Miss Bridget's Girls

by Robin Bond

  “Undoubtedly,” agree Cynthia. She was fairly sure Mrs Marinello wasn’t wearing a bra under her t-shirt, which was quite tight over her neat little breasts. Cynthia could see two little bumps where the nipples would be. She had a sudden urge to pull up the t-shirt and fasten her teeth on one of the nipples. Instead, she took a sip of wine.

  “I’m married, as you surely realise,” Mrs Marinello began. “Prior to meeting my husband I had mainly been lesbian, with not much interest in men at all, physically. Overnight that changed, and my husband and I have a very fulfilling relationship.”

  Lucky man, thought Cynthia.

  “However,” Mrs Marinello continued, “I have an occasional urge to revert to my old ways. My husband is very understanding, but he doesn’t like me to go cruising for company in bars or online. He’s afraid it might become known and he prefers I keep my lesbian tendencies a secret. I am grateful for his tolerance; many men would find it hard to deal with this, would see it as a threat to their masculinity.”

  Ah, their precious masculinity, thought Cynthia.

  “So, he prefers if I find a professional. And there is another reason for that. I need to hurt the girls I am with. I can only get full satisfaction if at the moment of my gratification the other girl is crying out in pain. It’s a kink I have, have always had. But it’s not easy to find girls who actually enjoy this sort of thing to the extent that I do. And so I pay handsomely to inflict as much pain as pleases me. What’s curious is that it doesn’t work when I’m with a man. If anything, I like my husband to hurt me a little when he fucks me.”

  “I see,” said Cynthia. She thought she did, more or less. In any case she was not here to analyse but to supply a service. If Mrs Marinello wanted to hurt someone to help her come, then Cynthia would do her best to oblige. That, after all, was what the sessions with Miss Bridget and Miss Flora were all about; training in how to absorb the maximum amount of pain as a contribution to another’s pleasure.

  “May I ask what kind of pain you like to administer, Mrs Marinello?” Cynthia said.

  “Show me your nipples,” Mrs Marinello ordered. Cynthia took off her blouse and bra and sat with her breasts exposed for Mrs Marinello’s inspection. She observed them carefully, then took one nipple between her finger and thumb and began to roll it around, then pull on it and finally twist, gently at first, then harder. Cynthia gasped.

  Mrs Marinello let go. Cynthia looked down. Her nipple was as hard as a cherry-stone.

  “Very promising,” said Mrs Marinello. “Some girls have nipples that are so small you cannot get a proper purchase on them. I like to abuse a good pair of nipples till the poor girl screams. I clamp them, I tie them up, I suspend weights from them, I whip them. I bite them. Sometimes I stick sharp objects into them, or drop hot wax. Once I even used a lighted cigarette. Have you ever had that?”

  She looked at Cynthia, as if assessing whether the girl was disturbed by the threat of torture. Cynthia shook her head, but she was not phased. Both Miss Bridget and Miss Flora had complimented her on her tolerance of pain. In fact she more than tolerated it. In the right hands she positively revelled in it; she had known herself to orgasm from nipple pain alone. Whether it was deliberate or no (Miss Bridget could be secretive at times), she and Mrs Marinello had been well-matched, it seemed.

  Mrs Marinello put both hands on Cynthia’s breasts and began to massage them, a soothing feeling. She stared at the nipples again. “Have you ever considered nipple piercing?” she asked Cynthia.

  “No, not really,” said Cynthia.

  “I’m asking because I know that at some point I shall want a girl with pierced nipples. If I find you suit me, that girl might be you. What I should really like would be to pay for a girl to be pierced, and to watch it done. Of course we should have to consult Miss Bridget. Something for the future, perhaps.”

  Cynthia smiled. If Miss Bridget ordered her to be pierced, it would be difficult to refuse. Perhaps she might look good. She tried to imagine what sort of piercing might be the prettiest. She rather favoured rings, although barbells appeared to be more fashionable.

  “Let’s go up to the bedroom,” Mrs Marinello said. She led the way upstairs, Cynthia following, looking at Mrs Marinello’s bottom tightly encased in her jeans and moving gracefully from side to side. But bottoms, thought Cynthia, did not seem to be in play today.

  Up in the bedroom, Mrs Marinello said, “We’d better have all your clothes off, my dear.”

  Cynthia slipped out of her skirt and knickers, kicking off her shoes. Mrs Marinello made a gesture for her to turn around.

