It goes against my better judgment to talk to her, much less have her in this house. The decision is not mine, however. This is the work of Maelstrom. And as long as he is writing the checks that make my life possible here at Singing Wind, who am I to argue?

It is a very good life.

She is, young, perhaps late twenties, early thirties, blonde with perfect legs; feet on one end and ass on the other. The fact that her ass can only be considered a 9 ½ is only because I have never seen a true 10. Meeting her at the door to my study, I offer my arm to escort her in, the perfect gentleman. I purposely situate her body out of my line of sight. I want only to concentrate on her face. It is not a beautiful face. No, not beautiful, Beautiful is too bland an adjective. She is interesting, intelligent, and smooth. These adjectives work. . She is magnificent, utterly magnificent. Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but this is not the case. I have made a life study of women and fancy myself a connoisseur of feminine flesh and character. To put it in the vernacular of my trade, this is a five million dollar cunt. And this was the strangest recruitment interview I have ever conducted.

“…and he told me I could count on you to fully acclimate me to the facility.” She told me in a flat tone, delivered with even a flatter look on her face. She was sizing me up and at the same time, trying to maintain her dignity. Dignity is a strange thing to women. This one views me as powerful and I am. But she also thinks I’m the lowest form of life on the planet. Be nice to the lowlife, the pervert. How genteel. I may be, too, all that and more. I trade in flesh. I am the first link in the White Slave chain store. Now I find myself interviewing a genuine, card carrying member of the fourth estate, the press, the New York Times. She is sitting across my from me, in my study, wearing a short skit and no panties hoping to entice me. To be honest, I had no idea whether to laugh or laugh uncontrollably.

“My facility,” I intoned just as flatly. “This entire facility, as you put it, is mine. Its conception, construction, and implementation are the produce of my thoughts, dreams and desires. It exists because one man dared to dream a dream and is willing to pay the price of seeing his ideas bear fruit. And yes, you can count on me to fully acclimate you to Singing Winds.” I let these words, the latter delivered with sarcastic mirth and trail off to the proverbial pregnant pause, as I’d heard my aunt say, if not a million times, then close. Her flat look was still plastered to her face but it didn’t go all the way to her eyes, though. Her eyes were flinty. I would not swear to it, but it seemed her breathing had hiccupped, just a small catch. She glanced at her notebook as if she needed to refresh her memory, and I think that is true, in so far as the thread of her memory is unraveling.

“Exactly, where am I?” She asked.

“You are in The House of Singing Wind.” I replied, hinting in my voice that this was an illogical question.

“I mean, exactly where is the House of Singing Wind? Generally speaking, I don’t want to know the GPS coordinates or anything, just where I am.” Her confidence was returning, though not to full force.

“Generally speaking, on Earth. Great pains have been taken to assure my privacy, my client’s privacy and the privacy of my novitiates. You are an investigative reporter. Investigate. The precautions we have taken with you are the same that any client, the hired help, or the newly chosen experience. Blindfold, hood and blacked out windows on my jet. No contact with the crew. Timing the flight won’t help, either. The flight lasts between nine and eleven and three quarter hours.

“Singing Winds has been in operation for fourteen years. I do the recruiting, the scheduling, the transportation, and have personally directed the curriculum.” Curriculum, what a concept! I think the word “program” would be a more likely term, so I correct my self. “I like to think of it as the program.” At this, I see her visibly swallow hard. Her confidence is waning.

“The program,” she repeated, “exactly what does that involve?” I cannot stop the small smile that is tugging at the corner of my mouth. She is trying to be the reporter, always analytical. I wondered how long that was going to last. Perhaps forever, perhaps not past tomorrow.

“It’s a training program, pure and simple.” At this, I stood and clasped my hands behind my back and knew I was about to lecture. And she was completely in my view again. “We train concubines, servants, slaves, fuck toys, whores, sluts, or whatever you want to call uncompensated human beings that are owned, controlled, used, abused and held in servitude. We train them to understand the importance of serving another, completely, in any manner prescribed by the client. What the client desires, we provide. The actual crux of the matter is that each novice is here of their own volition.” I chuckled, “An all volunteer force, if you will, striving to be the best they can. They have the desire to serve, to be of service and to be compliant. We foster that desire, we mold that desire, and we hone it to a fine edge. That is the Program. What is it you desire? You’ve got your full story now, you can write your article and enlighten the world about Singing Wind. You have seen all you will see and told all you will be told.” I turned and started toward the door.

“No, wait!” She implored to me. “I want to have the full picture I want to know what it’s like to be in the House of Singing Wind, the experience, talk to the others. I want my story to be fact based on my own experience not perceptions. I’ve flown here, to God knows where and you’re ready to send me off? Maelstrom promised me a story and I’m here to get it and I mean to get it.” There was fire in her eyes now and the small smile was again licking at the corners of my mouth. She was close to saying what she needed to say, but not quite there. “I want to see what the novices go through, I want that.”

“No!” I almost barked, “That is not going to happen. Maelstrom does not own this place and I’m not his servant. I’m under no obligation to show you anything. I’ve told you what you wanted to know about this place. Go back to New York and make up what you’d like about Singing Wind. It exists, you’ve seen it.”

In almost a girlish tone she said what I’d known she’d say, eventually, I was taken completely by surprise by how quickly and timidly it came.

“I want to be trained.”

And that was that and I knew an article would never be written.

I walk over and stand before her. I know what my eyes look like boring into her and I am looking quite through her. I can taste the fear stirring in her soul. I can feel the intensity building in the muscles of my face. I can smell her very well now, her perfume, her perspiration, her cunt. I can feel my voice box tighten, ready to take on the raspy quality that comes with “The Voice”. I watch as her hands tighten their grips on the arms of her chair, her knuckles going white. I stop 3 paces from her chair.

“Kneel.” My voice is deep, the word perfectly annunciated.

She does not move, so I repeat: “Kneel.” My voice is even, almost slow. It is not a whisper, it is very conversational with enough conviction to let her know I am in no mood for games. Still, she does not move. As slowly as I can, I close the distance between us and as my right foot comes to rest next to my left, my right hand flashes from my side, a flick, fast as a fighter’s jab, I slap her. The sound reverberates in the stillness of my office. I think to myself that I will never forget this look in her eye. She is stunned, but she does not become hysterical. This time when I say “Kneel.” in the same, even tone of the last two commands, she slides smoothly to the floor into a kneeling position.

“Pleasure me.” Same slow, quiet, melodious tone. Again, she looks at me with an uncomprehending look. “Suck me, blow me, slurp the schlong, smooch the root, give Mr. Johnson a kiss, eat me, do the deep throat, puff the penis, bob the knob, you give me long time sucky-sucky, give me head. Do what your told, when you’re told. Are there any questions?” I slap her smartly again. “No? Well, that’s just fine.”

And deftly, her hands go to my fly to release my cock from confinement, her lips part and she envelopes the shaft into her warm, moist mouth. Her eyes close and, I’m sure her motivation is to get this over as quickly as possible. I make suggestions as to speed, tongue usage, teeth positioning, and she quickly learns to gently and devotedly bring me to climax. Dutifully, she swallows every drop of cum I pump into her mouth.

My orgasm does not stop her ministrations until I gently pushed her mouth from me, the sensation is too intense to deal with for long. I could swear that I see disappointment furrow her brow as I pull my manhood from her lips. Then, she looks up at me. I say nothing for a long moment. “When you are done with something, put it away,” I say. And dutifully, she does. I walk back to my desk and discreetly push a small button. Almost immediately, the door opens and an Asian woman with a dour look on her face walks in. “This is Soledad. You will call her Mistress Sollie. She is going to play show and tell with you. Show you what you need to see and tell you what you need to know. Sollie, this bitches name is Slut. Take very good care of her or we just might need a session with the barbed wire flogger.” Oh, the look on Slut’s face upon hearing this reminded me of the credit card commercial. Priceless. As fast as cat, Sollie places an iron collar on Slut’s neck and slips a leash in place and leads her away. Slut, too shocked and stunned to protest, crawls away on her hands and knees like a dutiful puppy.

Chapter 2 – Li

The morning is hot and muggy and there is little doubt there will be rain in the jungle before noon. From the tree line, we watch as people from the surrounding villes began to congregate in a clearing, a cul-de-sac, one road both in and out. There is little to do but wait and see what is going on. The Laotian-Thailand border is notorious as a portal for arms and supplies from China via Laos, across Thailand into Cambodia and on into Vietnam. What is most curious about this gathering is the predominance of men and children, mostly young women. To my eye, I am certain these are families. Tran Ngo, the team’s translator, sidles up to me to apprise me of the situation, for my ears only.

“These farmers, very poor. Come to sell children. Not come to meet to meet Cong. No guns, no rice.”

I was stunned. “Why?” I asked.
”No money, no food. Girl childs no be married, no money, no buffalo to give to husband’s family, boys too young to work to rice paddies. Farmers has many children, many mouth to feed. If no can work, no can feed. Better sell than kill or starve.” He said this with a matter of fact dignity. This was the oriental way: He would make no judgments. His flat look told me that I was in no position to judge, either.

When his report is finished, Tran evaporates as silent as a ghost just as a mid fifties vintage Cadillac pulls into the clearing. My fist shoots up in a tight fist next to my ear. My index finger goes strait up, waggles back and forth once and then I make the peace sign. None of the men in the team need any explanation for the signal: Freeze, take cues from me, safeties on. Also, the men know exactly who is driving the Caddy. It is Dirty Mary, the mamasan of a bar by the same name in downtown Bangkok.

“Looks like Mamasan’s on a mission to buy some new hookers.” Miller says. “Fresh meat and I’m three months from mid tour R&R.” He said this almost disgustedly. Virgins go for a premium bar fine and are very sought after on their first night working the second floor at Dirty Mary’s..

I flash “on me” and say out loud, “The smoking lamp is lit.” I pull a Lucky from my pocket and made a big production of lighting it, not caring if the clicking noise of my Zippo carries into the clearing and I begin walking toward the gathering crowd. The sight of five men carrying weapons sends a ripple of tension through the group, but they quickly realize that we are not Thai Federal Police and they relax. Dirty Mary recognizes Miller right away. I suppose spending the paychecks saved for five months in a week at a whorehouse can really popularize a person and she breaks out into a ever widening grin.

“You number one, GI, Millersan!” she cries out. That just about did it for me. I had the urge to butt stroke her upside her toothless head. I hate the way the gooks are always slipping into Japanese sounding Pigeon English; always calling us “Number One”. I am pretty sure that number is signified by the middle finger, but I ignore her.

I motion for Tran to get his ass over to me and point to a farmer standing next to a young girl. “Ask him how old she is,” I order. Tran did and the farmer went into a diatribe that lasted a lot longer than just stating a number.

“‘He say, she fifteen and very strong. Can pick grass out of rice patty long time, pick rice too. She good cook and make many baby, all boy.” The look on my face upset the farmer and filled him with fear. This seems to be Dirty Mary’s cur to begin to examine the girl. It reminded me of grizzled old ranchers examining breed stock before an auction at stockyards back, back in the world in Oklahoma. She fells the girl’s breasts through her rough blouse and pulls back her woven hat to pick at her hair and part her lips to look at her teeth, teeth that were perfect in spite of never having been seen by a dentist in their lifetime. Then, she began to dicker with the farmer. I looked a Tran and he said “She say she give 500 baht.” Twenty-five American dollars.

“Tell him I give one thousand,” and so the price war began. Back and forth the bidding goes until the figure reaches ten thousand baht. Finally, Dirty Mary gives me a disgusted look and spits at my feet. “You no come to my bar, no more, Lieutenantsan!”

“Not a problem,” I said, and spit right back at her feet. I paid the farmer who without another look at his daughter, turns and walks away, towards the woods and Laos. Mary makes an awful sound in my direction and Tran starts to translate. I hold up my hand him. “I know what she said, Tran.”

I walk away, also back toward the woods, to the Landing Zone where we’ll be picked up. Tran just looks at me and then says “You boo koo dinky dau!” “Yep, Tran, one crazy motherfucker, I just spent ten thousand nickels, five hundred bucks on a human being!”

I awake with a start and come instantly alert as I always do when I have this dream. You can take the boy out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the boy. A soft hand caresses my cheek and I look into two limpid brown pools of light that are Li’s eyes. I think she knows what I am dreaming about but she never says a word, and snuggles closer to me, placing her tiny hand on my chest. I am awake and will be for the rest of the night. I patiently wait for her breathing return to a rhythmical steady beat before I leave the bed. I have a lot to think about, the least of which is how Li came to be in my life. The dream that was not always a dream sometimes disturbs me.

I leave my private wing of Singing Winds heading towards the staff cells; I want to talk to Sollie before I leave. Without knocking, I walk right in to her room. Even if there were a lock on her door, I knew it would be unlocked. I reach into my pocket for the Zippo that has been in my pocket for the last thirty years, minus the four months three years ago when it took a little vacation to Bradford, Pee Ay, back in the good ole’ You Ess of Ay for some of that good old lifetime warranty service. Made it the U.S. of A may not mean shit in Detroit, but Pennsylvania is a whole different ball game.

I could have turned on the lights, but when talking to Sollie, especially, I find candlelight soothing. I open the lid of the lighter slowly and quietly and light a taper on her bed table and this does not wake her. On the other side of her bed, leaning against the wall I make out a shape. Picking up the candle, I move to the other side of the bed and can’t help but smile. No wonder Sollie doesn’t wake up seems she was busy far into the night.

Leaning against the wall is a rough cross with a limp body tied to it. The eyes are closed and I can see the eyes rapidly moving in REM dream-sleep. Ahh, the dreams of Slut; these are dreams that could interest me. Softly I touch her lips and an involuntary shiver courses down her body but she does not wake. She is beautiful, her breasts are full and pendulous, with a light sheen of perspiration that glistens in the candlelight. I can see that she is wearing a chastity devise. I don’t need to guess that her cunt and ass are filled and well filled at that. The slickness on her thighs also says that I don’t have to guess that it might be KY jelly. I return to the far side of the bed, lean down and give Sollie’s cheeks several light taps. Her eyes pop open and move side to side rapidly, unfocused. Finally, her eyes settle on my face and she recognizes me. She quietly slips out of bed and onto her knees. I sit on her bed feeling the warmth of her body still in the sheets. She knee walks forward and settles between my thighs, Idly I begin to stroke her black hair as she looks into my eyes with a shy smile that lights her entire face.

“Rough night?” I ask. Her smile broadens and just as suddenly she is serious. “Are you sure this one should be here?” She asks softly, nodding toward Slut. “There’s a lot of spirit in her. I’m not sure if she’s taking training because she wants it or because it gets her what she wants.” I knew exactly what she meant. “Sollie,” I said, “Don’t question her motives, and just train her to the best of your, and her, abilities.” I think she wanted to talk more about this but she knew the discussion was over. It is now time to listen to me.

“I’m leaving this morning; I’m going to see Maelstrom about this one and run some other errands. Don’t try too hard to break this one. And be extremely careful, I don’t know yet if this is someone’s property. Not that I really care, but if she belongs to Malestrom then it’s going to cost him the same she would fetch at auction to training her. Just in case, leave something out because Maelstrom thinks he can finish a slave’s training regimen.” We smiled at each other at this. “If that’s the case, I think this one might be at Singing Wind for a very long time,” I added and Sollie nodds in agreement.

I crane my head back as if to look at the ceiling and begin to rotate my head, eyes closed, feeling the gravel in my neck and spine grate bone to bone as I try to relax. I feel Sollie’s hand go into the fly in my silk pajamas and slip inside. I looked down at her and lightly grab her wrist to stop her. “Li’s already taken care of that,” I said. Rolling over on my side, I stretch out on Sollie’s bed. I am awake and know I won’t fall back asleep, but I am exhausted, the way I always feel after the dream. Sollie crouches at the end of the bed and begins to massage my feet. I close my eyes and give into the sensation she is sending up my sciatic nerve that culminates in a tingling sensation just behind my right ear. I roll onto my back and I feel her take my toes between her warm, moist lips, sucking my toes, pulling them between her lips as if they were tiny cocks. She runs her tongue between my toes and then licks up their lengths. She takes all five on each foot into her mouth at once and runs her tongue around each one. She then began to lick the entire foot with deliberate, long, tongue strokes. I raise my head and look down at her, her features softened by the glow of the candle, her face serene in her devotion to the worship of my feet. I lay back, closed my eyes and completely lose myself in her ministrations. She works on, sensually and methodically, into the night.

I wake, again, to light streaming through the high window of Sollie’s cell. I am in her bed, covered up, feeling snuggly warm. Slut is not tied to the cross any longer and I am quite alone in Sollie’s room. I throw back the covers and get to my feet, stretching broadly. I feel totally refreshed and alert, not totally unlike the mornings I awoke in the jungle a million years ago: Totally ready for any contingency. Briskly, I leave the room and head back to my quarters. Have to get a move on. Today, I’m to be a traveling man.

Chapter 3 – Changelings

Gently, Sollie tucks her master into her bed as the graying sky of morning was brightening her cell enough to see with out a light. Slut, tied to her cross is still sleeping the sleep of the dead. Sollie can see a ropy line of spittle falling from the corner of Slut’s mouth dribbling onto her left breast and this makes her smile. Picking a pair of soiled panties from the hamper next to her dresser, she retrieves a roll of duct tape from the bottom drawer. Moving silently to the sleeping form tied to the cross, she tears off half a foot and sticks it to the lower edge of the cross piece. She reaches out and pinches Slut’s nostrils causing her mouth to open and stuffs the balled up the panties deeply into Slut’s mouth and quickly secures her mouth with the tape.

Slut’s eyes flash open almost immediately wondering why this Filipino bitch would not leave her alone. The gag in her mouth did not allow for any noise to escape her. Solly moved close to her ear and spoke softly,

“Look in my bed.”

Slut did as she was told surprised to see the man she had met only the day before, the one who had sent her into hell with this bitch from hell who has seemingly worked her over the entire night. Just as quickly, she realizes that Mistress Sollie has not been working on her all night; she has been asleep standing tied to the cross. Her eyes go back to Mistress Solly. What surprised most is that that is exactly how she is thinking about this Asian woman: Mistress Sollie.

“Make one sound that wakes him up and your whole day will be irreversibly fucked up in the first 30 seconds you are awake.”

Slut thinks to herself that the day is already pretty much fucked up waking up tied to a cross, with a pair of panties taped in your mouth, wearing a chastity belt with a dildo up your ass and cunt wearing only what must be really nice bruises on her ass and tits being ordered around by what her brother (who’d done a tour in the Marines) would call a LBRPFM’s, which is short for Little Brown Rice Powered Fucking Machines. No, she thinks, days do not come any more fucked than this. “Understand?” Solly barks softly.

Slut nodded dumbly.

Taking a leash from a hook on the wall, Solly clipps it deftly to the collar around Slut’s neck and unties first her ankles and then her wrists. As she is lowered to the floor her shoulder joints make a loud popping sound. They are numb and leaden. Sollie gives Slut a hard look. “You know what position you are to be in when you are on the leash,” she hissed.

Slut dropped to all fours and is promptly and unceremoniously led out of the cell and into the morning light. Sollie keeps her moving at a rapid pace and Slut finds she can not keep up and quickly adjusts by coming up off her knees and onto the balls of her feet moving in a crab like fashion. Awkward as this was, she finds that she can now keep up with her Mistress. Abruptly, Sollie stops. Intent on keeping her balance, Slut does not realize this until the leash became taut and spills her on her face.

“Pay attention!” Sollie snaps. She grabs Slut’s collar and jerks her to her knees. Roughly, she rips the duct tape that covering her mouth and Slut can not stifle a cry and involuntarily a hand goes to her mouth to rub her lips. Her breath is coming in ragged gulps as she tries to catch her breath and spit the panties from her mouth. Slut has been in constant torment since leaving the study yesterday and Mistress Sollie has given her little respite since coming into her charge. The sleep she’d had on the cross had been poor, at best and fatigue was now her constant companion.

“We are now going into breakfast. I know you haven’t eaten since yesterday, but don’t bolt your food. Eat what you are given and don’t you dare ask for more. As a matter of principle, don’t talk at all. That is unless being tutored in manner is what you want from me, then, well, just piss me off.” Sollie gives Slut a sardonic and wryly sadistic smile at this while looking down at the wretched form of Slut, kneeling in the sandy grass with puffy eyes and raw knees, generally looking pitiful.

Slut thinks she wants to do more than just piss Mistress Solly off. She wants to grab a handful of hair and jerk her to the ground and give her a taste of her own medicine, but something tells her this was not even a remotely good idea. These thoughts, against her will, telegraph to her face. Sollie smiles, reached out and twists her left nipple cruelly saying, “You better think again. That good idea you are thinking right now may not be such a good idea in reality.” And Slut blushes bright red and tears began to course down her face. How in the name of fuck can she know what she is thinking?

Sollie turns and with hard tug on the leash, Slut begins to follow at a slower pace. They enter a building through a large doorway and she is led to a low bench before a long table and is given the order to stand. To her amazement, as she looks around the room, she is surprised to find the room filled with at least ten long tables and each has at least a dozen women standing just as she is. On the table before each place is a bowl of what can be best described as mush. A small bell rings and the women, in mass, sit in their respective places. Sollie has to give a small jab into Slut’s back to get her to follow suit. When she sits, the dildo from chastity device in her ass is noticeably uncomfortable and she is shocked to realize that her bodily needs are becoming pressing: She has to pee very badly. She sees that all the women have lowered their faces into the bowls and are eating. Sollie grabbed a handful of Slut’s hair and shoves her face into the bowl and she began to lap at the contents so as not to drown. Sollie says in a low voice “I’ll see you tomorrow, behave.” And she is gone. Slut does not see Mistress Solly for the next eighteen hours.

* * *

Slut is amazed that the contents of the bowl tastes delicious and she begins to eat greedily. She raises her eyes enough to see the girl across from her looking at her, her face and nose sticky and covered with the creamy mush.

“It’s breadfruit,” the girl whispers. No sooner than this is said, a hand pushes the girl’s face back into the bowl roughly.

“You want to eat or you at high tea this morning? Shoot the shit on your own time!”

Looking up, Slut sees a very large woman standing behind the girl holding her face in the bowl and then grabs a handful of hair and lifts her face from it bringing her to an upright position. The girl, her face now covered completely with her breakfast, opens her soft brown eyes and smiles softly at Slut.

“Thank you mistress for correcting this wayward bitch,” she says in an even voice. The woman only grunts and gives the girl’s head a shove. The girl only smils again and resumed eating.

She points a riding crop at Slut and barks, “Get your face back in that bowl if you know what’s good for you,” and then walks on.

Trying to take in as much of the scene as possible, Slut does not finish her meal before the small bell rings and once again, in unison, the women all rise. She can only look back at her unfinished meal and frown. The women deftly step back over the benches and reached their hands out to either side to clasp the hands of the women to either side. Slut did like wise. The women on her side of the table executed a left face, while those opposite performed a right face maneuver and the women file out two abreast for where Slut knows not.

* * *

Waking up in Sollie’s bed, I leisurely stretch out before leaving her cell and walk toward the beach rather than my quarters. Once on the beach, I contort my body with exercise to stretch out my leg and back muscles before I start out at an easy gait. Quickly tiring in the loose, dry sand, I ease down past the tide line on to the hard, wet packed sand and pick up the pace. I watch for my markers and in just over 13 minutes I punch out two and half miles thinking about nothing other than the blue in blue of the South China Sea off to my left. The hot, humid morning has me drenched in sweat and as I slow to a cooling walk, I can smell Sollie on me and that, perhaps, is also tinted with the smell of Slut.

Back at my quarters, I shower and change into a freshly pressed white Panama suit. Li has laid my clothes neatly out on the valet before the triple tailor’s mirrors and I can not help but admire the figure I cut. I am not a vain man, in the least, but I am amazed at how a tailored suit makes a man look. I think of Charles Laughton or Sidney Toler, the actor who played Charlie Chan and how good they always looked in a Panama suit, I never thought I would look so good. Knowing that Li has never seen a Charlie Chan movie or has any clue as to whom Charles Laughton might be, I am struck by her sense of style.

Just out the door my quarters, I found a jeep waiting on the cobblestone drive. In the driver’s seat is a young blonde woman and sitting in the rear seat is a dark, mysterious Hindu goddess. She is dressed in a cream silk blouse and dark A line skirt. The driver is naked save for a collar with a silver tag engraved ‘Cocksucker’. Not a word is spoken as I get into the front seat as the driver puts the jeep in gear and smoothly speeds out of the drive to the road leading toward the airfield. The trip takes less than 5 minutes even though the car never reaches a speed above 15 miles per hour. As the field comes into view, I can see the Gulfstream sitting on the tarmac as a lone figure completes a walk-around inspection as the tail strobe light flashes in the gathering sunlight of morning. I know instinctively that the inspector is Tommy Milkman, a bright, handsome lad, who you might mistake for preppy if it weren’t for his deep southern drawl, a true Son of Georgia. Tommy had learned to fly in the Air Force, flying lumbering cargo planes. He had longed to slip the surly bounds of Earth in the cockpit of an F-16, but had only qualified to fly the Military’s version of the Douglas DC-9, great training if your dream was to fly forever and ever for an airline, but that really sucked if you had the need for speed and Tommy had the need for speed very bad.

In the cockpit was J.D. McAlester. Mac had been my roommate at the Boat School, the Naval Academy, and captain of the crew team. He had been an Aerospace major, while I am a mere English major. He had dreamed of the sky since his childhood. From the time he was ten, every thought, every action was designed to get him into the cockpits of jets. And it had worked. F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam, almost becoming an ace and later he flew F-14A Tomcats. However, the Tomcat had bitten. In a training exercise, the immense weight of the aircraft over powered by a pair of Pratt and Whitney TF 30’s had managed to flat spin. By the time recovery of the aircraft had quit being an academic probability and had became a firm impossibility, the decision to eject had already been made by the Naval Flight Officer, a man who J.D. will only speak of by his call sign, Zippo. Coming out of the cockpit with the force and speed of a rocket strapped to their asses, the men were accelerated by ten gravities of thrust. Zippo’s body was never recovered while J.D.’s Martin-Baker ejection seat worked as advertised to float him into the Mediterranean Sea safely. He was cleared by the Board of Inquiry but, never the less, the injuries he suffered that day prevented him from ever sitting in the driver’s seat of a jet aircraft again, that is, until I bought him this Gulfstream, with a severe warning that eternity would be a nightmare of epic proportions if he killed me in the goddamn thing. Truth was, he was my best friend: If we died together, we’d toast the devil with his own scotch and spit in his eye.

Pulling along side the aircraft, Cocksucker brought the jeep to a smooth stop. I gave the driver’s left nipple a pinch and a tug and said with a smile, “Thank you, Cocksucker.”

“The pleasure is mine, Milord.” She says with a sweet smile, enjoying the manipulation of her nipple a little too much.

As the other passenger unloads my traveling case along with two suitcases of her own and lugs them toward the plane, I go strait over to Tommy waiting by the cargo hatch and exchange pleasantries as we wait for the girl to bring the luggage. Setting the three cases on the ground near the plane, she gracefully drops to her knees to bend forward to kiss Tommy’s shoes. I stifled a laugh as this is one of those things that is an embarrassment to Tommy and he can only look at me sheepishly.

“Get aboard,” I tell her and lightly touch her forehead as she rises to her feet.

“Where to Boss?” He is clearly relieved that the girl is leaving to board the aircraft.

“Hong Kong, Miss Singh has a date at an auction this evening at the Hilton and then we’re all going to get a massive steak and really drunk at Ned Kelly’s Last Stand on the Kowloon side. J.D.’s buying.”

“Does he know that?”

“Not yet,” I smiled, “you can break that part to him.”

And with that, I board the plane to take my seat.

Chapter 4 – An interlude between worlds

Tommy came through the cabin door after securing the fuselage compartments, folded the stairway and started to close the hatch behind him. Miss Singh came up behind him and lightly touched his arm. He turns and almost immediately the blush he had had outside on the tarmac was back. She can see it and his eyes, eyes that said he was a man unaccustomed to being in close proximity of such a beautiful woman, one that responds in a way that no woman in Tommy’s world ever responds. I watch as his Adams apple bobs in a very long swallow. She looks directly into his light blue eyes with her soft doe eyes.

“I will secure the door,” she says softly, so softly that in the distance between us, two seats, I can only make out the word door. Tommy slowly nods and turns and goes into the cockpit and gently closes the privacy curtain behind him. I imagine that he has sat down in the co-pilot’s chair rather quickly. Seeing him with a hard on would keep J.D. in stitches for months. Tommy does not care for the world on the other side of the island and I respect that. While he respects what it is I have built here and why I do it, it is something that he keeps a respectful distance from.

Miss Singh has been known for the last two years as Knob Bobber. Before that, she was known as Amahdee and twelve hours from now she will be known, as Linda, The Pretty One, for the rest of her life. She now stands at the door for a long time looking out taking in the scene and breathing in the warm, tropical air deeply. She makes no sound. The auxiliary power unit comes on line and the sound level rises noticeably and the cabin lights momentarily flicker. The unit begins to spool up as high pressure air makes it way to the compressor sections of the plane’s engines. At this, Miss Singh tugs on the tether to close the door and locks the handle in place. When she turns, she is crying. The sobs deep inside her chest are being restrained, but not very well. The tears, large and free flowing course down her cheeks streaking her makeup. Without looking at me, she takes her seat and buckles herself in. The jet turns at idle speed for about two minutes, taxies to the end of the runway, turns and accelerates in one fluid maneuver. Three minutes after engines start, we are in the air and “feet wet”, over the water. Miss Singh’s sobbing does not abate and her tears seem ceaseless.

I reached over and touch her arm. Her eyes meet mine. Her tears freshen.

“I cannot go, I am not ready,” she says.

“Yes,” I say simply. And with tears streaming unashamedly down her face, she laughs. A deep laugh, a normal, funny laugh, as if hearing a joke.

“Yes, I’m not ready or yes, I’m not?”

“Pick one,” I smile, “because what I think is of no import. It’s what you think that counts. Remember your first days here? Think about then, how badly you wanted this day to come.”

“First days? How about the better part of the first year! I wanted to be taught to be something other than me. How could I know that what I needed was to be taught to be treated like property? How would I know that I would love that? No, I don’t think I’m ready. I know I am not ready.” She said the last with conviction.

“You’re ready. Open the window shade and take a look.”

I touch the key to the intercom and bark “J.D., turn around. Give the island a flyby then do it again at 90 degrees.” I meant for it to sound like a request but it sounded more like an order.

He did just as I’d asked. We cruise the island about a mile off at just over a thousand feet up. I watch as Miss Singh cranes her neck to see the island come into view, watch it pass, and crane her neck again to see it pass behind us. After a long slow turn, the island comes into view again and she does the same again. Some time after it has passed from her view, forever, she closes the shade and turns to me. The tears are back and I soften.

“You can live your old life until we land.”

With that, she stands and slowly slides down the zipper of the skirt and lets it fall. She carefully unbuttons her blouse, removes it, and carefully folds her clothes so not to wrinkle them. She then unhooks her bra and slips from it and stands naked before me. She is not wearing any panties. From my jacket pocket, I take out a collar with a small silver tag that reads “Knob Bobber”. She kneels before me so that I can place it back on her neck and I am greeted with the sweetest smile I have ever seen.

* * *

Slut and the others silently leave the dining hall two abreast into the morning sunshine. The sound of an airplane draws her eyes skyward and she watches the small jet aircraft pass from left to right. She wanted to stop and watch it but when she slowed down the woman behind her ran into her and dropped her mentally back into reality. She knows it is the same plane that she had boarded in Honolulu, what, two, three days ago? She is dawdling and can tell the girl behind her is growing impatient with her as she is squeezing her hand sharply.

She fells like a schoolgirl again, walking in line with other girls, holding hands front to back, going to the lavatory in the library building at her elementary school, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. As she looks as far up the line as she can, she sees that they all wear the same uniform. A lack of uniform actually, but uniform all the same. Each woman wears a polished black collar adorned with a silver tag and four inch black stiletto pumps. She is the only one different in the fact she is the only one wearing a chastity belt. This fact brings a new thought. Is this because she is new or is this because the belt signifies dunce?

She takes in her surroundings and is surprised at the campus like atmosphere. The courtyard is a quadrangle, surrounded by 6 buildings that she can see with an unknown number behind her and she dares not to turn to count buildings. Further, she cannot see anyone who appears to be in charge. They are crossing the quad two abreast, marching in step the only noise is the clicking of their heels reverberating off the surrounding buildings in unison. This made her remember Sister Rose, who, while strict, had made school somewhat fun. Sr. Rose had taught the girls to hum the theme song from the Adams’ Family Show” in their heads to help them stay in perfect step with a proud march. And just as suddenly she realized that tune was playing in her head and she was walking in perfect harmonious step with what she guessed to be fifty women.

The last two girls at the rear in each column suddenly dropped the hands of the girls in front and sprinted to the front of the formation to open and hold the doors of the building directly in front of them. The column of two marched directly into the building with out missing a beat, proud and strong. Just as the last of the women passed the portal, the door guards quickly closed the doors and the formation broke up in to a cacophony of sound as the formation dissolved and every one in the group relaxed.

Slut stands there in disbelief as the women begin to chat, sit on the floor and take off their stilettos and massage their feet and calves. The girl next to her, who is still wearing the breadfruit mush on her face, points at Slut’s chastity belt and says “Want some help getting that thing off?”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed.” She says dumbfounded.

The girl just smiles. “Yes, you are. It’s bath time and for the next six hours nobody will tell you what to do….” She trails off and reaches for the silver tag on Slut’s collar and reads the inscription. “…Slut,” she finishes. “This is our time and my name is Allpussy.” She sticks out her hand and with a growing smile shakes Slut’s hand.

She then spins Slut around and begins to work on the buckles of the chastity belt.

“So, you got orientation from Sollie? Oh, I know that because she has her initials

tooled into this thing. I hate this fucking thing.”

As the strap that runs between her legs falls forward, it relieves the pressure on the dildos that impale her. Allpussy reaches around from behind and plucks the dildo from her pussy and holds it up before her face. It is made from polished ebony wood and despite of the fact she has probably worn it for over eight hours, it glistens with moisture from her cunt. Allpussy leans close to her ear to speak to her in a low tone of voice.

“If one of these comes out of any of your holes in Mistress Sollie’s presence, you’d best take it in that pretty little mouth of yours and lick clean as Buddha’s cock. She loves to see them worshipped.” Allpussy then brushes the wooden cock across Slut’s lips. Slut gets the idea and opens her lips and takes the object into her mouth and begins to lovingly clean it. Before she could get fully into the act, Allpussy spins her around again and pulls her close so that they are cunt to cunt. The chastity belt drops to the floor, and reaches around and pulls the second dildo from Slut’s ass. Holding it next their faces, Slut turns to look at it. Allpussy says, “This one too!” Before Slut can do anything, Allpussy tosses the dildo from her ass over her shoulder and wraps her arms around Slut’s neck in an intimate embrace. “Give me a kiss,” she smiles, “I just saved you from a future ass whipping, though you might get one anyway for already knowing what to do. She’s pretty anal retentive that way.” With that, she pulls Slut into a deep, deep kiss.

Abruptly, Allpussy breaks the kiss and takes Sluts hand pull her into a short tiled hallway ending at a wall that seemingly goes nowhere. Just before the end, however, she sees two openings on each side that open into a larger cavernous room with whirlpool baths dotting the tiled deck and beyond those, an Olympic sized swimming pool. On the other side of the pool there are row upon row of massage tables, some already being used as slave girl works on slave girl while in the whirlpools, slave bathes slave. Two slave girls approach them each takes Slut and Allpussy in different directions. Slut reads the tag that tells her new companions name is Fuckface and she is leading her toward one of the baths. Gently, she assists her into the warm, bubbling water, places her head in the cushioned notch at the end and drapes her hair behind her.

Not a word is spoken as Fuckface picks up a brush and starts to brush out Slut’s hair, gently, lovingly. Slut raises her eyes and tilts her head to look at the girl, upside down. The face is serene, as if this girl were lost in a fantasy, perhaps brushing the hair of some long forgotten doll. Slut breaks the silence.

“What’s your name?”

“Fuckface,” the girl says touching her tag.

“No, I mean your real name.”

The girl lets out a small sigh and then the hint of a smile sneaks onto the corners of her lips. “Slut,” she says, “that is my real name. Whatever you called your self before, whatever I called myself before, well, those people don’t exist anymore. I mean, did you really like the person you were before? If that person is still in you and still has a name, I don’t want to know it. If you were happy before you got this name, then, why are you here?”

She wanted to say to get a story, but, she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. Certainly, she was surprised. Malestrom had told her everyone here in training was here of their own free will. Hell, she’d had been forced to ask, no beg, for the privilege to entering this compound. However, compound didn’t sound right. After all, there were no fences, no guard towers and she hadn’t even seen a lock on a single door.

She needed to think on this, just like she would need to think about the similarities she was beginning to feel with her younger days at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, remembering the nuns, the order, the discipline and the symmetry.

What surprised her most, however, was the peace of acceptance she was beginning to feel. At first, she had thought perhaps that too much was happening too quickly and then she thought that that wasn’t it, either. It was getting a story. Originally, she thought she could and she would endure anything for a story. And then the truth finally comes to her: The story is getting her. She looks back at Fuckface. “Thank you.” She says simply and closes her eyes. In Manhattan, a spa day of this magnitude would run close to a thousand bucks. She decides to just enjoy it and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.

Two months before my next trip to my Wife’s  she calls. We update on all the little things that have happened and then she asks do you want a spanking when you get here?  My response was a definite always. How do you want it? I replied naked, bound and totally exposed. She laughed, nothing new there you always want it that way, I presume you want to be in the diaper position with your legs spread wide?  Of course, that’s my favorite.

My Wife then asks me if I have had any new fantasies?  I said yes. Well are you going to tell me, she asks? It isn’t much, only your Mother catching me in a compromising position. How compromising? Well I’m always naked at least from the waist down, sometimes changing clothes but a few times I’m tied up naked. Your Mother makes me explain why. I tell her I leave the door open when I’m changing clothes because I enjoy the thrill of getting caught. What about being tied up? I confess that I like being helpless.

Your Mother thinks a little and then asks what do you hope happens if you get caught and by whom? Who do I hope catches me my Wife but the risk of someone else catching is always present. What do I hope happens, first I hope my method of escape is removed and my bondage tightened. Then I hope to get spanked, pinched and played with. Finally I want to beg for my release, maybe even agree to some other activity. Sadly this is where my fantasy ends, I never find out if your Mother does anything or not.

My Wife then asks are you naked right now? I reply of course. Then She asks any spanking implements handy? The paddle and crop.  You need to spank your balls, use the paddle, knees spread and give your balls 20 swats hold the phone so I can hear them. I follow Her instructions and then listen to Her ask did you like that? I answered yes. She says do it again only harder. I do it hitting harder slowing as the pain is building. Starting to hurt She says, well good 10 more harder yet. I hesitate and She says make it 15 and I promise you’ll enjoy more than one spanking when you get here or stop now and you get none. I manage to do the spanking.

My Wife asks did you like that and are they sore? I reply yes to both. You need to go to bed now but you need to figure out how you can tie yourself up so I only have to secure your last hand or tighten a few things. By, I love you and the call ended.

I finished making some Velcro cuffs that along with a few ropes and the knee strap that pulls my knees to my chest and sides. I now had a simple way to secure myself that my Wife could easily secure me so I would be completely at Her mercy.

Two weeks have gone by and my Wife calls again. After the small talk She asks how I’ve done with the tasks She assigned. I explain what I have done and how they work. Then I ask how She wants me positioned and in what room. After a short discussion She says sideways with your head on your side of the bed and your bottom on mine. That way both your mouth and bottom are available for my pleasure. I then told my Wife that She would need to get some rope to finish off what I need to tie myself up, You could get some ratcheting tie-down straps because that would make it easier to spread my legs wider. My Wife asked how that would work? Right now I’m planning to use a rope to go from my left wrist and ankle to the head of the bed and another rope to go from my right wrist and ankle to the foot of the bed. If I were to replace these ropes with the tie-down straps I could engage the left one just a little to lock and keep it from getting longer and leave the right one free for You to tighten. Now if you pull the straps tight and the engage the ratchet, then as you ratchet my legs will spread wider making me even more helpless. She said she would think about that and She would get some spanking implements.

Now you need to be spanked. Let’s see, I think your favorite position is called for, the Diaper position. How long will it take you to get ready? I can get ready in about two minutes. Then do it She ordered.

It took about two and a half minutes, my Wife says you’re late, pick up the crop. Start on that anus and make it hard. Hold the phone so I can listen to the hits and check with Me every 10th swat. At the first break She says harder and then after 50 swats She says to stop. Now using the thin  paddle start on your balls the same way. This time She ordered me to hit harder 3 times and then to stop after 100 swats.

Now how does it feel, She asks? Are your balls hot?

I reply that they feel warm.

Only warm, OK they must be too loose. Take a shoe lace and tie your balls into a nice tight package. Are they sticking out? I reply yes.

Now spank those balls with the paddle, hard. Keep the phone at your ear, spank harder I want to here the swats while you listen to me. Harder, harder, that sounds better. Now 5 more and make them harder yet. Good job, are they sore? I reply yes. Then she says pick up the crop and give them ten hard enough for me to here them and count. She says not good enough, I only heard 5 of them try again but this time make it 20. I spanked as hard as I could but lost count due to the pain. I stopped when I was sure I gave my self at least 20. My Wife responded with I think you need practice counting, I heard 27 smacks. Are they tender now. I replied with yes very tender.

Since you need practice counting I want you to give yourself 5 swats a minute until I call back and tell you to stop. Keep count and you better not cheat, enjoy, and She hung up.

I kept spanking with the paddle and 37 minutes latter She called back. She asked how many? I replied 185. Ok 15 more, fast and hard. I did it and She laughed as I struggled to count them.

My Wife told me to relax and release my balls. I gasped as the increased circulation caused a new sensation. She then asked me if I enjoyed my spanking? I replied yes but it hurt more than I was used to. She laughed and asked do you need more spanking or less? I thought and answered more. More spankings, more often and steadily harder.

Ok I can work on that, now stay as you are as long as you can. I want you to build up your ability to remain in the diaper position for at least 12 hours. That would give Me enough time to give you that birthday spanking you dream about. Sleep well, good night and She hung up. I managed to remain in this position almost an hour until my legs started cramping, I untied myself and slept with my legs spread and uncovered.

My Wife called 6 days latter with a get in position. I managed to get in the diaper position in about 2 minutes, practice made me faster. She had me start spanking and had me keep it up until I asked for a break. She asked are you hurting too much already? I replied no, I need a bathroom break. She laughed, you need to pee? No, not really. Oh She said, you need to earn a break, riding crop, I want to here 200 swats on that anus of yours and then maybe I’ll let you take a break.

I spanked away and when I got to 200 She says now with the paddle 200 on each cheek, right then left. I was in real pain and mooning as I completed the spanking. She says take your break but get back in position and hold it as long as you can and give yourself 20 swats on each cheek, on your balls and anus every 15 minutes for as long as you can. You should be up to at least 3 hours by now. If you fall asleep just figure out how many swats you owe and give yourself all of them before you release yourself. Tell me how you did and how they feel, Goodnight.

I just made it to the stool in time and did it hurt. My ass was tender and sitting was difficult and then my anus I had trouble, I had to go but the pain was intense. Ten minutes latter I finally finished and knew I needed to get back in position now or it would get harder. I was struggling to get my second set of swats done  when I fell asleep. Exhaustion over ruled pain and four hours latter the cramps in my legs woke me up. It took an hour to get all the swats done and get released. I went to sleep with a smile in my mind that I made it 5 and a half hours but I was too tired to do anything but pass out.

I called my Wife the next night to report and admit that I enjoyed it. She then asked I’m going in the right direction and you want more? I answered, yes but I’m not sure if I can keep increasing at this pace. My Wife laughed, don’t worry, over the phone I can’t go past your limits. Just think, in four weeks we’ll be together. Now keep working on extending the length of time you can be tied up. I want you to be able to last the night in position. I know that is one of your favorite fantasies, and I do want to please you. Keep practicing and buy a new pair of panties for your travels and they better be sexy, night.

Over the next four weeks I managed to last eight hours in position which meant that I could make it through the night, but I would be hurting from the bondage. One can always last longer when release is not left up to you.

I purchased a bright red lace thong for my trip. It barely covered my bound balls, I always bind them for travel, not tight but just enough so they stick out, of course my cock was going to stick out one side or the other. I had to be careful that they don’t show being bright red, but that was the fun part.

The day, actually night since I take the red-eye so with transfers I arrive at 9 in the morning, of the trip arrives. An hour before my taxi I call my Wife. She likes to check on all the last minute items. I had everything packed and I had just dried off from my shower and enema, one must be clean when traveling. My pants, shirt, shoes, socks and red panties and shoe lace for my balls were ready to be put on, so I called my Wife.

After a quick discussion that all was packed, She told me to get in the diaper position. I wasn’t expecting this but complied. She laughed as She instructed me to bind my balls because She wanted them separated. Now put the tag on. This tag was a numbered plastic lock tag, while I could easily snap it off. It wouldn’t go back on so my balls were now bound until my Wife decided they should be undone. If I remove the tag without permission I wouldn’t get the pleasure I wanted for a long time.

Then She talked me through 30 minutes of spanking before I was released to get dressed. Ten minutes before the taxi She had me brush my teeth. What She had me do next almost made me question who I was talking to. My Wife told me to drop my pants and panties. Now apply toothpaste to the head of your cock and don’t forget the opening, fill it like plugging a nail hole in a wall. When your done with that put twice as much toothpaste as you use on your toothbrush on the tip of your finger and then work it into your anus. Pull your pants up, wash your hands and don’t keep the taxi waiting, bye.

Every toothpaste causes a different sensation. I was using a mint one and it was starting to burn. Trying to act normal when your ass and cock are burning is a challenge, thankfully the burn was gone before I went through the check point, the raging hard on was not.

The flight was uneventful and on time. But when I arrived I was surprised when my Mother-in-law met me at the airport. It seems my Wife had a dentist appointment. We got my bag and drove back to the house. My Wife and her Mother live together in a large enough house. We got to the house my Mother-in-law asked if I needed to get anything before she left, it seems she had a doctors appointment at 1PM but was going to do some shopping first. I carried my bag to the bedroom and found my Wife had the items I needed on the bed so I told my Mother-in-law I was good as I checked the fridge.

My Wife had left a note which I opened as I watched my Mother-in-law leave. Hope you’re up for a dare, the note started. By now Mom has left and you’re home alone here’s the dare. Tie yourself up on the bed as we discussed. Now if you leave the bedroom door half open I’ll give you a spanking when I get home. If you leave the door wide open I’ll spank you again after your nap. Now you know Mom and how she can change her mind, she could come home because she forgot something, but even with the door open she knows you’re sleeping so unless she walks in the bedroom she won’t see you. But if you open the large envelope next to my computer you’ll find 3 stacks of papers, they contain some of the stories you wrote or found on the internet, they also contain a list of instructions for Mom that you need to sign. Here’s the dare one stack is to be placed on the floor in the bedroom, it only tells her that you enjoy this activity and that she is welcome to check you out. The second you can place on her bedroom door, this one encourages her to spank you. The third goes on the table by the garage door and it tells her how to get you to agree to all sorts of things.

