by D. A. Maddox
“No, my bad,” she said, drawing an inadvertent gasp when Veronica dangled the leather over her body, down to her pubic hair. “S-sorry.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Scott insisted. “No judgment, but…” He paused, just briefly, as his legs were lifted again, just long enough for Malcolm and Rusty to slide two red, block-shaped cushions under his shins, forcing his ass to stick up high and alone. “I was thinking dinner and a movie for the next one, if you’re down for something like that.”
Savannah nodded, seeming to struggle against panic as Veronica smeared liberal dollops of clear oil over her back, shoulders, and buttocks.
“What are you … into?” Scott said, mustering the effort to speak as Malcolm oiled his cheeks and butt crack just as liberally. “Oooh, boy—that’s going a little deep, my friend.”
Malcolm: “My friend, is it?”
“You know me as well as anyone … now.”
Malcolm chuckled, worked it in some more.
“So how … about it?” Scott said, his voice rising half an octave on the final two words, then lowering again, “What’s your genre, Savannah?”
Veronica cracked the whip.
“Oh,” Savannah said, trying to shrug, letting the tears come again, “the u-usual chick stuff—dramadies, the occasional rom-com, documentaries on dead Egyptian pharaohs, that kind of thing.”
“Enough,” Veronica said over the laughter of the audience. “My, but aren’t you two the cutest fucking couple we’ve ever had? Not another word from either of you.”
Scott bit his lip. He expected the first blow to come any second now.
Hold on, Savannah. We’re about to go for a ride.
“Time for another lesson,” Malcolm said to the crowd.
“Make as much noise as you want,” Veronica said to Scott and Savannah, “but don’t say anything.”
****
“See this?” Malcolm said to the pigs up front. “Doesn’t look too terrible, does it?”
Yes, it does, Savannah thought.
It was a bundle of long, thin, shaved branches held together at the base and the middle with wound twine. “Birch rod,” Malcolm said, patting it against his hand. “The preferred swatter in old Ireland, don’t you know? And check this out. This ass right in front of me is half-Irish!” He set his hand on Scott’s ass and leaned there, as though at a street corner waiting for the bus. “Top of the morning, Scotty-boy!”
Don’t say anything, Savannah thought. Don’t forget to be quiet.
“For switches on bitches, you just can’t beat birch.” Kneeling next to Scott’s head. “And who’s my bitch right now? Nod your head if you’re my bitch, friend.”
Do it, Scott. Don’t be an idiot. Because you are his bitch tonight. We both are.
Scott kept biting his lip and did not comply.
“Tonight, Scott, you play the game. You play this role. Let me try again. Are you my bitch, Scott?”
Scott let out his breath and nodded.
Malcolm stood. “So—here tonight at our Origins Fete, we have a gathering of pigs who think they may be Select material. Three of you have already found your home with us among the subs, and they will be treated as such at all future Fetes until graduation. Good for them.”
Savannah scrutinized the line and saw several faces brighten with expectation.
“But some of you, perhaps more of you, would prefer to play the role that Ronnie and I play.”
Several hands went up.
“Not yet, pigs. Soon. I’ll call for volunteers shortly. I want you to watch this and see how it’s done. After that, if you think you can match my punishment skills, I’ll give you a chance to make your best effort.”
Wait, Savannah thought, her heart thudding. You’re going to hit him five times with that thing and then let the pigs do it? That’s not what you said!
“Because,” Malcolm went on, striding in front of Scott but glancing sidelong at Savannah, “every single trial that one lottery winner goes through—they both must endure in their turn.”
Oh, no—oh, no…
Her back tensed. Her arms struggled against the restraints. The manacles chafed her. The chains were indestructible. There was no getting out of this.
Her pussy was so wet. Somebody needed to do for her what she’d done for Scott.
From behind her, even as Malcolm moved lazily behind Scott and took up position, Savannah heard Veronica draw back the whip, heard the slow cut of the long tail through air. Not full force, which from Veronica was surprising.