  “Cute little ass,” she said, and smacked Cynthia’s bottom hard. Perhaps bottoms are not completely off the agenda, Cynthia thought.

  “Sit down on the chair,” Mrs Marinello said, indicating a wooden chair by her dressing table. In the corner of the room was a small fridge. From it Mrs Marinello took an ice tray. She laid a towel across Cynthia’s lap, then took an ice cube in each hand and began to press them against Cynthia’s nipples. Immediately they grew hard again, then harder, if that were possible. The melted ice ran down Cynthia’s chest and onto her belly, even between her legs. Cynthia’s nipples began to ache.

  “Time for some enlargement,” Mrs Marinello said. Cynthia thought they looked pretty big already, bigger than she had ever seen them. Mrs Marinello opened a drawer in her dressing table and took out two plastic cylinders. Cynthia had seen such things before, but never tried them. Inside the tubes were close-fitting screws which as they were turned sucked the air out of the tubes, forcing the nipples to enlarge. Mrs Marinello moistened the base of the tubes, then pressed one firmly against Cynthia’s left nipple and began to turn the screw. Gradually the suction acted on the nipple, making it swell. When she had got to the maximum, Mrs Marinello applied the other tube.

  Cynthia sat on the chair, the two tubes sticking out from her breasts. It began to get painful. Cynthia made a noise of discomfort. “We must give them time to work their full effect,” Mrs Marinello said soothingly. “Whatever you do, don’t try to take them off.”

  Cynthia was getting to the point where that was exactly what she most wanted to do. Soon it was the thing she most wanted in all the world. Still Mrs Marinello sat watching her. She likes to see pain, Cynthia thought. She likes to watch a girl suffer.

  At last Mrs Marinello took the suction tubes off. Cynthia stared at her nipples. They were twice the size they had ever been. Mrs Marinello took hold of them and squeezed gently. “Perfect,” she said. She leaned forward and began to suck them, first one then the other. The feeling was good, exciting even. Cynthia sighed. She felt Mrs Marinello’s teeth grazing the nipple, threatening to bite, though she did not. She lifted her head and began to rub the nipples and flick them with her fingers and pinch and twist. It was the kind of pain that Cynthia enjoyed. She could feel her cunt beginning to tingle. She clenched her legs together; she was sure she was getting wet.

  “Now,” said Mrs Marinello, “we’re going to develop the pain, grow it, little by little. I’m afraid it will get so bad that I must restrain you, otherwise you might find it difficult to keep still.”

  Cynthia was beginning to feel a bit apprehensive. Up till now, the attention to her nipples had been pleasurable. Now, it threatened to get more difficult to bear. Mrs Marinello took some steel cuffs from the drawer , threaded them through a strut at the back of the chair and clicked them around Cynthia’s wrists. Her wrists were securely pinioned behind her

  “Let’s try some pegs,” Mrs Marinello said. “That’s a nice gentle way of getting started with clamps and the like.”

  She took a couple of wooden clothes pegs and put them on Cynthia’s nipples. The effect was quite agreeable; a pleasing pressure, which only very slowly increased.

  “Well,” said Mrs Marinello, “I think we need something more than that.” She replaced the wooden pegs with some brightly coloured plastic ones. These were much more painful. Cynthia could feel the pain growing even after a couple of
minutes. Mrs Marinello took hold of the pegs and twisted them. Cynthia cried out at the fierce pain. Mrs Marinello smiled and let go. Then after a minute she twisted them again, this time savagely. Cynthia cried out again. It was bad, a sharp, stabbing pain, like needles.

  Mrs Marinello took the pegs off, much to Cynthia’s relief, though she knew there was worse to come. Doubtless much worse. Mrs Marinello began to slap Cynthia’s breasts, using both hands, left, right. Her breasts stung. Cynthia wanted to move away, but the cuffs held her.

  After the slapping Mrs Marinello bound Cynthia’s breasts. She took a length of rope and wound it round, starting at the base of one breast, pulling it tight, so tight that Cynthia gasped. The rope went round several times and was tied off. Mrs Marinello repeated this on the other breast. Cynthia looked down on them. She wasn’t sure if she liked the effect. It wasn’t elegant, but the rope was tight enough to cause discomfort, which Cynthia knew would eventually develop into pain. Plus, her breasts, bunched, sticking out, felt horribly vulnerable to whatever outrage Mrs Marinello planned next.

