Screaming and swaying, their drivers standing behind them whipping the flesh from their shoulders, they crossed the line, Madeleine barely, but indisputably in front. When Bob drew her up just past the post, there was blood coming from her vulva running down her thighs.
Morgan waved off the congratulations of his party, and hurried over to lead in his winner.
“Didn’t I tell you she had class?” he said, handing Bob down, “she’d beat anything on two legs if she kept in training. She’s got courage too, look at that blood. You’d better get the vet to her as soon as you can.”
The vet turned out to be her old acquaintance, her driver of the previous visit. She was made to lie on the gynae bench again while the vet opened up her vagina and examined the walls with a penlight.
“Just a small tear,” she announced, “nothing to worry about. I expect one of the blisters left by the soldering iron gave way under the strain. A bit too handy with that iron, those stewards. Two or three touches would be quite enough to establish the woman’s clean, but they like to feel the belly jump, and give her a few more for luck.”
She took a small phial and a cotton swab from her bag. “I’ll just put on a bit of styptic to stop the flow; she’ll be as right as rain in the morning. Hold on girl, this may sting a little.”
Sting, she thought, what’s a little sting after what I’ve been through, but she bucked and writhed all the same, hissing through her teeth as the astringent solution ate into the raw flesh of the open tear.
At ‘stables’ that evening Morgan was in expansive mood, having basked in the glory of the winning owner and enjoyed a good dinner with like-minded afficionados of this most cruel and demanding variation of the sport of pony-girl racing.
“You did well, the pair of you, and I’m damned glad, and damned grateful to you both. You beat them fair and square.”
“The Pole was good,” Bob put in, “she held nothing back, and damn near had the beating of us. I expect she’ll get to keep her clit a little longer.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Morgan replied, “Folkstein’s a stickler for his word. He said she’d be gelded if she lost this time, and lose she did. She’s to be cut in the morning, the vet’s staying over. By this time tomorrow she’ll be lighter by a nubbin, and from what we saw of the brute between her legs this morning, that’ll be a few ounces. It looked like a full quarter-pounder to me,” he guffawed, as he bade them good-night.
During the night, she heard the sound of weeping from the stall across the way, where the blonde woman lay, perhaps out of fear of the ordeal before her, perhaps in mourning for the coming loss of something so dear to her. She would have liked to comfort the woman, but they were both tethered in their stalls, and even now she wouldn’t break the rule of dumbness that held here, partly from pride, partly because she wouldn’t put it past Morgan to set a watch on her, especially tonight when there would be another woman within earshot, and one in distress at that. She could believe his devious mind had set up the situation purposely so that he could triumph in the end by sending her back in disgrace, even at this late stage, for breaking a cardinal rule of the ponygirl.
The Polish woman was ‘cut’ the next morning, after breakfast. She was led to the same bench at the end of the stables, where the veterinary woman awaited her. She whimpered as she was made to lie back and open her legs and, though she didn’t speak words as such, Madeleine could hear her making a piteous ‘nng..nng...nng’ as antiseptic was swabbed onto her exposed vulva, and the labia retracted with clamps. Her cries became even more urgent as the vet took hold of the pulsating thumb like stub with forceps, drawing it out so that its full glistening length was exposed. More antiseptic round the base, then the swab exchanged for a scalpel. Two steady cuts, one either side, deep into the root from which it sprang, and the vet held the nubbly piece of intimate woman flesh aloft as the woman’s shrieks, echoing round the building. proclaimed the loss of her essential femininity. It set the listener’s belly to quivering as she cringed in her stall, trying to shut out the evidence of the horrendous deed. Could she, she wondered, ever be brought to submit to such a fate, if she gave her life to this terrifying sport?
As the vet applied a swab of astringent to curb the flow from the wound, the woman’s cries ceased. Overcome by the stress of the day, and the traumatic last act, she had taken refuge in unconsciousness.
“Just as well, poor bitch,” the vet observed, “and it will give me a chance to make a good job of sewing her up. She’ll be find when she wakes, if a bit sore between the legs, and a celibate future to look forward to, where she can give all her energy to racing and forget about this sex nonsense.”
