Chapter 17 (final)
There was a moment's silence from the machine. Then, Claire's voice again, a
little distorted but perfectly clear: "She never had much luck with the boys,
the poor overgrown bitch. She just doesn't know how to make herself attractive.
Kind of reminds me of Attila the Hun with tits, actually, and not even very good
ones."
"There's plenty more," said Lady Briddington levelly, though her finger came
down decisively on the stop button. "If you want to hear it. She's been making
remarks in a similar vein to anyone who will listen."
Amanda shook her head, then lowered it to hide sudden tears. She thought of
herself as a tough woman, especially after the adventures of the past few
months, but this was an unexpected blow in a terribly vulnerable place. It
wouldn't be nearly so bad, she told herself miserably, if not for the fact that
each and every one of the callous, hurtful things Claire had been saying about
her hadn't contained at least a little nugget of truth.
"That's enough," she mumbled unhappily. "But I just don't understand. Why would
Claire talk about me that way? And you still haven't told me why you're spying
on her in the first place."
Lady Briddington smiled in a way that looked almost sympathetic. "Claire has
been... has been trying to interfere, shall we say, in my relationship with
Richard. Her behaviour has been anything but ladylike and considerate, and I
frankly admit that I'm looking for a way to punish her - hence the spying. As
for her attitude toward you, I would attribute it to petulance and frustration
over not being able to pry the boy away from me. The disagreeable side of her
character is coming to the fore."
Amanda scrubbed the back of her hand angrily across her eyes. "But I thought
Claire liked me," she blurted. "I really did. And last time we talked, when I
was telling her about the trainees, and she seemed so interested in what I'd
been doing with them, I even thought..." She couldn't finish.
"You poor girl," Lady Briddington murmured. "Claire's very beautiful, isn't
she?"
There was no need to answer aloud. Amanda blushed, and once again found herself
studying the patterns in the worked stone of the floor. Even now, she could
appreciate the craftsmanship. If this castle was only Lady Briddington's
secondary residence - "crude, but convenient," the woman had sniffed shortly
after Amanda's arrival - she could scarcely imagine what her manor in the
midlands had to be like.
"But the point," her ladyship continued, "is that I believe it will be possible
to put the wretched girl in her place, and your assistance would be most
helpful. Since she has clearly betrayed your friendship, you needn't have any
qualms. If you had an opportunity to treat her in much the same way that you
treat your female trainees, would you take it?"
She answered without hesitation. "Yes. But I can't be away from Camp Thatcher
for long."
"Oh, I can make the necessary arrangements. A substitute can be found to take
charge of your training unit in your absence, and in any case I will only
require your help with Claire for two or three days. Unless, of course, you
would be interested in leaving the conscription service altogether and taking up
a position in my household. I can certainly offer you more in the way of
financial compensation."
Amanda frowned, thoroughly puzzled, and Lady Briddington waved a dismissive
hand. "But we can discuss that later. In the meantime, all I really need you to
do is persuade Claire to join us, here, for Richard's graduation ceremony. Do
tell her that she'll be very welcome, and you might hint that she can expect an
opportunity to get intimate with the boy before he is sent away to his next work
assignment."
"I'm sure she'll agree. She misses Richard terribly, or so she says. But won't
it seem odd that the message should come through me?"
"Not at all. Tell her the truth - that I didn't want to speak to her directly
because we're not on the best of terms, and that when you came to my attention
through the deplorable Sanderson affair I learned that you were a good friend of
hers. How is young Edwin, anyway?"
Amanda smiled thinly. "Miserable. I'm making sure of it. He cringes in terror
every time I walk by."
"Commendable. But you will talk to Claire, won't you?"
"I suppose I could. But what's going to happen when she arrives? Something
unpleasant, I gather."
"Very unpleasant indeed. And you can help, if you like." Again that radiant
smile, but tinged this time with the cruel anticipation of a cat waiting in
front of a mousehole. Amanda was sure that the expression on her own face must
be quite similar.
* * *
Richard had no idea where he was. They were keeping him in a cage, a ten foot
cube of heavy steel in a room without windows or furniture. The interior of the
cage, however, was quite comfortable, in fact almost luxurious compared to his
little cell adjacent to Lady Briddington's playroom. There was a bed with warm
blankets and a soft pillow, a washbasin, and a shelf with a dozen or so books
that Richard was almost certain had been selected by his mother from among his
old favourites. (Browning's "Sonnets From the Portuguese", surely contributed by
Lady Briddington herself, had languished untouched throughout his
incarceration.) The usual metal bucket had been replaced by a genuine porcelain
chamberpot, still vaguely unpleasant to use but actually rather charming. And
Ms. Reynolds was conscientious about changing it regularly, and bringing him
regular meals that compared favourably with the best of his own mother's
cooking. He was still kept naked, and Ms. Reynolds hauled him out of the cage
twice daily for exercise sessions that were as strenuous as any paces he had
ever been put through, but he hadn't had anything like a serious beating since
arriving in this new prison a few days ago. He just wished he had some idea
where he was.
It was all very strange, and actually a little sinister. He had been brought
here hooded and in chains, and herded directly into the cage after a drive that
had seemed to last for hours and hours. Deprived of all reliable sense of time
and direction, he had no idea what part of the country he might be in, or even
whether they might have driven in a long circle and ended up back at some part
of the manor he had never been allowed to explore. But it was clear that he was
being prepared for something unusual, and the knot of apprehension deep in his
belly had only increased since the cage door had crashed shut behind him for the
first time. Lady Briddington had mentioned a graduation ceremony, but Ms.
Reynolds had not been instructing him in any sort of ritual that might be
appropriate for such an occasion. There had only been the twice-daily exercises,
which she directed with a fierce intensity that always left him trembling and
exhausted. There was a lot of aerobic activity, and endless running around and
around an indoor track - he hated that - and it seemed that the only time he
ever felt the strap these days was when he began to tire and slacken his pace.
Was his graduation from Briddington's Finishing School for Boy-Slaves to involve
some peculiar display of endurance? He waited, and wondered, and tried not to
spend too much time pacing in his cage like a helpless dumb beast in a zoo.
Frederick Forsyth and Tom Clancy provided something of an escape, but even they
could only distract him for so long.
He was just beginning to drift off to sleep one night when the door to the bare
room surrounding his cage swung open. The hinges were oiled into perfect
silence, but he heard the key turn in the lock and felt the rush of cold air
from the hall outside. He felt an immediate thrill of apprehension when he saw
it wasn't Ms. Reynolds standing silhouetted in the doorway, but it took him a
moment to recognise Ms. Bonner. She put a warning finger to her lips and strode
quickly into the room, closing the door behind her. Some furtiveness in her
manner alarmed him.
"Ma'am?" he said nervously, raising himself on an elbow. "Did Lady Briddington
send you to help prepare me? What's happening?"
"Hush. I've come on my own, to get you out of here. I feel that I can no longer
continue in Lady Briddington's service. The woman has become a monster."
"Get me out of here?" he echoed slowly. "And take me where? I don't understand."
"Somewhere you'll be safe from her. I think it will have to be overseas - maybe
Sweden or Switzerland."
Was this really the imperturbable, level-headed woman he remembered from the
manor? "But I wouldn't leave her even if I could," he protested. "I'm her slave
- she owns me, and she can do whatever she wants to me. I can't just run away."
"You don't know what she has planned for you," Ms. Bonner said urgently.
"Please, Richard, come with me, and save the questions for later. You see, she
-"
He shook his head violently. "No! If she wanted me to know, she'd have told me."
"When it starts, you're going to be sorry. Do you think it was easy for me to
sneak in here, you ungrateful idiot? And to get my hands on the keys to this
room? Richard, I've seen everything she's done to you, from the very first day,
and this is going to be the worst yet. Even worse than that whipping. I always
felt sorry for you, always thought she was being much too hard with you, but for
months I did my job and helped her torture you. But now she's gone too far."
With her usual icy precision, she thrust another key into the steel lock on the
cage and popped it open. "Come out here right now, and let me take you somewhere
safe. Don't you want your freedom?"
He rose slowly to his feet, heedless of his nakedness, and moved to face Ms.
Bonner squarely through the open door of the cage. Her face looked almost
haggard, drawn with concern and showing her age very clearly. He did feel
gratitude for the risk she was taking, he really did - but he couldn't stop
thinking about the feel of Lady Briddington's hand stroking his hair, the
remembered coldness of her leopard collar around his neck, her voice moaning
beneath him in the throes of desire. It seemed only fitting that his time with
her be brought to some proper conclusion, and he had to admit that he longed to
feel one last time that delicious sense of surrender to her. And afterwards
there would be more slavery, more servitude, more firm female hands to torment
and punish and reward him, until finally he was released to kneel before Claire
of his own free will. He couldn't give all that up for a midnight dash to the
Continent, however unpleasant the thought of Ms. Reynolds' waking him up early
tomorrow for morning exercises might be. He firmly pulled the cage door shut
again, and sighed as he heard the lock click with dismal finality.
"I have to stay," he murmured, as much to himself as to Ms. Bonner. "I'm sorry,
ma'am, but I still belong to her."
Ms. Bonner threw up her hands in exasperation. "All right, Richard. I'm not
going to kidnap you. But it won't be long before you start to wish I had. At
least let me kiss you goodbye." Her dry lips brushed his through the widely
spaced bars of the cage, and then she was gone. A naked and lonely prisoner once
again, Richard went back to bed.
* * *
Claire was literally trembling with excitement, occasionally so violently that
her fellow passengers on the little bus to Melrose eyed her with open concern.
