Through the large sash window, the panes still speckled with raindrops, Mandy glimpsed the last of the sunset. The sky over Suffolk was streaked with lemon, the night clouds ominously dark with the promise of rain.
Mandy saw, but could not hear, a scattering of rooks in ragged formation returning to roost in the distant elms. As a maid, confined to the noise and the heat of the busy kitchens, she had seen little of the world outside. As an angel, more windows were open to her. Of all the new perspectives revealed to her since becoming an angel, two were of the greatest significance: her appreciation of the scale and scope of the financial potential of Sternwood Grange, and her growing awareness of her appetite for discipline and punishment.
Mandy pushed these thoughts aside and fingered the array of expensive clothes. As an angel, she was expected – indeed instructed – to help herself and dress from a gorgeous wardrobe. The only stipulation was that she had to dress to please. Not herself, but any residents she might encounter. All the clothes were cut with erotic chic, and were designed to entice and inflame. She fingered an ice-blue leather mini-skirt then weighed the sheer silk of a scarlet blouse before wriggling her left foot into the tight leather of a red stiletto.
These were not the angels’ working uniforms: the crisp outfits, starched and laundered for the Games Room. These were not the uniforms for Nanny or Nurse, donned to discipline and delight the submissive residents. The clothes Mandy was selecting were for informal wear when off-duty.
Deliberately, Mandy rejected several delicious items before selecting a beige polo-neck jumper, in clinging cashmere, a lightweight leather jacket, a ribbed and belted camel skirt and a pair of calf-length black leather boots to go over her chocolate-brown tights.
She dressed. The cashmere clung to her breasts, shaping and cupping their firm swell. She plucked at its softness, but on release it sprang back to hug her bosom amorously. The ribbed camel skirt felt good. It flattered her thighs and buttocks, managing to reveal more than conceal her superb curves. The boots perfumed her nostrils with the raw tang of virgin leather. She thrilled to the whiff of hide, instantly recalling warm belts she had pressed her dry lips on to after punishing a bare bottom. She eased her feet into the boots. The kiss of leather haunted her imagination.
There was no mirror in the room, to Mandy’s surprise, so she had to dress by touch alone. Mandy palmed her jumper and skirt several times, smoothing her clothes intimately and firmly. Satisfied with her selection, she left the small room quite moist with arousal for her appointment with Erica.
Why had she, she wondered, been ordered to attend a debriefing? There had been no witness to her session as Nanny. Rowena and her Pentax had not been in attendance. Would Mandy have to give a full verbal report on her day, recounting every spank, stripe and stroke. What words would she find to describe the most intimate moments of dominance and punishment.
‘Come in.’
Mandy entered, obeying the cropped blonde’s command.
Erica glanced up from the flickering screen. Mandy caught the brief frown. My choice of clothes, probably, Mandy reasoned. Too dull and dour for the residents. And what had Erica been watching on the video, Mandy wondered.
‘You’ve had an interesting day, I see,’ Erica remarked. ‘One of mixed success, though.’
Mandy joined Erica in front of the screen, but remained standing. ‘How do you –’ she began.
Erica replied by jabbing the remote. Images of Mandy, dressed as a nanny and spanking a reddening bare bottom, filled the wide screen.
‘Video. Three hidden cameras have recorded everything that happened in the nursery today. If he ever makes it to Number Ten, the Mistress will be in possession of a nice little extra source of income.’
Blackmail. Mandy grew hot with anger, and then burned with shame. Aunt Clare would never have approved. Besides, Mandy thought, her triumph in pleasuring him, and his memories of the pleasure, would be tainted by any future attempts at blackmail. She felt used and bitterly resented the ploy.
‘I’ve seen this through twice,’ Erica continued, fast forwarding to the end. Consulting a piece of paper, she knelt down and peered at the counter. ‘We’ll take a look at the three most successful sequences first.’
The video blinked and clicked. In a big close-up, held in freeze-frame, Mandy saw her own hand applying the soaped nail brush to her victim’s cleft.
‘Total dominance,’ Erica murmured approvingly. ‘You have rendered your subject into a helpless infant having his bottom cleaned. A brilliant piece of severe nannying. Well done, girl.’
Mandy gazed at the bare buttocks, frozen in a clench of anguished ecstasy. She saw how her knuckles dimpled the soft cheek as the nail brush skimmed along the exposed ribbon of the cleft. She could only imagine the sweet, delicious torment. Drinking in the image of her fierce dominance, her labia parted into a sticky pout.
