Captives of Cheyner Close

by Adriana Arden

  The strap swished through the air and smacked crisply across Tara’s smooth posterior hemispheres.

  Tara yelped as the blow made her flesh jump, and a broad crimson strip flared across her backside. The strap cut less deeply than the bamboo he had used on her the night before, but it stung nonetheless fiercely. In the mirror he saw her face pinch into a grimace of pain. Good … He drew back his arm and laid down another stripe parallel with the first.

  Tara yelped and moaned and whimpered freely as he systematically chastised her, jerking and squirming in her bonds and holding nothing back. She’d contained herself better when she’d been bent over the Close sign. But then her gang had been watching. Now she was free to wallow in her shame and suffering.

  Her bottom was a solid blaze of red, though her flesh was not broken anywhere, and she was sobbing and gasping loudly. Her vulva was swollen with excitement and her glistening inner labia pouted from her cleft like an impudently stuck-out tongue. His chosen goal, the starburst-ringed pit of her anus, was contracting and gaping with every clench of her abused buttocks. Warwick thought he had never seen anything so primally desirable.

  He was wondering how long he could hold on when she suddenly cried: ‘Stop, stop! Please stop … I can’t take any more. Have me, Master, I beg you. Use the vaseline, please, shove it up my bumhole. I’ll be good. I’m hot and tight. I’ll try to please you … I’ll do anything, but don’t use the strap again …’

  Warwick had already dropped the strap. Scooping up a dollop of the clear grease he rammed it into her anus, twisting his stiff fingers round inside her rectum.

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Master,’ Tara sobbed. ‘Now put your cock up me … I want it in me, all the way. I’m so empty inside!’

  Was this part of an act or was it genuine? He didn’t care …

  Warwick took hold of her hips and jabbed his straining erection into her anus, forcing open her guardian ring of muscle, which slid up the length of his shaft as it plunged into her hot elastic depths which pulsed and contracted about him. He thrust into her so that the stool rocked, slamming against her haunches and driving a harsh grunt from her lungs each time. Then he hunched over her back and clasped her heavy swaying breasts, squeezing and kneading them, feeling their hard points pressing into his palms.

  She came before him, bucking and straining at her bindings, her face in the mirror contorted in a strange rictus of pleasure, and then her eyes going wide in unfocused astonishment. He spouted inside her seconds later, pumping himself dry in an effort to fill her depths, then slowly collapsed over her, letting her bear his full weight.

  A timeless interval passed. Eventually Tara felt Warwick stir and rise, drawing his now flaccid penis from her rear. A trickle of sperm followed it and began to run down the inside of her thigh.

  He took a glass of water from the bedside table and held it so she could drink, which she did automatically. Then he threw a blanket over her as one might a horse after a hard race.

  ‘I’ll rest for a bit, then I might come back and use you again,’ he told her. ‘Perhaps I’ll try your front passage next time. I haven’t decided …’

  He walked out, closing the door after him, leaving Tara alone with her throbbing anus, simmering bottom and tumbling, confused thoughts.

  Five

  WARWICK PULLED THE blanket off Tara, then drew back the curtains to let daylight into the spare room.

  Tara groaned as he freed the straps binding her to the stool and feeling began to return to her numbed limbs.

  ‘We said all we needed last night,’ Warwick told her. ‘While you are ungagged you will not speak a word. If you have to express yourself, you will do so in animal noises, as a dog might. Do you understand?’

  Tara nodded meekly, for the moment not wondering about the oddity of his instructions. The memory of his hard cock in her rectum was still strong, the ache where he had pounded deep into her lingered. It had been an act of domination both real and symbolic. Until she recovered her normal independence responses, she told herself, it seemed easier to obey without dissent. Besides, she had nothing more she could think that needed saying. They really had little in common, except for the most intimate and peculiar understanding a master and slave could share …

  She started, mentally pinching herself. She had actually thought of herself as a slave! Well, for all practical purposes, much as she detested the idea, she was a slave; at least for the next week. Temporary slave, then, she amended.

