New Erotica 5

by Неизвестный

  ‘When I give you a smack, like this,’ the man behind her said, whacking her bottom with the strap so hard that she almost fell forwards, ‘you run straight ahead as fast as you can. Stop when you reach the other side of the bakery, turn round, and wait for another smack before you set off again. Understand, slave?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jem said, looking over her shoulder and giving a smile to the serious-faced young man. ‘And thank you for smacking me.’

  The leather strap had been wielded with enthusiasm, and Jem’s bottom felt afire.

  ‘Get set, then,’ the man said. ‘Stick your arse out again.’

  Jem did so, and was rewarded with another blazing stripe. She set off, running awkwardly because her arms were tied behind her back. As she passed the four men along her route she tried to duck and weave to avoid the hissing switches. Her breasts, held tight and prominent within their rope bindings, seemed alarmingly vulnerable, and most of the men tried to strike her bosom as she ran towards them. They missed their target, but laughed as she bobbed and swerved, and shouted when one of them managed to imprint a glowing line on her right buttock as she raced past him.

  She stopped in front of the other strap-wielding man, and drew in lungfuls of air. It was the young fellow with the hazel eyes, and she smiled at him as she tried to catch her breath.

  ‘Turn around, you slut,’ he said. ‘You’ll get no rest until we’ve finished this. We’ve got to make up time. Come on, turn round and stick your arse out.’

  Jem had no sooner leaned forwards than the strap landed forcefully on her left buttock, making her gasp and propelling her at a run towards the men waiting with big grins on their faces and their switches raised. This time none of them aimed for her breasts; copying the example of the one who had succeeded in lashing her during her first run, they all waited until she had run past before swinging their thin wooden rods at her backside.

  Jem’s buttocks had four fresh stripes by the time she reached the end of the room.

  ‘Turn!’ the man shouted at her. ‘Bend! Run!’

  With a breathless sob, Jem started on her third run. The men wielding the switches had now learned the technique of swinging them in Jem’s wake, adding a flick of the wrist to catch one or other of Jem’s buttocks as she raced past. Jem could do nothing to avoid the blows except to try to outrun them. A rational part of her mind kept trying to remind her that the men would whip her as much or as little as they pleased, whether she ran through the gauntlet or strolled; the stinging lashes and the shouted instructions impelled her to run, however – and, in any case, she would lose her wager if she failed to obey the men’s commands.

  And so Jem ignored the voice of reason, and the jeering laughter, and the throbbing of her bound breasts, and the tightness of the ropes around her body and between her legs, and the increasing temperature of her bottom; she simply ran up and down the room, as fast as she could, until her legs felt weak and she was gasping for breath.

  ‘Turn,’ ordered the brown-eyed man as she staggered towards him for what, she thought, must have been the fifth or sixth time.

  Panting, and proceeding at little more than a walking pace, she lifted her head and stared at him with what she hoped was her most winsome, wide-eyed expression of helplessness.

  There was not a hint of pity in his face. ‘Turn around, slut,’ he shouted, ‘and be quick about it.’

  Sobbing with breathlessness and indignation, Jem presented her bottom to him. His leather strap swung upwards and landed with a loud report on the lower inside curves of both of Jem’s buttocks; the tip went between her legs and caught her vulva. With a gasping cry, Jem set off again towards the other end of the room.

  She could no longer sprint. Tears of frustration blinded her as, with her chest heaving, she trotted towards the line of young men with the wooden dowels. They were cheering her ironically, calling her vile names and making loud claims about which parts of her body they intended to aim for.

  This time they concentrated on her breasts. Bound, distended and sensitised, the constricted bulbs of flesh were irresistible targets. With her arms tied behind her back, Jem could do nothing to protect them except to swing her torso from side to side, which seemed to make the young men even more excited.

  The wooden dowels were very thin and smooth, and circular in section: they had no rough or sharp edges, and were obviously light and difficult to wield with much force. Nonetheless, each of the three that landed on one or other of Jem’s breasts wrung a little shriek of pain from her, much to the amusement of the young men.