Erica fingered the remote, her eyes monitoring the counter. The video whirred, clicking to another freeze-frame. Mandy saw her hand captured in the moment of wiping a stray dribble of soup from her baby-victim’s chin. No bare buttocks, straps or canes were visible, but the image of power, dominance and supreme control proved to be highly charged. Mandy’s slit grew juicy. Erica studied the picture for a full minute, again pronouncing her approval. She took up the remote once more.
‘Your most accomplished moment was, I believe, this.’
Erica showed a three-and-a-half-minute sequence of Mandy punishing the bare buttocks with the hairbrush during the thunder storm. At least seventeen searing strokes were administered during the clip before Erica pressed the pause button, leaving the reddened bottom quivering on the screen.
‘But there were mistakes, my girl. Errors of taste and judgement. Watch.’
The cropped blonde glanced down at her sheet of paper, pressed rewind and squinted at the backward flow of the numbers on the video counter. Click. Another short sequence flooded the screen: Mandy riding the punished buttocks, dragging her pantied pubis across the crimsoned crowns.
‘Too intimate, girl. He can sense and feel your wet flesh. That is wrong. Flesh must not normally touch flesh – except for the punishing hand – between a dominatrix and her submissive. And look. There.’
In a big close-up, Mandy saw herself gripped by her own ecstasy. Eyes tightly closed, she rode the hot buttocks with gathering frenzy.
‘Altogether wrong, girl. You should be cool, detached and seemingly indifferent. That is what fuels their dark delight and feeds their sweet despair. Understand? Never allow your own feelings to spill over.’
‘Yes,’ Mandy murmured dutifully, secretly resenting the presence of the prying camera in the nursery. Suddenly she blushed. Had she come? Had the camera recorded her orgasm? Had Erica already seen her jerking in the paroxysm of climax? She squirmed at the thought of the cropped blonde perusing the images, gazing steadily at intimate close-ups of Mandy in ecstasy.
‘Second mistake,’ Erica continued crisply, ‘was this.’
Mandy looked at the screen and saw herself flicking the Liquorice Allsorts from the erect shaft into the submissive’s mouth.
‘No, no, no. All wrong. Deny your victim any such reward. You should have taken up each sweet in your teeth and enjoyed them yourself, understand? Never weaken and indulge your victim. The dominatrix must be cruel and ruthless.’
The video revealed Mandy’s third mistake: using the pillow between her naked thighs until she came. This lapse was summarily criticised and dismissed. Mandy hung her head in shame – but her slit seethed, fired by the potent images on the flickering screen.
From the shadowed outbuildings came the thin chime of the stable clock. Midnight. Mandy, without a watch, had thought it was later. She sighed, resigning herself to at least another hour’s wait. She had secreted herself in a ground-floor storeroom at the rear of the building, from where she hoped to make a bid to escape when the vans arrived. They were due tonight, three of them. Mandy planned to return to London in one of them as a stowaway.
An hour to go. She was still deliciously disturbed after the video debriefing with Erica. Outside, the moon broke through the rain clouds, filling her hiding place with silvery light. The storeroom revealed its contents to her gradually: she saw the glint of the canes, the curved shapes of spanking paddles, the gleam of oiled whips and the sinuous coils of leather straps. As her eyes became accustomed to the half-light, she saw the handcuffs; chains and restraints; hoods and masks; harnesses and other instruments of punishment, humiliation and bondage.
The heat at the base of her belly ignited and a slow trickle of lava seared her slit. Mandy reached out and carefully selected a cane. She held it reverently between inquisitive fingers, thrilling to its supple touch. Thrumming it softly through the silver moonbeams, she relished the low note from the hymn to suffering as the wood sliced down. Her fingers tightened around the cane. She drew it up to her mouth and kissed it, then licked its gleaming length. Replacing the cane, she inspected a whip, feeling the full extent of the lash between a trembling pincer of finger and thumb. Her nipples burned as they peaked stiffly in response to the oiled hide. She dared not risk snap-cracking it, but closed her eyes and imagined it caressing a naked bottom, kissing the creamy flesh with crimson.
Mandy was breathing heavily now, the cashmere at her swollen bosom stretched and straining. Reaching behind, she fingered the array of dangling belts, then turned to thumb the soft rubber aprons, hoods and basques pegged on the wall to her left.