  Warwick cuffed her wrists in front of her. She did not know why but it was a relief, as she doubted she could have bent her arms behind her back at that moment. Her neck felt like a board and her legs were so stiff they hardly supported her as she shuffled unsteadily though to the bathroom. Being flushed out with the hose was both balm and torment: her vagina felt almost as sore as her anus. Warwick had used her a second time the previous night, this time sampling the delights of her lovemouth. He had not needed to use the strap on her again. Being broken once in a night was enough. She had pleaded with him in the most degrading terms to use her, offering up the intimate delights of her pussy to him, and he had accepted. Her shameful words and the sensation of his pelvis grinding against her tender bottom had been quite sufficient to bring her to a second orgasm.

  Tara was next made to stand in the bath. A chain and hook had been added to the mounting of the shower head. Warwick secured her wrists to the hook and then gave her a brisk wetting down, soaping over and rinsing off. While she stood there he also had her open her mouth wide while he cleaned her teeth. She felt like a child not yet being trusted to brush properly, yet at the same time receiving such considerate attention was oddly reassuring. It was followed by a vigorous towelling dry.

  Warwick then wrapped repair tape round her hands, binding her fingers and thumb to her palm into one paw-like extremity. Then he released her handcuffs and led her down to the kitchen. There Tara saw her named bowls were laid out in a corner on a sheet of newspaper.

  ‘You’ll stay on all fours until I tell you otherwise,’ he said.

  Tara ate resting on her knees and elbows, cradling the bowl between her forearms but not touching the food with her taped hands. Her red-raw bottom stuck up in the air. Warwick sat at the kitchen table reading the Sunday paper and munching toast.

  Halfway though her cereal Tara was struck by how weirdly peaceful, even routine, everything felt at that moment. How normal for a bachelor to eat his breakfast and read his paper on a Sunday, with his dog for company. Except she was not a dog, only for the moment playing the part of a dog; a pet, an owned thing. Was that the reason for binding her hands? Was this another of his psychological tricks?

  Tara finished, licking her bowl clean, then looked round at Warwick. He appeared to be engrossed in his paper. What should she do now? Lie down in the corner or defy his order and stand up and face the likely consequences? Shame or pain? But direct disobedience was not her chosen course … and her bottom still stung. Very well, if he wanted her to act like a dog she would do so. Dogs got bored, didn’t they?

  Moving in a half-crouch, careful not to actually stand, she padded over to the table on her taped palms and toes. Reaching Warwick she laid her head on his knee and made a dog-like whimper for attention in the back of her throat.

  Almost absent-mindedly, Warwick patted her head and ruffled her hair. What sort of game was he playing now? Tara wondered. But having begun to play the role she could not simply abandon it, so she whined again and contrived to look up at him with soulful eyes.

  ‘Do you want to go outside then, girl?’ Warwick checked his watch and then looked out of the window. Mist shrouded the garden, though a brightening in the sky suggested it would turn into a fine day. ‘I think we can walk over to Number 2, rather than use the wheelbarrow. Would you like that?’

  Without thinking of the implications, and pleased to avoid the discomfort of the wheelbarrow, Tara nodded her head and even threw in a couple of eager panting breaths with lolling tongue.

/>   ‘Then fetch your leash. It’s on the chair in the hall.’

  Crestfallen, Tara shuffled though to the hall, suddenly feeling ever more closely trapped in her perverse role. The leash was neatly folded on the chair. She knew what was expected of her next. Still, it was better than a holly-caning. Carefully she picked it up in her teeth and took it back to Warwick, sitting back on her haunches, splaying her knees, and offering the leash to him with another whine.

  ‘Good girl.’ He patted her head, took the leash and clipped it onto her collar.

  There was a carrier bag resting by the back door. Warwick took something from it and held it out to Tara. ‘Open wide,’ he ordered. She obeyed without thinking and found a red rubber toy bone thrust between her teeth.

  As she followed at his heel out through the back door she realised that with the bone in her mouth she was both demeaning and gagging herself at the same time. She could spit it out … but she didn’t.

