by Sean O'Kane
“It’s amazing how much movement she can get,” Martha said eventually when Patti had wielded forty lashes by Martha’s count – across the buttocks mainly but with quite a few finding their way between the thighs and caressing the exposed vulva, which brought even more desperate wriggles from the girl.
“It’s part of the fun,” Patti conceded, “but she’s asking for it now, and it’s quite deliberate too. She wants her cunt whipped and is provoking me into it. But how she’s used is no business of a Housegirl, so she’ll be punished. However, in the meantime she will get her cunt whipping because I want you to see her get it. Hold the bar steady for me will you?”
Martha stood over the girl and held the bar steady so that her legs stayed well apart as Patti whipped her and demonstrated how the flogger could just be allowed to thump down on soft flesh with its own weight alone, or if wielded from slightly further back, the tips of the tails could be made to smack home with much more venom. Martha loved those and watched every flinch and grimace on Mel’s face. And as the tally mounted it became clear that the grimaces were more and more becoming the frowning concentration of a woman approaching orgasm. But quite suddenly Patti stopped the whipping.
“Get naked and sit on her face,” she told Martha, and with breathless haste she shed the denim skirt and loose shirt she had put on after the pony ride then turned around and sat down so that Mel’s upper face was between her spread thighs and her cunt was squashed down onto Mel’s mouth.
“Now lick her out, you little bitch!” Patti shouted and began to beat her even harder. Martha cried out in delight as she felt the tremors run through the girl’s body as the whip fell and yet her tongue began to work with exquisite care at Martha’s clitoris, and when she sucked it into her mouth as Patti thrashed her between her wide spread thighs, Martha came with a violence she hadn’t experienced since Sophie’s disappearance.
Once Martha had recovered Mel was briefly hauled up into full upside down suspension so that Martha could practise breast beating, but soon it was time for the girl to go about her business and no sooner had the door closed behind her than Patti was reaching behind her back to unzip her dress and the two of them spent the rest of that afternoon cementing their friendship on Patti’s bed. And it was as Martha tongue-lashed Patti to a third climax and the taste of the red head’s pungent sap flooding over her tongue intoxicated her with lust, that she determined to tell Brian all she could and joyfully join in the search for Sophie. She wanted to whip the tall blonde and make her come while she performed all the erotic procedures and did all the outrageous things she now knew were possible.
Martha’s decision to throw herself onto Brian’s mercy was finalised when Patti suggested that she cane her. The older woman’s generous expanse of smooth, pale flesh rippled and marked so wonderfully and Martha found it so natural to wield the cane that they had to have another frantic sixty-nine, chewing and rasping at each other’s clit until they could orgasm no more and were almost late down for dinner. Sophie should experience all this, Martha thought as she hurriedly struggled into the evening dress she had had brought over from Brian’s quarters. It was her destiny and she, Martha, her best friend, would lead her to it; kicking and struggling if necessary.
After dinner that night, Brian took her down to Dungeon One. Mel was laid on her back on another bench with her arms and legs tied out at full extension to four steel posts. The tall, grey haired man who had booked her for the night put a sling under her middle back and chained it to a vertical chain which he then shortened until Mel was arched upwards off the bench. He whipped her soundly from knees to neck and fetched the unmistakable sounds of orgasm from her after forty or fifty lashes. Patti and Martha exchanged secretive smiles. Then the needle play began and Martha had no choice in the end but to slip her hand down to her groin over her dress and blatantly rub her clitoris until she came. Brian smiled at her as she climaxed and then spent himself in the mouth of the Housegirl who was kneeling in front of him. Meanwhile the dark skinned and sweat-gleaming body in front of them heaved and groaned as yet another shiny steel spike was thrust through her labia. She sported six in each lip as Martha came for the first time, the final ones were right down at the bottom of the vulva near the anus and Mel plainly felt them most keenly as she yelled between clenched teeth and her body tried to buck and fight as best it could. The audience applauded loudly as Mel panted and groaned when that part of the procedure was complete, still facing a gruelling session of breast needling.
“Don’t worry,” Brian told Martha as Mel shook her head desperately when she saw the next collection of sealed packets brought out. “She’s just desperate for him to bugger her. She loves cock and once she’s turned on, that’s all she cares about.”
“I know,” Martha said, smiling as she saw the drops of vaginal sap bedewing the back of her slit. But the erotic impact of the long, guttural groan that greeted her first nipple piercing had every Housegirl in the room on her knees and pleasing the members as Mel entertained them with a full symphony of erotic suffering. Martha started rubbing herself again as she spotted the thick flow of sap that oozed out of Mel’s cunt from between the pierced labia.
It was very late and fully dark when Martha and Brian sleepily made their way back to his quarters.
“God, I loved the way he kept the one through the actual clit right till the end. She was really far gone by then but she felt that alright!” Martha said quietly.
Mel’s final heave and scream at that needle, coming as it did after two needles in each nipple and then eight more through the meat of each breast around the areolas had brought rapturous applause and at last the company had departed to satisfy itself in whatever way took its fancy. Martha had kissed Patti good night and said she hoped that Mel was getting the buggering she fully deserved. Both Brian and Patti had laughed.