A single red glove caught her eye. It had no partner, not being one of a pair. It was a single, elbow-length glove to be donned by a dominatrix: sheathing the hand that wielded the whip, swished the bamboo cane and fingered each burning stripe across the punished buttocks. Mandy rubbed the red satin glove, then clenched her fist and crushed it. It was for her a symbol of Sternwood Grange: exotic, expensive and supremely erotic. An enigmatic piece from a jigsaw puzzle which when assembled represented domination, submission, pleasure and pain.
She squeezed her fingers into the glove, dragging it slowly up to her elbow with her teeth. Tomorrow, in London, with the assistance of her own expensive but capable lawyers, Sternwood Grange would be no more than a few dry documents: xeroxed wills, title deeds and affidavits. After that, it would be no more than a delicious memory and a large sum of money in her bank account. Tonight, in the moonlight, the sense of the place was both urgent and powerful: the erotically charged atmosphere was intensified both by her memories and experiences, and by the canes, whips and instruments of bondage.
Mandy inched the ribbed skirt up over her thighs and let it ride up over her buttocks. Pushing her panties down to her knees, she parted her legs and surrendered her pubis to the satin-gloved fingers at her belly. Before the vans came, she would bid farewell to Sternwood Grange, and salute it in a manner most fitting. Her gloved finger sought out and found the wisp of her pubic fringe. Moving down gently, it traced the outline of her labial lips with delicate strokes. She brought the satin-sheathed fingertip up to the flesh-hood covering her clitoris: the love thorn stirred and stiffened beneath the probing satin.
The moon vanished behind a scudding bank of clouds, leaving the storeroom in complete darkness. Mandy did not notice: her eyes were already tightly closed. Crushing her bare bottom against the line of dangling leather belts behind her, she worked the satin glove down at her hot slit, thumbing her erect clitoris expertly as she prised her sticky flesh-lips wide apart. Mandy paused, pacing her approaching climax. She lowered her gloved arm to drag her wrist against her labia, rotating it slowly to tease and torment the wet flesh with the rasp of satin. A cane rattled as it settled in its pile. The sound brought her memories of bamboo punishments flooding back. Memories of harsh pleasures and sweet pain: the delicious dread of a supple cane hovering over naked peaches, the cruel thrum of the slicing wood, the crisp stroke across upturned buttocks, the red stripe as the bamboo caressed the buttocks savagely.
The dangling belts behind her pressed their leather tongues into her bottom, one strap forcing its hide into her splayed cleft. Mandy squeezed her cheeks to capture and contain it, her bottom jerking in fresh delight. The leather at her flesh brought more haunting memories – of both punishments received and punishments administered. Her gloved hand flew across her weeping fig; the muscles at the base of her belly tightened. She conjured up the snap crack of belts and straps across her own –and others’ – suffering cheeks. She was coming now, her inner muscles spasming in sweet paroxysms as the climax gathered within her and exploded.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, filling the storeroom once more with silvery light. It outlined the lengths of bamboo stretched out in obedient repose, the whips, rubber-wear and restraints. Mandy opened her eyes, drank in the symbols of fierce delight and sweet torment, and orgasmed violently. Buckling under the ferocity of her climax, she sank back into the belts and straps dangling behind her. At her right thigh, the wet satin fingertips of her gloved hand hung inert. Only the thumping of her heart broke the absolute silence of the night.
She saw the approaching lights before she heard the engines of the Transits. Slipping out into the shadows of the neglected kitchen garden at the rear of Sternwood Grange, Mandy gasped. It was chilly and dank in the darkness. She had chosen her clothes for the escape well. Inside the back of the Transit van it would be cold, and London was at least two hours’ drive away.
She crouched down between two dripping blackcurrant bushes, shrinking back from the sweep of the approaching headlights. She counted three white Transits, nose to tail in a tight convoy. The yellow beams dazzled her as the three vans swept up to the entrance. Doors opened and slid shut softly after the engines had died; Mandy knew why: nothing must disturb the residents.
Dark shadowy figures moved silently between the opened back of each van and the open kitchen door in the rear-basement area. Boxes and crates were taken in, and heavy laundry bags brought out. Mandy had considered smuggling herself out in a laundry bag, but it would have left her helpless and with no chance of a quick getaway once in London.
The men moved quickly and, within minutes, their nocturnal operation was almost completed. For Mandy, shivering between the blackcurrant bushes, it was all happening too quickly. The rear doors of the leading Transit were already closed, and the driver aboard. Mandy felt a surge of panic well up within her as she heard the engine purr. The wheels turned slowly, crunching the wet gravel softly. The engine of the second Transit coughed into life; its rear doors closed against her. It had to be the third van, she realised. And it had to be now.