  The misty air was cool and opalescent as Warwick led Tara up the side path and opened the front gate. Only when they had passed through did Tara suddenly become aware of her exposure. She was crouched naked on a pubic pavement. At least the junction with the main road at bottom of the Close was hidden by mist, though Tara could hear a car going by. It was Sunday morning and papers had already been delivered, so any other callers were unlikely at this hour. But there was just a chance somebody might unexpectedly turn into the Close. And what would they see at that moment? A man leading a naked girl on a leash like a dog.

  Tara realised her nipples were erect. She would have liked to believe it was the cool air, but she knew otherwise. The fear of being discovered and her humiliating position were insidiously thrilling.

  Warwick sauntered unhurriedly across the road with Tara shuffling nervously along at his heel, crouched down on all fours as low as she could. Only when they had passed through the gate of Number 2 did she breathe a sigh of relief. Once inside the house Warwick held out his hand and Tara carefully dropped the bone into it.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, patting her head once more.

  Again she was being subjected to praise and humiliation. She didn’t underestimate Warwick now. Had it been a test of obedience or subtle indoctrination? Perhaps it was both.

  Over the next ten minutes the other girls arrived. They also had their hands bound with tape.

  Tara began to appreciate how well organised and coordinated the residents were. How many messages were being passed between them and how many decisions were being taken about the fate of herself and the others, that they knew nothing about? What had they planned for them next?

  As they crouched on all fours in a row as ordered, Tara glanced sidelong at her companions, wondering if their nights had been as eventful as hers. She glimpsed a few telltale blushes on breasts and buttocks, binding marks on wrist and ankles, the awkward way they squatted that hinted at aching groins and above all eyes lowered in shyness or shame. Briefly she met the gaze of Daniela, who smiled uncertainly then turned her attention back to the floor once more. Sian shook her head as though in weary resignation. Tara had no means of learning any more, for though they were all ungagged, they had been told not to speak and none of them seemed inclined to disobey.

  Once again Warwick took them through drill in the back garden, assisted by Tom Fanning and Rachel Villiers. They went over the postures they had learned the previous day, then Warwick added some vigorous exercises such as star-jumps, touching toes and push-ups. Those with fuller breasts had no advantage.

  ‘They don’t count unless you touch the ground with your chests,’ Warwick informed them curtly, walking up and down the line of prostrate and straining girls while swishing his holly cane menacingly. ‘Just brushing the grass with your teats will not do, Gail. I want to see those big tits of yours properly squashed against it, do you understand?’

  Then, unexpectedly, came a game.

  Six cards marked with coloured spots were shuffled and dealt out in front of them. The colours matched those of what were revealed to be half a dozen assorted rubber bones that Warwick had brought in his bag. These he tossed into the air all at once so that they scattered about the garden. The girls had to find and retrieve the bone matching their assigned colour, picking it up in their teeth. A small chocolate drop was awarded as a prize for the first girl back with the right bone. The cards were re-dealt and they had to chase bones of different colours.

  After a few rounds they had almost forgotten where they were. It was almost as though they were children again, playing about innocently naked. Even Sian and Cassie seemed to lose themselves in the game, laughing when they tumbled over each other as they chased after their respective bones. It took an effort for Tara to recall that they were naked collared slaves, playing the game only because their masters wished it.

  They were allowed a brief drink and rest after the bone game, then they were sent back into the living room on all fours. The bed-frames had been stacked in one corner, leaving the floor clear. Gerald Spooner and Narinda and Raj Khan were waiting for them. Spooner sat by Narinda who had a CD player set up on a chair, while Raj was standing by a slightly battered-looking male shop window dummy, posed with his hands on his hips and legs spread. But where a normal dummy had only a suggestive bulge, this one had been fitted with a startlingly lifelike flesh-coloured rubber dildo, complete with false testicles.

  ‘I am here to give you a lesson in how to dance provocatively,’ Narinda said, beaming at them as they knelt in a semi-circle facing her, thighs obediently spread in their display postures. ‘Of course India is famous for its exotic dancing, with its sensuous rhythms and highly symbolic movements and gestures.’ She grinned even wider. ‘But as those take years to learn properly, they have nothing to do with what you’re going to do today.’

