Chapter Two

 

It was about a quarter of a mile up to the big house and, since Delia kept the bay at a brisk pace, Paul Mansel was glad it was no further. He felt sorry for the girls who had already had a hard afternoon in the orange grove and he could hear their rasping breath as they approached near-exhaustion. Several times he saw young Karen stumble and almost fall . . . and there came crisp warnings from Delia above that anyone who didn’t keep going would ‘feel leather’. Behind the little entourage Gloria van Meer purred along in comfort in the Cadillac. It amused her to think that Paul had, for the time being anyway, joined a slave-girl colony . . . for she could imagine the kind of stresses and frustrations he was going to be put to in the days ahead.

Gloria was well content too, with what she had so far seen of Amelia Dupont’s set-up at Bel Air. She had liked the way Delia had treated those girls; obviously discipline was iron hard. She had also liked the way Delia had laid into Paul; he was certainly going to get no change out of her. Indeed, the whole enclosed environment of a secure slave system delighted her. It was going to be an exciting venture to build up a male slave farm in this unique setting. Paul, now tamed, would be a founder member . . . but many more would ultimately come to join him. And, those ‘recruits’ there would be much taming to be done!

The Big House came into view. It was a massive Colonial style mansion. Delia turned and waved, indicating that Gloria should drive up to the main door whilst she proceeded to the rear of the house, where the slave quarters obviously were. Gloria waved happily back. She was very much looking forward to seeing Amelia Dupont again, studying her organisation at first hand and, of course, discussing her own plans.

 

*****

 

Delia swung down from the bay and began untethering her charges. The girls were covered in sweat and dust, breasts heaving wildly; Paul was comparatively fresh. He looked around cautiously, seeing that they were in a huge kind of stable courtyard which was surrounded on all sides by buildings of varying heights and proportions. Some of these buildings, with rows of small barred windows, had a very prison-like appearance. Paul felt a little cold shudder go through him despite the warmth of the late afternoon.

“Right, in you go,” he heard Delia order and Paul quickly followed the example of girls down an iron ladder into an empty bathing pool of grey stone. He saw Delia stride along the side of the pool and pick up what appeared to be the nozzle of a fireman’s hose. This, in fact, was exactly what it was and Paul was made startlingly aware of it when an icy stream of water jetted fiercely into his stomach, robbing him of breath and almost knocking him over. Delia laughed gaily at the shock she had given him and proceeded to spray him all over before turning her attention to the girls. Gasping, they jumped up and down, breasts bouncing. For them it was half pleasure, half torment. It was wonderful to have the sweat and dust washed off one, to soak the water into one’s arid pores, to lick at it greedily as it ran down one’s face. But it was not so wonderful to endure the repeated fierce jetting of water all over one’s body. After a minute or more, pain would outweigh pleasure . . . and Delia made a practise of hosing down for four or five minutes at a time. In some strange way it gave her a very great deal of pleasure to do so. There was a great ‘power kick’ in it . . . standing up there, making one’s victims dance and squeal at will, buffeting them from side to side and sometimes sending them sprawling flat.

Paul had certainly had enough by the time the hose was turned off. In some sense he felt refreshed, in another he felt weak and battered, his head ringing. The girls climbed up the ladder one by one. Karen, limbs rubbery went just ahead of him. At the foot of the ladder he looked up, seeing her ample hindquarters swinging from side to side . . . and receiving briefly and tantalisingly a ‘worm’s eye view’ of her most intimate womanly secrets!

As Delia herded the four of them across the big courtyard - towards one of the prison like buildings - Paul saw numerous other slave-girls moving to and fro in the distance or passing nearer at hand. He noted that whilst a number were as naked as the three he was with, he saw many who wore a fetchingly abbreviated version of a ‘maid’s uniform’ . . . complete with suspender belt and black stockings and a frilly little white apron and cap. Some wore no uniforms but only belt, stockings, high heels and the apron. These made a most fetching sight in Paul’s eyes . . . as did those who wore only scanty briefs and bra, or those who went topless in nothing but a tiny skirt. All were variations of a theme. The theme of exposure. Sometimes complete, sometimes partial. Shaming to the girl; titillating to the observer. Paul supposed that these various types of garb, or lack of it, were at the whim of Mrs Dupont and her slave mistress assistants. In this he was correct . . . and, of course, any guests at Bel Air could have a say in the matter.