  The fourth lash caught her stingingly on the right buttock, and then she was through the gauntlet and approaching the end of the room. She slowed to a walk, and veered from side to side as though she was having difficulty staying on her feet. If she exaggerated her exhaustion, she thought, the men might lose interest and move on to the next stage of this culinary ordeal.

  At the last moment Jem stumbled, and fell against the man standing with his back to the wall. Her tight, sore breasts were pressed against his naked chest. She looked up at him imploringly.

  He grinned. ‘Turn around, slave,’ he said. ‘You’re not ready for cooking yet. Turn and bend, my little chicken.’

  The lash against her bottom was almost gentle this time, and Jem jogged forwards. As she approached the waiting line of men a voice behind her called out, ‘Stop!’, and she came to a halt in the centre of the room.

  Grinning and joking, the four men with switches converged on her, surrounded her, and allowed her a moment to recover her breath before they began to whip her.

  As she writhed and twisted within the circle of swishing laths, Jem felt stinging lines all over her body, catching her in such quick succession that she had no time to register them as individual stripes. She knew only that her buttocks, thighs and breasts were becoming incandescent. Her breasts, in particular, had never felt so hot and sore. Worse than the punishment was the sense of helplessness; she could not run away, she could not protect the vulnerable and tender parts of her body. The only way to escape from the torment was, she knew, to protest: to stand still, gather the tattered remnants of her dignity, and demand that they stop. And if she were to do that, the Chatelaine would have won.

  As the switches continued to hiss and sting, and she found herself gasping with each lash so rapidly that, as the men laughingly commented, she sounded as if she was reaching a climax, she decided that she could bear it no longer. She would call a halt to this, and admit defeat. But then the whipping ceased.

  It was the man with brown eyes who inspected her. He ran his hands over her breasts, and then her buttocks. He put a hand between her thighs, and pushed upwards so that Jem was lifted on to the tips of her toes.

  ‘She’ll do, I reckon,’ he announced. ‘Breasts and haunches feel nice and tender. And I tell you what, lads,’ he added, ‘she’s still as wet as a lake down here. I think she enjoyed being tenderised. Did you, you little whore?’

  Jem couldn’t deny that she was aroused. Her whole body felt raw but alive, and the man’s rough hand pressing into her vulva had shocked her by causing an almost climactic spasm of desire.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ she said, trying to control her panting voice. ‘It was very exciting.’

  The man laughed. ‘We’d better hurry,’ he said. ‘Give me a hand to get her oiled.’ With his hand still between her legs he lifted her from the ground, and with enthusiastic cries all of the other young men crowded around him, trying to grab Jem and to help carry her towards a corner of the room.

  Jem had hardly had time to realise that she was being held aloft by six pairs of strong and intrusive hands before she was lowered into a shallow copper dish as wide as a bath. The vessel had a flat bottom, and apart from Jem contained only a few fingers’ depth of warm cooking oil. She had been placed on her back, which she found uncomfortable because her arms were tied behind her. When she tried to sit up, however, she succeeded only in sliding across the floor of the pan: her bott
om skidded sideways, and she toppled slowly on to her side.

  ‘Let’s turn her a few times,’ the brown-eyed man said, ‘and make sure she’s coated all over.’

  The young men formed a circle around the copper vessel. Some of them pushed Jem with their feet; others flicked her with the long switches. She wriggled and squirmed to avoid the stinging lashes, and was soon rolling over and over in the oil.

  She was grateful, now, for the tightly fitting helmet, which was protecting her hair from becoming drenched in the viscous fluid. She presumed, as she tossed and writhed in the slippery vessel, that the helmet had been provided for precisely this reason. Rolling over and over in oil was, she decided, a pleasant interlude: her sore breasts and bottom, in particular, felt soothed by the emollient sweet-smelling oil.

