The girl shook it off, screaming. Desperately her frayed body gathered for the next. Mr. Jorrocks knew how to cut supremely. When it was over the girl sat on the floor with contorted face in spasms of anguish.
‘Send Alison Riley’, said the President, consulting his list, ‘and let that be a lesson to you.’
Having dressed, the girl escaped on a run. Big-breasted Alison was next to arrive and her buttocks were bitten by blood. Finally came House Matron Sandra McIllick, undressing bravely in a trice.
‘I’ll take mine all on the bottom, please’, she requested as she heard the sentence.
‘As you wish, my dear, as you wish.’ The President nodded to Mr. Jorrocks. The whip popped.
The triangle bounded with a grunt. The balled arse lunged, lined with fire across its centre.
‘Uuuunngh!’
When this was over there remained only Aramilla Ponsonby, and Mr. Jorrocks was not the man for her. Milton Hamilton dismissed his head groom with thanks, a huge sum of money, and a double scotch and soda. Left alone, he realized his prick was a rock, his balls aching for discharge.
Slowly he crossed the corridor to his bedroom.
Georgene Hamilton was brushing her hair at a mirror. She had been changing for dinner, it seemed, and wore only lacy underclothes. As usual, her face looked just about to cry. But all her anxious eyes could see was the huge hot knob of his penis pushing through the bathrobe.
‘Milton!’ she murmured reverentially, not taking her eyes off its eye, ‘are you finished already?’
‘Yes, they were all pretty fairly punished, I’d say’, he muttered distractedly. ‘I don’t think they’ll start a revolution in a hurry.’
‘That poor Aramilla Ponsonby?’
‘She’s being dealt with separately.’
Georgene gave an eloquent shudder. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, I must say.’
‘You remember our motto, dear. Ask nothing of the students we wouldn’t be prepared to take ourselves. Let’s see your arse’, he said, ‘and get the thing.’
‘Milton!’ She stood up timorously.
‘The thing’, he reiterated angrily. His desire was becoming unmanageable. She hurried to obey.
It was like some sweetness of death when she undressed. How could his prick grow higher, and yet still heavier?
‘Bend over the end of the bed’, he said gutturally. There was no time for the mirrors tonight. Nor the mood. She tremblingly obeyed.
‘Oh Milt’, she said, ‘be gentle with me, please.’
The anguish of his ecstasy was so insistent he moved behind her and squatted slightly to send his pulsing monster under the perfect cheeks of her Restoration-Regency arse.
‘Ooooo, Milton.’
She bucked and twisted and he pulled out quickly. He didn’t want to spoil this moment. The bud of her bum-hole winked impertinently, it seemed.
‘I’m going to cane you hard, Georgene. Brace back your knees and hold on tight. This may hurt.’
The rod flashed, liquid with light, drawing a raw stripe across her tender, muscleless flesh.
‘AAAAIEEEE!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aramilla Ponsonby had been surprised to find the Presidential ‘play room’, when she entered it, empty. By this point she had heard from her fellows of the flogging at the triangle and was properly apprehensive. However, she thought she could get through it safely. The gleaming apparatus was there, all right. But no one was in the room. She had on a shantung suit.
‘Hello, Aramilla’, said a dulcet tone, and the Prexy of Beta Rho whirled. Her face dropped a yard. High-diving champ Nancy Kale had just come in, clad in her shortest gym outfit, and holding what looked like a long leather thong. Aramilla’s face hardened perceptibly.
‘Give me that negative would you? And original.’
The girl handed them over. Miss Kale
masticated them. She smiled again with menace.
‘Now all these unfortunate traces will pass right through me won’t they and eventually emerge in my stool. And if I make you eat that, Aramilla, then two of us will have consumed the clues, won’t we?’
‘Do your damnedest’, hissed plucky Aramilla Ponsonby, albeit there was a note of terror in her tone. ‘You won’t get a squawk out of me.’
‘We’ll see, my girl. Do you know what this is?’
‘No.’
‘South African rhino. A sjambok, in short. It won’t sear you for life, but it’ll do everything but.
Now strip, you bitch.’
To the stranger from Mars it must have been a strange symphony that drifted out of the diamonded window-panes on that Bermuda night.
For as many as ten Aramilla stifled all but puffs and grunts, and one unhappy fart, but her due was twenty-five and she soon began yelping musically, full-throated as any thrush in summer. From above came an antiphonal response – worried, pleading, and exhausted – as Georgene realized that she too, poor soul, was getting the shellacking of her life.
But of such is the kingdom of heaven made.
Sorority of Submissive Girls Page 13