What do you get for these risks. She may or may not see the one on the floor but if I find it there you can look forward to a second day of spankings. You put the one on her door and not only will you get a second day but a third and forth. Remember she may not go to her bedroom while she knows your sleeping should she come home. Now if your daring enough to put the one on the table which she will almost positively see if she comes home, you will get to spent at least 5 hours completely exposed in the sun with all your favorite spanking targets being turned black and blue. Love Your Wife.

I went and got the stacks of papers and skimmed through them and though, then I signed them and put them in place. I had time to think while I got ready. When I had 30 minutes to go before my Wife’s early time I made up my mind, I was going for all of it. Twenty minutes later I was locked in place and there was no way out.

Time past slowly and I fell asleep. I awoke when I felt someone’s hand on my balls. It felt strange, I don’t think it’s my Wife. Then I felt a second person and fear set in. I felt my bondage tighten and I couldn’t believe how wide the two were spreading my legs. Then my balls were hit hard and I lost track of what was being spanked and with what but when my mind regained it’s control I was sore. My ass, anus, balls and even my cock felt like they were swelled up to twice their normal size. I could feel something attached to my nipples, clips of some sort and they hurt.

The gag was removed from my mouth and someone sat on it making me orally stimulate their pussy. When that one climaxed the other took her place. Once that one came a different and much dirtier pair of panties were shoved in my mouth as a gag. And then I was left alone. I was left there wondering what was next and who was there?

It was almost a month before she finally admitted to me that she wanted to be raped, not that it would really be rape, because it’s what she wanted, but more than anything she wanted to be treated like she was just an object, devoid of control, to be used completely for a man’s pleasure and nothing more than a rag doll to be fucked and abused.

Her name was Allison, but she went by Allie most of the time.  I thought it was a cute, and perfect, name for her.  She was attending community college nearby, looking to eventually be a nurse, or school teacher, though I wondered, if she was honest with herself, if her goal really wasn’t to find a Master, somebody to own and use her without mercy.

My heart started beating the instant I saw her step nervously through the door that first time, her nipples were rock hard as she crossed her arms over her chest unconsciously, trying to cover the obvious sign of arousal, or at least trepidation, she felt.

She was almost willowy in appearance, young, barely 19 now, she would be an absolutely gorgeous girl in her mid-twenties, in a different way, after she’d fully blossomed, but she was by no means unattractive, but she was still physically young, her body was angular, her elbows sharp, her legs long and lean, almost like those of a doe.  She was thin, very thin, the t-shirt she wore clung to her body and focused all the more attention on her breasts, which were quite large for her size.  She was perhaps 5’4”, maybe 5’5”, but I doubt she weighed much over 100 lbs.

She cast me a nervous glance and smiled quickly as she walked toward the booth in which I sat.  As she approached, she lowered her head and her cheeks went flush.  She had on a short skirt and large hoop earrings, slut earrings I liked to think.  Her long blonde hair was straight and framed her face perfectly, her skin was smooth as porcelain and I instantly wanted to touch her, to run my hand over her flesh.

“Hi, I’m Allie, I’m, it’s, it’s nice to meet you, finally.”  Her face went crimson with embarrassment, almost exasperation.

“I’m Peter, so nice to meet you too.”  I slipped out of the booth and took her hand, her fingers were long and her palm was moist with nerves.

“You’re much prettier in person than in your photos.”   Allie blushed with the compliment.

“Thanks.”  Allie could barely look me in the eyes as a bored, raspy-voiced, waitress came over and we ordered coffee, and a light dinner.

We sat talking for about an hour, I thought it best to meet and chat in person, to make sure she was ready.  I guess it was as much for me too, to know that I could trust her, and that I knew she knew what she was doing.  My dick was hard the whole time, it was painful, it almost felt like I was in high school again, the hormones running uncontrolled through my body, I don’t think I’d ever been as horny as I was at that point, because I knew from almost the instant she sat down she was the perfect girl.

“So, do you want to do this then?”  I could tell for the previous 20 minutes she wanted to bring it up, to make it finally happen, but I could also see the nerves, and, oh, that sadistic bastard in me wanted to make her suffer a little while longer.

I slid a small stack of papers across the table, her hands where shaking as she moved the documents in front of her and started to read.  We’d talked about the night for a long time, I knew she wanted to be used and abused, to be raped, but still, perhaps it’s the obsessive compulsive in me, that person that needs to control everything, but I wanted to make sure, I didn’t want anything to come back on me, I suppose that’s the lawyer in me too, but I’d laid out in explicit detail what we had agreed to, what she wanted.

“Is everything alright and in there?”  She slowly nodded her head and signed the papers, one copy for her, one for me.  Allie blurted out, like and excited child.

“God my pussy is on fire.”  Instantly she covered her face with her hands and whimpered in embarrassment, unable to believe what she’d just said.  I just smiled broadly, wanting desperately to stroke my cock, it was throbbing so hard I didn’t think I could take it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I just said that.”  I loved the way her face was beet red.

“Let’s get going.”  I left some money on the table and led Allie out into the parking lot.  Her legs were unstable as I helped her in the car.  She didn’t say a word as we drove to the motel.  She let out a gasp of shock as I reached over and laid my hand on her thigh as we pulled to a stop.

“We’re here.”  I ran my hand over her naked thigh towards the confluence of her legs.  It was the only sexual act of the evening, thus far.

Her hands trembled as I helped her out of the passenger seat and pointed her toward our room.  I could see the way her chest rose and fell quickly as we moved through the shadows, her nipples were rock hard against her top.

I grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to a stop before we got to the motel door.

“You understand, the minute that door closes, I own you, I’m going to use you the way I want to, I’m going to rape you.”  I could hear the nervousness in her voice, but there was also something more, I knew it was lust, not that she would ever admit it.  For months she’d been telling me how she wouldn’t enjoy being abused at all during, even though I knew she masturbated at least once a day about the thought of being raped, even just play-raped.

“Yes.”

“Good.”  I put the key card in the lock and the door opened.  I’d made sure to get a room with no others adjoining.  I didn’t expect it to be silent, but I wanted to avoid too many prying ears.  We’d agreed on a motel, mostly because we both felt safer that way.

I could distinctly hear the breath whisping through her nose as we stepped over the threshold.  I think she was shocked by the suddenness of my movement.  The instant the door clapped shut I had hold of her long blonde hair and jerked her head back violently, my hand was over her mouth before she could even make a sound.

“Don’t make a fucking sound bitch!”  I barked in her ear and brought a knife to her throat.  I could see the fear in her eyes.

“Don’t make a sound cunt, do you understand me?”  I could see the surprise, the terror, in her eyes.  I knew she’d fantasized about being raped, probably thousands of times, but perhaps the reality of it was somewhat different than she expected.

“Do you understand me you stupid whore?”  She nodded her head quickly, desperately.

“Good, you know I’m going to rape that pussy of yours till you scream, don’t you cunt!”  Tears bubbled from her eyes as she frantically whimpered.

“Let’s get to business slut, I want my dick in your pussy, bad!  That’s all your good for anyway”  I pulled the knife from her throat and dropped it on the floor, I grabbed a wad of cloth from my pocket and stuffed the balled rag into her mouth, I could hear the air whine through her nostrils as she sucked in deep breaths.  I grabbed for a roll of duct tape and put a wide piece over her mouth.

“That’ll keep you quite for now cunt!”  I pulled her wrists roughly behind her back and wrapped the duct tape around her forearms, they were crossed in the small of her back, her hands almost to the opposite arm’s elbow.  I could hear her sobbing, I knew she was crying and I could see the tears streaking down her smooth, pretty cheeks.  Her makeup ran down her skin and only turned me on more.

I smacked her hard across the face.

“I know you want it slut, all cunts do!”  I moved her easily across the floor, she weighed almost nothing, and with the adrenaline, the lust, running through my veins, I slammed her hips into the edge of the couch and pusher her forward, bending her at the waist.

“Just a few more seconds bitch, then you’ll get to feel my cock in your dirty snatch!”  I grabbed the hem of her skirt and lifted it up her thigh’s, I brutally grabbed for her panties and tugged them down her legs till they were wrapped around her ankles.

“Spread those legs bitch!”  I kicked her feet wide.

The gag muffled her shriek as I slammed one finger in her quivering pussy and leaned down over her, pressing my chest against her back.  I grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head as I whispered in her ear and pumped one finger in and out of her convulsing vagina.

“How do you like that bitch?  I bet you can’t wait to feel my cock in that tight little snatch of yours.

The girl was sobbing uncontrollably as I pulled my finger from her pussy and pulled down my pants.  I loved hearing her blubber as I eased my slacks down my thighs.  My dick was so hard it hurt, I could feel the blood racing through my veins and I’d never felt so turned on before in my life.

My hands were shaking as I rolled a condom over my thick shaft.

“It’s time to make you a woman cunt!”  I grabbed for her hips and dug my fingers into her flesh.  I groaned loudly as I slammed my dick in her pussy, she was tight, so incredibly tight, I thought I might blow instantly I was so turned on.  My head was spinning I was so light-headed

“HOLY SHIT!!!”  I grabbed for her long hair and tugged brutally, pulling on her scalp like reins as I pounded my cock into her cunt as hard as I could.  I could feel her vaginal muscles clamping down on my cock involuntarily as I began rutting her.

“This is what you’re made for bitch!”  I arched her head back violently as my hips slammed against her ass, driving her thighs cruelly into the edge of the sofa.  I cruelly pulled on her scalp, making her shriek in pain as I tugged viciously on her hair as I pounded into her, bunny fucking her, taking her like an animal.  I could hear her cries as I kept ramming my cock in her pussy over and over again.  She was a rag-doll, a hole for my cock.

“I’m going to cum bitch!”  She squealed as I grabbed her hips and jerked her body back onto my cock.  I could feel my balls slapping against her pussy as I roared and thrust back my head.  My balls convulsed and I could feel my sperm shooting into her as my prick jerked and pulsed inside her tight slit.

“Holy crap!”  I slapped my hand down hard on her ass as her torso shuddered violently.

“Holy crap that was fucking incredible.”  My balls were still spasming, my whole body was tingling and I felt like I was going to pass out I was on such a high.  My hands were numb as I finally let go of her hips.

“Holy shit that was fucking incredible bitch.”  Allie was sobbing, her legs were shaking uncontrollably as she was bent over the edge of the couch with her breasts crushed against the cushions with me leaning over her.

“God that was incredible cunt!”  I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off the edge of the sofa, I twisted her head violently so she was looking me in the face.  Tears were still streaming down her cheeks leaving dark streaks of make-up covering her skin.

“You’re just a dirty whore!”  I spit in her face and thick wads of saliva splattered on her forehead.

“I bet you loved that, didn’t you bitch, feeling my cock in your snatch!”  I heard her screech as I dragged her by the hair into the middle of the room and forced her to her knees.  My dick was still hard and bobbed in front of her face.  I gently worked the condom off my cock, making sure not to spill a drop of sperm.

“Don’t make a sound cunt!”  She yelped in pain as I smacked her across the face.  I tugged the tape off her mouth and pulled the rag from between her teeth.

“Here is a treat for you slut.”  I grabbed for her hair again and arched her head back.

“Open up!”  I held the bulging condom to her lips and started pouring the warm cum down her throat.  She was sobbing as the sperm hit her tongue and ran down her throat slowly, the thick goo moved like molasses.

“Don’t swallow till I tell you.”  I stood over the girl, the adrenaline still racing through my veins, her hair still clutched in my hand forcing her head back as tears streaked down her face.

“You are a pretty little bitch, aren’t you.”  Allie’s whole body convulsed as spasms racked her frame.

Her mouth was filled with my milky cum, it pooled on her tongue and her teeth were slimed with the warm sperm.

“Swallow slut!”  Allie sobbed as she closed her eyes and forced herself to gobble down the pecker-snot.

“Tastes good, doesn’t it cunt?  You should be honored that I let you have the pleasure of my cum.”  I laughed out loud as I smacked her hard across the face again.

“Clean me bitch!”  I slapped my prick down on her forehead, then rammed it between her lips without giving her time to react.  I pinched her nostrils shut and jerked my hips forward, burying my cock deep against the back of her throat.  Instantly she started to gag and tried to pull her mouth off my shaft, but with her hands still bound, she couldn’t fight me.

“That’s it bitch, you know this is what you’re made for.”  I loved the way she choked on my cock as I forced it against the back of her throat.

“God that’s incredible.”  Allie gasped desperately as I pulled the head of my cock from between her lips and let her gulp down much needed air.

“Lick me cunt!”  Her whole body was shuddering, trembling with fear as she started lapping her tongue nervously along the length of my shaft, her face was flush as she moved her tongue over my prick.

“That’s fucking incredible bitch.”  She was sobbing so loud it wasn’t even funny as her tongue moved over my dick and balls.

“Time to get you out of those clothes cunt, don’t make a fucking sound, understand me?”  I slapped her across the face again.

“Never mind.”  I laughed as I picked my boxers up off the floor and stuffed them between her lips, they were wet with pre-cum.

“How does that taste slut?”  I grabbed a piece of duct tape and put it over her lips then I spit in her face.  Her eyes jerked shut as the saliva hit her skin.

“Get off your knees cunt.”  I grabbed her by the hair and tugged her to her feet, she squealed as I pulled hard on her hair.

“I want to see that skanky little body of yours.”  I picked the knife from where I dropped it on the floor and brought it to her face.

“I’m going to cut your arms free, and then you’re going to strip for me, understand.”  Allie cried as I put the tip of the blade up under her chin, making her lift her head higher making her stare me in the eyes.

To be continued…

February 1, 2009

This morning began just like every other morning. i woke up at 6 am and began my daily ritual of quickly showering, getting myself presentable, making breakfast and serving You in bed. I knelt quietly beside Your bed in my “in house attire.” (When i am home alone with my Master i am completely naked wearing only my two black leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and a thick black leather collar. All are locked in place with heavy padlocks and Master keeps the keys on His key ring along with His house and car keys. This is to remind me that i too am His property just as is His car and His house.) As You finished Your breakfast, You leaned over to kiss my forehead. You reminded me that You were excited about the Super Bowl party You planned for tonight. You said that W/we had a lot to do to get ready for O/our guest. (Master had invited five or six of His male friends over to watch the game with Him, and i was to serve the food and drinks.) Since i don’t share Your love for football, i didn’t share Your enthusiasm about the night’s upcoming events.

i ran the water for Your bath and then went to clean the dishes. When i returned, You were just about to step out of the tub. i dried Your body while You continued to talk about the things W/we needed to do. You kissed me passionately parting my lips with Your tongue, running Your fingers between my thighs and pausing on my clit. You stopped abruptly and wagged Your finger, wet with my juices, in front of my face and said, “No, no. you will not distract Me with your sweet, brown pussy today. W/we have a busy schedule ahead of U/us.” You pointed to a shopping bag sitting on the floor beside Your bed. “I got U/us something.” You followed me into the bedroom to watch me as i pulled two matching Steelers’ jerseys from the bag. Just as the ungrateful slave slut that i am, i began to complain.

“Master, please let me go out when Your friends arrive. i really hate football and i don’t think i can sit here all night while You and Your friends get drunk.”

The look on Your face was the same look that i have when You slap mine. Shock and disappointment washed over it, and Your cheeks glow red with fury. i should have known to stop there, but that was only the beginning of my whining and complaining.

You pulled Your favorite jeans of mine and a black and gold bra and panty set from my dresser drawers (my Master chooses my clothes that i wear everyday) and tell me to get dressed. i put those things on along with the new jersey and begin to tidy the house for guests. i spend the better part of the day preparing the food and snacks but i also constantly let You know that i am not happy with this task.

“i hate football, anyway.”

“i’m not having company, Master, You are.”

“Why can’t i just hang out with my friends?’

“Why can’t You just order pizza?”

“Why do i even need to be here?”

Finally, You had enough and couldn’t take my mouth anymore. You told me to strip and wait for you in the punishment room. (This room is where W/we keep most of O/our “equipment.” It used to be a garage, but Master had it closed off. There are no windows at all in the room. It has warm brown wall to wall carpeting and beige painted walls. Other than a large painting depicting a nude woman being whipped while tied to a cross, the room remains intentionally undecorated to give it a cold feeling. As you might have already guessed, this is my least favorite place in the house.) i know i’m in big trouble now. i immediately go into corner time, waiting for You to come in and administer my punishment.

It seemed like hours passed and my knees were aching from the carpet burns. i could hear Your friends beginning to arrive. When You did come into the room, i was expecting You to give me the usual spanking with Your belt and i was embarrassed because i knew that everyone would hear it. But that was not Your plan at all. You have secretly prepared for this moment because lately Your belt hadn’t been as effective in correcting my behavior.

Using the rings on my ankle and wrist cuffs, You tied me to the (asymmetrical) horse that You made for my birthday. (This allows my head to be low and my ass to be up high. The horse is lined with black vinyl covered padding along the base and where my knees rest, and is not too uncomfortable unless i am lying on it for long periods of time.) You pulled the steel medical tray in front of me so that i could see what ‘instruments’ You planned to use for my punishment. On the tray You placed two things: the large silicone buttplug that You have threatened to use on many occasions, that i fear won’t fit, and another item that i had never seen before. It was a steel plug with a hose and a funnel attached at the end of the hose.

My eyes instantly grew wide with fear and i knew what You were planning for me. Just as i began my verbally protests, You inserted the bright red ballgag in my mouth and left me in the room to ponder the situation. While You were away, i struggled to lift my head many times to look at Your instruments. My heart beat so fast i thought it would burst from my chest.

You got Your guests settled in and returned in about a half hour’s time. i begged You, through the gag, to forgive me by promising to be the best hostess i can be. i begged You for a severe beating with Your belt. But You told me it was way to late for that and i should have thought about that this morning before i pissed You off. You grabbed some lube and began working Your fingers in and around my asshole. My tears began to run down my face. i could feel my clit swelling while pressing against the base of the horse as i wiggled to allow Your finger easier access to my hole.

“you are such a fucking whore. you know that don’t you?” i could hear the smile on Your face as Your second finger slid in my ass and your thumb in my pussy. You played with me for a little longer and then pulled Your hand away.

“you know what’s coming next don’t you?” You asked as You brushed the cold steel at my tightly puckered hole. You began working the plug in and out of my ass, twisting it deeper and using more force with each thrust. i let out a soft moan through the gag, in pleasure and pain. Just as it became unbearable, i felt my hole relax and i knew that the steel plug was in place. i could feel You tug at the hose to make sure that the plug would not pop out.

You grabbed a handful of my hair and turned my head to look at You and said, “you had better not push that out. Do you understand me?”

“Weeefff Maphfer.” i mumbled threw my gag.

With only a warning from the sound of Your zipper being lowered, You gave me my first punishment of the evening. You released Your bladder into the funnel. i felt Your hot piss flowing into my bowls and i gasped of pleasure. You laughed because You knew that as the night continued, my reaction would change. When You were finished You grabbed the silicone plug and covered it with lube. i shook my head ‘no’ and mumbled pleas for You not to use it. You ignored me and pressed it firmly and methodically against my hole. i tensed in a fleeting attempt to pull away. You put Your hand on the small of my back forcing my body and my pussy back onto the horse. i already had very little wiggle room, but under the power of Your hand, i had even less. Just before the monster plug fully settled in completely, i let out a loud yelp. You smiled and firmly smacked my ass.

You walked around to look at me again. While tenderly wiping the tears from my eyes You ask, “How does that fell, hmm? Does it hurt?”

“Weeefff Maphfer.”

“Good!” Your voice instant changed from loving to a stern growl. “So maybe the next time I ask you to do something for me, you’ll have a better attitude.”

With that, You covered my eyes with a sleeping mask to blindfold me. Then i felt You insert the small spongy ear plugs and place the headphones over my ears with the music loud enough that i wouldn’t be able to tell when You returned.

While You were away with Your guests, i tried to stretch my limbs and adjust my body. i felt parts of me begin to stiffen and fall asleep. Though i had no way of knowing for sure, i thought i sensed You in the room with me many times. i cried and even plead for release, repeatedly. Hours seemed to pass before You returned and touched my shoulder, i was glad my torment was over. Pulling off the headphones, You removed the ties and helped me to my feet. You freed my mouth from the gag and allowed me to relax my jaw, but You left the blindfold and earplugs in place. You placed a large plastic bowl in my hands and guided me to my knees. i instinctively knew what the bowl was for. With one hand on the side of my head, you aggressively press my face into the floor. With the other hand You reach behind me to maneuver the buttplug from my asshole. i felt myself struggling to control a scream as the plug was ripped from my body. i immediately search in the dark for the plastic bowl and position it beneath me to catch Your fluids and my waste exploding from my body. When You were sure that i had expelled everything, You push me back to my knees and clean me up with a wet cloth.

i waited on my knees until You gave me further instructions. However, i was surprised to feel the steel plug with the hose being pressed in at my backdoor yet again. This time, with little regard for discretion, i loudly protest.

“No Master, please,” i heard my self yell. But the steel plug slid in with little to no resistance. i reached out for You  and realized that at least one other person is in the room. One of You yanked my hair towards the floor while the other refastened the ballgag in my mouth. The one holding my hair forces my head into the carpet and sits on my face. i believed that person straddling my neck, with His ass on the side of my face, to be You since You have done that before when You thought that i was getting out of control. i could only struggle to breath and flail my arms around in that vulnerable position. i felt my belly fill with warm fluid again and was humiliated to know that someone other You was pissing in my ass. i then felt You switch places and You added Your piss as well. Again, the large silicone buttplug was pushed in place. At that point, i noticed that the blindfold was becoming soaked with my tears. You and Your guest led me to a chair. my arms were quickly tied behind me and my legs were spread apart and tied to the back legs of the chair. i know it was You who straddled the chair to sit on my bare lap, pinching and twisting my nipples. i sensed that it had to be half-time because You played with me so long before replacing the headphones over my ears and leaving me in complete darkness.

Each time i thought that i could feel Your presence in the room, i begged You for forgiveness.

By the end of the evening i was crying and writhing in pain. my belly cramped badly. i twisted and turned in the chair in attempts to push the plug, or at least Your fluid, out of my ass. When You finally untied me, removing the blindfold and earplugs, i was happy to hear that Your friends had all left. You slowly led me to the bathroom to release Your piss from my bowels. You allowed me to shower and clean myself up.

As i entered the bedroom, You were sitting on the end of the bed motioning for me to come to You. You brushed my hair from my shoulder and kissed my neck and said, “Tonight was very exciting for Me. My team won the Super Bowl. And do you know how I want to celebrate?” You leaned closer to me, pressed Your lips against my ear and whispered, “I want to give you what you’ve begged for all night.”

That’s when i noticed Your belt in Your right hand.

The best way to summarize Amy was to say that she was a sophisticated and well-bred young woman.   Everything about Amy was petite except her hips.  Amy was just over five feet tall.  She almost always wore high heels.  Her body was quite slender and feminine.  Everything about Amy was feminine.  By that I mean her neck, her waist, her wrists and her ankles were all narrow.  She had a pointy chin and a pointier nose.  Her head was quite small, surrounded on both sides by beautiful, straight, long brown hair.  It was obvious she spent a good amount of time on her hair; the highlights of lighter colors were flawless.  She had long eyelashes and never, ever was seen at B-school without makeup on.  Most girls with this sort of physique tend to be lacking in the breast department but Amy had a nice firm set of beautifully developed Cs.

Amy had a snappy personality.  I wouldn’t say she was particularly vocal, but she wasn’t quiet either.  Her views on business weren’t exactly brilliant, but she never said anything stupid.  Her comments were usually well measured.  She was the type of student who stayed within herself but projected confidence when forced to stand in front of the room and give a presentation.  Her hand-gestures were wonderful to track as she delivered her carefully rehearsed lines flawlessly.  Men gravitated toward her and she seemed perfectly comfortable with the attention.  Rumors connected her with various men at the school, but they were all unsubstantiated.  She had her share of girlfriends, but wasn’t a gossipy type.

Amy drove a BMW and always dressed with great style and grace.  Other than her impressive collection of high heels, she usually wore skirts.  Once, on a Saturday when we had a project due, she wore blue jeans and holy shit did her smoking lower body ever fill those jeans with precision and grace.

Like most men, I was totally smitten with her beauty and her personality.  It wasn’t that she was particularly brilliant; she just carried herself like a woman – sweet as sugar, but not afraid to crack a joke.  She didn’t take herself too seriously, but at the same time she knew that she was a petite little babe.

As I got to know her, I began to realize that in some ways she was quite vapid and materialistic.  She loved buying Prada bags.  It seemed to be her main hobby.  When I asked her what music she was interested in, she mumbled something about Cold Play.  Her main goals were shopping, and finding a marketing job that would pay her a six-figure salary, in that order.

In the first year of school, we were in different groups.  I barely knew her and more admired her from afar.  Then, in the second year, we were placed in the same study group.  I got to know her better.  Most people in business school were in their late 20s.  Amy was 27 and I was 32, having suffered a few additional years in the real world before deciding I could use an MBA.  The added experience gave me a real-world edge on many of my classmates.  At some point or another, I summoned up the courage to ask Amy to dinner.  Much to my delight she said yes.

The first date went well.  We ate sushi and the conversation flowed freely.  Amy wasn’t the most interesting girl in the world, but her beauty and general affect more than compensated for her lack of an apparent edge.  Her movements were precise and well coordinated.  The simple act of pushing her hair back from her forehead or clearing her throat was so lovely that I was soon transfixed.  I loved the way her hair flowed so gracefully around that narrow neck.  Each time she turned her head I caught a glimpse of those perfectly formed tiny little ears, each with a good-sized diamond stud in her pierced lobes.

Our first date was a success!  We both enjoyed ourselves.  I made her laugh a few times.  When I dropped her off at her posh condo, she permitted me to give her a peck on the cheek.  Outside of that I didn’t want to push it too far.  I had a good thing going and didn’t want to be overeager.

Upon completion of our date, I was amazed with the painful tightness of my balls.  I had no choice but to exceed the speed limit when driving back to my apartment.  When I arrived home I barely had to touch myself before I exploded all over the place.  The big wad of tissues I used was unable to contain the mess and I spilled my own seed on my pants and the floor.

The second date was even better.  We met for cocktails and talked for hours.  She seemed more relaxed with me and told me more about her family.  They were quite wealthy and lived on a huge piece of property west of town.  She was an only child.  Again I was almost overwhelmed by her beauty.  At one point she left to use the ladies room.  When she returned I admired the way she moved across the room.  Her hips swung to and fro with such efficiency and purpose.  I studied her perfectly toned legs as they propelled her smoothly back to me.

When I dropped her off I was hoping she’d invite me upstairs.  Especially after we kissed deeply.  But then she seemed in a rush and I was left in a state of heightened excitement that could only be resolved with a late-night date with Rosy Palm.  Once again I was amazed at the intensity of my orgasm.  I was in love!

After that we went on one more date.  I’m not sure why, but I was probably too pushy during the date.  I revealed too much about myself.  Maybe I came off as somewhat of a slob.  Maybe I came off as a bit desperate.  Whatever the case was, I could feel her withdrawing from me.

She then proceeded to ignore my phone calls and emails for a week.  I feared I was sunk!  But I wasn’t about to back off that easily.  Amy was too big a prize.  Let me first say that I realize this is a somewhat animalistic thought, but I do believe all men think this way:  Her vagina, though out of sight, was constantly on my mind!  It could only be so perfect!  I pictured it nestled there beneath her little skirt and her tiny panties, a perfectly formed lower-case “v,” with the thin slit serving as the gateway to a narrow cavern of Female – the most luxurious cavern the world would ever know.  I imagined how incredibly soft the skin must be and how Amy must take such incredible care of her prized possession.  I could picture the way her panties must hug her snatch – from it’s formation at her naval all the way beneath her perfect ass – the way the flesh must undulate so gracefully away from the surrounding area.  I found myself wondering if she shaved her pubic hair entirely, or if she groomed the hair so that it formed a neat triangle.  I pictured her sitting spread-legged on a chair in front of a mirror after a shower with her eyelashes pointed downward in rapt attention as she deftly manicured her perfect little cunt with the utmost attention to detail.

A week after our lousy third date, I spied her walking alone across campus to the parking lot.  I decided it was now or never.  Even though the writing was on the wall I wanted answers.

I walked quickly and admired her beautiful, pert ass as it moved in the confines of her miniskirt.  Today she wore leather boots, which was a break from her usual high heels.  Man was she a nugget!

She turned her head as I approached and I could see the slight hints of a negative reaction.

“Oh.  Hi James,” she said politely, but with a noticeable lack of affect in her voice.

I won’t bore you with the details of the first five pained minutes of our conversation, but let’s just say Amy was less than enthused with our last date.  She felt I was a tad pushy and I made her feel uncomfortable with some of the things I revealed about past relationships.  I argued a few points with her but it quickly became a debate about semantics.  The point was that Amy was no longer interested in me.

Maybe I should have just let it go.  But that’s not really the way I am.  Plus, I was totally infatuated with Amy and I didn’t want to give up without a fight.  I also felt she was hiding something from me.

“Look Amy,” I began.  “It’s okay if you don’t want to date anymore, but I just have this feeling you’re holding back on the truth.  Are you sure there isn’t more that you aren’t telling me?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and faced me.  She placed her legs neatly together and huddled her arms close to her body.  “Okay,” she said as though she had come to a major decision point.  Her voice and posture changed.  It became much more pointed, less evasive.  “Do you really want to hear the truth, James?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it offends you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

A hint of sadness filled her eyes, as though she felt bad about what she was about to say.  I could see Amy was having second thoughts about her change in course.  “Amy, don’t be afraid to hurt my feelings.  Just be honest with me.  I can take it.”

She took a deep breath.  How is it that a beautiful woman could look beautiful by simply inhaling the air around her?  “Okay, James.  Don’t take this the wrong way.  You’re actually a really nice guy.  But you’re not the type of guy I would ever consider spreading my legs for.”

The truth hit me so hard.  I just stood there.

Emboldened, Amy continued. “I swear I’m not trying to be mean or anything.  It’s just the truth.  You’re not an alpha male.  I don’t think you have it in you.”  I saw her eyes drift down momentarily; the implications clear, before she refocused on my face.  “I’m sorry,” she added.  “You’re a good guy and I want us to remain friends, but that’s it.”  With that she turned and walked abruptly away.

I probably should have left it at that.  Instead, I decided to get brave.  If Amy had the guts to make such a statement, I reasoned that be so quick to let things go.  After all, she happened to be right.  I was no alpha male.  I had certain tendencies that my readers are well aware of.

She was in the process of climbing into her BMW when I caught up to her again.  “What is it?” she said with a note of irritation in her voice, while at the same time focusing her sweet smile on me in an effort to be as kind as possible.

“I’m sorry to bug you again,” I said, somewhat breathless from chasing her.  “Look, you’re right,” I said.  My face turned red.  “If you have a moment, I have a confession to make.”

“A confession?” The corners of her mouth curled upwards in curiosity.

“I just wanted to say that you’re more perceptive than you let on.  You’re right.  I’m not an alpha male,” I stuttered.  “I more the submissive type.”

I was about to walk away until I saw the look on her face.  For the first time, her tense expression faded.  Her facial muscles relaxed and she gently nodded her head while her smile widened.  “I know,” she said.  “I could totally tell.  You are way too impressed with me.”

“I can’t help it,” I countered.  “You’re stunningly beautiful.”

She nodded her head in agreement and paused.  I expected the next words out of her mouth would be “Thank you.”  Instead she surprised me by saying, “I thought it was cute the way you fawned all over me.  It’s not a trait I’m really looking for in a real relationship, but I assume I can count on your loyalty, right?”  She raised her eyebrows challengingly at me.

“Absolutely,” I said.  In truth I wanted her to know she had more than my loyalty!  I would gladly clean the dirt from the soles of her high heels if she told me too.  Instead I said rather meekly, “Whatever you need, just ask.”

“Thank you,” she said.  “I will.”

I again prepared to walk away, but Amy stopped me again.  It was as though she suddenly realized the true intent of my commentary.  “Wait, James,” she said, smiling mischievously.  “Do you mean if I need ANYTHING at all I can count on you?”

This was getting interesting.  I could see the gears turning in her head as she began to realize my true intent.  It emboldened me.  “Amy, your wish is my command,” I said as earnestly as I could.  I bowed my head slightly in deference to her, a subtle indication to her that I consider her to be above me in the natural order of things.

Her laughter sent mixed signals.  Did she think I was just kidding, or did she realize now that I was submitting myself to her?  Her next comment left no doubt that it was the latter -  “Glad to know I can count on your [she paused] obedience.”  Her eyes locked on mine.  It was obvious to me she understood the situation to a tee.  She became confident and serious.  “Say, James, I’m curious.  Tell me.  After our dates were over, when you went home, did you like, touch yourself?”

“Yes, I did.”  I looked down at my feet.

I felt her finger tuck beneath my chin.  Just the feel of her touch sent a jolt through my body.  I felt a rapid swelling in my pants.  “Look at me when I talk to you,” she said with sweet, feminine authority.  This was perfect!

Our eyes met.  “It’s okay, James,” she said.  “I think it’s cute.”

“Really?”  I felt light-headed.

She laughed.  “Yeah.  I mean, it’s also gross.  And perverted.  But cute.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.  She released me chin and our eyes locked again.  I stared into her deep brown eyes and was overwhelmed with the moment.  She looked as though she was analyzing me, but she also looked quite pleased with things.  She continued to stare and smile, letting her words sink in.

“I should probably get going,” she said, reaching into her Prada handbag and grasping the keys to her 330ix.

“Wait, Amy,” the words poured out of me. “I live five minutes from here.  Want to come over and I’ll show you what I did after each of our dates.  You don’t have to take any clothing off.  You can sit comfortably on my couch and watch me.  It would be my way of honoring you.”

Amy took a deep breath and a step away.  She laughed nervously.  “Wait, let me get this straight.  You want me to come over so you can masturbate while I watch?” she had a note of incredulity to her voice.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “Forget it.”

Amy appeared to catch herself.  She smiled so sweetly I wanted to melt.  Her eyes drifted down again where she no doubt caught site of my tented groin.  “James,” she said laughing and putting her hand over her mouth, then removing it.  “You know, it’s okay.  Don’t feel bad.  I totally understand where you’re coming from.  And I’m touched.  A little bit grossed out, but touched.”

“It would be a great honor, ma’am.” I said, lowering my voice.

Amy laughed.  “No, you can’t call me ma’am.  I’ll tell you what, James.  From now on if nobody else is around you can call me ‘Miss Amy.’  I think that conveys an appropriate amount of respect.”

“Yes Miss Amy,” I said.  “Thank you, Miss Amy.”

Amy looked down at her tiny wristwatch.  “Okay, this is getting a little bit weird,” she said.  “I have to go now.”

“You know I would never lay a finger on you, right?” I said.

“Of course I know that,” she laughed.

I stood there, red-faced while she got into her car.  I waited until she was buckled up and she turned and looked at me.  I waved meekly.  Amy responded by blowing a quick kiss, smiling knowingly, and then driving away.

**********

The parking-lot interaction with beautiful, sweet Amy was I could think about for the next few days.  I saw her in school from time to time, but she was busy and never made any time to talk with me.  I figured that she had her fun and was moving on with those alpha males she apparently was more interested in.  It was really disappointing to me because I was sure we had established some sort of innate understanding and she had seemed to enjoy herself.  Still, as the days went by, my hopes for additional encounters faded.

Then, on a Thursday afternoon, I was sitting outside the school hall smoking a butt.  Suddenly, to my great joy, Amy was there.  She had snuck up behind me.  She wore an incredibly sexy maroon-colored, velvet mini, matching heels, and a tight blouse that wrapped smartly around her svelte upper-body curves.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she said.

“Oh, hi Amy.” I blurted.

“What happened to Miss Amy?” she teased, good-naturedly.

“Hi Miss Amy,” I said.  My heart began beating faster.

“Remember the other day when you said, “Your wish is my command,” said Amy.

“Of course,” I said.

“Well, I command you to stop smoking.” She put her hands on her hips.  Goddamn was she smoking hot!

“Okay, I’ll stop,” I said.

“It’s what I want, so I think you should stop.  Unless you’re not true to your word.”  She raised her eyebrows.

“If it’s what you want, then I have no choice,” I said, heart rate skyrocketing.

“No choice,” she smiled.  “I like that.”  I could see the gears were once again turning in her pretty head.  She was mustering up the courage to say something.  I waited patiently until she delivered the words I was hoping for.  “I actually don’t have class for three hours,” she said.  “I was meeting Professor McClure about my start-up.  So I was thinking, since I have some time and don’t feel like going all the way home, what say we head over to your place?  I want to take you up on your offer from the other day.”  She focused those teasing eyes on me before delivering the knockout blow – “I figure I could use a good laugh.”

I had all I could do to keep from coming in my pants on the spot!  The way she was so casual about the whole thing.  So confident.  So breezy!  She sat on the low concrete wall next to me and crossed her legs seductively.  She dangled her red high heel in front of me and raised those eyebrows.

She followed me to my little apartment.  I was shaking with excitement.  This was too much!  Once inside, she sat on the couch while I poured her a glass of water.  When I returned with the glass, she had opened my laptop computer, which was on the coffee table next to the couch and had turned it on.

“I want to see what kind of websites you visit,” she said, flashing a smile at me.  Then, noticing a sour look of concern on my face, she added, “Oh relax, James.  For our relationship to be – how should I put this – effective, you can’t be keeping any secrets from me.  Why don’t you take your clothes off while I check your Internet history,” she said, not taking her eyes off the screen.  “Mine stay ON,” she added, in case there was any doubt.

While I disrobed in my bedroom, I heard her voice in the other room.  “When you’re ready, come kneel in front of me, okay?”

“Yes, Miss Amy,” said hoarsely.

Amy stared bluntly at my crotch as I reentered the room in my birthday suit.  She made me turn around, so she could get a nice view.  She whistled condescendingly before saying.  “Gosh, you’re hairy, but overall not bad.  Let me get a good look at your penis.  Stick it out.”

I kneeled down and front of her as her eyes studied my prized organ.  She nodded her head as though it was confirming something she previously suspected.  I figured she might comment on my lack of size.  After all, I’m not the most well endowed.  I’d guess I’m five inches on my hardest day.

Instead she said, “Don’t you think you ought to get some tissue so you don’t make a mess on your carpet?”

“Yes Miss Amy.”  And I was off to the bathroom and back again in a matter of seconds.

When I returned, she resumed her visual examination of my groin.  Finally, she shuffled her little butt on my couch until she was satisfied with her positioning.  “Okay, you can play with it, but I don’t want you to cum yet.  If you cum without my permission, I’ll leave and we’ll never do this again.  Clear?”

Once I began stroking, Amy turned her eyes back to the history files on the Internet.  She had uncrossed her legs and now sat, perfectly poised, high heels together as she leaned forward and clicked the mouse pad with her slender fingers.  Occasionally she glanced at me and smiled while shaking her head in mock disapproval.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, she sat up, turned slightly toward me and used both hands to put her hair behind her shoulders.  “I have to say, James, and don’t take this the wrong way because you ARE a nice guy.  But you’re also a complete penis pumping jerkoff, aren’t you?”  She burst into laughter at her own joke.

“Yes Miss Amy.”

She pushed her hair back from her head again and focused in on me.  “The girls at school always try to predict who are the studs and who are the jerks.  You were the subject of much debate.  Me and Tina were totally right.  Lucy, Emily, and Michelle were wrong.  I can’t wait to tell them all!”

“Please don’t,” I said, panic suddenly enveloping me.

“Relax, James.”  She stood and smoothed her skirts.  “It’s our little secret.  But I want to make you suffer a bit.  Only because I can.  I feel like some frozen yogurt.  Stop masturbating, put your clothes back on, and let’s go.”

I held the door for Amy, and took the wheel.  On the way to the store, Amy laid down some groundwork for what was to become the nature of our relationship.  “You know, James.  I’m a busy girl.  Between school and my start-up, it’s hard for me to find time to shop for groceries, clean my condo and run errands.  I could really use a good gopher boy.”  There wasn’t the slightest bit of sarcasm in her voice.  She was dead serious.

I took a deep breath.  “I can totally be that person, Miss Amy.”

“Good.  I will appreciate the help.  Now you do realize everything will be 100% on my terms.  I will ignore you for weeks at a time.  Then I might need you for several days in a row.  Who knows, right?  You should never call me for any reason.  Ever.  Got it?”

“Yes Miss Amy.”

“Good.  I will call you when and if I need you.  You should be ready to do whatever I need you to on a moment’s notice.  Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.”  She pondered, clearly quite pleased with the arrangement she’d just dictated to me.  “How do your balls feel right now?”

“They are so sore, Miss Amy.”

She giggled.  “I think I like them that way.  Tell me, why are they so sore?”

I blushed, not sure what to say.

“It’s okay,” she encouraged me in a soothing, feminine voice that made my balls ache even more.  She put her hand on my thigh.  “I need to hear it.  Tell me why your balls are so sore, James.”

This was an important moment between us.  I struggled to get the words out.  “Because you’re so beautiful.  You are dressed so nicely.  You smell so nice.  Your body is so,” I paused.  “Incredible.”

Amy listened intently before responding.  “I really have you?  Don’t I?  Tell me, what part of my body makes your balls the sorest?”

I knew the answer, but was afraid of saying it for fear of making Amy uncomfortable.

She smiled, narrowing her eyes.  “Go ahead, James.  I want you to say it.  Don’t be shy.  Which of my female body parts makes your penis the hardest, and your balls the sorest?”  She squeezed my thigh and slid her pinkie down to the edge of my groin.

“Your vagina,” I mouthed, amazed at Amy’s confidence.  “Every part of your body is perfect, but your vagina is the center of your, uh, power.  But your feet also…those high heels.  I just want to worship them for you.”

Amy giggled again.  “Good to know.”  She sighed with pleasure.  “You’re like totally be in heaven, having a babe like me boss you around, huh?

“Yes Miss Amy.”

“Good.  Get used to it then.  Because I could really use the free help, and I’m more than willing to use you for my personal gain.  Are you okay with that?”

“Yes Miss Amy.”

“Just so you know, I won’t feel the least bit sorry for you when I make you do menial chores for me.  And I especially won’t be sorry about sexually humiliating you since you obviously enjoy being dominated by women so much.”  She laughed at the windshield in front of her and sighed contemplatively.

“This makes this an ideal relationship for the both of us then.  I get your total servitude and you get the pleasure of serving a higher power.”

The ice cream shop was excruciating.  Miss Amy ordered a small strawberry frozen yogurt.  Then she made me sit there across from her while she slurped down the frozen treat seductively, her little tongue darting out and sliding its way around the cone.  “Try not to cum in your pants please, James,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

She insisted we hold hands on the way back to the car (“you can pretend you’re really my stud muffin”).  Amy took her middle finger and massaged the inside of my palm with it, laughing the whole time.  My nuts had become so sore I had to squeeze my legs together on the ride home, a detail that did not escape the observant Amy.  “I don’t understand guys like you at all,” she said.  “All I have to do is be near you and look at you,” she laughed.

When we got back to my place, she decided to take pity on me.  “I don’t want you to think I’m a bitch,” she said.  “I think you’ll find me to be a perfectly fair master.”  She paused to let that word sink in.  “I think you deserve a reward for your obedience.  My class isn’t for another hour.  Let’s go back inside and give you some needed frustration relief.  How does that sound?”

“Great, Miss Amy!”

“I thought you’d like that, slave boy.”  Her patronizing look of superiority was priceless.  We both felt it.  We both knew it.

Back inside, Amy permitted me to take my clothing off again and kneel before her.  She was totally at ease with her new role as she slid one of her high heels beneath my open legs so that the tip of it was pressed just below my anus.  The front of her narrow ankle pressed up on my sore nuts and caused them to splay lewdly apart from one-another.  “Does that hurt?” she asked.

“No, Miss Amy.”

“How about this then.”  She took her foot back and gave me a decent kick in the nuts.” I grunted, and she smiled.  “That felt good.  I could use a few more of those, but maybe some other time, when you aren’t as obedient as today.”  She pulled her foot back and placed it next to her other foot.  “Tell me when you’re going to lose it, James.”

“I’m going to lose it, Miss Amy!” I said ten seconds later.

She laughed.  “Your face is turning all red.  I wish I had a mirror.  Shoot your mess in the tissue like I know you’ve been wanting to.”

I proceeded to do just that.  This particularly intense orgasm lasted almost a minute.  I came so hard I went momentarily cross-eyed.

“Wow,” she said.  “That was quite a tribute.”  Her smile lit up the room.

“Thank…you…miss…Amy,” I panted.

Before I could catch my breath, Amy put her hand on my shoulder.  “I think it’s time we test your loyalty, James.  Since you didn’t get to have any ice cream, I think it’s only fair that you get to eat a milkshake,” she waited for me to comprehend where she was coming from.

I didn’t really like the idea.  Amy was so perceptive that she could sense my reluctance.  “Oh, come now, James.  It’ll be good for you.  A special protein shake.  You DO want to please me, don’t you James?”  Amy did something absolutely incredible.  She pointed directly at her crotch, the small rise in her mini-skirt just below her belt.  “You DO want to please IT, don’t you?”  Her voice was not at all unkind.  It was firm, feminine and coaxing.

“Yes Miss Amy,” I was forced to admit as I felt the power of her words and actions, and weakness came over me.

“Good.  Hand me your protein shake.  I want to personally feed it to you.”

I did as I was instructed.

“I think this is a wonderful sign of my complete superiority, don’t you?  This way you get to do something disgusting that you don’t want to do, just to please me.  Now, open wide and stick out your tongue.

In case there was any doubt whatsoever of the situation I was in, Amy reached gently down between my legs with her free hand and gathered up my balls like a pair of grapes.  I felt the pressure increase until I felt a dull pain in my stomach.

“Now, lean forward a bit.  Show me how eager you are to please me!  That’s it!  Show me how much you want to eat your load, James. [Speaking directly in my ear]  Slurp it up.  And chew it on it a bit.  Open wide so I can see.  There we go.  Perfect.”

I gobbled up my snack like a starving boy from a third world country who hadn’t had nourishment in several days.  Amy didn’t let up.  “Make sure you eat every last squirt.  Perfect.”  She placed the toilet tissue down on the table, while continuing to grip my balls.  With the hand that had been holding the tissue she took my chin.  “I think sperm is probably quite healthy,” she said.  “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Miss Amy.” I said.  The truth was I was in the middle of the most intense sexual experience of my life.  My mind wasn’t working.