They probably assumed she had some sort of strange disease, which wasn't so far
wrong - lovesickness might not be as medically respectable as, say, malaria, but
now she knew from personal experience that it was just as real. Her whole being
was consumed with desire to see Richard, even if she had to share him with the
dozen or so other guests Amanda had warned to her to expect at this very strange
graduation party Lady Briddington had organised. Then again, Amanda had also
hinted pretty strongly that she could expect a chance to be alone with Richard
at some point, despite the rancour and jealousy that had sprung up between
herself and Richard's mistress. But it would never do to let herself get too
hopeful, not until she learned a little more about exactly what was planned for
tomorrow's ceremony. Amanda had been pretty vague, come to think of it, as if
there might be details she hadn't wanted Claire to hear. Claire shuddered again
and hugged her arms to her breasts, torn between apprehension and delicious
anticipation, and then blushed with embarrassment when the rather fatherly
Scottish gentleman two seats over tried to wrap her in his greatcoat. It took
all her powers of persuasion to convince him that she wasn't sick, and wasn't
cold - well, it was chilly up here, indecently so for late April, but not to the
point where she had to go borrowing clothes from anonymous strangers. If she was
going to be taking care of two male slaves in the not-so-distant future, she had
better be able to take care of herself.
She passed the rest of the trip in nail-biting impatience, excited and tormented
by thoughts of Richard's soft eyes and hard body, and let out an audible sigh of
relief when the train finally pulled into the station. Amanda was on the
platform to meet her, as promised, but Claire felt a twinge of uneasiness as she
hurried toward her friend. Amanda was looking as tough and unfeminine as Claire
had ever seen her, her face impassive and her shoulders bulky with what looked
to be yet another layer of newly acquired muscle. Most disconcerting of all, she
had on a dark suit exactly like the ones Ms. Bonner and Ms. Reynolds wore when
on duty. Not wanting to think about what that might mean, Claire opened her arms
reflexively for a quick hug - it had been weeks since they'd seen each other in
person - but then dropped them again, feeling foolish, when Amanda didn't
respond.
"We'd better get going," Amanda said briskly. "It's a long drive to the castle,
and you're a few minutes late. They'll be expecting us."
"What's the rush?" Claire asked, hurrying to catch up as the other woman started
toward the parking lot without a backward glance. She had a heavy suitcase with
her, the inevitable result of not being sure which outfit would be appropriate
for the ceremony, and it was quite an effort to match Amanda's pace while
dragging the thing behind her. Surely it wouldn't kill Amanda to put a bit of
that excess muscle to good use and give her a hand?
"I thought the ceremony and everything was going to be tomorrow," Claire went on
aloud, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. She was already sweating
like a horse. "Does it really matter if we get in a bit late this afternoon?"
"Let's just say Lady Briddington is eager to have you arrive. You're supposed to
play a crucial part in the ceremony - and once you're squared away in a guest
room, she'll be able to stop worrying that you'll decide at the last minute not
to come after all."
"You make it sound like I'm going to be some sort of prisoner."
They were at the car. Claire was a heaving, perspiring mess, and her arms were
quivering with fatigue, but at least she'd kept up. Amanda turned back to face
her, her expression hard to read. "Look, Claire, you should have known. Lady
Briddington despises you. Of course she isn't inviting you just out of the
goodness of her dry aristocratic heart. She thinks she can't give Richard a
proper send-off without your help, and she has a specific role in mind for you.
But if you just cooperate and do everything you're told, you'll get to make love
to Richard one more time before they take him away. She's promised."
"Nice of you to mention this when we talked the other day," Claire almost
hissed.
Amanda shrugged. "You can still turn around and walk back to the station, if
seeing him isn't that important to you."
"You're turning into a real bitch, Amanda." That was loud enough to draw a
curious glance from a woman passing by, and Claire lowered her voice. "And
you're the one who's going to be giving me my instructions, is that it? I'll bet
you're going to enjoy yourself, you fucking musclebound gorilla dyke."
Amanda only gave her a thin smile. "Damn right. I take it you're staying, then?"
"You know I'm staying."
"All right. You'd better give me your mobile phone right now, then. And your
wallet."
"Why the hell-"
"And no arguing."
Glaring murderously, Claire reached into her pocket and handed them over. "And
you promise I'll get to see Richard," she said through clenched teeth.
"Not just see him. You'll get to fuck his brains out. Throw your suitcase in the
boot, and climb in the back." Claire did as she was told. So this was how it
felt to be taking orders, instead of giving them. She wished Amanda would just
shrivel up and die on the spot.
But of course, she did no such thing. When Claire tried to pull the door closed,
her captor - it was awful to think of Amanda that way, but that was what it
amounted to - got in the way. "Just a second." She reached into a pocket. "Put
these on."
Steel handcuffs. Claire glanced around nervously, but at least there wasn't
anyone else nearby. The other people from the train had already piled into cars
and vanished into the Border mists. But still... "I don't fucking believe this,"
she snapped.
"Just put them on, dear. In front of you is fine, and I've got a blanket to put
on your lap. No one will see."
"And I'll get to sleep with Richard."
"I promise."
Yielding to the inevitable, Claire cuffed herself, and turned her head away so
Amanda wouldn't see her tears as she leaned close to arrange the blanket and
pull Claire's seatbelt across her hips. She couldn't remember a time in her life
when she had felt more frightened and vulnerable, not a single one. Lady
Briddington might be planning to do anything to her! She wanted to face it
bravely, but she just couldn't seem to make herself stop crying, and the tears
flowed faster than ever when she realised Amanda was laughing at her from the
driver's seat. She was feeling cold again, the bumpy rural road was hurting her
arse, and her stomach churned with fear and anger. Even an hour or so later,
when the little car finally pulled up in front of Lady Briddington's castle and
her mood was fast slipping into resignation, it took an effort of will to stop
sniffling and clamber awkwardly out of the back seat. Amanda took her suitcase
with one hand and her elbow with the other, and led her toward the looming bulk
of the high stone walls.
"Where now, the dungeons?" Claire sneered.
"Not tonight," replied Amanda coolly. "There should be a nice guest room ready
for you in the west tower - just over this way."
The guest room was nice enough, as it turned out, if hardly luxurious. There was
a comfortable-looking bed and an adjoining bathroom. Amanda closed the door,
tossed Claire's suitcase on the bed, and flipped it open.
"I'll let you have your toothbrush and things, of course," said Amanda, removing
them from the suitcase. "And I suppose you can hang on to this." The latest
issue of New Matriarch joined the pile. "You won't be needing any of your
clothes, though - in fact, you have to take off what you're wearing now. Lady
Briddington insisted that I strip search you, just in case."
"Come on, Amanda. Why would I be hiding anything? I was expecting to be a guest
here, not a prisoner."
"I don't care what you were expecting. Let's see some skin."
Claire wished she wouldn't put it quite like that. "If someone has to do this,
can't it be Ms. Reynolds? Or Sara?"
"Didn't I tell you there wasn't going to be any arguing? I really wasn't
planning to hit you tonight, but if you keep carrying on like this..." She
stepped just a little closer, and Claire shrank back, intimidated.
"Okay, okay. Just give me a second." She dropped her eyes, avoiding the other
woman's hard, appraising gaze, and slipped off her shoes. Blouse, skirt and
stockings followed quickly, and after a brief pause she clenched her teeth and
took off her underwear as well, although she could feel herself blushing. Amanda
poked and prodded at her a little, mostly around the breasts and vulva, and she
writhed in discomfort.
"Can I get dressed now?" she snapped when the other woman finally stepped away.
"Of course not. Lady Briddington said I could keep you naked if I wanted - after
all, I might want to watch you on the cameras later. Put your clothes in your
suitcase, with the others."
Amanda sighed wearily and raised a threatening hand when she hesitated, and she
scurried to obey, her eyes brimming with tears. Suddenly she almost - almost -
wanted to be back in Birmingham with a pliant and obedient Clive, and to hell
with Richard. She watched in dismay as Amanda snapped her suitcase shut and
lifted it from the bed.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she said cheerily. "Someone will be up in an hour
or two with dinner, but don't expect anything fancy. Just behave yourself - no
yelling, no breaking things, no trying to get away. Remember that you're under
surveillance."
Claire had no intention of dignifying that with a response. She deliberately
turned her back and climbed into bed, ignoring Amanda's indulgent chuckle, and
pulled the covers up to her neck. She hated to hide like this, but not half as
much as she hated the idea of displaying herself for Lady Briddington and God
only knew who else. Amanda pushed the door closed, and Claire winced and bit her
lip when she heard a bolt slide into place on the other side, although she'd
been expecting it. Now she knew exactly how Richard must have felt when the
doors of the Intake Centre crashed shut behind him.
* * *
"Are you quite sure about the necklace, Sara?" Lady Briddington fretted. "I've
never particularly cared for this one - it strikes me as ostentatious, even
gaudy."
"Well, it's that sort of occasion," answered Sara with just a touch of
impatience. They had been at this for nearly an hour. "Grandeur, if I may say
so, is hardly out of place. But it's entirely your decision, of course. Would
you like to try the pearl one again?"
"No, we really must get the festivities underway. The ladies will be expecting
me at the breakfast table. But I can't help but worry. I almost feel that my
plans for the day are overly ambitious. There are so many different things that
could go wrong! Is that little whore Claire already in place?"
" I believe Ms. Harris is escorting her out even as we speak. The weather is
beautiful, the cooks have breakfast ready, and Ronald Tipper is all dressed up
and ready to serve. I think everything is well under control, ma'am."
"Well, I hope so. And the boys?"
Sara giggled. "Confused, nervous, and apprehensive. But ready to go."
"Apprehensive, and they don't even know what we have in store for them! I
suppose they'd be reduced to quivering puddles of jelly if they did. Ms.
Reynolds did remember to feed them?"
"Yes, of course. And they're properly outfitted. They both said it felt strange
to put clothes on, after all this time."
"The collars work?"
"Yes, ma'am," Sara sighed.
"I'm sorry. It's only - well, today is the culmination of a long and complicated
relationship, during which Richard and I have both learned a great deal. It's
important to me."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "The culmination?"
"Officially, dear, officially. And certainly a milestone. Which reminds me, I
mustn't keep you. When are you supposed to meet your little friend Andrea?"
"Not till this evening. But it's a long drive. Everything will be fine here, I'm
sure, and Connie will be a great help if you need anything."
"Very well. Off you go, then, though I'm sorry you have to miss the fun." Sara
Seville leaned close for a sisterly kiss, and then vanished. Lady Briddington
cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and wheeled toward the elevator.