  The hissing switches fell silent, and the men stooped towards her. ‘Get the oil worked well in,’ she heard one of the men say, and suddenly hands were all over her body.

  She was turned on to her back; her legs were lifted into the air; and two of the men started to massage oil into her bound breasts. Others began work between her raised legs, pushing oily fingers again and again into her vagina and anus. A rhythm started to develop, and Jem found herself gasping with pleasure as the insistent rubbing and pushing started to ignite sparks within her. She gave herself up to the sensations, and was disappointed when the brown-eyed man said, ‘That’s enough. She’s ready. Let’s get her on to the spit.’

  With difficulty, slithering and ribald laughter the men took hold of her and pulled her from the copper dish. As they carried her towards the fireplace Jem began to worry that the conceit of preparing her as a bird is prepared for roasting was becoming too realistic; did they really intend to impale her on a spit and cook her on an open fire? She would have no choice but to object; the Chatelaine would have won; and she would have endured for nothing her rough treatment by the six young kitchen-slaves.

  When she saw the cunningly wrought metal frame that was suspended between the two fire irons, however, she felt a wave of relief. The long, black structure, while it looked sinister and uncomfortable, was obviously not designed for cookery.

  It was, she supposed, something like a spit, in that it was long, its core was a black iron rod, each end of which was resting on a soot-darkened support, and it was situated in front of a fire – although not close enough for roasting.

  Welded on to the central rod, however, were a number of ornate curlicues of wrought iron, some of them padded with cushions of black leather. Hanging from the structure at various points along its length were leather straps. Jem recognised it as a framework to which a person could be secured, and she was in no doubt that she was destined imminently to be bound to it.

  Jem’s body was still slippery with oil, and the young men took great care as they lowered her on to the spit. Her hips, stomach and ribcage rested in a shaped, upholstered cradle that was fixed horizontally and lengthways atop the central pole. Jem found it comfortable enough, although the men did nothing to loosen her bondage or to ease the strain in her shoulders caused by the tying of her arms behind her back. In fact, Jem soon found herself tied even more tightly: a broad strap was placed across the small of her back and tightened, to keep her in place in the cradle.

  Like the arms of an armchair, two leather-upholstered spurs projected forwards and slightly upwards from the main part of the cradle to provide support for Jem’s shoulders, and then curved towards each other to create a padded rest for her breastbone. Jem’s tightly constricted breasts, still stinging and aching and feeling more sensitive than ever, hung unencumbered below her with the central bar of the spit running between them. When she lifted her head Jem found herself looking down the length of the spit to where one end was supported on a fire iron.

  At first Jem had been allowed to keep her feet on the floor and bend forwards on to the padded leather in order to have her body secured to the spit. She had noted, however, that the cradle held her hips tilted up at the back, and that attached to the spit behind her were projections from which hung stirrups and straps; she knew that soon her legs and feet would be arranged in a much more revealing and uncomfortable position.

  As soon as the strap was fastened across her back, the men turned their attention to her legs. Grasping the slippery limbs in many hands, they lifted her feet from the floor and bent her knees as they parted her thighs. They placed her feet in stirrups, which they then moved upwards and outwards, so that Jem’s knees were lifted to the level of her torso. With her hips uplifted by the cradle, Jem’s private parts were now exhibited for all to see, and her rounded buttocks were raised high.

  Jem knew that her bottom must by now be cherry red and covered in stripes; her anus, she knew well, was delicately formed and its crinkled skin was dark pink; her shaven outer labia were prettily plump, while her inner labia, which she was sure must also be visible, were exquisite fronds over which several of her lovers had enthused. Headman, she recalled, had liked to whip her there because it was, he said, the prettiest part of his prettiest woman. With every part of her glistening with oil, Jem decided with satisfaction that from the rear she must be a most delectable sight.

  Jem knew that she was positioned well for either penetration or more punishment, and she wondered which it would be: the sudden sting of a whip laid across her buttocks, or the thrilling insertion of a phallus.

