by Kim Knight
“Zandra!” she shouted. “Zandra!” as if she knew me.
Greta and I cycled side by side, like old friends, along the narrow streets of the ancient town of Chur, then out onto the tracks that wound through the sweet-smelling alpine meadows. Multicolored, iridescent clouds of butterflies rose up around us and we both laughed and shouted with glee as we sped, our feet off the pedals, down the grass-scented slopes which dropped in slow green folds towards the school. We rattled into the courtyard of the large complex - a mixture of ancient limestone buildings and wooden, A-frame chalets - both with our skirts blowing up in the wind, our panties creased around the bulbous fronts of the raised, leather saddles, our faces the very picture of excitement and delight.
The school was run by Herr and Frau Schwarz. Frau Schwarz taught us deportment and public speaking as well as arranging the frequent concerts and plays that the school put on for the local village. Herr Schwarz taught us horse riding and took us swimming in the nearby lake. Discipline was even stricter than it had been in the convent, we were not allowed to talk at meals and the slightest transgression led to some form of spanking or caning, sometimes in private and sometimes in front of the other girls. Still I kept receiving messages from my lord - that is what I decided to call him, my “unseen lord”, it’s my catholic upbringing I think. Sometimes letters came in the daily post, sometimes notes were left by my bed or handed to me by one of the maids or caretakers, but never once did I see him nor did I ever have any idea of who he might be. Once, when I was standing red-faced in front of Herr Schwarz as he disciplined me for not shining my riding boots properly, I even wondered if it was him. As I stood in the corner of his study facing the wall as he had instructed, and felt the warmth of his skin as he ran his fingers up between the backs of my thighs my heart began to race with expectant joy. When he widened my legs slightly, then peeled down my panties, leaving them crumpled up just above my knees, I felt sure it was my lord and I started to gasp as my stomach filled with excitement. But, as he started to rub his hands across my buttocks, I knew it was not him. His hands were too rough, too eager, then, as he probed between the cheeks of my bottom, sought out my anus and inserted his finger deeply into it before running the fingers of his other hand between my wet slit, I knew for certain that he was not my lord. My lord would not do such a thing. No, my lord would hold back, make me wait or order me to leave the room and expose myself to the other girls, so, even as Herr Schwarz took out his cock and spurted his hot semen over my bottom, I could only think of my lord, of how handsome he was and how he would treat me so differently. You see, since being in Switzerland, I had become familiar with my lord’s cock. He would sometimes offer it to my mouth and let me slurp up his semen - he would let me take as much time as I had wanted until I was satisfied that I had got it all - but Herr Schwarz just let his semen run down between my legs, not allowing me to suck up any of it, not even letting me lick him at all.
Another time, one early, misty morning, as we all huddled in the boat house where we took off our clothes for swimming naked in the lake, Herr Schwarz scolded Greta for running too slowly to the water. She tried to avoid him, dodging to the side, but she slipped and he grabbed her and pulled her over his knee where he held her and whipped her with his riding crop. This was not my lord. My lord would never have been so cruel.”
“What sorts of thing did he make you do, your lord?” I asked Zandra as the waiter brought another drink.
“Still does make me do,” she corrected. “So many things, all delightful, all delectable, all so new, so forbidden, so liberating. He watches me of course, even when I don’t hear from him for a while, I know he is still watching. Yes, he sees everything. Nothing I do is private from him, nothing. Sometimes he instructs me to go to places so that he can see me doing things in particular. When I was still in Switzerland, he sent me to Chur, to sit in a cafe and feel myself until I finished. Once he instructed me to wear a short fold-around skirt but no panties and to allow the skirt to come slightly open whenever I saw a man looking at me. Another time I had to take a job as a part-time waitress and encourage men to slip their hands up the skirt of my uniform or to bend over in such ways that they could see my panties. Sometimes he wants to touch me himself, but when he does he always makes me wear a mask, or a blindfold of some sort. He lets me suck his cock quite often and sometimes he sends me to meet young men so that they can have me in ways that he has already instructed them about. Sometimes they will pin me down and take me one by one, or perhaps they will tie me up and finish over me or in my mouth. Sometimes, I think he instructs them to do just what they want and he watches with special expectancy as they hold my legs apart, or whip me or make me suck them. Once he made some of them drag me into a public place and strip my clothes from me then leave me there, in the rain, alone. I think he enjoys seeing me most of all in that sort of way, naked, exposed, on display, in jeopardy.”
“How do you come to be here?” I asked.