“Oh, I think you can rest assured on that point. He’s famous for his endurance after a good session like that. The girls reckon he’s well worth the pain beforehand,” Patti told her.
As they walked from one pool of light to another along the lit pathway through the woods, Martha told him of the afternoon’s events and that she had reached a decision. Beside her she felt Brian tense and for a moment wondered if Patti had been in on a ‘get it out of her’ conspiracy, but she ploughed on for better or worse.
“All I can tell you is that she sometimes talked about a company her parents had in Houston. I reckon that when you spooked her that was where she went. And if it’ll help I’ll come and look for her with you.”
She looked at him anxiously, terrified of hearing herself dismissed.
“Well, it’s a start,” he said at last. “And, hey! A six foot blonde English beauty in Texas shouldn’t be that hard to find! Now, do you want a slave tonight, or shall we have one tomorrow night?”
Martha melted with relief and feeling half drunk on lust and exultation, reached out to touch the front of his trousers which already held a flatteringly hard bulge.
“Let’s have one tomorrow. Why should Mel get all the fun tonight? There’s other girls around here who could use a decent buggering.”
Chapter Two
In the baroque splendour of the Schlloss Gruberstrasse, the Council of Owners – the regular forum of the super-rich who owned and operated the modern arenas -was drawing to a close for the day. It was the second day and several important decisions had been taken. The Owners, almost by definition, were not natural committee men and liked things to move quickly. It had been put to a vote and passed that a group of them should use their influence to mobilise all forms of media to publicise to all nations the benefits that Britain was experiencing from legalising slavery as a form of punishment so that the arenas could purchase as many slaves as they needed quite openly. A target of four years had been set, by which time the aim was to have the arenas legally established in all European countries. Again Britain’s example was to be pushed using all the weapons of wealth and power that the Owners had at the
ir disposal. Those arenas which had been started up in less developed countries were now under orders from the Council to use their influence – and their ability to pull in foreign currency - to increase the export of slaves for auction. Squad sizes were to be increased to one hundred and twenty girls as it was felt that the finales on the third day of the games were not as long lasting and satisfying for the crowds as they had been. The increased number of studded whip duels and the increase in the staging of full squad log-pulls and the Demolition Derbies were exhausting the squads. So holding a few fresh slaves in reserve to hurl into the finale was thought to be a good idea. The increase in numbers would also enable the stables to reduce the cost to the public of hiring slaves for play sessions at the games and of having them earn their keep as prostitutes in between games. This latter point was very much a part of the strategy for spreading the arenas through Europe as the taxes on the arenas’ revenues were producing astronomical growth in Britain.
On the schedule for the final day was the use of studded tack in all chariot races and pony races – at the moment it was up to individual stables and was negotiated before the start of each games. There were new specifications for whips for each event to be voted on. Most controversially there was a Russian proposal that all the whips the slaves used against each other should be studded and that squad numbers should therefore be increased to a hundred and forty, to allow for wastage – as the motion put it. It had been seconded by a Chinese stable, but everyone knew that the stables in those countries had an embarrassment of riches when it came to sheer numbers of slaves and it was likely to be voted down.
For Prince Hassan ibn Faud of Bakhtar, it was the later part of the final day’s schedule that involved him most. He stretched languidly as the Baron von Anstgruber brought proceedings to a close. The Council had met in the marbled ballroom of his ancestral home, where vast family portraits vied with tapestries, ostentatious scrolled plaster work and gilded cherubs for space on the walls and ceiling. But on this occasion they had stiff competition; the Baron was a devotee of girl milk and he kept a private dairy herd.
Between each huge painting a naked girl had been chained, arms stretched straight up above her and legs bound together and chained tightly to the floor. They had been stretched up onto tip toe to minimise the amount of wriggling they were capable of but as the afternoon had worn on soft, gag-muffled mews of protest and some fidgeting had hastened the winding up of proceedings. As the baron had said, the girls would provide a natural signal that work should cease for the day and the evening’s pleasures should begin. It was very simple; they needed milking. Their massive breasts needed emptying and the growing discomfort they caused was now providing a constant background moan that echoed around the hall. For seasoned gourmets of female pain and pleasure, it was an enjoyable sound and one the Prince was familiar with as he kept a few milkers himself. He was not overly fond of the milk they produced but loved the process by which it was obtained, and he and his trainer had found that a surprising number of arena slaves were partial to it as well. As a result they now kept a substantial amount in readiness as a reward for good performances in games.