“I think it has to be really healthy,” she said, clearly mocking me with her silly self-debate.  There’s got to be tons of protein and nutrients in all that semen I just made you eat.  You should really thank me.  I just fed you a well-balanced diet.  It’s probably better than the crap you usually eat.”  She laughed triumphantly in my face.

For the first time since our encounter, I saw a sign of Amy’s bitchy side, as she effectively closed the deal on our relationship.  With elation blended with dread, it hit me – in a matter of an afternoon, Amy had proven herself to be a divine, young dominant Woman.  “Thank you, Miss Amy,” I said.  Tears of joy formed in the corners of my eyes.

Amy pointed down to her vagina again, still nestled out of view.  “You need to thank it as well,” she said, elevating her voice.  “Say ‘Thanks Amy’s vagina!”

“Thanks Amy’s vagina!”

“It says you’re welcome!” Amy said.  She released my balls and stood, dusting her hands off after the completion of a job well done.  She checked her watch.  “Oh, looks like I’m late for class.”

That day we were doing a nude study rendering of the same ballerina/paid model I had drawn many times, and who most every other guy in the class wanted to nail, but whom I detested. Toward the end of the class, as the instructor walked around behind us, evaluating our progress, when he saw my rendering, he immediately walked over and snatched it up, and raised it for all to view.

“It seems like some here weren’t sure who the intended subject for the assignment was, and drew the wrong model.”

As the laughter became louder around the room, I sat with my eyes fixed on Suzie, who’s eyes had widened, and whose face had turned a deep blush.

“I drew the best model available in this room, as any decent artist would.” I replied.

The sketch was a fully naked, blond, rather precise rendition of Suzie, in the same pose as the brunette ballerina had taken, but embellished with Suzie’s curvaceous sexiness, so when I glanced at the ballerina, sure enough, I saw her glaring at me. By then the rest of the class had fallen out laughing.

Sure enough, after class, Suzie came over to inquire if she could have the sketch…or a copy of it.

“That was some little stunt you pulled in there” she said laughing.

I gave her a wry grin and replied, “That ballerina makes me tired. What she needs is a good hard whipping.”

(it was because she loved twisting herself up into a pretzel every class, being excessively flexible, and as any artist knows, it’s hard enough to just draw someone’s weight-shift and shadowing properly if they’re just casually standing, leaning against a pole.)

Susie’s eyes widened and she said “From the way you said that I almost think you’d do it too.”

“In a heartbeat” I said, “nothing new for me”

“You’re kidding right?” she stared with an intensity I almost thought she might be finding it a turn-on. I just looked back at her, deep in her eyes then, but by the time I looked away, she knew I wasn’t joking.

Though I’d made up my mind to not let her have the picture, I found myself utterly enchanted while looking into those big green eyes, and was amazed to hear myself saying;

“I drew it for you, but we have to get a proper frame and mat for it first.”

So it was on this lame pretense I managed to entice her back to my apartment I shared with 2 other girls I worked with, and was very close friends with, platonically, as my own preference. Despite some tension with them by seeing the likes of Suzie walk in, she and I sort of hit it off, and I soon found myself listening to her complaints and concerns about her boyfriend, as we hung out and chatted after art class on my stupid waterbed, smoking pot.

By the 4th visit, we had become intimate friends, but she had flatly refused me now 3 times in long steamy chats on my bed, wearing those miniskirts, and having no qualms about her good buddy – me, seeing up her dress yet again. Catching her naked in my shower handing in the towel, she didn’t flinch, smiled, and asked if I “liked her ass?”

“Hmmm, I need to come do a more thorough exam”, wiggling my fingers “Mind?”

She giggled and pushed me back, and said;

“I wouldn’t, but your hands are dirty, and I’m all clean”

Fucking pastels from drawing class!

Then, next visit, I was over-zealous, and after running my hand up her thigh, saying “fire-truck” jokingly, she got upset, stood up, and said,

“STOP!, Dont be an ass! I want you too, but I wont cheat, and I’m not trying to tease you, but I know I do, and I know you like it, and I like that you do. Guess I can’t come anymore!!

“I don’t want that” I said.

“Obviously”, she said wryly, letting her eyes drift down to the large bulge of wood in my pants. “I’m so sorry” she said sincerely, and “it’s just as hard for me.”

“How so?” said I caustically.

She stood up again, lifted her mini skirt, pulled her panties down and for the first time ever said “Go ahead, feel” she was visibly dewy but I felt anyway, and said;

“Liar, hard my ass, you’re dripping wet.” she laughed the most tear filled, cutest laugh ive ever heard, and asked,

“Don’t either of your pretty roommates have sex with you?”

“I haven’t, and won’t, but I doubt even you believe that one,” I said, “…since they’ve cost me 3 really cute girlfriends already, but it’s platonic.”

She had yet to push my hand from her wet, blond patch, surrounded by tanned skin the like of which I’d never seen. Finally, there was her G-spot. No wonder her stupid boy friend couldn’t get her off…way up deep. Yes…she began heavy sighing and asked,

“What on earth are you doing?”

Joe, (her bf, who didn’t seem to care if she ever came she’d complained) She came after only 5 or so minutes….first time with a man (I learned later)…came again..(love it when honey drips down the legs.)

“Turn around and face the wall now” I ordered her, just to see what she’d do. As I suspected she would, she did first, then said “what for?”

“This” I said, pulling my woven leather belt from my pants, putting its tip back thru it’s buckle then roughly grabbing one of her wrists. She tried to wrestle it away, but didn’t make a sound, and I used a little of my old martial arts to quickly shove her into the wall. Her big breasts, could be seen squished into the wall. I grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, standing very close to her face, and said in a cold stern confident voice:

“Cross your wrists behind your back…”

“Uh…no.. she quietly said in a whispery almost mocking voice I’d never heard from her, but then I pulled her hair hard, further back and up at the same time. “Ahhh!!” she cooed, still not very loud..

“NOW!!” I said very close to her hear suddenly, knowing it would startle her.

“Okay!” she replied, wincing at her hair being pulled so hard, and dutifully crossed her wrists as I’d bid her. I slid the belt loop around them no sooner than she’ crossed them, cinched it tight, then made a secure double square knot from the excess belt, then took her by the hair again, and started kissing her for the first time. She tried to turn away at first, seeming unsure she wanted to, but pulling her chin back towards me, and holding her head in place with my other hand, I was soon kissing the lips I’d fantasized about many times. I took my fill of what I wanted there, and could tell she’d never had a man get physical and overpower her even slightly as I had. She was panting when I let her come up for air, and said “ok let me go now, I need to go” I spun her around, slammed her back against the wall just hard enough where I knew it hurt a little, and just as she opened her mouth to say “Owww”, I had both hands at the top of her blouse, grasped firmly and tore it open, buttons flying.

She looked at me eyes wide and disbelieving, and opened her mouth again to protest my ripping of her nice blouse, but I’d already grasped the clasp of her front clasp bra, since she’s told me once she wore them because the bf liked them. Seeing her breasts for the first time I was amazed at their size, and with her eyes even wider at my utter audacity, I took one of her nipples and pulled her towards me with it…only a few inches, then we were face to face…

“I’m sorry” I said in mock politeness, “did you just say something?”

“Yes, let me go now, I need to g—–aaaaaaiiiooowww!” she trailed off, me pinching her nipple so hard she couldn’t finish…

“Ow! please..ow..ow…please stop…ow!, OOOH!!” giving her now protruding nip a series of tugs and twists.

Then I stopped abruptly, knowing this was too much for any first timer.

After a sec she got bold, and started babbling and talking fast and nervous about how she really had to go and I should untie her, and blah blah, till i walked over and did a fake, like I was about to backhand her, but didn’t'… she stopped. scared.

“Shut up you little tease, you go when I say, I got plans for you, so you stay for now….or else.

“You’re going to rape me aren’t you?!”

Then I slapped her hard.

“Bitch!”(I’d never called this girl anything even uncomplimentary) “So is that what you think this is, and what I am?”

“No I—I’m just scared…and I’m… “her mouth turned town to the cutest pout, and her eyes looked so betrayed my heart melted. I went close and embraced her gently, slowly, as her naked body felt the roughness of my clothes. She was breathing deeply and her eyes followed mine, as I’d always dreamed they would ..needy, wanting me…her, this fucking blonde goddess. I kissed her gently and she kissed me back, and my hand wandered to her bare pussy…still quite wet, so I knew then this girl in my arms was on an adventure, but still scared to leave. She needed me to make her, to take her, but was uncertain if she could trust me to make it good for her.

I whispered in her ear “I know you’re loving this aren’t you?”

Big sigh and laying her head on my shoulder.. “God yes! ..it’s just, unexpected.”

“Just do as I say, and trust me babe, you’re not ready for all this cruelty, but you have to obey or it will be”

“Will you?” I asked

“Yes”

I smacked her ass so hard she shrieked.

“What did you say slave?”

“Yes…Sir?” as she said it she gave a throaty inhale with a sort of reedy voice of a girl saying that for the first time, and who had always wanted to, and always dreamed of a man enslaving her.

“You are mine till I release you, slave”

“Yes Sir”

Reaching between her legs, now soaking wet. “All of you”

“Yes Sir” she said shuddering.

Embracing her again, “There is no guilt, shame, or remorse here, except what I give you, slave”

“Yes Sir” So sweet and whispery was her voice becoming, I knew i’d end up wanting her, and I’d made my mind I’d not…not this first time.

“A slave has only one purpose and one goal, you must know it or suffer”

“Yes …S.Sir” she had no clue ..lol.

“Well?!” as I swatted her ass hard again…

“OOH!…I’m…to be good sir?”

Laughing, I swatted her ass harder, then again…”ahhh! ow! I…I don’t know sir!”

“Don’t move an inch slave”

“Yes Sir”

I went and picked out some lengths of ropes, got her heels, a blindfold , gag , a collar, a lead and a flogger..

I walked back, put the blindfold on, and instantly hated that I couldn’t see her beautiful eyes, but saw much more she had which was pleasing to the eye.

I put her heels on myself. Awesome legs ..best I’d ever seen. I slipped the loop of rope behind her elbows, and said “touch your elbows together”

She seemed surprised ..”WHA–Yes sir!” she arched and strained to do so, as I wrapped the length around, pulled it tight till they touched, “Ow!, that hurts” she complained, almost bitchy.

I picked up the flogger and lashed one of her breasts hard “Shut up, goddamnit!”

“Yes Sir” she sounded almost relieved.

“You don’t talk again slave, or you get that gag. You won’t like it, trust me”

“Yes Sir” very quietly.

I then applied the collar to her beautiful neck. She didnt like it, she’d never dreamed, im sure…”Sir may I ask–”

“NO!!…quiet!…I warned you didn’t I?”

“Yes Sir” resume breathing hard, lower lip trembling and seemed very humiliated.

“Open up”

“But Si—mmmpgfh!”

Ball gag, quickly wrapped and buckled in back.

“Gnnnnnn-mmmmm!”she protested, face frowning for the first time.

I the attached a lead to the collar, and led her to the bath room, and said “you may now urinate” her head jerked sideways ..”mmmnnneeii??!” shaking head rapidly. I knew that would freak Miss never-done-anything-but-vanilla-sex-with-one-boyfriend right out…lol.

Standing behind her, i reached around and began to gently caress her breasts, to which she quickly responded with moans, leaning back against me. I could feel her fingers at my crotch, gently tugging at my pants. I knew what it meant ..as she could grasp me nowhere else. she was grasping for me, some gentle genuine reality of the me she thought she knew. All the teasing and standoffishness because “she had a boyfriend” were gone now. She just needed a man, a real man, and she was confused as to which seemingly real man was real. Being tied, the little girl I’d always known waited inside her was all there was. Willing to risk anything and take anything to find and feel what her boyfriend whom she desperately said she “loved” wasn’t giving her. She wanted me to love her…and was willing to allow herself to become enslaved to feel ..just loved. I sat on the toilet seat, and just looked at her…god she was a vision of bdsm loveliness like id never seen., back arched, tits high. Blonde pussy still wet, breathing with sexual frustration, laced with her first fear of the sexual unknown, since she lost her virginity. I reached over and turned on the bathtub faucet, to just let the water sounds fill her head, she turned side to side, wondering what was next. Body oil, which I’m sure she thought must be water, till she smelled its fragrance, I gently rubbed her with head to toe, and applied it generously till she gleamed like a Ferrari, and rubbed her tight muscles, whispering in her ear how she made the most beautiful slave on the planet, and how “this” was now mine, grasping her labia, to which she nodded in agreement, and “these” her oil covered boobs ..nipples totally distended, and these, firmly grasping her ass cheeks ..and smoothing more oil on them ..and then, knowing she suddenly feared i would, plunged my hand between her buttocks and entered her anus with my finger before asking “You’re a virgin here, aren’t you slave?

“mmm” she nodded her head, happy it didn’t hurt her in there, because of maximal lubrication. Her ball-gag had a metal eyehook id put in its ball for just what i then did, attaching it to a small clip hook above the towel rack, then sitting on the toilet seat, and pulling her ass back towards me.

“Stick your ass up high!” I said.

“eeermp!” she protested, again shocked at such unladylike directives., then “mmmg” realizing she couldn’t pull her head away from the hook, but with no idea why.

“NOT even close slut! i used the leather lead from her collar to sting her ass. “HIGHER and arch more, or Ill whip your pussy” More fearful muffled protests, and nothing she ever dreamed I’d say, and wanted to be angry and refuse to submit to it, couldn’t, being tied so tight, gagged, and aroused she suddenly realized, because I called her slut, another first.

“Higher still! Damn, you aren’t trying!…bitch spread your legs then”

she did and strained he ass up as high as she knew she could. quivering and whimpering. You must want your pussy whipped, right?

Arching a little more found a painful wince on her face, as she vehemently shook her head, actually still amazed at being threatened with a pussy whipping, but mostly scared of it…, but then my fingers were in her anus again, and she was just confused about that as everything else, but mostly feeling angry she wasn’t angry, and couldn’t have prevented any of this if she was.

I wiped some of the oils off her ass, and began gently threatening her, telling her she flunked her first slave quiz, and would soon be flogged for it.

Then I began to gently stroke her labia, and lightly kiss her beautiful upturned ass. As she soon began to moan, I was able to find wetness enough to cover all her inner ass, and my kisses began to land at the crevice, then around then back, but lower and then, knowing it would shock her little miss goody-goodysexual-naiveté, planted my tongue, deep in her anus. she inhaled sharply, made a show of seeming to dislike it…but i continued to hear her lower guttural moanings, and leaning back for a moment, saw she’d arched her ass up higher than I was able to force her to of her own volition. A rimmy is something of questionable necessity for many, especially women asked to give them, but once savored and enjoyed far longer than is seemly, one is loathe for them to end, and finds such leisure in the feelings of sexual arousal they amplify. She was just dangling from the wall hook by her tightly strapped gag now, and wantonly wagged her shiny ass toward the pleasures it kept finding. My favorite thing is giving it to prudish women who are humiliated by it, but cannot help but relish it, as anyone..

“You like this don’t you?” poking my tongue in deep.

“mmmMMM!”she moaned, as if while annoyed I’d asked, damn well did, but as any young girl who fears it, was worried I was just priming her for anal sex.

SLUT!, you are soaking, and it seems your ass craves more…..ha! such an easy little meathole I’ve changed you into..”

“Ngggmmm! more gagged protesting sounds, she didn’t like the sound of that “more” part I could tell.

“Don’t worry my little gaggle-of-holes-for-use, Ill not fuck your tight ass here till you beg me, and soon you will.”

“ngummmpfh! and tried to pull her ass away, when i grabbed it, and pulled it back to my face.

“That was dumb little cunt”, and she started to recoil from such talk, but couldn’t as I held her, but now started to bite.

Ahh! she cried over and over as my teeth bit soft butt-flesh, and my soaked fingers slipped inside her to her now very familiar spot. Soon she was writhing in fear of bites, as she hurtled toward her 4th orgasm there, while I now only nipped at the tenderest skin in her cleft with unforgiving teeth.

Her pelvis was now gyrating, and her legs quivered so sweetly, it was hard for me to say; “By the way my little pond scum princess, you’re not allowed to cum”

emmmggth?!!” she revolted sharply, knowing it was about too late, as did I.

With cock already out, I stood, and began rubbing it between her asscheeks, and her moaning approvals, Let me know she felt I’d read her mind.

“Ready to be my fucktoy now?”

She instantly bobbed her head, and to tease her, I began to poke it at her bung…and laughing ..as the cock-head began to push in and widen her anus, she squealed, “eeeennnng!”

I made pretense of making her assfuck me, and even grabbed her hair to yank her back saying “EVERY LITTLE HOLE YOU HAVE is mine! Isn’t it?…well slave?” The moment she began to nod, my well oiled thumb slammed deep into her ass, as I pulled her hair back hard, so she couldn’t squirm away. pushing with my thumb, i said “Move bitch!”

making her step forward, but not before I heard a familiar change in her panting, and felt her ass begin to rhythmically clench my thumb.

“That’s ok, you conniving little cum-slut, ill just add this to your punishment.”

mmmhhh! she was rasping repeatedly, in the throes of orgasmic waves,

So I unhooked her ball gag from the wall, raised her, and pulled it off her drooling mouth, and pulled her face toward mine by the hair, and as she winced at the pain of it, our lips met, and my tongue plunged deep into her mouth, and the thumb was shoved then gyrated, while she got my roughest most abusive kisses until her earth-shattering orgasm finally subsided. I could tell she’d found nirvana, and wanted to just lay and hold her, but just had to see that beautiful ass take its due.

So quivering she stood, and the flogger did its work, and watching her take it I marveled, since with no gag, she didn’t even protest, and just made “ungghh!” sounds with each stroke. As the last few came down, and her ass, now covered with pink welts, glowed, I said sternly:

“A slaves only purpose, is her masters pleasure, and enjoyment, and serving him.”

“Yes Master!” with enthusiasm, and respect, by switching to Master from sir on her own.

“Say it slave”

“A slaves only purpose, is her masters pleasure, and enjoyment, and serving him.” she repeated, as i whipped her lightly.

I removed her elbow ropes then, but left her wrists tied behind, and leaning against the wall, took her gently in my arms…light kisses and affection told her such as words could not, and I just waited, and she finally said “Oh my god…I so loved it Master!”

Giving her a wry grin, “I said, It isn’t quite over, as you came un-permitted slave” she looked strangely accepting, and I said, “take your pick, a blow-job or pussy-whipping”

She instantly dropped to her knees, and I’ll never forget the sweet way she looked up and asked “Master, will you teach me how, please?”

She was a mass of hormones and nerves when she left, and I could have easily taken it, but I knew better. Outdoing her boyfriend didn’t amount to shit. She loved him. He didn’t love her. All she wanted was for him to love her and marry her. I knew whatI had done with her would be hard to assimilate, living with some vanilla guy she thought she was in love with, and stealing another mans woman? Been there done that, and it was nothing I ever wanted again, but looks like hers always had the other man, always.

The tension was even starting with my roomies. Their trust and friendship was won by my never hitting on them, and they had both finally met a man who wasn’t just after sex. But no woman wants what I was doing done in her home, and when a woman who’s like the sun walks in, all the little stars must disappear. I was confused, depressed, but I knew it was just self pity. ..and why me? I know it has little to do with looks now, but then, I thought I just couldn’t get a total babe ever because I was a dork.

Bad eyes, thick glasses, scruffy, edgy, sarcastic….and the quintessential young man…resenting any beautiful woman who wouldn’t fuck me. Now, Suzie ..light-years out of my league. Yet she’ submitted, albeit ambivalently, I knew what we’d done together was fifty times better and more intense than anything vanilla boy had given her…So why? ..then I knew. I was just a badly needed release valve, nothing more. Couldn’t really blame her, or any woman of such seething passion. But I got pissed, then angry, not at her, or her boyfriend, or myself…but who?

God…motherfucker…who else. When I pray, I don’t seek a mental vision, I just know he listens…I ask for what I want, kneeling. Before I finish, I know it’s done, and the name of Jesus seals the deal. Don’t ask how I know. Hell I don’t know shit. I do know that I’ve done this every time. For a split second I know. I don’t wish, don’t hope, don’t do anything but know. I take no action based on knowing, but I never let my mind take any other question or doubt. Its weird, but that is in essence, faith. It kind of takes nerves of steel, but is kind of easy.

Two days later she called. my roomie handed me the phone and said:” “It’s Scuzzie”…loud enough so Suzie could hear. (lol, women) she asked why id been ignoring her at school.

“…was trying to be mad at you. then at what’s-his-name. then at myself…then you again, musical mad at people…stupid game. I lost.”

“No you didn’t,” she said, “I did, ..big fight, he wants me to leave….”

“Roommate’s having a Colorado Bulldog party tonight, come?”

“Can I bring an overnight case?” (Thank you Jesus!)

“Sure, long as there aren’t any clothes in it.”

“Ha-ha, don’t you like mini-skirts? …and lingerie?”

“Eewww!…fine, whatever, but then you gotta bring some Fuckme pumps too, and those handcuffs he laughed at you for buying.”

…When she arrived, she looked a fright, a basket case, just as I expected. In sweats, she mumbled something about not wanting him to think she was going to a party and that she’d dress upstairs….for me. I was tipsy on a couple of Colorado bulldogs, but not too drunk to know she was in need of a friend, and my prayers must wait. I made her a real strong drink, and got a Quaalude my roomie had, and when I got to my room, she already had on the hottest black party dress, and spikes…Jesus!, bent over doin’ her eyes, no panties…the girl was heart and soul, but her hands shook, and when I looked in her eyes, I had to turn away, so how much she hurt, wouldn’t hurt me.

“Here drink this” I said, handing her the milk, Kahlua, 4-5 shots of Vodka, a splash of coke, milkshake-sized “head howitzer”. That’s when I saw the bruise under her eye. Fucking bastard!….pissed, I rudely opened, and ransacked her suitcase. Handcuffs ….Good God!. dangling them from my finger, I walked back and said, “Are you really this tough?”

“Wha? ..you said…”

“Yeah right, I should use ‘em, and punish you bad…unless he’s in jail where he belongs!”

Throwing them on the bed, I said “Take off that dress, Dumbass.”

I walked across the hall and got my roomies giant bunny rabbit nightshirt…

“Scuzzie cant wear that” my roomie said, half joking.

“Shup, or I won’t let you see what she brought for you to wear, your size, and ultra sexy.”

Her eyes widened, I knew she’d wanted Suzie’s “look” and had enticed me several times in miniskirts…and was starting to scheme hard, not because I’m all that, but I’d made the mistake of hinting that I didn’t want to… and now needed to make her think I wanted to, to scare her off and things could get back to normal.

No sooner back in my room, a naked blonde vision stood sobbing, with the handcuffs on. I put the clothes down, walked to her and took her face in my hands and said.

“I know you know I can be cruel Susan, but this…”lightly brushing her bruised cheek “…please tell me where he is, he and I need to talk.”

“No, what you said first was more right, I’m the dumbass” then she looked into my eyes intently “Master, I need you again. Your guidance,,,(very hesitatingly) and punishment.”

God I was torn, her standing there again naked in spikes, handcuffs, and asking nicely. It was all I could do not to look down at her wondrous body, and just grab her and use her like a fucktoy…then again ..why didn’t I?

“Maybe later, but we’ve both been drinking, and I think you’ve had all the punishment from a man I want you to have today”, I said as I brushed her hair aside, and inspected her bruise again. “And once I do catch up to Mr. Dom-with-his-fists, know what?”

“What?” she asked apprehensively.

“You’re a dumbass and I’m not” I joked, she giggled.

“Stop…”she whimpered.

“Come here, dumbass”, I said, and led her toward the bed “Take this” the black pill was in my hand. “Thought you might want this. Turns you into a happy, horny, rip van winkle, you’ll want me to rape you, and whip you, but I won’t, ’cause you’ll be sound asleep before I get to 2nd base, …besides, you still haven’t paid for that last “massage and slave lesson”.

By the way she giggled, I could tell she was feeling the vodka, and wouldn’t have let her have the Quaalude normally, but such fucked-up shit happens to women’s heads when the man they love punches them out, it’s almost like she would have left him, but once he hit her, it made her nuts, thinking he really didn’t love her like she suspected, but since he hit her, maybe she had hurt him by saying…..that’s when I knew why he hit her…because of me and my stupid fucking massage bs,. duh!.

She had to somehow throw it in his face, and since I hadn’t fucked her, felt justified. I guess threatening and ridiculing his manhood was supposed bring it out finally, but had the opposite effect.

I took the handcuffs with her hands cuffed in them still and held them up and said, “I think we should keep these on you, In case I decide to punish you later, but for now, request denied. Drunken dumbasses aren’t worthy” she just giggled, looking up at me like she’d do whatever she was told.

“Lie down” I said, “I want you to take that” pointing at the pill.

“Yes Master” she did, got in my bed, and I tucked her in, and just sat caressing her gently, and we looked in each others eyes till her lids began to droop.

“Thank you…….Master” she said, just before she dozed off. I kissed her forehead and left her sleeping handcuffed, hoping I did the right thing. She was at a very fragile stage. I knew she hurt far more than she let on, and that to her, life, love men and the world were just a confusing mass if things that made no sense.

I took Suzie’s black hot-dress, after she slept, and teased teh roomies with the dress, and they both oohed and ahh-d, and asked why I had just the dress, and wasn’t getting any Suzie.

“She was unzipping my fly, and I came like a first timer, never made it to jack shit…” I lied,

“Wanna see the big mess I made?” I said, and started unzipping my pants, and they both scurried away grossin’ out, like chicks gotta do about such things. But then I chased Tracy the “Scuzzie” culprit around the apartment with my own cuffs, as they both were scared and giggly about my Dom-ness, and had almost sealed my fate with other women one too many times with idle gossip, so this “Scuzzie” business was the last straw.

By the time I cornered her in the kitchen, we were both out of breath, and I told her Suzie was mad at me because of her snotty “Scuzzie” comment, and she was gonna get cuffed, spanked, and give me a bj now “or else.”(She’d dumped her last screwy lil’ bf because he kept trying to be makin’ her swallow ..lol) She’d asked if mine tasted that bitter, and bitched about guys asking;

“Why do they all wanna get swallowed?”…blah blah. on and on…so after I clicked a handcuff on one wrist and she thought I was actually going to, she was about to cry, but couldn’t for giggling, and the other roomie was lmao on the couch. Before I let her up, she’d started to get scared and say;

“NO WAY NO WAY I HATE CUM!!”

Pinned against the stove, one arm cuffed behind her, thinking I’d really make her be a blowjob-swallow-slut, I turned on a burner to scare her, and said, “Ok then, I’ll let you go, under one condition.”

“What?!!”

“Quit being such a li’l smartass with the “Scuzzie” bullshit, and unless I get a hot bondage threesome with you two heartbreakers every night after work, mind giving a guy enough room to get some pussy?”

Both were shocked, and I get: “Threesome? we don’t say nothing to girls you date…!??”

“My ass, Suzie thinks I’m tappin’ both you anytime she don’t be here…gee, thanks!”

Then the phone rang, and some strange chick was asking bout Suzie, and of course, I was handed the phone, and so was Joe, Suzie’s boyfriend at the other end..

“Yeah Joe, Suzie’s asleep in my room, real upset because some chicken-shit motherfucker blacked her eye.” I said.

“Fuck man, who–”

“Don’t deny it, she doesn’t…. Fuckin’ pussy.”..

“Hey dickhead, mind if I talk to my fucking girlfriend.?” said he.

“Ill go wake her and ask”.. I went and made a drink, took a leak, exchanged more affectionate flip offs and sticking tongues out with the roomies, then ended up in a tussle for pinching Traci’s thigh (we wrestled, and play-fought far too much…she loved it…i guess it was like a sexual tension reliever or…whatever) ..as I’d hoped, waiting almost 10 minutes for me to get back to the phone brought out his angriest self:

“Finally!, she comin’.?”

“No.”

“What? did she say why?”

“Pretty sleepy, but I know why…”

“You do huh?…why?”

“Cause’ deep deep ….deep DEEP down….you’re *pause* CHICKENSHIT!”

“Look motherfucker, what’s your address ill come show you who’s…”

“I’ll be happy to see you, and will allow you to see her, but first, you gotta get past ME….then after I’m done seein’ if the big tough dental student can punk me out like he does his sweet girlfriend, who happens to really love him, since he has such a way with the bitch-slap. Hope you can bitch-slap me down like you’re so good at doing with the ladies, because if not, fuckin pussy, I’m gonna have every tooth outta your head before I’m done, so you can practice dentistry toothless.”

Then I said, “Still want my address pansy-ass??” (*click*) …as expected.

Well I was pissed, but I saw a pic of him later, not a big guy, but very wiry from a lotta sports…could’a punked me too maybe, who knows?, and it was the second time I’d played hero in one month, for a friend of the roomie, who’s husband decided, his Rocky Balboa impersonation on her head and elsewhere would make her love him more. Guess so, she went back to him.

Why do women always go back to guys who punch ‘em out?

After that of course, I had to then tell the roomies the truth on all of it, then joked it was all their fault, because I couldn’t have my threesome…lol. We sorta all made up, bonded, then they went to bed, and I decided to go sleep with a finally peaceful Suzie…

After I clipped a length of chain to the still sleeping Suzie’s handcuffs, I then pulled it taught so her arms were pulled over her head toward the top edge of the bed. She stirred a little, and opened her eyes and smiled, so I leaned over and kissed her and just said “you’re mine again”.

“Good Master” she sweetly replied, which had such an amazing emotional effect on me.

“Trust me now?” I asked, as I pushed her bangs out of her sleepy eyes.

“Completely Master” then added, “I loved being your slave, and this time I’ll do better, you’ll see!”

“Smart girl” I said, because I’m very tired, but in need of your sweet service slave. You perhaps should be scolded for being a dumbass, but I’ve decided that you were punished enough by whoever hit you, and want to continue training you how to please your Master, who now craves your affection, and warmth among other things”

“Anything Master!” she said sweetly.

I pulled the comforter back, and just looked at this woman, then more to see if she was learning my wishes. Sure enough, her heels remained on, and she was fully naked except for them. I smiled at her and said, “You’re learning quickly, and how did you know not to remove your shoes?”

I didn’t, but just knew you loved them, and hoped they’d make you ..want me when you came back.”

“They do, and I do, pretty slave”, and began caressing her breasts and making her sigh, as I continued, she just naturally responded, such a feminine, passionate, delicious young girl, who so many men dreamed of, and who didn’t belong to me, but who wanted to learn to please, and give more, im sure to find out if her natural submissiveness could be a way to be more to her brutal, insensitive boyfriend or any man. I knew she’d forgiven him for hitting her, and she knew I likely never would. I knew she was at a crossroads, and needed to see me as teacher and friend, instead of interloper. This night she would learn how she could be enjoyed just as a woman.

After much affection, kissing and caressing, and only looking deep in her eyes. She was still cuffed hands above, but was in my arms, and beginning to want to go to a more physical passion  I continued slowly, and my hands didn’t move below her breasts for some time, and when they finally did, I could tell she wanted them to badly, and wanted release, but dared not ask.

I pulled her toward me on her side, so my hands could take inventory, but shied away from any vaginal contact, and only touched her elsewhere. In circular patterns, her thighs in front, across her hips, gently reviewing her tummy, then back to her breasts. Gently, just feeling her, and as lightly as I could, although I was tired, and knew this was what she needed. I coaxed her womanly passion as slowly as possible, never rushing, or seeming to hurry. After many passes over her broad, regions, she seemed like she wanted just anything she could get from me, laying there cuffed, eyes closed, breathing heavily, lips now just staying parted fully, awaiting my next kiss, and finally gave me the subtle signal I’d been waiting for. Arching her pelvis, and hunching her hips forward, finally let me know it was time. and my hand moved to just over her pussy hair, and just stopped. and waited, lightly grazing her. She arched to meet hy hovering hand, then I moved it away, and repeated my previous caressing elsewhere. then same, again, arched more…moved away, and glancing at her face, saw the slight smile and seeming frustration of a woman being teased to her limit, but one who as a slave, knew she must wait for her Master.

As my hand finally entered her, she was flowingly wet, and having found her high place days back, had since figured out this woman was capable of experiencing far more pleasure than she’d ever dreamed. As my gentle rotating hand movements finally began inside her, I knew this time I’d properly prepared her, and her first waves of inner climax began shortly. Another followed soon after, but I knew as she did not, that with just the right touch and repetition of movement, and purpose, they would become more and more intense. Her 3rd climax told me we were almost there, and i said “hang on slave, gotta pee”

I returned with a towel, and put it under her, and went right back to work, and knowing it would make it better, detached the cuff from their rope, and pulled her arms around my neck. in just a few moments, she sighed heavily, and seemed to quiver, as her thighs involuntarily spread wider.

“Oh my god!” she said “Ohhh – my GOD!!” as she almost seemed to start to convulse. I grabbed a handful of her hair, and roughly pulled her lips to mine, as he began her most intense orgasm yet, She arched, and shook, and would have screamed I knew, but could not be released from my deep, enduring kiss. Surrendering her arms suddenly pulled me closer, and she kissed back like I just couldn’t believe, and my hand inside her almost slipped out, as the flood of her ultimate passion was finally released for the first time. Her orgasm seemed to go on forever, but was but a 2 or 3 minute time till she finally crested and relaxed and was still kissing me sweetly. As our embrace released, she opened her eyes and looked at me with glazed droopy lids and said flatly, in a lower monotone “oh….MY …god!” I couldn’t help but laugh at her then, and knew the towel was likely soaked, and also knew she’d protest, as my hand began its simple work again.” No, not again” she said.

“Shhh slave!, trust your Master”

She tilted her head back, and sighed with resignation, “Yes Master, I trust you .. I do trust you!” and was soon taken back again not once but 2 times more.

By the last one I let my fingers wander to her half open mouth, which she wantonly sucked in making her wishes plain. I then pulled her cuffed hand from behind my neck, and just waited a moment to see what she’d do. She just smiled and started to ask me, but I put my finger on her lips, and gently pushed down on her shoulder.

She seemed bent on showing me she could give and incredible blowjob, and while I have had some better, her enthusiasm was so very memorable, just new at it, and with little trained gag reflex, she supplemented sweet licks and kisses, for such depths she could not take.

The last thing I remembered was wanting to pull her on top of me, and fuck her brains out. But sleep overcame me, and the sandman visited the warmest, incredibly sexy dreams, and when I finally awoke, I saw why. I was still in her sweet mouth, and once aware, became hard very quickly. It was incredible to watch her be awakened by it, and her response was to just suck to increase to needed depth. but I knew what she’d done, she likely had never dreamed of doing, and took her head gently and she began to move it toward mine. “You’re a very good slave, and incredibly beautiful”. i said.

” I gotta pee Master!”…lol it still makes me laugh to this day, the way she said it, so uncertain and so insecure.

“No, you may not slave….long pause…I’m kidding, but hurry, I really need to fuck your brains out.”

“Yes Master!” she said scurrying away…

When she returned, after popping out of the bathroom, getting her purse, and going back, she said “I started master” after crawling up on her knees beside me. I just looked at her, and her eyes locked on mine, and she said “You said I would, so I’m begging you now master…please…”

“For?”

Please fuck my ass, and as hard as you want, it’s yours now anyway, and I love that it is!”

The next hours and days were ultimately one of the sweetest, softest, hungry for true love, desperate for a tender touch, near wordless sexual encounters I’d ever had. She had me incredulous at how such a sweet submissive incredible hottress could be left so love hungry and orgasm-starved by arseholes who only want them for temporary sex till they enter their ritzy dental practice, then dump them for another, who I could never believe was anything close to his college tempfuck, Suzie. It sounds conceited to say I know God was answering her prayers that night, but I know damn well, the next day and a half, were when he answered mine.

But I knew she’d go back to her Joe, and knew she’d be torn, and want to come back to me soon.

All of which happened, and I was her Master on and off for some time. She could be awfully high-maintenance this girl, and after a while, though it hurt, I came to know, In her own way she needed us both. she wanted my approval somehow, and at one point asked me if I’d come over and meet him.

“I’ve wanted to for a while Suzie, and I haven’t forgotten what he did.”

“So if you come to visit, will you start something with him?” she asked, as we spoke on the phone.

“…And finish it, since I’ve wanted to so badly girl, and he’s so richly deserving.”

Of course she didn’t want her champion beaten down, and prevented it as sweetly as she could. I didn’t learn he’d dumped her right after college until years later, and had cheated on her all their last year together then married the new girl, once he’d moved far away to his new practice. She was left high and dry and bitterly heartbroken, having lost touch with me, after we’d finally drifted apart.

I’ve always hated dentists. All you need to do is ask them what their services cost, to know they are some of the greediest, most selfish bastards in this world, who seem the friendly, best friend you ever had while they do what they do, screwing you over as hard as they can the entire time. Fuckwads, all of them.

*Sigh* She was a Pisces, which I often think may be the sexiest women on this planet, but there just aren’t enough of them to go around. Born under the sign of “Half Man-Half Asshole” myself (Sagittarius), I read somewhere I was not so compatible with them, and was already aware that I usually seemed to want them far more than they wanted me…something about Fire and Water, and mostly physical, primal, animal magnetism for both, with the more romantic, emotional Piscean at a great emotional advantage… Likely so, since at the time, just reading it made me cry, and it took this college boy a few months to get over Suzie…trust me.

I always regretted never telling her, how very deeply I loved her.

There can be few places as deceptive as Nether Slype.  The churches are well attended and the all children say their prayers.  Such presumably innocent pleasures as the fete, the sack race, and the village pantomime are milestones in its calendar.  There are also summer and winter sports gatherings, though all these events, I later learned, are curiously unique to the village.  There are two pubs, a school, two shops — one with a post office — a tea rooms where the old ladies gossip, and a Saturday market where you can buy anything from a home-made cake to an antique grandfather clock.  The village garage takes forever to fix your car, the mobile bank comes once a week, and the small library boasts the 1974 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  The few Saturday-night drunks are harmless; there is no vandalism and no rowdiness, which is as well, because Jack, the village bobby, couldn’t handle more than the mildest altercation.

Nether Slype nestles among wooded hills, and the woods encroach into it.  It is a place of nooks and crannies, green shades, cool shadows, high hedges, privacy, and footways.  There are bridleways where big-bottomed, bouncing-bosomed girls ride their ponies and other things besides — very vigorously.  The long, curling, hedge-rowed lanes are overarched with heavy branches of wimpling leaves.  The river murmurs under the mediaeval bridge, flowing fresh and clean, down from the higher hills on the Welsh borderland.  You’ll see an occasional fly-angler there, standing midstream in his waders, his fly whipping back and forth across the sparkling water; but their numbers are few and they’re all local, for no one comes to Nether Slype to fish; in fact, hardly anyone comes to Nether Slype at all.

Nearly all the villagers marry within the community — and they firmly believe in marriage.  I am aware of the commonly held urban belief that rural folk are interbred, but there is little risk of that in Nether Slype, with its population of twelve hundred, and Long Wallop, two miles up the valley, with a further six hundred, not to mention Threshers Bottom, over the hill, with another five hundred.  Therefore, as I’ve learned, few in this hidden, tucked-away place look beyond the three villages for a mate, which might account for a number of their local quirks.

I found Nether Slype by accident, as you must, for no one goes there by design or drives through it by accident, because the narrow twisting lane that winds six miles from the A road is unsignposted and goes nowhere else, except Long Wallop and Threshers Bottom.  But many years ago, I took a wrong turning.  I drove for miles with no clue where I was going.  Several times, I nearly turned back, but when I had almost given up hope of arriving anywhere other than a dead end in a farmyard, I came to a rise, and looked down through a gap in the birch trees.

It was autumn, and there below me, thrusting up from a tousled leafscape of greens, ambers, and reds, I saw a mediaeval church tower, and on the further hillside, four conical-roofed turrets peered over the trees towards me, as though a watchful castle hid in the forest there.  So I drove for another mile, the trees thinned slightly, and cottages appeared to left and right, peeping slyly from behind high hedges of yew, beech, and blackthorn.

I saw an elderly couple walking arthritically up the lane towards me.  Winding down my window, I leant out and called, “Excuse me.  I’m  lost.  I was wondering—”

With a sprightliness I wouldn’t have thought possible, the old couple recoiled and scuttled behind the nearest hedge.  Their reaction wouldn’t surprise me now, of course — they don’t like talking to strangers in the three villages — but on that day, it perplexed me.

I drove on; the cottages drew closer and became more regular, yet all seemed to hide behind something — hedges, large shrubs, or weeping trees.  Then, suddenly, the vista opened before me and I drove out onto a large village green, with a few shady, monumental oaks and a lilied pond at its centre where ducks quacked and geese honked deafeningly.  Close by stood ancient stocks and whipping post that looked remarkably well maintained.  Dotted all around were ancient cottages, timbered or red-tiled; tumbledown irregular cottages with shutters, nooks, and many corners, cellars, rambling attics, and tall chimneys with weathercocks on them.  I saw a couple of shops with bowed and bulls-eyed windows, and what looked like a moot hall.  Behind it rose the mediaeval church tower, solid and timeless.

Outside a timbered pub, curiously named The Seven Stripes, a group of locals sat on a bench drinking beer.  I drove up, but I was only half way out of the car before they leapt to their feet in alarm and scuttled inside.   I followed them in.  I needed directions and I was also thirsty.  As I walked into the bar, the conversation stopped like the fall of an executioner’s axe.  I looked around to see twelve pairs of dilated eyes swimming at me.  Ahead of me, the landlord, a large florid man with red hair, was wiping the bar.

“What can we do for you, stranger?” he asked in a surly voice that told me he would rather do nothing at all.

“I’m lost,” I said simply.

He gave me a half smile.  “Strangers always are.  Where are you trying to get to?”

I told him.

“Well,” he said.  “You know the road you took to get here?”

“Yes.”

“Take it and drive back out again.”

I stared at him hard.  What he’d said to me sounded like a roundabout way of hoisting two fingers and saying “Fuck off”.  But he read my reaction, unbent a fraction, and shook his head with a wintry smile.

“I’m not being funny, stranger.  There’s only one road out of Nether Slype that goes anywhere much.  That’s the one you came in on.  So wherever you’re going, that’s the one you need to take.”

“Then why did you ask where I was going?”

He shrugged.  “On the off chance you were looking for somewhere close by.”  He smirked.  “But I didn’t think it likely.”

I supposed it sounded fair enough.  I ordered a beer and looked around.  Country pubs are frequently hung with horse brasses and bits of tack, all ersatz, but the décor of The Seven Stripes looked genuine, and appeared to reflect its history as a coaching inn, being an assortment of straps, whips, chains, and what looked like bits and harnesses.  There were also some leg irons and manacles, a scolds’ bridle, and a thumbscrew.  I assumed that convicts had once been transported through the village and kept manacled at The Seven Stripes overnight.

I have never drunk beer in such a tactile silence.  While I consumed my pint — which was outstanding —  the twelve pairs of suspicious eyes never left me, not a word was uttered, not a floorboard creaked, not a glass was lifted other than mine.  I left the pub reflecting that, in remote villages, such a reception must be regarded as part of the local charm, and I soon put it from my mind, for as I drove round the village green, past all the quaint, old-world cottages, and back along the leafy lane, I fell in love with the place — it’s picturesque antiquity, and most of all its remoteness, hidden in its folds of woodland, a precious perfumed relict of an England I had thought lost for ever, and I swore that one day that I would return to live there.

*****

I am a writer by trade.  I have no pretensions so I don’t call it a vocation.  I published my first novel when I was thirty.  It was a middling success, but enough of one to encourage me to pursue my craft.  My reputation gradually grew, and finally I was able to give up the day job and seriously consider moving to the soft, secluded delights of Nether Slype.  I now had adequate means, so I thought it would be easy, but I discovered in the event that it was anything but.

My first problem was finding the local estate agent’s telephone number.  None was listed on the Internet, or in any telephone directory.  I tried to order a local paper from my newsagent but drew a blank there.  None seemed to exist and the nearest town’s local paper made no mention of the village.  None of the main estate-agent chains had a branch there or had even heard of the place.

So I went back there one late summer’s day.  The trees were more deeply in leaf than before and I found myself driving down the lane of yew hedges and set-back cottages before I even realised I had entered the village again.  It being a Saturday, more people were about, but as soon as I started to drive round the green, they all vanished like smoke into doorways, or down side alleys.  It was as though word had gone round that marauding Vikings had arrived to rape and pillage.  I drove round the green until I saw a window with some photographs of properties in it.  As I entered, a grey man sitting at a large, dusty partnership desk looked up at me and goggled, as though I’d sprouted a second head.

“Can I help you?” he enquired in a surly voice, giving the unmistakeable impression that he wasn’t prepared to help me at all.

I told him that I was looking for a cottage in or around the village.

“There aren’t any available,” he said flatly.

“So what are the properties in the window?”

“Not for you.  You’re not from the village, are you!” he asked in a tone of voice that sounded like a deadly accusation.

“Er, no.  But—”

“Nor from Long Wallop or Threshers Bottom either, I’ll be bound!”

“Well, no.  But—”

“Didn’t think so.  I’d have recognised you.   No family here either I presume?”

“None at all.  But why should any of this be relevant?”  I asked sharply, stung by his rude, negative attitude.

“Because all the land and properties round the valley are owned by Lord Shackles.  They’re leased to villagers and no one but villagers.”

My disappointment was crushing.  “Is there no way at all of acquiring one?”  I asked.

“You could petition his lordship.”  The man sniggered unpleasantly.  “But it won’t get you anywhere.”

“Why not?”

He sniggered again.  “Try, and you’ll find out.”

After much remonstrating, I obtained his lordship’s address at Nether Towers, the turreted pile I had seen peeping through the trees on my fondly remembered previous visit.  Back home, I drafted several letters to him, but the estate agent’s comments gave me pause.  If I enquired and he refused, as the estate agent’s manner had suggested probable, then I would have shot my one and only bolt, and that would be that.  So I spoke to Celia, my literary agent, who offered to make some discreet enquiries on my behalf that might hopefully give me some idea of how to proceed.

This too proved fruitless at the outset.  Try Googling Nether Slype, Threshers Bottom, or Long Wallop, and the engine returns “not found”, and this result holds true for any Internet search.  The three villages were like Brigadoon, appearing only when you drove into them from the winding lane through the woods, and then vanishing from the face of the earth when you left.

At last, Celia found a single obscure newspaper reference to a Colonel Gremdyck Flaythm from Nether Slype, who had mysteriously disappeared from the front in the Great War.  No body had ever been found, and no trace of him had emerged since.  He, like the village, had mysteriously vanished.  There were many who vanished like that in the trenches, had deserted or been blown to pieces, and the intelligence at first glance, appeared to be of no use to me.

But then my writer’s imagination took hold and I started to invent a subsequent biography for the colonel, and a possible means of worming my way into Lord Shackles’ good graces.