She sprinted across to the rear of the last Transit and jumped headlong into its wet belly, landing on two laundry bags which muffled her fall. Footsteps approached almost immediately. She cringed in the shadows as the measured tread grew louder. A shadow fell across her, then two soft, smelly, black bin bags were thrown in – one split, oozing a vegetable slime over her hair and face. Mandy crouched in a hedgehog-like ball, fearful of discovery. The double doors closed with a soft thud. Moments later, the Transit lurched into life and moved off slowly down the drive.
Mandy removed a Dover sole bone from her soiled skirt and a pulpy avocado skin from the inside of her boot. She sensed the Transit slowing down – but remembered the cow trap at the end of the drive. She waited for the thump of tyres over the grille of metal bars, knowing that, once across it, London would be within her grasp.
The Transit stopped. Waiting in queue for the leading vans to negotiate the narrow cattle grid Mandy supposed. She heard doors being opened and closed. Her heart raced wildly. Soft footsteps trod alongside the Transit and paused at the rear doors. Mandy’s heart hammered in the darkness – almost stopping as the doors were wrenched open. A strong torch beam stabbed the unlit interior, catching and dazzling Mandy like a rabbit in a headlight.
‘Get out, you stupid little bitch,’ Erica snarled. ‘Quickly, girl.’
Trembling from the shock of being discovered just when she thought she was safe and free, Mandy scrambled over the stinking bin bags and clambered down into the cold night air.
‘Got her,’ Erica called out to the driver. She closed the doors firmly and slapped the side of the Transit. ‘Take her away.’
As the van sped off, Erica raked the beam of her torch up and down Mandy’s shivering body. ‘I knew you were going to attempt an escape,’ she said, a note of triumph in her voice.
Mandy blinked into the strong torch beam.
‘The clothes you picked. Could only mean one thing. Gave yourself away completely, fool.’
Mandy remembered the frown that had greeted her as she had entered Erica’s room for the debriefing earlier on. Now she understood. She bowed her head, fearful and defeated.
‘Strip.’
‘But –’
The cropped blonde swapped the torch in her right hand for the wicked little crop in her left. ‘At once.’
Reluctantly, but fearful of the crop, Mandy peeled off all her clothing until only her boots remained.
‘Tights and boots as well,’ Erica snapped, tapping Mandy’s thigh with the loop at the tip of the crop. ‘I want you naked.’
Hopping as she struggled to remove the boots and tights, Mandy squealed as her pink feet trod the wet gravel. The crop flickered out twice across her bottom.
‘Silence. I will not have the residents disturbed.’
Mandy stood penitently, shivering and clutching the soiled clothing to her naked bosom.
‘Turn around and keep three paces and three paces only ahead of me,’ Erica snarled. She pointed the torch down at Mandy’s feet, illuminating the drive back to Sternwood Grange. ‘Walk,’ she barked, applying the crop across the naked buttocks before her. ‘You’d better get a shower before …’ She did not finish her sentence.
‘Before?’ Mandy asked timidly.
‘Before punishment.’
After restoring her chilled nakedness under a stream of hot water, Mandy stopped shivering. Erica stood at the entrance to the shower, gazing at the bare bottom she was about to beat. Mandy closed her eyes and offered her breasts up to the warm sluice; the cropped blonde leant in and turned the tap over to cold. Mandy shrieked and huddled, arms across her breasts, beneath the icy cascade. She made a bid to leave the shower but Erica, crop at the ready, forced her back under the cruel deluge.
‘Out,’ ordered Erica, when she was satisfied that Mandy had suffered enough.
Mandy scampered out and pawed for a towel. Erica whisked it away.
‘No towel. You’ll be warm, soon enough. Very warm.’
At these words, Mandy shivered – not entirely from the cold.
‘Follow me,’ the cropped blonde commanded.
Conscious of her nakedness in contrast to Erica’s fully clothed body, Mandy felt both vulnerable and humiliated. As if able to read her mind, Erica said that, from now on, Mandy was to remain naked at all times.
‘I can’t –’ Mandy began to protest.
‘Silence. You will remain naked at all times. You have broken the trust placed in you and going naked will be part of your punishment. And without clothes,’ Erica laughed grimly, ‘you won’t get very far. This way.’
