‘I want to see those nipples properly displayed,’ he said, tweaking and pinching each pair as he came to it. ‘Think what’s waiting for you and get some blood pumping.’ he continued over their moans and yips of surprise. ‘For the next week your skin is your uniform. And, like well polished brass buttons, I expect your teats to stand out.’ He continued to flick and twiddle their breasts until all their little crowns of pink and brown had been teased into unwilling erection. Striving not to show her humiliation at the way Warwick had pawed her, Tara tried to derive a perverse sense of pride in the fact that at least her nipples had stood up quicker than the rest.
‘That’s better,’ he said, turning on his heel to survey the line of tumescent papilla. ‘This is “Standing at Attention”. Whenever you are on parade I want to see you like this with your nipples hard and ready …’ he swished his holly cane through the air, ‘… or else!’ A renewed shiver of fear ran down the line. ‘Do you all understand?’
‘Yes, Sir!’ they chorused.
‘Now I will teach you the basics of conducting yourself as a slave before an audience. You will move smartly at all times, you will obey orders immediately and without question, you will show discipline. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir!’ they replied.
‘Good. Now you will learn some more basic postures. Time permitting I will drill you in them every morning until you perform them without thinking. Next is: “Kneeling while on Display”. At the command, still keeping those hands behind your neck, you will go down onto both knees, thighs spread at ninety degrees, rears resting on your heels, your backs straight, eyes forward, chins up. Ready … Kneel!’
Hurriedly they obeyed, opening their groins to the morning air. Warwick walked along the line of spread knees inspecting them. ‘The purpose of this posture is to demonstrate that you no longer have any “private parts”. You are so open to inspection that, if anybody wished, they could count every one of your pubic hairs.’ Daniela stifled a whimper but Warwick ignored her, looking down at Hazel. ‘Wider, girl,’ he told her, flicking his cane back and forth between her fleshy inner thighs so that she gasped and shuffled her knees further apart. ‘That’s better.’ He stopped in front of Cassie. ‘Don’t you know what ninety degrees means, you stupid girl? A right angle, like the corner of a box. Could you get a box between your thighs?’ Gritting her teeth, Cassie opened herself wider, showing off the dark golden pelt that furred her delta. Warwick paused again before Tara. She had her thighs spread until the big inner tendons stood out and was staring rigidly ahead, daring him to find fault.
‘That’s very good, Tara,’ he said unexpectedly. He addressed them all once more. ‘Now you will “Kneel at the Ready”. On the command you will bring your thighs together, rise onto your knees keeping your back straight, and bring your left foot to the ground beside your right knee. Do so – now!’
They shifted position into the half-crouch. Warwick nodded in approval. ‘Good. This position enables you to rise easily to obey a further command. For instance …’ He moved to the opposite side of the lawn. ‘When I call your name, you will run to me, go down on your knees, kiss both my feet, look up and say clearly: “Your slave, Master”, then return to your place in line. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ they said, a strained edge to their response.
Could they actually say such shameful words aloud, Tara thought dizzily? Could they really behave like obedient dogs, coming when their owner called? She’d never imagined it would be like this. Were the others waiting for her to protest? If one of them spoke up she’d do so as well. But none of them did …
‘Gail,’ the Major called.
Gail scrambled to her feet and ran quickly over to him, her heavy breasts bouncing. She knelt and kissed his toecaps, then lifted her head up and said tremulously: ‘Your slave, Master.’
He patted her on the head as one might a dog and said: ‘Good girl.’ As she returned to her place Tara saw she was actually smiling with relief.
Sian was called next. She responded less readily than Gail and mumbled her words. That earned her a warning flick across the bottom with Warwick’s holly cane and the order to repeat herself clearly. Hazel, who followed her, practically sang out her words and was rewarded with a reassuring pat.