They entered the building and, in a high ceilinged entrance hall, Paul saw numerous squads of slave-girls lined up . . . with a couple more slave mistresses, clad cow-girl style like Delia, calling the roll, inspecting them and issuing orders. This must, Paul realised, be one of those days when some girls came off duty and others went on. He saw at once mute evidence of the strict disciplinary regime . . . in the profusion of reddened, weal-and-welt striped buttocks. Not to mention thighs, some of which carried signs of correction both back and front. Naturally he could not take in the bewildering scene all at once but he could take in enough. Now he was one of the company. A male slave amongst scores of females!

He heard the thwack of a strap on bare flesh and heard a girl’s high-pitched gasp. Turning his head, he saw a tall, very beautiful young woman, with rich auburn hair, still shuddering with pain. She wore only a lacy red-and-black suspender belt, fishnet black stockings and a pair of bright red high heeled shoes.

“Have you not read your orders?” demanded the slave mistress before her.

“Yes . . . yes . . . miss . . . I . . . I . . .” the girl stammered.

“Then why are you not wearing a pair of knickers?” came the second demand.

“I . . . I must have misunderstood, Miss . . . I . . . I thought . . .” began the girl again.

Tthhwwacckkk! The strap, similar to Delia’s swung again, curling round the girl’s flank. She gasped again, squirming and shuddering as she absorbed the burning pain. “You don’t think . . . you OBEY!” the slave mistress almost snarled. “Now . . . go and get a pair on, double quick. I know your master likes you to wear a fancy pair until he’s ready for you . . .”

The girl scurried off, leaving Paul to contemplate the significance of what he had just heard. Obviously this beautiful creature must be the designated plaything of one of Mrs Dupont’s guests! My God, he thought, what enormities must be perpetuated here for the sake of their amusement! Despite the fascination of the scene (like being in some kind of harem of naked and half-naked beauties) Paul felt a chill of dread go through him. Suppose a pervert wanted some kind of amusement with him!

Paul’s thoughts were interrupted when one of the other slave mistresses approached Delia as she proceeded across the hall. “Hi, what the hell have you got there?” she asked.

Delia grinned. “It’s a male slave,” she answered. “Belongs to one of Mrs Dupont’s guests. Just arrived.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” said the slave mistress, studying Paul. She like Delia, was blonde, but was a bigger woman, aged about 30. “Is he going to STAY?” she asked.

“Sure thing,” replied Delia. “Don’t worry. He’ll be no trouble. I understand Miss Mandy’s got some plans for him.”

Paul pricked up his ears. Plans? What plans? Paul felt an increased sensation of dread as Delia strode on through the hall. They entered a corridor, lined with cell doors on either side. Delia unlocked one. “In,” she said, nodding at Karen. “And you,” she added, looking at Paul. His heart gave a thump. Was he to be left alone in the cell with this naked young creature? His mind began to race hotly. Those breasts . . . those buttocks . . . everything . . . at least he could feel, if nothing else!

Then he saw Delia shackle an iron collar round Karen’s neck . . . a collar which was fastened to the wall above a plain plank bed on one side of the cell . . . and in a matter of moments Paul was similarly secured, so that he could do no more than lie or sit on the wooden planks. Karen was yards away, out of reach. So much for his hopes of gaining some lustful satisfaction from that young body!

“I’ll be back for you two later,” said Delia ominously.

Then the door slammed and was locked.