Part of your punishment. To remain naked was only part of her punishment. What else awaited her, Mandy wondered. Where was Erica taking her? They were not going upstairs to her bedroom.
‘In,’ came the curt command.
They entered the gym. Mandy saw Partridge standing over by the wall bars.
‘Didn’t believe me, did you?’ Erica crowed. ‘I told you she was dressed for an escape bid. Caught her in one of the Transits.’
The housekeeper turned her large, brown eyes upon Mandy in a sorrowful gaze.
‘Up against the wall bars, girl,’ Erica instructed, swiping Mandy’s bare bottom with the crop. ‘Partridge took you on here at Sternwood Grange and so she will administer the punishment.’
‘The girl is tired,’ Partridge reasoned. ‘Cold and tired. Can we not see to her in the morning?’ the gentle housekeeper remonstrated.
‘If she’s cold and tired then a taste of the cane should soon warm and wake her up. Twelve strokes, to begin with,’ Erica laughed. ‘Arms up and out against the wall bars.’
Mandy stretched up on tiptoe as she grasped the wooden bar above.
‘Did you say strap or cane?’ inquired Partridge.
‘Cane her. Cane her bottom good and hard,’ Erica rasped, standing alongside Mandy to appreciate the punishment at close quarters.
Mandy’s knuckles whitened on the wall bar as she heard Partridge pace across the wooden floor of the gym, a bamboo cane gripped in her right hand. The cane-tip addressed Mandy’s wet bottom almost tenderly, tapping off the undried pearls of water clinging to the swell of her rounded cheeks.
‘Commence,’ barked the cropped blonde impatiently.
Partridge took up her position and raised the cane aloft. Mandy closed her eyes and eased her breasts away from the wood which cushioned them. The first stroke swept across her naked cheeks, lashing them intimately and striping them red. She grunted and jerked her nakedness into the wall bars, punishing her bosom on impact. The cane sliced once more, and then again: the two strokes coming unexpectedly in swift succession. Mandy squealed. Both strokes swiped her perfect peaches, leaving crimson kisses across their crowns.
‘Harder. I want the bitch to suffer.’ The voice of Erica curdled in the uncanny silence of the gym. ‘She has caused me a lot of trouble tonight. She must learn her lesson. Learn, and suffer.’
Partridge planted her feet apart for the next six strokes. They were administered briskly and crisply, leaving Mandy’s bare bottom ablaze. The housekeeper stepped forward, pressing the bottom with the length of the cane, and pretended to arrange Mandy’s right arm at the wall bar.
‘Nearly done,’ she whispered. ‘All over soon.’
Mandy nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging the whispered words of encouragement.
‘Stand up straight. Bottom up,’ Partridge barked, for Erica’s benefit.
Mandy obeyed, presenting her striped cheeks for the remaining strokes.
‘Wait,’ Erica intervened. ‘I’ll finish the punishment.
You may go.’ She dismissed the housekeeper with a curt nod.
Partridge reluctantly surrendered the cane and departed. As the door of the gym closed behind her, a sense of dread stole into Mandy’s mind. She was naked and alone – with the cropped blonde.
She heard but could not see Erica placing the bamboo cane down on the polished floor. She sensed the cropped blonde approach, then felt cruel hands gripping each of her caned buttocks and squeezing them, then spreading them apart. The hands of her tormentress squeezed again, bunching the buttocks tightly. Mandy’s cleft became a thin crease as her soft cheeks bulged. Then the cupping hands taloned, dragging the cheeks apart, causing the cleft to yawn. Mandy whimpered.
‘When the mistress comes down from London tomorrow, my girl, she will want a full explanation. She will want to know every detail. Why you decided to go, where you were heading for, what you proposed to do. So you had better have some good answers ready. She will of course be very disappointed in you. There will be many further punishments.’
Mandy clamped her thighs together and bowed her head.
Erica thumbed the hot cheeks and spread their-softness painfully apart, bringing Mandy up on her toes in anguish.
‘I am going to cane you now, then leave you to contemplate how foolish you have been. If, on my return, you can convince me that you are truly sorry, I may omit to inform the mistress of your disloyalty and stupidity.’
The mistress: Mandy thought of the havoc the grey-eyed solicitor would wreak on her bare bottom with a flexed crop or bamboo cane.
‘If you cooperate completely, I may decide to keep this unfortunate matter strictly between ourselves.’
