your hips apart like that! It's not like you'll catch
anything just by rubbing against another man's groin." Richard grimaced as he
reluctantly embraced Aladdin's sweaty, welted body, and felt his still
half-erect penis poking against the other man's limp member. And of course the
ladies insisted that their male toys kiss right on their lips, and indulge in a
little mutual tongue-sucking. To his horror, Richard found that his erection
wasn't disappearing; in his state of near-perpetual sexual deprivation, even
male flesh was enough to arouse him. Aladdin seemed to be getting a bit excited,
too. One part of him was revolted, but another was sorry when they were finally
told to step apart.
"Brotherly love," announced Lady Briddington, "is so perfectly sweet and
becoming."
* * *
Richard had hoped he would be allowed to relax in a tub of warm water after the
party, as he sometimes was when he had done well at a difficult task. He was
sure that Lady Briddington was pleased with him, and she had insisted on feeding
him his handful of sweets with her own delicate fingers. But instead Ms.
Reynolds rushed him through the task of clearing the dinner dishes and
straightening up the sitting room, and then took him upstairs for a hasty
shower. Sara bustled into the bathroom moments later to rub him down with a
towel and help him make himself presentable, always an indication that he would
be required to serve his mistress. It was now a little past midnight, and being
sent to her so late in the evening was unusual in the extreme. Lady Briddington
was a woman who kept civilised hours. Did he dare hope that she wanted to give
him some further reward for his evening's work? Richard waited and wondered
apprehensively as Sara brushed his hopelessly unruly hair, ran a razor over his
face, and dabbed on a little cologne. She stepped back and looked him over
critically, as was her habit, then turned to Ms. Reynolds.
"He's ready."
"Where's his belt?"
"She said to leave it off. You can take him as he is."
"Right. Come on, Richard." Ms. Reynolds was nearly always a little rougher with
him than Ms. Bonner, and she hauled him to his feet and jerked his arms behind
him to march him out of the bathroom, down the hall and up a second flight of
stairs, the ones that led to Lady Briddington's private apartments. Waiting on
the landing were Claire and his mother. Richard swallowed hard and blinked,
wondering for one stupefied moment if they were figments of his imagination. But
then he felt their hands on his arms, and heard Claire's voice thanking Ms.
Reynolds and telling her they would "take charge of him now". They were real,
all right.
"Claire? Mother?" he asked nervously. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking you to your mistress," his mother said sharply. "You know you're not
allowed to talk, Richard." He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that
tone from her - not since his mid-teens, certainly. Her grip on him was every
bit as firm as Claire's, and his nakedness didn't seem to bother her in the
least. She seemed a completely different woman from the soft, doting mother he
had left behind when he had walked into the Intake Centre, and the change was
disconcerting, almost frightening.
But perhaps not surprising, now that he thought back to her visit nearly two
weeks ago. She had seemed ill at ease and glanced constantly at her wristwatch,
as though afraid she wouldn't have time to get through what she wanted to say to
him, but had nevertheless spent most of their allotted half hour in completely
inconsequential chatter - the weather, the latest news from her gossip circle,
that sort of thing. But finally she had looked him in the eye and broached the
subject that was really on her mind, and he remembered that last bit of the
conversation almost word for word.
"Richie, I've been hearing some strange things from Claire," she had said
slowly. "She says - oh, I don't know how to put this, but she says that after
your time with Lady Briddington and the rest of your conscription you'll have
been somehow moulded into a perpetual slave, or something. She says that you're
already learning that you can only really be happy with a woman providing
discipline and telling you what to do, and she tells me that after you're
released you're going to be more like a slave to her than like a husband, in
spite of being legally married. And she tells me that you want this as much as
she does. It all sounds so unnatural to me, but she suggested I go ahead and ask
you, and I suppose I must. Is this really what you want, Richie love?"
He had been at a loss for words. He remembered blushing, looking at the floor,
mumbling something completely incoherent. It wasn't something he could have
comfortably discussed with anyone, let alone his own mother.