I thought it best not to imply that Colonel Flaythm had deserted for any reason; Lord Shackles might not like that.  So I decided that he had received a glancing blow to the head from a piece of shrapnel and wandered off, bewildered, into no-man’s land.  He had been captured, but as he was suffering from profound amnesia, his captors could not identify him and advise their British counterparts of who he was.  However, his ardent British blood remained pure (I felt Lord Shackles would like that).  He subsequently escaped from incarceration, still not knowing who he was, and, after many subsequent adventures through Eastern Europe, Siberia, and Tibet, he had finally surfaced in the remote outback of Australia, where he lived out the remainder of his life under the assumed name of Bruce Brown.

Late in life his memory had returned, but being married, and a pillar of his community, he had continued his subterfuge, confiding the truth to his son, my fictional grandfather, only on his deathbed.  Since then, his family had wandered the dissolving Empire, being pushed from colony to colony as it broke up.  Along the way the name had reverted to Flaythm and I, the alleged last of the line, had returned only recently to England in search of my long lost relations and my roots.

Before acquainting Lord Shackles with my new history, I reinvented myself completely, changing my name to Flaythm by deed pole and setting all my affairs in order under that name.  I have always cherished my anonymity — I write under a pen name — and having no family, there was absolutely no emotional or other difficulty in this.  Indeed, I enjoyed the sense of adventure it gave me.  So this done, I wrote a tearful and harrowing account of my Flaythm family’s history since that fateful day in 1915, couched in suitably servile language, and posted it to Lord Shackles.  I then sat back, prepared for a long wait, and the possibility, even now, of a blunt refusal.

So I was overjoyed when, only a few days later, I received a reply, not from his lordship but his wife, Lady Griselda Shackles, telling me how my tale had moved her to tears, and inviting me to attend an interview at Nether Towers.  This invitation I immediately accepted in the most excruciatingly obsequious terms, and a few days later, I was driving up from the village of Nether Slype to the turreted pile on the hillside.

1. Interview

Nether Towers is a castellated, eighteenth-century country mansion of buttresses and Gothic windows, topped with crenulated battlements, pointed turrets, tall twisted chimneys, and dragons, straight out of William Beckford or Ann Radcliffe.  It stands in a charming wooded glade of lush grass and rampant wild flowers ringed with the screen of dense trees that obscures everything in Nether Slype, though the view back along the approach provides a wonderful view across the valley.  It arrested me when I got out of the car — a panorama of wooded, tousled hills, winding lanes, and red-tiled cottage roofs, and beyond, the higher, blue hills of the Welsh borderland.  As I stood there, I prayed as I had never prayed, that my ruse might work, so I could live in this enchanted place.

I rang the bell and the great double-doors were thrown open by a grave butler in a tailcoat, with a bald crown and two wings of iron-grey hair neatly combed back over both ears.  He confirmed that I was expected, and he directed me to wait in the gloomy wainscoted hallway, whose walls were dense with generations of Shackles in oils.  They scowled down at me from aloof heights while I patiently waited for the butler’s return, for he had gone to inform Lady Shackles of my arrival.

As I waited, a piercing scream and a peal of diabolical laughter from the bowels of the mansion shattered the peace.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking arse off!”

I jumped up startled, casting about for the source of this violent outburst.  As I did so, the butler returned and told me that Lady Shackles was ready to receive me.  He made no mention of the outburst, which he must have heard, but merely coughed, and said that her ladyship was waiting in her office.  I asked him to lead the way, but we hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps before a second peal of diabolical laughter rent the air.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking cunt off!”

The butler’s gravity deepened, and he deferentially cleared his throat.  “His lordship, I’m afraid, sir.  You’d might as well know.  He’s, er . . . how can I delicately put it?”

“Suffering some unfortunate mental health problem?”

“Not quite, sir.  To use the exact medical terminology, he’s barking mad, sir.  We’ve been obliged to confine him to the dungeons.”

I do not know whether I was surprised or amused.  “You have dungeons here?”

The butler looked aghast.  “Of course we have dungeons.”

After a few further steps, he tapped his knuckles on an oak-panelled door and opened it.  Beyond, sitting at a large desk was an aloof and horsey looking woman of about forty, typical of her breed, with a large nose, a weak chin, and two prominent teeth that overhung her protruding lower lip.  Her profuse chestnut hair was scraped back into a bun.

The deferential butler cleared his throat once more.  “Mr Owen Flaythm, ma’am.”

She smiled and rose to greet me, and I saw that she was dressed for riding in hacking jacket, jodhpurs, and knee boots.  Her large and apparently firm bust surged through the opening in the jacket like Niagara Falls in the wet season, and she vigorously slapped her thigh with a riding crop as she strode purposefully across the wide room towards me.  As she approached, she extended her free hand, which, I noticed, dripped jewels.

“Mr Flaythm,” she lisped through the gap in her front teeth.  “I’m Griselda Shackles.  Welcome to Nether Towers.”

I almost took the hand and shook it, but somewhere from the depths of my subconscious, a cautionary voice shouted, No!  Therefore, stooping slightly, I took the tips of the gem-encrusted fingers in my own and lightly kissed them.  “A profound honour and a pleasure to meet your ladyship.”

As I straightened, I saw that she was beaming; her riding crop slapped her thigh even more enthusiastically than before.

“I knew it, I knew it,” she gushed, ogling me from head to toe.  “Every inch a Flaythm.  The manners.  The poise.  The easy and natural subservience to the social superior.”  She lurched towards me and seized my arm.  Her grip was like a vice.  “Come!  Come to the window and let me take a good look at you!”

She marched me by the arm into a deep window recess, where I was obliged to pose for inspection while she clucked all round me.  “No question.  No question at all.  You have the Flaythm nose, the Flaythm brow, the deep Flaythm upper lip — you could grow a magnificent moustache.  No doubt of it.  Magnificent!”

I heard the deferential butler cough.  A spasm of annoyance crossed Lady Shackles’ face, and she turned and sniffed.

“What is it, Thwacks?” she demanded coldly.

“I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how shall I put it?  Agitated again.”

Lady Shackles’ slapped her thigh with the riding crop so hard that I flinched.  “Oh very well,” she sighed with clear annoyance.  “Send a girl down!”

It seemed an odd response.  Surely, the poor man needed a physician or nurse, not a girl.  But the impeccable Thwacks merely bowed.  “Immediately, ma’am.”

When the butler had gone about his strange business, Lady Shackles directed me to a deep sofa.  She flung her riding crop onto the desk and surprised me by stripping off her jacket.  As she flexed her muscular shoulder back to slip it off, I couldn’t help noticing that her bust was truly monumental, and jutted with surprising firmness.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable, Mr Flaythm,” she announced briskly, throwing herself vigorously into the armchair facing me, and smoothing her blouse over her thrusting curves, as if for my appreciation.  “Of course, some said you had to be an imposter,” she confided.  “And I confess I entertained doubts myself.  But now I have met you no doubt remains.  None at all.  You are every inch a Flaythm.  Every inch.  And so you shall remain.”

“I only hope the others concur, your ladyship.”

She swatted the notion waspishly away.  “Peasants, Mr Flaythm!  They don’t count.  I and I alone am mistress here.  My opinion alone matters.  They do as they’re told.”

“Of course, your ladyship.”

“Of course!  Precisely!  You understand.  You’re a Flaythm,” she lisped softly, and I noticed that her eyes were wandering all over me again.  “Now, you said you wished to trace your relations.  I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed there.  Your great grandfather, the colonel, had but one sibling, a brother.  He in turn had only the one child, and that child died without issue.  So I’m afraid you’re the last of the Flaythms.”

I affected deep sadness at the news, but I was secretly relieved.  Living relatives might have been a complication, one I was prepared to deal with, but life would be much simpler without them.

“So you’ll have to find yourself a wife,” said Lady Shackles enthusiastically, throwing one booted leg over her chair arm and showing me the leather crotch of her riding jodhpurs.  “Get busy and produce lots of children.  In the meantime, I shall ensure that you are fully and immediately accepted into the three villages, as is your due.  Otherwise it might take years.”

I was genuinely elated.  “So you’ll allow me to live here, after all, your ladyship?”

“But of course.  The Flaythms have served the Shackles for centuries.  You are one of us, and, as a Flaythm, you will enjoy considerable prestige here . . . so long as you do as you’re told.”

“Of course, Lady Shackles,” I assured her, terrified of putting a foot wrong.  My ruse had succeeded more surely and swiftly than I could have hoped.  “And I’ll happily serve you any capacity you deem appropriate.”

She smirked, slowly regarding me under heavy eyelids.  “Indeed you shall.  Now,” she added, briskly again.  “I assume you have adequate financial means?”

“Yes your ladyship.  As I told you, my grandfather prospered in South Africa and produced a fortune in diamonds.  My father foolishly lost much if it, but enough remains for me to enjoy a substantial private income.”

“Yet, despite that, you still wish to return to Nether Slype?”

I feigned emotion.  “Of course, your ladyship.  It’s . . . it’s  . . . my home.”

Unexpectedly, she leapt out of her chair towards me, perched herself on the arm of my sofa, and placed her hand on my shoulder.  Her encrusted fingers gripped it with remarkable strength.  “Oh Mr Flaythm,” she said as her eyes bore into mine with fierce rapture.  “You are a prodigal returned, and you are more than welcome.  I look forward to our developing a close and fruitful association.  Indeed, a close and fruitful friendship, for I have no doubt that we shall becomes friends . . . very firm friends.”

“You fill me with rapture, your ladyship,” I croaked, biting back my crocodile tears in the way I thought a Flaythm ought, and reflecting that I’d well and truly fallen on my feet.

“Good man!  That’s the spirit!  That’s the Flaythm style!”

She strode back to her chair, flung her leg back over the arm, and her eyes continued to wander all over me.  We talked about where I might live.  To give my pose credence, I had converted all my assets into liquid form, and deposited most in a South African bank.  When I told her ladyship that I could install myself in the village at a few days notice it was the literal truth.  She appeared overjoyed and decided to give me a large, rambling cottage on the village outskirts, as befitted my apparently high status.

“It’s only six bedrooms, but that’ll do for the time being.”

“Time being?”

“Until you find a wife, of course.  That won’t be a problem for you; we have a huge surplus of available women here.  And you’re a Flaythm, so you can take your pick of them.  But I counsel you to choose wisely and not weaken your Flaythm blood.  And then,” she added enthusiastically, “when you’ve found a suitable woman, get down to it with a will and impregnate her, time and time again!  You owe it to your ancestors to perpetuate the Flaythm line.”

I blushed.  “Of course, Lady Shackles.  I’ll follow your generous  advice — naturally.”

While we spoke, I studied the room.  It was the sort of panelled affair you expect to find in such an old country mansion, lined with ancient, dusty books of no possible interest or value, and even duller pictures of horsey looking men and women with large noses, weak chins, and protruding teeth, whom I assumed to be Griselda Shackles’ own ancestors.  One arrested me though: a brutal looking, florid-faced man in the tricorn hat and naval uniform of Napoleonic times.  He was standing proudly in front of what appeared to be a mountain of steak tartare.  Beneath the picture, in a glass exhibition case, lay a heavy cat of nine tails, though it looked more like a cat of fifteen or twenty tails, all knotted at intervals and embellished with vicious hooks, spikes, and other spiteful ironmongery.

Lady Shackles noticed my interest, and she positively glowed.  “Ah!  I see you’ve noticed my great ancestor, Admiral Lord Horatio Shackles!”

“My grandfather spoke of him many times, your ladyship,” I lied fluently, reasoning that he would have done so, had he existed, and hoping that she wasn’t going to test me with awkward questions.

“Of course he would.  We’re so very proud of the admiral.”  Her face flushed with ancestral joy.  “Just think.  The only Royal Navy officer ever to flog his entire crew to death in a single session,” she added with deep relish.  “And he did it with his own hand, you know.  Ripped out their backs in bloody gobbets.  Every last one of them.”

I tried not to blench.  “So I understand, your ladyship.  An outstanding feat of, er . . . seamanship, to be sure.”

“And so efficient!  Amazing!  Truly amazing!  He started work after a late breakfast of oysters and Champagne, you know, and he finished the work well before elevenses.”

“Stupendous,” I simpered.  What else could I say?

“And as you must already know, his second in command, Captain Rickett Flaythm, stepped forward and gallantly offered to hold his coat for him while he administered the punishment.”

“Indeed, your ladyship,” I choked.  “It’s a matter of immense family pride to us.”

“Yes, a superb testimony to the captain’s breeding and the Shackles Patent Flogger’s efficacy.”  She walked across the glass case like a woman in a dream, her face alight with enthusiasm.  I noticed how her well-developed horsewoman’s buttocks heaved and strained like two bound slaves against the tight captivity of her jodhpurs.  “And here it is.”  She gazed down at the grotesque object in the exhibition case.  “The very flogger the admiral used to achieve his stupendous feat.  It’s an inspiration, Mr Flaythm.”

“I’m overawed to be in its presence,” I lied, trying to look away from the hideous thing.

She gazed up at the portrait of the monstrous admiral, her hands clasped in schoolgirl rapture.  “And there he is, standing proudly before the product of his achievement.  Just think — eight hundred men ripped to pieces in less than three hours . . . .  It makes the blood surge.”

I suddenly realised what the steak tartare really was, and my gorge rose.

“Of course, had the spineless Admiralty been wise enough to adopt the Shackles Patent Flogger, there would have been no mutinies at Spithead and the Nore.  The men would have learned the true meaning of the words, discipline, and punishment.”

“Without a doubt, your ladyship,” I dutifully crowed, despite myself.  “A criminal folly.”

“Criminal.  Lamentable.  Softness, Mr Flaythm.  Softness.  That’s the country’s ill.  We seem to have forgotten all about discipline.”

“To our great cost,” I resolutely toadied.  “A national disgrace.”

“Except in Nether Slype, of course,” she said, vigorously marching back to the desk and retrieving her riding crop.  “No silly softness here.  No insolence.  No disobedience.”  As she said this, she slashed her thigh three times, so hard that I winced.  “The three villages are the last stronghold of the firm hand, the disciplinarian, as I’m sure your grandfather told you.”

“Indeed, your ladyship, and thank heaven for it,” I chorused without fully understanding the implications of her tirade — though perhaps I should have twigged by then.  “No weak, watery, namby-pamby shilly-shallying here, thank God.”

“Oh, Mr Flaythm!”  She tossed her riding crop over her shoulder, positively skipped across the room to me, all girlish and gushing.  “This is a true meeting of minds.  A wonderful day for both of us.  Just think!  The Shackles and the Flaythms united again after all this time — mistress and servant.  And friends too.  True friends, I hope.”

“Your deep condescension overwhelms me with joy.”

She took my hands in hers wrung them with unnerving intensity, almost breaking my fingers.  I noticed that her breathing had shortened.  “Oh Mr Flaythm.  Not half so much joy as your return promises to give me.”

I finger of apprehension touched me.  “I don’t think I quite understand your ladyship,” I stammered.

“Don’t you?  Come, come, Mr Flaythm, you’re a man of the world.”  She paused.  “And yet you probably have little idea what it’s like for me here?  This life . . . this cold friendless existence . . . alone and blue-blooded among peasants . . . and other inferiors . . . with a mad, slavering, sexually impotent husband, chained in the dungeons.  No one I can trust . . . no one I can turn to . . . confide in . . . open my heart to.  No one with whom I can . . . can . . . can . . . .”

“Can what, Lady Shackles?”

“Can I be brutally frank with you?  I feel I can talk intimately to you as I could to no other without soiling myself.  Please?”

I swallowed.  “You do me too much honour, your ladyship.”

“Very well.”  She paused, smoothing her blouse and pointing her magnificent bust directly at my nose.  “I must be blunt.  Have you any idea how cold and empty my bed is, Mr Flaythm?”

“Your ladyship?”

“I don’t mean physically cold, of course.  I have countless hot water bottles.  And if I chose, I could summon any well-hung man in the three villages to service me to satisfaction whenever I wished.  But, of course, I cannot.”

I swallowed again.  “Cannot?  But surely—”

“The considerations of class, Mr Flaythm!  How could I allow a dirty peasant to crawl up my nightie, no matter how well equipped he was for the job of sexually gratifying me?”

I hadn’t anticipated this turn in the conversation.  Perhaps I should have.  I cleared my throat.  “Perish the thought, your ladyship.”

“Indeed!”  She paused and looked at me steadily.  “You understand.  Of course you do.”  A slow smile crept furtively across her face.  Her hand slipped surreptitiously to my knee and started working slowly up my thigh, while her eyes smouldered provocatively into mine.  “Yes.  I’m sure you understand — perfectly.”

I suddenly realised what she had meant when she said, not half so much joy as your return promises to give me.  I blushed — I’m sure I did.  Fighting her off would probably ruin my prospects of moving to the village.  On the other hand, I reasoned that giving her what she obviously wanted wouldn’t trouble me at all.  She was a provocatively built woman, despite the teeth, though I felt I’d rather not do it in the presence of the steak tartare and the patent flogger.

In the event, I was rescued by a sudden knocking at the office door.  With a spasm of alarm, Lady Shackles leapt up as though electrocuted, and fled back across the room towards her large desk.

“Enter!” she snapped, when she’d gained some composure.

The door opened and Thwacks the immaculate butler entered and bowed.

“What is it, Thwacks?” Lady Shackles demanded coldly, looking dramatically away from him.

The balls of Thwacks’ fingers and thumbs twitched together, as though he were rubbing fat into delicate pastry.  He cleared his throat, drew himself up to his full height, and addressed the ceiling.  “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how can I delicately put it?  Agitated again.”

“Again?  But we sent him a girl not one hour ago!”

Thwacks coughed deferentially.  “His lordship seems to have . . .  er . . . finished with that one, ma’am.”

“Already?”

“So it would appear.”

“Very well.  Send down another.  But that’s the last for today — there’s a limit to my indulgence.”

Thwacks bowed.  “Very good, ma’am.”

He started to withdraw backwards at a dignified stoop, but Lady Shackles stopped him.  “Before you do that, you can show Mr Flaythm out.”  She turned to me and extended her hand, smiling warmly, while her eyes again wandered all over me.  “I’d better let you go while I still can, dear Mr Flaythm,” she simpered through her front teeth.  “I’m sure we can pursue any outstanding matters at a more opportune time and place.”

Her meaning was plain, and it certainly suited me to delay payment for her generosity until after I was securely ensconced in my cottage.  I rose, bowed over the jewel-encrusted fingers, and kissed them again.

I turned to leave while Thwacks stood aside for me.  As a walked through the door I distinctly heard Lady Shackles lisp, “Until we meet again . . . Owen” in such a smoky voice that Thwacks’ eyebrows abruptly rose and his eyes popped, though his po-face remained set in stone.

Thwacks and I retraced our steps to the gloomy, wainscoted hall, where generations of Shackles sneered down at me from the shadowy walls as though they, at least, knew me for an impostor.

Suddenly, a shriek of diabolical laughter from the deep bowels of the building rent the air.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll flog her fucking tits off!”

“We’d best hurry if you don’t mind, sir,” urged Thwacks.  “His lordship seems particularly agitated today.  It’s almost—” He looked at me guardedly. “—almost as if he knows you’re here, sir.”  He paused and glanced up nervously at all the ancestors.  “Strange.”

Indeed it was.  I had no idea what he meant and might have asked him, but another thought was uppermost in my mind.

“The girls?”  I asked, as he held one of the great front doors ajar for me and positively thrust me through the opening.  “What do they do down there?”

“Do, sir?”  The balls of Thwacks’ fingers and thumbs rubbed together again, I thought a trifle nervously.

“Yes!  Do!”

“I suppose that you might say that they provide his lordship with the necessary remedial treatment for his condition, sir.”

Enlightenment dawned, or so I thought at the time.  “Ah!  I see.  They’re trained therapists.”

Thwacks cleared his throat yet again, and his face remained impassive.  “I suppose you might say that too, sir,” he murmured, and the door closed.

1. Dark Designs

As I drove back towards London, I reflected that there were advantages and disadvantages to my remarkable progress.  I would soon be installed in a substantial cottage in the village of my dreams, and it was clear that I would be welcomed and given a status I had never expected, and didn’t particularly want — but never mind about that.   I also would also enjoy the close and avid support of Lady Griselda Shackles, provided I played my cards right.

That was a two-edged sword.  There would be obvious advantages to a close relationship with her.  She clearly wanted me to shag her, a small price to pay for the cottage and the lifestyle I was promised to enjoy, and I wondered what other sweeteners and emoluments she might offer if I shagged her to her complete satisfaction.  I entertained no doubt that I would satisfy her, in bed at least.  I am not a braggart by nature but the women I’ve bedded over the years have never expressed disappointment.  Besides, despite her nose and her front teeth, Lady Shackles’ body would be more than acceptable when the light was out.  Once I got to grips, I would have no problem giving her what she wanted — or so I thought.

On the other hand, there would be consequences, perhaps terminal ones, if I ever tried to withdraw from whatever arrangement she decided suited her, or if I disappointed her in other ways.  What if I made other women friends and she became jealous?  What if I fell in love with another woman?  What if Griselda Shackles fell in love with me and demanded more than a good stiff weekly poke?  She had made it perfectly clear that she was totally in charge of everything and everyone in the three villages.  I had no doubt that she could handle her authority, and would be every bit as ruthless as Admiral Shackles if crossed.  Yes, there was no doubt of that at all, and she would be holding all the cards.  And I was less than enthusiastic about her evident love of whips, crops, and patent floggers.  I don’t mind a bit of spanking, provided I’m the one administering it, but I did not intend to be Griselda Shackles’ whip slave.

So did I still want to move to Nether Slype and live in her cottage on her terms, as a sort of glorified sex serf?  I most certainly did.  Or, to say the least, I was prepared to give it my best shot.  I loved the place and had set my heart on living there years before.  I also knew that I was an intelligent and resourceful man; I had no doubt that given time I would be able to forge a more equable and even-handed arrangement with Lady Shackles than she probably had in mind.  Moreover, I assumed that I was far better able than the other villagers to protect myself if she became difficult or spiteful, and that I appreciated better than the other villagers, the differences between her perceptions, and stark reality.  She might think that she was lady of the manor, and the rest of us peasants without rights.  In reality, of course, we did have rights, civil right, tenant’s rights, even human right — which can cover just about anything you want them too, provided you can hire a good lawyer.

And I certainly had the means to do that.  If she ever threatened me, she would have to deal with counter-threats in turn.  At least, I thought so at the time.

*****

They didn’t put the bunting up round the village on the afternoon I arrived, together with the van Lady Shackles had sent to my London address to transport my possessions.  On the other hand, bunting was the only thing missing, apart from the brass band.  A group of local dignitaries greeted me at my front door and immediately whisked me up to Nether Towers for an arrival party in the grounds — where there was a band, a marquee, and bunting by the mile, threaded between the encircling trees.  Despite her ladyship’s deeply held convictions about social class, the entire village appeared to have been invited, and I was introduced to so many people that I became giddy.  Lady Shackles herself took little notice of me beyond formally shaking my hand and making a speech of welcome to a respectfully silent and bareheaded audience.

It wasn’t until about half past six, when the crowd was melting away down the hill towards their homes, that we finally spoke confidentially.  I had looked for her, fearing that it would be impolite to leave without thanking her for her welcome, and I had become lost in a tangle of yew hedges — some sort of maze — when she crept up behind me.

“BOOH!”

I leapt out of my skin, crashed back to earth, and turned to find her standing there, still wearing her riding habit, and vigorously slapping her thighs with her crop as she laughed at her schoolgirl joke.

“If I wasn’t a fit man, you could have given me a heart attack,” I complained, forgetting my manners for a moment.

She became suddenly seriously.  She stepped up to me and slid her hand inside my jacket, where she stroked my flank.  “I hope you are fit, Owen,” she lisped in my ear.  “You’ll be no good to me if you’re not.”

“Fit enough,” I laughed, a little bashfully for a man of my experience, for her meaning was plain.

“And you’ll stay to dinner?”

She couched it as a question, but I knew she meant it as a command.  Oh well, I thought.  Looks like I’m on shagging duty tonight already.  Just so long as she leaves her riding crop downstairs!

Upper-crust dinners can be tedious affairs, especially when there are only two of you, sitting at opposite ends of a table so long that the food can be served piping hot at one end and au froid when it finally reaches the other — though in this case there were two substantial compensations.

She had left me to amuse myself for a while in the library, which was crammed with more leather-backed books and more chinless portraiture, while she went upstairs to change out of her hacking jacket and jodhpurs into “something more suitable for the occasion”.  It certainly was — a figure-hugging, low-cut dress of dark yet iridescent silk, held up by nothing but the incredible firmness of her magnificent breasts, and revealing a yard of cleavage so deep that I longed to plunge into headfirst into it.  We walked to the dining room arm-in-arm, in the time-honoured fashion, but when she turned to take her seat, her buttocks undulated so provocatively under their tight restraint that I struggled to keep my hands off them, reflecting that if Lord Shackles hadn’t been able to produce a rock-hard erection over his wife’s body, he couldn’t produce one over anything.

I no longer noticed the prominent teeth, the weak chin, and the horsey nose as I sat there at the opposite end of the long table undressing her in my mind, taking out those mouth-watering breasts sucking her plump nipples, running my hands over her firm round bottom, parting her legs, and getting stuck in with a will.  She would have no cause to complain of my efforts, not tonight at least, not the way I was feeling.

The conversation over dinner was desultory, as it must be when two serving men are perched on your elbow like carrion crows, outraged ancestors are glaring down at you from the shadowy wainscot, and you feel you are being observed by inscrutable-looking suits of armour, standing like linesmen around the walls.  As I chewed my way manfully through several courses, the silence was punctuated only by the occasional pleasantry, and invitations to take more wine.  I wondered why Thwacks wasn’t hovering at the table, for it is a butler’s duty to pour the drinks.  I assumed he was outside, keeping a sharp ear peeled for the cries of the impotent madman downstairs in the dungeons.

So it transpired.  We had just finished our sherry trifle and were waiting in rigid silence for the coffee to be brought in when there was a discreet knock at the doors and he appeared, sombre as an eminence grise, and walked with sedate steps to Lady Shackles’ end of the table.  He coughed into his cupped hand and waited.

“Well?” she snapped, her face suddenly turned to stone.

Thwacks drew himself solemnly to his full height.  “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that his lordship seems to be becoming . . . er . . . how can I delicately put it at the dinner table?  Agitated again.”

Her eyes flickered, and she slapped her hand onto the tabletop so hard that all the silverware leapt several inches into the air and all the suits of armour hummed like ceremonial gongs.  “No more!  Understood?  No more!  Close all the intervening doors and let him get on with it!  Understood?”

Thwacks’ face was unreadable.  “Very good, ma’am,” he said at length.  “It’s your decision.”

“And keep your impertinent observations to yourself!” she blazed, looking away from him.

Thwacks swelled with forbearance, bowed admonished, and stalked out of the room without a further word.  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Lady Shackles leapt to her feet and flung he napkin onto the dining table.

“We’ll take the coffee in my drawing room!” she barked at no one in particular, and then she also swept from the room, snapping her fingers in my direction for me to follow her.  And so I did, like a poodle.

She had cooled somewhat when we reached her drawing room, after a forced march through labyrinthine passages of many widths, up and down steps, round corners and bends, through arches and doorways.  This suggested to me that the building was much older than I had previously thought, probably mediaeval.  It was certainly cold.  The perpetual draught cut like a razor.  Our footsteps rang on bare stone more often than not, some of the walls were undressed stone, and where they were panelled, the woodwork looked dark and ancient, relieved only by narrow lancet windows, arrow slits, several threadbare tapestries, more armour, and many more generations of outraged ancestors glared at me through the gathering gloom, for the evening had advanced.

So the drawing room, when we finally arrived, pleasantly surprised me: a light, warm, airy room where the panelling sparkled and smelled of beeswax, the sweet-sharp smell of fresh fuchsias spiked the air.  There was a comfortable chintz suite and other elegant pieces of furniture.  The pictures surprised me even more.  Gone were the apoplectic ancestors; instead, the walls were hung with attractive landscapes in watercolour and oils, interspersed with some more modern and abstract pieces; and a large abstract sculpture shaped like a fully erect penis, which surprised me less.

“You furnished this room yourself, didn’t you?” I asked to melt the already softening silence, for I was sure no one else had done it.

“Yes.  Look.  Sorry about the outburst,” she said in a surprisingly small voice, her brow furrowed.  “I didn’t want unpleasantness on your first day here, but I assume you know all about Flavius.”

“Your husband, Lady Shackles?”

“Husband in name.  He’s mad, Mr Flaythm.  Barking mad.  And worse — incapable of producing any sort of erection.”

“So I’d already gathered.”

“Totally incapable of pleasuring a woman, let alone a hot-blooded sexually-demanding one.”  She flung herself down on the sofa pulled me down beside her, and threw her arms possessively round my neck.  “And I’m very highly sexed, you see.  I have needs.  Burning, desperate needs, that can only be quenched by a well-equipped, vigorous, and attentive man from the right sort of social background.  That’s why I get so agitated, you see.”

“Yes, well, I’d already—”

“And I couldn’t help observing, Mr Flaythm, when we first met, the more than satisfactory bulge in your trousers.”

“Well.  As I was saying, I’d already—”

“Let us be frank with each other, as only true friends can.  When I spoke before of friendship, of a meeting of minds, I confess that I was dissembling in part.  I was also thinking of something . . . more physical . . . more urgent, more . . . necessary.”

“My dear Lady Shackles.  That too I’d already—”

Her embrace had tightened; her breathing had become ragged.  She thrust her magnificent bust into my face and started stroking the back of my head with fluttering hands.  “For God’s sake call me Griselda when we’re alone!”

“Of course . . . Griselda.  I’d be—”

Suddenly, her lips were working vigorously on mine; her tongue was in my throat.  She hoisted her dress and straddled me, her powerful horsewoman’s legs tightly gripping my thighs as her crotch started rubbing vigorously into my groin.  The desperate power of her kiss felt as though it was wrenching my tongue out by its roots.  I struggle for air but this only excited her more, her legs tightened, she jerked more feverishly, and her strong arms crushed the breath from me.

“My God, you’re well endowed, Owen!” she gasped.  “A true Flaythm!  How you stimulate me!”

Her crotch now flexed with accelerating vigour for several minutes before she finally groaned, slowed, flopped on top of me, exhausted.  Her grip relaxed and she lay on me panting.

At that moment, a knock at the door interrupted us.  She gasped and leapt up from me like a startled hare, and fled across the room, desperately smoothing her dress.

“Enter!”

This time it was the coffee.

“Leave it!  I’ll pour,” she said to the serving man, more softly than before.  She even managed to sketch a smile as he silently bowed and left backwards, but not before I’d heard a distant maniacal scream echoing through the winding corridors beyond.

“Bring me a wench and I’ll shag her raw.  I’ll stretch her fucking cunt to kingdom come and thrash her arse off with a—”

The closing door mercifully cut off the rest of the sentence.  But it also left a question dangling.

“I thought you said your husband was impotent?” I asked as neutrally as possible.

“So he is.”

“Er . . . he doesn’t sound particularly impotent to me.”

“I told you.  He’s stark staring mad.”

That could account for it, I supposed, but it posed another question that had nagged me since my first visit, and more so because of Thwacks’ evasive comments.

“So what precisely does he do with the girls you send down there?”

“Let’s not talk about him,” she panted, flinging herself back on top of me, her hands exploring my body while her lips worked feverishly all over my mouth, my face, my throat.  “Our time together is too precious to waste on him.  Let’s talk about us.”

“Yes, but—”

“Anyway, I’ll be rid of him within the year,” she added, as though it were a trifle.  “So there’s nothing to talk about really, is there?”

“Rid of him?”

“Yes.  Rid of him!  I’d do it today if I could — now I’ve met you.  But I mustn’t be precipitate.  Appearances are everything.  It must look natural . . . and plausible.  But an opportunity will present itself.  Then, when I’ve disposed of him, I shall be fully available.  Frantic to be pleasured . . . and pleasured . . . and pleasured . . . and pleasured.”

She was positively gnawing my face now, like a ravenous dog trying to tease the last fragment of meat from a stubborn bone.  My manhood, which had been aroused to the point of ejaculation by her twitching crotch, was now deflating rapidly as I digested her alarming ambitions for her poor mad husband.

“But Griselda—”

“Yes, Owen darling,” she lisped as she broke off trying to insert her tongue all the way into my left ear.

“When you talk about disposing of your husband, what exactly—”

“Oh, don’t go on about him, darling,” she pouted, and then tried the other ear.  “So far as we’re concerned, he’s ancient history, isn’t he?”

“Exactly my point.  How precisely—”

“Then, once we’re rid of him, I’ll pull out your gleaming manhood.  I’ll suck it, I’ll eat it, I’ll worship it, I’ll take every glorious inch of it into my every empty, aching hole.  I’ll toss myself up and down on it for hours and hours and hours like a mad woman until the sheets catch fire, won’t I?”

“Fine, but—”

“We’ll get one of those books, and learn how to do it in all sorts of unusual and interesting ways.  We’ll find new ways that no one’s ever tried before.”

“Wonderful, but—”

“Like doing it for hours and hours and hours and hours in a bath full of really thick, sticky custard”

“Yes but—”

“Or warm treacle.”

“What?”

“Treacle, darling.”  She popped a chaste kiss onto the very tip of my nose.  “At least you were listening.”  She dismounted me, glanced at her watch, and, with a look of regret.  “My, my, look at the time.”  She crossed the room and touched the bell pull.  “You’ll have to go for now, for appearance’s sake, or else the low-lifes will start gossiping about us.”

“Go?”

“But of course.”

“So we’re not popping upstairs to . . . er . . . ?”

She giggled like a horse whinnying.  “Not yet, silly!  Not until Flavius is out of the way.  Why do you think I’m so eager to get rid of him?”

I was relieved to a point.  I had passed my peak, largely because of her alarming intentions concerning her husband, and it wouldn’t have done to disappoint her first time.  But I was also worried about what I was getting into.  “Look, Griselda.  About Flavius.  I’m not —”

“Oh, please don’t go on about him, darling.”  She faced me squarely, and her expression was softer now, and more fully mature.  “Look.  We can’t get down to the serious shagging until I’ve dealt with him, if only because if it became known, it would make him far more difficult to dispose of — people might say I had personal motives, mightn’t they?  You must see that.”

“But if we we’re discreet—”

“We couldn’t be — not here, not in Nether Slype where everyone knows everyone else’s comings and goings — especially yours and mine,” she said soberly.  “And a scandal circulating among the peasants would be unspeakably demeaning.  Therefore, much as I lust over you, Owen my darling, we must be content to be friends until I’m permanently rid of Flavius.  Then we can immediately progress to something more athletic and mutually satisfying.  Agreed?”

I admired her control.  In fact, Griselda Shackles’ stature had grown in my estimation, in many ways.  Even her ruthlessness was to be admired.  Nevertheless, but her plans for her husband were clearly serious and they terrified me

“Look, about this disposal business, I—”

The opening door interrupted me.  Thwacks sombrely entered the room, coughed and bowed.

“You took your time!” observed Griselda harshly.

“My apologies, ma’am.  I—”

“Silence!  Mr Flaythm will be leaving in a moment.  Wait outside and then show him out!”

Thwacks bowed.  “Ma’am”.  He withdrew backwards to wait outside.

Griselda’s eyes followed him and she made no effort to hide her dislike of the man.  The door closed; she plucked my arm to draw me close, and her voice was low.  “One word of advice, Owen.  Don’t ever trust that one.”

“Thwacks?”

“Yes.  He’s the main reason I must be prudent and so very careful when I dispose of Flavius.”

“Yes.  About that.  I—”

“Not now!  Listen!  I won’t pester you.  I’ll leave you alone . . . until the deed is done.  So as not to arouse any suspicions.  Understood?”

Of course, but—”

“Hush!  He’s probably listening at the door.”

I dropped my voice to a murmur.  “If he’s such a threat, why do you employ him?”

“Reasons.  But not for long.  Once I’m rid of Flavius I’ll dispose of Thwacks too . . . with very great pleasure.”

I bitterly regretted my words rash words.  “Look, Griselda.  About this disposal business—”

“No time!  No time!  He’ll get suspicious.  Go now!”

*****

I returned to my cottage and spent a sleepless night, despite the sweet, fresh country air wafting in through the open window, and the tawny owls calling each other in the nearby trees.  Keeping Griselda Shackles sexually satisfied would be no hardship, not with that magnificent body, though I was a little daunted by her blithe assumption that we could do it for hours and hours and hours and hours on end, as she had put it.  But her intentions concerning her husband were something I had not anticipated.  I had never met the man, probably never would — unless I got a move on — and cared nothing for him.  But he was still a fellow human being, if a foul-mouthed and barking mad one.

There was no doubt that she intended to murder him.  I reasoned that she was in a strong position to hush the matter — I assumed that the physician who examined him, and the coroner, would both we tenants of hers — but if she were caught and tried, I would be an accessory.  My ambition had been to live in Nether Slype, not to view the world through prison bars for a number of years.  So what should I do?  Flee the village?  Paradise no sooner gained than lost?

I reasoned that doing so wouldn’t help me much.  If she still went ahead and murdered her husband, and my foreknowledge became know, the outcome would be the same.  Should I turn her in?  For what?  I had no proof of anything.  I might find myself accused in turn of being a failed gigolo with a grudge, or a would-be blackmailer — for I had no doubt that Griselda would fight tooth and claw and use any means to refute my allegation.  Then I would lose paradise and my reputation.

Then another, even more horrible, thought struck me.  Would I be the next, after Flavius and Thwacks, for I had little doubt that she intended to murder her butler too?  Had there been others?   Would I become a minor statistic in a long line of murdered lovers?  Was she mad and Flavius sane?  Were they both mad?  Was I too going mad?

As the weeks passed without any developments, these anxieties over Griselda’s intentions abated somewhat, though never entirely.  She had insisted that we appear to be no more than friends until she had disposed of Flavius.  And so it was.  I often saw her trotting round the village — booted and jacketed, hand imperiously on hip.  As she passed the men’s hands would twitch to their forelocks, and the women would sketch a curtsey.  She ignored them all, but when she saw me her face would light up and she would wave.  On a couple of occasions when I walked up the valley to Long Wallop, along the lane loops between the fields that carpet the valley floor in that direction, a big black old Daimler swept past.  I noticed it because there are so few cars in the three villages, and I saw that Thwacks was driving it, and in the back sat Griselda, waving and smiling at me.

The small number of cars is a peculiarity of the three villages, seeing that they are so remote.  I keep my Jaguar, of course, though I scarcely use it, and I suppose that is the reason.  People rarely travel outside their own village, and then only to one of the other two.  There are exceptions, of course: the doctor, the vet, and other professionals.  The local farmers have their Land Rovers.  You see more vans, tractors and lorries than private cars.  For the need to be always dashing here and dashing there is alien to the way of life in Nether Slype, just as it was to our ancestors, who lived with their family, friends, work, and wants within close proximity.

This is not to say that the three villages are without transport amenities.  There are several local taxis, as well as a minibus that circulates the three villages on market day.  Given the lifestyle, using these on occasion works out much cheaper than running your own car.  Not that money is the issue; the villages are prosperous and the standard of living is high.  People work in and around the villages, on the farms and in the woods which they coppice for timber as they have for centuries.  A number of large workshops make handcrafted, top-end hardwood furniture, much of which goes overseas, and others turn out fence panels and the like.  They send top-quality free-range eggs, beef, lamb, game, and poultry to butchers and restaurants countrywide.

No one goes without, no one is neglected, and no one is poor.  The three villages are exemplars of the social, extended-family mode of life that modern society — for all its welfare state, social services, and rights culture — has lost.

*****

Time passed without any developments, and I found it increasingly hard to believe that Griselda Shackles was plotting to murder her husband and her butler too.  There again, it was difficult to believe that she kept her husband chained in a dungeon, and I knew that to be a fact.  However, I suppressed my logical faculty in that respect, hoping, as people do in such situations, that I was somehow mistaken, and all would turn out for the best.

On one occasion, when it was raining, she offered me a lift, but if I’d hoped or feared that she would assault me as she had on the sofa in her drawing room, I would have been wrong.  I suppose the presence of Thwacks in the front seat had a damping effect, but Griselda made no attempt even to extend a discreet finger and stroke my hand with it, and she could have done that easily enough.

Instead, she asked me how I was getting on, if I was making friends, and all the usual things you ask a newcomer.  Warm, cool, interested, friendly.  No more.  There were no sexual innuendos and no allusions to Flavius, no winks, no secret moues, and, more importantly, there was no atmosphere of repression, or unvoiced, shared secrets.  It was as though all her snogging, gnawing, groping and crotch rubbing had been my imagination.

She was either a consummate actress or her interest in me was cooling.  I started to wonder if it had all been a game, but never seriously.  Yet, in that hidden place in my consciousness where ultimate truth dwells, I knew that it hadn’t.  She had said it would be like this, that we would appear to be only friends for a while, and so it was.  I knew deep down that what she said she would do, she did.

And that included Flavius.

1. Quaint village customs

My ‘cottage’ was a glorious rambling seventeenth-century timbered house, standing behind tall yew hedges, far back from the lane at the end of a snaking drive at the village’s edge.  The ridiculously modest rent included a plump little maid, Ginny, who came daily, and a gardener who came twice a week, and it was made clear that a man of my means would be able to hire other domestic help as required, without difficulty.

Once installed, I threw myself into village life with zest, eager to recover years lost in grey suburban modernity.  I joined committees and local societies, and Griselda’s interest ensured that I was welcomed into all of them with alacrity.  I started attending church again, where my exalted position entitled me to use the pew directly behind Griselda’s.  She, of course, occupied the front pew in splendid isolation, her husband being too mad to attend.  I did not attend from any deep religious zeal, but because it was part of my deep rediscovered culture.  I sang hymns I had forgotten since childhood, and the feeling was good.  For some indefinable reason I felt a better person for it, and I assumed that those who sang alongside me were good people too.

They are, as the run of humanity goes, but appearance is deceptive.  In some respects, the world is the same everywhere, no matter how different it might look and feel in a particular place.  During my first few weeks in Nether Slype, I thought I had rediscovered lost innocence, because despite the strange goings on at Nether Towers, the surface seemed so innocent.  However, with time you come to know a place better, as an angler knows his stretch of river.  He knows what lies beneath the placid, smiling face of the water — where the deeps are, where the hungry pike lurk, the subtle currents you can never see but feel tugging at your feet, and precisely where to cast your lure to catch the juiciest fish.

I’ve learned that Nether Slype is like that, benign, idyllic, serene — and deadly.  Deadly, that is, unless you learn to enjoy its darker undercurrents and secret pleasures.  But if you do, then the three villages soar beyond the confines of the humdrum world, and you enter paradise.

I should have twigged some of the dark undercurrent earlier, but I hadn’t.  I had been preoccupied and besides, I had no reason to expect that the three villages were as unusual as I now know them to be.  But it wasn’t long before strange customs started to manifest themselves.

Perhaps there is inbreeding after all.  It is certainly true to say that nearly all the women in the three villages are busty, though not all so much as Griselda.  They also have finely developed and prominent bottoms.  I don’t know what the reason for this is, perhaps the vigorous outdoor life that most adopt, the country diet, or perhaps it’s simply in the genes, but whatever the reason; you’ll hardly ever see a flat-chested or scraggy-arsed woman there.

I noticed this during my first few days — how could any red-blooded man not notice it?  It being late summer, and warm, there were wobbling buttocks and bouncing tits everywhere, and the nipples that poked through the thin summer blouses and bras were fat and perky.  It is difficult for a single man not to gaze at such things, and they drew my gaze as a magnet draws iron filings.

I was leaving the post office one morning, a few weeks after my arrival and stepped aside for a woman whose breasts were truly magnificent, even by Nether Slype standards.  Her blouse was low-cut, her cleavage deep and freckled, and the nipples poking through were the size of my thumbs.  I ogled her, discreetly, I thought.

I felt a tap on my arm and turned to see Ted Foxter, the gamekeeper at Nether Towers.  Griselda had introduced me to him on my arrival and I had already joined him for a few pints at The Seven Stripes.

“You don’t want to go ogling that, Mr Flaythm,” he said with a sage shake of the head.

“Was I?” I said, disingenuously.  I thought I had been discreet and besides, in the outside world, blatant ogling was nothing unusual.

Nevertheless, Ted regarded me coolly.  “You were, Mr Flaythm, and you know it.  No question.  She’s a married woman — see.  Look too interested and you’ll upset the husband.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I meant nothing — and I didn’t notice she was wearing a ring.”

“Feel your way carefully, Mr Flaythm,” he said in a friendly, philosophical way, and I didn’t mind for I knew his words were kindly meant to a newcomer who didn’t know the ropes yet.  “There are two classes of women in Nether Slype — excepting her ladyship, of course — those that are married or spoken for, and those that aren’t.  You stay well away from the first class, and you can pretty well do what you like with the second — and God knows there’s plenty to choose from.  You’ll come to know who’s who in time.  In the meanwhile, you’d be wise to check your ground before you make a move.”

“And what are the rules if I find an available woman I fancy?”

He threw back his head and laughed.  “Get stuck in, man.”

“Provided she’s agreeable, of course.”

“If she isn’t, then you show her the error of her ways, Mr Flaythm — until she is.”

I didn’t understand him, though I pretended to, replying to his sly wink with one of my own.  I had lived long in the outside world, the world of women’s rights that eschews any sort of sexism or assumption of predatory male domination — or, at least, it pretends to.  I had yet to learn that these notions were alien to the three villages, so for the next few days I consciously avoided looking hungrily at any woman.  It was difficult with ripe temptation is everywhere, and although the women seemed very friendly, I became aware that there might be other local rules of conduct, so I remained wary.

The caution also made me aware of why Griselda was so insistent that Flavius should be ‘disposed of’ before we started shagging.  Clearly, small irregularities were noticed, and if I started frequenting Nether Towers too often, or was too frequently seen in her company, there would be talk as she had said there would be.   Everyone knew everyone else’s comings and goings in a place like this and it was clear to me that certain proprieties had to be seen to be observed — even if a man had to die for it.  I pushed the thought from my mind.  I didn’t want to think about Flavius, or any of the repercussions that might flow from his murder.

The relationship between the sexes started to become apparent a few days later.  There are many shaded footpaths in Nether Slype, and one runs along the bottom of my long rear garden, a path so green and overhung that you would never guess that it lay within yards of a village street unless you knew it.  It provides a short cut to the village centre and I already used it frequently, as it was a quicker route in the fine weather.

I was walking home from the library when I heard an abrupt bark of command beyond a hedge.

“Liz!  Out here!  This instant!”

I smiled, reflecting that few men in the outside world would dare shout at their wives in such a peremptory fashion. I was intrigued to see the outcome, for I naturally assumed that the wife would march out and give her husband a mouthful in return.   I noticed that there was a small chink in the hedge, and my curiosity prompted me to peek through it.  I looked carefully both ways, to make sure that I was not observed, and then applied my face to the chink.