Mandy twisted her head to see over her left shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what –’
‘No,’ Erica purred, sweeping her palm up across the naked, punished cheeks. ‘Do not lie too hastily, girl. Let’s have no sudden contrition. You planned the escape very carefully. The warm clothing, and the timing of the vans prove that much. I want to know the truth.’ She cupped and squeezed the hot cheeks slowly. ‘And only the truth. Now turn round and face the wall – and give me your bottom.’
Mandy stretched out her arms and, grasping the wall bars, braced herself for the concluding strokes of her prescribed punishment. Obediently up on tiptoe, she thrust her bare bottom up, her cheeks rounded and poised for their imminent stripes. They came in a sudden rush, swishing down across her bottom with a venom Partridge had not achieved. Mandy’s toes curled up in anguish as she pressed her lips against a wall bar to smother her squeals. The concluding stroke sliced into her buttocks, searing them with a burning flame.
‘Stay exactly where you are. I will return to hear your explanation within the hour,’ Erica whispered, tapping the naked bottom with the tip of her cane.
Mandy unclenched her hands from the wall bars and soothed her ravished rump, skimming her palms across her reddened buttocks. Despite the caning, she felt relieved. Erica had caught her and had severely punished her, but no lasting harm to her ultimate plans had been done. Most importantly, her identity was intact – an identity which Celia Flaxstone would soon unmask on close inspection. But Erica was not going to inform the mistress, if Mandy proved wholly cooperative. She decided to play into Erica’s hands, and renew her bid to escape in a few days’ time.
The caning had left her hot and sticky. She ached to touch herself but dared not risk being discovered playing with herself by the cropped blonde. She hated Erica: hated being naked before her, hated being at her mercy. Mandy also hated the knowledge Erica seemed to have of her weaknesses, cravings and desires. The cropped blonde seemed to unerringly know all of Mandy’s lustful yearnings and secret wants. Mandy hated this because she knew it gave Erica erotic power and dominance over her –a dominance Erica might choose to exploit.
Mandy risked another furtive rub at her caned cheeks. She thought of the punishment, and how Partridge had been sweet, caning her just within the bearable limits of pleasure-pain. Mandy had almost relished that part of the punishment, but Erica’s stripes had been cruel. She had swished the bamboo with savage intent and withering accuracy. The concluding strokes had been almost unbearable, turning Mandy in a moment from trembling desire to shivering dread.
Time passed slowly, achingly slowly. Erica would return. What then? Would Mandy be interrogated in depth tonight? It was already two – later, perhaps – and she felt exhausted. Mandy knew that she must remain alert and keep her mind razor-sharp. Her story must be sound, with no discrepancies or inconsistencies – easy enough perhaps in an ordinary grilling but, when naked, beneath the shadow of a cane, it would be all too easy to make a fatal slip. Above all, Mandy realised, even when being kiss-whipped by a crop, her identity and true purpose here at Sternwood Grange must remain her secret.
The door to the gym opened and Erica entered.
‘I have decided not to bother the mistress with this matter, girl. You have much to thank me for. I hope you show your full appreciation.’
Saved from the close scrutiny of Celia Flaxstone, Mandy was prepared to be very appreciative. Thank you…’ she started to gush warmly, then stopped. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Erica was naked.
‘And how grateful are you going to be, tonight. Mmm?’
Mandy remained silent, her mouth dry, her hands prickling with a sudden sweat.
‘I worked out your escape route. I know you hid in the storeroom. I found the glove.’
Mandy burned with shame, bitterly resenting Erica’s discovery.
‘That storeroom is full of interesting items, isn’t it? I don’t blame you for succumbing. I have selected –’ her voice dropped to a thick whisper ‘– a few of the pieces stored there. I think you might find them interesting.’
Canes? Whips? Paddles? Mandy’s bare bottom tightened.
‘I don’t –’ Mandy stammered.
‘I find them very interesting,’ Erica said softly. ‘I am sure you are going to agree. After all, the mistress need never know about your naughtiness, need she?’
It was not a question. It was a veiled threat. Mandy knew that she was now completely at the mercy of the cropped blonde. Though they were both naked under the neon lights of the gym, Mandy felt vulnerable and afraid. She hung her head. She was Erica’s now, utterly and entirely – and they both knew it.
‘Put this on,’ Erica murmured, approaching Mandy and whipping her bottom playfully with a black rubber brassiere.