 

*****

 

Face to the wall, Karen sobbed quietly. She had been doing so for some five minutes, ever since they had entered the cell, refusing to answer Paul’s tentative, whispered questions. He gazed at the shapely naked bottom, one hip curvingly up thrust. At least he could do that. From time to time the reddened flesh twitched. He could understand how tender her soft, girlish bottom must be . . . because his own tougher and far more experienced male flesh was uncomfortably sore.

“Karen . . . “he tried again. “I can’t help being a man. I can’t even touch you, can I? Don’t be shy. After all I’m a slave too.” Karen sobbed louder, shoulders heaving. “Oh stop it . . . stop it . . . I . . . I don’t want to talk . . . I c-can’t bear any . . . any . . . m-more . . . “

They were the first words she had spoken, so Paul was encouraged.

“I’m afraid a slave has to bear more than he . . . or she . . . thinks they can,” he said gently. “I know. I’ve been a woman’s slave for some six months now. As cruel and vicious a woman as you could meet. Oh yes, I know.” He paused, “how long have you been here, Karen?” he asked.

“Th-three w-weeks . . .” whispered Karen. “No . . . it must be nearly a month now . . .” her sobs were subsiding.

“Ahh,” said Paul, “then it’s all very new to you, then. I understand. In so many ways it’s much worse at first. You must be brave. Later - when you are harder and when you have learnt to submit - truly submit - it will not be so bad . . .”

“Oh - how can you even SAY such things,” cried Karen indignantly. At last she turned round and sat up, her big breasts swinging. Seeing Paul’s eyes on them she flushed slightly and covered them with her hands. “Oh . . . oh . . . you don’t know how awful it is,” she went on. “They beat you for the slightest fault. For nothing! Day in, day out. And . . . they make us go about . . . like . . . like this. Naked. It’s awful . . . ohh . . . awful . . . and worse . . . for a w-woman than a m-man . . . can’t you understand?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . I understand,” said Paul quietly. The main aim was to gain the girl’s confidence. One never knew what might come of it. “There isn’t really any need to cover yourself like that,” he continued. “As you know I am a slave. We are fellow slaves. We must trust and help each other. In any event I have already seen far more than what you are showing me now for most of the afternoon.”

Karen flushed more deeply and bit her lower lip. All the same she slowly lowered her hands. “I suppose I ought to be used to it by now,” she said wretchedly. “I . . . I haven’t had a stitch on since I’ve been here. Oh my God . . . the way they look at you . . . and . . . and . . . the things they do to the other girls . . .” Karen lowered her head. “One day they’ll do them to me too, I know.”

Paul nodded sympathetically. “I can only counsel you to be brave. And not to resist. I know that is against all natural instinct . . . but you must try. The sooner you learn to obey instantly and submit completely the better. I know it’s hard, but you must try.”

The girl looked at Paul with blue eyes still misted with tears. “In a way I realise you’re right,” she said miserably, “already I’ve learnt that.” Her face puckered. “Of course it’s better to obey than be beaten . . . but . . . but . . . it’s so difficult . . . and . . . and they expect so much. Sometimes it’s impossible!”

“I can only say, Karen, that it will get less difficult,” said Paul kindly. He was finding this conversation and growing understanding most pleasant. It was the first ‘human contact’ he had had with a woman for months! “How did you get here?” he asked.

“I was abducted. Drugged and abducted. From college,” answered Karen. “They made it appear I had run away . . . dropped out, you know. One moment I was leading a happy life, the next thing I remember is waking up here . . . in a cell like this. Naked and chained.” Karen began to cry softly again. “Within half an hour I was being taken to the Punishment Room to get my first caning.”

“Please don’t cry,” said Paul. “It doesn’t do any good, you know.”

Karen did her best, not very successfully. “Th-thank you for talking to me like this,” she said. “It’s a comfort . . . in a way. Of course I’ve talked to some of the girls . . . but that’s not the same somehow.” It was a response that delighted Paul. “They only seem to care about what’s happening to them, not to anybody else. You’re different.”

Paul smiled wryly. “Oh I care all right,” he said. “I’m not exactly looking forward to the Punishment Room later.”