Tara began to understand. The Major’s pats and encouraging words counterbalanced the flicks of his holly cane. Contrasting threat and reward made obedience easier, though nonetheless degrading. But knowing this did not stop it being disconcertingly effective and left Tara in a state of confusion. Should she now deliberately misbehave and risk additional pain just to show she could still think for herself, or should she continue not to give Warwick the excuse of punishing her? It was only words and a symbolic show of deference, however humiliating it might feel. It didn’t mean anything …
Tara was called last. She ran quickly over to Warwick, knelt and obediently kissed his boots, lifted her eyes to him and said clearly: ‘Your slave, Master.’ She returned to her place unable to deny the small glow of relief his ‘Good girl’ and pat had given her even as she silently cursed him for both looking and sounding so sincere as he had done it. Did he have to play so fair even when he had them all at his mercy?
‘Now you will practise “Following to Heel”,’ he told them.
He walked up from behind their line, passing close by a girl at random, calling her name and saying: ‘Follow!’ And they did so just like dogs on invisible leads, staying two steps behind and to his left, their eyes locked onto him to match any change in pace or direction. When he stopped they went down into the ready position. It was the same way Tara had seen well trained dogs sit at the curb by their masters, waiting for the road to clear. All that was missing was their tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths. Another step further on the road to utter degradation; and shamefully exciting to watch. Hazel and Gail trotted after Warwick like little angels. How rapidly he was breaking them in. Why hadn’t she ever thought to play this sort of game with them? Tara wondered.
But surely she could not do it herself. There must be a limit to what she would submit to, even if there seemed none yet in sight to the residents’ inventiveness. The trouble was she was experiencing a disturbing sense of anticipation at the humiliating spectacle she would make. Perhaps she could turn the feeling on its head. It was an illicit sensation, in a perverse way similar to the thrill she had felt making the raids on the Close. She could enjoy it if she chose, and tell the other girls later it was just an act.
And so when her turn came she followed dutifully at his heel, stopping when he did and matching his every move. By the time he was done, her nipples were hard and there was a slickness between her labia.
Next came jogging round the perimeter of the lawn in what amounted to a high-stepping pony trot, while Warwick stood in the middle. ‘Lift those knees high,’ he instructed. ‘I want to see those breasts bouncing in time with your step. Yes, even small ones like yours can jiggle if you make them, Sian.’
And round and round they went, like ponies in some dressage event. Tara felt her attention wandering as she lost herself to the simple pleasures of physical exertion and fresh air flowing over her bare skin. Her breasts bobbed heavily to the rhythm of her steps. Daniela’s golden tan backside rolled and wiggled hypnotically ahead of her. Was that how her rear was moving? God that was sexy!
‘Halt!’ Warwick commanded, checking his watch. ‘Form a line and stand at submission!’
They obeyed almost without thinking, forming up to the right of Tara, flushed and sweaty, chests rising and falling steadily.
‘We have time for one last drill position,’ Warwick said. ‘This is called: “Presenting your Privates for Inspection”. At the command you will bend forward until your head is level with your knees, displaying your pudenda and rear orifices to the maximum. Present!’
And they bent over as instructed, Tara feeling her buttocks open, realising she was even more exposed than when eating from her bowl. He could
see right up into their pussy slits and anuses. Looking back between her spread legs she had an upside-down view of Warwick surveying the row of female genitalia before him.
‘I want to see those sex pouches pouting and wet,’ he told them. ‘Any girl who has not become even slightly aroused, however unwillingly, by what I’ve put you through this last hour must have something wrong with her. It’s a perfectly natural reaction, you know. A dry vagina will receive three strokes of my cane, a properly wet one, just a single. However many strokes I deliver, you will each thank me properly for them. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ came the strained reply.
‘You should be grateful. Your pubes will be getting a lot more use this morning, so they might as well be lubricated beforehand.’
Tara felt dizzy, but not from bending over. Where did Warwick learn how to handle women so well? The army had never taught him that – had it? She had seriously underestimated him. And what about the other residents?
Warwick was standing behind Hazel. ‘Mmm … that’s a fine rear you have there, girl.’