  This time the clamps were steel ones, pieces of surgical equipment used to suture wounds. Mrs Marinello squeezed them onto Cynthia’s nipples. The effect was painful from the start. Cynthia groaned.

  “I thought that might get through to you,” Mrs Marinello laughed. She twisted the devices. It was agony.

  “I like to start with compression,” said Mrs Marinello. “Then we mix in some percussive effects, and combine them with compression.” She sat in silence and watched Cynthia suffer. A bead of sweat rolled down Cynthia’s brow. Slowly Mrs Marinello removed the clamps, which hurt even more, so that Cynthia screamed.

  “Hush, my dear,” said Mrs Marinello. “You’ll frighten the cat.”

  She got out a little box containing lots of small rubber rings. There was a strange metal device, onto which you put a ring. When you pressed the ends of the device it expanded, stretching the ring, which could then be fitted over the nipple. The device was then pulled away, leaving the nipple neatly and tightly encased. Mrs Marinello applied a ring to each nipple. At first it felt almost pleasant to have one’s nipples held in this way. But the ring soon got tighter and tighter. Mrs Marinello flicked Cynthia’s nipples with her fingers. Cynthia gasped.

  “Oh, I know what’s good with these,” said Mrs Marinello enthusiastically. From the drawer she produced a thin, springy length of steel. Mrs Marinello held one end, pulled back the other end and let it go, so that it snapped against Cynthia’s nipple like a whiplash. The pain was excruciating. Mrs Marinello held the nasty little thing against Cynthia’s other nipple. “Oh, please,” Cynthia begged. “It hurts so!”

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Mrs Marinello said. “But never mind. Eventually it will all be over and then you can look back and feel proud of yourself that you suffered so prettily. I shall be able to write Miss Bridget saying how much I enjoyed your writhing around and your cries of distress..” She snapped the steel stick onto Cynthia’s other nipple. Cynthia gave a sort of wail. A tear ran down her cheek. Mrs Marinello put out a finger, scooped the tear up and held it to her lips, licking it off her finger.

  “I love it when I can actually taste the pain,” she said. She stroked Cynthia’s cheek gently. “Poor little girl,” she said. “I enjoyed that so much I simply have to do it again.” The second time Mrs Marinello managed to flick the end of the stick onto exactly the same spots as before. Cynthia thrashed around in a desperate but hopeless attempt to get free.

  “It’s called a Sadistick,” said Mrs Marinello. “Ingenious name, don’t you think. Have you ever read the divine marquis, by the way?”

  Cynthia had heard of the Marquis de Sade but never read him, and shook her head.

  “He can be a little prolix, but he has some ingenious ideas for torture,” Mrs Marinello said. “His long-suffering Justine is a delightful creation.”

  Mrs Marinello searched in the drawer again and came up with a little wheel with handle attached. The wheel had steel spikes set into it. Mrs Marinello held the wheel to Cynthia’s naked thigh and ran it lightly over the skin. Cynthia flinched. The spikes were devilish sharp. Mrs Marinello giggled.

  “I love this little thing,” she said. “It’s infinitely variable. One can just excite the skin, make it tingle, or press harder and then there’s a delicious pain, but if one is really in the mood one can press really strongly. You can usually get blood that way.”

  Cynthia shuddered. Mrs Marinello ran the wheel slowly across the top of Cynthia’s left breast. Cynthia flinched. It pricked badly; but she was all too aware of how easy it would be for Mrs Marinello to do it much harder. Mrs Marinello moved the wheel to Cynthia’s right breast. This time she did press harder. Cynthia whimpered. Her breasts were sore enough already. If Mrs Marinello pushed the wheel hard over her nipples she knew she would scream. It occurred to her that this was precisely what Mrs Marinello wanted. Cynthia glanced at Mrs Marinello’s t-shirt. Her own nipples stood out strongly. She had a suspicion that Mrs Marinello’s pussy was wet. She’d like to see it. She imagined it to be a pussy of distinction. Miss Bridget had told them that the vaginas of the clients were not to be referred to as cunts. They are pussies to you, Miss Bridget had said. Pussies are powerful, privileged, pampered, not common little cunts like yours. You will defer to them. It will be your duty to pleasure them.

  Cynthia would have been happy to pleasure Mrs Marinello’s pussy at considerable length, if only she had been allowed. Unfortunately, Mrs Marinello was intent on tormenting poor Cynthia’s nipples even further. She pressed the nasty little wheel hard down on Cynthia’s breasts, so hard Cynthia was sure it would break the skin. Then she moved the wheel across the tender flesh until it reached the nipple. Mrs Marinello rolled the wheel to and fro over Cynthia’s nipple, and she cried out in pain.