There I saw a long orchard garden, very much like my own.  A thickset middle-aged man was standing there, not far from me, looking furious, his arms tightly folded.  I saw his wife, a blonde, broad hipped woman, come running out of the house towards us looking nervous.  She was wearing a tee shirt and shorts, she had big thighs, and although I couldn’t see it, I knew that her generous bottom would be wobbling delightfully.  She drew up to her husband and he pointed furiously at the grass near his feet.

“You did that, didn’t you!”

To my surprise, instead of folding her arms in turn and saying “so what!” she hung her head and flushed like a schoolchild pulled out before the class.  “Yes husband.  I’m truly sorry, husband,” she said breathlessly.  “Please don’t punish me.”

“What precisely have you done?”

“I’m sorry husband.  I didn’t see them.  Please.”

“What have you done?”

She swallowed and stared intently at her feet.  “I mowed over the cowslips, husband,” she whispered so softly that I could scarcely hear her.  “I know I’ve disobeyed.  Please don’t be severe with me.”  There was a long silence while she remained looking at her feet, and her arms hanging limply at her side.

“So you knew what you’d done,” the husband said at last.

“Yes, husband,” she whispered so softly that I only just caught her words.  “I know I should have confessed, but I was frightened.”

The husband’s face was stone.  He unfolded his arms and started to unbuckle his heavy leather trouser belt.  “Face the tree!” he snapped.

The wife’s shoulders sagged.  Without another word, she turned and stood as directed.  Her back was towards me now and I noticed that she was indeed a plump-bottomed lass.  Meanwhile the heavy belt was off and the husband wrapped it twice round his hand leaving about two feet of it hanging free.

“There’ll be six for mowing down the cowslips and another six for not telling me.”

“I understand, husband.”

“Knickers down!”

The big bottom heaved and strained as she pulled down her tight shorts and then her knickers.  Both fell to her ankles, and I saw her two enormous globes, white above her sunburnt thighs.  My prick stiffened.

“Lean against the tree!”

She shuffled forward a few steps and leaned forward, bracing herself against the trunk.  The muscles in buttocks twitched in anticipation of what was to come.

“Count!”

The husband brought his arm back and the flying belt delivered a resounding blow across his wife’s bare buttocks, and they quivered delightfully at the impact.

“One, husband.”

The arm came back again, followed by a loud cracking retort and the plump bottom wobbled again.

“Two, husband.”

He whipped her with his belt as I’ve seen people whipping a dog with its lead, and I’ve never liked seeing the dumb creature so ill-used.  Yet I felt no such qualm at watching this man ruthlessly spank his wife’s bare bottom.  It was gloriously erotic, and I found that I had unconsciously unzipped my flies and started wanking myself as I watched.  The thrashing continued, and it was only after eight sound strokes that the wife’s count started to labour.  Her thighs were working now and her previously white cheeks displayed a broadening red stripe across them.  But her husband continued remorselessly.

“Ah!  Eight, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaah!  Nine, husband.”

I saw her head go back, and she was gasping and jerking at every stroke.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ten, husband.  I’m so sorry husband.”

He continued relentlessly.  Her thighs were twitching ceaselessly now and she was heaving her big bottom up and down with a steady mechanical rhythm as people do when they’re in pain.  I wanked faster.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ooooh!   Eleven, husband.  Please be merciful.”

I knew she was crying, I knew by the sob in her voice.  Her thighs wriggled and her plump darkening bottom cheeks rotated ever faster.  She was in severe pain now.  My wanking accelerated.

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Twelve, husband.  No more, I beg you.”

Her whole body jerked, I could hear her crying, but the husband seemed unconcerned.  He slid his belt back through his trouser loops and buckled it.

“I’m finished now,” he said calmly.

The wife collapsed weeping at the foot of the tree, her hands scrabbling and clawing at her soundly-thrashed and deeply reddened buttocks.  I shot my load into the hedge.

But the husband merely turned away and continued surveying his garden.

The experience had aroused and excited me, but it also perplexed me.  I was new to Nether Slype so I initially assumed the husband’s behaviour to be an exception rather than a hallowed rule.  My main interest was in my own response to it.   I had never hit a woman.  I had been tempted to but had always considered it unmanly to use violence against a woman, besides which, it was taboo in the circles I moved in, and any man who beat a woman would have been despised for it.  Yet my prick had stiffened and I had orgasmed.  For me, seeing the wife standing obediently with her knickers round her ankles while her husband soundly whipped her bare bottom had been an erotic sexual experience.  I had indulged in a little mild spanking in bed with consenting women, but that was just slap and tickle, a bit of fun, usually after we’d got a good few drinks on board, but nothing heavy, severe, or serious.

Then I remembered Griselda’s words about discipline and the firm hand, her ever-twitching  riding crop, and her enthusiasm for the patent flogger.  I also recalled Ted Foxter’s words about showing a reluctant woman the error of her ways until she was agreeable.  Enormous possibilities exploded in my mind.  Bloody Hell, I thought.  Is the whole bloody village at it?

I swallowed as I wondered what role Griselda might have in mind for me, before and after we shagged for hours and hours and hours and hours in the thick custard.  Aroused as I was by the performance in the garden, I reflected that I wouldn’t mind giving her magnificent bottom a good spanking.  On the other hand, I was damned if the boot was going to be on the other foot.  But would I have any choice, and what might happen to me if I refused?  Was that where Flavius had stepped out of line?  Might I quickly follow him if I failed to obey?

I shook the thought from my head and said, Ridiculous!  I was aware that my own frustrations were feeding my imagination.  I persuaded myself that a couple of months ago, I would not have responded as I had to the thrashing in the garden.  I was frustrated, no doubt of that, which was probably why I had started to ogle women more blatantly than I ought.

I had never been short of sexual partners, though in recent years none had meant much to me beyond the physical relief.  But since coming to Nether Slype, I hadn’t got my end in once.  I had been told that I would experience no difficulty in this respect.  I had been told that unattached women were openly available, but I’d seen no evidence of it, and I didn’t know how one went about propositioning them in Nether Slype.    Did you simple brush up to one and say, “Hello darling, fancy a shag?” and put her straight over your knee if she said, “Sod off!”  Somehow, I didn’t think so.  And, to be blunt, so crude an approach has never appealed to me.  I am a bit of a romantic at heart, and even a blatant one-night stand has to be more romantic than wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.

As for the spanking, I soon realised that this was indeed the way things were done in Nether Slype.   Only a couple of days later I was in the village shop buying my groceries.

“I can’t see any wholemeal bread,” I said to Meg, the girl who usually serves behind the counter.

I expected her just to say, “it’s here”, “it’s there”, or “we’ve run out”.  But instead, her face fell.  “Of course, Mr Flaythm,” she said in a hushed voice.  “You always buy wholemeal, don’t you!”

“I much prefer it to white,” I said casually.

The girl looked chastened, though I thought I could detect an evil gleam in her eye.  “Then I’ll fetch Mrs Bryce right away, sir.”

“No!  Really!  It doesn’t matter,” I remonstrated.

“I’m afraid I’ve been told I must, sir,” said Meg, though her lips quivered impishly as she made for the back of the shop.

I hovered, feeling embarrassed at the fuss.  I heard Meg’s voice through the open doorway, “Another regular for wholemeal, Mr Bryce” and there was a note of deep, malicious relish as she added, “and Mr Flaythm of all people.  Most put out, he is.”

“No, no!” I called, though no one heard me.

“Right!  That’ll be double,” said a stern male voice beyond the door that I assumed to be Mr Bryce’s.  “Out you go, woman!”

From out the back came Mrs Bryce, a pleasant looking woman with a square face framed by dark-brown curly hair.  She walked up to me looking very contrite and stood before me like a supplicant, wringing her hands, and her eyes never left the floor.

“I’m very sorry about the wholemeal, Mr Flaythm,” she said quickly and breathlessly, as if by rote.  “I forgot it was Friday, Sir, and I didn’t order enough.  Please forgive me.”

“Forgive?”  I laughed.  “Don’t be silly.  It doesn’t matter.  I’ll come back for some tomorrow.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience I’ve put you to, Sir.”

“Forget it, Mrs Bryce.”

“Thank you for being so forgiving, Sir,” she said with a small curtsey, but her eyes remained firmly fixed to the floor.  She turned and walked slowly away towards the back of the shop.  Her hands disappeared round her front and she appeared to be adjusting her clothing; I heard the unmistakable sound of a fly zip.  Her hands reappeared and she hooked her thumbs inside her loosened waistband.  As she walked through the door to the back of the shop, she started to push it down, and I saw her bottom crack and ample buttocks start to emerge.

“Leave the door open!” came the man’s stern voice again.  “I want Mr Flaythm to hear this.   Over the chair back with you!  And get those knickers right down.  Grip the chair!”

Mr Bryce didn’t tell his wife to count the strokes as the man in the garden had, but the sound of leather thrashing a woman’s soft bottom was the same.  I had clearly been mistaken to assume that the corporal disciplining of wives was an occasional and closet aberration in Nether Slype.  I now understood without any shadow of doubt what Griselda and Ted had meant when they spoke of discipline and making women see the error of their ways.

Meg sidled up to me, nodded and winked.  “She’s getting double because it’s you, Mr Flaythm.  Twelve.  I thought you’d like to know.”

“How many others have there been?” I asked, wondering just how many strokes in total Mrs Bryce would receive for forgetting to order extra bread, and what the punishment would be for a genuinely serious offence.

“You’re the seventh to voice disappointment,” said Meg.  “She got six for each of the others.”  She smirked.  “You don’t mind when it’s the boss’s wife, do you, Sir!  And she’s a real cow to me sometimes.”

Out back, Mrs Bryce was grunting like a bull at each stroke.  It was hardly surprising, seeing that she had by now received around forty during the course of the day and her bottom already must be sore, bruised, and swollen from her earlier ordeals.  Finally, the punishment ended, the door closed, and there was silence from the back.  Despite my finer values, I felt my cock stiffening again and I drew my jacket round me to hide the embarrassing bulge from Meg.

“Can I do anything else for you, Mr Flaythm?” she asked slyly.  She was clearly enjoying Mrs Bryce’s ongoing punishment and that might have accounted for the relish in of voice.  But perhaps she had also glanced down and noticed the telltale sign of my enjoyment too.  I wondered whether she was inviting me to enjoy some sexual hanky-panky with her.  I glanced at hr sideways.  She looked the type who enjoyed a good shag.  But she was a good-looking girl and it seemed inconceivable too me that she wasn’t already being regularly seen to.

I remembered Ted Foxter’s warning about staying clear of women who were spoken for, and I thought it highly likely that Meg was.  My problem was that I simply couldn’t be sure, one way or the other, and I wouldn’t be until I got to know these people much better.  So I merely smiled and, “That’s fine for now, Meg.  Thanks all the same.”

But my frustrations deepened.  When I left the shop, I was still stiff and all the stiffer because I knew that if I was wrong about Meg, I might just have passed up an invitation to a very acceptable shag.

My prick was stiff most of the time during those early days in the three villages, what with all the bouncing breasts and bottoms everywhere, and now the extra thrill of what promised to be participation in regular spankings, as an observer or auditor at least.   And I confess it did thrill me; it thrilled me very much, especially the spanking in the shop, which had been applied for my benefit.  A woman had bent over a chair and had her bare bottom spanked, especially severely, for my satisfaction.  The one disappointment was that I wished I were applying a strap to a nice plump bottom myself.  A demon had been awakened in me, yet despite the fact that it was going on all around me, there seemed no immediate prospect of administering a good spanking myself.  I think I still assumed at that time, that a woman’s bare bottom was only available for this sort of enjoyable attention from her husband.

For these reasons, I made no move to either discipline or ravish my maid, despite her short skirt, extremely wobbly bottom, and the come-hither looks she gave me.  There was stimulation and frustration everywhere, but no release, or so I thought.  Yet I was soon to learn that I still hadn’t plumbed the full pleasurable depths of Nether Slype.

1. Initiation

A few evenings later, I stopped by The Seven Stripes as I often do, for a pint or two and a chat with my neighbours.  I had been in the village for about two months, and I liked to think that they were starting to accept me genuinely, and not just because Griselda Shackles had told them to.  Nearly everyone I passed in the course of the day stopped and chatted to me.  I was everywhere welcome, and I found them likable and neighbourly people, despite their seemingly habitual use of the strap.

That evening, when I walked into the pub, the four regulars round the bar all nodded.  I asked Dick Shag the landlord I’d met on my first visit, for my usual pint of the local ale, for they have their own small brewery in Nether Slype.

“A pint of Nelly’s Knockers, please Dick.”

Dick’s face fell.  “Dreadfully sorry, Mr Flaythm.  Nelly’s Knockers are off, sir.”

“Oh, well, what have you got?”

“Freda’s Fanny?  Rachels’s Rump?  Easy Edna?”

“Whichever you recommend,” I said

As Dick started to pour my beer, Ted Foxter sidled up to me and winked.

“Don’t let it go at that, Owen.  You’re entitled to satisfaction when the beer’s off.”

“Satisfaction?”

“Aye, it’s the custom,” chorused the other three regulars at the bar.

“You must demand it,” said Ted impishly, with another wink.

“Don’t egg him on,” cautioned Dick the landlord, pushing my beer across to me.  “He’s still very new here.”

“Nah, he’s one of us,” said Ted emphatically.  “He’s a Flaythm.  And he’s already a regular, so he’s entitled to his satisfaction when the beer’s off.”

The chorus of agreement came again and Dick looked at me hesitantly for a few moments, but in the end, he sighed and shrugged to the inevitable.  Reaching down under the bar he leaned towards me and enquired gently, “Would you like satisfaction, Mr Flaythm, Sir?”

I glanced down to see what he had retrieved from under the bar.  There, in is large fist, peeping discreetly over the rear edge of the counter was the curved handle of a slander bamboo cane.  I blinked and almost demurred, but a chorus of encouragement from the others immediately overwhelmed me.

“Go on, Owen!”

“Show us what you’re made of, Owen!”

“Show us how the Flaythms lay it on, Owen?”

I hesitated, as you so often do when they thing you have dreamed of is offered too readily, or for too low a price.  You ask yourself where the catch is, for you are sure there must be one, and there was.  For I had never done this before, and had no idea of how to go about it.

Much as the idea appealed, I would have preferred to try my hand first in private, but I realised that I was facing a test I couldn’t decline.  Come through it and they would fully accept me as one of the chaps; fail and I would be a laughing stock.  Yet if I refused, I would lose face.  I imagined that here in Nether Slype, backing off from applying corporal discipline might be regarded as tantamount to confessing I was homosexual — and I didn’t want that sort of reputation at any price.   I knew I would have to go through with it, and pray that I made a reasonable job of it.

So I stuck out my chin, I reached across the bar, and Dick pushed the cane into my hand.  It was long, thin, and very whippy, clearly fashioned for the purpose.  I made a few cuts and the cane whistled pleasantly, but what was the point of a cane and no bottom?  I turned enquiringly to Dick.

“Whose?  Which?  Er . . . .”

Dick put his head round the door behind the bar.  “Girls!  Out you come!  Mr Flaythm requires satisfaction.  Move yourselves!”

Immediately I heard the rattle of footsteps on the wooden floor behind and out trooped the three bar and kitchen maids.  They came round the bar, lined up in front of me looking coy.  One of them giggled, nervously, as I later realised.  But at the time, I suspected that they thought me incapable of doing what was required, so I made a few more fearsome looking cuts through thin air

“What do you say to the customer?” said Dick sternly.

“Sorry about Nelly’s Knockers, Mr Flaythm. Would you like satisfaction of our bare and willing bottoms, Sir?” chorused the three maids, parrot fashion.  They had obviously done this many times.  The youngest, Nell, giggled again.

I licked my lips, sure that I was about to make an idiot of myself.  I dimly remembered hearing or reading somewhere that the cane is the aristocrat of corporal-punishment instruments, devastatingly effectively when expertly wielded, but much less so in the hands of an amateur.  I would be mercilessly exposed as a tyro.  “Well, I—”

“Don’t mice words with wenches, lad!” piped up Old Horace, the retired shoe mender, shambling across to me.  “It’s the cane and the strap that talks to a woman.”  He turned to Nell, the youngest barmaid, who had nervously giggled.  “You mind your manners, girl, or I’ll tell your father to give you two dozen of the riding crop next time I see him!”

The girl whitened and hung her head contritely.  “Yes grandfather.  Sorry, Mr Flaythm.”

“That’s better,” said Old Horace.  “Though too little too late, as you’re about to find out, girl.”  He turned to me, all solicitude, and patted me gently on the back.  “Don’t be nervous, lad.  I’ve been whipping women for over fifty years, and I know what I’m about.  I’ll see you through it.”

I must have coloured at being so transparently a novice.

“Right now,” continued Horace, patting my back again, reassuringly.  “The rule here is that every customer who misses a pint of his favourite gives each girl one stroke.  That’s one for each pint.  Now, you’re a three pint man—”

“Two,” insisted Ted from behind the bar.

“Three!” chorused of regulars.

“Come on lads,” pleaded Ted.  “I’ve a dozen or more regulars due later.  I want these girls to be able to stand up and wash glasses come closing time.”

“Then you should have laid on the fucking beer!” snarled Ted.

“Aye,” chorused the others in jolly unison, thumping their beer mugs on the bar top.  “Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three!  Three—

“Oh very well,” sighed Ted, flinging down his cloth and folding his arms like a long-suffering fishwife.  “Three it is.”

“What do I do now?” I whispered in Horace’s ear.

“What do you think?  Get Nell over a table, yank her knickers down, and give her plump rosy cheeks three of the best.”

“Right.”  I tentatively extended my hand to take Nell gently by the arm, but Horace knocked it aside.

“Nay, lad!  You do it like this.”  With one fluid motion, Horace stepped in front of me, took Nell by the scruff of the neck, summarily marched her across to the nearest table, and pushed her over it.  “Now the knickers, lad.”

“Right.”  I put the cane under one arm and lifted Nell’s full skirt to reveal a bulging pair of navy blue knickers.  I noticed the visible part of her buttocks and the tops of her thighs were already criss-crossed with half-a-dozen or more red welts.  I tentatively took hold of her knicker elastic and started to ease the knickers down.

“Sorry, lad,” said Horace at my ear, gently removing my hand.  “Let me show you once and for all.  When you pull down a woman’s knickers, whether you’re going to feel her up, shag her, or thrash her, you don’t mess around — you do it this way.”  He seized the elastic and whipped it down so fast that Nell’s knickers fairly flew down her bare legs to her ankles, and her bottom, free of its restraint, bulged before me.  I felt my prick start to swell mightily.

“Right, Horace,” I said, taking up the cane again and flexing it self-consciously.  I was aware that five pairs of critical eyes were on me, not counting the other two maids’.  This was make or break for me.

I stepped back, and gave Nell’s bare buttocks a few ranging taps, silently counting the red welts to fifteen and wondering how many more they would receive before closing time.

“Excuse me, lad,” said Horace, interrupting again.  “I take it you haven’t done this before.”

I licked my lips.  “Er — not with a light cane,” I lied sheepishly.

“Then let me show you.  It’s not like a strap, which only requires leverage and power.  With the cane it’s speed and accuracy that counts.  For a start, you’re too tense.  So relax!  Second, you step right back and use the full length of the cane and your arm.  Remember, the tip is travelling fastest under the greatest leverage.  If you apply a cane half way down its length, or bent-armed, you’ll only tap her, no matter how much energy you put into it, and what’s the point of that?  Third.  You don’t aim at her bottom, but at a point six or so inches in front of her pussy.  In other words, you thrash right through the bottom with the extremity of the cane and the arm.  Understood?”

“Yes, Horace,” I said hoarsely.  “Thank you, Horace.”

Horace thrust his hands in his pockets and looked wise.  “Of course, using the full length holds true whether you’re using a strap, belt, riding crop, tawse, whip, or whatever: use the extremity and you can’t go far wrong.  It’s like hammering nails.  When you’re hammering, you use the full length of the hammer shaft.  The same goes for thrashing a woman.  Now, relax, and cut right through, as fast as you can.  Start with the cane held right back behind your neck, and bring it right round in an arc, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, through to that point in front of her pussy.  That way, she’ll know what you’re about.”

“Right, Horace.”

“Here, lad, let me show you.”

Horace retrieved one of his hands from his pockets and took the cane from my hand.  He stepped right back from Nell, tapping her bulging bottom several times with the extremity, his arm fully extended.  Her legs wriggled in anticipation, and I fancied I heard her whimper.

“That’s the range, lad,” continued Horace conversationally.  “Now watch!”  The brought the cane right back behind his neck, froze for a second, then with a brief high whistle, it whipped round.  With a piercing scream, Nell’s bottom leapt off the edge of the table.  There was a murmur of approval from around the bar and I knew that I was in the presence of a master.  “Take note of that, lad?” said Horace with pride.  “Unless she screams and her bottom leaps, you haven’t done your job properly.”

The cane went back behind Horace’s neck again, froze for a second, and then whistled again.  Nell screamed again and her bottom leapt even higher.  I saw that there were two more vicious red welts on it.

“Now, lad,” said Horace with an expert’s gravity, directing my attention, as though it were necessary, to Nell’s writhing bottom.  “Notice my two welts.  Absolutely parallel and about an inch apart.   The art is to lay them on close.  Better still, on top of each other.  Ideally, you want to see one broad stripe developing, not a criss-cross.  Lay on a dozen heavy strokes on top of each other, and you’ll be peeling her off the ceiling before you’re done, and that’s what you’re aiming to do.  Now, I’m going to lay the third one between the other two, extra hard, like so—”

“Please don’t grandfather,” whimpered Nell.

“Quiet, girl!”

The cane whistled, even more shrilly, Nell screamed her heart out, and her bottom leapt so high in the air that she almost dove head-first off the opposite side of the table.  I saw that she was quivering and crying, but that didn’t stop the regulars from giving Horace a round of applause.  He handed me the cane.  “Now, lad, lay three more on top of mine.”

“Oi-oi!” shouted Dick from behind the bar.  “She’s had her three.”

Horace turned on him.  “She’s my granddaughter and I’ll thrash her whenever I like — without your leave.  Now it’s Owen’s turn.”

There was another murmur of approval.  Dick raised his hands in surrender, and then carried on wiping the bar.

I stepped back from Nell.  The girl was sobbing, and that gave me a moment’s pause, but I couldn’t appear callow in front of my audience.  Besides, she had parted her legs slightly and her pink slit was winking at me between a fringe of downy brown hair.  My stiffening prick took over from whatever remained of my conscience: I knew I was going to enjoy hearing her squeal again, and I wanted to watch her wriggling bottom and juicy little slit perform desperate acrobatic feats all over the table.

I brought the cane behind my neck, froze for a second and delivered a stinging swipe right through the red, twitching buttocks, missing Horace’s stripe and catching Nell right across her slit.  She howled, jerked, and her legs writhed like fury.

The crowd round the bar applauded warmly.

“Not bad for starters,” said Horace.  “Across her crack’s as good a place as any.  Teaches her that it’s a man’s property.”

There was a murmur of agreement, then, as I drew the cane behind my neck, I saw a new red wheal across the crease between Nell’s bottom and thighs and right across her slit.  The slit itself was splayed wide open, its lips quivering.  My work! I thought proudly as the last remnants of my conscience deserted me.

The cane whistled more shrilly, Nell screamed and leapt energetically this time.  Her legs wriggled even more and I noted with satisfaction that a second new stripe had appeared just above my first.  The cane came back a third time.  Aiming firmly through the gaping slit I consciously relaxed and then let fly with all my might.

Her scream was piercing.  Her whole body jerked off the table, jack-knifed, and she fell onto the floor, thrashing and clutching her crotch.

“Good shot!” chorused the regulars, and they rushed across to her, pulling her hands away and examining her.

“Three in a row,” shouted one and they turned to give me an extended round of applause.

“Well done, lad,” said Horace, gently patting me on the arm.  “You’ll be on free beer all evening for that.”

The two older girls remained.  Despite Nell’s suffering, they looked remarkably uncontrite.

I chose Ruth, the kitchen maid next.  She was the slimmest and eldest of the three.  She must have been well over thirty and she wore her breasts lower than the other two did.  I’d removed her bra in my imagination several times when I’d drunk at the Stripes, fancying them pendulous, with large dark areolas.  I was pretty certain they’d be dark, for her hair was black, and her eyes and complexion also dark.  In former centuries, they would probably have presumed her a witch, but even Nether Slype isn’t that conservative.  It was a pity, I thought, that I could only thrash her bottom and not her breasts.  For at that time I foolishly assumed that tit whipping was taboo in Nether Slype.

I boldly took Ruth by the scruff of the neck and she came forward without resisting.  I marched her to the table and roughly pushed her across it…  My drinking companions applauded.  Next for her knickers.   I threw up her skirt over her back.  She was wearing black stockings, black suspenders, with black lacy knickers over them.  I almost shot my load straight through my trousers, and all over her.

Eagerly I took the elastic waistband of her black full-cut knickers in my hand and ripped them down.  They fell no further than her knees but I was pleased with the result.  Her bottom was slightly slimmer than Nell’s was, and I noticed that, as well as a welter of vivid red stripes from earlier that night, it was also criss-crossed with small scars, some white, ancient, and faded, others newer and still pink.  She’d certainly been comprehensively whipped in her thirty-something years.  Although her thighs were also slimmer than Nell’s and didn’t quite meet at the top, I couldn’t see her crack because of the forest of thick black hair that sprouted like a huge brush from her crotch and fringed her slit like a heavy beard.

“Fucking Hell, Ruth,” called one of the drinkers.  “When are you going to see a barber?  Nothing can get through that jungle.”

The men laughed.

“Ha.  Ha.  Ha,” quipped Ruth, face down across the table.  “Just because you can’t manage to push your limp prick into a woman’s cunt, Ned Ferris.   It doesn’t mean a man couldn’t.”

“It’s certainly the loosest in Nether Slype,” suggested another, and all the men laughed again.

“Nah!  That was my wee hole you were fucking, Ted Foxter.”

The men roared now.

“Thought I was being shagged by a dead maggot,” Ruth continued.  “Then I looked up and saw Ted Foxter hanging on the other end of it.”

The men fell about laughing.  One even spilled his beer.

“Come on, Owen, lay it on the mouthy bitch!” called Ted, who was less amused than the others were.

Following Horace’s instructions, I aimed for a point six inches in front of Ruth’s luxuriant pussy and laid on my first stroke with a resounding crack.  Nothing happened.

“Come on, Mr Flaythm, sir!” said Ruth, archly coy.  “Start!  I haven’t got all fucking night to lie around here airing my cunt.”

The men roared.  I brought the cane back and, with a shrill whistle, laid another welt just above the first.

“Bloody hell!  Some filthy sod’s trying to tickle my arsehole now.”

By this time, I was laughing myself, so much so that I made a complete mess of the last stroke and merely glanced it off her.

Ruth got up, curtseyed to her audience, and marched triumphantly off towards the kitchen to a great round of applause.

Rosie, the third girl, was by far the most buxom of the three.  She walked up to the table without prompting, dropped her skirt to show all the men she was wearing no knickers at all.  She sat on the edge of the table, leant back, and spread her legs invitingly wide, showing us all her orange pussy and pink open slit.  She flexed her muscles and her cunt winked open and shut for us several times, to a great round of applause.  My prick was so stiff now that I had to turn round quickly, and ease it past the elastic waistband of my underpants.  Meanwhile, Rosie pulled up a chair, knelt on the seat and bent over the table for me, sticking her big plump bottom invitingly in the air.

There were calls of “Lay it on, Owen” and “You couldn’t miss that one if you tried.”

Rosie wriggled her bottom inviting again.  It was pink, with small freckles all over it.  And like the others, it was criss-crossed, with welts, old and new.  It wobbled delightfully, like a strawberry blancmange sprinkled with brown sugar crystals, and in many ways it was as sweet.  I laid on three heavy strokes, but I’d lost my concentration in all the merriment, and although Rosie squealed and her bottom leapt at each of them, I knew that she was performing for the benefit of her audience.

When she’d been caned, she too marched triumphantly back to the kitchen, to a round of good-natured applause.  I received pats on the back for my efforts, and I decided I ought to buy a round of drinks for the entire gathering.  I could easily afford to, though I didn’t make it a habit, considering it rather cheap to try to buy people’s goodwill.  However, tonight I had an excuse.

“Nelly’s Knockers is back on now,” said Dick as he started to pull the first pint.

“I thought you were out of it,” I said.

“No, I forgot to put a fresh barrel on earlier.  It hadn’t quite settled when you came in.”

Now that my desire was cooling, my conscience kicked back in.  The girls had been caned, not for their own negligence but Dick’s.  I didn’t feel bad about Ruth and Rosie, who could handle it and had made an entertainment of it.  But Nell was only about eighteen and it hadn’t been so much fun for her.  I felt suddenly and privately ashamed.

One round followed another and as the evening wore on, I became quite drunk.  My drinking companions slowly left, one after the other and, shortly before closing time, I was sitting alone in a corner, feeling content with the world, and wondering if I could be bothered to get up and take the short walk home.

Something moved at the edge of my consciousness and I looked up to see Ruth the black-haired, dark-eyed kitchen maid glancing at me speculatively.  Our eyes met and she walked across.  She was an attractive woman with a wide, well-shaped mouth, a pert chin and those glorious dark eyes shed dark light on me like pools of liquid night.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, leaning over me so that her long, pendulous breasts swayed mouth-wateringly before my semi-focussed eyes.

“I’ve had too much,” I confessed, wondering whether I had the nerve to reach out and fondle them, and I suppose my voice was slurred.

“Come on,” she said.  “I’m done for the day.  I’ll help you home if you like.”

I almost refused, but then I wondered why I should.  I looked up again, bathed in those glorious dark eyes, and a voice in the back of my reeling brain told me that I might be onto a shag here.  God knows I needed one.

“Yes, I think I might need help,” I confessed.  “But I warn you I’m very drunk.”

She smiled warmly.  “I’m used to it, and I’ve seen worse, besides, the walk home will help sober you.  Come on!”

I hope it sobers me up, I thought.  I won’t be able to shag you unless I do sober up a bit.  And I desperately wanted to get inside a woman’s knickers, and I really fancied running my fingers through Ruth’s glorious pussy before I tried her cunt for size.

She leant down to haul me up, her bodice filled again, and I knew that I desperately wanted to get inside her bra too, and pull out those tantalising breasts.  They brushed against me as she put her arm under mine, and with surprising strength, she pulled me upright.  I staggered, and burped.

“Not going to be sick, are you?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Are you?  Tell me!”

“Don’t think so,” I slurred, staggering again, and the room revolved.  I knew that I probably wouldn’t get home at all without her, and I also knew that I probably wouldn’t be capable of shagging her, even if I did.

“If you feel it welling up, tell me immediately.  I’ll help you.”

“Feel what welling up?  A hard on?” I slurred, sagging against her.

She smiled.  “Not much chance of that tonight.  I meant, if you feel you’re going to be sick.”

“God, I hope not.”

“Just do it!  Tell me!  All right?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And no lip,” she smiled, “or you’ll find your own way home.  Come on!”

She took my weight and helped me to walk unsteadily out of The Seven Stripes.  Outside the air felt cool.  I felt cold sweat on my forehead and scalp, and that was all I remember.  Therefore, I didn’t see the large black Daimler that was parked outside on the green.

1. Ruth

When I woke next morning, warm sunshine was flooding through my bedroom window, my head was still slightly muzzy and I reckoned it would feel more so when I tried to get up.  Apart from my shoes, I was lying fully dressed on my bed, though my collar and trousers were loosened.  I assumed that I had somehow managed to make my way up the stairs and done the necessary.  I suddenly realised that my bladder was bursting.  I flopped out of bed, staggered, and headed for the door, missed it, bounced off the doorframe and somehow found my way along the passage to the bathroom without falling over or wetting myself.  I used the loo and, relieved, I stumbled back the bed, threw myself on it again, and waited for the window to stop orbiting the room.

It was then that I heard movement downstairs.  Immediately sobered, I staggered back to my feet, shambled to the end of the passage, and peered round the corner down the stairs.

Ruth, the dark-haired barmaid, was coming up them.

“Ruth?” I squeaked.

She was carrying a mug of black coffee and she was wearing my dressing gown.  She glanced up, smiled, and accurately read the expression on my face.

“Hope you don’t mind me wearing this, Mr Flaythm, but you needed looking after last night — you were in a terrible state — and I needed to wash my dress.  I don’t want to go back to work smelling stale.  So I put it in your washing machine.  I hope that’s OK.”

“Of course, Ruth.  Help yourself.  And thanks for helping me last night.  Was I really so bad?”

She smiled and put her free hand under my arm to guide me back to the bedroom.  “You were terrible.”

I lowered myself gingerly and sat on the edge of the bed.  “When are you due back at The Seven Stripes?” I asked when everything had finally stopped revolving.

“Couple of hours.”

“What time is it now?”

“Ten.  No hurry.  Come on!  Lie back and drink this.  Then I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Thanks Ruth.  I owe you.”

As I lay back and propped myself against the headboard, she climbed onto the bed beside me and held both the coffee and me steady while I drank.

I felt her body move against mine, and my prick started stiffening again.

“Last night,” I said.  “We didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I mean we—”

She put her arm round my shoulder and popped a kiss on my brow.  “Mr Flaythm.  Last night you were in no condition to do anything.  I managed to get you up here and you just sparked out.”

“I just wondered,” I said, taking another mouthful of the hot coffee.

“Why?  What if we had?  Would it have mattered?”

“Yes,” I giggled — it must have been the after-effects of all the booze.  “Because I’d have had no memories to treasure of the experience.”

“No need to be sarcastic!” she said harshly.

“I’m not being.”

“Yes you are.  I’ve seen the way you look at my tits, thinking, bloody hell, look at those horrible saggy old jugs.

“I don’t think that at all,” I protested

She looked unconvinced.  “Oh really?  What then?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” I said, hiding my face in my coffee mug and taking another mouthful, my head clearing rapidly.

“Why?  We’re on your bed together; I’m wearing your dressing gown — and not a lot underneath.”

“Really?”  I said, poking my finger in the neck of the dressing gown and trying to open it.

She slapped my hand away, but only payfully.

“If you want to get inside my undies, Mr Flaythm, you’ll have to tell me what you really think about my tits.”

“Will I get inside them then?”

She gave me that dark, speculative look again, and her hand slid slowly and tantalisingly down my stomach, then stopped just short of my prick.  I groaned.

“Let’s say that if I believe what you say, I’ll give you a fuck if you want one.”

“Yes please.”

“And if I like what I hear, and I also believe it, I’ll give you a really slow, tight, extra-quality fuck.  What do you say about that?”

I choked on my coffee.  “Yes please.”

Her hand moved slowly in circles around my groin.  She leaned close and whispered in my ear, her lips brushing it as she whispered in my ear.  “And whatever you might think about my tits and my hairy pussy, you’ll find that I’ve got a very . . . very hot, juicy, and satisfying cunt.  And regardless of what they said about it in the pub last night, I can make it as tight as you want.  That’s a promise.  So what do you say?”

My prick stiffened in jerks now and her fingers trailed lightly across it.

“Yes please.”

“Then tell me the truth, and my cunt’s yours.”

I put my coffee down on the bedside table with a clatter and almost spilled it.

“Well, if you insist on the truth—”

“Go on!  You’re onto a decent fuck, regardless.”

“To be perfectly truthful. I’ve always fancied you have really long breast with big dark aureoles and long nipples.”

She hoisted an eyebrow.  “That turns you off, does it?”

I blinked.  “Hell no!  It turns me on like anything.”

“More than my cunt?”

“I don’t know.  The way you describe it, that sounds pretty fantastic too.”

“Hmmm!  We’d better find out then, hadn’t we?”

She turned towards me, opened the neck of her dressing gown, showing me her generous cleavage and the tops of her black bra cups.  “Like to be turned on some more, mister big prick?” she breathed invitingly as she nuzzled up close to me, a single finger stroking my erection through my trousers.  “Would you like a feel around a bit first?”

“Yes please.”

She undid the dressing-gown cord, it fell open and I felt inside.  She was warm and her skin was wonderfully smooth, like velvet.  I ran my hands over her bottom and between her legs, over her fully cut knickers.

“Come on!” she giggled in my ear.  “You didn’t have any trouble getting them off last night.”

“I thought we were going to show me your tits,” I reminded her.

“Perhaps you’d like to feel round my bra cups first, to be sure you really want me to get them out for you,” she suggested

I moved my hand up to the lacy cups.  He breasts were very soft, and as I ran my fingers over them, I cupped their weight in my palms, and I felt that her nipples were long and very hard.”

“Yes.  Please get them out for me,” I croaked.

She pushed herself off the mattress, straddled me, and slipped off the dressing gown.  Her breasts swung bulky and low against her thin lacy bra cups, and I could see the tantalising shadow of large dark disks round her protruding nipples.  She leant forward to unclip the bra, the breasts swung forward towards me and I saw the full, glorious length of her cleavage.   Kneeling upright again, she held the loosened cups in her hands to ensure that she didn’t yield up her treasure prematurely, and then, ever so slowly, she started to lift.  The white undersides of their mouth-watering cargo slid from the slowly rising cups, half an inch at a time, then, just as it seemed it would slide for ever, I saw the first hint of her large, chocolate brown aureoles.  The bra lifted even more slowly now, tantalisingly so. Suddenly the breasts were falling free; they slapped her stomach, seemed to bounce, and then swayed forwards toward me, ripe and heavy.

Ruth threw the bra across the room with panache.  “I imagine we won’t need that for a bit.”  She crossed her arms behind her back and thrust her breasts towards me.  “Satisfactory?”

I took them in my hands, gently stroking the undersides, and gazed admiringly at the large brown buttons and the long pink nipples dangling tastily before my face.  Ruth leaned forwards more and they brushed the hard teats against my lips, and I put out my tongue to taste them as she swung them slowly back and forth.  She knew how to tease, but I didn’t mind.  She put one hand behind my head, took a breast in the other, stroked it to make sure the nipple was fully up, then slid it slowly and deeply into my mouth.

“How do you like the taste?” she enquired, and her voice was smoky.

“Mmmm.  Wonderful.  Does the other one taste the same?”

“Greedy man!”  She giggled. “You’d better suck it and see.”  She swung the other nipple so that it dangled just in front of my lips.  Reaching down, she put her hand behind my head and lifted my mouth to that one too.

“How’s that?” she asked, lifting it out.  “Tasty as the other one?”

She lifted it out, dangled it, and then slowly lowered it into my gaping mouth again.  “Take your time.  I don’t want you leaving the table hungry.”

Lifting herself to a kneeling position astride me, she slowly unzipped my flies and pulled out my rigid prick.  I gasped as she stroked it with her fingers, and more when she started to stroke it with the crotch of her knickers, luxuriant padded with her abundant pussy hair.  Back and forth, back and forth, she stroked while her long dark nipples swung in and out of my mouth.

“I think you deserve the slow, tight fuck after all.  Would you like that?”

“Yes please,” I gasped.

“Would you like it now?” she enquired huskily.

“Yes please, Ruth.  Now.  Please.”

She got up and I raised my bottom while she slid my trousers and pants off, then deftly unbuttoned my shirt and slid that off too.  Stepping out of her knickers she climbed back on me and straddled me again, wonderfully naked.  Taking my swollen prick in her hand, she started stroking my knob it with her pussy hair, and I could feel the warmth and wetness within.  I smiled.

“Like that?” she asked.

“Oh yes.  Ted Foxter doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I know, and I’ll show you why.”

With a quick stroke of her finger, she parted her hair and ever so slowly slid herself down over me, hot and moist.

“How’s that?”

“Wonderful,” I croaked, hardly able to contain myself now.

She slowly worked her cunt up and down a few times, then, gradually, the sensation started to change.  I felt my prick being squeezed by degrees, as if in a hot, powerful, lubricated fist. As Ruth heaved her body, the tight fist slid up and down the length of my shaft, pulling and pushing it, crushing it in its powerful grip.

“How’s that?” she enquired.

My mouth was dry with ecstasy.  “Unbelievable,” I barely managed to groan.

“Ted Foxter’s never had it like this,” she grinned.  “I only tighten my cunt and give the slow fuck to men I really like.”

“It’s not a cunt, Ruth — it’s paradise,” I moaned.

Indeed it was.  I hadn’t thought my erection could grow more, but it did, painful so against its unyielding constraint;  The more it grew, the tighter she gripped it, until I felt it was being crushed in the awesome depths of a deep, hot, perfumed sea.  Yet if Ruth’s cunt was an instrument of torture, it was a torture I didn’t want ever to end.  Just as I thought my prick would burst, she loosened her hold and I ejaculated long and deep into her.   I shot and shot.  I thought I would shoot for ever.  Then I lay back, feeling blessedly at peace.

“Thank you,” I said.

She leant over me and kissed me with surprising tenderness.  I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her in turn, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for the most wonderful orgasm of my life.

“I can think of only two other men in the village who’ve ever thanked me for a fuck,” she said conversationally, a little later, downstairs in the kitchen where we had shared a late breakfast.

“What?”  I couldn’t believe they were all so ill mannered.  “What do the others say?”

“Nothing.  Your typical Nether Slyper unzips his flied, pulls his pathetic little cock out — shoves it in — jerk, jerk, jerk — squirt — then zips his flies up and walks away again.  Mind you, they don’t get what you just got.  They get it loose.  I make the miserable fuckers work for their bit of fun.  But not you.”  She stroked the back of my hand.

“Because you like me?”

“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes looking frankly into mine.

“Why?”

“Because you laughed at my comments about the limp pricks at the bar, but not theirs about me.”

“How do you know?” I asked dropping my gaze to my hands, because I recalled that she had been bent over the table at the time, waiting for me to cane her.  “You were looking the other way,” I added awkwardly.

She smirked.  “I’ve developed a fine directional ear for a dirty laugh.”

“You were certainly a lot wittier than they were.”

Her eyes widened momentarily.  She leant across the table and kissed me again.  “Carry on like that and I’ll start falling in love with you.”

“Why?  Because I’ve paid you well deserved compliments?”

She grimaced.  “Men in Nether Slype don’t pay compliments.  They just grunt and take.”  She clasped my hand.  “Don’t ever change.  Don’t ever lose that.”  She slipped on the dress she’d washed and ironed and picked up her bag.  “I’d best go.  You can guess what my punishment will be if I’m late.  And Dangling Dick can make even me squeal.”

“And what about Nell?”  I asked, remembering the debauchery of the previous evening.

Ruth shrugged.  “Sore, but she’ll learn.  She’ll have to.”

“Learn what?”

“What Rosie and I know.  Make ‘em laugh and you get off lightly.  Act the poor frightened little wench and you inflame them, and you get it ten times worse.”

“Inflame me, you mean,” I said remembering how I had thrashed Nell with a will, and, now that Ruth had quenched my lust like no woman ever had before, I was ashamed, visibly so.

“I wasn’t your fault,” she said with a curt shake of the head.  “It was that revolting grandfather of hers.  It was the third time that evening he’d given that ghastly demonstration of his prowess.  His own granddaughter too, for pity’s sake, displaying her like a whore, and she’s only eighteen.  Plying the cane is his one skill you see, and, of course, typical of a man, he has to show off his little bit of tawdry prowess to his boozy friends, time and again.  He was a lousy shoe mender, you know.”

“Perhaps, but I did my bit too.”

“You couldn’t have done otherwise, Mr Flaythm.”

“Owen.”

She smiled and gave me the frank glance again.  “You couldn’t have done otherwise, Owen — the way they were egging you on.”

“But I wanted to, Ruth.  I wanted to.  And now I’ve done it I . . . .”

She squeezed my hand again.  “Not to worry.  You’re a nice man deep down.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you are.  You know the old saying: a stiff prick has no conscience?”

“But it ought to, oughtn’t it!”

“Perhaps.  But we all have to conform, Owen, to a certain extent at least.  You’d have been a laughing stock if you’d backed down last night.  Anyway, must go.  And if you want the slow job again, just give me the nod.  I’d rather shag you than any of the others.  Anyway, must dash.”

That was wisdom of a sort too, I thought.  Now I was in Nether Slype, I supposed I had to do what they did.  At least, I had to do it to a degree, but it was a poor excuse.  Moreover, I knew that I would not only do it again, but also enjoy it again, again, and again.  Nevertheless, I vowed that in future, I would spare Nell and any others like her, and I would never be excessive, no matter what.

1. Griselda

“Owen!”

I was walking along the bridle path back from the church when I heard the soft clip-clop of hooves on the sweet-rancid-smelling leaf mould, for it was deep autumn now, and there had been rain.  I turned to see Griselda trotting towards me, in hacking jacket, boots, and jodhpurs, her magnificent bosoms jerking up and down like two pile drivers.

“Hello,” I called.  I hadn’t seen her for weeks, and then only to nod and wave to in passing, and I stepped to one side assuming that she would ride past me.  Instead, she reined up, jumped down and smiled at me dazzlingly while she walked round to the horse’s head and pulled down the bridle to lead it.  At least, her teeth dazzled in the golden autumn light.

“Hello, Griselda,” I said again.  “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I know,” she pouted.  “I’m beginning to wonder if you care for me at all.”

“Why?”

“I never see you.”

“Well, I never see you.  You told me you’d leave me alone until . . . until . . . .”  I thought of Flavius and changed my tack.  “You’re in charge, Griselda.”

“Yes, but you could have made an effort.”

I was bemused.  “What sort of effort?”

She kicked glumly at a stone.  “So many times I’ve looked from my bedroom at night, hoping to see you standing below, flushed and rigid with bottle-up lust, looking hopefully up at my window.  But you never are.”

“But you said we must appear to be just friends,” I reasoned.

“Well . . . perhaps.  But I still hoped you might show some interest.”

“But what about all the gossip you were so frightened of.”

“Not frightened!” she furiously kicked up a cloud of dead leaves.  “It would simply have been demeaning.”

“And you said it would make disposing of Flavius more difficult,” I reminded her, realising that standing erect under Griselda’s window might be a way of prolonging the inconvenient man’s life.

But she beamed at me.  “Oh, my poor darling!  Was that the only reason?”

“Well.  Erm . . . .”

She threw the bridle over the horse’s neck and lunged at me with both hands, her lips working feverishly over my face, her strong arms crushing me as she forced me back against a tree.  Her hand snaked down between us to my crotch and she caressed my prick through my trousers, and it inevitably stiffened in response.  “Oh my darling!  You mean you’ve been restraining yourself in the hope that we can be together sooner?”

“Well—”

She groaned and gnawed at my throat.  “Be brave just a little while longer, my stallion.  Just a little while.  Promise?”  And she applied her ravenous lips once more.

“I promise,” I gasped as I struggled for air, promising myself that from now on I would make regular visits by night to Nether Towers and loiter under her window, in the hope of warding off Flavius’s murder.  “I’ll try, Griselda.  But it’s so hard.  I . . . I don’t know if I can keep away for much longer.”

