Teena: A House of Ill Repute

by Jennifer Jane Pope

  Indira laughed. 'Your what?' she retorted. 'You're a whore, a slave, and slaves don't have fannies, they have cunts, don't they?'

  I was somewhat taken aback by Indira's sudden use of the most base vernacular, but the word had the right effect on her victim when she repeated her question.

  'It's my c-cunt,' she whimpered.

  Indira laughed and again snapped the crop down on unprotected flesh. 'It's your cunt, what?'

  Molly was quick to understand, as quick as Indira had been to slip into this unaccustomed role. Anne-Marie and Carmen would have been most impressed with her, and for a moment I wondered if Andrea had suddenly returned to take over.

  'It's my cunt, mistress,' Molly sobbed.

  Indira nodded. 'Then answer me properly, whore-slave,' she persisted. 'What do I have my fingers in, eh?'

  'My cunt, mistress.'

  Indira winked back at me now. 'You see,' she said, addressing Molly, 'that wasn't so difficult, was it? All you need to remember is that your role here is as a slave, and a slave exists to serve and pleasure and, sometimes, if she's very fortunate and if she earns it, to be pleasured in return. Now, I shall give you one taste of what an errant slave should expect.' She stepped back and without warning swung her arm. It was not a particularly vicious blow, but it was far harder than anything she had so far delivered. The crack of leather on stretched flesh was like a pistol shot in the confines of the bedchamber, but its noise was more than matched by Molly's howl of pain.

  'Oh, shut up,' was Indira's only reaction. 'Shut up and stand up. I have a duty for you to perform.' She grasped the back of Molly's neck collar and used it to help the weeping girl regain a standing position. 'Turn around, slave-slut,' she ordered, stepping further back herself. 'Now then,' she said, letting one white-gloved hand trail slowly down towards her own exposed sex, 'you, a whore, have a cunt, and I, a lady and a mistress, have what we prefer to call a cunny, or even a minnie. Do you think my cunny is pretty, slave girl Molly.'

  Poor Molly. She blinked and tried to nod, but the restriction about her neck made the gesture impossible, so she was forced to answer out loud. 'Yes, mistress,' she said hurriedly.

  'Then ask if you may kiss it, slut.' Indira deliberately moved her own legs further apart and pushed one gloved finger between her already glistening lower lips. 'Come on now, don't be shy.'

  I could see the idea shocked Molly, and I could also see a practical problem in what Indira wanted her to do, but for the moment I decided not to interfere. For a few seconds nothing happened and I thought Molly was going to refuse outright, but the sight and threat of the crop, which Indira now flexed deliberately between her hands, proved a strong incentive. Unsteadily, the bound girl moved forward and tried to stoop and bend, but even though she was still able to get her back parallel with the floor, her boots meant she was just a few inches too tall to bring her head low enough, which was exactly what I suspected would happen. Indira allowed the poor creature to struggle for several seconds, pushing her sex against the bridge of Molly's nose and rubbing herself up and down, while her victim manfully tried to get lower and raise her head to even greater degree, a feat made doubly impossible by the corsets about her torso and neck.

  At last Indira relented. Pushing Molly away temporarily, she turned and began arranging the pillows I had placed under our student a few minutes earlier, draping the final one over the top of the headboard with the others piled behind and beneath it to form a more or less comfortable seat, which she lifted herself onto and perched on with her legs wide apart. 'Now,' she instructed, 'let us try that once more, my pretty doxy, eh?' The arrangement lifted her at least another six inches and she was also able to offer herself at a more convenient angle now.

  Molly, very red in the face, both from shortage of breath and from shame and embarrassment, tottered forward and once again bent stiffly forward. This time she was able to comply with Indira's wishes and, as her head disappeared between the brown thighs, I saw my exotic lover stiffen with pleasure.

  'Ah, yes,' she crooned. 'Yes indeed, Molly... and now your tongue, girl. You know what to look for, I'm sure. I... oh yes!'

  I smiled. Obviously Molly did know what to look for and had found the target first up.

