The Book

 

Miss Newcombe paced slowly up and down the stone-flagged terrace at the back of Cranborough House, examining the ground with critical eyes. Standing by a barrow full of weeds, mopping their brows with the backs of grimy hands, were Nigel Gosset and his four fellow students. They were watching Miss Newcombe intently, hoping she would find the results of their morning’s labours acceptable.

Of course, they would have watched their nurse and School Matron closely in any circumstances. Sister Newcombe was an attractive thirtyish woman, with her dark hair tied up in a neat bun and keen, smoky blue eyes shining out from behind small, round steel-rimmed spectacles. Her dark blue nursing uniform revealed her trim waistline, emphasising the more than adequate curves of her bust and hips. Despite their recent acquisition of Amber, Miss Newcombe was still a favourite subject of their nightly fantasies. In fact they did not need to speculate as to what lay beneath the correct layers of her uniform. A while ago they had contrived a way up to the school roof from their dormitory. This gave them access to the skylight serving the small bedroom which Miss Newcombe used when her duties required her to stay the night on the school premises. Memories of what they had seen during those expeditions had been the cause of many youthful nocturnal emissions.

Miss Newcombe finished her inspection. “Yes, a job well done,” she said, to their great relief. “I’ll find something else for you this afternoon, but meanwhile you can amuse yourselves until lunch time.”

“Thanks, Sister,” they chorused.

Their overseer’s fine brow creased for a moment, as though lost in some inner debate. Then she held out a brown paper-wrapped package she had been carrying.

“I think you might be interested in this,” she said, as Jackson, their natural leader, took it uncertainly from her.

He pulled back a fold of paper to reveal a thick hardback book. On the cover was the title: ‘THE CARE AND TRAINING OF BONDSLAVES.’

For a few seconds their faces were frozen in masks of stunned shock, accompanied by gurgles of horrified amazement. Fortunately Miss Newcombe did not seem to read anything deeper into their reactions than natural surprise.

“It’s the standard reference work on the subject,” she continued. “After we talked about sex and female bondslavery the other day I thought you should be presented with the facts in an orderly fashion. You’re all old enough, and I think this matter falls within my remit to care for your general health and well-being. The interest you’ve already shown is a normal part of physical and emotional development. And of course when you’re older, you may very well have bondslaves of your own. But you mustn’t let unbridled curiosity get the better of common sense. Remember it was spying on Arabella’s foolish young friends that got you here in the first place.”

The boys nodded solemnly, eyes still riveted on the book, still too surprised to speak.

“Well, read it through, then talk to me again if there’s anything you’re still not sure of,” Miss Newcombe said. “But clean yourselves up first. It wouldn’t do to get dirty fingermarks all over it.”

Jackson managed to gulp faintly: “No, Sister... thank you, Sister.”

 

The boys had never washed and changed so quickly. Inside ten minutes they were in their dormitory clustered round the precious volume, turning pages with a mixture of reverence and impatience.

There were descriptions and charts and diagrams and photographs. There was advice on feeding, sanitation, training, restraint and punishment. They saw what could be done with straps and chains and special appliances, and they realised how unimaginative they had been in the treatment of their secret slave. Every unsuspected detail of feminine anatomy and function was laid out before them, leaving them amazed at the uses to which a female body could be put and the service and pleasure it could provide.

Eventually Jackson tore his eyes away from the page to glance at his watch, then firmly shut the book ignoring the protests of his friends.

“We’ve got to get started with lunch now,” he reminded them. “We can look at it again later.”

“Fancy Sister giving us this,” Gosset exclaimed, still not recovered from the surprise.

“She’s a really good sort, she is,” said Harris emphatically.

“But could you look her in the eye and talk over some of those things?” Parsons wondered, jabbing a finger at the incredible book. Harris blushed.

Bickley had been frowning intently. Now he spoke up: “I wonder if Amber knows about this stuff - all the ways you can use women, I mean.”

There was a thoughtful silence which Jackson broke. “You think she deliberately hasn’t said anything so she’ll have an easier time of it?”

“Maybe.”

“She must have known,” Gosset said. “Girls always know more about these things than boys.”

“Then she should have told us,” Harris exclaimed, bristling with righteous indignation. “She is our slave after all. It’s her duty to please us.”

“We’ll find out this afternoon,” Jackson said decisively. “If she’s been holding back, we’ll make her regret it!”