“Ooooh!”  She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me again, as though she believed all this play-acting was real and not a bizarre pantomime.  “Let me take your arm at least.  No one can see us, and after all, we are sort of engaged, aren’t we!”

I jerked as though struck by lightning.  “Engaged?”

“Well, yes.”

Dear God!  “But how can we be?  What about Flavius?”

She stamped her foot.  “Don’t keep on dragging him up, darling!  Let’s forget about him while we’re together.”

She slipped her arm through mine and we walked together like two old and close friends.  Bizarre!

“Perhaps we can see each other more often,” she suggested thoughtfully after we’d walked fifty yards or so in silence.  “Perhaps you were right when you said we could meet discreetly.  But we’d have to be very discreet indeed.”  She glanced up at the red and brown leaves arching overhead, and hugged my arm tightly.  “It’s a pity winter’s coming on.  I was silly.  We could have met in the woods while the weather was still warm.  We could have ripped each other’s clothes off and made naked, savage love in the bracken for hours and hours and hours and hours on end.  Perhaps we still could.”

“In the winter?”

She tugged at my arm.  “Don’t be a bore, darling.  It might be a bit chilly to start with.  But we’ll soon warm up if we’re shagging really hard,” she added brightly.  “Won’t we?”

“I still think it might be a bit—”

She stamped her foot and her eyes flashed.  “I said, won’t we!”

“Yes, Griselda.”

“Darling!”

“I meant darling.”

“Of course you did.”  She pecked my ear and hugged my arm tighter.  “And I doubt anyone will notice us.  Part of my estate is off limits, and I’m out with Phallus in the woods most days and—”

“Who or what is Phallus?” I laughed.  Her nonsense was unfathomable.

She blinked. “My dear horsey, of course.”  She slipped her arm out of mine and turned to the large chestnut stallion who was walking obediently behind us.  She stroked his nose and planted three kisses on the end of it.  I’ll swear the horse looked uneasy.  “I have lots of other horsies, of course, but Phallus is my favourite — though you mustn’t believe the revolting stories they tell in that low, disgusting public house.”

“The Seven Stripes?”

She sniffed.  “I don’t care to know what the ghastly place is called.  Anyway, there’s no truth in them.”

“Of course not,” I assured her, though in truth I wouldn’t have put anything past her.

“I use Bronco for that.”

My eyes must have popped, and Phallus rolled his as if to say, I told you so.  “You mean you . . .  you . . . with a horse?”

“Bronco’s my rocking horse, silly.”  She giggled, slipping her arm back through mine and clinging on as though it were a parachute.  “He’s my surrogate you.   He’s on four powerful springs and there’s a large knobbly dildo bolted upright to his saddle.  So when I’m feeling frussed — as I am most of the time — I go up to my bedroom, strip naked, leap on Bronco, and work him up to a really vigorous canter.  For hours and hours and hours sometimes.  It’s satisfaction of a sort.  The only satisfaction I’ve been able to get with Flavius still around.  But when we’re together, I promise I won’t use him any more — Bronco, that is.  I’ll jump on you instead . . . for hours and hours and hours and hours.”

“In thick custard?”

“Mmmmm!”

We walked on together in a strangely companionable silence.  She hugged my arm and stroked it, just like a normal woman would.  The last of the leaves were falling and the trees clawed at a grey sky with gaunt, black fingers.  The year was almost dead, and that reminded me again of Flavius.

“Look, Griselda, I—”

“Oooh!” She pouted at me so sorrowfully that her two front teeth disappeared behind her lower lip.  “Can’t you at least remember to call me darling when we’re like this?  After all, we’re alone, and we are in love.”

The machinations of a woman’s mind can often be bewildering, but how could she possibly think that we were in love?

“Look, Gris . . . darling, we hardly know each other and—”

“But we went through all that, didn’t we?  If we can’t be in love with each other, then who else can we be in love with?  Not with any of the peasants, surely?”  She sniffed.  “Unless, of course, you think you’re in love with that trollop from the public house.”

“Ruth?”

Her lips twitched.  “Ruth is it?  I don’t bother with names where low-lifes are concerned.  I saw you one evening staggering out of the public house with her, blind drunk, and heading in the direction of your house.  No need to ask whether you ended up in bed with her.  And Thwacks has seen you on other occasions—”

I was angry now.  “You’re having me watched?”

“Just keeping an eye on you, my dear, for your protection, and because I love you.  You know that”

“All I know is that Ruth isn’t a trollop!”  I said harshly, for I didn’t like hearing her called that.

“In other words, you are in love with her!”  Griselda sniffed again, like a wronged wife.  Her eyes latched balefully onto mine and a tear meandered slowly down one cheek.

I sighed.  I couldn’t afford to upset her.  “Look, I’m not in love with her, but all the same—”

“But!  Oh, of course.  But!”  Griselda’s riding crop twitched alarmingly.  “I suppose you call her, darling often enough!”

“I don’t, actually.”

“Don’t lie, Owen,” she said bitterly, with a very unladylike sniff.  “Of course you do!  I bet you say all sorts of things you never say to me . . . when you’re in bed with her!”

“Maybe because I never am in bed with you,” I countered disingenuously.  “I did offer to take you upstairs at the outset, you know.”

“That’s unfair.  You know why I couldn’t.”

“Because you’re a married woman.”

“Heavens, Owen!  Must you keep throwing that excuse for a man in my face?”

“I’m not.  But he’s your husband.”

“But he’s not a husband.  That’s the point.  He’s ten limp inches of useless gristle — that’s not a husband.”

“Even so.”

“Look let’s not have a tiff over him, darling.”  She rubbed my arm vigorously.  “Although I don’t mind us tiffing, because it proves we’re in love.  But not over him.  He’s not worth it, and anyway,” — her eyes narrowed — “he won’t be around much longer.  Then we’ll get rid of the trollop too.  Understood?”

“Dear God!  You’re not planning to murder her too?”

“Murder?” she blanked.  “Whoever said anything about murder?”

“Well, how else are you going to get rid of Flavius, as you put it?  And Thwacks?”

She blinked at me, utterly bewildered.  “Don’t be silly, darling!  You can’t go round murdering people!  Even dregs and peasants — more’s the pity.  No,” she smiled darkly.  “There’s more than one way of skinning a cat, my dear.  We’ll do to him what we always do to those who threaten our way of life, but in Flavius’ case I must find an excuse.”

So I’d been wrong.  My relief was overwhelming, but a mystery remained.  ” So what do you do to people who threaten your way of life?”

“Our way of life.”

“Oh very well!  Our way of life, then.  What do you do with them?”"

“Oh, darling,” she sighed, hugging my arm and laying her head on my shoulder like a wearied and exasperated wife.  “Can’t we talk about something else?”

I couldn’t budge her.  Try as I might, I couldn’t persuade her to tell me what happened to the people who threatened the Nether Slype way of life.  I was relieved, of course.  At least she wasn’t planning to murder anyone, so the threat of prison withdrew, or so I thought.  For it never occurred to me that what did happen to them might be as bad, or even worse, than murder.

We turned off the bridle path and into my lane.  When we emerged from the seclusion of the trees, she dropped my arm for discretion’s sake and walked beside me, leading the horse.  “Tell you what,” she suggested brightly.  “Why don’t you show me your house?”

“But what if you’re seen coming and going?  The neighbours?”

“It’ll only take five minutes.  Besides, your girl will be there.”

“Well . . . yes.  But I warn you, it’s a mess.”

Griselda blanked again, as though she’d just heard me fart in church.  “A mess?  What on earth do you mean, a mess?”

“It just is,” I grinned, and if I’d had my wits about me, I’d have known better.

Griselda marched round my drawing room in disbelief.  “A mess?  This place is a pigsty!”

I looked around.  It didn’t seem so bad to me, but I’m not the tidiest of men.  My workroom usually is a mess, but I hadn’t yet got round to organising a proper one, so at present I was working in the drawing room.

“This is what comes of consorting with trollops,” snapped Griselda, her riding crop twitching ominously.

“It’s got nothing to do with anyone or anything.”  I shrugged.  “I imagine I’ll get round to sorting out a proper workroom come winter.”

“You do it?  You?  A Flaythm?  Do menial work like sorting out rooms?  For heaven’s sake, darling, it’s the girl’s job, not yours.”

“Ginny?  She’s a great help.  She does my washing and ironing and cooks my dinner.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what!”  Griselda cast me a withering and exasperated glare, and making cuts through the air with the riding crop. “You’re clearly not working her hard enough!  Where is she?”

“I the kitchen I think, but—”

“Right!”

“No!  Wait!  Hang on, Griselda!  No!”

I fled after her, remonstrating all the way, as she stamped out of the room, down the passage, and flung the kitchen door open.  Ginny was sitting at the table reading a magazine while she waited for the washing machine to finish.  She glanced up.  Her eyes widened in sudden terror, she leapt to her feet startled, and backed away towards the dresser as Griselda bore down on her, riding crop swishing.

Ginny swallowed and dropped a hurried curtsey.  “Good morning, Lady Shackles.”

“Never mind about that, girl!”  Griselda glared at her, flexing the riding crop before her fearful eyes. “You’ve been slacking.”

Ginny’s lips trembled.  “No, my lady, I—”

“You dare answer me back, girl?”

“No, my lady, I—”

“Insolence!”

Griselda lunged at Ginny like a fury, seized her by the hair a positively flung her across the broad oak kitchen table, just as Old Horace had done in The Seven Stripes.  With a flick of the crop, Ginny’s skirt flew up over her head.  Griselda put her riding in her mouth and ripped down her knickers revealing two plump pink buttocks that wobbled like Rowntree strawberry jellies.

“Please, my lady—”

“Silence!”

“Griselda!” I shouted

“Quiet, Owen!  This girl needs disciplining.”

Griselda took the crop in her hand again and enthusiastically launched into a long sequence of vicious cuts, while Ginny thrashed about on the table, screaming.  I shut my eyes.  Why was I so impotent?  The screaming became shriller and shriller.  Ginny’s fiercely thrashing legs drummed against the table as Griselda delivered stroke after stroke after stroke with gusto and military precision, much as I imagine, Admiral Shackles had.  When at last she stopped, I could hear only sobs.  Griselda walked slowly and triumphantly round the table surveying her handiwork, slapping her own thighs with the crop.  “That’s just a taste, girl, of what you’ll get if I come again and find this place looking like a pigsty.   Understood?”

I opened my coward’s eyes.  Ginny lay on the table writhing and gasping like a fish that had just been pulled from a river, her hands twitching as they clutched at her cruelly lacerated bottom.

“Speak up, girl!  Or I’ll give you another twelve!”

“Y-yes . . . my lady,” sobbed Ginny painfully.

“And stop that irritating noise!”

Ginny sniffed.  “Yes, my lady.”

Griselda then turned to me and eyed me sternly.  “And I’m disappointed in you too, Owen.  You’re obviously not using your whip on the girl.  A fine lapse for a descendant of the man who held Admiral Shackles’ coat.”

“Perhaps I should have held yours,” I said bitterly.

Griselda’s eyes blazed.  “Don’t be flippant!”

“Aren’t you being?  At least Rickett Flaythm was my ancestor.  You talk about the admiral as though he were yours, but actually he was your husband’s?”

“My husbands?” she screamed furiously.  “My wretched — my . . . .”

She stared at me blankly for a few seconds, then, to my surprise, she dissolved into laughter.  She was still laughing when we returned to the drawing room.  She lifted a pile of books unceremoniously out of the sofa, dropped them on the floor with a thump, and then plunged her ample bottom into the vacated space, still shaking.

“I’m the Shackles, Owen dear,” she said when she’d recovered herself.  “My father died when I was twenty-five leaving me as his sole heir, and I immediately realised that I needed a husband — well, I wanted one . . . rather badly in fact . . . for reasons we’ve already discussed.  None of the local men were acceptable on grounds of class, so I put a small ad in one of the more exclusive hunting magazine: wanted for marriage, one blue-blooded eighteen inch penis—”

“Eighteen inches?” I snorted.  “There’s no such thing.”

“So they tell me.  But I worked on the premise that men exaggerate such things.  Anyway, Flavius arrived.  He wasn’t very bright but I didn’t want him for his brains.  So I sent him along to Dr Specter in the village for an examination.  Specter was amazed; he’d never seen anything so long — ten inches flaccid.  Of course, I should have locked Flavius in a room with a cheap tart — like yours from the public house — and made sure he could do the required job.  But I didn’t.  More fool me!  Ten inches flaccid it was, and ten inches flaccid it remained.  What with that and his complete lack of brains, conversation, or any desirable attribute at all — he can’t even ride a horse, for heaven’s sake! — I lost patience with him within a month.  I tried sending him back to his family but they didn’t want him either and they sent him straight back with a curt note telling me he was no longer their concern.  I didn’t blame them either, but all the same, what was I to do with him?  So I decided there was nothing else for it.  I chained him in the dungeon and there he’s remained ever since.”

“So he was already mad when you married him?”

“No darling.  Well, possibly he was.  I don’t know — I didn’t notice.  He was so dull and gormless that you really couldn’t tell one way or the other.  You see, he’s not chained in the dungeon because he’s mad.  He’s mad because he’s spent fourteen years chained in the dungeon.  At least, Thwacks reckons he’s gone mad because of it.  I can’t say I’ve noticed any change myself, but I really can’t be bothered to go down and check, so I take Thwacks’ word for it.”

“But his shouting,” I reasoned.  “He sounds like a slavering sex fiend.”

“Typical man, darling.  All talk and no action, so let’s not waste more time talking about him.  He’s history, or soon will be.”

“So, if you’re not going to murder him, exactly what are you going to do with him?”

She rolled her eyes.  “For pity’s sake, darling, do try to vary your conversation, or I might suspect you’re Flavius’s brother and pop you in the adjacent dungeon.  And I wouldn’t want to do that, at least, not before you’ve given me a good few really hard shaggings.”

While I digested this threat, she picked up the top book from the pile she’d dropped on the floor beside her and read the cover.  “Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook?  What on earth do you want that for?”

“I’m a writer,” I said negligently, and immediately bit my tongue.

She looked at me querulously.  “A writer?  But you said you had a private income?”

“So I do,” I lied.  “I wouldn’t be able to afford to write if I didn’t.  It’s a hobby — well, more than that, a pleasurable occupation.”

A shadow of concern crossed her face.  She got up and started pacing round the room, glancing in a desultory way at the other piles of books and the manuscripts lying everywhere in disordered piles.  “I do hope you’re not writing about Nether Slype,” she said at last, and there was a note of regretful menace in her voice.  “We don’t take kindly to people trying to parade our little ways to the spineless puritan world beyond.”

“I wouldn’t call it puritan,” I scoffed.

“No, but it likes to think it is.  And it’s incredibly nosey.  It likes telling other people what they can and can’t do.  It endlessly questions their morals but not its own.”  She turned towards me and her eyes were creased with worry.  “So watch yourself, darling.  You wouldn’t want to be sent away would you!  And I for one wouldn’t want to see you go.  Truly I wouldn’t.”

On the face of it, she was threatening me with eviction from my house, and as all the properties in the villages were hers, I would be forced to leave.  Yet there was a note in her voice as she spoke the words sent away that sent a small shiver down my spine.  And her obvious regret reinforced it.

“How sent away, Griselda?” I asked.

She turned away and ran her fingers along the bookshelf.  “Never mind,” she murmured.  “I’m sure it won’t be necessary.  You’re an intelligent man, and your life here could be pleasant, especially as my husband.  But being a Nether Slyper requires discretion.  Others have been indiscreet and they’ve been forced to leave.”

“But isn’t that even more dangerous.  Once they’re gone they can blow the whistle with impunity.”

She wrinkled her mouth.  The two prominent teeth vanished then appeared again.  “Not . . . necessarily.”

There it was again, the threat.  And as if that weren’t enough she added quietly, “Don’t ever force me to do something that we’d both regret, my darling.  Duty must come before love.  I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

Dear God.  She really did think she loved me.  Perhaps she did, in her screwy way. However, the other matter was uppermost in my mind.  I wondered whether to pursue it, but caution told me that I had nothing to gain by making her suspicious.  I realised that Nether Slype like all nefarious and illicit pleasures, came at a price, and I was increasingly nervous about what that price might be.  So Flavius and Thwacks were not going to be murdered but sent away, permanently, no doubt.

At least it made sense of a sort.  If people were sent away for transgressions, then her need to find an excuse for ‘disposing’ of Flavius made sense.  But how ere they set away and where?  Where could they go where there was no threat of their blowing the whistle?  Some place of incarceration no doubt, but what could it be?

She was eying me narrowly.  “I don’t want to make threats, darling, really I don’t,” she said soberly.  “You must believe that.  But you must also understand that paradise comes at a price.”

I realised that there was no pointing in trying to question her further.  Instead, I needed to convince her that I was no threat.  Indeed, I had absolutely no intention of becoming one.  Keeping Nether Slype secret and secure was as important to me as it obviously was to her.

“Look,” I assured her.  “I’ve absolutely no intention of writing about Nether Slype.  As you can see from my books, I’m a mediaeval historian, or rather, I write novels about mediaeval times — thrillers and whodunits mostly.  So there’s nothing for you and the village to worry about.  I’ve been working in here, you see, and my workroom’s always a mess when I’m right in the middle of a project.  I’m going to organise an office upstairs, but the present project overtook me.  That’s why I told Ginny not to clean in here.  I didn’t want anything disturbed,” I added pointedly.  “She didn’t deserve the thrashing you gave her, Griselda.”

“Oh, don’t make a fuss about nothing, darling.”  She brushed my objection away with an airy flick of her hand.  “It’s what the peasants are there for.  If you want a peasant girl to work properly, you must keep her whipped, on principle.  I always do.”

“So I notice, but I don’t possess a whip, and I’m not—”

“Owen darling!”  Griselda blinked, her eyes lit up, she skipped across the room to me, suddenly girlish, threw her arms round my neck and planting a big wet kiss on my lips.  “We’re having our second  tiff.”  She kissed me again.  “Isn’t it exciting!  So we really must be I love, mustn’t we!  Tell you what.  I’ll make it up to you.  As soon as I get home, I’ll send someone down with one.  How about that?”

“With what?”

“A whip, of course,” she said gleefully.  “I’ll tie a big red ribbon round it and a card: With all my love, Griselda.  Then you’ll think of me when you’re thrashing the girl with it,” she added, eagerly.  “Or better still, I’ll send you an assortment.  That’ll be romantic, won’t it?”  She kissed me on the nose, just like she’d kissed Phallus, and I felt as bemused as the horse had looked, like a dog being given a chocolate drop.  “Anyway, must dash.   Phallus has been tethered out there for a while and people will talk if he’s there much longer.  See me to the door, darling!”

I dutifully walked her out into the hall, but as I put my hand to the door to open it, she seized me and gnawed at my face again for a moment.  “It won’t always be like this darling.   Soon we’ll be together, naked in our bed, strenuously shagging as only desperate lovers can — for hours and hours and hours and hours on end.”

She kissed me again, softly and passionately, and gave me a last caress.  Then she was off down the drive.  I watched her climb on her horse.  She waved.  “Toodle pip!”  And she was off.   Her kisses and caresses were becoming more tender, and I realised that the dotty and dangerous woman wasn’t playing a game at all; she really was falling in love with me, or thought she was, which was just as alarming.  Worse, she seemed convinced that I was in love with her.

Poor Flavius.

1. Celia

Next day, just after breakfast, I was at work on my new novel when the doorbell rang.  Ginny was out shopping, so I opened it myself to an attractive dark-haired girl of about twenty holding a large brown-paper parcel.  She was wearing the grey dress and apron of a maid from Nether Towers.

“With her ladyship’s compliments, sir,” he said breathlessly, and bobbed.

I took the parcel.  Through the paper, I could feel that it contained several long, flexible objects.  “Er . . . thank you.”

I made to close the door but the maid slipped deftly past me into the hall.  I looked at her perplexed and she bobbed again.  “I’m Heather, sir,” she said, still breathlessly.  “Her ladyship said you were to use me as you wished. Rigorously and repeatedly, sir.”

“Rigorously?  Repeatedly?  How?”

“Any way to like, sir.  Any time of the day . . . or night.”  She gave me the coyest of blushes.  “If you see what I mean, sir?”

How could I not see?  But I’d been with Ruth overnight and I was full of my new book.  I simply wasn’t in the mood for sex games.  And it seemed odd that Griselda should profess love for me and then send such a girl.  Perhaps she was testing me.

“Look,” I said as coldly as I could.  “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and wait for Ginny to return?  She’ll tell you what needs doing.”

“Don’t you want to inspect my credentials first, sir?” said the girl, smoothing her dress and apron provocatively over her ample bust, her coy smile now edged with wantonness.  She began to unbutton the bodice of her dress.  “I think you’ll find them more than satisfactory, sir.”

I’ve never been susceptible to the brazen approach, and never less than at that moment.  “Not now,” I said, even more coldly.  “I’m busy.  Go and see what Ginny wants you to do.”

Her eyes flared at the put down.  I thought for a moment that she was going to slap my face.  But the struggle was only brief.  Her eyes fell to the floor and she bobbed again.  “Very good, sir.”

Back in my workroom I opened the parcel.  The only surprise was the variety of whips Griselda had sent me, ranging from straps and tawses with ornately sculpted handles, several plaited jobs of varying lengths and weights, and a particularly vicious one with three knotted tails — a sort of cadet version of the Shackles Patent Flogger.  I took them into my drawing room come workroom.  As I dropped them on the coffee table, something fluttered out.  I bent to pick it up and found that it was a card written with black ink in a schooled masculine-looking hand.

Enjoy, my darling,  and think of me.  With desperate love, Griselda.

With desperate love!  She could produce a nice turn of phrase.  I couldn’t help smiling at her screwy earnestness, and an evil thought entered my mind, that perhaps I’d baptize her gift on her own bare bottom.  She certainly needed a good spanking — with a bottom like hers clad in those tight jodhpurs, she was positively begging for one — and I assumed no one was giving her one.

Some while later, Ginny returned and came in with my tea.  She usually put it on my desk and left quietly, being sensible enough not to disturb me at my work, for which I was grateful.  She was an excellent girl for me: quiet, unobtrusive, and intelligent. But today she hovered at my elbow, waiting.  I had ignored her since Griselda’s tirade.  She had not deserved the punishment, which was anyway excessive, but I was embarrassed, feeling that I had lost control of a situation.  I, as the man of the house, should have been in control.

“Sorry about yesterday, Ginny,” I said softly, looking especially hard at my computer screen.

“That’s all right, sir.”

“No it’s not all right.  I should have been firmer with Lady Shackles.  I should have stood up to her.  I should have stopped her.  I’m sorry.”

There was a brief silence, then, “So will you still be wanting me any longer, sir?”

I looked up at her in surprise.  “What do you mean?”

She swallowed.  “Well, sir, I’m obviously not giving satisfaction, and her ladyship has sent a replacement, and—”

“Not a replacement, Ginny,” I assured her.  “I’m more than happy with you—”

“It’s just that the new one’s trained, sir.  Properly trained to work, trained to pleasure, trained to the whip—”

“Trained to it?”

Ginny seemed surprised.  “Why yes, sir.  She’s one of them as has been to Mrs Birch’s Academy for Naughty Wicked Girls in Long Wallop, and she passed out top of her class — or so she says.  Loves it, she does, sir.   And she’s already told me what a tight, juicy cunt she’s got, sir, and all the tricks she’s been taught to play with it.”

“She fancies herself.  That’s for sure,” I murmured.

“That’s as maybe, sir.  But as you’ve never seen fit to sample my cunt—”

I turned and looked at her in alarm.  “But you’ve got a boyfriend, Ginny,” I exclaimed.

“Perhaps, sir, but I’m not properly spoken for as yet.  And as my employer, you’re entitled to take your pleasure of me if you wish.  A girl expects to be tried out at least once, sir.  But you’ve never shown interest, so I’ve been thinking maybe you’re dissatisfied with me and—”

“I’m perfectly satisfied, Ginny,” I assured her.  “More than satisfied and very pleased with you.  Look, I can’t offend Lady Shackles by sending the other girl back right away.  So let’s make use of her.  Set her to work.  Get her scrubbing and cleaning.  She can sort out all those unused upstairs rooms.  Then you can send her down and clean out the cellar — thoroughly.  You’re in charge, Ginny.  If she gives you any lip — any lip at all — come to me and we’ll find out how trained to the whip she really is — both of us.”

I noticed an evil glint in Ginny’s eye.  For the first time ever, she bobbed.  “Yes, sir.”  To my surprise, she leaned over me and kissed me chastely on the cheek.  “Thank you, sir.  I’ll make the bitch work all right.”

I gave her a hug for that — nothing sexual, you understand; no groping; just a hug.  She was a nice girl and I liked her.  “Your job’s perfectly safe with me, Ginny.”

*****

I was in a good mood when I entered The Seven Stripes for a lunchtime pint, where I spent half an hour in amiable conversation with a couple of my neighbours.  But as I was leaving, a hand touched my arm and I turned to see Ruth.  She cocked her head meaningfully towards a discreet corner so I followed her into it.

“There was someone asking for you last night, Owen,” she said in an undertone, once she was sure no one could overhear us.

“Asking for me?  Asking whom?”

“Me thankfully.  It was a stranger.  A woman.  She marched in, looked around and made a beeline for me.  She was trying to find out your address.”

“What did she look like?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, for an awful premonition had struck me.

“Quite tall, thin as a rake, long blonde hair . . . oh, and she was smoking a cigarette with a gold filter end.”

I swallowed.  I knew who the woman was, Celia my literary agent.  I’d given her detailed instructions for contacting me, and they hadn’t included walking into The Seven Stripes, bold as brass, and asking for my address.

“Did you give it to her the address?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . .” Ruth looked around the bar to make sure that no one was prying, and then she pulled me further into the corner and lowered her voice.  “She asked first for a Peter Jenkins.”

That had been my name before I changed it to Owen Flaythm.  I swallowed.  “Go on.”

“Then she asked for a Rupert Butler.  I said I’d never heard of either of them.  So then, as if it was just a final, spur-of-the-moment thought, she asked if I’d heard of the name Flaythm.  She said she thought someone of that name had just moved in.”

“And you said?”

“I told her I’d heard of none of them.”

But Celia had dug up Colonel Flaythm for me, and she knew I’d moved here. She’d have put two and two together and strongly suspected that Ruth was lying.  Knowing Celia, that would set her devious mind working overtime.  Damn!  “Who else heard this?”

“No one.”

“You’re sure!”

“Yes.  She walked straight out again, got in her car, and I watched her drive round the green and back down the lane out of the village.”

Perhaps, but Celia wouldn’t take no as a permanent answer if her curiosity was aroused.  I knew I should have sacked her before I came to Nether Slype.  I should have sacked her before I announced my intention of living there.  I should have hired less of a go-getter to take her place, someone who could be trusted to protect my anonymity.  Fool!

Ruth was eyeing me with sharp now.  She clutched my arm and drew me towards her.  “What’s going on, Owen?”

“Going on?”

“Who’s Rupert Butler?”

“Oh, that’s easy.  I was a historical novelist — am a historical novelist.  Rupert Butler is the name I write under.”

Her eyes popped with surprise and she smiled.  “Oh!  They’ve got one of yours in the library.  I’ve read it.  It’s ever so good.”

“I know they have,” I grimaced.  It was the worst thing I’d ever written.  Nevertheless, I thanked Ruth for her compliment.  “I don’t advertise the fact,” I said, “but Lady Shackles knows about it.  She knows I’ll be discreet.”

“You’d better be.  And who’s Peter Jenkins?”

“Ah!  He’s . . . he’s . . . .  O bloody hell!”

She was looking at me earnestly now, and her eyes were bigger, darker, and more beautiful than they’d ever been.  She also looked scared — for my sake.  “Look, Owen, you can trust me,” she said softly, and I knew it to be the simple truth.  “I am your friend, you know.”

I gently squeezed her hand.  “Perhaps the only true friend I have here — and the only one I want to have.”

Half an hour later, we sat out on the green, on a remote but open seat where we could talk without risk of being overheard.  We must have looked a strange pair, sitting in the cold slanting rain, me in my thorn proof jacket and Ruth in her raincoat and hat.

“So, who is he?” Ruth asked again.  “Or perhaps I should say, who are you?”

I licked my lips.  “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I’ve slept with you quite a few times.  You’ve muttered one or two strange things in your sleep. Most men do that, of course, but there have been other times, when we’ve talked, and I’ve formed the impression you’re being very careful with your words, and thinking before you speak.  I think you’re a man with a secret, my dear.  A man with a history.”

“Who have you told of this?” I asked, perhaps a little shortly.

“No one!” she countered fiercely.  “I’m your friend, Owen . . . or should I say Peter?”

I blew a long breath.  Well, I thought.  I’m not surprised she’s worked it out.  If a man has two names, why not three?  “Best stick to Owen for all our sakes,” I confessed.

I told her my story then, about discovering Nether Slype and loving the place, the apparent impossibility of living here.  The subterfuge.  It was good to tell someone, though I worried that I might be compromising Ruth and that was last thing I wanted to do.

“So you’re not spying on us?”

“No!  Good heavens no.  I’ve told you the absolute truth, all of it.  I just came because I loved the place — a precious surviving piece of the old England I write about, and I had no idea at all of your local peculiarities before I moved in.”

She savoured that for a moment. “Of course, to us, they’re not peculiar.  It’s the outside that’s strange.”

She wasn’t far wrong either.  “In some ways I suppose it’s better out there in the big bad world,” I said.  “Women have more legal protection and higher status, though I’m sure that’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  It’s a world of illusion, pretence, image, gloss, and little substance.  It can be a grubby, murky place — at least I think so — and in many ways, its far worse than anything you’ll find here.  I came here because I was searching for something cleaner.  And I still think I found it, despite your little foibles.”

She digested that.  “And the woman who came questioning?   Who’s she?”

“Celia, my literary agent.  She knew I was coming here, of course.  She had to.  But I told her to leave me alone, the nosey bitch.”

“So why hasn’t she?”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Could she be trouble?”

“Oh yes,” I sighed deeply.  “Most certainly.”

*****

And so it came to pass.

A few days later, an hour after sunset, there was another knock on my door.   The new girl, who appeared to assume she was a live-in, came into the workroom and bobbed.  “A lady to see you, sir.”

I thought it might be Ruth, or even Griselda, but my face fell when the workroom door opened again, and Celia was standing in the threshold.  She marched in with a triumphant smirk on her face that I knew spelt trouble.  Without thinking, I took her through to my workroom come sitting room and shut the door, forgetting what was still lying on the coffee table.

“You’re a hard man to find, Peter,” she said provocatively, helping herself to my sofa.  It sounded strange being called Peter after months as Owen.

“What do you want?” I asked bluntly, and pointlessly, for I’d already thought through all the likely reasons.

“That’s not a nice way to greet me, darling.”

“How did you find me?”

“I asked some drab in the pub.  I assumed you’d know all the local pub sluts.”

“Watch your tongue!”

Celia giggled.  “So you are shagging her!  Thought she looked your type.  Her knickers were positively round her ankles, and as for that bra she was wearing. . . .”

I fought to control my temper.  “Never mind that.  She told you nothing.  Did she!”

“No.  But I reckoned she’d come running to tell you I was looking.  She obviously did — which proves you’re shagging her.  So I came back tonight and played the poor lost little female.  I found some ghastly old man out in the street somewhere and wiped my fanny round him.  He looked as though he’d never seen a woman like me—”

“I imagine he hadn’t,” I snorted.

“Meow, darling!   I almost had to go down on my knees and suck his cock to get the address.  Almost, thank God.”

“So now you’re here, what do you want?”

By way of reply, she looked curiously at the paper parcel in the coffee table before her and I regretted more than ever not keeping my workroom tidy.  She’d always been a nosey cow, so she lifted the edge and looked inside.  Her fiercely pencilled eyebrows rose.

“Kinky!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I lied, fighting the obviously guilty temptation to snatch the parcel and move it out of her reach.  “They’re research items for my latest novel.”

“Hmmm.  Sounds a sight more interesting than your last.”  She picked up the card and smirked.  “Who’s Griselda?  You whip slut?  Sounds more like a dominatrix to me — high boots and riding crop.”  Celia, for all her irritating ways, had a habit of hitting the nail on the head.

I snatch the card out of her hand.  “This was attached to something else entirely,” I lied.  “You know how untidy I am.”

“Hmmm.  So she’s not the drab from the pub then?”

I gritted my teeth.  “No!  And my personal life is none of your damned business.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there,” she said triumphantly.  “And as for your kinky BDSM gear, it bears out my other discoveries.”

“Discoveries?”

“Whispers, darling and a few juicy little piccies.  Things that would have the women’s-rights commandos besieging this place with gelding knives.”

“Since when did you care about women’s rights?”

“Don’t be silly, darling.  I don’t give a toss about them.  But I’ll become a fully-paid-up sister if it’s to my advantage.”

That was typical of the bitch.  I knew she was telling the truth.  “And?”

She got up and walked round the room with that infuriatingly smug look on her face that I’d seen before when she knew she held all the cards.  So often, when she’s been acting in my interest, negotiating for me, it had been an infallible sign that we’d just won a nice, fat, remunerative point or were about to.  And Celia knew all about remuneration.  Cash and cheques were her sole interest in life.  Her avarice had done wonders for my bank balance, and hers of course.  Even so, I’d never liked it, or her.  And she wasn’t acting in my interest now, but her own, — and something cold trickled in the pit of my stomach.

“Nice place you have here.  Must be worth a bit.”

“What have you come for, Celia?  I didn’t invite you.”

“I was concerned for you, darling, and—”

“Cut the shoddy crap!  The only thing about me that’s ever concerned you is the commission I pay you and how you can extend it.”

“The commission I deduct, darling.”

“Don’t chop words!  Why are you here?”

She smiled smugly at me again, and the ice trickled once more.  Without asking permission, she produced her silver cigarette case, took out a cigarette, knocked it on the lid, and lit it.  “Got an ashtray, darling?”

I went into the kitchen and found a saucer.  When I returned, she was lying full length on the sofa, her expensively stockinged legs were crossed at the ankles, the cigarette hung of the corner of her mouth, and she was idly reading my latest manuscript — of pretending to.

“That’ll be ready in about three months,” I said, pulling it out of her hand.  “If you’re interested.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, knocking out ash into the saucer.  “Perhaps not.  I’m onto something far bigger than a measly commission.  I might cut you in, but only for a small share.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because you’re compromised, so you can’t bargain.  But as you might prove useful, so I’m throwing you a bone.”

She smiled a smile that says, I’ve got you by the nuts, and if you don’t jump when I say so, I’ll pop them into the mincer.

I knew I had to tough it out as best I could.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.  “How compromised?”

“The same way every other man in Nether Slype is compromised, darling.  They, of course, were born here.  But you . . . oh, well, you came looking for it.”  She stretched out and nudged the parcel of whips with her foot.  “You can’t very well claim ignorance.  Now can you?”  She let the point sink in, and then continued.  “I wondered why you were so keen on this piss-hole of a place.  I heard your tale about driving through here and falling in love with it . . . blah  — blah — blah.  But I was curious.  After all, there are so many quiet, dull little villages in England.  Why jump through such fantastic hoops to move to this one?”

“It happened to be the truth,” I said patiently.

“Yes, yes of course, darling.  And I foolishly believed for a very short while that the architecture, the oldie-worldie charm, and the woods had captivated you.”

“They had,” I protested.

“Quite.  But that wasn’t all, was it!”  She exhaled smoke extravagantly, as she so often did before delivering the deathblow.  “I never realised you were a bottom freak.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said too hurriedly, and the shrewd glance that slanted at me through the thin blue smoke told me that she knew I was lying.

She took a photograph out of her handbag, put it on the coffee table, and slid it across to me.  I looked at it and cringed.  The vicar was there with his colleagues from the adjacent villages.  They were sitting side-by-side in one of the vicarage gardens having tea.  Their wives were there too.  One was carrying a tray, painfully suspended from nipple clamps.  The second was bent over the table holding a cane between her clenched buttocks — clearly waiting for punishment.   The third was on her knees servicing the three vicars’ cocks, sucking the middle one and wanking the other two.  The three women were all naked.  Their bottoms were clearly visible, and all three bore multiple strap welts.

I cleared my throat and tried to affect an unimpressed shrug.  “Three kinky clergymen in a domestic setting.  What of it?”

“Yes, I thought you’d say something like that.  There are others, too, though this is the best so far.  I’ve been skulking up on the hill over the village with my telephoto lens.  Vicars and bottoms — hardly word news, though it’s still grist to the Sunday rags’ mill.”

“You despise the Sunday rags.”

“I used to, darling, but they’ve become prospective milsch cows, so I’ve become enthusiastic about their crusading moral zeal.  I mean, they will be absolutely appalled by this, won’t they!  And their dull-brained readers will be so horrified they’ll have to rush out and buy the story in instalments.  I think I feel an undisclosed six-figure payment coming on.”

“For one dodgy photo?  The Internet’s dripping with them.”

“Yes, but there’s more than that, to dig for,” she said with maddening certainty.   “When I came here, I thought only to enlist your help with my story, however—”

“Your story?” I sneered.  “Since when could you write a story?”

“But when I saw your kinky bondage whips I knew—”

“I haven’t used them, for God’s sake,” I insisted, and it was the literal truth.

She shrugged.  “Perhaps, perhaps not.  I don’t care one way of the other.  But I have other photos — not as good, nor as clear as the three kinky vicars, but enough to show that this place is a hotbed of sexual perversion.  And I really think that the outside world, with its high moral values, should know about it.”

Dear God, what a mess!  I thought of what it would do the people here.  I considered that not every man in the village was a vicious wife beater.  What would become of them, the poor sods?  They’d go through life hearing: so you lived in Nether Slype did you?  Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.  I thought of the lives ruined.  And what of the women?  How would they cope out there in the big bad world?  They’d be assumed easy meat by the sort of men who’d knock their teeth out, or worse, which the men in Nether Slype definitely didn’t do.  What sort of interests would home in on them, prowl round, and snap them up?  How many would end up on street corners, on drugs — which were nowhere to be found here?  How many might end up in brothels?  How many would turn to drink, which was not abused here.  How many would be able to deal with debt, which was endemic outside?  How many would be able to deal with the deep dishonesty of so many enterprises and advertisements?  They would believe what they were told and they would suffer for it.  For all its faults, Nether Slype was an honest and uncomplicated place, free of cynicism.  No.  They could never deal with the ‘freedoms’ and stresses of Celia’s bright, clean, tacky world.

Nether Slype had its flaws — no doubt of that — its illicit delights, and its injustices, but so did the outside world.  That was why the Sunday rags went hunting for dirt — to persuade their readers that the world they thrived in was not as grubby dishonest, cynical, nasty, dirty, pernicious, and downright dangerous, as I knew it to be.

“Don’t do it Celia,” I asked.

“Why ever not, darling?”

“Just don’t do it.”

“Well, I’m sure I’d be most happy to oblige you, but money’s money and one never quite has enough of it.”

“No matter how much damage you do?  How many lives you wreck?”

“Not my life; not my problem.”

And that attitude irritated me beyond endurance.  It was so typical of the times, one of the things I had run away from when I came to Nether Slype.  I have never been averse to money, cleanly and honestly made.  I’ve made a good deal of it myself, but only because people wanted to buy my books, none of which were written for the purpose of making an obscene or dishonest fortune.  In Nether Slype, those who prospered were those who worked, cleanly and honestly, and they did work too.  Despite their quirks, they were honest and industrious in the old-fashioned way.  There was no dirty money here — the sort of money Celia was after — the way money could made outside, where even as dead child had a market value — called compensation.  That struck me as the true obscenity, and whatever went on in Nether Slype was venial by comparison.

“It’s all right, darling,” said Celia, looking at me with big mocking eyes, knowing that I was helpless.  “Play ball and I’ll protect your blessed good name.”

“How?  Why?”

“Well, I might believe that you didn’t know everything that’s going on here when you arrived.”

“I didn’t.”

“Quite.  So tell me, what’s the really juicy stuff — gay orgies in the church at midnight?”

“Nothing like that?”

“What about kids?  I bet there’s plenty of child abuse.”

“For pity’s sake!  None at all.  Nothing like that.  It’s all straight, and kids are brought up a damned site cleaner here than most are outside.”

She pouted.  “A pity.  There’d certainly be money in that.  Child abuse is a real headline grabber.  Never mind, you can always drop some hints.  A few pregnant hints are much more marketable than one miserable fact.  All you have to do is drop the question:  If that’s what the parents get up to, what about the kids?  Nudge-nudge.  Wink-wink.  See what I mean?”

“What do you mean — all I’ll have to do?”

She furiously stubbed out her cigarette in the saucer and lit another.  “Didn’t I say?  That’s where you come in useful.  You write the piece.  You do the sleuthing.  You dig out all the lovely lucrative dirt — let’s say twenty-thousand words, broken down into handy two-thousand-word chunks for the Sunday rags.  After all, the morons who read them have no attention span.  I’ll market it.  I’ll make sure your name — whichever you’re masquerading under at present — is kept out of it.  Then we’ll split the haul — seventy-thirty.”

“And who gets the seventy?” I asked, my mind racing for a means of stalling her.

“Me, of course.  You’re hardly in a position to negotiate.”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“You’re not listening, darling.  I said—”

I rounded on her.  “Fifty-fifty or go to hell!  Think of it Celia.  You can go running to the papers with your feeble half-cock yarn, but if Rupert Butler then steps forward with the whole story, claiming to have been working on an under-cover expose which you tried to pre-empt, breaking your confidentiality contract, and offering the real juicy dirt, I’ll be the hero and you’ll crawl away looking pretty bloody fifth rate.  So it’s fifty-fifty, and no argument.”

She screwed out her second cigarette with fury and lit a third.  I was gratified to see that my bluff had rattled her.  Her hand shook slightly with stress of seeing all that easy money slipping through her viciously manicured fingers.  “No need to make threats, darling,” she simpered.

“Who’s making threats?  I’m just telling you where you stand, just as you were pathetically trying to tell me a while ago.  You’re a clerk, Celia.  You’re the sort of drudge creative people like me get to do their boring menial chores.  That’s what I pay you for.  You’re the vermin that crawls around talent licking up the dirty crumbs off the floor.  I’ll pay you fifty-percent to do all the newspaper legwork, fill in the forms, attend the tedious meetings, the bloody lot, and you’ll keep my name out of it.  But the copyright remains mine, as per our standing contract.  Break that contract in any shape or form and I’ll sue.  Then you and your tawdry fucking partners will be the pariahs of the book trade for the rest of your miserable lives.  Don’t forget, Celia, a compromised high-profile author can make enormous money, but a crooked agent is dead meat.  So you’ll do as your bloody well told!”

She looked really scared now, and I enjoyed that.  It had been a strong bluff before I realised it wasn’t a bluff at all.  She was my agent.  What she had threatened to do would constitute a breach of agent confidentiality.  Even if I couldn’t press it, she knew as well as I did that once the story was out, no self-respecting author would touch her.  Now it was time to close for today and think what to do next.

“So I’ll write your piece.  You’ll return for it in fourteen days, and you’ll return discreetly, like tonight.  Until then, sod off!”

She blinked.

“Are you deaf or brain damaged, you gutter slag?  I told you to fuck off!”

She fucked off all right, tail between her legs, and it gave me deep satisfaction to see her crawl away like that.  One thing was sure; when this was over, I’d drop the evil cow and use another agent for my future novels.  I’d also put the word around that she’d tried to strong-arm me.  That would properly finish her.

But deeper down, I was less elated.  The story was out.  Nothing could stop Celia whispering.  And whispers beget rumours, rumours beget scandals, and scandals can beget deep trouble.

“Shit!  Shit!  Shit!” I yelled at the top of my voice once I’d heard the front door slam.  I picked up a couple of books and hurled them across the room, and then kicked furniture in my anger and frustration.  “Shit!”

I heard my workroom door open again and turned to see the new girl, Heather, leaning in the doorway.  She was completely naked, her firm young breast thrust at me almost accusingly, and her eyes smouldered.

“You called for your piece of wanton pleasure shit, sir?”

She walked brazenly towards me, lithe and loose hipped, her triangle of pussy swaying and the fat nipples on her pert breasts nodding as though they were on elastic.  She was mesmerising, but I was angry and not in the mood for sex.

“Fuck off!”

She still approached, smiling.  “Heather would love you to fuck her, sir.”

“I said, fuck OFF!”

“Heather would love you to toss her off, sir.”

I rarely get uncontrollably angry, but this girl was tipping me over the edge.  “Don’t you understand English, girl?” I yelled at her.

She stood right before me, challenging me, her eyes dancing with delight.  Her hand slid to my fly and I stood, stunned as she slowly unzipped it.  Her finger slipped inside and she started to expertly stroke my cock.  All the while, her eyes smouldered into mine and the tip of her tongue slicked between her wet lips.

“Heather only understands the whip, master.”

Despite my stiffening cock, something in me snapped.  Slapping her twitching hand away, I seized her by the hair and flung her to the ground, where she lay squirming, and a slow, unfathomable smile suffused her face.

“That’s it, master,” she murmured with ill-suppressed excitement…  “Use your whip!  Enjoy yourself!”

In blind fury, I reached for Griselda’s parcel and grabbed the first whip that came to hand.  I’d show the bitch what a real whipping felt like — not the feeble crap they obviously dished out at Mrs Birch’s Academy for Naughty Wicked Girls but the real thing.  I seized the big whip with the three knotted tails, but I didn’t care.  Standing astride Heather’s naked body I started lashing her with all my strength.  She writhed and thrashed under a dozen merciless strokes — three tails each, but every time she twisted, she glanced up at me and her face was alight with pleasure.

“That’s it, master!  Pleasure yourself!”

Still I slashed at her, her shoulders, her back, her buttocks, her thighs; all quivered under my merciless tirade, slender red wheels and cuts criss-crossing them.  She juddered; I still plied the whip with all my strength.  Still she smiled, turning herself onto her back and offering me her breasts and stomach.  Her legs were open, her back arched; she was thrusting her pussy towards me for punishment, still smiling.

“Don’t forget to whip my cunt, master.”

On an on I lashed in a frenzy I’d never experienced before.  I didn’t care how much I hurt her, I needed to hurt her.  I lashed everything she offered me while she writhed, smiling still, her face flushed with some indescribable ecstasy that drove me ever onwards.

She rolled back onto her stomach, rose to her hands and knees, and started to crawl, but not towards the door.  I felt her hands sliding softly and slowly up my legs.  Still she smiled up at me, her mouth open, panting in her wild pleasure.  I lashed all the harder now; the leather tails slapped sliced into her soft flesh with pistol-shot retorts.

Still the hands slid slowly upwards, up my thighs, towards my cock.  She rose to her knees, seemingly oblivious of the new vertical stripes the whip was cutting into her back and bottom.  Her hands reached my open flies; her fingers slid inside, and with well-practised deftness, found my rigid cock and pulled it out.

“You’re so angry, master,” she breathed.