Then she felt it—and screamed.
****
Not like the tawse, is it, Savannah? Veronica thought, bringing the whip down a second time, and then a third, warming Savannah up for the worst of it.
It had been burning Veronica up all night, the way Savannah had held her screams under the lash of the triple belt. She’d been the first in a long while not to scream. But there was just no denying the whip its share of lamentation, even with Veronica’s more controlled touch, her reluctant restraint.
The oil would prevent scarring, would help the welts not to rise so much—yet Veronica remained cautious. Any blood at all would let Savannah off the hook for the rest of the night. She hadn’t lied. The broad, semi-flattened tail was another guard against serious injury. Still, it was a whip.
The Old Bones would call an end to it, if no one else, had Veronica let loose with everything she had.
She lashed her pig-slut again—rather harder this time but still within acceptable limits—and Savannah’s screams hit a higher note. Tears fairly flew from her eyes.
Oh, yes. This is good. This is very good.
Savannah, by all appearances, wasn’t even trying to hold them in. She had surrendered the full expression of her suffering. Veronica knew the particular notes in this chorus quite well. Savannah would be ready for more when this was done. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to her.
And her obedience—her lack of speaking under such duress, her lack of begging—meant that she was nowhere near her ultimate threshold. Excellent.
She brought the whip down a fifth time, and wished she had promised Savannah even more.
****
Five strokes of the birch rod wrenched out of Scott Lachance the only thing Malcolm wanted from him, as far as pain was concerned. Finally, he’d made the man cry. He’d needed to redden that ass to the same hue that suffused his face to make it happen—three to get it pink and ready, two to drive the goal home—but happen it did, and that was enough.
Against all of Scott’s efforts, the tears ran down his quivering cheeks and splashed the floor where Malcolm could see them. His lips formed curses he did not speak. Malcolm wondered if they were for him, or if the man was cursing himself.
“Zeke,” he called out to his caste, “Tabby, Brandy, Rusty—yeah, you again. Get your ass up here. Switch their positions.” Then, to Scott and Savannah, who hung loose in her chains, weeping, “That oil has a healing accelerant in it. You’ll recover.”
Looking between his legs, it seemed he already was starting to.
Damn, boy, Malcolm thought, you been saving up for this, or what?
****
Scott had allowed the tears on purpose. It’s what they wanted, and it was what the role required. The pain helped him get there. Ultimately, agreeing that he was Malcolm’s bitch—which he most assuredly was not—had been more difficult.
Slightly. That birch rod really did hurt like holy hell.
Too, he’d let them fall so that Savannah would see that he fully shared the experience with her. He didn’t want her to feel alone.
And had no idea, the whole time, that she was doing the same for him.
****
Veronica pointed to each volunteer in turn, knowing their names as well as she knew her own course schedule: “Micky Banner, Trace Lewis, Lana Bright, Waverly Dawson, Harley June—come on up. Line forms behind Malcolm.” She cracked the whip. “Once each with the birch only. You have to be
trained to use this bad boy of mine. You’ll get your turn next Fete, perhaps, if you make it.”
Up they came, five prospective new dominants eager to audition their willingness to master others by hitting Savannah with the birch rod.
Could be worse, she said to herself, breathing in deep through the nose, trying to ready herself. It could have been Dawn.
Brandy and Tabitha slid the knee cushions in place. Rather than do it the easy way—the smart way—and just make the two of them change places, they’d rearranged her totem poles and put Scott’s back together. Perhaps the poles were serious about their gender identity.
She caged the laugh before it got out. She had to look like she was at the end of her twig, or they’d go harder on them both.
Anyway, judging by her behavior earlier, Dawn was probably headed for the sub line, the same place The Select thought she belonged. Talk about awkward, she thought.
I can get through this, Mom. Just watch.
****
“I missed an opportunity with you,” Veronica said once the totem pole was reassembled and Scott was again spread wide, standing, trussed by the wrists and ankles. She wrapped the whip into coils and brushed it over his chest. Her eyes darted down, though her head never moved, then darted back up. “Or maybe not.”