Downstairs the ladies were practically bursting out of their smooth and scented
skins with anticipation. None of them seemed particularly interested in the
elaborate breakfast Richard's father was laying out on the table, resplendent in
the frilly uniform of a maid from the pages of some quaint Victorian novel;
rather, their attention was directed toward the two trembling young men who
knelt quietly in front of the great fireplace. Richard and Aladdin were chained
together at the neck, but otherwise unrestrained, for the moment. Ms. Reynolds
had dressed them in khaki outfits that looked almost military, with sturdy black
boots and leather belts. Each boy (Lady Briddington thought of them that way,
affectionately) had a canteen at his hip and a thin steel collar locked around
his neck, below the loop of chain that held them tethered to one another. Their
apprehension showed in every tense line of their bodies, and in the uncertain
glances they kept glancing at each other and at the cluster of women who eyed
them like a flock of bright, rapacious birds of prey. They looked handsome in
those crisp masculine clothes (especially Aladdin, she had to admit), and their
obvious nervousness was endearing. Lady Briddington felt her excitement rising
as she cleared her throat and called the gathering to order.
"Good morning, my dears," she said expansively. "A good morning to everyone -
old bosom companions, newer friends - do stop hiding in the kitchen, Connie and
Elsie, I naturally wish to include you as well - trusted servants, and of course
the three delightful and thoroughly abject male slaves who will be made to
endure so much for us today. Connie Tipper has graciously offered us the
services of our husband Ronald, who will be attending to our more mundane needs
and occasionally entertaining us as the day progresses. Do curtsy like a good
girl, dear." Ronald blushed furiously and put his hand to his generously
enhanced bosom, but when Elsie prodded him savagely in the ribs he turned
obediently to the ladies and lowered himself in a great rustling of lace and
chiffon, eyes demurely downcast. Made up and in a wig, he really didn't look
half bad, and his wife and sister-in-law had clearly been successful in training
him to carry himself properly in his feminine role and affect the appropriate
mannerisms. The ladies giggled and eyed him speculatively as he regained his
feet and retreated to a corner.
"However," Lady Briddington continued, "the day really belongs to our two
younger victims and playthings, my slave Richard and Ms. Felton-Withers' boy
Aladdin. As we all know only two well, they will both be leaving us for their
next work assignments tomorrow: Aladdin to make exercise videos, I understand,
and Richard to restore the ancient glories of mystic Skara Brae." She made no
effort to hide her scorn for the latter undertaking, which still struck her as
perfectly ridiculous. "But they are still with us today - and tonight - and I
have organised this gathering both as an opportunity to make use of them one
last time and to celebrate what might be regarded as a milestone in their
development as slaves and ultimately as productive, properly conditioned members
of society.
"I propose to begin the day with a final demonstration of their helplessness and
utter inability to resist or outwit us, in a way that should prove both symbolic
and brutally literal." The ladies knew what was planned, of course, but even so
they exchanged bright-eyed glances at this and tittered in anticipation. The
boys, in their ignorance, merely appeared worried, and she turned her chair to
address them directly. "My very dear boys, today my friends are going to hunt
you down on horseback like the magnificent male animals you are. This area is
rugged and heavily wooded, and I propose to give you an hour's start in order to
provide your pursuers with something like a challenge. I advise against going to
ground, no matter how well concealed the spot may appear - many of the ladies
are expert trackers, and with the help of trained bloodhounds you can hardly
fail to be apprehended quickly unless you succeed in putting a great deal of
distance between yourselves and the walls of this castle. When the hunt finally
catches up with you, you will be captured by whatever means seem amusing and
appropriate - overpowered by the dogs, shot with tranquiliser darts, or simply
entangled in a net. You will be stripped and dragged back here, to be tormented
until supper time. I believe nipple clamps, a cramped little cage, and a control
belt set to the mild sensitisation cycle will prove sufficiently unpleasant, as
well as preparing you admirably for the evening's activities. After two or three
hours, in fact, you will be screaming and pleading - but remember, the longer
you remain uncaptured, the less cage time you will have to endure. Incidentally,
I suppose I ought to explain that the collars are only a safety feature,
monitoring your pulse and body temperature. If they detect severe trauma, such
as might occur during a fall or other accident, they will relay your position to
us here and we will take steps to rescue you. Do you have any questions, boys,
about what is expected of you?"
"Surely you're not going yourself, ma'am?" Richard blurted.
She laughed. "Of course not. Physical difficulties aside, Ms. Felton-Withers and
myself both felt that it would be more sporting to remain here and allow our
friends to do the actual hunting. Lacking their own male toys, they ought to
have a fair chance at the two of you. I believe your aunt and mother would also
like to stay here, in order to keep our other slave under proper supervision.
But don't worry - that still leaves plenty of women to chase you, so you needn't
feel neglected."
"What if you don't manage to catch us?" Aladdin said suddenly, and a little
defiantly. Hadn't Ms. Felton-Withers taught him any better than that? "What if
we get away?"
"Get away?" Lady Briddington smiled icily. "What a quaint thought. I assure you
that capture is quite inevitable - the best you can hope for, my boy, is to
delay it by an hour or two. But if the unthinkable happens, and you have not
been brought in by suppertime - six o'clock, I believe we decided - your collar
will immobilise you and relay your location to the huntresses. So you see, you
really are quite helpless."
She could almost hear the furious working of their brains - plotting evasion
strategies, perhaps, or simply trying to come up with another question or two by
way of stalling. She had no desire to rush the proceedings on what was after all
a very momentous day, but after a minute or two it was clear that neither of
them had anything else to say. They both looked miserable. "Ms. Reynolds!" she
called.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You can take the boys out now, and release them. We will take our breakfast in
the meantime - but remember, my dears, some very capable and determined women
will be coming after you in exactly an hour, so make use of the time as best you
can. Good luck to both of you."
* * *
Richard was thoroughly lost. He was beginning to understand the reasoning behind
the rigorous aerobic exercises that had been such a prevalent feature of his
life recently; he'd been trotting along narrow winding trails for some time now,
surely much more than the allotted hour of grace, but his body was still holding
up remarkably well. On the other hand, neither running in circles on an indoor
track nor an upbringing in the leafy suburbs of Birmingham had taught him
anything about navigating in a rugged wilderness, and he had become confused and
disorientated almost immediately. He didn't think he'd been going in circles,
but he was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea which direction would take
him back to the castle - or, more to the point, away from it.
On the other hand, he had certainly managed to cover a lot of distance. The
terrain seemed fairly rough, with rolling slopes and copses of trees, and he was
sure that even "very capable and determined women" backed up by bloodhounds
would need several hours to chase him down in this stuff. He was determined to
evade them for as long as he possibly could, though he found the idea of fleeing
like a hunted animal more than a little humiliating. It might seem less ignoble
to simply walk back to the castle and dare Lady Briddington to do her worst -
but of course a childish gesture like that would only anger her, and in any case
Richard was not looking forward to being locked in a cage and control belt. He
had experienced the sensitisation cycle before, and could only describe it as
like being helpless in the hands of a woman who couldn't quite decide whether
she was in the mood for torture or lovemaking.
There were trees off to the right, and the sound of flowing water. He angled in
that direction, trying not to think about how much the gentle gurgling of the
hidden stream reminded him of a woman's mocking laughter. Would running up the
stream bed really throw the hounds off the scent? He supposed it was at least
worth a try. With any luck they'd go after Aladdin first anyway - he suspected
Lady Briddington would prefer that her own slave be apprehended later rather
than sooner, as a sort of climax. If there were really "expert trackers" among
the pursuers, they would surely be capable of distinguishing his footprints from
the larger and heavier Aladdin's. That had been a large part of the reason why
he'd insisted on splitting up almost as soon as they were out of sight of the
castle walls, although there was always the uncomfortable possibility that the
women would divide their pack and pursue both their quarries at once. Was that
the distant baying of hounds he heard, or only the wind? With the desperation of
any hunted animal, he drew a deep breath, and picked up his pace just a little.
* * *
"He's hiding in there," said Annie decisively. Flushed with the lingering
morning chill and the excitement of the chase, she could hardly sit still on the
saddle as she surveyed the little wooded hollow ahead. "We've looked all around
it, and his trail goes in and doesn't come out again. He must be hoping we can't
get the horses in there."
"I don't think we can," replied Juliet Asquith, perhaps a little sharply. She
didn't much like horses, or heavy outdoor activity of any sort, and although the
prospect of getting her hands on a helpless Aladdin was very tempting she found
it difficult to share Annie's enthusiasm for the hunt itself.
"Maybe not, but we can go in on foot!" cried Annie. "Where did Lorena and Alice
get to?"
"A little further back, I think. Why don't we just give them a few minutes? If
he's decided to go to ground in there, he'll stay put as long as he can."
"Oh, all right. But I want to hurry up and get him trussed up and sent back,
just so we don't miss all the fun with Richard."
Juliet laughed. "I don't think there's much danger of that, not with Jane in
charge of their party. She'll take it nice and slow - make him sweat a bit
before the coup de grace."
"And quite right, too," Annie murmured, with one of her mischievous little
smiles. "Speaking of which..." She drew herself up in the saddle and gave a
sharp, penetrating whistle that made Juliet wince. "Aladdin!" she yelled. "We
know you're in there! Come straight out, take your clothes off and get down on
your knees for us, and we'll be gentle with you. You won't like what's going to
happen if we have to come in after you!"
"What's all the fuss?" called Lorena from somewhere further back along the
trail. "Have we found the wily little bastard at last?" Her tolerance for
charging around the bleak hills on horseback was if anything even less than
Juliet's own.
"I'm almost positive he's in there," Annie explained as Lorena and Alice came
into view, with a wave toward the low-lying copse of trees. "We'll have to flush
him out. If you three want to get your guns out and go in from one side - it
doesn't really matter which - I'll wait with the handlers and dogs on the other.
I can't wait to see his face."
"Can we threaten him?" asked Alice eagerly, tranquiliser rifle already half
drawn.
"Absolutely. Just try to scare the living daylights out of him."
It sounded good to Juliet. A little clumsily, she dismounted to follow the
others as they moved into position, and watched Annie and the whippers-in
driving the hounds around to the far side of the little dell.
"Last chance, Aladdin!" Annie bellowed. A minute passed without response, and
she waved her arms excitedly over her head.
