Belle Submission

by Yolanda Celbridge

  6

  Skin Abacus

  It was cool in Trina’s chamber. A soft, velvet dusk shrouded her open balcony windows, and below her the chirps of insects and birds mingled with girls’ voices, shrilling the languid tropical night. The room was airy, its stone floor devoid of furniture, save for a rosewood four-poster bed with plump pillows and sheets; wash things in a cubicle, with a Turkish-style toilet; high chairs and a writing table; and a curious X-shaped frame, like an ironing board, the size of a human body, carved from a single piece of mahogany and standing on four metal legs. Otherwise, the room was as spartan as Blush Coynte’s jail cell. Trina stripped, preparing to bathe before dinner. Scented, tepid water was brought in buckets up the stone staircase by a serving maid, clad in a frilly short skirtlet that came only inches below her pubis; black shirt and crossover suspenders for the skirt, with a white ruff at her bosom.

  Harriet Stooplaugh was on secret duty, an affaire d’état, Alice Frequemme had explained in some embarrassment and, begging the intendant’s pardon, but a temporary thrall would be sent. Muted but hissing argument among the committee of public safety, accompanied by viperish exchange of documents, with much signing and counter-signing, found a thrall to attend Trina that evening. The intendant’s palace brimmed with staff, but Zealla informed Trina they could not leave their specific tasks without reports being filed, requisition forms completed and the duty roster amended in the public censor’s office, presently closed. Zealla hinted that the intendant herself was merely one piece of the palace’s complex puzzle.

  The maid was barefoot and her long tan legs were nude of tights. Her lush sandy mane straggled unkempt on her shoulders, its ends flicking the hillocks of ripe breasts straining under their cloth enclosure, and her fesse-melons bulged, bouncing against the frilly slip of her skirt which revealed that she wore no panties or else a string too small for comfort. Her eyes were downcast, acknowledging her mistress by fear, and Trina cast aside her own clothing with no attempt to conceal herself from the maid’s eyes. The fabric clung to her sweating skin and peeled off with a sticky plopping sound. The maid watched Trina dung, squatting naked over Turkish porcelain, and when her stools had plopped from her smeared buttocks wiped and perfumed her anus. Trina stepped outside on to the balcony, standing back to hide her nudity in shadow, and touched the tops of her breasts, stiffening in the breeze from the Gulf of Mexico. She stroked the weals, still smarting, that were her legacy of her first day on New Arras. A smile creased her lips: the selection of Harriet Stooplaugh as her secretary, and her insistence thereon, had surely established her dominion over the committee of public safety. Harriet would be hers the next day.

  There was neither electricity nor internal combustion engine on New Arras, although the palace had butane gas lighting, and otherwise there were candles and oil lamps, made in the republic’s own factory. That was the factory making wigs and pomades, technically part of the academy and under the sway of Heidi Absorb, who also controlled the Stella Maris therapeutic facility. Heidi seemed the only committee member without a say in law and order, until Trina learned the Stella Maris had its own elite corps of vigilantes, with special uniforms: the guardians of virtue. Trina’s hand strayed to the goose-bumps on her bottom and stroked the weals dealt her during the day. They had hardened to crisp ridges of puffy skin and tingled at her touch, not unpleasantly, as her fingers awoke the bruised skin and the welts throbbed, warm and insistent. She cupped her left fesse with one palm, squeezing her meat and clenching the buttocks to trap her fingers in her ass-cleft, itself severely welted. The serving maid paid her no attention, keeping her head and gaze downwards, even when Trina quietly mooned her, with her massage of the crimson flesh quite blatant.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, maid,’ she said, selecting a walnut from a silver bowl and cracking it with her teeth, then washing the nut down with a sip of iced water.

  She ran the shell fragment along one peaked nipple, drawing a thin white line of scratched skin on the red nip-flesh; then the other nipple, pressing the jagged point of the fragment into herself until her teat-buds swelled to full erection. Rapidly blinking, Trina sucked breath. The maid stared at her briefly with her eyes wide and white.

  ‘At your orders, mamselle,’ she said and then was silent, until Trina realised it had been a question.

  ‘Of course, on my orders,’ she snapped. ‘I am the intendant of New Arras, and everything I say is an order.’

