Belle Submission

by Yolanda Celbridge

  ‘Now, wait,’ Trina began, ‘this is getting — oh!’

  Her body jerked as the spike, lubricated with her own come, penetrated her anus to a few inches then jammed.

  ‘Relax, mamselle,’ said Sophie.

  Harriet rammed the spike again.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’

  The heavy steel shaft penetrated Trina’s insides and her bare moons quivered violently; Harriet said she was properly stuck and permitted her to rise. Trina winced as the burning pressure of the shaft filled her anus, yet behind her she saw her defensive spike pointing proudly from her ass-cleft.

  ‘The quim should be no problem,’ Harriet said briskly,

  ‘as you’re already so wet, mamselle intendant.’

  ‘Uhh… yeah…’

  I am wet.

  Trina’s clit was throbbing as she parted her thighs and leaned backwards for the second prong to penetrate her. The steel tube slid easily up her moist cunt, slamming the neck of her womb. Between her legs, Trina sported a spiked sword. Sophie buckled a scabbard with a whipple cane at her waist, and Harriet said she regretted not having a cattle whip available, but the armament was only for show, anyhow. Finally, she wedged the steel pod of the helmet over Trina’s mane, which bristled out on either side. Without ceremony, she hustled Trina through the fur drapes into the perfumed chamber. The drapes closed with a zip behind her. She heard a whisper, Harriet’s voice — watch out for the butt stud, mamselle — and giggles.

  The room was in shadowy green candlelight; bodies moved and Trina stood still, adjusting her eyes. Her feet crunched a covering of sawdust on the dirt floor. A machine, like an outsize food blender, whirred at the far end of a trough five feet long. Three nude maids, heads sheathed in tight green rubber hoods, leaned over the trough at an angle of sixty degrees, with their feet in shackles bolted to the floor. Their heads were held up by ropes extending from the low ceiling, to which their manes were knotted, with their torso weight taken by their hair pulled to its roots. Each maid had one arm pinioned behind her back, the wrist pulled upwards and fastened by a chain to a spiked neck collar. Behind each maid stood a uniformed and helmeted monitor, her spikes and harness flashing as she caned the bare bottom of the bound girl. The girls writhed to the rhythm of their flogging by the snappy little whipples, drawing traceries of red welts on their bares.

  As they were flogged, each girl masturbated, fingers delving into swollen cunt-lips and tangled with wet pubic hairs as a steady stream of come dripped from her cunt into the trough. On a bench by the wall, three more nude maids sat, hooded, with their knees held up by a two-by-four roped around the backs of their necks. Their wrists were tied to their raised ankles, and they shivered at each canestroke to the bares they could not see, but whose owners yelped loud. Telltale trickles of come seeped beneath the naked girls’ buttocks, streaking the bench with cunt-oil.

  One of the three monitors put down her cane and approached Trina. Her eyes were stone as she turned her bottom towards her and clashed ass-spikes; then repeated the greeting by flapping her cunt-spike against Trina’s. The two other monitors did likewise, and the second gestured to Trina that she should take her place at the come trough. Trina hesitated; the girl drew Trina’s whipple from her scabbard and impatiently thrust it between her fingers, pointing at the scarred, squirming nates she had been flogging. Trembling, Trina took up position behind the naked girl and perceived further movement in the far depths of the smoky chamber. She raised her cane; the bare buttocks clenched and quivered, and a sob escaped the lips of the girl, who mewled under her hood.

  There was an exclamation of disgust from the monitor, who grabbed Trina’s forearm and brought the cane smartly across the girl’s bare, adding a further stripe to the numerous bruises already mottling the flesh. The girl groaned. Trina shook off the monitor’s hand, which delved at Trina’s groin, coming up shiny and oily with her own come. The monitor grinned. Trina swallowed and forced herself to grin back. The plugs were tight, so very tight, filling her cunt and butthole… The monitor gestured once more to the girl’s squirming bare. The other monitors watched Trina. The prisoner snuffled and yelped, wriggling her bottom as if pleading for welts. This weird shit…! Trina snorted, raised her cane and lashed the naked moons. Vip!

  ‘Oh…Oh…’ the girl crooned, sobbing.

  Vip!

  ‘Oh…’

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ah!’

  Trina began to cane the naked girl without pity, watching the flow of come spurt after each canestroke and feeling her own cunt slippery with her slime. Sweat poured from her, dripping on to the spikes from her cunt and ass, which flashed in the candle’s glow, and which in turn sprayed droplets of her sweat. Vip! Vip!

