Chapter Twenty Six

 

When his name was called, Erica came to the front of the stage. With his stooped shoulders and his bald head, the torn cami-knickers hanging down beneath his short French maid’s skirt, a foolish simper on his face showed him willing to carry out any order given to him. His spirit had been completely broken and his training as a modern man had been successful.

He made no attempt to hide his fear of his mistress, Wanda, who swished her riding crop by the side of his quivering bum-cheeks.

She laughed as he flinched.

‘Kiss the crop, Erica. ’

He gave a little squeal of fear as he fell on his knees and pressed the leather to his lips.

‘Kiss my pussy, Erica. ’

Quickly he raised his head and obeyed.

‘Please my pooper, Erica. ’

He hastily crawled round his mistress and buried his face between her bum-cheeks.

‘I can’t feel it, Erica,’ she warned.

A smile came over her face as she felt him starting to lick and suck her cleft. The audience burst into loud laughter at his frightened response.

‘Now, Erica, I have a special job for you. ’

She snapped her fingers.

An old woman wearing a torn dress with one grubby tit hanging out loosely, a pair of broken shoes and dirty grey thick woollen stockings sagging in loops down her skinny legs, shuffled on to the stage. Her hands showed her wrinkled skin was grimy, her bitten fingernails were rimmed black. An unpleasant odour of silage came from her armpits.

On her dirty hair she wore a pale blue ragged bow; a bow many years before taken from a box of chocolates. It was her only pathetic attempt at beautifying herself.

Her mouth, clown-like, was smothered with bright red lipstick. Yellowish powder had been slapped haphazardly on her face and a large red spot of rouge had been daubed on each of her cheeks.

Her faded blue eyes looked listlessly at Erica, giving no hint of her thoughts. She said nothing.

Wanda waited a few moments for Erica to absorb the sight that was before him.

‘This is Fairy, your new girlfriend, Erica,’ Wanda said, ‘She badly wants to have a man, don’t you, Fairy?’

The old woman grinned, showing she had no teeth in her mouth. She nodded vigorously.

‘She’s never had a cock in her, have you, Fairy? Never even held one, have you, Fairy? But you’ve often wondered what it would be like, eh, Fairy?’

The grinning old woman kept nodding.

‘I have chosen you, Erica, to teach her about Love. Kiss her, feel her up, show her what to do with her hands - it’s all up to you. She’s a virgin, Erica, so you’ll have to start right from the beginning. So start NOW!’

With that she brought the crop down on his bum.

Erica approached the woman slowly. When their bodies were almost touching, she giggled and began to play with herself. Little grunts and wheezes came from her. Her old eyes became glazed and her body started to move rhythmically.

‘Teach her what to do, Erica. ’

The crop slashed across his bum again.

The smell from the woman was overpowering, but his fear of Wanda’s crop was greater.

He pulled the woman’s hands away from her clit. Then he took her in his arms and, with a shudder, pressed his lips on her mouth.

She gave a little scream.

‘Ah!’

Then she clutched at his shoulders and sprang up his body, wrapping her legs around his waist. Taken by surprise, he was caught off-balance and the couple fell to the ground, rolling over and over each other as their passions caught fire.

Frightened by what she took to be his attack, she bit his upper lip, drawing blood. He yelped. Her grubby hands tore at his maid’s skirt and waist.

She was clearly puzzled at not finding any breasts. She pulled her free tit upwards and forced it between his teeth.

‘Suck!’ Her voice quavered.

Surprised, but having been brainwashed into obeying the slightest feminine command, he began to draw on the shrivelled nipple. The wrinkles in her tit swelled and subsided as he built up the pressure.

The strength of his suction pierced through her and into her womb, making the old woman fling her head up and down like a seesaw in her frenzy of desire.

He pulled himself away. It was getting out of hand. She was beginning to accept him as being in control of the situation. Remembering the College motto, he knew it was his duty to allow himself to be dominated by her.

Whatever she had been previously, there was no escaping the fact that she had to be an active force in his life from now on.

The woman was rolling to and fro on the ground, moaning as though she had been beaten. He had to make her master HIM if he was to avoid being lashed by Wanda.

Panting, he tried to think what he should do next. He felt her grip his balls. At least he had taught the old woman that much - that he was insignificant, he thought.

The grip tightened.

It was not long before the pain became unendurable. Tears came to his eyes. Tears such as he had not known since he had been a schoolboy over 45 years ago. Memories of the treatment he had received in those days came back to him. He remembered his class mistress, Miss Fox. She had been a dumpy woman with a squint, fond of taunting the weakest boys in her class.

She had a large heavy bust which resented being confined in her tight dress. The result was her nipples pressed hard against the material of the dress.

‘Get up on your desk, Eric. The whole class must see you,’ she used to say every afternoon. Then she would tell him to recite Keats’s poem, ‘The Realm of Fancy’.

In those days, as a schoolboy he wore short pants. Whenever he stumbled or forgot the words, she smacked the back of his bare knees with a ruler. By the time he reached the line ‘Then let winged Fancy wander’ his skin would be stinging, reddened, and hot tears would be pouring down his cheeks.