  ‘Then mamselle knows that slave maids may not speak without orders, on pain of caning,’ the girl mumbled.

  Her name was Beulah Beaucoup, from Pritchard, Alabama; she was a scholar, and a worthy member of the New Arras part-time militia, or tried to be, but had spent the last three months a slave maid, deemed recusant after whipping failed to reform her of her wicked practices. She hesitated to name her offence, until Trina ordered her.

  ‘Playing games with other maids, mamselle. Shameful games.’

  ‘Masturbating?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t stop. So many girls join the militia just for that. But I wouldn’t snitch on my partners — I just got caught, that’s all, with Devora Dykes. We were diddling each other in the woods under a sweet gum tree, and we’d taken off all our clothes, and — we couldn’t deny it. We were daubing each other all over, like, on the titties, and in our pussies, with the liquid amber, you know, that comes out of the bark, like — I guess like girl’s come, only real sweet and aromatic and sticky — you know? — and that’s off limits to maids, on account of it’s used for the pomade and perruque manufacture. Constable Stooplaugh caught us, thrashed us on the bare, twenty-four strokes each, in six squares of four, then said she must report us. Mamselle Stooplaugh is truly the harshest law enforcement officer I’ve ever known, mamselle intendant.

  ‘Those strokes really hurt, because we took them with gum all over our bare asses, and it smarts so much more on the wet, doesn’t it, mamselle? She poked tubes of gum right up our buttholes, and that felt all sticky and irritating, but kind of ticklish, too. And we’d no choice but to link hands round the tree-trunk, buck naked in shame, and get stickier while she lashed us on the bare. She said if we wanted to complain, like some sassy mainland lawyer, she’d loose a colony of ants on to us, and then we could giggle at the gum up our holes. So we took it in silence — or not exactly in silence, because those slices with a hickory switch smarted so. I moaned out loud as each cut striped my skin, I confess. I’d never been thrashed so savagely and Stooplaugh took such delight in lashing bare skin, mamselle! Devora just grunted; she was used to lashes more than I was. Swish! Swish! Swish! Devora and me, clutching hands as we slammed against the gummy tree bark, and our pussy-hair getting tangled in it, and all. Devora — well, she got away with it, somehow. She makes friends easily. And enemies. But my grievous offence was racketeering — trading in black market canestrokes. I was hanged publicly for that, whipped one hundred with the quirt and broken to a slave, with my skirts ripped to shreds. I have to stitch every piece of my uniform back together before the committee will even consider me for parole. But it wasn’t true, mamselle intendant, I swear! All my strokes were noted and accounted for! Some filthy trull sneaked my stroke book, that’s all. A New Albion spy, I’d bet.’

  ‘You weren’t charged with lesbianism?’ Trina said drily.

  ‘Why, no, mamselle, how filthy. Diddling is a crime, but it’s not lesbianism. More like a misdemeanour. Your bath’s ready, now, mamselle. Have you further use for me, or do you elect to thrash me?’

  ‘Why would I elect to thrash you?’

  ‘It’s normal, mamselle. Slaves are flogged in submission, regularly and at whim. But it’s not as it seems,’ Beulah blurted. ‘Slave maids get no benefit of strokes, as we cannot have bank accounts.’

  ‘Stay awhile,’ said Trina, sliding into the warm, scented water. ‘Racketeering? Explain. And sponge my back.’

  Beulah flicked back a lock from her forehead and began to rub Trina’s skin. Racketeering was a heinous crime,
akin to high treason against the republic, she explained, for it was tantamount to forging the currency and inflating the money supply regulated by Mamselle Carawn and the governesses of the bank. Girls offered their buttocks for unofficial caning or flogging on the bare and received black market fessignats, or strokes, as the New Arras currency was familiarly known. The value of those strokes fluctuated and, as a result, so did the value of official strokes. A girl claiming wealth by showing the bruises on her bare bottom could not be asked to prove if her weals were official currency. Stripes were fessignats; mottled or blushing bruises were small change. The deemsters of the bank valued each very harsh welt at several fessignats.

  ‘If I may speak, mamselle, and without rebellious intent, your own fesses suggest you enjoy great wealth.’