  ‘Uh …’ came the writhing girl’s whimper, muffled by her hood as she masturbated faster.

  Vip! Vip!

  ‘Oh…’

  The full bare moons danced in the smoky light, the ridges etched by Trina’s cane puffing to purple, and the buttocks squirming like twin kaleidoscopes. Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh!’

  Trina’s cane rose but did not yet lash.

  ‘Ooh!’

  A second scream tore from the darkness in the far depths and Trina craned to look. She saw two naked bodies, one hooded: an elfin, hard-muscled slip of a girl, prostrate, with her hooded face in the dirt, and manacled, her teeth clawing at sawdust and raw earth, which she chewed and swallowed as the masked figure behind her slapped his loins against her wriggling buttocks. The male withdrew after every cockstroke, his tool dripping with ass-grease, while the girl masturbated her cunt, sending torrents of come dribbling into a gutter, which led to the churning blender. Trina stared at the sweating male body, the enormous, hideous cock cleaving the tiny girl’s anus before a wooden throne. He fucked tirelessly, slamming the girl’s helpless body with each penetration; her legs jerked rigid at the cockthrusts; her moans turned to shrieks, then gasps of orgasm, and come poured from her frotted cunt as she masturbated harder and harder. He did not come himself, nor cease to crack his hips on her quivering ass as she slid from the spasms of one orgasm towards another. The ruthless buttfucking continued, and her cries shrilled again, as the enculing cock brought her off once more.

  ‘Elvis…?’ she murmured.

  The male looked up without ceasing to buttfuck the prostrate, wriggling girl. Trina saw his mask and screamed.

  ‘You dare to address the butt stud, bitch?’ hissed the first monitor.

  The monitors rushed her, jabbing at her ass and teats with their cunt-and buttock-spikes, while immobilising her. Flailing and helpless, Trina screamed again. The enculing male was wearing a rubber mask with the face of Trina Guelph.

  From the Journal of Mlle Augustine Flageolet, anno 1760 8 Forcibly, our crew is male, and my design to keep them in docility has worked perfectly. There is the promise of five gold pieces held for them in the Bank of Geneva on their return to Europe, with my written accreditation. My academy of reason can well afford the sum, possessed as it is of my treasure. I let no one see the treasure, not even the bankers who finance my endeavours, for I know that what those greedy periwigs imagine is more potent than reality. Most important is the crew’s daily servicing by my virgins of Ishtar, the lustful goddess, queen of the universe, protectress of prostitutes and patroness of wine shops. I have long been an admirer of Ishtar. Her cult worship included temple prostitution, the sublime art of feminine power, by total submission. which tames men, by draining their juices. I teach my girls to submit totally to the male principle of power, for it is only by female submission that a male’s energy can be harnessed and enjoyed, and the energy of stormy male waters channelled into safe female harbours. Those women who believe themselves the equal of males come to grief in their vapid posturings; how much more power did a Cleopatra, a Lucrezia Borgia possess, in a crook of her little finger, or a wink of her eye, than some scowling and dry-cunted puritan hypocrite!

  Our European cult of virginity reduces the vulva to curren
cy and frustrates the natural desires of male and female alike. However, unfettered copulation is unseemly and has dynastic consequences. We must respect nature, but thwart her tyranny by bending her to our will. She provides the female body with not one but two orifices of pleasure, and three if the mouth is counted. Thus my virgins of Ishtar present their anal holes daily for the worship and satisfaction of the tempestuous male organ. The male is like a cow, in the parlance of the physiocrats — he must be milked regularly of cream for healthy functioning of the organism. If the supplicant male desires to honour their rear moons with spanks, then their bare bottoms may glow in honour of the goddess. The virgins of Ishtar serve the male organ with their heads concealed by muslin bags, and identifiable only by their sacred female portion, their buttocks. There are five virgins of Ishtar at any one time, and the whole academy are on their best behaviour, begging to serve.

  9

  Flapjacks

  ‘A little higher, Duane. Oh! Yes… that’s good,’ gasped Lady Juliet Gorges. ‘Ladies, please be seated, and chow down. Chitlins, grits, clam chowder, collard greens and as much Old Aroostook ale as you can chug. Yes, Duane, just right! Forgive me for taking my morning massage, ladies, but you know ways — don’t waste a minute! It relaxes me for business with you conniving Frenchies, and I don’t know how we innocent rustics would do without your pomade and irresistible cooze-wigs.’