And then she was sucking, powerfully, frantically.  I felt her throat moving round my knob, her tongue wriggling like a snake all round my rigid shaft, her firm lips circling it moving succulently back and forth.

“Shit!”

I was blazingly angry now.  I flung down my whip, pulled her off by my cock the hair, grasped her wrists, and hauled her to her feet.  Then I slammed her across the desk, pinning her down by the shoulders.  Still she didn’t stop teasing me.  Her hand reached down stroking my swollen cock, her legs wrapped themselves round me, she slid her whipped crotch towards me and her cunt enveloped my manhood like molten lava.  Her vaginal muscles tightened round it, and she flexed her cunt this way and that, toying with my swollen cock.

“Enjoy yourself, master,” she purred.  Her legs wrapped round me more tightly, pushing her tight, juicy hole right over me, down to my balls.

I was thrusting now, uncontrollably, thrusting deep inside her despite my anger, jerking her body rhythmically across the desk with each gigantic heave.  Thrust, thrust, thrust, thrust.

Then my anger was gone, I was shooting my load right up her, long and thick.  The release was heavenly.  I flopped across her, and as my gasping breath eased, I relaxed, and my conscience kicked back in…

“God, I’m, sorry,” I groaned, knowing that it was weak and inadequate.  “Why did you provoke me, you stupid girl?  I was so bloody angry.”

She smiled up at me and her voice was gentle, controlled, and warm.  She kissed me on the nose and then softly on the lips.

“Not to worry, master.  That’s what Heather’s here for.  Lady Shackles thought you might need a release, so she sent me to you.”

1. Confession

But relief and respite of the type Heather gave me is brief.  I awoke next morning to find her curled round me.  Her perfume was heavy and it started to arouse me, but as I ran my hands over her body, I felt the raised welts, and remembered.  Not only did my shame return, but also the reason for my fearful tirade.  Celia.  Now that the anger had gone, and only the fear of what she might do remained, none of Heather’s wiles and arts could distract me from it.  So I gruffly sent her downstairs to make my breakfast while I wondered what I could do.

I could simply turn and run with my tail between my legs — return to the world of monotonous grey, relentless health warnings, free credit checks, shoddy ethics, and increasingly perverse human rights.  Alternatively, I could fall in with Celia’s shabby little scheme — but I wasn’t prepared to give her that satisfaction.  I don’t think it was courage that decided me to remain and tough it out, nor stubbornness — though I’m a stubborn sod when I’m crossed.    Neither could I entirely persuade myself that I meant to do it for the sake of the villages.  If I’m honest, I did it for myself.  I liked living in Nether Slype, and I was damned if some dirty little moneygrubber was going to spoil it for me.

Therefore, I fled to the one person whom I could trust and who already knew the truth.

“So early in the morning?” quipped Ruth with a grin as she opened her cottage door.

“I’m not after that, Ruth.”

Her smile vanished.  Her perceptive eyes read the trouble in my face.  “Celia?”

“Celia.”

“You’d better come in.”

While she made me coffee, I told her all about my confrontation with Celia.

“Sounds as though you managed to get rid of her, though,” she said as she placed my steaming mug before me on the scrubbed kitchen table.

“But not for long, Ruth.  I made a lot of threats, and they have some substance to them.  As my agent, she’s contractually bound not to compromise my interests.  I could make a lot of trouble for her if she did.  I could sue her for very substantial damages, and she’d never work again in the book trade.  But she’d a devious and resourceful bitch, and she has friends of the same type.  Next thing you know, some grubby reporter will be skulking around after dark taking pictures through windows.  Celia will find an indirect way of making her point and her dirty money, and I won’t be able to stop her.”

“And you say she’s coming back in a fortnight?”

“So she says.  I’ve promised her a story.  I’m pretty sure she’ll be back for it, though I’ll fancy she’s come a day or two late, to rattle me, then try to start horse trading again.”

“But I thought you’d reached an agreement.”

I laughed.  “Celia’s agreements are like European Union referenda.  She keeps revisiting and revising them until she get’s the result she wants.  Once that happens the subject is closed for ever.  Still,” I added more soberly.  “On this occasion I can’t criticise because the sole purpose of my bargain was to stall her.  I’ve no intention of keeping to it either.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stop her, by fair means or foul.”

“How?”

“That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“Owen, we’re not all stupid,” said Ruth a little later, as we walked along the rain-sodden bridle path towards The Seven Stripes.  All the leaves were gone now, it would be Christmas soon, and I wondered what Nether Slype would be like in the snow come January and February.  “The villages cannot stay as they are forever.  Some are already saying that we must moderate, before there’s a terrible commotion and drastic change is forced on us.”

I snorted.  She didn’t know the half of it.  “Along with prosecutions, mass counselling, mental health workers crawling over you like lice, single-issue storm troopers manning every street corner, and God knows what else?  If Celia can’t be stopped, you’ll have all that and plenty more besides coming down on you from a great height before the year’s out.  Then the moneymen will take over and turn the three villages into a theme park.  A rural counterpart of the London Dungeon where we’ll all be portrayed in wax effigy, wielding thumbscrews, branding irons, and whips.  Even before that happens, we’ll be on the front pages of every newspaper in the land for months.  There will be books, television documentaries, even a shoddy drama or two, assuming Hollywood doesn’t buy up the right first.

“The villages will be overrun with sightseers and sex tourists.  Every third-rate politician and has-been celebrity will have to be photographed in front of The Seven Stripes looking suitably aghast.  All the children will be taken into care, and the adults who escape prison will find themselves performing seals in a tawdry zoo.  We’ll all be caricatured on mugs, tee shirts, mouse mats, ball pens and Christ knows what other trash.  You’ve no idea what a dirty, squalid, money-grubbing thing the public outrage is out there beyond the three villages.   And if you dig down through all the ordure, you’ll find Celia at the bottom of it.”

Ruth’s eyes were bright with horror.  She was an intelligent woman and she clearly had some idea of what the world was like outside the three villages, but even she hadn’t grasped the full grotesque hypocrisy of modern moral Puritanism.   “Surely it won’t be quite as bad as that!”

“Worse, Ruth.  Much, much worse.”

“So,” she said after a pause.  “You’ll have to steel yourself, my dear.”

I swallowed; I wasn’t quite sure what she was suggesting, but it sounded bloody ominous.  She took my arm and stroked it gently while she spoke.

“I’ll give you all the help and support I can, though I don’t know how much use it will be.  But you have no option.  You’ll have to go to Griselda Shackles.  You’ll have to tell her everything.”

I was sweating now.  “And what will she do?”

“To you?  That depends if the rumours are right.  They say she’s in love with you.”

I snorted.  “I think she likes to play a game of being in love with me,” and yet I knew that that wasn’t true.  Somewhere within her fanciful and bizarre mind, I was sure Griselda really did think she loved me.  But she’d also told me that she would put duty first.

“I hope it’s more than that.”  Ruth squeezed my arm more tightly.  “Throw yourself on her mercy.  Tell her you’re on her side.”

“And Celia?”

“I’m sure Lady Shackles can handle her. There have been other occurrences, you see.  Not many, but I can remember a handful of disappearances.”

I too remembered.  I remembered Griselda using the term sent away.  Flavius was going to be sent away, and I distinctly recalled her saying, you wouldn’t want to be sent away would you!  And I wouldn’t want to see you go.  But sent away where?  I had asked her but, as usual, she had adroitly sidestepped the question, and that sent a trickle of fear down my spine.

“Were they all sent away, Ruth?” I asked.  “The other disappearances?  Were they sent away?”

She sighed.  “That’s the term I’ve heard used.  Whispered.  No one talks of it openly.”

“Is there fear here?  Are people here afraid of being sent away?”

She put her head on one side and cogitated awhile.  “I wouldn’t say afraid.  We’re aware that we have to behave ourselves.  But so does everyone  — outside too, I imagine.”

Oh yes.  Heaven help anyone outside who spoke or wrote a word that might be construed, however incorrectly as sexist, or racist.  They could be persecuted, their careers ruined, for the slightest breach.  But they weren’t sent away, though many might have preferred to be.

Ruth was right.  I knew that despite the retribution that might lie in store for me, I would have to go and confess everything to Griselda.  She had already made the threat.  The question was: would she carry it out?  It would be bad enough to leave this place, strange as it was, and return to the grey puritanical world, but I feared that being sent away meant something much worse.

“Do they ever come back, Ruth?”  I asked.  “The ones who’ve been sent away?”

Her large dark eyes found mine, and they melted.  “No.  Never.”

She hugged kissed me when she left me to go into The Seven Stripes.  She had asked me if I wanted to her come with me, to hold my hand, but that would compromise us both, so I refused point blank.  I wanted to keep her out of it if I could.  Her eyes melted over me again, as though I were a soldier going of to war, and we might be parting for the last time.  I had seen newsreels of such partings, and now I knew what they felt like — the soldier going to the front; the woman waving and smiling bravely while tears flooded down her face.  I turned and started to retrace my steps home with heavy heart, meaning to collect my thoughts and my words before making my way up to the hall.

*****

“Owen!”

I turned, and to my surprise, I saw Griselda on Phallus, following me down the bridle path.  Her smile was sunny and she slowed to a walk when she drew level.  Clearly, she hadn’t seen me with Ruth.

“Sorry, but I couldn’t shout out darling, in case someone heard,” she said in a stage whisper, leaning down towards me from the high saddle.  “But I shall soon, shan’t I?”

She hugged herself eagerly and giggled at the thought while I tried to raise a smile, and miserably failed.  Then her brows creased a moment and she jumped down.

“Anything the matter, darling?” she enquired, looking right and left before taking my arm.  “You look so glum.”

I stirred dead leaves with my toe.  “Well . . . .”

Her look of concern deepened.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t like my present!”

“I liked it very much,” I mumbled, trying to persuade myself that it was the thought that counted, and I had to admit to myself that I’d enjoyed whipping Heather, and shagging her afterwards, though Ruth was still more to my taste.  But my eyes were sliding over Griselda now, over her large heaving bust that was pushing open the neck of her hacking jacket, her finely developed horsewoman’s bottom, even the two teeth slightly overhanging her pouting lower lip.  I fancied her much more than I ever had before. I didn’t just want to whip her fine muscular bottom and make it wriggle.  I didn’t just want to shag her, take charge of her, and master her.  There was more to it than that.  For, eccentric as she undoubtedly was, I realised that compared with all the Celias of the world, and even the Heathers, she was a treasure.  I realised that however screwy she was, she was real, and genuine in her affections, she believed what she said, no matter how strangely she expressed it.

“And you won’t fall in love with the girl, will you!” she warned me archly.  “Because I’ll be very cross if you do.  She’s meant for your relaxation, nothing more.”

“What?  Heather?  No!  I’ve always preferred the more mature woman myself.”

“Really?”  She put her hand on her heart and gasped.  “You haven’t gone off me then?  I’d die if you went off me.  Really I would.”

“No, Griselda.  I haven’t gone off you,” I said, wondering why a woman so desperate to win my affection should send me another as a casual gift.  And how would her affection weather the tale I had to tell her.  Would love conquer all, or would she, like so many of the old school she was a relict of, put duty before all, as she had already indicated she would?  Now that I had reached my Rubicon, and I stood on the brink of perhaps losing everything, my freedom, perhaps even my life, my desire to get inside Griselda’s knickers overwhelmed me.

It occurred to me that one way out of my problem would be to master her, dominate her utterly, and dictate terms, as perhaps only I, her chosen lover, could.  Yet I knew there was no certainty of succeeding.  Hidden beneath that gushing, goofy surface was steel.  This was the woman who’d incarcerated her husband, for God’s sake.  This was the woman who had thrashed Ginny, the woman who sent people away.  I was still unclear as to precisely what that meant, but reason told me that it wasn’t pleasant.

“What then, darling?” she was asking, her eyes bright and watery with concern.  “Look.  I’m sorry I whipped your girl, but I was so cross.  Please forgive me.”  She glanced right and left again, and popped a wet kiss onto the tip of my nose.  “Please?”

It tickled and I almost laughed, despite myself.  After all, how could I criticise her for whipping Ginny?  Hadn’t I whipped Heather in the same fashion, because I too was angry?  That was where Nether Slype was different.  The people there weren’t monsters, or deviants.  They were just allowed to follow inclinations that so many outside shared, but were obliged to deny.

“Something’s the matter,” Griselda was saying, hugging me close.  “It doesn’t matter.  You can tell me.  I do love you, you know.  Really I do.”

How could she?  How could she truly love me?  And yet . . . .  “Can I come up to the hall later, and we’ll talk?” I asked hesitantly.

“Of course you can, darling.”  Something of her old coquettishness glimmered through the anxiety; she brushed my lapel with her hands.  “But you must promise to behave yourself and not take advantage of me.  Remember, we’re not married yet.”

Nor ever will be, I thought, unless you really do love me, and can forgive my grievous fault.  For the first time I prayed that she did love me.

*****

“Look, Griselda,” I said later, when we were ensconced on the sofa in her office, before a roaring fire.  This was the room where I had first met her, first masqueraded before her as Owen Flaythm, and a small voice told me — I don’t know why — that she had decided that we would talk here, rather than in her drawing room, for a reason.

I looked down at my hands and they trembled.  “I’m afraid I have a terrible confession to make, and a warning to give you.”

“Make your confession first, darling,” she said, sliding close and threading her hand through my arm.  “That way, I can forgive you first, and then you can warn me about whatever it is you want to warn me about.”  She smiled eagerly.  “So why don’t you make your confession?  After all, I already know what it is . . . Owen.  Or should I say, Peter?”

My mouth fell open and I stared at her like a loon.

“I knew you were an imposter from the outset,” she said still sitting close, with her hand threaded confidingly through my arm.  “The council didn’t.  They were just unsure, so they insisted that they keep an eye on you for a while.  That wasn’t my doing, but entirely theirs.  But I knew for sure that you weren’t Owen Flaythm, though I never said so, and I always trusted you.”

I looked at her and blinked.  Had she built a charade of love to counter my charade?  But why?

“How did you know?” I asked, dry mouthed.

“Oh, easy.  For a start, you looked nothing like any of your alleged Flaythm ancestors — we have whole corridors of portraits here — though you might have taken after your mother, of course.

“But you also answered the description of a man who enquired of Gripes, my land agent, if he might buy a cottage.  Gripes is a miserable cuss who knows how to keep the inquisitive away, but this man was uniquely insistent and asked for Lord Shackles’ address.  You might not remember, but when Gripes asked you if you had any family here, you replied with an emphatic No.”

I didn’t know where to put my face.  I couldn’t recall the estate agent asking the question, but I had no doubt that he had done so.

Griselda squeezed my hand.  “Then, low and behold, a few weeks later, up popped Owen Flaythm, either the man who’d made the earlier enquiry, or his double.”

I smiled sheepishly.  I had thought I was so clever, fooling her.

“Then, of course,” she added gently, “there was your mistake over Captain Rickett Flaythm.”  She giggled and popped a kiss on my burning neck.  “That was my little trick, I’m afraid.  You see, the admirable captain never held Admiral Shackles’ coat, but was in irons for opposing the admiral’s use of the patent flogger.  As captain of the ship, he was within his rights too.  At the subsequent court martial, he was exonerated, and the admiral was cashiered in disgrace.  It took fifty years for the bad feeling between the Shackles and the Flaythms to heal.  A Flaythm, who’d heard his family history from his grandfather, would have known that.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered weakly.

She merely snorted at the idea and jumped up.  She was a magnificently athletic woman, I noticed.

“Do you want to know what a Flaythm looks like?” she asked.

I was in a maze.  “What?”

She swept her arm round, indicating the rows of chinless ancestors all round the walls.

My mouth fell open.  “But they’re yours.”

“So they are, but they’d have been yours too.  You see, after the Rickett Flaythm incident the families fell out, so badly that they couldn’t meet without cutting each other dead.  And so it persisted until my great-great-great-grandfather Beowulf Shackles married Ernestina Flaythm in 1851.  So, you see, my darling, that it is I who has the Flaythm chin, the Flaythm nose, the Flaythm deep upper lip.”

“And could grow a magnificent moustache,” I murmured absently up at Admiral Shackles and his monstrous pile of steak tartare, hanging above me on the wainscot.  “What about him?  Do you really admire him so much?”

“Ah!”  She flung herself down next to me again and started stroking my inner thigh.  “You see, being a descendant of both Admiral Shackles and Captain Flaythm, I can take a disinterested stance.  I am not partisan, but I have to confess that I greatly respect the captain’s courage.  I admire courage above all things, Owen.”

“And the Admiralty’s spinelessness?”

She laughed.  “Your face was a picture when I extolled the virtues of the patent flogger.  I almost gave myself away. “

“But you’re not averse to whips, Griselda,” I countered carefully.

“Perhaps not, but I’ve never flogged anyone to death, nor would I.  But consider: If every captain had been as ruthless as Admiral Shackles had, there would have been no navy left within a very short while.  No one to work the ships, at least. “

“So why do you keep the picture by your desk, and that awful flogger?”

“To remind me of the price of excess.  Drastic measures are sometimes necessary and one should not baulk employing them when they are.  That’s a lesson so many outside have forgotten: pragmatism before all.”

I looked at her anew.  Even her horsiness and goofiness was part of the old England I had sought to recapture.  And with it came the old pragmatism.  They hanged and flogged in old England, but within the bounds of pragmatism.

“As if reading my thoughts, she added.  “We do what we must, my darling, but only what we must.”

“Including thrashing wives and whipping girls like Ginny and Heather?” I asked, for her justifications did not seem to entirely stack up.

“Nothing is without its price.  There are greater evils outside than here.  We have had no murder for two hundred years, no suicide for three hundred, no muggings or burglaries.  We have no loneliness or despair, no alcoholics or drug addicts, very few broken families, no homeless children, no unemployment, and our old people are well looked after within their families and the greater community family.  We have our quirks, our faults, and many outside would consider us dangerously odd.  We practise the old disciplines, perhaps to excess.  Life here is far from perfect, but it has great blessings too.  And if we gave up the quirks, and the occasional injustices, I fear we would lose the blessings with them.  That is my fear and my justification.”

We sat together in companionable silence for a couple of minutes.  She had stopped groping my thigh now, and we were holding hands.  I felt closer to her for that.

“Did I make any other mistakes?” I asked at last.

She shrugged.  “Not a mistake exactly, but once I knew you were Rupert Butler, I checked up on him and found that his real name was Peter Jenkins, published by Littlegood through his agents Merridew and Trollope.  He’s been resident in the UK all his life, and he’s very reclusive, but his few shadowy public-domain photographs bear a startling resemblance to you, my darling.”

Indeed, telling her I was Rupert Butler had been a mistake, but the big question remained.  “Then why did you allow me to come?  Why didn’t you just send me away?”

“Oh, that’s easy.”  She smiled directly into my startled eyes and blushed.  “Because I fell in love with you at first sight, silly.  Chemistry.  At least, that’s what they call it.  I knew you didn’t love me, of course — how could you?  But I hoped you might grow to.  And I believed your reasons for wanting to live here were deep and genuine.  At least the man who’d visited Gripes seemed desperate to live here.

“I knew you might be dangerous, but I was prepared to take the risk.  I behaved foolishly when we first met.  I’m a terribly frustrated woman, you see, and you drove me right over the edge — I couldn’t contain myself.  Were I a beautiful woman, you’d have lapped it up.  I’m not, so I kept my distance for a while, hoping to start again, more sensibly.  But every time I met you, I lost control again.  I kept reverting to an oversexed teenage girl.  You press my button, Owen, like no one else ever has.”

“Peter.  My name’s Peter.”

She emphatically shook her head.  “No!  It’s Owen.  You are Owen Flaythm now, and will be for so long as you behave yourself and remain.”  She hugged me more closely.  “That’s not my threat, my dear.  I don’t make the rules here, though I have influence.  The council makes them.  A few years ago, I had hoped that a new generation of councillors might realise that we had to moderate our lifestyle here, that we couldn’t go on as we do forever without consequences.  But the reverse has happened.  They’ve dug their heads into the sand as small minds do when threatened with inevitability.  They’ve even reversed some of the moderating decisions their fathers made.  So I need allies, Owen.  I need allies if we’re going to salvage anything here.”

She looked deeply into my eyes, and I saw she was pleading.  “But that’s not the only reason I want you to stay.  I’m desperately in love with you.  I know you’re not in love with me but—”

“I’m becoming very fond of you, Griselda

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know, but . . . .”

I had meant to play up to her, make preposterous overture to her on the mistaken assumption that she was essentially silly and believed her own nonsense.  But I now realised that would be a mistake.  Griselda was no one’s fool, and moreover, I realised that I liked her, despite her violent streak and her love of whips.  And the better I knew her the more I liked her.  I would miss Ruth if I went away, but for some strange unfathomable reason, I would miss Griselda more.  But I knew I would have to be honest with her and not overplay my hand, the hand that was now stealing its way round her shoulder and drawing her closer.

“You’re a one-off, Griselda,” I said.  “I’ve known a lot of women and I’ve bedded a fair number — and some very attractive ones at that.  But I’ve never met one quite like you.  Added to which, you have a magnificent bust.”

She kissed my ear and giggled.  “That was honest at least. Would you like to feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“My magnificent bust.  I know you’ve always liked it.  You ogled it when we first met.  But you can only put your hand inside my blouse.  You’ll have to give me greater assurances before you get inside my bra?”

“What about your knickers?”

“Greater assurances still.  I’m prepared to give you everything I have, my darling — but not for nothing.  You won’t get a one night stand out of me.”

“You’re a sensible and intelligent woman too,” I said unbuttoning her blouse and sliding my hand across her bra cup until I found her nipple and rolled it between finger and thumb.

“So,” she said, purring as her nipple hardened, and stroking my inner thigh so that I hardened too.  “What’s this warning you have to give me?”

I told Griselda all about Celia.  Every detail.  At the outset, I tried to play down Ruth’s part in it, but it soon became clear that Griselda believed Ruth had handled the situation well.  We agreed to meet again several days hence, the three of us, and formulate a plan.  It was clear that we would have to ambush and apprehend Celia.  It was also clear that we would have to find out whom else she might have apprised of her fraud, and where she might have concealed evidence.

“Once we know,” said Griselda crisply, “we have agencies who can deal with it.”

“The same agencies that take people away?”

She looked away.  “Their close cousins, at least.”

“And where do they go, Griselda?  The people who are sent away?”

She shrugged, and immediately, I felt a distance grow between us.  “Far away,” she said at last. “Where no one will ever find them.  I don’t know on an instance-by-instance basis — I’d rather not.  Even Flavius has his price, you know.  You’ve no idea how much some Arabs will pay for an English milord — even a limp-pricked wonder like Flavius.  I’ve wanted to be rid of him for years.  All I need is an excuse to be rid of him, and this Celia might provide the expedient I’ve been looking for.  I wouldn’t want to give them the real reason why he so disgusts me.”

“Which is?”

She pulled a face.  “It’s too disgusting for words.”

“Go on.  I assume it has something to do with the girls you send down there.”

“Yes but it’s not what you think.  He doesn’t whip them.  That’s just talk.    Flavius likes urine and scat, dear.  He likes to use the girls as his toilet, and when he’s suitably anointed them, and smeared it all over them, he likes them to fellate him.  It’s the only thing that gives him an erection, you see.  On our first night be told me his requirements.  I refused.  So he whipped me, tied me spread-eagled on the bed, and used me as his lavatory.  That gave him an erection, which he promptly stuck down my throat — all twelve inches of it — and almost asphyxiated me.  He went to the dungeon next morning, and he’s stayed there ever since.”

My stomach churned.  “And is that what he does to the girls?”

“Not quite.  He’s chained.  He can’t overpower them or ram his thing down their throats as he did to me.  We have a few girls who aren’t too fussy what he smears on them, and they’re happy to suck him off provided they’re well paid — and I do pay them well.  But Flavius is an animal.  I’m desperate to be shot of him.”

I could see her point of view.

She warned me that extracting the information from Celia might prove unpleasant — and I knew that unpleasant by Nether Slype standards would be very unpleasant indeed — but she claimed there was no choice in the matter and I couldn’t demur.  I knew what she meant.  I knew that the methods used to extract information would be extreme if Celia didn’t cooperate.  But I had few qualms about that.  Celia was prepared to destroy any number for her dirty money, besides, I’ve always believed that whatever comeuppance blackmailers, extortionists and their like receive, is their just deserts.  Even so, Celia’s punishment, when it came, was draconian by any standard.

1. Celia’s ordeal

I threw myself into my work, but the calendar was always in the corner of my eye.  The days dragged but, even so, the fortnight gradually ran its inevitable course.

But Celia didn’t come to my door when the time had finally expired.  The days dripped past, like a slow irritating tap: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and I began to wonder if she would come at all.  I hoped that she had maybe decided to shelve her money-spinner, but I wasn’t sanguine about that.  More likely she’d found some other way and even now she was out there in the dark, with a new accomplice, probably some shabby reporter, photographing, making notes.  We had men staked out in the woods all round the village, more men at both ends of my lane, and others round the back in the footpath and the bridle path, but the type of creature Celia would use would have a nose for that sort of surveillance.  I wondered whether we shouldn’t simply have placed men in the house to apprehend her when she arrived, assuming she did come.  It was seventeen days now.

I tried to concentrate on my work.  As we’d agreed, I left lights on in my working room only, and the curtains were slightly parted so anyone spying on the house would see me working alone.  Somehow I didn’t imagine Celia would stand out in the lane, looking in.  She would be more subtle; she would take me by surprise.

There was a harsh rapping at the front door.  I jumped up.  I had expected her to creep round the back.  When I opened it, it was to one of Griselda’s senior foresters.

“We’ve got her, Mr Flaythm, sir.  She’s on her way to the hall now.  You’re to follow.”

I took a deep breath.  It was a relief in a way, but I knew it would also be a trial.  I stuck my chin out.

“Right.  Let’s go.”

They had taken her downstairs, not to the dungeons, I was told, but to the cellars where they had a room equipped for interrogation.  We descended stone steps, and walked purposefully along a narrow, stone-walled and stone-flagged passage with heavy studded doors on either side of us.  It was like a scene from a Spanish Inquisition film I had seen years before.

The interrogation room did nothing to dispel the memory of the film.  I noticed immediately that there were some manacles attached to a wall, and several suspension chains on pulleys hung from the ceiling, though at present the ends of these were gathered neatly in wall rings.  In the centre of the room stood a large table, heavily built like a carpenter’s bench, with restraint straps fixed to the four corners.  It was December now, and a fire roared in the huge fireplace.  I noticed that several irons were thrust into the flames.  For effect surely.

As I entered, I saw Celia sitting in a chair with a heavy guard on either side of her.  Thwacks was busying himself with a decanter of sherry and some glasses.  Griselda stood by the fire, clad in boots, jodhpurs and hacking jacket, her back to Celia.  As I watched, she stooped and withdrew one of the irons.  Its tip glowed red.  She spat on it and it hissed for a brief second.

“You’ll answer our questions one way or the other,” she was saying calmly, as if in a dream.  “Be sensible and make it easy on yourself.  Once we start extracting answers, we won’t stop until we’re completely satisfied with them, and then we’ll carry on a while longer . . . just to be absolutely sure.  You won’t like that, Celia.  Really you won’t.”

Celia snorted.  “What’s this — the village pantomime?  You bumpkins really don’t think you can frighten me, do you!”

Griselda replaced the iron and walked slowly back to Celia’s chair, when she stooped over her, her hands firmly placed on its arms.  “Stupid woman!  What can I do to make you understand the gravity of your predicament?”

Celia laughed now.  She had clearly not been abused in any way — not yet.  She was in a tweed skirt and thorn proof jacket, all elegantly tailored by the look of them.  Nothing was scuffed, torn, or muddied, except for her boots.  Her makeup was unsmeared, not a hair of her head was out of place.  Perhaps they should have knocked her about a bit when they were bringing her here, I thought.  That would have stripped away some of her cockiness.

“Get over yourself you horse-faced bitch,” she laughed directly into Griselda’s face.  “I already have you for assault and false imprisonment.  I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got.  I’ll have this crumbling dump, your poxy village, the lot and turn it into a theme park, and I’ll hire all your dumb yokels to perform for the crowds.  I’ll make millions.”

“Yes, fine,” replied Griselda wearily, standing and walking away.  “In the meantime we want the names of anyone you’ve divulged your discoveries to.  The locations of any relevant documents and photographs—”

“Go toss yourself on your dildo, horsey!”

“Complete with access passwords—”

Celia sighed.  “Oh, fuck off, you plummy cunt!”

Griselda stepped forwards, stooped, and placed her hands once more on the arms of Celia’s chair.  She leaned right forward into her prisoner, so that their faces almost touched.

“You’ve had your say, lady.  Now I’ll have mine.  We’re not interested in your career and your fortune, but only with protecting our way of life, which you have threatened for your own pecuniary ends.  Owen cautioned you not to proceed—”

“Owen!” scoffed Celia, but Griselda took no notice.

“Owen cautioned you not to proceed, but your greed was unstoppable.  You have been arrested in the act of commissioning a crime against us that we deem unforgivable.  Whatever you might think of us, we have done you no harm.”

“No,” sneered Celia — she had guts for sure.  “But what about the beaten women, the—”

“Save your sermonising for the gutter press!” scathed Griselda.  “Your pious morals run no deeper than your greasy pocket or the bubble celebrity you hoped to achieve.  You’d sell any man, woman, or child if the price was right, and we both know it, so for God’s sake don’t bore us with your infantile preaching.    You would have destroyed us for gain, paltry gain, and you leave us with no choice but to destroy you instead.   We have laws that have stood for centuries. You will be tried, but before you are, your confession will be required.  If you’re wise, you’ll write your confession now, and sign it.  If you’re a fool, you’ll try our patience and we’ll extract the confession the hard way.  I’ll give you one opportunity to answer.  Which is it to be?”

“Stupid, pony cunt!” sneered Celia.  “Go shag your fucking horse!” Then she hawked and spat in Griselda’s face.  Griselda recoiled backwards as if she’d been struck across the face.  She hovered above her prisoner for a moment, wiping away the spittle with a small lace handkerchief. Then she turned to the men and her face was stone.

“Strip her!”

I stood impotently and watched as the men do it.  They did it the easy way.  One pinioned her while the other took a large pair of what looked like sheep-shears and cut up the front of her skirt and through her belt, and then up the front of the jacket.  The skirt fell away and the jacket hung open from her shoulders.  He then ripped off her tights and knickers in two seconds, so ruthlessly that her legs left the ground.  Taking the neck of her sweater, he ripped that down over her shoulders with such force that it tore down the sternum.  Feeling inside for her bra and wrenched it out so that it snapped in the middle.  The other man pushed her forwards and pulled away the tattered remains of her jacket, sweater and bra.  Despite her frantic struggles, she was naked in less than fifteen seconds.  She tried to cover her pussy and tits with her hands, but these were pulled away and forced behind her back.

All the while, she screamed obscenities.  As a writer, I’ve always loathed the descent into verbal obscenity, not from prudishness, but because of its sheer stultifying monotony.

“You fucking cunts!” she screamed.  “You fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking cunts!  Let me go you cunts!  You fucking cunts!”  And so on and so on, though it was amusing to see how easily the veneer of urbane sophistication was stripped from Celia, along with her clothes.

“Strap her on the table!” snapped Griselda, as soon as Celia was naked.

One man seized her thrashing ankles, the other held her arms pinioned, and they swung her up onto the table.  She fought like a fury but they were far too strong for her.  One held her ankles hard down on the bench top while the other restrained her wrists with two straps that were already fastened to the wood near the corners.  Then they took an ankle each and strapped those to the bench corners too, leaving her spread-eagled.

“You can go!” said Griselda imperiously, looking away.  The men nodded towards her and obediently left, leaving Celia naked and writhing impotently on the bench top.

I noticed that her blonde pubic hair was cut in a Brazilian.  I remember being mildly surprised.  I’d assumed that she shaved it, though I hadn’t thought of it much — I’d never fancied the bitch.  Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist wandering across to the table and stroking it, not for any sexual pleasure, for I felt none, but because of the power it gave me over her helplessness.  She tried to spit at me too, but her mouth was dry.  I saw from here eyes that she was terrified now.

“How the hell are you going to get away with this you demented fucking throwbacks!” she was screaming, squirming, trying and failing again to spit in my face.  “God, I’ll sue you for this you fucking cunts.  I’ll fucking sue for fucking millions I will, you fucking cunts.”

Meanwhile, I heard a deferential cough at my elbow.

“Sherry, sir — er, before we start.”

I turned to see Thwacks at my elbow, proffering a silver tray on which stood two glasses.

I took mine and he offered the other to Griselda, who threw it back with one gulp and then stared hard at it, as though it were the useless end of a broken lifeline.  Then she looked up into my face and here own was ashen.

From outside my fiend of vision, Thwacks coughed again, not deferentially this time but insistently.  Griselda shivered and seemed momentarily paralysed.  She seemed to have shrunk, and I realised her true position here.  She was not in charge, but merely a figurehead, acting as the council expected her too, according to the laws the council had passed.  She had been acting on those laws when she took steps to apprehend and arrest Celia.  And whatever she did now, she would do under those same orders.

I gently took the empty glass from her hand and replaced it with my own full one.

“Here,” I said gently.  “Drink this too.”

She looked at the glass, and then at me once more, and I saw that she realised I understood.  It seemed to bring her back to life.

“Thanks, Owen.”

She knocked back the drink and blew.  “Carry on, Thwacks!” she barked, much as I imagined Admiral Lord Shackles would have done.  But instead of looking on, she turned abruptly away…

Thwacks laid down the tray and took a long wooden box from one of the shelves.  Carrying it across to the bench, he laid it on between Celia’s struggling feet.  He opened it and retrieved a long needle, like a knitting needle, highly burnished with a slender, tapering point.  I imagined that it was not only viciously sharp, but also incredible strong.  He walked to the head of the bench and held the thing before Celia’s horrified eyes.

“No!” she screamed.  “No!”

Her breasts were quite small, but well-shaped and firm, standing up like two conical hillocks crowned with brown autumnal trees.  With his free hand, Thwacks seized the left one by the nipple and pulled it vertically so it stretched, as you stretch a balloon before inflating it.

“Get off my tits you randy fucking cunt!” yelled Celia.

Thwacks ignored her.  With the precision and detachment of a man decanting port, he inserted the long needle into Celia’s left breast, through the aureole, just behind the nipple.  She screamed.

“AAAAAAARGH!”

While she screamed and writhed pointlessly against her restraint, I watched the punctured breast with fascination.  The skin on the nearer side of her aureole started to pucker and erupt to a blunt point.  Then, with a piercing scream from Celia, it burst and the needle emerged from it.  Celia left breast was pierced right through, now.  Still she thrashed and screamed.

“AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!  Pull it out you sadistic fucking cunt!  AAAAAAARGH!  AAAAAAARGH!”

Thwacks ignored her utterly.  With slow deliberation, he walked round the head of the table, seized Celia’s right breast by the nipple and stretched it vertically too.  Slowly and precisely he inserted the needle through the right aureole, also just behind the nipple.  Celia was shrieking like a mad thing now, her whole body thrashing against her restraints.

Foolishly, I thought that was the end of the softening up and Griselda would now start the interrogation.  I watched her as she stood like a statue, her back to the table, her arms folded tight, as if she was cast in bronze and unable to move.  Surely, she would step forward now and start bawling questions.  But Celia’s torment was only starting.

Thwacks went back to the box.  He took out two pierced rings with wing nuts.  One he attached to the sharp end of the needle, above the tapering point, so that Celia’s punctured and quivering breasts couldn’t slip off the sharp end.  The other, I noticed, was slotted.  He snapped it onto the very centre of the needle, equidistant between the two swelling nipples and turned the wing nut, locking it tight.  Walking slowly to the wall, he freed one the suspension chains from its tether and attached the end of it to the ring at the needle’s centre.  Reaching out, he grasped a pulley rope and pulled.

Celia’s back spasmed and arched as the pulley stretched her punctured breasts skywards.

“AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!”

Tethered to the corers of the bench, her spread-eagled hands and feet scrabbled desperately to gain a purchase on the smooth wooden surface.   She wasn’t screaming now; her head was thrown back, her mouth was open like a landed fish’s, her lips reaching, as if for air, and she was breathing in low moaning gasps.

Thwacks now returned to his box and withdrew another, much smaller box of black plastic with some leads and plugs attached.  He inserted a small plug into the needle’s blunt, bulbous end, and the other he plugged into the wall socket.  He snapped a switch on the black box.

I expected to see a violent, jerking reaction as electric current surged through Celia’s breasts, but there was no immediate change.  Seconds ticked by.  Celia twitched and whimpered, her back arched, her hands and feet pitifully scrabbling to relieve her mutilated breasts of their cruel tension.  Then, as I watched, the panting became more bovine, Celia’s hands and feet scrabbled ever more frantically at the wooden surface, as if for life itself, and I saw that the needle’s bright slender surface was growing dull.  Bloody hell, I thought.  It’s heating up.  Celia’s stomach muscles flexed now with a grisly gyrating rhythm, her whole abdomen rolling like an expert belly dancer, only belly dancers don’t pant and scream so.

“AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH — AAAAAAGH!”

For with the heat she had found her voice again.  Much as I loathed the bitch, I had to grit my teeth to endure that terrible screaming.

Still her heels drummed on  the bench top as she strained to spread her thighs wide as she could, as if giving birth, trying desperately to bend her knees and get some purchase on the table with her feet — anything to take some weight from her stretched and burning breasts.  It seemed she couldn’t spread her legs wide enough.  She jerked her wide-open vulva into the air like a shameless, desperate whore, only whores don’t scream like that, even when they’re getting a thrashing.  But if I expected to see her breasts sizzling on the red-hot poker, I was to be disappointed for a moment.

“Switch it off!  Let her down!” snapped Griselda, jerking round, as if from a trance.

Without a single facial muscle twitching, Thwacks bowed deeply.  He walked slowly to the black box and snapped the switch, and grasping the suspension chain, he lowered Celia to the bench top, where she lay gasping and groaning.

Griselda looked down at her dispassionately, but I could see that her face was grey.

“Let her recover her breath and her wits,” she said.  “In the meantime, we’ll have another drink.  God knows I need one.”

We didn’t speak as we drank our sherry; in fact, we avoided each other’s eyes now.  I’ve since learned since that in this situation you do.  There can be no small talk in a torture chamber while the necessary work is being done, not unless you’re completely hardened to it.  Griselda wasn’t.  I could see that from her stony expression, and I noticed that her hand shook.  It was a necessary duty for her and the sherry was a comfort for her, not a ghoulish embellishment.  She had the stomach for Celia’s torture — just about, but she derived no relish from it.  I suppose, if I’m honest, I enjoyed seeing Celia squirm, at the outset at least.  How I loathed the evil bitch!  And for that reason too I couldn’t meet Griselda’s eye.  This was different from the sort of spanking and whipping that was common currency in nether Slype; this was brutal, mediaeval.  Yet from small acorns do great oak trees grow.  If you spank your wife for mowing over the cowslips, what do you do to serious and dangerous offenders?  I remembered thinking that as I watched the man in the garden, relentlessly strapping his wife’s bare and quivering bottom.  Now I was finding out.

Griselda finished her sherry and walked across to the bench like a woman in a dream.  She stood there for a moment gazing down at her victim with pity.

“Look,” she said in as reasonable a voice as she could muster, though it wobbled all the same.  “Agree to tell us what we want to know and the pain will stop.  Understand?  This can stop now if you see sense.  Refuse, and it will get worse.  Believe me, it can get a lot worse, and you will tell us in the end.  You must see that resistance is useless.  Well?”

Celia’s eyes rotated glassily, her mouth worked but no sound came.  I had no idea what was going on in her reeling mind.

“Take your time,” said Griselda.  “I don’t want to hurt you more than I must.  Just give me some sign that you will cooperate.”

Celia’s mouth worked as though trying to summon spittle, but she had none to spit.  So she clenched her teeth for a mighty effort.

“FUCKING, FUCKING, FUCKING CUNT!”

She was mad.  The torture had driven her mad.   I knew she was stubborn but this was lunacy.  Griselda turned to me, and I could see from the pain in her eyes that she wanted the torture to stop but couldn’t stop it until Celia talked.

I too stepped up to the bench and stood beside her.  “For God’s sake, Celia,” I muttered, despite myself.  “Do yourself a favour.  Talk.  Resistance is useless.”

“HORSEFUCKING CUNTS!”

I sighed; Griselda sighed and seemed to crumble.  Whatever was done to Celia now, she’d well and truly brought it on herself.

Griselda turned away, and poured her own sherry now, her back to the bench, and downed it with a noisy slurp.

“Carry on, Thwacks!” she said woodenly.

Yet if Griselda loathed what she had to do, Thwacks didn’t.  He remained every inch the butler, and his face was impassive, but I glanced at his eyes.  They glinted with relish and the tip of his tongue slicked across his dry-as-dust lips, moistening them.

“Ma’am,” he bowed.

He returned to his box and withdrew another shorter and more slender needle. Griselda and I were standing at the foot of the table and we clearly saw him reach down into Celia’s crotch, push his finger into the vulva and stroke up her clitoris.  Griselda flinched and turned away.  Celia groaned, though whether from pleasure, pain, or ghastly anticipation, I’m not sure, but she shrieked like a banshee as he took her clitoris between his fingernails and inserted the needle behind it.

“If we sell her to the Arabs, ma’am,” he observed casually.  “It will at least save them the trouble of circumcising her.”

Griselda visibly shuddered.  “For pity’s sake just do it!” she snapped.  “Get it over with!”

Thwacks remained inscrutable but his eyes glinted again.  “Ma’am.”

I knew that the bastard was loving every minute of it.  Was this why Griselda hated him so?  I watched the deliberate slowness with which he plugged the lead attached to the shorter needle into the small box, the way he lingered before seizing the pulley, stretching Celia’s breasts towards the ceiling again, and clicking the switch.

This time, we didn’t have long to wait before the terrible screaming tore the air.  As Celia writhed, her arched body twisting in mid air, the needles canted this way and that, like rowboat tossed in a storm, her elastic smouldering breasts twisted and stretched as though she was desperately trying to rip them off their slender burning shaft, and lower down her crotch gyrated and pulled at the shorter needle in the same way — anything to be rid of the agony.   Small coils of smoke started to rise, and with them the savoury smell of roasting meat.  Never before had that smell of cooking so sickened me.

While she thrashed and screamed, the needles started to glow red.  Thwacks turned to us and inquired discreetly.  “More sherry, ma’am, sir?”

Griselda flinched away from him, gritting her teeth.  “For pity’s sake!”

I too declined, but unlike Griselda’s, my eyes were riveted to the obscene contorting thing on the bench.  Celia twisted impossibly in air like a pitchforked serpent as she danced her obscene limbo dance on the bench top. She’d had screamed herself hoarse.  Now she was bellowing like a stag, but no stag ever bellowed like Celia did.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

“How long does this go on for?” I asked Thwacks, unable to tear my tear my eyes away from the horror.

“Until the good lady decides to be reasonable, sir,” he answered impeccably, and without emotion, as a butler ought, and he dusted a mote of dust from his black tailcoat sleeve.  “But if I may say so, sir, I don’t think she’ll inconvenience you for very much longer.”

Celia evacuated her bladder now.  Such were her contortions that the golden rain showered and fell all over the bench and the floor.  Griselda fled to a far corner of the room and I followed, but Thwacks, the fastidious butler, pulled a distressed face, set down the sherry bottle, donned pair of yellow rubber gloves, and started to mop it up with a large sponge.  The screaming became unbearable, the stench became unbearable, and every time Celia drew breath, I could hear her breasts sizzling horrible.  I felt sick.  Griselda covered her ears and sagged against the wall for support.  I put out my hand to support her but she irritably knocked it away.

“Not now, Owen!”

Meanwhile, Thwacks drew close and coughed.   We could only just hear his voice above the inhuman screaming and the hiss of burning flesh.  “Excuse my interrupting, ma’am, sir, but I think the lady is trying to tell us that she’s ready to cooperate now.”

Griselda shut her eyes with immense relief and drew her hand across her eyes.  “Yes, yes, for pity’s sake.  Switch the wretched thing off and let her down.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

The men came back in and took Celia off the table.  She hung between them like a doll, her face expressionless, as if the woman had already fled elsewhere, and only the charred throbbing flesh remained.  Her nipples and aureoles were scarred, black, and swollen right out of shape, and her crotch still quivered uncontrollably and she struggled to keep her thighs as wide as possible, for she could not bear the pain of closing her legs.

“You understand, madam,” said Thwacks a little later, after they had lashed Celia to a St Andrew’s cross, “that your ordeal so far has been contrived simply to make certain parts of your body receptive to persuasion.  For example . . . . “

He reached down between her legs.  I saw his fingers go up into her crotch as she whimpered and struggled.  Suddenly, the fingers gave a tremendous jerk.  Celia leapt against her bonds and screamed her lungs out.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

I felt Griselda flinch at my side, but she said nothing.  Thwacks turned to us.  “I think the lady has regained her voice and is receptive to persuasion, ma’am, sir.”

Griselda put down her riding crop and when she addressed Celia, I could see that her face was drained of colour.  “Now!  Let’s get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.”  She swallowed and her lips trembled.  “You know by now what we are prepared to do.  If you refuse to satisfactorily answer out questions, I shall order the men to put you back on the bench again.  So in your own best interests, cooperate.  Please cooperate.  Understood.”

Celia groaned, her hanging mouth gaped, her eyes were dead and glazed, her chest laboured, and her breasts, recently so ripe and shapely, hung limp like dead, blackened meat about her lower ribs.  She was scarcely recognisable as the cocky woman who had strutted into my house with demands two-and-a-half weeks previously.

“Now,” said Griselda briskly.  “We need the names of any other person you have told about your discoveries here.

“Peter.”  The word was only just recognisable.

“You mean Owen.”

“Yes, yes. Whatever.”  She whimpered.  “Please stop the pain.”

Griselda licked her lips.  “All in good time.  Who else?”

“No one.  Please.”

“I said, who else!”

“No one, I swear.  Please.  I swear.  Pleeeease!”

Thwacks stepped forward again.  When she saw him approaching her, Celia started to struggle against the bonds.  Griselda turned away and her face was ghastly.  Celia screamed even before Thwacks touched her, but when her reached down into her crotch, took her swollen clitoris between his finger and thumb, and squeezed, she howled like a woman possessed.

“AAAAAAAA—AAAAAAAA—AAAAAAA—AAAAARGH!”

He stepped away again.

“Who else?” asked Griselda, still looking away.

“No one.  Please, please , don’t let him hurt me again,” sobbed Celia, so pitifully that I almost felt sorry for her.  “Please.  I’ll tell you anything.  Please . . .  please . . . please . . .”

“And where have you stored the photographs?”

“In my car, on my laptop.  Nowhere else.  Please believe me.  Please.  Please!  Pleeeease!”

She howled and leapt again as Thwacks’ fingers went to work once more on her swollen clitoris.

“PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!”

