Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  What thing did he seek out in her private place and what 'bolt' did he mean? Ever since sunset, when she had been brought here, she had understood so little.

  'It is a place where slaves are first assessed, and then schooled... for them to learn... so that they shall appreciate their masters all the better... if indeed the slaves should eventually return from there, wiser from their instruction and punishments,' Sollinicus, her master, had told her in that tone of his that suggested his exasperation with her.

  He had continued then, almost sadly. 'If the gods only knew how much my heart and soul have been rent asunder by your sullen treatment of me, Aquistana, surely they would spare me the further torment of permitting your daily presence... never smiling, always cold... unwillingly obedient but only to show your disdain for me, as if you despise your poor master. And those big eyes of yours! Always so insolently they regard me!'

  For some while she had nurtured the merest suspicion of it, but not really suspecting that his feelings for her were anything beyond what any master would have for a lowly house-slave. True, she was sullen, but only because of her deep inner sadness. After all, she had nothing to rejoice at, she so far from her home, from her family and her people. Loneliness and sadness were her only daily companions, together with her fading memories. She would go about her tasks mechanically, but not without sufficient diligence and care, and always obeying silently, bowing at his every command.

  Only that one time had he beaten her, more out of his frustration at her silent acquiescence, than for any actual misdemeanour. She could recall the occasion vividly, but more with resignation now than anger. Certainly she had felt that initial fury and humiliation rise within her like a volcano at the time. Her eyes had smouldered with hatred for him at her hurt pride and demolished dignity, when eventually he had turned her and looked into her face.

  'I shall beat you like I would beat a naughty child,' he had announced, beckoning her to where he was sitting. 'Lift your robe up! Higher. Now come over my lap.'

  She had complied meekly, silently and with as much dignity as she could muster. Bending across his bared knees, she had immediately felt the icy tingling shock as her smooth belly touched his hairy skin. Lying there rigidly in that awkward pose, her bottom exposed in such naked abandon, for a few seconds it was as if he had become paralysed by the intimate burden on his legs. Then he had pushed the hem of her robe further up her back with a trembling hand, as if the target were not already sufficiently free of impediment. She had felt him shift his balance. Then she was aware of him raising his arm high above his shoulder, before finally the palm of his hand came down hard on her right buttock.

  It was more the shocking unfamiliarity, rather than the actual pain that had made her yelp aloud, her pelvis jerking involuntarily upwards. Without a moment of delay the next stinging blow came on her same right buttock. But then, as if he had somehow recognised the need for a fairer distribution, the next blow had come to her left flank. For this he had needed to lean back slightly to accommodate the more confined sweep of his arm. Then the blows had come randomly, six or seven, she was not sure precisely how many, so humiliated had she been and seething in her silent fury.

  She could recall, even now, how flushed his face had been, and how he was breathless at the end. She had glared back at him with smouldering eyes, yet saying nothing, until eventually he had pushed her away irritably, before getting shakily to his feet.

  Thereafter he had scarcely raised his voice at her - perhaps ashamed at his own anger - even though she could tell his exasperation as he watched her going silently about her work, never so much as a trace of a contented smile upon her face, and now more sullen than ever before.

  He would chide her. 'Your face is like the cold stone of idols, frozen in their perpetual frowns of disdain for living mortals.'

  Then he would add, 'I command you to be joyous while you work, and when I look upon your countenance you will smile back at me. This I order you.'

  But she would ignore him, hurrying to complete the task and gliding silently from the room. Then he would shout after her:

  'Other masters beat their slaves for less. Whereas I never beat you. And I dress you in finely-threaded robes and not the coarse linen of ordinary slave-girls. And do I not put sandals on your feet so you do not walk bare-soled in the dusty ground? And I feed you not with servants' gruel, but with the same lean meat that you serve at my table... and still your eyes are black cold beads that avoid my gaze.'