“He sends me instructions to travel to different places and when I get there he gives me further instructions. There is often money waiting for me or he encloses some with his directions. For the last six months he has sent me all over America. I have stood naked on the edge of the Grand Canyon with his semen dripping between my buttocks. I have knelt for hours, blindfolded and naked in the hot expanses of the Arizona Desert, until finally he allowed me to lap at his gushing cock. I have been trussed up by the wrists and ankles and suspended naked from the limb of a tree in the teeth of a Montana snow storm. Yet, even as I shivered in the biting cold I thrilled at the excitement of knowing he was watching and knowing I would have to endure it for as long as he wanted. I worked in a Nevada brothel, catering to the perverse needs of truck drivers and motor cyclists, until, only a few days ago, he sent a message ordering me to come here, to New Orleans. It came with an air ticket and instructions telling me to wear pink cotton panties and a short skirt. It said I would be met by a taxi and that I was to lie down in the back of it and pull my panties down so that the taxi driver could watch me masturbate in his mirror. Then, it said, I was to come here on New Year’s Eve and wait for my next instruction so,” she said smiling broadly, “here I am!” She slurped thirstily at her drink. “I am so excited,” she continued. “So excited at the thought of what he has planned for me. I can never tire of his orders, never tire of submitting to his will. I am a virgin to everything he wishes. Everything he makes me do, I do as if for the first time. Everything I experience is for him and him alone. I cannot imagine any pleasure greater than the pleasure my unseen lord provides. Do you think it is wrong, to be controlled like this?” she asked almost plaintively.
“I’m not sure I know what it feels like,” I said.
“Like nothing else on earth can feel like. It is like being born again, like watching the sunrise beyond the mountains, like swimming naked in the shimmering sheen of the moon in a warm alpine lake, it is like sipping the distilled nectar of an orgasm - it is like being in heaven. But,” she said widening her eyes and cocking her head slightly to one side. “Even so, sometimes I wish I had someone to share it with. Yes, sometimes I wish I had a “sister” to share my ecstatic servitude.” She swallowed hard. “Those men you saw me with. I thought it was them. I thought they were my lord’s plan for me. I thought perhaps they were going to have me here in the bar, in public, but they left suddenly. Then,” she hesitated, “then, I thought it might be you?” I laughed and shrugged then reached out and touched her hand. “Sometimes,” she said squeezing my hand. “I really do wish I had a sister, a friend to share my pleasures with.”
As I felt her fingers entwining with mine a thrill of excitement filled my stomach. I realised how excited I was by her situation, the constant unknowing, the continual expectation of the unfamiliar, the mystery of the uncontrolled and unpredictable future. She had no agreement, no contract, she had not even seen her lord, yet her obedience to him was so complete, so absolute. The m
ore I thought of it, the more the idea of such servitude filled me with tremors of exhilaration and I squeezed her hand tightly, as if touching her would somehow bring me into contact with her obvious ecstasy.
The streets and alleys of the French Quarter, the Vieux Carré - spinning out in a web of body-filled filaments from the central, bustling Bourbon Street - buzzed with noise and clamour as party-goers, fresh with excitement from the fireworks and Mardi Gras, the dancing, the whistles, the hubbub and Creole excitement, poured back into the waiting bar. The waiter brought another tray of drinks. He nodded to both of us and offered Zandra a closely folded note.
“For you mademoiselle,” he said bowing and handing her the note.
Zandra looked around eagerly, as if even though her lord had always been invisible to her, this time she might just catch a glimpse of him. I looked around as well, sharing her naive expectancy. But there was nothing unusual to be seen, everyone was involved in their own lives, drinking, talking, laughing, embracing.
“What does it say?” I asked, eagerly sitting forward to see the note. She unfolded it slowly. It was written in a careful hand with neatly formed letters. “What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Leave your new friend. Go into the next cubicle. Kneel down on one of the benches and pull your panties down’.”
A thrill like no other I had ever felt ran through me. It was actually happening, here, now! I could hardly believe it. Her story was true and was still unfolding. And he had seen me! He was watching me as well! All of a sudden I was struck by the thrilling sense of fear that came with the instructions. How could anyone be so obedient? How could anyone expose themselves like that, in public, here, now?” My stomach churned and, as I breathed heavily with expectant gasps of fear, I felt a heat inside me and a wetness running against the hot swelling flesh of my aching labia.
I watched Zandra carefully fold the note and put it inside her small bag. She squeezed my hand again then got up and went into the next cubicle. I could not take my eyes off her. I could see that she was thinking of nothing except doing what her lord said. There was no one in the cubicle, everyone was standing up shouting, chatting, drinking. She climbed onto one of the wooden benches and knelt down just as she had been told. I felt my face flushing, I could not believe she was doing it. She hitched up her skirt until it was around her waist then, slowly and without any fear, she pulled down her panties. People started looking at her, pointing, then the four men I had seen her with originally came into the cubicle. The tall one stood in front of her and undid his trousers and, while she took his heavy cock unhesitatingly into her mouth, one of the others began licking the already glistening flesh between her legs. The other two stood on each side of her, one feeling her breasts and pinching her nipples, the other wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her bottom as high as possible. The man licking her cunt stood back, took his heavy, swollen cock in his hand then drove it into her now sopping flesh.