"I gather that's our signal," said Lorena dryly. "Shall we, ladies?"
It turned out to be fun, though, screaming threats at the tops of their lungs
and charging down the gentle slope toward their quarry's hiding place. Alice saw
him first, trying to conceal himself in the crook of a tree that really wasn't
quite leafy enough yet, and with a whoop of excitement she squeezed off a wild
shot that stuck quivering in a thick branch about two and half trees over. But
that was enough for Aladdin; he yelped in terror, dropped to the ground, and
took off as fast as his legs could carry him. Blind panic? At any rate, Juliet
raised her gun to shoot him in the back, then thought better of it. Annie needed
her fun. She smiled to herself as she heard the sudden baying of hounds,
followed by a wail of utter terror.
"Please! No! Please don't let them -" Aladdin's voice gave way to excited
barking, and Annie's wild laughter.
"Got you now, you little bastard!" she shouted triumphantly. "Thought you could
hide, did you?"
Curious, Juliet trotted - an absurdly strenuous gait, by her standards - around
to the other side of the trees, where Aladdin lay pinned and helpless in a
circle of excited hunting dogs. Excited, but well trained, considering that they
were holding the black man down with mouths and paws and yet had apparently
avoided inflicting even the most trivial scratch.
"Please, ma'am, get them off me! I'll do whatever you want, I promise!"
Annie had the handlers call off the pack, and Juliet watched appreciatively as
Aladdin obeyed her brusque but not entirely unfriendly orders to undress and
allow himself to be firmly bound for the trip back to the castle. Servants
uncollared him and led him away as the women remounted.
"I think we can congratulate ourselves," said Annie smugly. "Not even noon, and
one wild beast already brought to heel. Is his afternoon really going to be as
uncomfortable as Gloria implied in her little speech?"
"Oh, I think so," giggled Alice. "I saw her put Richard in the belt one day when
I was visiting, and you'd be amazed at the noises that were coming out of that
poor young man. But Aladdin shouldn't have ignored her advice if he didn't want
to be caught so quickly. It serves him right if he has to do a little screaming
and crying before dinner."
"So long as we get to watch," said Juliet nonchalantly. "Shall we go see how
Jane is getting along with Richard?"
* * *
They were up to something. Richard was almost sure of it. He might be panting,
sweaty and closer than ever to the edge of exhausted panic, but he could still
think clearly enough to find something distinctly odd in the way he was being
pursued. They had found him much sooner than he would have thought possible; the
sun had been only just past its peak when the sound he'd been dreading, the
distant and excited baying of a bloodthirsty pack, had become too clear and
definite to dismiss as mere imagination. They really were going to hunt him
down, like some helpless mute beast.
He had fled desperately, if not quite blindly. He had kept to rough and
overgrown terrain where he could, hoping it would prove troubling to the horses,
and occasionally tried to double back on his trail. Once, after scrambling up a
steep hillside that was mostly naked rock, he had thought he might be able to
lose them altogether. But through the whole chase the baying of the dogs and the
excited cries of the huntresses had grown inexorably nearer, and even the bare
slope had apparently held them up for only a few minutes before the gap began to
close again. Then they had come into sight, cresting a rise he had passed over
only moments before, and Richard had moaned in terror and gathered himself for
what he was sure would be a final, futile sprint for freedom. He hadn't been
able to bring himself to turn and face them - they'd looked ready to tear him to
pieces. Ms. Keating had been in the lead, her blond hair streaming behind her
and ablaze in the morning sun.
For some reason, however, she had chosen not to catch him. He was sure that was
what had happened - she had been practically on top of him, but had suddenly
abandoned the chase and wheeled her horse away just as two of the others came
charging out from behind a thicket to his left. He had swerved away from them,
panicked all over again, and the pattern had simply repeated itself. At the very
last moment, just as he had been bracing himself for the inevitable prick of a
tranquiliser dart or the entangling embrace of a weighted net, they had reined
in, and Mrs. Keating had returned brandishing a riding crop to drive him off in
a new direction.
And that was it, of course. They were herding him, not hunting him at all. For
some reason he could not begin to guess, the women were forcing him methodically
toward the densely thicketed banks of the largest stream he had seen all day.
When he directed his stumbling, erratic footsteps toward the water, they stayed
behind him, but if he tried to veer off sideways one of them would gallop up to
cut him off. It was all too obvious that he had no chance at all of escape, but
dread of what might happen once he was in their hands spurred him on regardless.
If he could spare himself only another few minutes of torture, or even a few
seconds... But the women were cutting it closer now, rushing up almost abreast
of him before pulling away again. And then, finally, he felt it - the sting of a
riding crop lashing across his shoulders, followed by wild female laughter. He
stumbled and almost went down, but somehow kept running. The crop flicked
relentlessly against his arse, his thighs, his back. It was surprising how much
his clothes helped absorb the sting of the blows, but even so they were a
terrifying reminder of things to come. He had no breath to plead with them, and
he lowered his head and poured all his concentration into the fearsome task of
moving forward without falling. He was no longer sure whether the salty liquid
that filled his eyes was sweat or tears. Were they only toying with him, running
him till he dropped? Clothed or not, the relentless flailing of the crop was
hurting him, and he began to whimper in pain. He almost wished they would just
be done with it and throw their nets around him - and then he found himself
plunging through what proved to be a thin fringe of trees, and stumbling
straight into the shallow water of the stream. They didn't seem to be trying to
follow him. Why on Earth had they driven him here?
Then he heard a low, wordless moan from the far bank. Turning to look, he
blinked his eyes in astonishment. Only the fact that he had been worked to
exhaustion many times over the period of his conscription, without experiencing
hallucinations of any sort, convinced him that what he was seeing was not merely
the result of fatigue working on an overwrought brain.
It was Claire, naked and in chains. In fact, he couldn't help but immediately
notice that she was doubly nude: not only had her clothes been taken away, but
someone had shaved the hair from between her legs, leaving her smooth and
vulnerable. She was spread-eagled in the thick mud at the edge of the water,
wrists and ankles tightly shackled to metal stakes that held her stretched in a
harsh rectangle of discomfort. He could see the strain in her hips and
shoulders, and her face was tense with what Richard knew from experience would
be the kind of dull, aching pain that began as a mere annoyance and gradually
expanded to fill one's whole awareness. Her mouth was filled with a bright red
ball of rubber. He had no idea how she could possibly have come to be here.
Surely Lady Briddington hadn't somehow kidnapped her?
She moaned again, through the gag, and this time he heard an unmistakable note
of desire along with the pain. She lifted her hips toward him, the bare lips of
her vagina flushed and gaping, and beckoned weakly with the fingers of one
pinioned hand. It was a strange, obscene display, but he felt his cock swelling
inside his unaccustomed underwear. There was still no sign of the huntresses. He
plunged across the shallow water and up the bank to where she lay, and fell to
his knees beside her. Up close, he could see that she had a bruise on one cheek,
and welts on her thighs - wonderingly, he reached down to trace them with one
finger. He had never even really dared imagine her like this, bound and naked
and chastised, to all appearances as thoroughly enslaved as he himself. Perhaps
the sight horrified him a little, but it was also the most tremendously erotic
thing he had ever seen. Claire looked remarkably good in chains. Stung by sudden
guilt at the thought, he reached toward her gag, but found that it was drawn
tight and locked behind her head. He couldn't get it off unless he wanted to
take her jaw with it. Almost impatiently, she shook her head and pumped her hips
at him again.
It was only too obvious what she wanted, and he was only too glad to comply. And
in any event he was used to obeying her, wasn't he? He hastily unbuckled his
belt, slipped down his trousers, and climbed on top of her. She made a kind of
purring sound, deep in her throat, and rose up to meet him. There was no
elegance to it, this desperate lovemaking by the little brook; he was an
exhausted fugitive, she a bound captive, and their lust was inevitably mixed
with fear and apprehension of what might follow. But her body was still soft and
warm underneath him, her cunt tight and moist, and in all their lovemaking
during the months leading up to his conscription he had never found her so
passionate or responsive. She rubbed her gagged mouth against his face and
shoulders, as if trying to kiss, and matched the rhythm he set with a fierce
intensity of her own. Only a minute or two after he slid into her, it seemed,
she tensed and gave a muffled howl of passion just as he felt his semen spurting
unimpeded into her secret passages. He took a long, shuddering breath and lifted
himself on his elbows to look into her face. It shone with perspiration, but
another wetness was trickling down her cheeks as she stared mutely up at him.
Then, suddenly, those glistening brown eyes went wide. That was all the warning
he had; strong female hands seized him, and he felt himself being hauled off
Claire and thrown down beside her in the mud.
"Well, boy, you've had your fun," someone hissed in his ear. "Now we're going to
have ours."
They, Lady Briddington's brilliant, insufferable friends, swarmed all over him,
tearing off his clothing and collar and then seizing his arms to force him up to
his knees. They half led and half dragged him further up the bank, to where the
rest of the hunting party stood waiting - horses, hounds, and various handlers
and servants. Two of the burlier ones, a man and a woman, stepped forward with a
sturdy wooden pole as Richard and his captors approached. But he was more
interested in what was happening behind him, where a woman in a dark suit had
emerged from some hiding place and was unhurriedly removing Claire's chains.
"Amanda!" he exclaimed in sudden recognition. "What the hell are you doing here?
And why is Claire tied down like that? I don't underst - ow!" Someone caught him
full across the buttocks with a riding crop, and he was reminded again just how
much a hard blow against bare flesh could sting.
"Do shut up, dear," said Mrs. Asquith gaily. "You've got other things to worry
about anyway." As if to emphasize the point, they threw him down suddenly at the
feet of the two servants, knocking the wind out of him. Stone faced, the
servants knelt to fasten his wrists and ankles in leather cuffs attached to the
pole, then lifted it to their shoulders so that he dangled helplessly between
them. His wrists and ankles hurt already - he hoped they weren't planning to
carry him too far - and his softening penis dangled pathetically, still trailing
semen and Claire's juices.
"But please, ma'am," he whimpered, "how did Claire get here? She isn't a
conscript! What are you going to do to her?"
"Shut up, Richard. Last chance."