Scott sniffed. If there was one thing he didn’t want, blinking his blurry vision until it cleared, it was to have a running nose on top of everything else. And how could he help it, after all they had put him through, if his treacherous cock had twice the energy as the rest of him tonight? It wasn’t like the thing was at full attention. It just wasn’t quite dead yet.
“And look—your man-nips are all pointy.” Playfully, she pinched one, and he recoiled. The nip in question stayed pointy, though, as though stretching out for more.
“Stay put. I need to get something.”
I’ll just wait here, then, Scott thought. Not far off to his left, he heard Malcolm giving instructions for Round 2 of Savannah’s punishment, which seemed to include additional elements he had not been subjected to, and just a little life returned to his scrotum. You should be mad, he thought. You shouldn’t feel like … that. Especially with your ass still on fire. God, what does it even look like right now? Best not to know.
The worst thing was, arousal wasn’t the only thing he was feeling toward Savannah’s tormenters at present. There was jealousy, too, and it burned as hot as his ass. Whatever happened, he couldn’t look over there. He didn’t know if he could take it.
Veronica was not long in returning. Along with her whip, she brought with her a long line of flexible material that shone like silver but stretched like a boxer brief waistband. On either end of it was a ring. The top ring attached to a leather collar. The bottom ring seemed to house a clear, shimmering membrane. It was like an unrolled condom, only the membrane was clear, like soap trapped in the ring of a bubble-blowing wand.
“Don’t be so scared,” Veronica said, buckling the collar around his neck. “This isn’t the thing that will cause you pain.” She stretched the line down his front, bringing the lower ring, the membrane, ever closer to his helpless and exposed penis. “I have the whip for that.”
She still held that whip, even as she fitted him with whatever this new nightmare was.
She licked his ear. Then she licked inside his ear, tickling the small hairs inside. She poked her tongue at his earhole, making his head cringe farther in her direction.
A few yards away, there was a smack—a yelp from Savannah. A gasp.
And then the ring and membrane stretched over Scott’s half-erect cock. He imagined a condom might actually feel something like this, as the ring rolled down, guided by practiced fingers, to the base of his shaft. Once it was in place, it seemed to coat from the inside with a warm liquid that had the consistency of milk. God, it felt good—which felt awful. He was grateful there just wasn’t enough in him to get fully erect again so soon.
Off to the left, another smack. A pronounced and piteous cry. A moan.
Don’t look. You don’t want to see that—and you have your own thing to get through, here, Scott.
“The constrictor ring is set to ‘Hold’,” Veronica said. “The setting switch is on the back of your collar. I’m about to set it to ‘Slide and Ride,’ and then I’m going to whip you. This blending of sensation is going to be very confusing, at first—or so I’m told.” She twiddled his earlobe. “We’re about to see if you can associate pain with pleasure. Your responses will be most telling. And you’re so cute right now with that look on your face. I’ve wanted to do this to you for a long time, Scott.”
And there, right at the foot of the stage in the middle of what remained of the pig line, he took note of Tabitha. She was looking right at him—at them, more accurately. And at the corner of her lip was a very knowing smile. What was that about?
He didn’t have time to think about it overmuch. Savannah cried out again, and at the same time, the ring on his cock started to move, leaving the wet sheath it had spread over him in place as it rode him up and down, up and down, a mechanized resurrection ritual with the singular goal of bringing his penis fully back to life.
And then, the whip—a fresh, burning sting, far worse than Tabitha’s paddle, equal to the birch. The flesh of his back seared as though branded, even as his cock began to stir once more.
God, what’s wrong with me?
****
Before the collar and ring teaser had been put on him, before even his final limb had been re-shackled to the totem pole—and well before Scott’s second punishment began—Savannah was already in position for hers, kneeling on her knees and elbows, butt higher in the air than her head, legs open, her vagina on full display, open for perusal from behind. There stood Malcolm and his five volunteers. Savannah couldn’t see them, but she could feel their attentions upon her, and upon Malcolm’s instructions.