Everyone in the bar was captivated as the scene unfolded. Each man took a turn, moving around her, sharing out her delights and, as each finished inside her she threw her head back and screamed out, a wild, uncontrolled screech of uninhibited delight. I ran my fingers around my breasts and felt my hard, throbbing nipples then, as I squeezed them tightly in an effort to stem my growing ecstasy, I felt a body behind me. At first he simply pressed closer than he should, then he pressed intentionally against my buttocks, then he wrapped his hands around the front of my hips. I did nothing to stop him as his warm hands pressed into the indentations on the inside edges of my hip bones then, maintaining the pressure, he let them run down the fronts of my trembling thighs. He, this stranger, turned his palms outwards and brought them up, with their backs together, between my legs until they touched, so lightly, the crotch of my panties. I did not look away from Zandra. I did not think to see who was touching me.
“Pull them down,” he said in my ear. “Not all the way, just above your knees.”
My stomach filled with excitement. He pulled his hands away and I did what he said. It was as though there was no alternative, no choice, I simply had to obey his instructions. He stood back and, when I let go of my panties, he lifted my skirt until the hem was resting at my waist. My bottom was full exposed and I did not know who was watching or what would happen next. I let my fingers slip between my legs but as soon as I felt their tips probing between my pubic hair, seeking out the crack of my flesh, tantalising my clitoris, I was overcome with the onrush of a sudden, devastating orgasm. I threw my head back and, as if released like a wild animal set free from a cage, I screamed at the top of my voice as the paroxysms ran through me in a massive, jerking, convulsive flood.
As I pushed myself out of the cubicle I bumped into the waiter. Still shaking with excitement, I squeezed past him, raising my arms high in the air as he lifted his tray above his shoulder. As we sashayed past each other, my nostrils filled with a sweet fragrance. It was the scent of my own juices - the sweet, delicate fragrance of my own sexuality on his hands - and, as I looked for Zandra amongst the renewed crowds that flooded in from the hectic streets of the noisy, celebrating town, I knew that her ‘unseen lord’ had a new slave and Zandra, a new sister.
Syra Bond has also written;
The Roman Slave Girl
Trojan Slaves
Trojan Whores
True Confessions; American Erotica
True Confessions II; Fall from Grace
True Confessions III; Blood Slave
True Confessions IV; Heart in a Box
True Confessions V; Suckers’.
The Nun’s Chronicle
By
Falconer Bridges
This is an extract from the forthcoming novel ‘The Punisher’.
SISTER CECELIA’S CUNT was on fire.
And it was all my doing.
I’d slashed, beaten and ravaged almost every inch of her lithe, enticingly unspoilt body until her entire being pulsed and burned with the raging passion that only a proficient and thorough chastisement can achieve. As each successive, biting stroke had fallen, much like an alchemist turning base metal into gold, I’d slowly and steadily engineered the mutation of one state of existence into another. But what I had transformed was something altogether different. I had converted almost unendurable pain into almost unendurable pleasure: a feat of pure sorcery of which only the most accomplished and experienced Masters of punishment are capable.
Of course I’d paid a great deal of attention to her breasts before I’d moved on to her garden of veiled delights. Veiled, I hasten to add, not by the coarse cloth habit that was her normal apparel, but by something altogether more sensuous and pleasurable to the eye. Her vaginal lips and the entrance to her love hole were almost hidden by the extraordinarily dense, long and silky cunt hairs that sprouted from her well-thatched and prominent ‘Mound of Venus’. And a most satisfying and eminently prick rousing sight it was, especially to any man who prefers to gaze upon a naked female in her natural state, rather than is the fashion among many noble ladies of shaving every hair from their bodies. And like those men, shaven cunts are not to my taste.
I cannot deny that throughout the session of breast punishment I had been aching to get on with what I enjoy more than anything else - the thrashing of a previously innocent and untutored sex. But most enjoyable and satisfying as that is, first things must come first. And so I had gained as much delight as I could by demonstrating what surely would have been considered by anyone able to watch it, a master tutorial in the art of the flailing of breasts. When delivered by myself that is a tit torture quite the equal of the insertion of embroidery needles, the clamping of the full mammary in a screwed-down press or the piercing of the nipples with leather-working bodkins.
Of course to be considered on a par with the more usually accepted torment that those tortures of the breasts produce, I reasoned that
I must submit my techniques and methods to the appraisal of my peers.
And that I have done.
So I am proud to disclose that not a single of my so-called equals has ever considered themselves able to challenge my superior ability. My true equal they will never be - I am the Grand Master, the ultimate exponent of flagellation, the prophet whose teachings must be followed to the letter.
And as I do not suffer from false modesty, I have no hesitation in declaring myself to be the ultimate expert in the deliverance of pleasurable pain. Countless years of practice had honed my skills to such perfection that failure to thrash an inexperienced novice to orgasm was something that neither I nor any member of The Brethren was able to contemplate. For that reason, although I was brought to that forbidding and sombre place solely for the training of Sister Cecelia, having realised my special qualifications, the Prioress always called upon me to introduce the new initiates of her Order to the delights that physical discipline and corporal punishment can bring into their lives.