"But Lady Briddington can't - mmph!" For a moment his head was cradled against
Ms. Keating's soft though hardly expansive bosom as she slammed a gag exactly
like Claire's into his mouth. She buckled it tight and locked it in place, then
clapped the female servant - the one in the lead - on the shoulder.
"Go ahead and take him back. We'll be along once the girl's ready."
And they were indeed attaching Claire to a similar pole, one carried between two
women. Apparently even a female prisoner was too good to be handled by men in
the new Britain, or at least Lady Briddington's little corner of it - and then
the thought vanished as Richard turned his attention to tensing his muscles
against the painful swinging of his body as they carried him across the rugged
countryside.
Elsie Tipper was feeling a little bit out of her depth. It wasn't so much Lady
Briddington's wealth and power that unnerved her, as the sheer depth and
intensity of the woman's masterful cruelty; Elsie was used to seeing men
disciplined and punished, but her ladyship's methodical and overtly sexual
sadism was almost frightening. Even when she was helping Connie train her
half-willing husband Ronald, there was almost a sense of cheerful abandon at
work, no matter how loudly the poor man might plead and whimper as his wife and
sister-in-law punished his clumsiness or thrashed him for pure amusement. With
Lady Briddington, exactly the opposite seemed to be true. No matter how playful
the proceedings might appear, there was an underlying seriousness involved, an
implacable will to dominate and command.
On the other hand, Elsie had never been one to let a little uneasiness get in
the way of a good time. Her main role in the proceedings was to help Connie
manage Roland, a task she carried out with considerable enthusiasm. At the
moment he was setting the dinner table, dressed in his increasingly dishevelled
maid's uniform; all afternoon, the guests had been teasing and smacking him when
they weren't chattering in the sitting room or watching Richard and Aladdin
suffer in their cages. Elsie felt a degree of sympathy for the poor men,
especially her dear nephew Richie, as the pitiless control belts alternately
massaged their genitals like the gentle hand of a lover and shocked and squeezed
them into moans of agony, but she had to admit in the privacy of her thoughts
that the sight of their helpless passion and suffering was also rather exciting.
A couple of hours ago their constant pleas for mercy had become so irritating
that Lady Briddington had ordered them gagged.
Ronald was almost done laying out the dining room table, but that was no excuse
to dawdle over the task. Elsie smacked him casually with her strap, and met his
look of resentment with a hard smile. By now his shaven thighs were quite
tender, particularly that strip of bare skin between his short skirt and the top
of his stocking that made such a tempting target.
"Hurry up, bitch," she chided. "They're hungry."
"Of course, ma'am," he said in his formal serving voice, and hurried to the
cabinet to fetch the rest of the silverware. He had been instructed to prepare
quite an unusual arrangement; their were no chairs or plates, but only a wine
glass and set of cutlery for each of the female guests, laid out around the two
immense covered dishes that occupied the long table. Roland fussed with two or
three of the napkins that were folded carefully inside the glasses, then turned
to Elsie and curtsied.
"I believe everything is ready, ma'am," he said deferentially.
"Took you long enough. All right, go tell Ms. Harris she can bring Claire in,
and then announce to the ladies that dinner is ready. If they have any
complaints, Connie and I are going to beat you to a pulp."
He swallowed hard, curtsied again, and scurried off. He was dreadfully nervous,
not without good reason, but at least he was keeping a grip on himself and not,
as she had half expected, giving in to panic. Appearing in his maid's uniform in
front of the likes of Lady Briddington was bad enough, but this was also the
first time he had been made to serve as a slave outside the privacy of his own
home.
He returned a minute or two later, preceding that strange Harris woman and her
naked prisoner. Elsie had no idea what they'd been doing to Claire all
afternoon, and didn't really want to know; the girl's pale, shaven body was
covered in welts and bruises, and her tear-streaked face was bowed in an
expression of abject misery. The steel cuffs on her wrists, and the leash and
collar Ms. Harris was using to control her, seemed hardly necessary. On the
other hand, Ms. Harris looked like she was enjoying herself immensely. Elsie
understood that she and Claire had some sort of complicated history together,
but Connie had never explained it to her in detail.
"Where do you want the bitch?" Ms. Harris asked cheerfully.
"In the corner there, handcuffed standing to that torch-thing on the wall. She's
just supposed to watch. Better gag her, too, if you've got one."
"Please don't," Claire mumbled. "I'll be quiet, I promise." Ms. Harris sighed,
as if she thought the girl should know better by now, and backhanded her across
the face. Claire gave a low whine of protest, the sort of sound Elsie was used
to hearing from tormented conscripts who were close to the breaking point, but
she meekly submitted to being cuffed in that uncomfortable position and silenced
with a huge rubber gag. Elsie watched with something like pity.
Meanwhile, Ronald was leading a procession of hungry female aristocrats into the
dining hall, along with a surprisingly relaxed looking Connie. Lady Briddington
brought up the rear, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her guests'
expressions of bafflement as they glanced back and forth between the nude and
miserable Claire and the oddly laden table. Finally Ms. Keating broke the
silence.
"Gloria darling, this is going to require some sort of explanation."
"Why, my dear," said Lady Briddington with a mischievous smile, "it really ought
to be quite obvious. Dinner is served. That creature" - she waved dismissively
at Claire - "is here to watch us satisfy our appetites, while receiving nothing
for herself. The platters, please, Ronald."
The lids were so large that there was no elegant way to remove them. Ronald
himself, retired engineer that he was, had threaded fine wires through pulleys
hung from the rafters, and he was now able to draw the lids simultaneously
upward as if by magic. However, the effect went unappreciated, as the guests had
eyes for nothing but the rather unusual dishes that Ronald's ingenious mechanism
had uncovered. On each platter lay a naked slave, smeared with sauces and
surrounded by heaps of delicacies. The only sound in the room came from poor
little Claire, who whimpered into her gag in what might have been desperate
jealousy.
* * *
Richard blinked in the sudden light as the silver lid that had been covering him
for nearly half an hour was lifted swiftly upward. He was extremely
uncomfortable - tightly and intricately bound to rings in the specially
constructed platter, gagged like a festive boar with a small apple, and
tormented to distraction by the delicious smells all around him. His cock and
balls were tender and actually aching a little from the afternoon session with
the control belt, and smeared with some sort of cool sauce that made them itch.
He saw that he was surrounded by Lady Briddington's friends, though some were
closer to Aladdin, who was further down the table. For a minute they only stared
at him in stunned silence - and then, suddenly, they swooped. Mrs. Asquith
reached between his legs for a handful of mixed nuts, and three of the others
began licking and nibbling at the dainties that the cooks had carefully arranged
on his chest and stomach, not bothering with forks or fingers. The sharp-faced
Mrs. Grant leaned over and bit a substantial chunk out of the apple in his
mouth, her lips rubbing teasingly against his. But they left it to Lady
Briddington herself to elevate her wheelchair, lean forward, and lick a little
of the sauce from his rapidly stiffening penis.
Richard was enveloped in their perfume, tickled by warm tongues and prodded and
fondled by soft fingers. Only Mrs. Lewis seemed to be bothering with utensils,
and her primary interest was apparently in gently stabbing the soles of his feet
with her fork.
"Ticklish, isn't he?" she observed, giggling.
"Don't make him squirm too much, things will spill," Mrs. Asquith complained.
"Have you tried the caviar? It's heavenly - there, piled up by his shoulder. You
really must have some." Mrs. Lewis simply leaned over his body, smearing sauces
all over her expensive evening gown, and sucked a little into her mouth.
"Yes, lovely," she purred, almost in his ear. Richard turned his face away, to
avoid having it smothered in her bosom, only to see that his mother was almost
equally entangled with that Aladdin bloke. Most of the women were drifting back
and forth between the two slaves as the mood took them, but he was glad to see
that both his mother and his aunt seemed to be staying at Aladdin's end of the
table.
Gradually, the ladies began to worry less about eating from his body and more
about satisfying other appetites. The flirtatious hands and lips became more
insistent, and several of the others adopted Mrs. Lewis' tactic of poking him
with their cutlery, while others preferred to bite or pinch. It was like what
the control belt had been doing to him all afternoon, intermingled sensations of
mild pain and teasing pleasure, but ranging now over his whole body and combined
with the proximity of a great deal of soft and warm female flesh. Much to the
merriment of the ladies, his cock was hard and pointed arrow-straight at the
gleaming dish cover that still hung suspended above the table. Two or three
pairs of hands were playing with it, tormenting him with cruel fingernails one
minute and driving him half mad with soft caresses the next, and the thin but
tyrannically firm cords that bound him at knee and waist prevented even the
slightest response on his part. Their voices had dissolved into an indistinct
sea of cooing, giggling and purring, all vibrating with lust. He wasn't really
surprised when one of them - he thought it was the wiry Ms. Demmings, but
couldn't be sure - pulled the remains of the apple out of his mouth and replaced
it with her firm little breast. He licked and kissed, eager to please, and for a
brief minute or two everyone stopped the pinching and jabbing and rewarded him
with soft caresses from head to foot.
But moments later their mood seemed to grow harsher and more masterful than
ever. Ms. Demmings - it was her - pulled out and slapped him stingingly across
the face, laughing, and the others hurried to follow her example. Someone bit
him, hard, on the chest. Ms. Keating looked him levelly in the eye and slapped
his balls with her open palm, so that he groaned in agony, and the pain had
scarcely begun to subside when he felt them grabbed and squeezed mercilessly in
a strong hand. Mrs. Lewis giggled and brushed his hair away from his face as he
burst into tears.
"Oh, the poor darling boy," she purred. "We really must whip him."
"Of course we must," said Lady Briddington brightly. "I believe I have just the
thing."
It turned out to be one of her gentler implements of correction, with a dozen or
so short strands of soft leather attached to a single handle. His mistress began
the beating herself, working him over at a leisurely pace that must have had two
or three of the more enthusiastic women seething with impatience. Each
individual blow hardly hurt, not in comparison to a riding crop or a heavy
leather strap like the conscription officers used, but as the flogging went on
the pain built slowly and implacably until his moans and little shrieks of pain
echoed from the rafters. And then it was Mrs. Lewis' turn.