A spasm of dread crossed Karen’s pretty young face. “Oh God . . . oh God no . . . no . . . I don’t deserve it . . . do I? DO I? How could I help it?” The big breasts bounced up and down with agitation.

“No, you didn’t deserve it,” agreed Paul. “It’s just part of the disciplinary regime. Designed to break you. In body, mind and spirit.”

The girl buried her face in her hands. “Yes . . . yes . . . “ she moaned. “Oh . . . how can they be so cruel? I . . . I just can’t bear to think of . . . more punishment. Especially a caning. I’m . . . I’m so tender and burning already . . .”

“I realise that . . .” said Paul. “But, remember, I am to be punished equally. And for nothing at all. Just my mistress’s whim.” He saw Karen looking at him with more sympathy. “What time is Miss Delia likely to return?” he enquired.

“Q-Quite soon,” replied Karen with a little shudder. “Evening punishment sessions are at seven o’clock.”

“There is another session then?”

“Yes,” answered Karen. “The morning session is at eleven o’clock. Sometimes they divide a punishment. Half in the evening. Half in the morning. Just so you can spend a sleepless night thinking about it, I suppose.”

Paul nodded. He knew all about the mental anguish of divided or suspended punishments. Gloria was an artist at it.

At that moment there was the sound of a key being turned in the lock. Karen uttered a startled cry and Paul felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise. The moment had come.

 

*****

 

To say that Delia made a striking picture would be an understatement. She had changed her previous garb and now wore a pair of scarlet thigh-length boots, which laced all the way up, and had six inch stiletto heels, a pair of very abbreviated scarlet leather briefs and a brassiere of the same material and colour which was only fractionally more than half cup in size. Her blonde hair was piled high and in the lobes of her ears, on long, slim gold chains, hung two glittering rubies. Her hard blue eyes glittered almost equally with the jewels. There was one other item she wore. It was the strap she carried for on-the-spot correction . . . something she never went without. Now it hung from a scarlet leather belt, which, gold-buckled, was slung low about the jut of her smooth white hips.

The sight of her certainly took Paul’s breath away . . . and, as a slave trained and tamed, he recognised in her a true dominatrix. A woman WORTHY of being a slave mistress, one who inspired in him something of the same kind of servile adoration as did Gloria herself. He felt all this, accompanied by a surge of intense desire, despite the fact that he knew well enough how she would treat him, both immediately and in the future.

“You will be wanting to know the result of my recommendations to Miss Mandy,” she said gaily as she unshackled Karen who was cringing wide-eyed and fearful back to the wall, trembling uncontrollably. Paul studied the superb sweep of Delia’s broad white back, the swell of her hindquarters so briefly and tightly clad, the smoothness of the tops of the long white thighs. The sense of adoration in him increased. He knew that he would indeed truly consider it an honour to serve Delia as he sometimes served Gloria. Already he felt a deep ache to be so permitted and privileged. “I will tell you the result,” went on Delia as, freed, Karen got to her feet and stood rigid by the plank bed. “She accepted it.”

A whimpering moan came from Karen and her eyes filled with tears again. Then Paul’s head was filled with Delia’s exotic scent as she unshackled him in turn. He trembled at the nearness of her lush beauty and the desire to touch just a fraction of her superb body was almost irresistible. Fortunately for him he resisted it. As Karen had done, Paul leapt to attention immediately he was released.

“My recommendation, as you remember,” went on Delia, looking from one to the other, “was for a caning. I further suggested it should be one of fifteen strokes.” Paul heard Karen gasp . . . and experienced a shiver of inner dread himself. “However, Miss Mandy thought ten strokes would be adequate under the circumstances.” For both victims it was cold comfort, but at least something. “We finally compromised on a dozen,” concluded Delia, “so that’s what you’re going to get. Follow me!”