Thwacks’ fingers went to work again.

“Where else?”

“Nowhere.  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!”

“Where on your Internet backup?”

“Nowhere.  OH PLEEEEASE!”

“On which flash drive?”

“None.  PLEEEEASE!”

Thwacks was still pinching and manipulating her clitoris, clearly enjoying it, though like all true sadists, he looked ever regretful, thought I noticed how he lingered at his work.  Celia thrashed, pleaded, and screamed incessantly.

“AAAAARGH. No. Pleeeease.  I’ve told you everything!  PLEEEEASE.”

“Perhaps,” said Griselda patiently.  “Let’s just go through it again to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything.

Celia’s face hung grey and haggard.  She shuddered and her hips began to eave in a grisly rotating dance as Thwacks’ fingers delved back into her crotch.

“PLEEEASE.  No!  PLEEEASE!”  she whimpered.  “Not more.  No more.  I can’t stand any more.  PLEEEASE! “

The merciless fingers jerked and pinched.  Celia leapt and bellowed her lungs out.

“PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  PLEEEEASE!  I’ve told you everything!  Mercy!   MERCY!  Pleeeease, I beg you!”  And her voice trailed away to a sob.

Griselda turned enquiringly to me.  Her face was as grey as Celia’s.  I too must have looked shaky.  I felt sick, and my legs trembled.  Griselda and I stared at each other like cold ashes.

“Well, Owen?”

“She’d tell us if she knew,” I whispered hoarsely.

“I agree.”

“I know she’s telling the truth,” I said, not because I felt for Celia, but because I believed it to be so.  “She cares for no one; she’d hold out for no one.  And she’d have kept her little scam to herself for as long as possible, hoping to maximise the proceeds.  It’s the way the bitch works.”

“Well,” Griselda demanded of the grey haggard wretch on the cross, for that’s all she was now.  “Have you told us everything?”

Thwacks’ eager fingers delved again.

“Yes, yes, YES.  Oh, for God’s sake!  Pleeeease stop the terrible pain!  MERCY!  PLEEEASE!”

Griselda considered for a moment and then nodded at no one in particular.  She turned to Thwacks.  “It’s finished!”

But Thwacks’ fingers still hovered close to Celia’s crotch.  I saw the spasm of disappointment flicker across his rigid countenance.  The fingers twitched and moved minutely back towards Celia.  Griselda snatched up her riding crop, stamped across, and cut him viciously across the wrist.  He yelped and sprang back, nursing his injured wrist and glaring fury like a cornered beast.

“Are you deaf?” Griselda screamed at him, and her face was terrible to behold.  “I told you it was over.  Clean her up!  Give her something for the pain!  Call the council for tomorrow morning!  Move yourself!”

Thwacks fought to control himself.  His visible anger flickered, and then slowly faded behind his inscrutable countenance.  He bowed stiffly.  “Very good ma’am.”

*****

The woodsman drove me back home in the Land Rover.  He’d been one of those who had stripped Celia, and strapped her to the bench and the St Andrew’s cross.  We said nothing on the way to the village.  Such procedures breed reticence.  I studied him.  He looked an ordinary and decent enough type.  I had always supposed I was too.  Imperative breeds brutality.

1. Trial and retribution

He picked me up again and drove me back to Nether Towers next morning. I had noticed how quiet Ginny was at breakfast.  She usually prattled, sometimes irritatingly so, but that morning she was as quiet as a mouse.  I noticed how heads turned and stares followed us as we drove round the green and took the hill road to the Towers.   It seemed that everyone knew something terrible was happening, though not what and why, but terrible all the same.  Even inside the Land Rover, I could feel the atmosphere.

The tribunal was held in the mansion’s great hall.  It was a harsh affair and I wondered why they bothered with it.  But people seem to feel better when the ceremony of law is observed, no matter how bizarrely.  In the event, horror descended into farce, and I’ve sometimes wondered since if the farce was, in its way, worse than the horror.

The council of ten sat across the bench.  According to the rule, if their decision was hung, Griselda would decide the outcome, but that wouldn’t happen today as Ned Grackley had died the previous month and not yet been replaced, so there were only nine of them.

The chairman read the charge.  The prisoner wasn’t asked to plead because guilt was assumed.  Like all English trials back in the seventeenth century and earlier, it was merely a demonstration of guilt, not an enquiry into it.  Celia was asked to affirm her confession of the night before.  She was still naked and would remain naked now until she left Nether Slype.  This was symbolic and deeply traditional, though to me unnecessary.  But to the Nether Slypers, she was no longer a person, and as such, she possessed nothing, not even a stitch of clothing. She would take nothing away with her, least of all dignity, so not even the smallest pair of knickers was required protect the modesty she could no longer possess.

But Celia cared no longer for modesty or dignity, even if she had been allowed any.  She dangled before the council, her face grey and haggard like an old woman’s, a man holding her up on either side, her private parts exposed for inspection.  Everyone could see the punctures near the swollen, blistered, blue-black tips of her abused breasts, and you didn’t have to look hard to see the scorch marks in her pubic hair, or where her mutilated and distended clitoris poked out like a bloody chancre between the misshapen lips of her pudenda.  And, of course, she couldn’t close her legs.  The way her guards held her, shoulders back, they splayed apart and her whole crotch was displayed to casual view, as if she was offering her tortured sex to the council for their pleasure.

But these clear marks of excruciating torture earned her no pity.

“The prisoner will stand forward!”

Her two guards jerked her forwards, her mutilated breasts swung against each other and she gasped.

“The prisoner will affirm that her confession was freely and frankly given.”

Celia seemed not to hear what she was told; she was in a daze or another world entirely.  She hung between her guards like damp washing, open mouthed, dead eyed, and uncomprehending.

Thwacks stepped up to her.  “The word is yes, madam.”

Her eyes rotated towards him her mouth lolled.  “Wha?”  She couldn’t even articulate the word.

“You say yes to the judges, madam.”

“Wha?  No . . . I . . . thy . . . .”

Thwacks turned to the bench and coughed apologetically.  The nine councillors gazed intently at their table top while he gently took hold of the tips Celia’s mutilated breasts and started rubbing her nipples with his thumbs.  She gasped and gurgled, her body twitching, but in a half-hearted sort of way, her head lolling back as she struggled pointlessly against the men holding her, who also looked away.

“The word we’re looking for is yes, madam.”

“Wha?  No  . . .  I—”

Thwacks viciously twisted the blue-back swellings.  Celia’s legs thrashed in the air and she screamed a jagged, blood-chilling scream.

“AAAAAAAARGH!  YES!  YES!  YES!”

“The record will state that the prisoner confessed of her own free will,” said the chairman, white faced, but otherwise unmoved as he stared hard at his fingernails.  “And without undue duress.”  He swallowed and turned obsequiously to Griselda.  “I believe, your ladyship, that you have evidence to give?”

Griselda took a deep breath and rose. “Only insofar as it links the woman to the man.  Her guilt is plain.”

The chairman simpered.  “As your ladyship says.” He turned to the court and bellowed.  “Bring the man forward.”

I noted that the council never used the prisoners’ names, I supposed this was because the prisoners, no longer being recognised as people, had none.  This was the most refined indignity.

Meanwhile, the man who had been Flavius was dragged forward also naked.  I had never seen him before and he appeared much older than I expected, though that might have been the result of madness and years in a dungeon.  He was short and grey haired, with a distended paunch and a flaccid penis that hung down to his knees.  His lower lip drooped like a simpleton’s.

“Has the man confessed?”

Thwacks stepped forward again, lifted Flavius’s penis revealing a distended but very full testicle sack.  Taking hold of the testicles in his hand, he jerked and squeezed.  Flavius jolted, his eyes popped, and he shrieked like a woman.

“It sounded to like yes to me, sir,” commented Thwacks with impeccable gravity.

“I heard it quite distinctly,” agreed the chairman, staring hard at the tabletop in front of him. “The record will state that the prisoner confessed of his own free will, without undue duress.”  He then turned obsequiously to Griselda.  “In your own time, your ladyship.”

Griselda rehearsed the story she, Ruth, and I had concocted, though I’m being overmodest putting it like that.  Primarily, it was my tale.

She said that Celia was a freelance reporter — the confession she’d signed with an unrecognisable squiggle said as much — hoping to sell a story about Nether Slype to the Sunday press.  We’d recovered pictures from her laptop, left in her car a mile back up the lane from the village.  These we showed to the council as ‘proof’ of the allegation.

Somehow — we weren’t sure how, perhaps through his family — she had discovered, or suspected, that Griselda’s husband was being kept under restraint at the Towers.  Her proposed coup was not only to publish her scurrilous account, but to produce Flavius as living proof.  The two had conferred and agreed to this, their confessions confirmed it.

“But, excuse me, you ladyship,” queried the chairman deferentially.  “How did they do this?  My understanding is that your husband has been incarcerated in the dungeons for years, on account of his — er — dangerous propensities.”

“She knew the times when Thwacks and I would be out and about the estates,” lied Griselda with remarkable steadiness.  “And when there are few servants left in and around the Towers.  It was not difficult for her to gain access, hide in one of the unused rooms, and make her way down to the dungeons when the coast was clear.”

“You must improve your security, your ladyship,” simpered the chairman, wagging an indulgent finger at her.

Griselda bridled at his insolence, and then fought to calm herself.  “It’s already in hand,” she said neutrally.  “Meanwhile, we have learned how the woman knew so much about us and our movements.”

“How, your ladyship?”

I stepped forward now and slapped down on the bench a component I had removed from an old laptop of my own the night before.

“Phone bug,” I said.

They all looked at it amazed.  Clearly, none of them had seen one before, which was as well.

“I had suspected as much,” I said blandly.  “My family used to mine diamonds in South Africa.  At one time, there were attempts to intercept our randomly timed and routed shipments.  We called the police, they checked security, and found bugs attached to several of our own phones.  They looked remarkably like this.”

It was the merest moonshine, but it convinced the council, as it was intended to.  The logic was simple: if a bug was there, it was there for a reason and a purpose.  This was obviously the purpose alleged because no other was known.  Therefore the allegation was proved.

Ruth gave the fiction further substance with a slightly revised version of Celia’s arrival at the pub.

“She started asking me questions about her ladyship’s husband, and Mr Flaythm.”

“And what did you do?” asked the chairman.

“Gave non-committal answers and immediately informed Mr Flaythm.”

“And I immediately informed her ladyship,” I said.  “We expected the woman to return, so we deployed men to trap her.  We had a couple of near misses.  She was seen lurking near here watching the Towers one Sunday morning when her ladyship and most of her staff were at church in the village.  I thought I saw her on another occasion, lurking near my house when I arrived home.  But on those occasions both I and the man who spotted her prowling round the Towers hung back.  Neither of us was in a position to make a clean capture, and a bungled attempt might have scared her off and caused her to make some precipitate disclosure to the press.”

“You both behaved very wisely,” said the chairman, and the rest of the council rumbled agreement.

“However, yesterday we managed to make a clean capture.”

“We are in your debt,” said the chairman.  “Indeed, we’re obliged to everyone involved.”

“Hear!  Hear!” cheered the other councillors.

The case for the prosecution was complete — there was no defence.  The councillors huddled for only a few perfunctory seconds before reaching their verdict.

“We find the case against both prisoners proved beyond question,” said the chairman.  “Their confessions are proof alone, and these have been corroborated by the three witnesses, and this nasty little gadget.”  He pointed gingerly at my laptop component.   “We assume that when the female prisoner was loitering round your house, Mr Flaythm, that she intended to place another device in your own phone.”

I’d never thought of that, but I wasn’t going to admit it.  “That was my suspicion too, Mr Chairman.  I’ve checked my phone and it’s clean, as are all the phones here at the Towers, which have also been checked.”

“Much obliged for your thoroughness, Mr Flaythm.  The sentence of the court is the both prisoners be banished, having each first received one-hundred lashes at the public whipping post.”

“Mr Chairman!”  Griselda jumped up.  “I plead we dispense with the public lashing, given the identity of the male prisoner.”

The council huddled again.

“Agreed.  We have no wish to embarrass your ladyship.  The sentence is banishment.  Your ladyship has our leave to make the appropriate arrangements.”

“And my marriage, Mr Chairman?”

“Dissolved as an inevitable consequence, your ladyship.  Your quondam husband no longer exists as far as this community is concerned.  It shall be cried throughout the three villages.”

Griselda bowed.  “I’m obliged to the council.”

“I hope that never happens again,” said Griselda, as we walked through the December woods above the Towers, for we both needed fresh air.  “I know it’s theatrical but it’s the way they like it.”

“Not good enough, Griselda,” I countered.  “We must make sure that it doesn’t.”

“But how do we do that?”

“We just do it.  The trial was a farce.”

“Complaining?”

“No.  I can’t exactly do that, but—”

“It’s the way it’s always been done here, darling.  And you cannot always save just part of the thing you cherish.  You must take it whole or leave it whole.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, you say you came here because you loved the place — part of an old England you thought dead.  But can we save that without also perpetuating what we’ve just attended?  That was the Old-England way too.  Remember?  They tortured people, their executions were horrible; hunger, want, injustice, brutality, and horrible prejudices were all rife in this never-never England you wanted to rediscover and live in.  My father and my grandfather knew that if you want to preserve part, you must preserve all.  We have a choice they said.  Perpetuate it all for as long as we can, or lose all.  An environment is not an a-la-carte menu, my father would say.  You can’t choose to keep the bits you want and jettison the bits you don’t.”

“So we must either keep the torture and the trials, or we loose everything?”

“I think we have to, don’t you?” she asked soberly.  “Loose it, I mean?”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “It’s too high a price to pay.  But we’ll do it on our terms.  Perhaps we can save something, and this place will still be special.”

“We?”

“Well,” I said more gruffly than I meant.  “You can marry me now — if you still want to.”

She slipped her arm back through mine.  “You still want to marry me, after what I did?”

“What we did.  And what we’ll never do again.”

1. Aftermath

But we didn’t marry straight away.  After the interrogation and the trial, an embarrassed coolness developed between Griselda and me.  She invited me up Nether Towers for Christmas and I went, but there was none of the old canoodling in corners.  I found that I missed it.  I missed it a lot.  I missed it more in February when Ruth let me know that she had a new boyfriend and was close to being spoken for.

“There’s no future for you and me,” she said.  “You’re Griselda’s, whether you like it or not.  It’s best we act accordingly.”

Her lot had risen in the village since the arrest and trial.  She was something of a heroine among the women, and Mrs Brittles had offered her a partnership at the village tearooms.  She snapped it up.  Who wouldn’t have done so in her place?  As a result, men regarded her as a more attractive and respectable proposition than a pub kitchen maid any man in the village could spank for the price of a beer.

We remained friends, we still are friends, but she no longer came to my bed with those delicious long breasts.  I missed her warmth, and I missed Griselda’s too.  In fact, in a way I missed Griselda’s more.  Despite my early suspicions of her plans for Flavius, she had been funny.  She had brought sunshine and amusement into my life from the outset, and I knew she had a lot of warmth and love to offer too.  But still the distance remained, and the gulf seemed somehow unbridgeable.

I followed the police investigation of Celia’s disappearance.  They never came anywhere near Nether Slype.  Her compulsive secrecy frustrated them.  She had left no clue to what she was doing or where she was going, other than the files on her laptop, and we had incinerated that.  We had incinerated that.  In the end, they assumed that she had fallen foul of one of her many estranged lovers.  I pitied their taste in women.  Griselda and I never discussed the case.  For a while, we discussed nothing at all.

Then, out of the blue, I received another invitation from her.  There had been another death on the council of ten, and I had been elected to it.  More surprisingly, Ruth had too, the first even woman member, apart from Griselda herself.  We had to attend monthly meetings up at Nether Towers, but on this occasion, Griselda invited us all for dinner instead, with wives and partners invited.  Ruth’s new boyfriend was with her, and Griselda and I found ourselves paired.  We played our parts sociably enough yet the awkwardness remained between us.

But at one point in the evening Griselda sidled up to me and whispered in my ear.  “Owen, will you stay for a while when they’ve gone?”

“Why especially?”

“We need to talk.  Don’t we!”

“I want to,” I said, wishing that the courage to make the first move had been mine.  “I miss you, Griselda.”

She briefly squeezed my arm.  “Later.”  And she drifted off.

Later we sat by her large open fire kin her comfortable drawing room, watching flames consume a log the size of a small tree trunk.  Neither of us had spoken for several minutes.  We’d just sat together and watched the flames.

“I’ve retired Thwacks,” she said suddenly.

Then it struck me that I hadn’t seen him all evening.

“Why especially?”

“I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him.  Every time he said, sherry, ma’am, I remembered that awful interrogation and wanted to run outside screaming.  The man is such a sadist.  He didn’t do what he did to that woman because he had to, as you and I did, but because he loved doing it.  One of the maids told me that she heard screams from the cellars later, and saw him coming up from them in the early hours.  He’d been down there again to enjoy himself, hours after I’d told him that it was finished.  Sadist!”

“But aren’t we all?”

She sighed.  “Yes.  We all like inflicting and receiving a little pain now and then, Owen, but there are degrees.  The woman had told us all she knew.  It was over.  I had told him it so.”

“So what was your objection, his sadism or his disobedience?”

“Both.  The sadism for obvious reason, but the disobedience too.  Obedience at such times is essential.  Excessive measures must always be disciplined and subject to rules and reasons.”

“It must.  And that’s what’s come between us, isn’t it?  The awful responsibility we share.  The fact that we obeyed the rules despite our horror of them.”

She bowed her head.  “Yes, it has, and I wish it hadn’t.”

“Me too.”

She stared into the fire.  “Look, I know we’re strange here, but we have our limits — usually.  Wives can divorce their husbands, you know, and appeal to the council for protection.  A real brute can be restrained.  It’s basically consensual.”

“Not always,” I said.

“You mean your girl, Ginny.”  She bit her lip.  “Yes, I’m sorry about that.  I thought she was letting you down and I so wanted to make everything right for you and me that I lost my temper.  It wasn’t my place to whip her, but yours.”

“It wasn’t mine either, or to whip Heather.  At least, most outside the three villages would say so.”

“Perhaps they would, but they weren’t born here.  We are isolated, Owen, and we have stood still  while the world outside changed.  They would say they progressed, but I would demur.  I’ve been to London many times, and I haven’t seen much social progress.  But mostly I think it’s because a certain lifestyle is in our blood, our genes.  We have to do it, give it or receive it.  It’s the way we’re made.  It’s our culture.”

I laughed grimly and she looked at me nervously.  “I think I might have Flaythm blood, after all.  I did rather hold you jacket while Celia was being interrogated.  Not physically perhaps, but you know what I mean.”

“And you have to admit, Owen, that you derived far more satisfaction from it than I did.”

“At the start perhaps.  But not for long.”

But I knew that she was right to a point.  I had wanted to see Celia taken down because I had loathed the bitch, and what she had threatened to do to us all.  Griselda had acted solely from duty.

“Shall I put on some music?” She asked suddenly.

“Music?”

“I want to get that noise out of my head.  It still haunts me.  Now Thwacks has gone it will be easier.  He had to go.  He had a way of half-smiling.  Every time he did so, I heard that woman scream again.  I’ve heard many girls scream when they’re getting the strap or whatever, but never like that — nothing at all like that.”  She hugged herself and looked ashen.

I reached across and squeezed her hand.  “At least we can talk about it now, Griselda.”

She walked across to her hi-fi, a surprisingly up-to-date one I thought, for I had half expected her to crank a handle and put on a crackly seventy-eight.  She selected a CD, inserted it into the slot, and a few seconds later I heard the opening bars of Vaughan Williams’ fifth symphony, which I have loved since I was an adolescent.  It seemed almost obscene to hear such serene beauty after what had gone on downstairs, and yet, as the sound washed over me the screaming subsided to the back of my mind.

“I’ve loved this since I was a teenager,” I said.

“Mmmm!  Me too.  I often hear it in my head when I look down the approach road and see the distant Welsh hills.  It’s what I fight for, you see.  But look” — she took a deep juddering breath — “that was only the third time Thwacks had used the needles since my father died.  The other two were men — both from the three villages.  One had tried to corrupt a child and the other had done something similar to what woman Celia wanted to do.  Thwacks put the needles in different places, of course, but the result was the same.  Not pleasant.”

I don’t know why — it must have been delayed shock — but I laughed.

Griselda’s eyes turned on me, large, and somehow vulnerable.  “What’s so funny about it?”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use an understatement.”

“I know,” she said at last. “I was bloody ghastly, wasn’t it?   Hideous.  Almost unbearable.  But it’s the way it’s always been here.”

“Then we’ll have to change it,” I suggested softly, as I had after the trial.

“And put our way of life at risk?”

“If we don’t do it on our terms, Griselda, someone else will, and we’ll surely lose it all one day.”

“But we shall anyway, if we start to change.  Remember what my father said.  He was right, you know.”

“But the loss will be slower, smoother and, in the end, not missed so much.  You can’t keep history in chains, Griselda, much as you might wish to.  And hopefully we’ll be able to retain something, if we all want to.  Nether Slype will still be special.”

There was a long silence, then she walked slowly across and sat on the arm of my chair, very close, like she had to a few seconds on the day I met her, but this time she lingered and her hand found mine.

“Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Owen, even if you don’t want to marry me — especially after this.   I feel perhaps you don’t, but duty had to come first you see, even though I knew it would break my heart if you left.”

“Would it?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to worry about then,” I said huskily.  I drew her off the chair arm, and onto my lap, and hugged her properly for the first time ever.  Then I kissed her for the first time too.  Till then, she had always kissed me. Then we sat in silence together, listening to the heavenly music.

We didn’t jump straight into bed together, though I’d eagerly have taken her upstairs there and then.  For now that the awkwardness between us was dissolved and we could talk about necessary things, I was desperate to make up for lost time.  But Griselda had to do things properly. The bans were read three times and during that period there was no hanky panky, though she resumed pushing me up against trees, walls, doors and just about anything vertical she could conveniently prop me against while she devoured my face.  But that was as far as it went.

One good work I did was to find Ginny another position with an elderly widowed lady, who thought the world of her and provided her with her own little cottage next door, so that she and her boyfriend would have somewhere to live when they married, which Ginny told me, they were planning to do.

Griselda and I married in early April, just as the trees were staring to leaf, and I was amazed to think that I had been in the village for less than a year.  But during that time, my world had changed utterly.  For worse, and also for better.  When the day arrived, the church was packed and the churchyard was full of people who couldn’t get inside for the crush.  I waited by the altar with Ted Foxter, praying that Griselda wouldn’t change her mind at the last minute.  When she did arrive, wearing a white dress — not a wedding dress but a simple thing of sheer white — her hand continually twitched as though she were slapping her thigh with a riding crop, even though she’d left it at home for once.  She marched up to the front, grabbed hold of me, looked round to make sure everyone was there, and barked.  “Right!  Let’s get on with it!”

I think horsewomen develop large nipples from all that jogging up and down.  Their nipples must be perpetually rubbed.  When I went into our bedroom that night, Griselda was sitting up in bed wearing a cotton nightdress with a low neck.  Her cleavage was deep and delightfully freckled.  Her nipples, I noticed were long and poked through her thin nightdress like twin naval guns under covers.  My mouth watered. I’d get to grips with all that in a minute.  In the meantime, I had an important point to make, so I marched up to the bed and tore the covers down.

“We’re going to start as we mean to go on, Griselda,” I said sternly.

“Whatever you say, husband.”

“Nightdress off!”

“Yes husband.”

She lifted the nightdress, her magnificent tits splayed out into full view and I salivated.  Lying back, she opened her legs.  Her pussy was carpeted with luxuriant chestnut curls and her pink crack was open, waiting for me.  I’d get round to that in a minute too.

“You do understand that you’re no longer in charge here, don’t you Griselda?”

“Of course.  You’re my husband and master now.”

“Just so.”

So I unbuckled my trouser belt and pulled it out of the loops, wrapping it round my hand twice, as I’d seen the man in the garden do.  Griselda’s eyes were like plates.

“Are you going to spank me before you’ve shagged me, husband?” she asked eagerly.  “Or afterwards?”

“I’m going to do it now.  You’re going to be severely strapped for what you did to Ginny.   Very severely strapped indeed.  You’ve had it coming”

“Yes, husband, I know I have.  That was very naughty and I deserve it.  You’re right to punish me severely.”

“On your stomach!”

“Yes husband.”

She rolled over on her stomach and her magnificently developed horsewoman’s bottom can into view.  I almost burst my fly zip.

“This is exciting isn’t it!” she said eagerly.  “I haven’t been spanked since my father gave me thirty of the riding crop on my twenty-first birthday.  I’ll feel like a real woman now”

“Silence!  Grip the headboard rails!  Count!”

I raised my arm and the flying belt delivered a resounding blow across Griselda’s big bare buttocks.  They quivered elastically and ecstatically.

“One, husband.  Isn’t this exciting!”

“Quiet!”  I lifted my arm again.  There was a loud and the plump bottom quivered again.

“Two, husband.”

I whipped her with a will now, laying it on as hard as I could.  She had given it and now she would have to take it back.  One thing I was very sure of; she would know who her husband was and which of us was in charge.  She could forget all about sending me to the dungeons as she had sent Flavius, and I felt no qualms.  She had defended the custom and now she would live by it, and if she ever stepped out of line, I would thrash her until she stepped back into line again.

The thrashing continued and it was only after ten sound strokes that she started to labour.  Her strong horsewoman’s thighs were working now and her beautifully sculpted white cheeks displayed a broadening red stripe across them.  I continued remorselessly.

“Ah!  Ten, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaah!  Eleven, husband.”

I saw her head go back, and she was gasping and jerking at every stroke.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Twelve, husband.  I’m so sorry husband.”

I continued remorselessly.  Her thighs were twitching ceaselessly now and she was heaving her bottom up and down with a steady mechanical rhythm as people do when they’re in pain.

Smack!

“Aaaaah!  Ooooh!   Thirteen, husband.  I’m so, so sorry.  Please be merciful.”

She was crying into her pillow, I heard the sob in her voice.  Her thighs wriggled and her plump darkening bottom cheeks twitched ever faster.  She was in severe pain now.  The point was sinking in.

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Fourteen, husband.  No more, I beg you.”

Her whole body twitched, I could hear her crying, but I couldn’t let that soften me, any more than Ginny’s screams had softened Griselda.

“I’ll decide when you’ve been strapped severely enough, Griselda.  And you haven’t been strapped nearly enough get.”

“Of course, husband.  Please forgive my impertinence.  Please strap me to your heart’s content.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Fifteen, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Sixteen, husband.”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Aaaaaaah!   Seventeen, husband.  Mercy!”

Smack!

“Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!   Aaaaaaah   Eighteen, husband.  Mercy!  I beg you!”

I’d made my point, and I’d enjoyed it.  “I’m finished now,” I said calmly.  “Back under the covers!  On your back!  Legs open!  Crack open!”

“Yes husband.”

I undressed while she wiped her eyes and composed herself.

“I’m sorry, Griselda,” I said, “but you’ve given enough of it, so now you’ll have to take it back.”

“Yes, husband.  You’re right to correct my faults.”

“Of course I am.  I’m your husband.”

“Yes, husband.”

I undressed, climbed on the bed, and onto Griselda.  I rubbed my cock gently but pleasurably on her pussy hair.

“And now, my dear,” I whispered in her ear.  “At long last, I’m going to take my rightful possession of your cunt.”

“Yes husband,” she said, wrapping her legs right round me.  “It’s waiting to pleasure you.  But please be gentle with it.”

“Gentle?”  I laughed.  “It’s been bouncing up and down on Bronco for God knows how many years.  It surely doesn’t need gentleness!”

She swallowed.  “Bronco’s in the corner, husband, next to the wardrobe.”

I squirmed over and looked where she directed.  There, standing in the corner of the room was a very small, old, and tatty child’s rocking horse.”

“Where’s the big, knobbly dildo?”

I felt her blush.  “There never was one.  I just loved talking about sexy things with you, hoping that talking about them would make them real.  No girl in the three villages wants to admit she’s a virgin.”

“You’re a virgin?” I asked incredulously.

She bit her lip.  “I’m sorry I lied to you, darling.  Shall I fetch your strap for my further punishment?”

“Don’t be silly,” I whispered and kissed her as I slid my prick into her hot, tight, and responsive cunt.  “Oh!  That’s better.  That’s much better.”

She hugged me tightly and gasped with pleasure.  “Enjoy it to your heart’s content, my lord and master.”

“Suzie! Suzie stop! Suzie, you stop right there do you hear!!! SUZIE!! SUZIE!! SUZIE STOP!!! STOP!!! NNNOOOOOO!!!”

A passing cyclist heard the screams coming from a portly black woman as she struggled to run after a little girl who, heedless of the heavy traffic thundering along the narrow road, was running dangerously close to the kerb. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman trip and fall heavily, spilling her shopping. The little girl of mixed race turned and laughingly cried out, “You can’t catch me now Granny!” Oblivious to the danger, she suddenly she veered to the road. Taking in the situation the cyclist pushed the pedals harder to try and catch the infant. On the very edge of the kerb, Suzie paused and once more turned to call out to her grandmother. That call saved her life. The cyclist braked alongside her, preventing her further entry into the road.

Suzie looked up, startled and saw the man leap off his bike and grab her around the waist. She screamed. To her he seemed awesome. Not just old like her granny but he had a long beard and wore baggy trousers and a woolly bobble hat. As she was about to scream again, the man’s soft but forceful voice spoke to her, “Calm down, little one. You’re not hurt but it seems your granny might be. I’m going to lift you on my bike and we’re going to see how granny is doing. Okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he sat the girl on the saddle and wheeled his cycle to where the black lady was trying to get up.

“Hang on a moment, I’ll give you a hand,” the cyclist said as he parked his bike against a wall, “Just want to make sure this young lady doesn’t try to run off again.” Slipping a bungy cord from his saddlebag the cyclist clipped it around Suzie’s body and held the free end as they walked to the woman.

“Oh thank you, thank you Sir. I thought she was going to be killed.” The woman’s eyes were watering as she shakingly held out her hand and continued to enthusiastically thank the man. “Suzie,” she scolded the girl, “You must do what Grandma say otherwise you’ll end up squished like jam on the road!”

“Like Tom a Jerry!” Suzie laughed.

Turning back to the cyclist Zsuzu again profusely thanked him, and went on, “I’m Zsuzu.”

“Tom,” the man replied, “Zsuzu. That’s not a name I’ve come across before. Is your leg badly hurt?”

“I can walk. I’ll be fine.”

Tom, still holding Suzie by the cord, started picking up the spilled groceries, “Come on Suzie, help me get these things in the bags for granny.” Suzie was unsure. She’d been told often enough not to talk to strangers but this one spoke nicely and granny seemed to trust him and with a big beard he might be Father Christmas. Suzie helped. In picking up the goods, Tom noticed blood dribbling down Zsuzu’s leg. “Looks as if you have a nasty scrape on your leg,” he remarked, “Do you have far to go?”

“No. I can walk there okay. It’s only just past the second turning.”

“We’ll hang your bags on my handlebars and sit little Suzie on the saddle so she can ride and I’ll walk you home. You’d like to ride my bike again wouldn’t you Suzie?” The girl smiled and nodded, seemingly now shy. Her grandma protested feebly that she didn’t need help but Tom wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll see you home and we’ll get that leg cleaned up.” Zsuzu quietly acquiesced to Tom’s quiet insistent voice and began limping towards her home. Her leg felt stiff and sore but she knew nothing was broken.

They approached the green painted door of her house. By now her natural good humour was returning, a broad smile appeared on her face as she unlocked the door and watched Suzie clasp her arms around Tom’s neck when he lifted her from the saddle. “I don’t usually invite strange young men into my house, Tom, but would you like a cuppa?”

“Young? You are kind Zsuzu. I bet I can give you a few years.”

“Fifty-one.” Zsuzu laughed.

“Fifty-three. Told you so.” Tom announced, “Yes, I will have a cuppa but first we need to see what the damage is to that leg of yours and get it cleaned up.” After they deposited the groceries in the kitchen, Tom sat Zsuzu in a chair and raised her leg on a stool. “Pull your skirt up a bit more.” Zsuzu complied. Her shin was scraped and her knee had several cuts but Tom could see most of the blood had run down from higher up. “Right up please Zsuzu.”

“You just want to see my knickers young man.” Zsuzu was laughing as she said it, “Well why not? Not many men have seen them lately.” With one quick pull she raised the hem to her waist. For a few moments Tom was awed by the expanse of white cotton with a damp patch at the crotch. A musky smell assailed his nostrils. His cock started to harden. “You never seen a black woman’s crotch before?” Zsuzu enquired.

Tom hadn’t but Suzie saying, “Gran’s got a big booboo.” interrupted his reply.

“That’s because you didn’t do what she told you,” Tom said, “Maybe you’ll have a big booboo on your bottom later when she has smacked you for being so naughty.”

“Granny doesn’t smack,” Suzie replied petulantly, “Mummy smacks. Daddy smacks not granny.”

“Well, little Suzie, you better watch while I clean Grandma’s booboo and perhaps you’ll feel some of the pain you caused.”

Zsuzu laughed, “It wouldn’t make any difference at her age. She’s only just three. Give her a biscuit from the tin on the counter and keep her out of the way.”

“You going to mend Gran’s booboo?” Suzie asked.

“I’m going to see what I can do to make it better, Suzie but first I have to clean it.”

While Suzie sat munching Tom washed Zsuzu’s wounds. None were very deep but the worst was high up in her thigh. A nasty looking gash caused they surmised by falling on one of the tins from her shopping bag. To clean this Tom’s fingers inadvertently touched her crotch on several occasions. It didn’t seem to worry or concern Zsuzu but she noticed the bulge growing in Tom’s pants. With what now seemed to be her ever-present smile, Zsuzu touched it and remarked, “Well it seems like an old woman can still make you horny. Sorry, though, I don’t think I can accommodate you today. I am a bit sore and stiff around that area. Perhaps your wife will.”

“No wife. I live alone in the next village.”

Tom was still there chatting an hour later when Suzie’s mother, a white women arrived to pick her up. Zsuzu introduced him to Mary Ann. When told the story, Mary Ann went quite pale. “I hope Leon doesn’t get too mad when he hears about this.” Tom left soon after, promising to look in on her in the morning.

*****

As promised Tom arrived about 9:30 and parked his cycle against the house, knocked and was surprised when a tearful Mary Ann opened the door. “I don’t think you’d better come in today, Tom. Neither me ma nor me are in a fit state for you to see us,” she said.

However Suzie had other ideas. Running around her mother she dragged Tom into the room and held up her arms wanting to be picked up. Tom noticed she too had been crying. “Father Christmas, you came back. Have you come to mend granny and mummy’s bottoms? Daddy’s made them very sore,” Suzie blurted out, before clasping Tom tightly around the neck.

Tom kissed her on the forehead, “Call me Tom. Father Christmas is my father. He’s older than me and has a white beard. Mine is black.” Despite her sore backside, Zsuzu giggled at this. Turning to her, Tom asked, “So what really happened?”

“Leon blamed me for not looking after Suzie properly and decided I needed a dose of his belt as punishment.”

“He belted his own mother?”

Zsuzu nodded, “And his Mary Ann and then fucked her in front of me. He’s uncouth, just like his father.”

“And in front of Suzie too?”

“No, she’s his little darling and can’t do any wrong.” It was Mary Ann that spoke. “She watched the belting but was put in the spare room and he shut the door while he shagged me.

“You going to mend Gran’s and mummy’s bottoms now?” Suzie fidgeted and wanted to put let down on to the floor.

“Well they have to show me their bottoms first, Suzie. Perhaps they may not want me to mend them. What do you say Zsuzu?”

“I say you have a naughty way with you Tom.” Zsuzu was grinning. “Yesterday you got horny just looking at my knickers, what might happen if you see my bare bum?”

“Nothing you don’t want to happen,” replied Tom. He too was grinning. Zsuzu turned her back and lifted her skirt revealing livid lines a couple of inches wide across her arse. Even with her black skin the marks were clearly visible and obviously sore and very tender. “My God, Zsu, your own son thrashed you like that? I can’t believe it. And you let him?”

“She didn’t have a choice and neither did I,” Mary Ann interrupted. “Leon’s too strong and he tied our hands to the bed good.” Mary Ann’s use of english might not have been erudite but she got her message across.

“You were thrashed as badly as Zsu?” Tom asked.

“Same. ‘er and me we wuz lying side by side. First her used the belt from her side and then mine but both of us got hit every time.”

“Where’s the bathroom?” Tom asked. Zsuzu pointed to a door off the kitchen area. “I’ll run a cool bath and you can soak in that for a while. That’s the first stage of mending your bottoms.”

“You coming in there wi’ us?” Zsuzu enquired.

“Of course. You’re not shy are you? I won’t do anything you don’t want.” Tom went off followed by Suzie, leaving the two women talking to each other. Presently he sent Suzie to bring the two women in. “You’re not ready yet? You need to take those clothes off so the water can get to the welts.”

“And you get to see our boobies,” quipped Zsuzu, “You really are a naughty one you know.” Mary Ann cried out when Suzie poked her tender bottom. Tom admonished the young girl, “Suzie, remember it is your fault mummy and granny are so sore. You shouldn’t have run away like that. If I had been a car and not a bike you would be dead. Squashed flat.”

Despite having towels covering the bottom of the bath, Zsuzu had difficulty in kneeling because her legs were still sore and lacerated from her fall. Tom stood back for a few moments and admired the two women. Mary Ann, white skinned, well built but nowhere near as large as Zsuzu. She had good-sized tits but couldn’t compete with the large mammaries of her mother in law. Her arse though showed the effects of the belting to a far higher degree. Livid red welts now turning yellow black, criss-crossed both cheeks. Tom gently sponged water over them until some of the fire had gone. He asked where to find more towels and gave her one to dry herself before turning his attentions to Zsuzu.

“I wondered when you were going to help an old woman like me.” Tom saw she was laughing at him.

“You had more area to soak so needed more time.” Tom joked back.

“Yeah and I s’pose you wanted to keep me naked longer.”

“Of course. First time I’ve seen a naked black woman so I must make the most of it.” So the banter went on while Tom bathed her bum and legs. One of the scratches on her leg had festered and Tom gently cleaned it again. Soon though both women were dry and Tom had applied cream to the relevant areas. He’d brought a tube along thinking it was only going to be needed on Zsuzu’s legs but there was sufficient. Mary Ann decided she had better get home and after crying out a few times, managed to get her jeans on. She left taking Suzie with her. Zsuzu didn’t have the same trouble dressing, she donned a dressing gown and the pair returned to the kitchen but Zsuzu didn’t attempt to sit.

“Well now white man, you got to see just about every thing I got. You got an eyeful of my tits and even copped a feel or two of my cunt. I can see you’ve a hard on by the bulge in your trousers. How about I get a good look at you? Let me see if you’ve a small dick like most white men are supposed to have.”

“You’re a naughty woman Zsu, wanting an old man like me to strip in front of you but I guess I’ll have to keep you happy.” Tom stripped while Zsuzu leaned on the counter and watched.

“Wow, that’s not a bad size,” she exclaimed when Tom’s hard cock sprang into view, “For a white man, of course!” Zsuzu’s infectious laugh took any sting from the remark.

“You want to see what the fit is like?”

“Yeah Tom but my arse is still on fire from the sodden beating that crap son of mine gave it and I can’t kneel because of the fall yesterday.” Zsuzu leaned and took the cock in her hand and gently rubbed it between her fingers. “Perhaps if I lie on my side on the bed I can taste it.” Limping a little she led Tom by his cock to the bedroom. He stared fascinated as her tits bobbed and swayed as she walked. It had been several years since he’d had a naked woman beside him and never a black woman or indeed a woman of such large size. His cock hardened further if that was possible.

For Zsuzu too, it had been a long time. She’d had a couple of white boys in her teen years but when she married Leonard, Leon’s father she was faithful to him until her left her without warning to live with another woman, a white woman. Zsuzu had to bring up Leon on her own.

“Come here baby,” Zsuzu cried out as she pulled Tom’s throbbing cock to her mouth. Lying as she was on the bed, Tom’s cock was just the right height. Any further comment from her was limited to gurgling sounds as she slurped noisily on his man shaft. It was a revelation to Tom. One girlfriend had sucked him before sex but it seemed as if Zsuzu was going all the way and was even trying to take him further down her throat. Her arms now encircled his arse, fingers played with his hole as she kept pulling him towards her mouth and releasing him again. Never had Tom experienced anything like it and it didn’t take long before his sperm was sent down Zsuzu’s throat.

“Would you like me to suck you or anything?” Tom asked when they both lay face to face recovering on the bed.

“I’d love you to suck me off too but not many men will do that and in any case I’m a bit too sore. Perhaps if you nibble my tits for a bit.” Tom didn’t need a second bidding.

“I still don’t understand why do you allow Leon to beat you?” Tom asked when they once again lay facing each other. Tom had his hand between her thighs, gently massaging her mound.

“It’s a long story and one I don’t think I ought to tell you.”

She worked very hard at being a privileged pampered princess. Everyone liked to look at her and she did her best to give them a good show. The Sheriff had understood and after she flashed him with a taut pink nipple he had let her go home. Alas, there were still jealous meanies who raised a fuss and she was soon back in her little room. She was feeling quite despondent until the weekend rolled around and a new guard came on duty.

Her name was Sandy. She had a cute face and short dark hair but, outside her new job, Sandy didn’t have much of a life. She loved to look at pretty women and had many fantasies about them but never had the nerve to approach anyone and state her desires. On her bedroom wall were posters of Paris, Gwen, Fergie and several others that made her want to touch herself. She had figured that being a guard in a women’s lockup would give her a chance to taste many a fine pussy. Sadly, most of the girls there were some really fucked up bitches so she just did her job and chilled out with wine and fantasies when she was off work.

On Friday nights she would use her vibe and make herself cum while watching celebrity news shows that featured the adventures of upscale hotties. Pictures of starlets and debutantes filled her computer. Mmm, what if she were their best friend or maybe their maid? Mmmm, perhaps they would be very demanding and spank her if she misbehaved. She liked the idea of being under the control of such sexy women. She came very hard as she thought of being flogged by Fergie, queened by Gwen, or caned by Cameron.

On Monday morning she her got duty assignment for the next week.

Sandy was thrilled to learn that she was scheduled to work on the wing in which Paris was being held. Ms. Hilton was one of her faves and she had creamed many a panty thinking of the naughty things she would like to do with her.

Sandy approached the cell door and knocked gently. “Paris, are you awake?”

At first there was no answer so she knocked again.

Paris was lying on her bed and fllicking a well manicured nail over the crotch of her orange jumpsuit and did not want to be disturbed. Seven days without a decent orgasm was making her feel all bitchy.

“Go away!”, she said but Sandy persisted.

“Paris, my name is Sandy. I think it’s terrible that you have to be here,”

“I have all your posters and I’m a huge fan.”

“I brought some apples and grapes if you would like them.”

“Can I please come in?”

.

“Ummm, yeah, whatever,” said the naughty heiress.

She sat on the side of her bunk as Sandy entered holding the promised fruit

in a little basket adorned with pink ribbons and tiny flowers of pink and white.

Sandy knelt before her and offered her some grapes.

Paris tried one and then another. Sandy told her she was beautiful and looked at her in a way that made her feel like her sensual self.

The girl was clearly starstruck but there was more. Her petite little guard really wanted her. Paris let some grape juice drip from her mouth and was intrigued to see Sandy was wide eyed and licking her lips. Paris took several grapes into her mouth and squished them around. She drew Sandy forward for a kiss and was not disappointed. Sandy was eager for such contact and sucked up all the grapey goo that Paris fed her. They broke the messy kiss and both had a smile.

“”That’s hot,” said Paris.

“Oh, Paris, that was so great. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

“Well!”, said the svelte blonde. “We just kissed didn’t we?”

“”I loved it, Paris, but I would like to kiss you more.”

“I could get you a ‘cellie’ if you would let me kiss your pussy.”

The heiress thought for a moment about her situation. She was lost without a phone  and the unfulfilled need in her quimey was becoming urgent. Why not let the girl lick her privileged pussy? She still got tingles when she thought of that sweet girl in Tokyo who had serviced her so well. As she looked into the pleading eyes of the kneeling girl she began to appreciate how cute Sandy really was.

All things considered, it seemed like a pretty good deal.

She stood and wiggled out of her orange jumpsuit and white panties finally standing nude before Sandy. The girl hugged her from her kneeling position, kissed her belly and then began softly kissing her way downward. Sandy was blessed with a long agile tongue that found its way between Paris’s legs and was soon lapping deep inside her neatly trimmed pussy.

Paris fell back on her cot. She held tightly onto Sandy’s head and pulled her lover down with her while keeping the girl’s mouth tight to her sex. Paris loved the feel of firm hard cocks and had enjoyed many but there was a unique thrill to having a worshipping mouth lick and suck on her honey tunnel.

She began to move her hips against Sandy’s mouth and closed her thighs tightly around the girl’s face. Her cunt cream was flowing freely now and the dark haired pixie between her thighs seemed eager to drink every drop. Sandy’s tongue was better than many of the big dicks she had allowed the pleasure of her body. Somehow it was able to reach her G-spot and then sweep to her clit and make her writhe in sexual abandon.

She climaxed with a high pitched rant. “Oooo, yes, yes, suck me slut. I love fucking your mouth. You’re making me Cuummm.” With a few final thrusts, she did cum and then let her limbs go limp as she savored the moment.

Sandy calmed her lover with gentle licks and then raised her wet face.

She had removed the belt from her uniform and offered it to Paris.

:

“Please spank me, Paris, I could cum so good if you did.”

Sandy shed her clothes and began to finger her pussy.

“Ooo, this really is hot”, thought Paris. The so called prisoner ordered her so called guard to lay across the bed and had to admire the perky buns that she was about to whip into a bright pinkness. She swung the belt ten times while Sandy shamelessyly masturbated. The dark haired pixie climaxed with muted little whimpers and caught her resulting effuse in her hands. She asked Paris to turn around and ran her syrupy hands all over and deep in between the heiress’s ass cheeks. She followed with long slow licks and worked her way inward. Now it was Paris that was bending to allow Sandy full access to her pussy and ass, The girl licked her to another kneebending orgasm and she collapsed face down on her tiny bed.

Exhausted, she fell asleep and awoke alone in her cell. There, atop her basket of fruit was a cute new phone. During the day, she learned that Sandy had been fired for missing all her check in times the night before. It seemed the girl had been more interested in licking pussy than keeping her job.

;”That’s hot,” thought Paris.

She did not see Sandy again and spent the rest of her incarceration planning where she would party once released.

A few weeks later,she was making the most of her vacation basking on a secluded beach and browsing her laptop. Her fansite and inbox were filled with comments and messages.

She breezed through most but one caught her eye.

“Orally talented girl seeks position as maid or personal assistant to ladies. Call Sandy at ***-7382.

Paris ordered another daiquiri, swatted the cabana boy on his ass and began to dial.