  The next words she heard, however, were, ‘Let’s get the skewers into her,’ which filled her with dread. Were they going to pierce her flesh?

  She was slightly reassured when she saw two of the men attaching something to the spit in front of her. They slid the contraption towards her along the metal bar, and fixed it in place in front of her face.

  Suddenly she felt her head being tugged back, and she realised that one of the men had pulled her helmet. The tugging ceased, but she found she could no longer lower her head: it was being held up, presumably by a chain from the top of her helmet to a ring on the strap across her back, so that she was obliged to look straight ahead and could not lower her face.

  The two men in front of her were once more at work on the complicated bracket they had fixed to the spit. They moved it back a little and adjusted its height, and then began turning a crank. Slowly, and pointing directly at Jem’s mouth, a torpedo-shaped cylinder began to emerge. It was a carved phallus, and it was clear to Jem that she would have no choice but to take it into her mouth. She opened her lips and tried to remain calm as the cold, solid cylinder filled her mouth. At last it stopped, before it reached the back of her throat and could make her gag. She could not close her jaws, however, or move her head, and she reflected that she had indeed been very effectively skewered.

  The men had referred to more than one skewer, and so Jem was not at all surprised to feel the rounded nose of something hard and cold insinuating itself between the delicate membranes of her inner labia. She assumed that a second device had been fixed to the spit behind her, between her splayed thighs. The phallus felt huge – much larger than the one in her mouth – but she felt no discomfort: even if she had not been aroused by the morning’s events, the oil that had been massaged into her would on its own have eased the entrance of the giant cylinder.

  ‘She’s well skewered,’ one of the kitchen-slaves said. ‘Can we baste her now?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ another replied. ‘Chef likes his rump-meat good and tender. Maybe we’d better just give her arse one more turn.’

  ‘You’re right,’ a third said. ‘And in that position, the little whore’s just asking for it, I’d say.’

  Jem could not have argued that her bottom was other than perfectly exposed for a flogging. And she was in no position to prevent the young men from inflicting one on her. As the switches hissed once more through the air, and a new network of thin lines was laid over the marks that had begun to fade on her taut and reddened buttocks, Jem clenched her teeth against the phallus in her mouth and consoled herself with two thoughts: the men were using th
e switches, which stung wickedly but only briefly and could not leave lasting marks; and in her current position, unable to move or speak, there was no danger that she might renounce her vow of submission.

  Jem’s bottom had become no more than a source of throbbing heat, and she was not immediately aware that the whipping had ended. It was only when something warm nudged her cheek that she realised that most of the kitchen-slaves had gathered around her head.

  ‘Let’s baste the bird,’ one of the young men said. Jem heard another snigger. She could not turn her head but from the corners of her eyes she saw that four of the men were standing around her, and each of them had lifted aside his apron and was grasping in one or two hands his erect manhood. They began sliding their hands, still slick with oil from her body, up and down their shafts. They began to count the strokes; they masturbated in unison; the movements grew faster, the strokes shorter.

  Jem heard their voices, and their increasingly loud cries of anticipation; she caught glimpses of pumping hands and glistening cock-heads. But she could do nothing except wait for the inevitable sticky climax.

  With shouts and groans, they came. First one: Jem felt a splash of hot fluid on her forehead, and another next to her eye. Then another three reached their climaxes simultaneously, and Jem’s face was deluged with spurts of hot, viscous semen. The musky smell was in her nostrils; the salty taste trickled over her lips and into her mouth, around the circumference of the phallus. She felt the cooling suspension begin to drip and slide down her face.

  A moment later Jem heard more cries of ecstasy, and the two remaining kitchen-slaves shot their spurts of seed on to the pulsing, tender skin of Jem’s buttocks. The hot fluid was soothing, and Jem was grateful when the two men used their hands to smear their semen all over the reddened, rounded surfaces.