‘Th – Thank you, Sir,’ came Hazel’s tremulous reply.
‘And properly wet labia. That’s a good response. Just one stroke …’
There was the sound of a swish followed by a little squeak from Hazel, then: ‘Thank you very much, Sir.’
Warwick moved on down the line. Sian received two strokes with a warning to try harder for her own good. The others were all better aroused. Finally it was Tara’s turn.
He stood right behind her, cupping her pubic mound in his hand while his thumb twirled about the tight pucker of her anus. This can’t be happening to me, she thought. But he had his fingers inside her now, rubbing them between her sex lips, assessing her arousal. Despite her shame she held still. All that was left to her was to endure what came without flinching. Warwick slid two fingers into the mouth of her vaginal sheath, sampling her hot tight slick depths. Tara bit her lip.
Then the hand was removed. ‘That is a prime cut of flesh you have there, girl, and very well oiled.’
She felt a stinging swipe of holly across her taut buttocks, the spines scraping her pouting pubes.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ she said, dizzy with relief.
‘Attention!’ Warwick snapped, and they straightened up; confused, blushing, humiliated.
Jim Curry was standing with the others by the back door. ‘I see you’ve been putting them through their paces, Major,’ he said, grinning approvingly at the line of flushed and sweaty girls. ‘Well, I’ve been busy as well.’ He held up a carrier bag. ‘Got the stuff ready.’
‘Right face!’ Warwick commanded. ‘Into the house, quick march!’
Bottoms swaying, they marched back into the front room, forming up into a neat line against one wall. What was coming next, Tara wondered.
Curry pulled a handful of leather dog collars from a bag and showed them to the others. ‘Their names are stamped on the tags like Narinda suggested.’
‘Excellent,’ said Khan. ‘They will look even more like little animals once they’ve got them on.’
Curry worked his way along the line of girls, buckling the collars about their necks and then fitting small padlocks through eyeholes in the protruding ends of the straps. While the padlocks were in place they could not be pulled back through the buckles. Tara felt a helpless shiver as her collar was locked about her. She couldn’t wear this for a week as though she was an animal. But then that was exactly the idea.
Next Curry produced lengths of chain with leather loops at one end and spring clips at the other: leashes. The residents practised clipping them onto the girls’ collars. Tara felt her leash drag her down far more than its mere weight could account for. Whoever was on the other end could lead her round like a pet dog. Her stomach churned at the thought even as her nipples tingled.
Curry took out a clinking bundle of short chains and metal rings that he separated out into half a dozen toy handcuffs.
‘I’ve put on heavier chains,’ he explained. ‘The cuff rings themselves are solid enough and they all use the same key. It’s a simple pattern but it should be good enough to keep this lot secure.’
They snapped the handcuffs onto the girls’ wrists, confining them behind their backs once again. At least it gave them a little more freedom to wiggle their arms, though the metal felt hard and uncompromising.
The final items to emerge from the bag were small rubber balls that had been pierced through with loops of elastic cord, forming simple ball-gags. These were forced between their teeth and the loops stretched over their heads to hold them in place. Tara looked at the rest of the Elite and they gaped back at her mutely, their white teeth champing on the balls that stretched their mouths wide, as though frozen in permanent ‘Os’ of surprise or alarm. Even the power of speech had been taken from them by their captors. Nor could she eat or drink unless they permitted it. They were turning her into a helpless chattel, dependent on them for her most basic needs.
‘You’ve been busy, Jim,’ Roberta remarked as she looked the gagged girls over with satisfaction.
Curry grinned. ‘Oddest morning I’ve ever spent in my workshop. But it gave me some ideas for a few devices we can try out on them. I think I can build a –’
‘Shh,’ said Hilary. ‘Don’t spoil the surprise.’
