‘Did it hurt?’ Gail asked.
‘Not much. I was getting pretty excited by then. And so was he …’
‘Yes?’
Hazel took a deep breath and said in a rush: ‘So he sat me on his lap and put his cock up my bottom and he came inside me and I came as well!’
There was a stunned, perversely impressed silence. Hazel had been the first to have actual sex with their captors. Then curiosity took hold.
‘What did it feel like, having a cock up your bottom?’ Daniela asked in awed tones.
‘Sort of odd but quite nice,’ Hazel said, then added with a giggle: ‘I actually felt his come spurt right up inside me. It trickled out of my bottom after he’d pulled his thing out. He wiped me clean with a tissue.’
‘Was he any good?’ Gail asked.
‘I suppose so. I mean I came as well so he must have been OK.’
‘Did he have a big cock?’ Sian asked, sounding helplessly fascinated despite herself, perhaps wondering when it would be her turn to serve Tom Fanning.
‘I never saw it … but it felt big enough!’
Tara thought she almost sounded proud of the fact. There was no resentment about what she had endured, but instead a strange sense of wonder.
It was then that Tara knew change was overtaking them all. They would be different people when this was over, for better or worse. It was also the end of the Elite Society. Maintaining its existence through this ordeal had been a futile fantasy, she realised. It had really been a juvenile creation and they were now being forced to grow beyond it. Her influence over the girls was also dwindling, which she resented more. The trouble was that no diversion she could contrive would rival what they had undergone in this last last day, nor what was yet to come. Well, she consoled herself, she’d been getting bored with it anyway. Besides, she now had more pressing things to think about.
The residents came for them with their bins and barrows at eight. By then Tara had become aware of a distinct scent pervading Number 2’s living room. It was the female odour of arousal and readiness emanating from half a dozen captive, exposed and expectant vaginas. They all knew that by morning Hazel would no longer be unique amongst them.
Apparently somebody had been busy with a sewing machine, because the residents brought with them strips of cloth to serve as blindfolds. Before the girls were released from the frames their ball-gags were replaced and the blindfolds tied over their eyes. The stocks securing their neck and wrists were opened and they were sat up so that their hands could be cuffed behind them. Only then were their ankles freed and they were allowed to stand.
Tara understood the function of the blindfolds. They made them more easy to control, having to accept the guidance of unseen hands clasping their arms or pulling on leashes, reducing them to helpless stumbling inferior beings. Her ego raged at the new indignity even as her loins stirred perversely at the knowledge of what was to come. Yes, it’s a sick thrill, she told herself desperately, so go with it. They want to see you suffer so defy them by enjoying it, like you did this morning. But that had been with a mop handle and a carrot, not a middle-aged man she despised.
Major Warwick loaded Tara into a wheelbarrow, threw a piece of sack over her and wheeled it across the road to his house. At the back door he helped her out and guided her inside, through the kitchen and into the sitting room, where he made her kneel.
‘Display!’ he said. Tara shuffled her knees wider and sat up straight. He undid the blindfold, then, to her obvious surprise, removed her gag. Then he sat on his comfortably worn green leather armchair before her, so that her open thighs faced him and he could see her labia peeping through her pubic bush.
Tara kept her gaze low, perhaps not wanting to make direct eye contact, her eyes flicking about the neat room with its many pictures hanging from the walls, bookcase and glass-fronted display cabinet.
‘Look at me, Tara Ashwell,’ he said.
She lifted her eyes to his. He read the fear behind them, and, perhaps, the wish to get whatever he had planned for her over with. If so she would just have to be patient. He was in charge now.
‘I removed your gag because I’ve wanted us to have a private conversation for some time. Perhaps I also want to hear you cry out in pain later …’ Tara trembled visibly ‘… but for the moment we shall just talk. I will not punish you for telling the truth, only if I think you are lying or you refuse to answer. You may speak perfectly freely, but you will always, I repeat, always do so respectfully, or else …’ He picked up his holly cane, which had been resting on the small side table beside his chair and laid it across his knees at the ready. Tara gulped at the sight. ‘Tonight I am your master. That’s how you will address me. Do you understand?