The next day the woman had gone, and two days after that, Madeleine herself was home. She was returned exactly as she’d come, naked, kneeling on the floor of the trailer. Outside her apartment block there was a short delay, she decided later, that the groom had gone to check the coast was clear, and then she was released to find her own way up the emergency stairs. The door was unlocked, she never discovered how they had got the key, but it was obviously no great matter to someone with Morgan’s wealth and connections.
For the first time in four weeks she tasted the luxury of a bath, as opposed to a wash down with a sponge dipped in a pail of cold water and, lying in the warm scented water, her hands strayed gratefully to her clitoris. Morgan had kept her celibate to the bitter end. Even with her race won, and her gelded rival departed, she slept with her wrists cuffed, and her knees strapped together until the day he came to say farewell. He was effusive in his praise, and tried hard to persuade her that her future lay in the terrible sport of pussy racing, but she would make no commitment, mindful of her obligation to Madame R. Even in the trailer that took her home, she could not assuage the sexual pressure that had built through a long month of abstinence, exercise, diet and excitement, but now she could give free rein to her erotic yearnings, spasming again and again in her warm floating womb of a bath as her deft fingers played Eros’s tune on the delicate instrument between her labia, an instrument that might be at risk, she knew now, if she were to give herself over as such a racer.
The unaccustomed feel of clothes on her body, bare this last month, aroused further sensual feelings, though she put on no more than a silk robe. It was too early for underwear. That evening Madame Ruskova rang.
“So you’re back. Did you enjoy your time with the horses?”
“It was more strenuous than I’d bargained for,” she replied truthfully, “but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“Hmmph! That’s as maybe, came the rather stuffy response, “I’ll want to see you first thing tomorrow. Don’t be late,” and the line went dead. Madeleine took herself off to her bed, to spend the night in a welter of tangled dreams of racing, punctuated by repeated returns to her sexual stem, and the heaving orgasms the fond attentions she paid it induced.
EPILOGUE
The next morning found her standing once again on the carpet in front of Madame R’s heavy desk, feeling even more like being up in front of the head than usual, and quite expecting the order to take down her knickers for ‘six of the best’.
“So you spent your holiday riding in the country?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“From what I’ve heard, you were more ridden than riding, my girl. Just so that we understand each other, I should tell you that one of my particular friends is a certain female vet, in fact we are lovers from time to time, so I know all about you, down to where to look for the scab in your vagina, so let’s have no nonsense, shall we?”
Madeleine looked her straight in the eye. “Very well, I admit it, I was economical with the truth. As you appear to know, I arranged to be trained as a pony-girl, and put through my paces, doubtless you know the manner in which I was driven, and just how far. I’m sorry I was not quite straight with you, but it was my business, and on my time. You agreed that I should have a holiday.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t end quit
e there,” Madame replied, “the whole episode was of a strongly sexual nature, and involved giving your body to others for the purpose. Everything of that nature falls within the terms of our agreement, and is subject to my control. I will not have you infringing my rights in you and especially I will not have you giving away what can be sold for a great deal of money. Jack Morgan can afford to pay heavily for you, and no doubt I will sell you to him in the future. In the meantime there is the question of what to do with you right now.” She stood, and walked round the woman standing submissively in front of the desk.
“You realise that you’ll have to be punished?” Madeleine nodded in acceptance.
“The last time you broke our agreement, you were sent to Bertha’s brothel for a week. I gather you did not enjoy the experience.”
“No Madame.” Indeed she had not it had been one of the most disgusting and unpleasant experiences of her life, and one she didn’t want to repeat. Was Madame going to send her back for an even longer stretch? Bertha would see that she suffered for every second of her stay.
“I have of course, considered sending you back for up to three weeks, but I have decided on a different course. I am sending you what I might call my Enforcement Officer, someone who is very experienced in making life unbearable in the most appropriate way for each subject, a very useful talent in your case, with your propensity for turning most kinds of pain into satisfaction, if not pleasure. My officer will call on you in the very near future. In the meantime you are to go home, where you will strip and stay stripped until further notice. You will not remove your make-up or fix your hair, you will not wash or look after your body in any way, and that means you will not wipe yourself after you shit, or mop yourself after you pee. You will sleep on the floor of your bedroom. You will instruct the porter that no messages are to be put through, your phone is to be disconnected, and he is to refuse all entry to anybody but my messenger, and while you wait for that corrective visit, you will live on a diet of bread and water only. Is that all quite clear?”