  Trina laughed.

  ‘You mean because I’ve been whipped, Beaulah? I’ve had too hot a welcome here in New Arras and, as intendant, I intend to put a stop to all this… this fustigation. This place is quaint, granted, but we’re still Americans, and these barbarous beatings must stop. I took the most savage treatment today — think of my surprise at Mamselle Pure’s misunderstanding — but I’m a little older than you girls.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know what you mean, mamselle,’ stammered the girl, blushing deeply. ‘How else can we learn to be ladies? You could take your chastisement because you already are a lady.’

  ‘I forbid you to say that. You wouldn’t wish to be charged with lesbianism.’

  ‘Oh, mamselle.’

  Trina stared at the girl’s heaving breasts and crimson bunched face, shutting back her tears. She reached out and pushed up Beulah’s skirtlet. The maid’s bare buns were sheathed in the tiniest of loinstrings, a rubber cord that bit harshly into her perineum and gash, while her full bare buttocks bore numerous livid cane scars, many of them fresh. Trina began to stroke the girl’s bare and Beaulah trembled.

  ‘Do you have marks on your titties, Beulah?’ Trina said.

  ‘Everywhere, mamselle. My pussy, especially. They are cruel, because I like to masturbate so much.’

  ‘Hey, Beulah, every girl masturbates. I masturbate.’

  ‘You are the intendant.’

  ‘I wasn’t yesterday,’ Trina said.

  Her hands brushed Beulah’s titties, swelling under the tight cloth and soaked in sweat. Trina twanged a suspender strap against her breast, and the girl shuddered.

  ‘Stop shaking, maid,’ Trina said. ‘You stink.’

  ‘Slaves may not bathe, mamselle, so that males will shun us. A hungry man indeed for a cheesy quim, that’s what Mamselle Pure says.’

  ‘Yuk. Get in the bath.’

  Beulah nodded and placed her foot in the water.

  ‘You have to strip naked,’ Trina said.

  ‘Oh. Yes, mamselle.’

  Beulah undressed with her back to Trina and, as she dropped her skirtlet and rolled down the tight, chafing string, Trina stared at the massive and cleverly striped buttocks, each cane welt laid in deft sequence to form a series of squares, so that the girl’s flogged moons could very well have represented an accounting device or skin abacus. Smiling shyly, but making no move to cover her quim or huge, jutting breasts, Beulah stepped daintily into the bath beside her mistress.

  ‘Haven’t you ever thought of escape, Beulah?’ Trina said.

  ‘That would be unreasonable, mamselle.’

  ‘You could go back to Alabama.’

  ‘Whatever would I do there?’

  The two nude girls caressed: daintily at first, and then their caresses grew feverish. The bathwater slopped around Beulah’s floating breasts, which Trina slapped together with a wet crack. They explored each other, Beulah with her eyes closed, moaning as she felt Trina’s weals, and Trina’s tongue licking the tracery of welts that crisscrossed the bare Alabaman breasts, thighs, cunt and ass. The big pink nipples, domed like soft plums, were impacted with a fine spray of curving, deep weals, as though from a tiny cane or wire. The gash-lips themselves, strongly extruded from a tangled pubic forest, bore whip slices; the belly, the substance of the teats and the back were all ripe with marks, carefully laid in a mosaic. Beulah shifted her ass so that Trina could cup the melons in her hands and Trina gasped, saying she scarcely needed to look, as it was like feeling corrugated leather.

  Beulah had her eyes shut and moaned as Trina probed her body, the fingers sliding nearer her cunt, with the cunt-basin shifting and the swollen red gash-flaps opening moistly at Trina’s approach. She brushed the lips tenderly at first, then more aggressively, until the come seeped into the bath suds, pooling with the oily unguents. Trina let her fingers enter the girl’s pouch and jerked as she felt hesitant fingers clasping her own swelling cunt-flaps; she snatched breath as Beulah’s thumb touched her swelling, erect clitoris. In a moment, she had her thumb pressing Beulah’s own; her hand, freed from the buttocks, was squeezing and kneading Beulah’s creamy tanned teat-flesh, pinching the nips and eliciting faint little cries from the slave girl.