  She sighed.

  ‘Always the way! We are but simple island folk, our rude virtue seduced by continental charms. The fingers of New Albion maidens crippled in sweatshops, fashioning old-style nylon stockings for your sensuous legs…’

  ‘And their bottoms flogged on frames sculpted by our craftsmaids,’ Sirena said drily. ‘As our naked bottoms suffer under canes and birches of Yankee provenance. We, too, are islanders, your ladyship, as much as you flapjacks.’

  Lady Juliet’s body gleamed with oil. Apart from a purple waspie corset with gold laces, fastened to seventeen inches at the waist, she was nude. Her big breast-jellies, their dark plum nipples softly risen, wobbled over the corset as she wagged a playful finger at Sirena and Alice Frequemme, both prim in formal scholar’s uniform.

  ‘Sirena,’ she said, ‘you don’t call us flapjacks and we shan’t call you candy-butts, agreed? Though I wonder if your candy butts can stand up to the new intendant — I hear she is quite the martinet, her cane ever lashing, and that in two weeks she has left a trail of scarred melons. Possibly including her own. It seems she arrived smooth-cunt, but has grown a fleece to rival Zealla Pure’s.’

  ‘You hear much, your ladyship,’ Sirena said.

  Juliet laughed and shifted on her divan, its only ornament, apart from her nude body, being a red telephone.

  ‘And know but little. There are rumours she is enthralled by the vicious trull Harriet Stooplaugh, some say her appointed tribadist. I do know a martinet is a dominatrix, but also a girl whose bare ass craves the cane. Our English language has such subtleties. Mmm! Good, Duane.’

  Sirena nodded, grimacing. Sweat dripped from their brows and dampened their nylon blouses, clinging to their low-cut scalloped brassieres; their nylon stockings slithered wetly as the two women crossed and uncrossed their legs. Behind them, under the eyes of two cane-wielding guards, shyly stood three girls of eighteen years, all clad in a new military uniform of black tunic and mini-skirt, with bare legs and black rubber ankle-boots. None carried a whip or other weapon and the tightness of their garments indicated none had underwear. The guards had corporal’s and sergeant’s stripes tattooed on bare upper arms, and were uniformed in black rubber bikinis and jackboots, the bra cups steel cones, with spikes at buttocks, breasts and toecaps.

  Beneath the open balcony windows of the first lady’s chamber, squadrons of uniformed girls drilled and practised combat on the parade ground beyond Lady Juliet Gorges’s patio where, among arbours and flowers, stood tiny gibbets, flogging stools, stocks and a pillory. Those held strapped nude girls, their faces sullen with shame, with bodies striped by the whip and stained with pelted ordures.

  Beyond them, at the crest of a hillock, stood an eight-foot brass cannon looking out to sea. A naked maid was strapped to the cannon, her wrists and ankles roped beneath the barrel, and her buttocks gleamed with a panoply of fresh red welts. Her head slumped on the gunmetal, wet with her tears, and the juices oozed from her quim. The sun was rising in the morning sky, a fierce azure, across which white clouds scudded in the brisk sea breeze. The soldier girls wore combat dress of black spikes jutting from oiled nude bodies. The spikes were fixed by rubber cords clustering around teat and vulva, and were most concentrated at the bare fesses. Those drilling marched at a goosestep, carrying whips held taut against their breasts. Those at combat dodged and dived, cracking their whips, in efforts to lash each other’s bodies, the spikes both for armour and attack, for when a girl had lashed out with her whip and lost momentum she was laid open to a spinning croup assault and a clash of spikes aimed at fesses, gash or titties.

  Sirena and Alice watched the display with stony faces. The black-spiked girls moved in perfect harmony and utter viciousness; a beaten girl, pinioned on the ground, refused to beg for mercy as her victrix whipped her spikes from her body. Once denuded, she lay flat in the dirt for her bottom to be striped by the quirt, and the bare fesses not clenching — save when it was over, and her wealed ass-flesh leaped into frenzied, pent-up shuddering, like flapjacks on a griddle, origin of the New Arrasiennes’ derogatory nickname for girls of New Albion. When the flogged ass made flapjacks, the victrix thrust with her bottom and hoisted the flogged girl by her spikes, driving her off the parade ground by a flurry of spiked thrusts to her anus, with the nude, shamed victim passing a gauntlet of buttocks, each spiked and thrusting at her anus or vulva. She bowed to the flag of New Albion, swaying on top of a pole thirty feet high: it was a nude girl, bound at the breasts and loins by hempen ropes, with her eyes covered, her mouth gagged by a rubber strap and ball, and wrists and ankles roped behind her. Sirena and Alice made a moue.