She turned and strode out through the door, Karen stumbling after her on high heels, continuing to sob. Paul humbly brought up the rear, his gaze fastened on the swing and bounce of Karen’s soft bottom flesh. Poor girl, he thought. She is so much younger, more sensitive and less experienced. No wonder she is in such a state. Was he not himself in a state of keen apprehension? Already he was going through that familiar build up pattern of summoning up his reserves of resolve and will so that he could withstand what lay ahead with some show of fortitude. It was better, he knew, not to break too early whatever the punishment.

They descended a flight of wide stone steps and proceeded down another cell-lined corridor. At the end was a pair of massive double doors. They were of solid dark oak with big brass handles. Above the doors, in gold Gothic lettering on a white background, were the unnerving words - PUNISHMENT ROOM.

Delia opened the doors . . . and Paul found himself in a place which, at first sight, had the size and appearance of a gymnasium, except that it was lower ceilinged. Indeed, heavy beams stretched across the large, long room and he saw that chains and manacles hung from many of them. Here and there, he saw too, what looked like vaulting horses of varying sizes, and he realised at once that these must be whipping blocks. The buckling straps with which they were festooned confirmed this. He observed too, a whipping post and a whipping triangle as well as various other devices of wood, leather and iron whose immediate purpose escaped him. All this he took in a few moments as he followed Delia and Karen.

That the evening punishment session had already begun was at once evident. A naked girl was secured to one of the whipping blocks . . . a broad strap pinioned her at the waist, her wrists were fastened in leathern cuffs attached by short chains to the sides at the front of the block. Swathes of purpling red striped her juddering buttocks. In fearful fascination Paul watched the figure at the end of the block swing up her arm. A three foot long strap, broader than the one Delia carried and slit into two thongs for its last twelve inches, came sweeping down to crack resoundingly across her the helpless girl’s hindquarters. A gasping howl of pain came from her and she writhed frantically, twisting this way and that over the end of the block. The hindquarters were the only part of her body which had ample freedom of movement . . . and they made full use of it!

“S-Six . . . aagghh . . . s-six . . . M-Miss . . .” choked the kneeling figure when her howl had subsided and she had caught her breath again.

The figure who had wielded the strap turned at the sound of their approach and Paul recognised the heavy blonde woman they had seen in the entrance hall. She was garbed very similarly to Delia, except that her outfit was made entirely of jet black leather. “Hi there, Del!” she waved. Then her eyes settled on Paul. “So you’ve brought . . . IT . . . have you . . .”

“I sure have,” replied Delia. “Miss Mandy not about yet?” her victim, whose nates were twitching and quivering with dread anticipation. “Please don’t let me interrupt you, Ilse,” said Delia politely.

“That’s okay,” smiled the blonde Ilse. Then her features hardened again. “How many was that, Bettina?” she demanded.

“S-Six . . . Miss . . .” answered the shuddering girl.

“How many to go then?” asked Ilse.

“F-Four . . . Miss . . .” came the reply.

“Right,” said Ilse. “Keep counting . . .”

Four more times Paul watched the double-thonged strap swing with merciless venom. Each time a howl of pain was torn from the girl’s throat as she threshed and writhed convulsively. Yet each time, Paul noted, she did not forget to gasp out the number of the stroke she had just received. She was, he deduced from this, adequately experienced. Anyone less so would have missed somewhere along the line in the breath-taking agony of the moment. That strap was no lightweight. In fact it was a real brute!

“You’ll get the other half tomorrow,” Ilse told the sobbing girl. “And you can stay there for a couple of hours to think about that.” Paul realised that this was one of those divide punishments Karen had mentioned . . . and he did not envy the girl her session over that block on the morrow. It appeared, he thought with despair, that the regime at Bel Air was even stricter than he had let his imagination believe.

“What’s she been up to?” asked Delia as Ilse turned back to her, lovingly stroking the thongs of the heavy leather strap she had been using.

“ Bad report form one of the guests,” said Ilse briefly. “Lucky for her, in my opinion, that Miss Mandy didn’t order a whipping.”