  All these recollections came to her, even as she knelt here in such debasing posture, conscious of the impure proximity of her inquisitor, and wondering still at his words. What thing was this 'bolting'? She had no concept of it, knowing only that whatever it was it could scarcely be desirable.

  But now, as her mind deliberated in vain, he touched her between her legs - this time his fingertips alighting on the backward thrusting pouch of her femininity. The shock made her gasp, her body giving a little shudder of objection, even though she knew better than to pull away. Concentrating, she kept her body rigid, every nerve-end crying out; every muscle and tendon straining; the cold fury of her soul contained within. At first his finger only circled her satin enclave. Then she felt a fingertip trace slowly along the central slit of her puckered hood, nudging into the soft pulp between. It was as though he were exploring her, or perhaps testing the limits of her complicity.

  But she did not deign to react, only holding herself yet more rigidly, even if the soft folds of her tissue had become as dry as desert sand, the natural moisture of her inner private sanctum as though sucked out by the wicked invasion. Her upper legs were like the youthful trunks of willow trees, lean, lissom and strong, anchored determinedly to the ground beneath, and holding her body poised there with a natural gracefulness that defied the debasement of her posture.

  She closed her eyes, willing his finger to withdraw. But it did not, instead only pushing further in, at once encountering the gossamer membrane of her resistance. She felt the tiny pulses of his excitement then, as the irreverent tip of his flesh felt around the drum-tight skin, curious for where the natural tiny breach would be, before then finally locating the narrow channel and wiggling itself into the confined perforation.

  'Ahaha, girl! So you have denied your master his lustful entry into you? Or perhaps he denied you the privilege of his own entry into you?' The inquisitor seemed incredulous, even that his own lust was high. 'Furthermore I can see that he has put no bolt in you as punishment.'

  The inquisitor was clearly perplexed, but he was still searching the soft intricate labyrinth, as if to finally confirm that he had not been deceived. Again Aquistana felt his grunting breath upon the spread valley of her rump.

  'So, your master neither beats you, either with leather or whip, nor does he bolt you, by all accounts. He's indeed a most patient man... not even visiting his own bolt of flesh upon you.' The inquisitor sniffed at her, she hearing how his nostrils took in her sweating scent.

  It was then that he withdrew reluctantly from inside her, his finger slipping out from her only slowly, letting the folds of her tissue close again gently over the impure void of his departure.

  'Yet still he sends you here, all the same... for us to teach you respect for him and to make you obedient...' here he paused, before adding slyly, '...and not least for us to administer the deserved punishment that he himself declines to give.'

  The inquisitor sighed, rising to his feet and standing back now for a moment, studying her hindquarters. Then he glanced over at the two other panel members and without a word being exchanged between them, the man and woman only nodded.

  He turned again to the girl below, seeing how she was still as rigid as some stone sculpture in that perverse bottom-thrusting poise. He marvelled at the illicit beauty. Perhaps he would even commission the Roman artist, Felitaveus, to fashion some erotic statue for him of a girl in this servile posture, he thought vaguely to himself, the sudden notion at once pleasing to his senses.
r />   But the inquisitor became businesslike again, speaking down to the slave-girl.

  'Obedience is best taught by showing the errant pupil the consequences of such disobedience... so the wake of her agony will linger enough to remind the pupil that obedience is preferable to disobedience!'

  He turned then to the guard behind and curtly ordered:

  'Bring me the black Learning whip.'

  Aquistana heard the words, a tiny pulse of fear surging through her. But still she did not move, keeping herself no less rigid than before. Neither did she turn her head so much as a fraction, even when she heard the guard's heavy footsteps hastily returning. There was a brief silence, and then a muted rustling sound... and then finally an evil little zipping swish, as if some tensile shaft of leather had sliced the air.

  A coldness crept into her heart, and a little shudder of unwilled anticipation seized her body, causing a momentary weakness in the taut muscles and sinews of her legs. Even though the whip had only swiped uselessly at the air - perhaps in a cunning act of torment designed to sharpen her fear - the sudden brutal movement was almost as if she had borne the full brunt of its delivery, her bottom having flinched with involuntary expectancy.