  Hazel stifled a nervous laugh.

  ‘Today you will behave like the little sluts you are,’ Narinda continued. ‘You cannot use your hands so you must use your bodies. You will be dancing for Fred, here …’ Raj bobbed the dummy forward in a mock bow. ‘You will bump and grind yourself shamelessly for his pleasure, just as though he was your master and you were a slave girl trying to please him. You will make love to him with your dance, and you will finish by giving him the best screw ever.’

  The girls gaped at the well-endowed dummy doubtfully. Over his shoulder Raj grinned back at them. ‘And I’ll be watching to make sure you do it properly,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Now, just to make it a little bit authentic, we have some things for you to wear …’ Narinda began to pull out an assortment of jingling metallic items from her bag. ‘We have bell bracelets and ankle bands and, oh yes, clip-on bells for your nipples and pussy tongues. These, you see, have little rings of carpet tacks taped to them. Very small and sharp, just to make sure you don’t get bored.’

  There was a moment of dead silence in the room as the girls unhappily contemplated the deceptively innocent-looking ornaments.

  ‘I suggest you remember as much as you can from this lesson,’ Narinda said mysteriously, ‘because it may come in very useful at the end of your week with us. Anybody I don’t think is trying hard enough will get a taste of my cane …’

  She picked up a long bamboo which had been lying against the wall and swished it through the air. Taped to the last third of its length was a spiral of holly-leaves. Bells dangled from its handle which tinkled merrily as she waved it in front of them.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Narinda added. ‘As a further incentive you will be marked on your efforts –’ a smiling Gerald Spooner held up a set of numbered cards for them to see ‘– for style, passion and originality. The girl who scores the least points will be suitably punished. Now up on your feet, spread your legs and put your hands behind your necks.’

  Narinda and Raj went along the line tying the strings of bells about their wrists and ankles, then clipping the single bells onto their nipples and one of their labia. ‘We don’t want anything to get in the way of you pleasing Fred, d
o we?’ Narinda said cheerfully. Tara had no idea where they had obtained the small spring clips from which the bells hung, but they pinched tightly enough to make her eyes water. The labial bell dangled between her spread legs so that for the moment its ring of tacks was not touching her, but the pin-like spikes on her nipple bells were already making themselves felt as they rested against the undercurve of her breasts. How much more uncomfortable would they be when she had to move?

  ‘How you dance is up to you, but the more excited you make yourselves the easier it will be,’ Narinda advised them when they were fully decked out. ‘Licking Fred’s big rubber dick first will also help. Remember where it’s got to go in the end and make it part of your performance.’ She went over to the CD player. ‘Now, who shall go first? Any volunteers?’

  Tara hesitated, unsure if it would be an advantage to go first or not. Then to her surprise she saw Daniela nervously hold up a taped hand. ‘I’ll go first, Mistress …’

  ‘Very well. On your feet … ready … begin.’ The sound of drums and sitars issued from the speakers, filling the room with a swirling exotic rhythm.

  Daniela was very good. She swayed and twirled sensuously, bells jangling as she circled Fred and Raj, making them the focus of her dance. At first her face contorted as the spikes on her bobbing nipple and labial bells pricked her, but she seemed to ride the pain and turn it into passion. She began rolling her shoulders like a burlesque dancer, setting the nipple bells spinning round like tiny propellers on the bosses of her firm pointed breasts. Hazel, Gail, Rachel Villiers and Tom Fanning spontaneously applauded this feat of mammarial dexterity.

  Daniela swayed closer to Fred, wiggling her hips and thrusting out her pubes provocatively. She went down on her hands and knees and began licking the dildo from base to tip, looking up at the impassive face above her as though hoping for some response. Getting none, she tried harder. She took the head of the rubber cock into her mouth, sucking on its plum while slowly shaking her lovely bottom at her audience, her labial bell chiming as it swung from under the cleft peach of her pudenda, its spikes pricking the soft flesh of her inner thighs.