They all whipped him, almost ritualistically. Even Elsie and his mother came
over to lay on a few strokes, and although their expressions were vaguely
apologetic they were no gentler than the others. Aladdin was now being virtually
ignored. While one woman flogged Richard the others would caress him and kiss
him and play with his body; they seemed to particularly like having their mouths
on his at the very moment when he screamed with the pain of an exceptionally
savage blow. Once Lady Briddington licked the tears from his cheeks and
whispered to him to be brave for her.
And he really did try to be as brave as he could, in spite of the agony and his
terrifying vulnerability. He couldn't help his tears, or the occasional cry of
pain, but he was desperate not to plead for mercy and not to allow them the
satisfaction of driving him into screaming hysteria. But as the beating went on
and on, he felt his resolve slowly beginning to slip away. It hurt so much, the
eyes of the women who surrounded him glittered with such cruel excitement, and
at the back of his mind was the lurking fear that his mistress would get carried
away again and really damage him, as she had when she ordered Ms. Reynolds to
beat him with the sjambok. He was frightened and helpless and in pain, and he
desperately wanted his mother to chase away Lady Briddington and her cruel
friends and take him in her arms and hold him while he wept - but his mother was
calmly watching with a faint smile on her face, as if proud of her son's bravery
and not concerned in the least about his suffering. Now Amanda was taking her
turn at Lady Briddington's particular invitation, slashing the whip fast and
hard across his torso and flanks, and under her powerful and merciless blows the
last of his pride and resistance disintegrated. Flushed with excitement, she
gave a triumphant smile as the first real scream burst from his straining
throat, and squeezed his knee in what might have been a gesture of rough
sympathy when he tearfully begged her to stop hurting him. But she didn't stop,
not even for a minute, and the others began to close in like lionesses on some
stumbling, weakened creature of the veldt. Mrs. Lewis went back to stabbing him
with her fork; Mrs. Grant started to beat him around the hands and forearms with
a wooden spoon she must have borrowed from the kitchen. Ms. Felton-Withers,
inspired, snatched up a candle from a nearby shelf and dripped hot wax along his
left thigh. He screamed for all of them, suffered for all of them, pleaded in
vain with all of them. Amanda landed the whip right across his balls, though
with less than her usual force, and it happened to be Lady Briddington's lips
who were pressed against his to receive the inevitable cry of anguish. After
that he lost track of exactly what was happening to him, as individual agonies
blended into a rising tide of pain that seemed to submerge his soul as well as
his body. His screams shook the castle.
Just when he felt that he would die convulsing if this went on for so much as
another moment, the agony stopped increasing. He let out a long, low moan, and
Lady Briddington clapped her hand impatiently over his mouth.
"Shut up, dear, we've hardly started and already you're squealing like an
abandoned piglet. Claire darling, did you want to say something? Do take out her
gag for a minute, Ms. Harris. If she spouts insolence we can always punish her."
Claire! Lady Briddington let him turn his head enough to see her standing bound
in the corner, struggling and sobbing and obviously trying to talk through the
rubber that filled her mouth. Richard had had no idea that she was present in
the room, present to witness his humiliating pleas and cries of anguish. Amanda
went over to her, steadied her head with a hand tangled in sweaty red curls, and
popped the gag out of her mouth.
"Stop!" Claire wailed as soon as she was free to speak. "Stop hurting him! I'll
do anything you want, anything Amanda wants, but just stop torturing him. Oh,
you're a monster after all!"
"And you're a silly girl, to wander unprotected into my lair," murmured Lady
Briddington drily. "But for the sake of argument, do you really mean 'anything'?
That can be one of the most dangerous words in the language, dear."
"Anything," Claire repeated. "Kill me if you want - I don't care any more."
"Kill you? No, I didn't have in mind anything half so merciful. I require
nothing less than your hand in marriage. But give me that, and I promise that
Richard will spend the rest of the evening in erotic bliss - and get a good
night's sleep before they take him away to his next assignment, too."
"My hand in... I don't understand," she almost whined.
"It's really quite simple. Among Ms. Felton-Withers' numerous honours and
appointments is the status of Exalted Priestess in the New Dianic Sisterhood,
though I fear her commitment may be more political than theological." There was
a round of polite giggling, not least from Ms. Felton-Withers herself. "She can
marry us - you and me - tonight, on contractual terms that will ensure your
perpetual servitude. I can find plenty of menial work for you, and if Ms. Harris
chooses to continue in my service I daresay she'll get a great deal of use out
of you as well. Best of all, I won't have to spend my old age enduring bitter
visions of Richard curled up at your feet, because you'll be safely curled up at
mine. I have no erotic interest in you whatsoever, of course, and our marriage
will never be properly consummated, but it will be great fun to make you squeal
from time to time. Fortunately enough, I believe we have all the necessary
paperwork ready."
"Indeed we do," Ms. Felton-Withers confirmed.
Claire looked from one of them to the other, trembling. "But I can't! You're
asking me to sign away my whole life!"
Lady Briddington shrugged. "Understandable. We'll just get on with thrashing
Richard then, shall we? Gag her again, Ms. Harris."
"Wait!" squealed Claire. "What are you going to do to him?"
"Oh, don't worry. He won't be damaged physically, or not to the extent that he
requires medical treatment. You'll be quite surprised, I think, at the degree of
pain and trauma we can inflict before real harm is done."
"You vindictive bitch! Why can't you just - oww!"
"It's all right, Ms. Harris - you can let her say what she likes, for the
moment."
Amanda reluctantly lowered her hand, which had been raised for another slap. The
fog of agony that surrounded Richard was lifting, and he was beginning to
understand the conversation's terrible significance.
"Don't be an idiot, Claire!" he burst out, but Lady Briddington's open hand
instantly bore down harder across his mouth.
"Shut up, dear," she hissed through clenched teeth. He struggled and snapped at
her, and she yelped and jerked back her hand.
"You stupid boy," she said flatly. "Now I'll really have to hurt you. This is no
time for petulant defiance."
"I hate you!" he snarled. "Damn you, why won't you let her go? Claire's right -
you're a monster, and I don't care how much you punish me. It's true."
"Don't care?" she repeated, eyes glinting. "We'll see about that. The night is
young, my dear, very young indeed. I had hoped that you would behave yourself,
but it seems that you are still far from learning your station in life." She
took his nipples between her fingernails as she spoke, and began to pinch and
twist cruelly. He whimpered in renewed pain. "Given that this is my last
opportunity to correct you, I -"
"Please, ma'am, that's enough," said Claire, in a tone that held nothing of her
earlier defiance. "I'll sign whatever you like. Just stop hurting him."
"Claire!" Richard exclaimed in exasperation.
"I'm not going to let this go on," she said wearily. "Not if I can possibly stop
it. Don't you see what her plan is? She hates me, she hates the idea of your
marrying me, and if she can only stop it by turning you into a catatonic wreck
then that's exactly what she'll do. She'll torture you all night, with her
fucking friends, and in the morning you won't be any good to me or anyone else.
Physically fine, maybe, but ruined inside. She'll get away with it too - she'll
just say you suddenly snapped on her, and probably go around telling everyone
how psychologically fascinating it is. Isn't that right, your ladyship? There's
really no need to lie - it's not like anyone would believe me if I told them."
"Based on what Dr. Lancaster tells me," said Lady Briddington dryly, "it would
be nearly impossible to induce actual catatonia. But yes, you're essentially
correct. If I can't keep the wretched boy, I'm determined not to let you have
him either. That could mean either taking control of you, or - or breaking him,
shall we say, beyond repair. Your decision."
"Claire, don't let her do this to you," said Richard desperately. "I'll survive
this, I know I will. It's not like I'm not used to pain. I know it's going to be
awful, but in the morning I'll be alive and well and off to my next work
assignment. Out of her clutches. Don't let her enslave you just to spare me a
little crying and screaming."
"Richard, we're talking about hours. What time do you think it is?"
"Must be nearly midnight."
"It's eight-thirty. Not even. I can see the clock from here. They've only really
been hurting you for forty minutes or so. They can break you, Richard, and I
know it, even if you don't. I'm going to do this for you whether you like it or
not. Just think of me once in a while when you're older, and free, and - and
married to someone else. Ma'am, will you please have Ms. Felton-Withers get the
papers? I'm ready to marry you, if you promise not to hurt Richard any more."
"I promise," said Lady Briddington cheerfully. "Thanks to you, Richard is going
to have a far more pleasant evening than he really deserves." She bent low and
kissed him, gently but firmly, full on the lips. He felt a horrid, visceral
revulsion, but fought down the urge to bite or pull away - he knew somehow that
Claire would rather have him lie back and do his best to enjoy this final gift
of hers. He sighed with genuine pleasure when he felt another set of lips close
over the head of his penis, even as he heard the scratching of a pen and
Claire's muffled sobbing in the background. Lady Briddington and Ms.
Felton-Withers disappeared for a moment, but he hardly noticed as the others
swarmed hungrily over his body, stroking and licking and nibbling. His mother -
who had been oddly unreactive, come to think of it, to all that talk of breaking
him - took his hand and smiled warmly down at him as he writhed and gasped in
mounting delight and frustration.
And then Lady Briddington was back, and Ms. Reynolds and his Aunt Elsie were
helping her undress and lifting her out of the wheelchair, naked and almost
glowing with lust. The others untied him, though in their firm grasp he couldn't
have hoped to escape even if he'd wanted to, and dragged him to the edge of the
table so that his legs and hips were hanging over. And then Elsie and Ms.
Reynolds lifted Lady Briddington onto him, so that she could straddle his loins
with her wasted legs dangling sideways in midair - the only way she could hope
to achieve a sexual position that any other mistress of slaves could have taken
for granted. Despite Claire, despite everything, he groaned and bucked beneath
her as the rocking of her body on his brought them both to a peak of ecstasy
that seemed higher than the clouds of heaven. But he shuddered when she leaned
close, panting and red with the flush of passion, and whispered to him, "You're
a slave, Richard. You are what I have made you. Whatever happens, you will never
quite reclaim your dignity and freedom. You left them somewhere in the cellars
of my manor."