The soft rubber weighed heavily in Mandy’s open palm. Her nipples thickened as she gazed down at the moulded cups. Slowly, she eased her bosom into it and fingered the stretchy straps. The cups had been talcumed, allowing Mandy to fit and fill the soft rubber with her swollen bosom. To her surprise, her nipples peered out and then emerged through the peek-a-boo holes: forced out through the rubber slits by the weight of her breasts settling into the brassiere. The rubber gripped, feeling strangely tight and undeniably sensual. Mandy’s nipples stiffened into firm peaks, becoming pink stubs against the black of the rubber cups.
Erica lowered her face to Mandy’s left breast. Closing her lips around the exposed nipple, she sucked hard. Mandy squeezed her buttocks tightly together in an attempt to deny her delight. Gazing down, she saw the cropped blonde, naked and bending, sucking fiercely at her nipple. Erica buried her face in the warmth of the rubbered breast, then applied her rasping tongue, and finally her nipping teeth, to the nipple. Mandy felt the wetness at her slit oozing forth. She closed her eyes and shuddered.
Erica withdrew her mouth and murmured, ‘Now try this.’
It was a rubber mask. Mandy felt her belly tightening. She hesitated.
‘I want you to put it on.’
Mandy held it in her right hand, her fingers sinking into the black softness.
‘You know of course how severely the mistress deals with failed runaways. Most severely,’ Erica remarked in a conversational tone. ‘They’re often whipped three times a day for at least a week.’
Mandy donned the mask. It fitted tightly, pinching her face and flattening her cheeks. Tiny holes allowed her to breathe at the nose and mouth – but speech, like sight and hearing, was denied to her. Surrendering to the overwhelming sensation of the rubber, she tasted its harsh tang and, with that tang, the bittersweet taste of submission. Deprived of her essential faculties, she felt mute, blind and utterly helpless.
Erica led her captive across the polished floor of the gym to a vaulting horse. Mandy came to an abrupt halt as her belly collided with the solid flank. She felt a dominant hand at her bare bottom, urging her to mount. She climbed up, and then lay face down across the horse. Mandy’s rubber brassiere kissed the scuffed hide: her nipples tightened exquisitely. Mandy felt Erica pulling her arms behind her back, then drawing her passive wrists together and positioning them at the point where her spine tapered into the swelling curve of her bottom. Handcuffs snapped silently into place, pinioning her into helpless submission. Mandy sensed that Erica had donned a single rubber gauntlet; she felt the softness of it as a palm caressed her bottom firmly, then the severity of it as the spanking began.
The sensation was as eerie as it was deliciously dire. The soundless spanks from the rubber-gloved hand exploded as if out of thin air across her upturned cheeks, flattening their curved crowns and burning them with a slow, spreading fire which licked at her cleft and labia, nickering down to ignite her pulsing slit.
The splayed fingers of the dominant hand pressed her rubber-encased head down into the horse. Mandy’s tongue and lips tasted the tight rubber of the mask, finding it just as disturbingly delicious as her bare buttocks found the rubber gloved spanking. Soon she was coming, her wrists in their handcuffs intensifying her sense of utter helplessness and total submission.
Unable to see or hear – or even touch herself – the unique experience of orgasming in restraining bondage was shattering. Her belly imploded as hot waves rippled down to her spasming flesh below. Did Erica know? Was she scrutinising and savouring Mandy’s helplessness? These thoughts and half-formed fears fuelled another – and then another – climax. Dizzy with the dark delights of discipline and total domination, Mandy squirmed and writhed across the leather of the vaulting horse.
A rubber-sheathed finger probing at her wet slit presented Mandy with an unpleasant truth: Erica was not only aware of her orgasm, she was clearly examining – indeed coaxing and controlling – the sequence of climax upon climax. The spanking had ceased after the second of the orgasmic paroxysms, but the rubbered fingers returned to caress her cleft and tease her oozing slit.
The rubber fingertip tapped her anal whorl inquiringly, as if testing the rosebud for the heat of its stickiness. Mandy squeezed her buttocks together as another climax gripped her in its implacable violence – but the probing finger would not be denied its desire. Mandy stiffened, gasping into the moist heat of her rubber mask. The finger worried her tight sphincter determinedly, forcing it to open up like a rosebud. It accepted the intrusion unwillingly, the spasming muscle making entry difficult rather than a smooth glide. Threshing in her bondage, Mandy inched her breasts and belly along the back of the leather horse in a desperate bid to evade the firm finger at her secret flesh. Three severe spanks exploded silently across her hot cheeks, stilling her and staying her tortuous progress. She sank down on the leather, crushed under the cropped blonde’s supreme authority and absolute domination.