“You get one swat each,” he said to them. “If there had been more volunteers, some of you would have only gotten to observe this and not participate. Had there been fewer of you, some would have gotten to go twice. Savannah’s ordeal must be equal to Scott’s—not greater, not less. Equal.”
Savannah found, in her current state, that she was able to rest her head in her arms. To hide it there. She was glad of the opportunity, because everyone back there would be able to see what she could sense all too keenly, the frustration of her quivering nether lips, the gathering damp. And in front of her, the multitude—half of whom were tuned in squarely on her, the other half on Scott.
“This is a special privilege for you,” Malcolm went on to his charges. “Understand, you are not yet among the Dominant, and Savannah is not yet a sub. She’s only a lottery winner. As such, she’s entitled to a tribute from each of you after you swat her. Stand on either side, please, and allow me to demonstrate.”
Savannah felt and heard, rather than saw, them take their places on either side of her trembling frame. She felt Malcolm’s knees between her feet, his hands push her ass still farther up in the air, then felt her pussy dilate with unintended invitation as his face descended upon her from behind, his warm breath tickling not only her genitals but her anus as well.
She opened her mouth, but only a squeak escaped it as he first kissed her pussy lips, then leaned back and rubbed his hand over them in rapid, moisture-making succession—same as he’d done to Melody—then dived into her again with his tongue out.
Scott—oh, my God, Scott—don’t look at me like this.
The smacking of Malcolm’s lips against her, the ungentlemanly noise from his windpipe as his tongue attacked her, first slathering, then poking at her.
And then he stood back from her, leaving her undone, sobbing, feeling more alive than she could ever remember feeling before. Needing someone to fucking finish.
“Next,” he said.
Savannah heaved in breath, let it out.
From one of the ladies: “I’ll go.”
So, that’ll be Lana, Wa
verly, or Harley.
Savannah heard the birch rod being passed, swung in empty air for a test drive.
“Just one,” Malcolm said, “and don’t be afraid to let her have it good—but don’t rear all the way back and fuckin’ kill her with it, either. Do it like I did. One good, smart smack that she’ll feel all the way to the back of her eyeballs, and no more than that. Show me a true Dom’s discipline.”
Lana-Waverly-or-Harley brought the birch rod down, good and hard. Savannah’s head came up off her arms, and she cried out—still shocked, in spite of all that had already been done to her. And gasped when she felt the young woman kneel behind her, laying the birch rod down by her side.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, sounding like she meant it as she parted Savannah’s butt cheeks and planted a kiss on her gaping privates. “Please accept my tribute, Savannah. You’ve so earned it.”
And as her punisher knelt forward again, hands caressing her at the waist, one of the young men said, “Me next, boss. I am fucking ready.”
“Step up, Trace. I just bet you are.”
Savannah had laid her head down again, receiving the tribute—but she laid herself down now on her cheek, her orgasm coming closer, closer. The tribute consisted of a friendly pat to the vulva, to begin with. After that, more tongue worship, some playful nibbling—and then her first apprentice punisher stepped away, and Trace picked up the birch rod.
She lay on her cheek, huffing—and watched as Veronica whipped Scott, even while a strange machine masturbated him, and held back none of her feelings as the birch struck her a second time.
****
Scott felt her eyes on him as keenly as he felt the constrictor ring and the whip. And so he returned her gaze. They watched each other suffer. They got through together, though half of center stage separated them. And as they held one another in each other’s mind and heart, there was no need to scream anymore. No need to cry, much as it hurt.
Not until Savannah appeared to have reached climax at the end, at the tribute of her last punisher, did she look away from him, and Scott didn’t fault her. He’d blown his first wad all the way back in the basement hallway at the hands of a woman whose name he didn’t know. He was happy for Savannah, although the selfish part of him was still a bit jealous, as well as a little sad.