  Indira's eyes rolled and she lifted her legs and draped them over the stooping girl's shoulders, grasping her head and holding her firmly in position so she could not retreat. 'Lay on, my pretty pink slut,' she gasped, and began slowly rocking her hips back and forth.

  Now I decided to take a hand in the proceedings and stepped quietly across the room to take up position just behind Molly, who standing with her legs apart for balance offered an easy target. I stretched forward one hand and gently cupped her sex from behind. It felt hot on the outside, but when I began to probe with one finger, I found she was still fairly dry. Quickly I began rubbing my finger back and forth as I would have done with either myself or Anne-Marie, and was rewarded first with a muffled moan from between Indira's legs and, a moment or so later, by a rapid moistening from within, so that I was now easily able to insert two fingers and establish mastery over that one weak point I knew would guarantee our reluctant trainee's ultimate capitulation.

  It made quite an erotic tableau, I realised, and similar scenes would one day be captured on photographic plates and paper for the delectation of discerning gentlemen. For about thirty seconds we all remained like this, but the sights and smells were becoming too much for me. I dropped to my knees and pressed my own face between soft feminine thighs, my tongue eager where Molly's had earlier been hesitant.

  Fortunately I had not bothered to wear any drawers beneath my skirt and shift and I scrabbled at the folds of fabric, clawing them up into my lap, so that the hand I had first employed to stimulate Molly could now perform a similar task on myself. I was already wet and my nubbin throbbing and swollen, and my self-ministrations drove me to redouble my efforts on the hot little box in my mouth. I heard several groans - Indira's and Molly's, it was impossible to distinguish the one from the other - and then suddenly I felt our joint victim starting to shake and tremble. A moment later I began to come myself, burying my face as deeply as I could in order to stifle my own cries.

  And then it was done and somehow I was standing up, Indira too, with a red-faced and even more breathless Molly between us. I reached around and stroked her buttocks gently, noting that she was still quivering and possibly still in that state I always think of as 'aftershock', where although the main wave of the orgasm has passed, little miniature climaxes continue, in my case for anything up to three or four minutes, although I know now that I'm somewhat of an extreme case.

  'Now, was that not quite nice?' I asked gently. I looked across at Indira and could see from the expression on her face that 'quite nice' didn't even come close, but Molly managed to nod. 'Good,' I said, 'so we'll do it again in a little while.'

  'But surely, mistress,' Molly rasped, 'this is sinful, is it not?'

  'What?' It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Instead I said, 'You silly girl, it's no more sinful than anything you've ever done in your short life up until now, and quite probably a lot more enjoyable. And it's certainly not illegal,' I added with a chuckle, remembering that quirky story about how, when her ministers took before Queen Victoria a bill that would outlaw homosexuality and lesbianism, that grand but in many ways unworldly old lady asked how it was possible between two women. Rather than face the embarrassment of a graphic explanation, the officials struck out the passage referring to Sapphic activities and so the allegedly weaker sex enjoyed an immunity not enjoyed by their male counterparts until that insidious piece of legislation, that was to be the cause of so much agonising for so many decades, was finally repealed in the nineteen-sixties.

  'No,' I said, leaning across and kissing the embarrassed girl on the cheek, 'you've committed no sin in my eyes. But there are those who have, and we should comfort ourselves with the thought that everything we do now is dedicated to bringing upon them the retribution
their foul depravity has earned them.' Brave and noble words, I told myself, and tried to ignore the fact that in the meantime it looked as if I was going to have a most enjoyable time with my trio of acolytes, not to mention Indira and, of course, Erik, who I suspected I might have been neglecting for far too long. And, as I thought of Erik, a cunning idea began to form in my head. I grinned to myself as I left the room. So far this was all going very well and, if we continued as we had begun, my plan to deal with the dual menace of Hacklebury and Megan Crowthorne might be able to happen a good deal earlier than I originally anticipated.

  When I returned to the present this time around, it was to find Carmen starting to really enjoy herself with her latest creation, in the same way that pre-teen girls become entranced with their Barbie dolls and all their various outfits and accessories, except that her ultimate aim was not to produce a finished ensemble reflecting the latest fashion craze, but rather to present me to her waiting audience in the way certain lonely males might try to give their inflatable bed companions the appearance of the girl of their more elaborate private dreams.