"Please, Richie, you need to give me a proper answer," she had continued
patiently. "It's frightfully important. If you say no, I'll do my best to talk
Claire out of it, but I think you might have to let her go altogether. She
really does seem to have her heart set on enslaving you, or whatever you want to
call it. But if you agree, I'm going to everything I can to help her. I don't
know if I like the idea of you giving up your freedom to her, maybe forever, but
if it's what you want I can at least see that it's done properly. I'll tell her
things about you, anything I think might be useful, and I'm afraid that includes
some things you'd probably rather were kept private. I'll suggest ways for her
to train you and make you obey, after you're released, and I'll make sure my
house has whatever equipment she needs to keep you in line for when the two of
you come to visit. If she wants to leave you with me and go travelling on her
own, or something - or even with another man - I'll keep you under discipline
and enforce whatever rules she has imposed on you. I won't pretend I'll find any
of this easy, but if it's what you want, I'll do my best."
"You said you didn't know if you liked the idea," he had replied hesitantly,
stalling for time. "What do you really think, mother? If I agree, will I be
making a terrible mistake?"
"I think - Richie, it doesn't matter what I think. This is the most important
decision of your life, and you need to make it on your own."
"All right, then. I know it sounds insane, but I do want to be Claire's slave. I
trust her judgment more than my own, on most things. And when she helps Lady
Briddington train me it feels natural to obey and submit to her, even when I
hate what she's doing to me at the moment. I want to be hers, and if you can
help her - well, that's wonderful, mother."
"You're sure, Richard?"
"Yes."
"All right, then. I'll have to call Claire this evening."
And that had been all. But even after that almost surreal conversation, he had
not imagined for a moment that his mother would ever be physically present
during his training. But now she was holding his arm with one hand and knocking
on the door of Lady Briddington's bedroom with the other.
"Come," called his mistress' voice from within, and he found himself being
bustled through the doorway. The room glowed with soft candlelight, and Lady
Briddington was an ominous shadow in her wheelchair.
"I'm glad you won our little contest in the garden, Richard. I so badly wanted
to be the only one to beat you today. Come over here and lie across my lap."
Released by the other women, he obeyed at once. "Lying across her lap" really
meant bending over one arm of her wheelchair, so that his rump made an easy
target for her hand, or more often one of her hairbrushes. But tonight she
seemed to want the intimacy of a bare-handed spanking. Her palm caressed the
soft flesh of his buttocks, and even crept around to fondle his cock and balls
where they pressed uncomfortably against the side of the chair. She had become
quite practiced at this, and his cock sprang to life almost immediately.
Satisfied, she raised her hand and struck.
The pain wasn't at all bad compared to being hit with a leather strap, or one of
her canes, or the whip he'd used on Aladdin earlier that day. Even the
hairbrushes were worse. But there was something peculiarly humiliating about
being draped over her lap and smacked on the bottom like a little child, and
about the way the closeness of her body aroused him even as she made him suffer.
The element of humiliation seemed to literally add an extra sting to the blows,
and it was not long before he began to tremble and whimper in pain, and then to
cry. But with his first real sob Lady Briddington stopped the spanking at once
and rested her hand lightly on his bottom.
"Poor, dear, boy. I'm very hard with you, aren't I?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And today especially. I made you serve all those strange women, and pull Mrs.
Asquith in that cart you hate so much. I'm sure your muscles will be sore for
days, dear. And part of you might have enjoyed beating that other unfortunate
slave, and even kissing him, but I know part of you certainly did not. You've
suffered a great deal since you woke up this morning, pet. And do you know how
I'm going to reward you for all that?"
"Please, ma'am, please don't hurt me," he replied almost automatically. "If I've
displeased you -"
"No, you haven't displeased at all. You did very well, every single minute of
it. My guests were all most impressed. But because I'm cruel, your reward for
all that suffering will be to be used by me, thoroughly and intimately, with no
concern whatsoever for your own enjoyment. Tonight, Richard, I am truly going to
make you my slave." She lifted something from the carrying pouch attached to the
chair, and a moment later he felt a leather collar being buckled around his
neck. A collar with an attached metal chain. Lady Briddington beckoned to his
mother, who stepped forward at once, and handed the chain to her.