Lucky! Paul’s mind absorbed the callous cynicism of the word. His eyes rested on Bettina’s quivering, empurpled nates. So Bettina was lucky, was she!

“You’ve brought young Karen along again, I see,” smiled Ilse. “For another taste of what she likes least, eh?”

“The cane, you mean?” replied Delia. “That’s right. I’m afraid the girl’s slow to learn.”

Paul heard several unrestrained sobs come from Karen, who continued to stand rigidly beside him whilst Ilse’s eyes continued to range, cruel and contemptuous over them both. “And it?” she asked pointing at Paul.

“He owner ordered that he gets the same . . . at the same time,” said Delia. “Just by way of introduction to Bel Air, I imagine.”

Ilse laughed. “I like that . . . a nice touch. Any preference for the one you deal with?”

“I’ve already given him a taste of leather,” said Delia, “so I think I’ll stick with him.” Apart from the newly discovered pleasure of thrashing a man, Delia was keen to find how just how tough Paul was.

“Suits me,” nodded Ilse. Indeed it did. She gained the maximum pleasure from disciplining girls who were not only as young and plump as Karen was but also as inexperienced. She gave the girl’s bottom a light slap and grinned at her. “I’m just in the mood to give it to you good and hard,” she said viciously. And the wretched Karen broke into another torrent of heaving sobs.

The Punishment Room, Paul realised, was not simply a place where one was brought, disciplined and then taken away. It seemed the policy was to have one remain there for quite some time. Absorbing the atmosphere, one might say . . . enduring the gradual build-up of mental and psychological tension that was heightened again by the sight and sound of others being punished. There was, Paul already realised quite an unpleasant degree of difference in being ‘privately’ disciplined by one’s own mistress and in this ‘public’ fashion. There could be no doubt that this Mrs Dupont knew what she was about when it came to slave control, thought Paul, as he continued to gaze with sympathy and understanding at the still-quivering nates of the girl who had been so soundly strapped.

Suddenly the doors at the far end of the Punishment Room opened and a tall, magnificently queenly looking figure came striding in. Paul realised at once that this must be Miss Mandy, the chief slave mistress . . . and he was taken aback to discover that she was of Creole origin. Strikingly beautiful, with only faint traces of the Negroid in her features, her skin was light coffee-coloured. As with many of her race, her features were haughtily proud, as was her bearing, and she moved with the lithe grace of a panther. Behind her she led two naked slave girls, each on a collar and chain.

The striding figure came nearer and Paul saw the glittering of black diamond eyes. He saw too the quiver and bounce of breasts beneath a gossamer-thin, white shirt-waister blouse. He saw the swing of a short pleated skirt of white leather and heard the click-clack of high-heeled white boots. Paul was so thunderstruck by the realisation that the new woman who would effectively control his life from now was coloured . . . and by her outstanding beauty . . . that he temporarily took leave of his senses. He was even unaware that Karen had dropped to her knees as, naturally, he should have done. His throat went dry and all his nerve ends tingled as this superb creature drew nearer and nearer. Then she was suddenly right before him . . . and Paul was brought harshly back to reality by receiving a violent blow in his solar plexus from Miss Mandy’s fist. It robbed him of all breath and strength and, sagging, he doubled up. “You get on your knees in my presence, you ape!” he heard Miss Mandy rasp from above.

Still doubled up, Paul went to his knees, absorbing the crippling pain of the blow. What a fool he was. Of course he should have realised he must get to his knees. As the pain began to ebb fractionally, he heard Miss Mandy giving orders, presumably concerning the two girls she had brought with her. “Saddle strap . . . for two hours,” she was saying. “Harness them side by side . . . each and every fall earns them five strokes a piece. And use a horsewhip while they’re in motion . . .”

“Certainly, Miss Mandy,” came Ilse’s eager voice. Then there was a short pause, whilst high heels clacked to and fro. Paul opened his eyes and saw the tips of Miss Mandy’s white boots right before him. The boots moved back a few inches. “Kiss the floor where I have stood, ape,” came the order. Quickly Paul began to slobber on the hard, smooth wood of the floor. To delay for an instant with such a woman, he realised, would be inviting disaster. From above he heard grunts from Delia and Ilse and whimpers and squeals from the two new arrivals. Obviously something painful was being fastened on them.