  First she wrapped a waist-cinching corset around me, a garment that was not intended to even support, let alone cover, my rubber breasts, which in any case did not need any additional support, thanks to the hardened layer within the latex. This corset, to my surprise, was made from neither leather nor rubber, but black satin with red piping and lacing, the sort of thing it is possible to buy over the counter in one of the more discerning lingerie establishments.

  The stockings she then drew up my legs were black fishnet, so that my painted toenails were clearly visible through the mesh, and this illusion was maintained by the addition of red sandals with thick platform soles and wickedly spiked heels. Red satin gloves were then drawn up my arms, but I saw they were fingerless, exposing my plastic fingernails. Finally, a black and red satin choker was fastened about my throat and there I stood before the mirror, the epitome of a high-class tart in her boudoir, though perhaps the allusion to class was somewhat spoiled by the gaping mouth that was plainly inviting only one thing.

  I had half expected I would now have to wait around while Carmen transformed Anne-Marie and Andrea as she had done me, but in making that assumption, I had underestimated the devious dominatrix's ability to play psychological games. Where she was quite happy to spend her time turning me into one of her new sex dolls, having beaten Anne-Marie in what I still suspected was a fixed contest, she had now decided to emphasise her temporary superior status by consigning her defeated opponent's preparations to someone else, probably someone who could best be described as an 'underling'. As a result, no sooner was I pronounced ready than I was led out along a narrow passageway and into a slightly larger version of the room in which I had been dressed, to find myself confronted with one mirror image of myself, and one other that almost made up an identical trio, but for the far too obvious presence of a large pink penis jutting up from where the first two of us sported our oversized female genitalia.

  Larger though it was, this second room was now quite crowded, for in addition to the three dolls there were their various creators - Carmen, Hector and a total of five identically rubber-clad women in deep red latex cat suits, matching high-heeled knee-high boots and enveloping hood masks. The scene was eerie and yet at the same time exciting, though in a way that had my stomach turning, for I was only too aware that all the trouble that had gone into preparing us in this way had not been taken merely to display us as trophies. I looked across at my identical twin, wondering just what was going on inside Anne-Marie's head, but the blank face and staring blue eyes of course gave no hint of emotion.

  'Well ladies,' Carmen declared, and I guessed she wasn't talking to the three of us, but to her assembled helpers, even though one of these was the all too obviously male Hector, 'I think we can congratulate ourselves tonight. These three dolls are perfect, absolutely perfect. It's a shame we can't mass-produce and sell them just like this,' she added, laughing. 'The demand would be amazing, I think.'

  I shuddered at the prospect of such a fate, for it was all a little too close to something Megan Crowthorne might have done, always assuming she'd had access to the latex and technology that went into creating our outer shells, which of course she hadn't. I supposed the world, and me in particular, should be thankful for the small mercy that Megan hadn't lived in the latter half of the twentieth century. On a desirability scale of one to ten, that prospect ranked somewhere in the very heavy minuses.

  Meanwhile, role-playing fantasy or not, I was still stuck in Carmen's clutches and, whilst I could comfort myself with the fact that in what would only be a matter of hours, I would eventually end up warm and snug in my own bed, first there would be a 'scene' to contend with that had been created in the depths of a mind that was in its own way every bit as warped as those of my nineteenth century tormentors. To make matters worse, I had walked reasonably happily into this with both eyes open.

  No, I consoled myself, that wasn't entirely accurate. What I had happily walked into was a scene with Anne-Marie and Andy in his Andrea role. It had then been Anne-Marie who walked - driven would be more accurate - both of us into this, and whilst part of me was whirring away towards sexual overdrive as I stood there gaping my stupid sex-dolly invitation, the sensible, feet-on-the-ground part of me was resenting every second I was spending here when I had so much to finish back in the real world.