He wanted so desperately to tell her she was wrong, but he couldn't. Claire was
crying again, a distant and unimportant sound from some far off corner of the
room.
* * *
The next day Richard awoke exhausted and a little dazed. His memories of the
previous night were confused, and he could not be sure whether some element of
dream or fantasy had mingled itself with true recollection. But like a traveller
who wakes holding the veil of a fairy princess in some haunted forest, he had
visible signs - welts, bruises, minor burns, the marks of strong white teeth -
to assure him that some of his adventures at least had been real enough.
His aunt Elsie, in her capacity as a conscription officer, was to take him away
for his next work assignment. Richard seemed to vaguely remember that Lady
Briddington had said her goodbyes last night - or had she? - and in any event
she did not seem inclined to rise at the crack of dawn to see her slave off. The
castle was almost silent as Elsie shook Richard awake, led him from the dining
hall where he had slept in his bonds, and waited patiently while he ate a bowl
of tastless nutrient mash and then showered away the stains and smells of last
night's pain and pleasure. She was back in uniform, every inch the stern and
impersonal officer, and her firm instructions might have come from a complete
stranger. Finally she locked steel on his wrists and ankles and led him out to a
grey official car.
"Where are we going?" he mumbled.
"Inverness. Don't you remember? You're to take a ferry out to the Orkneys, to
help with the megalith project. And no more speaking out of turn, conscript
Tipper." She leaned across to fasten his seatbelt.
He nodded, accepting the information. "Last night - Claire and Lady Briddington
-" His aunt slapped him, a dull flat sound in the early morning silence.
"Shut up, conscript. There's no point discussing that with anyone. Claire
voluntarily signed a rather one sided marriage contract, and you'll only be
punished if you try to make a fuss about it. No more talking, or I'll beat you
and gag you." She climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key in the
ignition. Richard twisted round as best he could, feeling very naked and
helpless, and stared at the retreating silhouette of the castle against the
sunrise until it could no longer be seen.
* * *
Things were not going entirely according to plan on the Liberty Falcon. The
winds were unexpectedly high, and half of the "Action Unit" (as they insisted on
calling themselves) were badly seasick from their incessant rocking on the
swells of Scapa Flow. They had all the firearms Andrea's mother had promised
them, including some sort of enormous machine gun mounted on a tripod at the
bow, but almost no ammunition. Nobody seemed to know exactly what had gone
wrong, but duplicity among either the suppliers or the smugglers was more than
suspected. Worst of all, the state of the art radio interceptor with which they
hoped to locate the conscript-laden ferry was working only intermittently.
"Don't you worry, hon," said Andrea's mother yet again, her strident voice
cutting easily through the wind and the roar of the motor. "We'll get the
bitches one way or another. Angus says they're bound to come through this strait
- it's the fastest route by far."
"Angus says a lot of things," muttered Andrea, clutching at her stomach.
Mother lowered her voice. "I know he can be a bit full of himself at times," she
admitted. "But he was in the SAS for years and he really does know what he's
doing. If he says it's still possible to pull this thing off, I believe him."
"But they were supposed to be here an hour ago! Can't we just forget the whole
thing?" Andrea was becoming increasingly nervous about the role she was expected
to play in the day's proceedings, and even the reward her friend S.S. had
promised her - a whole weekend with her very own slave boy, who would do
absolutely anything she wanted - was beginning to seem hardly worth the risk and
effort. If I wasn't my mother's daughter, she thought ironically, I'd never have
had the nerve to get even this far.
"Forget the whole thing!" Mother exclaimed in outraged tones, as if to prove the
point. "We're fighting for freedom here, and when you're fighting for freedom
you don't throw in the towel and quit just 'cause things don't happen quite on
schedule. Buck up there, girl, and get yourself a gun!"
"There's no more ammo," protested Andrea irritably.
"Yeah, I know, but you can at least look like a menace. We're not planning to
shoot anybody anyway, in case you'd forgotten."
With an ill grace she staggered to the stern to do as she was told, and came
back with a scary looking assault rifle that would have terrified her had it
been loaded. She had hardly returned to her seat when there was a cry of
excitement from somewhere toward the bow.
"That's them!" boomed Angus' rough Scottish voice. "Everyone to your stations!"
Andrea had no idea where her station was, but she held up the gun in a way that
she hoped would look vaguely threatening. Maybe if they were far away enough
they wouldn't notice that she was on the verge of throwing up again. Someone
unfurled a genuine and quite anachronistic pirate flag, blood red and decorated
with a skull and cutlass, and the Liberty Falcon swooped to the attack.
Mother gave a yell of excitement and brandished her AK-47 as Angus unleashed a
burst of fire from the aft machine gun across the bows of the clumsy government
ferry. Andrea yelped, dropped her own gun, and clapped her hands over her ears.
The damn thing was deafening! As the two vessels converged Angus started issuing
orders through a megaphone to the startled conscription officers aboard the
ferry - surrender, stand by for boarding, that sort of thing. So far it looked
like nobody was going to have to get hurt, much to Andrea's relief.
Mother, who could never bear to anywhere but in the thick of the action if it
could possibly be avoided, had somehow persuaded Angus to let her take charge of
the boarding party. Of course she insisted that her daughter come along, and
Andrea reluctantly dragged herself to her feet and followed Mother as she
stormed onto the deck of the other ship like an avenging angel with righteous
wrath in her eyes and an AK-47 in her hands.
"Who the hell is in charge here!" she bellowed.
"That would be me," said a plump, dark-haired woman sullenly. "Officer Rebecca
Desalle. Who the hell are you?"
"Freedom fighters. I want your whole crew on deck, and lined up over there."
"Against the starboard rail," someone clarified helpfully.
"Everyone's already up here," muttered Officer Desalle. "Just do as she says,"
she added with a glance over her shoulder at her subordinates.
"You better be telling the truth," Mother rapped out. Andrea hadn't been
anywhere near this scared of her since childhood. "Where are the slaves?"
"The conscripts," said Desalle huffily, "are locked up below decks. There are a
lot more than you can fit on that little motorboat, you stupid Yankee bitch."
"Yankee!" Mother roared. "Damn you, I'm from Georgia. And if they won't fit on
our boat, I reckon we'll just have to take yours."
"You won't get away with this."
"That's my problem. Y'all just keep quiet and don't try anything stupid. I'd
love to put a bullet hole in every last fascist bitch on this damn boat, so
don't give me any excuses."
Meanwhile Angus had organised some kind of search party, and a line of naked men
were emerging onto the deck. Andrea couldn't help staring at their lean, naked
bodies, and at the heavy steel chains that linked them neck to neck. They were
also handcuffed, powerless even to cover their shamefully exposed genitals. They
shivered uncontrollably in the brisk sea air.
Things began to happen very quickly. In no time at all the conscription officers
had been searched and handcuffed, despite their venomous glares, and set adrift
on a life raft. The men had been released and wrapped in warm woollen blankets,
although (in what seemed to be yet another inexplicable error of coordination)
there weren't quite enough to go around. The Action Unit - the name seemed a
little more plausible now - had transferred themselves and their equipment to
the ferry, and were preparing to make a dash for Sweden. And one naked
conscript, a rather handsome fellow with unruly brown hair, had been singled out
from the others. Andrea could sympathise all too well with the guileless
confusion betrayed in his expression, and her heart went out to him.
"This is Tipper," said Mother. "The one you said we were supposed to take back
to Scotland."
"Scotland?" he repeated vaguely. "But why? Please, ma'am, I don't understand
what's happening here."
"You don't have to call me ma'am!" Mother almost snapped. "You're a free man
now. My name is Gillian."
"Gillian," he repeated. "Nice to meet you, Gillian. But please, what's going
on?"
"We're liberating you and the other slaves. They're headed for a friendly
European state, but we've been asked to take you back to meet your grandfather
near Aberdeen. My daughter and I will do it - we're American citizens, and our
government should be able to protect us if we get busted, not that we're
expecting anything like that to happen."
"But my grandfather's very sick," Tipper protested. "He lives in Birmingham.
What would he be doing here?"
"He's not coming in person," Andrea interjected hastily. "We're supposed to set
you ashore, and friends of his are going to meet you. They'll help you get to a
place where he can keep you out of sight of the conscription officers."
"I'm not sure about this. I -"
"Of course you're not," she said soothingly, but in a tone that she hoped
wouldn't invite further argument. "You must be half crazy with all the horrible
things they've been doing to you. Just trust us, and we'll make sure you end up
where you need to go. You're used to trusting people, aren't you, Richard?"
"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, visibly slipping back into slave mode. "I'm very
tired, ma'am."
"Come on over to the Falcon - our boat. We'll find somewhere for you to lie
down." She led him away, ignoring Mother's glare of faint disapproval.
* * *
When Richard woke up they were ashore, and the two women were arguing. The older
one, Gillian, wanted to wait for some sort of rescue party to show up, while the
girl - apparently her daughter - was insisting with surprising vehemence that
they leave right away and trust that he would be successfully found and taken to
safety. His long sleep on the boat had done him a world of good, and he was
feeling alert and almost clear headed for the first time since that horrific
orgy in the dining hall of Lady Briddington's castle. He had obviously been
rescued from the clutches of the conscription service, but to his surprise the
idea of freedom filled him with unease rather than relief. As a conscript he had
at least occupied a definite and legitimate place in the world, but now he was a
fugitive. Had they really said something, on the boat, about taking him to his
grandfather? That seemed wildly implausible; old Randolph Jameson, his mother's
father, was so far gone with Alzheimer's disease that he could hardly remember
Richard's name, let alone find a way to keep him hidden under the very nose of
Her Majesty's Government. He lay with closed eyes, waiting and listening in
hopes that the situation would begin to clarify itself.
"...not leaving him like this, girl!" Gillian bellowed in exasperation. "We've
got to see that the right people find him first, for one thing. You sure they
said to bring him here? This place looks about as inhabited as fucking
Antarctica."
"That's the point, Mother. Nobody to watch or interfere. Look at the GPS if you
don't believe me."
"Well then, we're staying. When are they supposed to show up?"
"I don't know. They just said to leave him here and make sure he had a little
food and water. It might be a while."
"Then we can wait a while."