  He laughed.

  'Oh, yes my proud beauty. You may well quiver. Though, when the stinging blow eventually comes to your pretty mounts you will do more than quiver. You will suffer the pain of a dozen scorpion stings, Aquistana. Not just one lash but several, until I'm convinced that your lesson's learned... and that you will henceforth obey, rather than defy your master's wishes.'

  Again there was silence from behind her. Without moving her downcast head, Aquistana glanced up beneath her eyelashes at where the two panel members still sat. Devoid of all emotion, they coldly watched her dejection. She could almost see from their eyes when the inquisitor's blow was going to come. But still it seemed he was in no hurry, the leather hovering there above her rump, tormenting her, waiting for the moment. So cruelly heightened was the tension, it came almost as a relief to her when finally the blow was unleashed... a vicious downward swipe that cut simultaneously across both crests of her rump.

  'THWAAACK.' The sound of leather on flesh was starkly loud, seeming almost to echo around the stone expanse of the chamber.

  She gasped out, a quick secondary breath catching in her throat. The impact made her jerk forward, her body seeming to follow the momentum of the strike. But even before she could recover herself from the shock she heard another faint zip against the air again, and once more the leather bit painfully into her twin crests, barely a finger's width below where the first delivery had drawn its evil livid welt across them.

  'THWAAACK.'

  This time a little cry escaped her lips, her body arching in a spasm of excruciation.

  'Aaaagh... oooph.'

  She squeezed her eyes shut while the first wake of stinging agony made the nerve-ends of her tissue scream out in silent protest. Her hands had rushed back to clasp tightly at her buttocks, her fingers desperately seeking to smother the two throbbing welts.

  But then, through the red haze of her agony came an unexpected sound. At first she wondered if it had come as a dream. Yet she knew the voice at once.

  'Stop! Enough!'

  It was Sollinicus, her master. And now suddenly he was by her side, his face etched in remorseful concern, and he was lifting her; kissing her; crying.

  'Forgive me, my poor lovely Aquistana. Forgive me, I beg. Henceforth you are not my slave. Could you not see my love... and how it came so thick and fast upon my heart that it spilled out in wicked cruelty...?'

  And then she was in his arms, her trembling nakedness against the warmth of his body, her tears running freely.

  Broken Vows

  Ruby Kola

  MISS WILLIAMS clicked the top of her red Bic pen and threw it into her sturdy canvass bag. She gathered up the assorted test booklets and stacked them into a neat little pile, secured them with a big butterfly clip and sealed them in a large manila envelope. As she slowly walked down the deserted corridor, the echo of her sexy black pumps bounced off the shiny brick walls.

  She let herself into the registrar's outer office and deposited the envelope into the secure box. Everything has to be so secretive in these private schools, she thought.

  She picked up the day's mail, a few memos and a small pink message slip. 'Miss Williams,' the memo read, 'please come to my office after completing the final examinations.' The note was signed Br. Anthony.

  Tawny Williams had been teaching American History at St. Matthew's academy for three years. She had considered moving to a school that offered her a more lucrative contract after her second year, but something, or someone, kept her tied here. That someone was Br. Anthony.

  She tapped lightly on his office door.

  'Enter,' commanded a low, deep voice.

  She slowly pushed open the heavy oak door and entered the warm room. The setting sun flooded the richly decorated space with golden orange streaks across the wooden desk. Br. Anthony Serrano was reading through a thick file and stared at her intently. He ran his large hand through his thick, wavy black hair then loosened his tie.

  'Miss Williams,' he began in a serious tone, motioning her to have a seat, 'I'm concerned that you're not quite adhering to certain policies here at St. Matthew's.'

  'Oh, really?' She crossed her long, sexy legs and gently slid up her pleated wool skirt over her knee.

  He walked behind her and meticulously placed his hands on the back of her leather chair. 'You see,' he added, sliding his hands across her shoulders, 'you have some very impressionable young men in your class. We feel that perhaps your skirts are a bit too short.'