“Tighter,” ordered Miss Mandy. It was the one word she spoke during the preliminaries . . . and the whimpering and squealing intensified.

Paul continued to lick and kiss the floor fervently. Getting a dozen was quite enough; he didn’t want to invite any more.

“Get stepping!” It was an order from Ilse, followed by the whistle and crack of a horse whip. Once . . . twice. More and louder squeals. Then the click-clack of two pairs of high heels in unison. What was going on, wondered Paul, but naturally not daring to look.

“Up!” He sprang up at Miss Mandy’s voice, the pain in his midriff now a dull ache. Alongside him he was aware of Karen leaping to attention too; her heard her heavy breathing as her dread mounted. “I want that thing off him . . .” said Miss Mandy. “I want him bollock naked.”

“It’s padlocked on . . . his mistress has the key . . .” explained Delia.

A key arced through the air, thrown from Miss Mandy’s hand. “The key has been given to me, from now on he’s in MY charge.” Paul felt a chill of terror. Magnificently beautiful as this Creole woman was, the merciless viciousness of her radiated out like a shock wave. He felt Delia unfasten the padlock and the leather restrainer came away and he stood naked before the rapacious eyes of the three women. Those eyes seemed to devour him. At the far end of the room he could see the two slave-girls, fastened side by side, high-stepping their way round. As they came back towards him, he saw that a broad leather belt nipped in each waist and a thin leather thong drawn tightly round and underneath them, cut cruelly into their most tender woman flesh. The look of anguish on their features was very understandable.

“Why, in fact, is he here?” asked Miss Mandy. “I proposed to give him his Initiation later.” The chill terror in Paul intensified at the implication of those words. Delia explained Gloria van Meer’s request and Miss Mandy nodded. “Very commendable,” she said. “Well, he can have those first . . .” The two slave-girls went high-stepping by, breasts bouncing rhythmically. “Move!” commanded Miss Mandy. One arm thrust sideways and a finger pointed peremptorily to the far side of the room. “The birching hurdle will be convenient for this, I think. There’s room for two.”

Paul turned at once, as did Karen. The girl, beginning to sob fearfully again, was ahead of him. He could not keep his eyes from the soft bounce and quiver of her reddened buttocks. The sight of them fascinated him and, despite what lay ahead, he was aware of the surge of desire in him. He wondered if she was recalling his words about trying to be brave. It was not easy for a young and inexperienced girl. They approached a kind of hurdle set into the floor. It consisted of two stout uprights and a rounded cross bar, about the thickness of a flagpole, running between them. The crossbar was about three feet off the floor and in the floor were numerous attaching rings.

“We’ll have them over it, facing opposite ways,” said Miss Mandy.

Paul stood so that the lowest part of his belly was pressing against the cold solidity of the crossbar; Karen was placed on the other side of the bar, just to his right. He saw that she was trembling uncontrollably, and, though he kept his head straight, his eyes instinctively turned to watch the rise and fall of her heaving breasts. Ilse came into his line of vision, flexing an unpleasantly stout looking rod which she must have just selected from the array he had already seen on a nearby table. He heard the click of Delia’s high heels behind him and it did not take much imagination to guess she was doing the same. In fact, at that very moment, he heard her swishing the cane experimentally through the air. Familiar as he was with the sound, it never ceased to set the butterflies whirring violently in his stomach.