He could never remember the whole poem. Miss Fox knew that. Yet she persisted in ordering him to recite it, to the delight of his classmates.

‘Ask him the next line, miss,’ they used to call out.

And she always did.

‘Go on, miss. What’s the next line?’

The girls in his class called out the loudest.

‘Give it ‘im, miss. Make ‘im say it. ’

The more he blubbed, the more prominently he could see Miss Fox’s nipples standing out. Her face grew redder then and her squint became worse.

Sometimes the ruler slipped. Instead of striking the backs of his knees, it struck his little cock. That made him howl, bringing roars of laughter from the class as he doubled up, clutching himself with both hands.

If Miss Fox was in a bad mood and the treatment with the ruler had not improved his memory, she would send him to the head mistress, Miss Singer, with a note of his misdemeanour.

This always meant his having to take down his shorts and lie face down across Miss Singer’s desk. He could hear Miss Singer’s breath come louder and more quickly then and he used to get strange feelings in his usually soft little cock.

He knew Miss Singer liked to lift his shirt and expose his bare bottom. Sometimes she would run her hand lightly across it.

Miss Singer, a skinny, grey-haired spinster with wild eyes and a hatred of little boys, would then bring the cane down hard across his bare buttocks.

He always shrieked, of course. As each stroke fell he would give a fresh shriek which was heard in the classroom below. After each stroke he had to thank Miss Singer for the lesson she was giving him.

Sometimes he would receive five strokes, sometimes eight. Occasionally, the number would reach ten. His classmates always knew how many strokes he had received, since all they had to do was count his shrieks. In spite of that, when he returned to the classroom with his face stained with tears, Miss Fox made him tell the class.

‘How many today, Eric?’ she would ask. She wore a half-smile as she asked him.

The class always laughed when he told her.

Sometimes she told him to stay behind after class. When that happened, he had to take down his shorts and show her his striped bottom. She used to run her cold trembling fingers over his stinging bum-cheeks and her breath would come quickly.

On one occasion, when Miss Fox had been in a particularly bad temper and had written an especially virulent note, he had received fifteen strokes. That was when the head prefect, Angela Sharp, a tall skinny girl with glasses which slid down her thin pointed nose and who had a loud sniff, had been putting the globe of the world back in Miss Singer’s cupboard.

In spite of Angela’s sniffs, Miss Singer seemed to have forgotten she was present and had given him his caning in front of her. From that day on he had been called ‘Eric-Bare-Bum’, or ‘Fifteen-strokes-Eric’ by the whole school.

That was the time when, after school, he had been pushed into the girls’ lavatory block and made to take his trousers down. Each girl had then ruler-spanked his cock under threat of his being reported by Angela to Miss Singer for chasing the girls in the playground.

Each afternoon, on his return home, he had to give his mother a note from Miss Fox saying whether he had been punished that day and what the punishment had been.

His mother then pulled her dress up above her knees, placed him across her lap and smacked him on his bare bottom, giving him as many smacks as he had been given at school.

‘For being a cry-baby,’ his mother used to say. She had never got over the fact he was a boy when she had wanted a girl. She always called him ‘Erica’ and made him wear frocks in the house, regardless of who was there.

Now, years after his humiliation as a schoolboy, he was again at the mercy of a woman; this old one who was squeezing and squeezing him, making him cry like a baby again; making him admit his inferiority to a female.

With a twist of her wrist, the old woman flung him down, face to the ground. As he turned his head sideways on the floor he saw the old crone tear her clothes off. He shivered as he felt her strip his clothes from him, leaving him naked.

With a loud cry, she fell on him. Turning him over, she took his member between her gums. The friction felt as though she was dragging an electric current through his cock.

Her sweat covered him, making him as slippery as she herself was. Saliva dribbled from her mouth, filling him with disgust.

He didn’t know whether he would be able to stand this onslaught much longer. But he did know that should he fail to satisfy her, he would have to account to Mistress Wanda. Somehow, he had to please her.

Torn between his fear of Wanda’s crop and his urge to submit to a woman, he gripped her lanky hair, pulling her head back. This jerked his cock out of her mouth, enabling him to fasten his own mouth on her lips. He heard her stomach rumble.

That meant either she was hungry, or, perhaps, that she was on the point of submission - and submission, to his mind, was unthinkable.

There was a way of satisfying both possibilities. If he filled her mouth with spunk, it would feed her and make her understand his subservience to her.

Rapidly, he pushed his cock back in her mouth and began to thrust and withdraw it, using her gums as a friction board. Faster and faster he rubbed, not giving her time to object.

He was getting frantic now. Would he never come? Harder and harder he rubbed his cock in that toothless gap. The old woman squirmed beneath him.

‘No you don’t, old bitch,’ he thought. ‘You wanted to know what it’s all about - well, this is it. ’

At last, the lovejuice poured from him, choking her with its flow, making her swallow the sweet substance.

As she swallowed, her hands rose to his member. She began to suck, grunting with pleasure, making him think of a pig at a trough.

He shuddered as a sense of joy and harmony flowed through him.