“Quite clear, Madame.”
“Then go to your apartment. You may spend your time in the submissive posture, traditional for women, reminding yourself of the nature of the agreement you have voluntarily entered into, and what price you would be prepared to pay for breaking that agreement.”
The following evening found her obediently in the posture of submission, sitting on her heels, her knees on the floor, her thighs wide spread, her wrists crossed behind her back, her head bowed. She had been in this position almost continuously since returning from Madame’s apartment, and stripping off her clothes, except for a restless night leading to a nervous day, the minimum breaks needed to use the lavatory, and fetch the meagre diet she had been prescribed.
She had obeyed Madame’s instructions to the letter. Old tired make-up still showed on her face, her armpits and crotch were sweaty, her hair unkempt, fallen largely out of the elegant pleat she had worn to her interview the morning before. Above all she was conscious of the mounting stench of her crotch, uncleansed before and especially behind. The apartment was hot, Madame had said nothing about adjusting the temperature, therefore she didn’t attempt to touch the thermostat, and now she was very conscious of her body odour
Obediently, too, she had concentrated her mind, as Madame had instructed, on thinking of her commitment to that lady, and what punishment she would accept, resisting the temptation to take refuge in erotic fantasies or to bolster her ego, and her arousal, by recalling the events of the last month, and her triumph on the track.
What sort of man would Madame’s ‘enforcer’ turn out to be, and what degree of suffering would she receive at his hand? And what degree of suffering would she accept, without rebelling? The answer to the second was more easy, she would accept anything that Madame had authorised the ‘enforcer’ to deliver. She had given herself over into the woman’s hands, and she would trust her to do what was right, and safe. For the rest, she would bear it as best she could, regardless of what was done to her.
It was not clear what form her coming discipline might take. Obviously for most of her ‘string’ Madame would simply order a flogging, and put the girl back to work as soon as she could stand, but she knew Madeleine and her sexual propensities, too well to do that. She’d made it quite clear she’d have no chance to sublimate her pain and degradation into eventual pleasure and satisfaction, however much she hated them at the time. Her time in the brothel had been carefully calculated to be as unpleasant as possible, while avoiding the possibility of later satisfaction, and it had worked. She’d hated every minute of it and, even now shuddered whenever she thought of it.
She was lost in thoughts of what might be done to her that would be worse than Bertha’s establishment, for she was convinced it would be, when her bleak thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. It must be him! She leapt to her feet and, naked, trailing a miasma of sweat urine and faeces, ran to the door. She opened it to find a small blonde young woman, probably five years younger than herself, standing by a black case of the sort used by door to door salesmen to transport their sample. Damn that porter, she’d given him very explicit instructions not to let anyone to her door. No doubt this Avon Lady, or whatever she peddled, had paid him handsomely, in cash or in kind, the sexual kind, to leave her free to roam the corridors of the expensive apartment block with its promise of rich pickings. Acutely embarrassed by her nudity and body odour, - would the woman offer her a free air freshener as a ‘come on’? - she glared at her uninvited visitor.
“Go away,” she said, more aggressively than she intended, “Please go away at once. I don’t require anything you might be selling, and I’m expecting an important visitor at any moment.”
Quite unabashed by this attack the tiny blonde said, in a sweet voice beneath which a touch of steel lurked, “Good evening, Madeleine. I’m Yvette, and I’ve come to make your life utter hell for a week. Don’t be put off by my appearance, I can do it, in fact, I’m very good at it. Being a woman helps of course, one understands so much better than a man just what will hurt or humiliate most, and I’m very experienced. Above all, I like what I do, and that makes all the difference.” She stepped into the hallway. “Now that’s quite enough for introductions,” she continued. “Pick up my bag, and shut the door! Let’s set about making you wish you had never been born!”
THE END
Madeleine Page 18