‘Yes … Master,’ Tara replied, emphasising the last word, trying to make it clear it was something she said because she had to, nothing more.
‘Do you remember how this all started?’ he asked. ‘A year and a half ago? You and your boyfriend, Peter Tucker, with his new sports car, which he took to driving you round the local roads in late at night and ridiculously fast. I suppose you thought you were having fun.’
‘We were, Master,’ Tara replied simply.
‘But then you started doing handbrake turns in the Close. Did you think it was amusing being woken night after night by screeching tyres, blaring horns and blazing headlights, especially if you had a job to go to the next morning?’
‘We didn’t think about you at all, Master,’ she said bluntly. ‘We were just enjoying ourselves.’
‘But you thought about us soon enough when we finally got your number and called the police. To his credit, Tucker took their warning to heart and never bothered us again. Why weren’t you as reasonable?’
‘Because you’d stopped me having fun, Master. The police came to my house because of you, and that was very embarrassing. The police are there to protect Fernleigh Rise, not to question us like common criminals.’
‘You think it’s your inalienable right to have fun?’
‘Why not, Master?’
‘And in your eyes I suppose we were being petty bourgeoisie spoilsports by not letting you.’
‘Yes, Master. After that Pete started being careful and – and boring.’
‘So you blamed us.’
‘Yes, Master. You’d taken away something I enjoyed … so I made all of you in the Close my new entertainment.’
‘Are you really so short of stimulation?’
‘This was something different, Master. I like excitement and danger and doing things that are new.’
‘And you roped in your gang of girlfriends to help.’
‘They did what I told them, Master, not like Pete. Anyway, they thought it was fun as well.’
‘And what do they think now?’
Tara hesitated. He raised his cane and she said quickly: ‘Cassie and Sian hate me, Master. The others act almost like they believe they deserve to be punished. Gail goes on about understanding why you want to see us suffer.’
‘And do you understand why, Tara?’
Tara shrugged, as though the answer was obvious. ‘You want revenge, Master. And to make sure we don’t bother you again.’
‘Anything else, do you think?’
Tara frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Master.’
‘To hear you say you’re sorry, of course. Are you sorry, Tara?’
For a moment Tara seemed at a loss. Then she licked her lips. ‘No, Master. I did what I wanted to do. I feel sorry you caught us … a bit sorry for myself now, maybe, but not for doing what we did.’ She flinched back, as though fearing a swipe from his cane.
‘Sit straight, you stupid girl,’ he said sharply. ‘I told you I wouldn’t punish honest answers and I don’t go back on my word.’ He sighed. ‘So, if you won’t repent, it looks like I’ll have to be content with simply redressing the balance and getting some satisfaction out of seeing you suffer.’
To his surprise Tara smiled. ‘Why not, Master? That’s
what I was doing to you.’
Warwick found himself smiling back. ‘So, we understand each other at last. I don’t think I’m a naturally cruel man, but I believe I’m going to enjoy myself tonight.’
Tara gulped, but maintained her poise. ‘You’d be stupid not to, Master. You won’t have anybody as beautiful as me like this ever again.’
‘Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?’
‘I know what I am, Master.’
‘Your friends are also quite attractive. I’ll be having them as well.’
‘But I’m the best, because I’m the strongest, Master,’ Tara said proudly. As though emboldened, or perhaps believing she had nothing to lose, she added, ‘Can I ask a question, Master?’
‘Go on.’
‘How did you know how to handle us so well in the garden this morning? That wasn’t army drill. You knew all the right buttons to press to make us do just what you wanted.’