  'Is that so?' she asked softly, uncrossing her legs. She felt his warm breath near her face, then his lips, demanding and firm against her neck. She quietly gasped as he kissed her, hungrily and urgently, sliding his hands into her blouse, and then tearing it open with one sudden jerk. Small pearl buttons scattered onto the burgundy carpet. He squeezed her breasts and fingered her nipples, pulling and pinching them until they were swollen and ruby red.

  He came around to the front of her chair and knelt down. He slowly spread open her legs and gently kissed both knees.

  'Miss Williams, you know what the punishment is for breaking the rules here at St. Matthew's, yet you continue to defy both myself and the history department board. I think it's time I taught you a lesson you won't soon forget.'

  He took her by the hand and escorted her over to the front of the immense wooden desk. 'Bend over,' he said sternly as he opened a secret drawer and removed long silk scarves and a wooden slat with a smooth leather covering on the end.

  'No,' she stammered, 'not that. I thought it would just be the usual routine today. I've never seen that before!'

  The usual routine had been a weekly occurrence at St. Matthew's. Br. Anthony would reprimand her for some imaginary infraction then watch as she teasingly removed her clothing and stretched out over his knee. He would play with and massage her smooth white ass, spreading her cheeks open wide, fingering her anus and clit until she moaned and quivered. Just before she came, he would stop, making her beg for him to touch her again, to put his fingers inside of her. Then he would slap her ass, gently at first, then harder and harder, driving her to the brink of pleasure and pain until he couldn't hold back any longer and they made love on the thick burgundy Berber.

  'Miss Williams, you will do what you're told and bend over that desk now, or regret the consequences later. You have been forcing my hand to administer this punishment to you for some time.' He pushed her back down until she was lying across the top, her hands underneath her face. She wondered what would happen next, both fear and excitement churning inside her. The desk felt hard and slightly uncomfortable against her large breasts, and she wished she were against something softer. He came around the front of the desk and roughly grabbed one arm, stretching it out toward the corner. He tightly tied the scarf around her wrist and then fastene
d it to something hidden under the top of the desk, maybe some kind of hook or knob. Then he did the same thing to her other arm, forcing her to crane her neck uncomfortably, the warm sun flooding her face. He pulled a small velvety pillow off the couch and gently slid it under her neck so she could rest her chin and she felt relieved.

  Perhaps he was only playing around with something new, she thought. As Dean of the History Department, he was allowed to have a power trip every now and then. His forceful, take-charge attitude was one of the things she admired about him.

  He walked around the desk and suddenly, without warning, slapped her hard across the ass. A quick stinging pain coursed across her bottom, and she let out a small scream and quickly twisted her body to the side. Even through her wool skirt and silky panties, the sting from his bare hand made her wince. She wished she could rub her tender cheeks but her hands were completely secure. Instead, she tightly gripped the edge of the desk in the hope that the sensation would quickly subside.

  'I thought as much,' Br. Anthony smiled. 'This type of reprimand is something new for you, isn't it?'

  He returned to the secret drawer and removed more silk bindings. He knelt down behind her and slowly eased his warm hands down the back of her legs, sending erotic chills down her spine. He eased her legs apart and tightly tied her ankles to the feet of the desk. She could barely move.

  'Miss Williams,' he announced, 'you are one of the few lay teachers we have here at St. Matthew's, and surprisingly, one of our most popular. There is a waiting list of students signed up for American History. Even the parents are delighted with your modern teaching techniques.'

  'So why am I here in this position?' she asked.

  'Silence!' he snapped, making her jump. 'I am still your superior!' She shamefully shut her mouth and squeezed her eyes tight, expecting another hard blow.

  Instead, Br. Anthony continued his lecture. 'St. Matthew's has decided to extend your contract and offer you a generous raise. However, the other professors from the department, who support more traditional methods, are a bit concerned, shall we say? They have agreed to the new proposal on one condition.'