Warwick addressed the girls. ‘While you’re here we thought we’d put you to some practical use. Up to now I imagine your lives have been pretty pampered. Apparently the only things you have ever expended much energy on are enjoying yourselves, tormenting us and concocting elaborate alibis to deceive the police. You probably haven’t had either the need or inclination to do much serious domestic work in your own homes. Well, now you’re going to learn what it’s like.’ He smiled. ‘Though we have added a few wrinkles to ensure you won’t find it boring. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you don’t do your jobs properly.’
Miserably they shook their heads.
There came the sound of a wheelie bin being trundled down the side alley. The back door opened and Tom Fanning came in from the kitchen.
‘Are they ready?’ he asked, blinking at the line of naked, cuffed and gagged girls. ‘Which one do I get?’
Warwick unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and then pointed at Hazel. ‘Remember to have her back at Number 9 by one o’clock.’
Looking eager, if rather self-conscious, Fanning took Hazel by the arm and led her out the back of the house. A minute later the bin could be heard rumbling back up the side alley.
Shortly afterwards Stan Jessop appeared. ‘I’ve got my wheelbarrow and a blanket. Will that do?’
‘Just a precaution during the daytime,’ the Major said. ‘In case somebody comes up the road while we’re moving them between houses.’
Jessop was allocated Cassie. As he led her away she flashed Tara a mute look of fear and anger.
‘If you don’t need me here anymore I’ll take mine now,’ Curry said.
‘You’ll be entertaining Sian this morning, Jim,’ Warwick said.
Curry grinned at Sian who seemed to shrivel under his gaze. ‘Well, I don’t need wheels to carry that slip of a thing,’ he said, unpacking a large sack from his bag. He bundled Sian into it and with a grunt and a heave, slung her over his broad shoulders and walked out.
She might as well have been a sack of potatoes, Tara thought with a shudder. That was what they had been reduced to: commodities on a list.
Roberta Pemberton came with a bin and took away Daniela. Rachel Villiers arrived with a wheelbarrow and she and Hilary departed with Gail, leaving Tara alone. She looked uncertainly between the Major and Khan.
‘I absented myself from this list to simplify the allocation process,’ Warwick explained, then added with a smile: ‘but I’ll have you all to myself tonight, Tara.’
More wheels sounded outside. Warwick motioned to Tara and Khan led her out the back door, where his wife was waiting with another wheelie bin laid on its
side with its lid open. Khan forced Tara onto her knees and she crawled inside. The lid was closed, the bin was was lifted upright, rolling Tara ignominiously about, and then she felt it trundle off back the way it had come.
Three
TOM FANNING EXAMINED Hazel closely as she knelt on the rug in the middle of his cluttered study.
She was the youngest of the gang and there was a certain elfin sharpness to the line of her chin, heightened by her eyes which were slightly uptilted at the ends, counterpointing the broadness of her cheeks. Her nose and mouth were neat enough, her shoulder-length hair was a very dark blonde and her skin was clear. From the set of her face Tom suspected she often contrived a look of petulant self-assurance, perhaps to make herself seem older. If that was the case then the facade had certainly slipped, as her present woebegone expression showed.
Hazel had not quite shed her puppy fat, which gave a little extra weight to the curve of her stomach, an appealing swell to her soft white buttocks and fullness to her breasts. These stood out in plump rotund cones, capped by large pale areolae, from the centre of which rose the domes of small pink nipples. A dark triangle of hair sprouted from the junction of her nervously spread thighs.
Every few seconds her eyes flicked up to meet his own, then shied away again, as though she was fearful of giving offence yet desperate to know what he planned for her.
The unreality of the whole thing suddenly assailed Tom. He was contemplating the intimate humiliation of a young woman he had never even seen up close before last night! True, she had submitted herself to his will. But was that under duress? No, he reminded himself, it was to escape what she felt was a worse punishment. It had been her choice. But he had already seen this girl humiliatingly wet herself in public and receive six strokes of the cane, apart from whatever trials the Major had been putting them through in the back garden of Number 2 earlier. Wasn’t that punishment enough?
Captives of Cheyner Close Page 4