Now, as the hall filled with the sound of chairs sqeaking on the polished floor and voices and laughter echoing under the high ceiling, he looked at the range of girls on view. They came in all colours, shapes and sizes but had a few adornments in common. Apart from the cuffs at wrists and ankles, each girl also sported a chain that ran over her hips and dived down into her crotch. It was drawn up tightly into the sex cleft so that the lips were clearly defined. The baron kept them strictly off limits below the waist and the Prince knew that each chain supported steel shafts in the front and rear passages and only a special key that fitted into the bases of the shafts and the clasp of the chain would release them. In short each girl was stuffed to her limits and any attempt to remove the shafts would be fruitless. As a by-product this feature also helped increase the charming, wide-eyed look of discomfort and dismay on the girls’ faces as the pain in their breasts steadily augmented the discomfort in their nether regions. The Prince surveyed the line of huge, tear shiny eyes, some dark, some brown or hazel and some blue, that mutely implored him for relief above the ball gags that rendered them able to only groan softly.
But it wasn’t down to him to offer them relief. Their only other apparel was a steel disc over each nipple, kept in place by a thick barbell that pierced each prominent, rosy and hard nubbin. The baron’s own grooms would be along in due course to remove the barbells and release the discs so that palpation could at last administer relief. It was down to him and the other guests to add to the girls’ torments in the meantime, and it was this that the Prince loved so much. It was the way the big eyes would plead and hope and then widen in horror even further when they saw the whips. And then there were the extraordinary gyrations they were capable of under the lashes until finally relief was allowed and the way their eyes softened and relaxed as they were milked was exquisite. And finally of course there was the look of pure gratitude towards their owners and tormentors for having brought an end to their suffering – which was about to slowly begin all over again. It took weeks of continuous palpation to get a girl to lactate fully but it was effort well expended as far as he was concerned. There were hormonal treatments around now which could produce the required result quite easily and quickly, but the Prince felt that was cheating. A girl should be given plenty of time to come to terms with her destiny, he felt. It made her distress so much more enjoyable and her gratitude at each bout of relief so much more genuine.
He chose an olive skinned beauty and strode towards her where she writhed, thrusting out her enormous breasts in supplication. The edges of her tawny areolas were just visible around the shining discs that covered her nipples. The breasts themselves were smooth skinned mounds that strained towards him and beneath his fingers were unnaturally firm. Despite her distress, the girl’s eyes closed in ecstasy as she felt his touch. Whatever lay in store for her beforehand, the touch of a Master meant that soon there would be relief. For a few moments he contented himself with stroking the huge melons and letting her enjoy his touch. Then he reached for the whip that hung beside her and once again he was treated to the wide, dark eyes, begging as she shook her head desperately.
The whip had slender tails that were fairly light and were designed to sting the sensitive, stretched skin. Frantically the girl bent her torso this way and that, even managing a few half-twists away from the tormenting lash, but only when her tears had achieved sufficient volume to trickle down her cheeks, find their way under the gag straps and drip off her chin to adorn the swelling upper slopes of the breasts, now darkened and vein crazed, did he stop. By that time the grooms had appeared with trays bearing jugs.
Now the ballroom began to echo to a different sound as the high-pitched shrieks began to fade and a gentle, descending sighing filled the echoing chamber. The Prince watched the groom’s capable fingers unscrew the balls on one end of the barbells, slip them out and remove the discs, then she retrieved her jug and held it up with one hand while she began to knead the distended tit. Her fingers sank deep into the flesh and the girl moaned again as the thick pre-flow oozed out and was soon followed by the thin jets of real milk that sprayed into the jug. He watched the groom’s fingers sink deeply and firmly into the increasingly slack flesh of the breast until he was interrupted by the baron.
“When I serve liebfraumilch, I really serve liebfraumilch!” he said heartily and held a glass out for the groom to fill, then sipped it with obvious satisfaction. “I’ve been adding varying amounts of different kinds of fruit to their diets you know,” he said after smacking his lips appreciatively. “This one’s got a hint of peach at the back of the tongue. Try some!”
The groom held a small glass up to the right nipple and expressed some more of the fluid before handing it to the Prince who raised it to his nose and sampled the bouquet before taking a sip to roll around his mouth before swallowing.
“That’s an idea. I’ll tell my staff to begin trials. But whatever goes into it, it always comes out best from a well-whipped tit, eh?”
They both held their glasses out for a refill and then toasted well-whipped tits.
“Just want you to know,” the baron said afterwards, leading the Prince away from the slaves and towards a quieter area of the room. “I like your idea and will definitely vote for it. There might be some opposition mind you, but I’ll speak up in favour and I think several others will too. We need a calendar quite separate from the arenas, there’s so much enthusiasm for the sport we’d be fools to miss the opportunity.”
“Someone will do it if we don’t,” the Prince agreed.
“I’ll do some persuading over dinner, you might look out Kavanagh from the Blues. He’s reluctant but I think you could talk him round and he might bring some others along.”
The host treated his guests to several entertaining bouts of boxing and wrestling during dinner, and afterwards as they all mingled in one of the state drawing rooms the Prince did manage to talk to one or two owners and put forward his arguments in favour of a series of ‘Classics’. He eventually selected a pair of Slavic blondes for his bed companions and took them to his room in a reasonably optimistic mood.
“But there’s a growing number of ponies being run professionally who aren’t chipped. How would we adjust things for that – if at all?”