He chose his words with care. ‘In the past I have done work with certain units of the armed forces, where knowledge of interrogation techniques and how to resist them was required. As some brave young women are now part of these units, it was necessary to understand female psychology as it related to such situations. I simply applied what I knew to the current circumstances.’
Tara looked impressed despite herself. Glibly she said: ‘I suppose you know ten different ways to kill people with your bare hands, Master.’
‘Oh, I know many more than ten,’ Warwick said simply. ‘I also know how to set the most unpleasant traps for uninvited guests you can imagine …’ Tara had gone pale but could not look away from his now stony face. ‘But we’re not meant to use such things in Home Counties back gardens, so I was trying to fight you by regular means first. By civilian rules. Still, it’s probably a good thing Tom Fanning came along when he did, or I might have lost patience. Privately called in some favours from old comrades, perhaps. Then you’d have got a visit from people far less welcome than the police. Be grateful you’re getting off this lightly, Tara Ashwell.’
‘I am, Master,’ Tara said faintly. She took a deep breath, seeming to gather her courage. ‘You can probably make me say or do anything you want tonight, Master, but that won’t mean I’m really sorry for what I did … just sorry that I underestimated you, and the other residents.’
The statement seemed to be perfectly honest and without any artifice. He smiled. ‘An admission that Tara Ashwell is not perfect. I suppose that’s all I can expect for now. But it’s a beginning.’
With that he took up her leash and led her upstairs. She followed obediently.
In the bathroom he sat her on the toilet. A length of hose with a spray nozzle was already plugged into the bath taps. Without being told, Tara parted her legs and peed, staring down at the floor but obviously aware that Warwick was watching the stream of urine issue from her cleft. Then she strained to empty her bowels. When she had done what she could he turned the hose on her open groin, sluicing her off. Then, kneeling between her spread legs, he slid the long tapering spray nozzle into her anus and flushed her insides out, watching her face contort as the warm stream swirled through her entrails.
Only when he was quite satisfied she was clean did he dry her off with toilet paper and towel. Then he led her through to the spare bedroom where he had made his preparations.
On a rug in the middle of the room was a small sturdy four-legged footstool with a cushion taped to its seat. Jutting up at an angle of about 45 degrees from under the stool, and fastened to its frame by ‘G’ clamps, was a stringless badminton racket. Sitting on the rug at the same end of the stool was a large round shaving mirror on a tilting base. Beside this was a collection of leather straps, a reel of tape and a jar of vaseline.
Warwick pushed Tara down so that she knelt over the stool with her middle resting on the cushion and her head lying against the empty racket face. Pulling her legs wide and bending her knees further, he made her clasp the stool between her thighs, exposing her rear even further. He passed a strap under the stool and round her thighs just above her knees and buckled it tight. A second strap went over the small of her back and under the stool, pulling her face down until it was pressed into the rim of the racket with her breasts dangling on either side of the handle which touched her sternum. Unlocking the handcuffs he then taped her wrists to the sides of the stool legs. A final strip of tape went across the back of her head, binding it tightly to the racket rim so that she could not lift or turn it and was forced to stare straight ahead.
Warwick stepped back to admire his handiwork for a moment, then said: ‘I must change. I’ll be back shortly …’
Briefly left unattended, Tara tugged at her bonds by reflex, even though she knew it was futile. She was even more completely immobilised than in her bed stocks. As her stomach did flip-flops of fear, the simmering heat lower in her loins grew, pumping out a slick wetness that seeped through to the lips of her vulva. She was simultaneously dismayed at the intensity of her arousal yet comforted by its presence. It was her shield and refuge. Through it she would find pleasure in whatever he did to her.
In his bedroom Warwick quickly slipped off his clothes and put on slippers and a robe, very aware of his tumescent manhood as he did so. Tara Ashwell was such a delicious creature, yet so self-centred. He had imagined various ways she might be brought to justice, or else forced to cease her vendetta against the Close, but never having her helpless in his house at his mercy. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
He went back to the spare room.