  For a few seconds everything in the underground chamber faded and the sounds about me, dull enough anyway from the effect of the rubber stretched over my ears, grew fainter still. My immediate reaction was that I was about to go back again, but then I realised that wasn't the way it happened and that what I was experiencing was something different, a sort of revelation. I realised what I had just thought, and what I would have just said, had my mouth not been filled and distorted by that awful gag.

  Back in the real world.

  I couldn't believe I'd actually said that - well, thought it - because eighteen thirty-nine was actually...

  The real world.

  Yes, eighteen thirty-nine was the real world. Maybe it wasn't my real world, but it was real enough to Angelina and Indira and real enough to me while I was there, even if I was really nothing more than a displaced person in the whole affair. In fact, eighteen thirty-nine and what we had been doing in Arundel was a damned sight more real than what I seemed to have been spending most of my time doing since my first encounter with Anne-Marie, leaving aside my attempts at playing Philip Marlowe with various records offices. And it was not only a damned sight more real; it was also a damned sight more urgent.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself back in time again and...

  And, of course, nothing happened. That is to say nothing happened in the time travelling department, though something did happen in the small, stone walled subterranean cell under a ruined priory. I felt a sharp slap across my rubber-clad backside and jerked my eyes wide open again, although wide open or peering didn't make a whole lot of difference, given that I could only see through the centre sections of the lenses covering my eyes.

  'And of course,' Carmen was saying close to my ear, 'while number three dolly here can fuck as well as being fucked, I'm afraid you two dollies mostly just have to be happy with being on the receiving end.' She stepped away from me and I watched as she seized Andrea's monstrously jutting shaft. 'Sadly, though,' she continued, and I could imagine the smile on her face underneath the rubber mask, 'poor Andrea dolly here won't really get much out of all the fucking she's going to be asked to do tonight. You see, there's a very hard layer of plastic between the two softer rubber layers, so whether she's rock-hard inside this, or whether she's a total flop won't make any difference to any of us and certainly won't make any difference to her, poor love.' She flicked her tongue between her lips, a pink snake gliding between two carmine ribbons bounded by black and white rubber. 'My bet is she's actually hard as a stick of Brighton rock underneath, but then that doesn't earn me any b
onus points for shrewdness. Give this girlie the girlie treatment and straightaway she starts acting like a dirty little boy, don't you Andrea, my sweetie doll?'

  I felt a barely controllable urge to plant my heavy platform sole straight between Carmen's legs, and yet I knew she was dead right in what she said. I didn't pretend to really understand what it was about being dressed as a female that appealed to Andy - he'd been perfectly capable of rising to the occasion and satisfying me in a perfectly normal situation the night before - but there was something about it, especially when the feminine outfits in question were comprised either wholly or largely of either rubber or leather, or a mixture of both, that rendered my erstwhile lover a helpless slave to emotions and urges that went way outside the normal chemistry of sexual attraction, lust or even love. In much the same way that being bound and gagged and dressed in all manner of bizarre outfits seemed to have the same effect on me, I had to admit. Even this doll routine was doing something to my hormones, or at least to a trigger in some part of my brain that carried the authority in that little bit of my brain where the sign read Hormone Department - Over Production Section. Brought down to its basic components, mask equals anonymity (include heavily and bizarrely made-up face in the category of mask) and cuffs, chains and/or ropes equals 'not my fault', which in turn equals 'not my responsibility'. Result, off comes the handbrake labelled Decent Moral Standards and the automatic gearbox shifts straight into overdrive, with the result that the Teena mobile careers headlong down whatever hill of depravity happens to lie in its path.

  'Come on then, dollies dearest,' Carmen trilled, 'time to show you off to your adoring public. And, oh my, aren't they just going to love you!'

  And as we started to move towards the door, this time I did have just about two seconds' worth of warning before I was zipped back through time yet again...

  Some things never change, and if you want a benchmark of stability it's rain in autumn in England, or more precisely, mucky, penetrating, dismal and chilling drizzle, the sort of stuff that seems innocuous enough when you watch it through the window from the warm comfort of your living room, but try walking outside in it for even ten minutes and you come back looking like a rejected extra from the set of Titanic, that bit of the film when everyone ends up in the water, either inside or out of the stricken liner.