"Lock the boy to one of my bedposts, please, until he is wanted." She did it at
once, and to Richard's surprise pushed him gently but very firmly to his knees,
without being told. He watched in apprehensive silence as Claire and his mother
lifted Lady Briddington between them from her wheelchair and laid her on the
bed. With their help she began to undress, not bothering to conceal herself from
his hungry gaze. He had never seen her less than fully clothed, and he watched
in fascination as the pale, perfectly formed globes of her small breasts emerged
from beneath her long gown. She was more beautiful than he had dared to hope.
And then he saw her legs. From the upper thighs down her body was a mutilated
mess of shattered bone and twisted flesh, hardly even human. The grotesqueness
of it made a mockery of her classically sculpted face and torso, and of the
delicate bush of damp golden hair between her thighs. No wonder she always wore
those long, opaque skirts.
"Ma'am, I had no idea," he gasped. "I'm so sorry..."
"You will be if you speak out of turn again," she replied, but halfheartedly,
and there was a little catch in her voice. "The leash, please, Connie." She took
it in her right hand, and used it to draw Richard to the bed.
"Kneel, to begin with, and kiss my breasts." She sounded almost nervous, but he
was only too happy to bury his face in that ivory flesh. He licked slowly around
her nipples, remembering what Officer Desalle had enjoyed back at Camp Thatcher,
and she gave a very unladylike moan of pleasure, almost a snarl. She jerked on
the leash, forcing him down between her thighs.
"Careful," Claire warned in a near whisper. "You can't put any weight on her
legs at all." That seemed to go without saying. He leaned forward carefully and
kissed right at the top of her pubic hair, then began licking his way along her
moist slit as she sighed and writhed under his touch. But she pulled him away
when he tried to slide his tongue inside her.
"No!" she almost screamed. "I'm not ready yet. I want to finish off with your
nasty thing - with your penis, that is, Richard. With your cock. Claire, will
you please prepare him?"
Claire grasped him roughly and slid a condom over his stiff shaft. "Be good for
her, and go slowly," she hissed in his ear. "If you spoil this for her I swear
I'll skin you alive at the first opportunity. She's never done it before, except
once when she was raped. Get on top of her, and keep your legs outside hers."
Guided by Claire's hands and the pull of the leash, Richard mounted his
mistress. She looked more nervous than ever, but also volcanically aroused, and
strangely possessive. She actually reached down to seize his "nasty thing" - he
wondered if she had finally dropped the childish term for good - and steer it
inside her. He paused at the threshold, took a deep breath, and pushed slowly
forward, carefully so as not to hurt or alarm her. But from her feral cry of
pleasure and the way her fingernails dug into his shoulders, he sensed he had
little to worry about. He began to fuck her, gently at first but with a
gradually increasing tempo, and with every stroke she pumped her hips eagerly
upward to meet him. Claire and his mother, watching from beside the bed, both
looked quite pleased with the proceedings. And Lady Briddington reached out with
her free hand to clutch spasmodically at Claire's wrist as she screamed out the
first glorious orgasm of her adult life, and as Richard felt the condom fill
with his seed. He withdrew and collapsed on the bed beside her.
"I am going to restrain your hands for the night, Richard," she panted after a
moment, reaching for the handcuffs on her nightstand. "You will sleep here, and
I don't want any untoward touching and groping, either of my body or your own."
Claire slipped the condom off his penis and gave him a quick wipe. "Good night,
Richard. I think you did splendidly."
"Good night. I love you. And Claire, I..."
"Yes?"
He thought back to the Playroom, to the sight of Aladdin's body thrashing and
writhing under the whip. "I won't mind if you want to see Clive again," he
stammered. "And any other bloke you like. I'm yours, but it doesn't mean you're
mine."
She seemed pleasantly taken aback. "Thank you, Richard. You're such a dear. Good
night, now."
They extinguished the candles on their way out, and darkness descended as Lady
Briddington put her arm around him and began to toy absently with his body.
Apparently not all touching and groping was considered inappropriate in this
bed. But before the last candle went out, he saw the look of pure, naked
jealousy Lady Briddington directed at Claire's retreating back.