‘It’s unexpectedly satisfying seeing you like this,’ he said, walking round her tightly bound body as she hugged the stool in an unwilling embrace, examining her from every angle. She tried to turn her head to follow him but her face was too tightly secured to the racket frame.
‘You, like your friends, will know what it is like to suffer helplessly tonight,’ he continued. ‘Then you may begin to understand a little of what we went through ever since you started your vile campaign. I should thank you for talking us into this. It’s far better than official justice. Or would you disagree?’
Tara shivered, but said in a remarkably level voice: ‘I chose this, Master. I’m not changing my mind now. Do what you want with me. That’s the deal.’
Warwick squatted down, stroking her bottom, sliding his hand round to cup the fleshy undercurve of her buttocks, testing their warmth and weight. ‘You have guts, girl, I’ll say that for you.’
His fingertips ran down the pouting cleft of her pudenda and he felt her slippery wetness.
‘Your juices came quickly this morning as well,’ he said. ‘Does all this excite you?’
He thought he might have to threaten her with the holly cane to get an answer, but with only the slightest hesitation she replied: ‘Yes … it does, Master. I think it’s the danger. And, in a sick way, the shame of being here like this. It’s perverted but it’s getting me hot.’
Warwick felt oddly slighted. ‘Not the thought of sex?’
‘It helps, but I’ve never had a thing for older men. I don’t like you, Master, but if I can get off on having your cock up me I will.’
The frankness of her reply surprised him. ‘You don’t hold anything back, do you?’
‘You told me to be honest, Master. That’s the truth. How else should I feel about somebody who’s going to beat and rape me?’
‘Not rape!’ Warwick said sharply. ‘You offered yourselves to us, remember. If you really believe this is rape then it stops now.’
‘No, Master!’ Tara said quickly. ‘That wasn’t the right word. But it feels like that. Which is all right because that makes it feel more dangerous.’
‘And as you said, you like danger.’
‘Yes, Master. But what I said about you is still the truth. You wouldn’t believe anything else anyway, so why should I lie?’
Despite her utter helplessness, he realised she was still defying him. She had such a stubborn streak in her.
‘No, I’ve had enough of your lies in the past,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you were honest. At least then we know where we stand …’
His hand had moved to the heavy bells of her breasts, squeezing and fondling, giving them light slaps that sent them swaying and bouncing off each other. Her nipples, already semi-hard, blossomed into full erection.
‘Talking of which, I see these haven’t forgotten how to stand to attention,’ Warwick said.
Tara drew in her breath with a shudder.
He adjusted the angle of the mirror, putting it to one side of and a little in front of her head, then crouched down behind her. He would be able to see her face in it while he used her.
‘First I’m going to give your bottom a good strapping, then I’m going to sodomise you,’ Warwick told her, matching her own forthrightness. ‘Of course I won’t try to be gentle. I want to give you something tangible to remember me by, even if only temporarily. A rosy hot bum and a few bruises round your rear entrance. I think that’s the most undignified way to treat you, giving me the maximum pleasure while putting you in your place. The marks will fade soon enough, but perhaps the memory will linger to some effect. Have you ever had anal intercourse before?’
‘No, Master,’ she admitted, her voice trembling now. ‘I always thought it was – dirty.’
‘I’ll try not to disappoint you.’ He held the tub of vaseline out for her to see. ‘This will make it a little more comfortable, but you’ll have to beg me to use it.’
He saw her face in the mirror. Her pupils were huge now, as though trying to take in every detail of what was happening to her. She licked her lips. ‘Use the strap on me first, Master. Make me beg.’
‘I see,’ Warwick said slowly. Now he understood perfectly. ‘Well, if that’s the way you want it …’
He stood up and slipped off his robe. His penis was harder and angled higher than it had been for many years. He’d never felt so potent. He coiled the end of a strap round his fist. ‘I’ll stop when you beg to be greased,’ he said.
Captives of Cheyner Close Page 8