“Bend over,” ordered Miss Mandy, who it seemed, was to secure them. Paul obeyed at once, hearing a hopeless despairing moan from Karen as she did likewise. He felt the softness of her flank pressing to his; he felt too, the stretching and tautening of the flesh of his nates. Just to the right of him he saw Karen’s white calf, the muscle twitching. She was secured first. Miss Mandy fastened on leathern ankle cuffs to which were attached short lengths of chain, each of which had a kind of dog-leash clip at the end. Each clip was latched on to a ringbolt in the floor, these being about eighteen inches apart. The wrist cuffs of a similar kind were put on . . . and these were pulled back between Karen’s legs and fastened behind the ankle attachments. This gave the maximum tightness of curve to her hindquarters and stretched her arms and legs fully. Paul glimpsed the girl’s distorted features, inverted, as her head came back between her calves, the blonde hair hanging down to sweep upon the floor. She was sobbing like a small child.

“M-Merc . . . ee . . . m-merc . . . eee . . . m-merce . . . eee . . .” he heard her keep choking out, despite obviously knowing the futility of it.

Then, with brisk, practised efficiency, Miss Mandy dealt with Paul similarly. He watched the dusky arms, hands and fingers as they moved, with a fatalistic kind of fascination. This is my new mistress, he thought . . . the woman who now has complete control of the degree of mental and physical torment I shall endure. The posture, needless to say, was a painful one, perhaps more so for Paul than Karen, for his body was less supple. As with a final strong pull, Miss Mandy latched on the second clip, Paul had to fight down that familiar wave of panic that such utter helplessness induces.

Suddenly, Miss Mandy’s hand was before his face. In it was something that looked like a small black dog’s bone. “A little bonus we give trained slaves,” she said. “Open your mouth.”

Paul did so and the ‘bonus’ went between his teeth. They clamped on it and he found it was a bone made of rubber. He realised the purpose of it was for him to bite on . . . and so, maybe, prevent himself crying out. Was this a ‘kindness’ that only added up to an extra cruelty, he wondered confusedly. At all events, he bit hard and summoned up his will. Through his legs, his head inverted, he saw Delia’s scarlet high-heeled boots and tapering white thighs. He saw, too, the rod swinging gently to and fro in her hand. It was as thick as his little finger. No lightweight by any means. Paul bit harder.

Then the rod moved . . . and Paul felt it tapping lightly on his curving rump as Delia measured him. Karen’s whimpering pleas grew louder and more hysterical, so the same must be happening to her, he knew.

“Begin,” said Miss Mandy, with cool, casual authority.

The rods were raised together . . . and together, hoarse and harsh, they whistled down, with both Delia and Ilse putting all they knew into the strokes. Paul and Karen got the searing bite of them together . . . a breath-taking, mind-bending, hot-wire blaze of pain. From Karen came an agonised, howling-scream of pain; from Paul came an equally agonised high-pitched whinny as he bit fiercely on the rubber clenched between his teeth. He absorbed the pain, knowing as he did so, so precisely did Karen . . . feeling her flank squirming and thumping against his.

Then, just when the pain has been absorbed to the full and was beginning to ebb fractionally, there came the relentless whistling sound of the whiplashing rods again . . . followed by a second liquid-fire streak of torment encircling the buttocks, just an inch below the first. Another ear-splitting shriek from Karen . . . another teeth-clenched whinny from Paul . . . with both naked rumps juddering and squirming convulsively.

Oh God, thought Paul, there are ten more like that to come! How could he hold out? And, why oh why was he being put to such torment? Not for any fault of failure but simply on account of a whim of his mistress! The very thought was sapping to the will.

All the same, Paul took six more of the very best that Delia could hand out (and she was a match for Gloria) before a yelping howl was torn from him and the rubber gag ejected from his mouth. With each of those strokes it seemed as if he slipped several more feet down the rope of control to which he clung suspended, losing out all the time with steady accumulation of pain. All the time the cacophony of sound from the wretched Karen increased. Would it now, wondered Paul, his mind as well as his buttocks seemingly ablaze, be a release to scream like that?

Release or not, the first cry was forced from him on the eighth stroke . . . and successively more agonised yelps came from him as Delia laid on the final four strokes with merciless vigour and precision.

She had broken him . . . broken him! And like the writhing female flesh alongside him, he bayed it for all to hear!