"Mother! Shouldn't we be thinking about getting out of here? Back to Atlanta,
maybe? They're going to find out all about our little pirate raid sooner or
later."
"Angus said it would probably take a few days."
"Angus said," the girl mimicked viciously. "Shit, you meet a decent-looking guy
who can't take his eyes off your tits and suddenly you're so flattered you're
willing to believe every goddamn word that comes out of his -"
"Don't you dare speak to me like that."
"Okay, I'm sorry," said the young woman with patent insincerity. "It's a moot
point anyway - there they come right now."
"Where? I don't see - uhh."
Richard's eyes flew open and he sat up. The girl was holding a tranquiliser gun
exactly like the ones Richard had seen the conscription officers use, and
Gillian was down with a dart in her side. He sprang to his feet, casting aside
the blanket that still covered his nakedness.
"What's going on here?" he blurted.
She whirled on him savagely and aimed the gun squarely at his chest. There
wasn't a trace of sympathy on her face now. "You're being taken into custody
again," she said coldly in her sharp American accent. "I promised - and besides,
they're going to let me borrow you for a whole weekend in exchange for this,
slave boy. You get down on your belly."
"Please, can we discuss this? Who are you giving me to, the officers? And who
are you, anyway?"
"Down. Now. And shut up."
Reluctantly, he lowered himself to the ground again, and sighed when she pulled
the blanket out of reach. It was late in the day, and the air was cold.
"S.S.!" his captor yelled. "Are you here yet?"
Another woman stepped from the trees further up the beach, stalking briskly
across the sand. "Sorry you had to shoot her," said Sara.
Richard groaned, his confusion now complete. Sara pulled handcuffs from her
purse and snapped them around his wrists.
"We're going for a ride, Richard. Back to your mistress - she's very eager to
reclaim her property, believe me."
"Please, I don't understand." He'd been saying that a lot lately, hadn't he?
"You don't have to. Just do as you're told. You're going to be a slave forever
now, Lady Briddington's slave. Not the system's, and certainly not Claire's."
* * *
"You may bring him in now," called Lady Briddington.
Ms. Reynolds gave Richard a slight push, and he walked forward into her sitting
room. She was perched regally on her wheelchair like Victoria on her throne,
regarding her recaptured slave with cold and imperious eyes. His mother sat at
her right hand, and Amanda at her left, with a subdued and sombre Claire
crouched naked at her feet. Sara stood behind her employer's wheelchair, an
ominous shadow in a long black dress. The upstairs whipping bench, a respectable
looking black leather ottoman with restraint straps that could be tucked
discreetly out of sight, had been dragged into the middle of the room. Richard
came to an awkward halt just behind it and stood wondering exactly what was
expected of him. He was unrestrained, but quite naked and acutely conscious of
being the centre of attention.
"Kneel down, my dear," said Lady Briddington in her gentlest voice, and he
obeyed without really thinking about it. "You didn't think you'd be back here so
soon, did you?"
"I didn't think I'd ever be back, ma'am," he said truthfully. "You've had me
brought here illegally, haven't you?"
"Yes. I never thought I would do that - involve myself directly and willfully in
criminal activity, I mean. I have spent much of my life campaigning for the
imposition of a strict order upon society, and now I find myself beginning to
understand that some human situations force one to disregard the ordinary rules
of society in pursuit of some higher objective. Fortunately, I seem to have
pulled the whole thing off quite successfully."
Richard made a small, shrugging gesture. "May I ask what the higher objective is
in this case, ma'am?"
"My continued ownership of you, of course. You and I have a special bond,
Richard - I can no longer bring myself to regard you as a mere toy rented for a
five month work term. Your place is here, at my feet, and I intend to ensure
that you occupy it permanently. Your mother agrees that this will be for the
best, and has kindly offered her periodic advice and assistance - in fact, I'm
sure that she and I can look forward to many interesting discussions of the
proper management of male slaves, as we both acquire practical experience. We
decided some time ago, for one thing, that this girl" - she gestured toward
Claire - "simply does not have the intelligence or strength of character
required to handle you and keep you in your place. In her arrogance she tried to
take you away from me, and I am going to see that she spends the rest of her
life regretting it."
"But ma'am, I love her!" Claire glanced up at him, her eyes bright with unshed
tears.
"That does not matter, Richard. Have you not yet learned that what you are,
first and foremost, is a slave? You need the lash, the merciless boot on your
neck, more than you need the attention of any particular woman. It is only
proper, in fact, that a slave should have no choice at all in the matter of who
his mistress may be. What is important is that you should be used, and
treasured, and kept under the strictest control, and made to obey; and I can do
that far better than Claire, believe me. But the two of you will occasionally
perform together for my amusement, so perhaps your love for her will find an
outlet after all. She certainly cares for you, which is why I could be so
certain that she would hand herself over to me rather than allow you to be
tortured into a state of psychological trauma."
"But you won't get away with this!" Richard protested. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but
you simply can't. Someone will come looking for Claire and I sooner or later.
What about that other bloke she was seeing - Clive Johnson. He'll come for her."
"He'll come for her, and find that she is legally my spouse, and living under
the most restrictive and onerous conditions that can be legitimately included in
a marriage contract. Most notably, I am permitted to confine and punish her, and
she cannot terminate the arrangement without my consent. I can also marry other
people, of course, so perhaps I will be able to use the prospect of contact with
Claire to acquire young Mr. Johnson as well, if he seems agreeable. As for you,
all anyone knows is that you were among a number of slaves liberated in an
illegal act of piracy. The others arrived safely in Sweden, I am informed, and
although our government is presently negotiating for their extradition many have
already managed to disappear. Unsubstantiated reports of your being singled out
and transported back to Scotland may surface, but they'll be dismissed as mere
rumour. No one will ever find you here, and my influence is sufficient to insure
that no one will look too hard. The meddling American woman has been spared
prosecution, in return for an undertaking to return to her own country and
remain silent about the whole affair."
"You'll never let me go, then," said Richard bleakly.
"I know it's hard, love," his mother said gently. "But it really is for the
best. Just try to accept it, and remember that she loves you. She'll have to be
rough with you sometimes, but only because you need it. And think of how much
satisfaction it will give you to serve her and please her. You'll enjoy having
Claire as a sort of sister slave, too."
"And Clive as a brother slave," said Richard.
"Possibly," replied Lady Briddington coolly. "I shall have to add some man to my
marriage eventually, for appearances. But he'll never mean half as much to me as
you do. You'll be my first and dearest, my treasured pet and the true father of
my children."
He blinked in surprise. "Ma'am, that's an honour," he said slowly. And it really
was. He still wasn't sure if he really wanted to spend his life as Lady
Briddington's slave, but the fact that he had no choice in the matter was
immensely exciting.
"I'm glad you think so, my pet, but it's far in the future. For now, we have a
little ceremony to carry out, to mark the beginning of your new life here. I
want you to lie on the whipping bench, face down."
With Ms. Reynolds in the room, not to mention Amanda, disobedience was
unthinkable, which was actually a blessing. He stretched himself out on the cool
leather.
"Get up, Claire, and fasten him in place." Claire rose trembling to her feet and
moved hesitantly toward him. He saw to his surprise that she was not entirely
naked after all, but wore what appeared to be a feminine version of the control
belt he had grown so familiar with during his early days at the manor. It
covered her shaven vulva in a meshwork of thin wires, just as the male
equivalent had enclosed the penis and scrotum, and it seemed to be holding some
sort of metal insert in her vagina. Claire's face was drawn and miserable as she
pulled the straps tight around his wrists and ankles.
"The others as well, dear. Remember that he must be held perfectly motionless."
"Yes, ma'am," Claire murmured in a breathy, deferential voice that held nothing
of her ordinary confidence. Richard felt the supple leather clamp down around
his knees and waist and elbows, and across his shoulder blades.
"Excellent, darling. Now I want you to give him a good strapping, absolutely as
hard and fast as you can."
"How many strokes, ma'am?" Claire asked dully. Either she'd been expecting the
order, or she was so far gone that the prospect of beating him had no emotional
impact on her at all.
"Simply continue until he is reduced to that pliable, tearful state in which a
slave is at his most sensitive, obedient and vulnerable - rather like Ms. Harris
did to you yesterday morning. You are to quite literally beat him into
submission."
"Yes ma'am," said Claire. She moved out of his field of vision. Perhaps Ms.
Reynolds handed her the instrument of chastisement; at any rate, Richard yelped
and jerked under the first whistling blow a moment later. Claire wasn't very
strong, at least not in comparison to Ms. Bonner or Ms. Reynolds or even Lady
Briddington herself, but even a child could have made that mean, heavy strap
sting. Every dull slap of the pitiless leather against his flesh stripped away a
little more self-possession, a little more will to resist, and the cruel
tightness of his bonds - which prevented even the tiniest movements except in
his hands and feet and head - left him with no choice but to lie still and take
what Claire was giving him. He began to whimper and quietly sob as she warmed
his back and buttocks for him, until finally he couldn't help but lower his head
and weep like a baby as the tension drained out of his straining muscles. Only
when Claire halted the beating a moment later did he realise that she was crying
too. Their sobs, and her laboured panting, were the only sounds in the room.
"Now come this way, and show Richard your bottom," said Lady Briddington almost
tenderly. Claire slowly moved up near his head, close enough that he could have
touched her if he hadn't been strapped down. She was heaving and perspiring from
the exertion of thrashing him. She gave him a long, despairing look and then
turned her back, revealing the outline of a rearing leopard on the otherwise
smooth skin of her left buttock. Lady Briddington had had her branded.
"Tell him," Lady Briddington prompted gently.
"She - she says," Claire sniffled, "that you need one too. To mark you as her
slave. And I have to be the one to do it, to put her mark on you, so that both
of us understand I'm being made to give you up to her forever. I don't want to,
but I don't have any choice. Richard, I'm so sorry!"
He looked her in the eye. "It's all right. Lady Briddington - our mistress -
told the truth. Something's happened to me, Claire, and I'm devoted more to
slavery itself than to any one woman now. I need to serve, to be owned. Make me
hers."
And the last of his doubts disappeared with the sound of sizzling flesh. He
screamed, and screamed, and knew he was home at last.