  ‘Maybe I should spank you,’ she whispered as her belly writhed and her own come flowed from her throbbing cunt. ‘I should be tired in this heat, and after such a whirlwind of a day, but I’m not. This climate is enervating; this warmth tempts me. And… your bottom.’

  ‘It is the humidity, mamselle,’ Beulah gasped as Trina tongued her nipples, ‘freshened by sea air. Do you really want to spank me? I must obey you totally. You are intendant of New Arras and, with sublime reason, can do anything you like.’

  Trina’s fingers brushed, then rubbed and clawed at the heavy welts on Beulah’s bare buns, eliciting moans from the squirming girl. Come poured from Beulah’s cunt over Trina’s wrists and oiled the bath suds.

  ‘Yes, you must obey me. Anything I like. Mmm… do you desire spanking?’ she whispered.

  ‘Slaves may not desire, mamselle.’

  ‘But if you were free?’

  ‘I should like it, mamselle. Begging pardon, mamselle, my fesses thirst for your spanks.’

  Beulah’s lips parted, gasping as she poked two fingers into Trina’s copiously juicing slit.

  ‘Mamselle’s pussy is wet at the thought of spanking me bare? They say that girls who like to spank are really spanking themselves.’

  ‘How dare you? Fucking trull,’ Trina hissed.

  ‘I didn’t mean — oh!’

  Trina grabbed Beulah’s waist, pulling up her buttocks, and forced her head beneath the water. She raised her arm to the full and brought her palm down across the quivering bare moons. Slap! Slap! Slap! The water bubbled and frothed as Beulah’s pinioned head shook and her buttocks clenched, their spank-weals glowing pink. Slap! Slap! Slap! Trina spanked the bare, holding the girl’s nape and cracking her wet flesh until, after thirty slaps, she had raised a mottle of crimson on the skin. Beulah’s fesses were parted wide as they wriggled, revealing her jungle of pubic hair straggling through her perineum and its fronds caressing her writhing anal pucker, with the whole ass-cleft slathered in the copious come gushing from her cunt. Slap! Slap! Slap!

  ‘Ohh,’ Beulah gurgled, her cunt-basin threshing as Trina dragged her up from the water.

  The maddened girl punched Trina on the breasts, repeating her blows until Trina grabbed her by the wrists and forced her under water again, with her crimson fesses sticking into Trina’s face, and smothering her mouth and nose in wet cunt-hairs. Trina extended her tongue and got it an inch into the girl’s anus, then two inches, and began to ream the narrow, acrid channel. Beulah writhed; Trina took her tongue from the tight asshole and licked the perineum and the gash-hairs all the way to Beulah’s heavily juicing cunt. She plunged her tongue inside the slimy pouch and began to gamahuche Beulah, allowing the maid’s face to bob up from the water, with her fingers probing her own oily gash and her thumb vigorously rubbing her extruded clitty. As Trina masturbated, so too did the upended girl, her fingers rapid on her clit and brushing Trina’s lips, pressed to the swollen flaps at the mouth of her gushing cunt-pouch. Her legs
came up and pinioned Trina’s neck in a hammerlock; then Beulah dived once more under the water, this time for her face to make contact with Trina’s cunt. Trina moved her masturbating fingers a little to allow the girl’s eager tongue to penetrate her cunt to its full length and begin gamahuching Trina. The wet tribadists clung to each other’s slippery nude trunks, as their tongues worked on come-slopped cunts.

  ‘Oh…oh…’ Trina moaned, her cunt-basin writhing in the water, and spilling suds on to the stone floor.

  Beulah’s gash spurted slime as Trina chewed the clitty and gash-flaps, and the girl stiffened, heaving and threshing the water with a stream of orgasmic bubbles bursting over Trina’s breasts. Trina shut her eyes, stifling a squeal and opening her thighs to the full as the girl’s teeth fastened on her cunt-lips. Her belly heaved and she began to mewl, then groan, as honey engulfed her. Beulah splashed noisily into the air, gasping and writhing, with her hand blatantly masturbating between her legs. She put her other hand on Trina’s gash, slid three fingers into her slit and poked, while thumbing the swollen clitty. She bent, fastened her teeth on Trina’s left nipple, then bit hard.