  “Very good,” said Mrs Marinello, delighted at the effect. “Now let’s try the other one.”

  She pushed the wheel right across Cynthia’s chest to the other side. Cynthia looked down. In fact the spikes were not quite breaking the skin, but they had left a trail of little red marks. When the wheel reached the other nipple Cynthia cried out again.

  “I think we’re getting near now,” said Mrs Marinello with satisfaction. “I think some beating and then I’ll be ready.”

  Cynthia’s breasts were still bound. They ached now after a long time so tightly tied, and had gone a purple colour. But Mrs Marinello needed to complete her pleasure before there could be any relief. She went to a cupboard and came back with a flogger, made of soft deerskin. She slashed it hard across Cynthia’s breasts. It stung, not the worst pain Cynthia had ever had, but with her breasts still bound and quite defenceless, and after the extreme torture of her nipples, the flogger made her catch her breath.

  “Just a warm-up,” said Mrs Marinello, putting it aside. She went back to the cupboard and returned with a whip, a cruel-looking thing, with a short wooden handle from which hung a single tail of braided pigskin.

  “This can be quite vicious if I wield it in the right way,” said Mrs Marinello. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  She swung the whip and caught Cynthia right across both breasts. The nipples felt as if they had been burned with hot metal. The pain was insufferable, surely. But suffer it she must. She knew it was hopeless to appeal to Mrs Marinello’s mercy. There would be none until she had reached her aim. The whip lashed her, and then again, and again. Cynthia screamed. Sweat dripped from her face and her chest, down her belly and in between her legs.

  Mrs Marinello dropped the whip and fetched a cane. It was short and thin and whippy. Cynthia eyed it with terror. No, surely not a cane on her breasts. It would do damage; Miss Bridget would not like that. But Miss Bridget wasn’t here. Instead, Cynthia was in the hands of a woman seemingly possessed. Her eyes were staring, her mouth parted.

  Before she used the cane, Mrs Marinello took her clothes off. Cynthia just had time to observe what a pretty body she had, lithe and gra
ceful, with a generous bush of blonde hair between her legs. To Cynthia’s surprise, Mrs Marinello released her from her cuffs. She ordered her to lie on her back on the floor, then Mrs Marinello sat on her face. She put her full weight down, pressing her pussy against Cynthia’s mouth, and lifted the cane, bringing it down hard, on the lower part of Cynthia’s breasts, just below the nipple. Cynthia let out another scream, though muffled by Mrs Marinello’s pussy.

  “So good, so very good,” said Mrs Marinello. She began to grind her pussy against Cynthia’s mouth. Cynthia co-operated, trying to lick her clit as well as she could; the sooner Mrs Marinello came, the sooner Cynthia’s agony would stop. The next stroke of the cane fell just above the nipples. Mrs Marinello, evidently excited, ground herself harder against Cynthia’s face. The third stroke landed full across the nipples; Cynthia screamed with all her might. This must stop. She resolved to reach up and protect herself before the next stroke, whatever the consequences. But at that moment Mrs Marinello cried out herself, her hips convulsing, her pussy pressing down even harder onto Cynthia’s mouth as the orgasm shook her.

  When her body had ceased its shaking, she climbed off Cynthia. “You can get up now,” she said. “It’s over for today. I must say, you’ve been a good sport. I’ve never had a girl take as much as you did. I shall write Miss Bridget a very appreciative note. And I’ll be making another booking soon.”

  Cynthia hoped not too soon; her nipples would be sore for days. But Mrs Marinello seemed in earnest. “There are a few more things we can try,” she said. “There’s electric shocks; I’ve got such a neat little machine. We can try hot candle wax. We can squeeze your adorable little tits in a wooden frame, or tie weights to the nipples and see how far they stretch. One thing I especially like is trampling. Did you ever do that?”

  “No, Mrs Marinello,” Cynthia said.

  “Such fun,” said Mrs Marinello. “You simply sit up to a table, lean forward and put your tits down on it, and I step up on the table in bare feet and put my weight on your tits and nipples, or stamp down with my heels if I feel especially mean. Which I do quite often,” Mrs Marinello added, rather unnecessarily, Cynthia thought. “You’d be surprised how effective it is. And of course there are always needles. I like to use them to make pretty patterns around the nipples.”