Then nothing. What was happening? Where was Erica? What was the cruel dominatrix planning, doing? Gone to collect a wooden spanking paddle or a length of bamboo cane? Was Mandy’s bare bottom to suffer, suffer until Erica herself came? Was the lustful tormentress seeking to achieve her own hot orgasm with a crop in her rubber-gloved hand?
Mandy wriggled, feeling the wetness of her own climax on the leather horse beneath her. The silence, the helplessness, the darkness at her eyes – suddenly these tortures became unbearable. She screamed a silent scream, giving mute tongue to her delicious dread, hearing only a mournful echo of her anguish in her spinning brain. Where was the cropped blonde? What was she doing? Gazing down upon and relishing Mandy’s utter helplessness? Would Mandy shortly be doomed to feel Erica’s tongue, lips and teeth at her spanked cheeks?
Suddenly, before she fully understood what was happening, the handcuffs were removed. Mandy was so startled that she kept her hands and palms together in unholy prayer, at the swell of her punished buttocks. She felt Erica taking her arms and arranging them so that they now stretched out before her. She felt, but could not see or hear, the handcuffs being snapped back at her wrists. Erica withdrew, leaving Mandy helpless and immobile again. In her renewed bondage, Mandy lay still, her mind feverish with dark anticipation and dread imaginings.
Then she remembered the picture. When she was just seventeen, Mandy had stayed at a friend’s flat after catching a Bruce Springsteen gig. Fingering between the paperbacks on a shelf while ice cream, cake and coffee was being rustled up by her old school chum, Mandy had discovered the folio of lascivious French prints. One had made a lasting impression on her curious, pubescent mind.
It was one of a set of naughty-nineties prints from Lille, which the Bishop of Paris had ordered to be publicly destroyed, and Freud had consulted in his essay on female sexuality: it depicted three Belgian firemen surrounding a naked Frenchwoman in her bedroom. The legend at the bottom of the print briefly explained that, while visiting her sister in Ghent, she had overturned her night table, causing her lamp to spill and set fire to the carpet. In the print, the young naked beauty shrank back, cowering in shame from the three uniformed officers, who were each trailing nozzled hoses up between their parted legs. Two of the shining nozzles were dribbling against the woman’s belly and thighs; the third was still squirting a jet from its stiff hose upon her naked bosom.
It was a picture that haunted Mandy’s imagination: a powerful study of shame, humiliation and erotic power. Mandy had often summoned up the image when playing with herself at bathtime or in bed: it was her favourite fantasy. Sometimes she was in the room, as voyeur; sometimes she was the naked beauty penned in by the uniformed firemen; always, when enjoying the potent image, she came.
It had been her first glimpse of female masochism, and it had fuelled many a pussy-rubbing climax. But now, masked and handcuffed across the leather horse, she was experiencing the velvet violence of total domination and discipline. The burning image in her brain of Erica, naked and predatory at the side of the vaulting horse, was infinitely more disturbing than firemen with their splashing hoses.
She felt a hand at her left shoulder, then one gripping her right forearm. Erica was mounting the horse – and then mounting Mandy, easing her pubic curls down on to the hot cheeks of the spanked bottom. Pinning Mandy’s shoulders down as her thighs straddled the buttocks between them, the cropped blonde rode the cheeks she had just chastised. Mandy felt the rasp of the pubic curls against the swell of her buttocks, and jerked and bucked violently to topple the unbidden rider. Erica’s hands slid between the rubber brassiere’s cups and the scuffed hide of the horse. Squeezing dominantly, she instantly asserted her supremacy over her victim. Frozen in her fearfulness, Mandy lay prone and still, unwillingly accepting and all the time hating the outrage visiting her naked bottom. She shuddered as the cropped blonde’s labia splayed apart, smearing her hot ooze on Mandy’s cheeks.
The hands at Mandy’s rubbered bosom taloned the flesh mounds savagely. Mandy squealed a mute protest. Erica’s open flesh-lips grew hotter and wetter against the passive buttocks – soon she was hammering herself into Mandy’s soft bottom. The rhythm broke: the rider stiffened, her thighs taut. Mandy could not smell the feral juices, could not hear the primal scream of ecstasy – but despite being deaf, dumb and blind to Erica’s orgasm, Mandy knew that the cropped blonde had come.