Chapter Nine

 

Soon after the three Dominatrices had left, the gong struck three times. The inmates of the dormitory stopped their soft chattering and looked at one another apprehensively.

‘She’s back!’

‘Who’s it going to be this time?’

A few men began to shiver and sob.

The tension made Cyril give a nervous giggle which he hastily quelled.

The door was pulled open. A naked mistress, dressed in shiny thigh-length leather boots with pointed toes and stiletto heels, a slender gold chain around her waist with a heart-shaped padlock dangling in front of her down-covered quim, a pair of long leather gloves that extended to her elbows and holding a bullwhip with the long lash curled into her left hand, strode into the room.

She wore a half-mask that covered the upper part of her cheeks. Through the slits that formed the eyeholes glittered a pair of green eyes that forbade even the bravest man to think of the slightest disobedience. Her jet black hair was drawn back into a ponytail, and as she moved, her magnificent breasts swung tantalisingly from side to side.

Without a word, every man fell to his knees before her, not daring to look up at her face. Slowly she paced the room, looking for her prey for the night. Occasionally she rested the bullwhip on a trembling man’s shoulder. Then, apparently having a change of mind, she passed on to the next man.

What began as a low murmur gradually became a distinct chant.

‘The sole purpose of man is to be dominated by woman.

‘The sole purpose of man is to be dominated by woman. ’

It was only when the chant had reached a crescendo that the naked mistress made her decision. She cracked her whip once. Immediately, the chanting stopped.

‘You! Name?’

Cyril looked up at her. He swallowed. The whip was pointing straight at him.

‘Cyril, mistress. ’

‘Bind him for the lesson. ’

Four eager, whispering men carried him to the triangle that had been placed in the centre of the room. His legs were spread apart and each ankle was secured to straps attached to the corners of the base of the triangle. His hands were drawn above his head to the apex of the frame where they were held in place by metal handcuffs. As the men worked, they gave nervous little squeaks of laughter, clearly relieved that it was someone other than themselves who was going to suffer.

When they had finished, Cyril found he could twist his body in a small arc but he was unable to shield any part of it from the lashing he knew he was about to receive.

Around him he could see the onlookers awaiting the promised exhibition with undisguised pleasure.

He felt the lash touch his back slightly. An involuntary shudder made the nerves under his skin ripple. He felt the lash move slowly and lightly down his back. It stopped when it reached the top of his bum-cleft.

A tiny dribble of urine came from his hardening cock, bringing a nervous, hardly-suppressed laugh from one of the spectators.

‘Be careful, slave,’ came the mistress’s hoarse warning. ‘You might join him. ’

The lash was inserted between his legs and, with a twist, was drawn upwards into his scrotum where it wrapped itself around his balls.

The thong tightened, making him sweat with fear. The lash was pulled away from its grip on his tender flesh. It felt as though a fiery hand was plucking his balls from their sockets, bringing a scream of agony from his lips.

Hardly had the lash been pulled away, when he heard it being cracked behind him - once - twice - three times.

Then it fell across his back, drawing a louder shriek from him.

As each cut was given, the onlookers shouted the count aloud, letting him know how far his whipping had gone.

At ‘Seventeen’ the lashes stopped falling. A mist was covering his eyes.

‘Make it the end,’ he prayed silently.

A small band of men rushed forward, untied him and, turning him round, tied him to the triangle again - this time facing his whipper.

The grey eyes behind the mask bored into him.

‘That,’ she whispered, ‘was just a taste of what’s to come. ’

Again the lash was thrust between his legs, curling round his balls again.

‘It would be so easy to rip ‘em off,’ the mistress mused. ‘Shall I?’ she asked him.

He groaned.

‘Please, no,’ he panted. ‘Have pity, mistress. ’

She sneered.

‘Pity? Do men have pity when they rape? Or when a woman gives birth? Why should a mere slave be shown any pity?’

She tugged the cord to make it grip him even tighter. A feeling of sickness swept over him. If he was going to be castrated, at least get it over quickly, he begged mentally.

‘But - ‘she continued, ‘it will be more interesting to see your fear of losing your balls as you try to protect them than to watch your agonies as they are plucked from you. You may keep them for the moment, slave, but know that you will lose them whenever I choose. ’

The lashing re-commenced. As the strokes rained down, Cyril’s tormented body twisted from side to side. At last, when his cock refused to rise any more, when he had given the last of his spunk, he hung bloodily on the triangle, a mass of criss-crossed weals and blood-stained patches.

He slumped downwards from his bonds, no longer feeling the bullwhip’s cruel snap as it bit its way into his body.

At last he knew what it was to be a slave - the slave of a cruel mistress whose glance provoked and terrorised him at the same time.

‘What have you learned?’

The lesson was ingrained on Cyril’s memory; a lesson he would never forget.

‘“The p . . . purpose of m . . . man is to be dominated by woman,”‘he sobbed.

As he stumbled over the words an expectant thrill ran through him, reviving his desires and hopes.