  ‘How barbaric,’ murmured Sirena.

  ‘Pig-sticking is a noble battleground tradition,’ said Lady Juliet. ‘Vae victis! Woe to the conquered. Nevertheless, see how lightly armoured our troops are. So easy for an enemy — naming no one — to flog them to submission.’

  ‘Our troops abjure pig-sticking, Lady Juliet,’ said Alice, ‘and yours have metal in their whipthongs.’

  ‘Why, that would be forbidden by the Biloxi convention! Mmm… yes, Duane, continue. Higher. Mmm…’

  ‘Shall we to business, your ladyship?’ Sirena said, sipping her glass of ale and poking at her plate of greasy fodder. ‘We have some formal diplomatic notes to deliver.’

  ‘My secretary, Abby Musquonset, shall receive them, as usual,’ said Lady Juliet, nodding to the blonde in black military uniform.

  The coltish blonde girl, eighteen years old, wore a tight short skirt clinging to her bare thighs. Above the waist she was naked, save for a brassiere whose black rubber straps encased her bulbous teats in two sharply pointed conical cups of gunmetal, each breast ringed by spikes in the same metal, six inches long, while from the tip of each bra-cup jutted a thicker spike. Untrimmed fleeces poked from her armpits. She wore a cane at her waist and a whip curled around her torso, passing through the crease of her big, sweat-damp breasts. Her feet wore calf-length black boots in shiny latex, with a steel spike at the toe. Sirena handed her a paper scroll bound in a string. She leered and stuck the scroll behind the left cup of her bra.

  ‘The republic of New Arras protests the repeated incursions into our territory and waters by the New Albion armed forces,’ Sirena said. ‘We desire only peace, but the behaviour of New Albion obliges us to remain on a war footing. We further protest the haven given by New Albion to fugitives from New Arras justice.’

  ‘An outrageous provocation,’ said Lady Juliet, ‘which we reject utterly. Abby has our diplomatic note. In it, we protest your detention and imprisonment of innocent New Albion
mariners lost in the fog. Also the incursions of spies into our territory, masquerading as political refugees, who our Anglo-Saxon humanity obliges us to welcome.’

  Abby Musquonset parted her thighs and raised her right leg until her knee was at her chin. Her minge was fully spread and exposed, showing the fleshy red cunt-lips nestling amid a jungle of blonde pubic thatch that trailed up her belly and down between the cheeks of her bottom, almost covering her anus. She poked a finger inside her anus and withdrew a rolled paper gleaming with her ass-grease. Sirena accepted it frostily. Juliet and Abby smiled.

  ‘We commend your subtlety,’ said Sirena, grimacing.

  ‘New Arras has no choice but to detain as POWS those armed insurgents, bent on violent overthrow of our state, under orders of New Albion high command. Therefore we reject your outrageous suggestion and demand the return of so-called refugees — in reality felons, or civilians, kidnapped as slaves.’

  ‘Outrageous! That is a lie, peddled by the warmonger Zealla Pure and her faction. Is Zealla still diddling Devora Dykes, by the way? I hear that the new intendant has grown a cunt-fleece that puts Devora’s to shame, and that the imperialist dictator Pure is avid for hot new bushes, as well as new croups to lash, and juicy new quims to suck. Anyway, there are no slaves on New Albion.’

  ‘Preposterous! There is nothing but,’ said Sirena. ‘As for your despicable slur on citizen Pure’s morality, she is without equal in her devotion to reason and the common weal. I suggest we get down to the real business. You have advertised certain disciplinary instruments to be supplied for humanitarian purposes.’

  Lady Juliet Gorges clapped her hands, and the guards pushed the three soldier girls forwards, towards a flogging chaise longue six feet in length, with straps for ankles and wrists at the extremities. Its rosewood sides and table curved to meet the undulations of a female body and the centre was a hillock to thrust the buttocks up, with slopes to force the thighs wide open. Each of them stood trembling with her head hanging low and her hands crossed at her pubis. The sergeant flicked each of them under the chin with her cane, and they raised their heads. All had moist eyes and slack lips.