by Syra Bond
‘Walk over here, Syra. Come. We cannot go further with our game until you have been made to understand the rules.’
I stepped forward. I wasn’t so unsteady now but I had no idea in which direction I was walking.
‘Keep coming. Yes, a few more paces.’
I did not dare reach out but, all the time, I felt worried that I would bump into something. I clenched my teeth and fought to make the effort to walk into the unknown.
‘Stop!’
I stopped abruptly, worried that there was an obstacle or some other danger ahead.
‘There is a picnic bench ahead. You will be approaching it from the side. Take three steps forward and then stop.’
I did as I was told. I breathed in deeply and bit onto my lips. I pressed my hands tightly against my sides. A sudden thrill ran through me. I didn’t know where it came from - it was so sudden - but I knew that it was a thrill of pleasure, of anticipation, and that it was born of what was happening to me, and of what was going to happen to me.
‘Stop! The seat of the bench is almost against your shins. If you bend your knees forward they will touch the edge of it. Do it!’
The edge of the bench came against my shins - it was hard and dug into my skin.
‘Now, lift you left leg and kneel on the seat.’
‘I lifted my left leg and followed her instruction.
‘Now the right leg. Good. Now you must bend. Reach your hands above your head and bend forward.’
I lifted my hands high above my head, still keeping my arms straight, then bent forward until I felt my nipples touching the warm slatted timber surface of the heavy bench. I stopped there - she had not said that I should lie against it, so I waited.
‘Lie down against it. Allow your bottom to rise up. It needs to be fully exposed.’
I let my breasts press against the timber bench top and dropped the weight of my body against it. My bottom lifted at the same time and I tipped it up more so that my cunt could be seen between the taut join of my buttocks and thighs. I did not turn my face to the side and rested the weight of my head on my chin and the end of my nose. My cheeks were hot and flushed and, when I licked my tongue out between my lips, I tasted my warm, wet breath.
‘You have done well with my last instructions, Syra, but to start with you were disobedient, and neither Robin nor I can let that pass without punishment. Let me remind you. You must follow my instructions exactly, any transgression will be punished. And any failure to take your punishment as instructed will receive further punishment and, if you continue to disobey, this process will not end. I will not ask you if you understand - I will assume you do. Now, remain still, no matter what happens, no matter how much pain you feel, you must remain still. That is your only instruction. Be still!’
I heard voices behind me - they were neither Petra nor Robin. And more to the side - women and men! I felt surrounded. I realised I had become an object of interest - something for public viewing. And I could tell by the mocking tone of their voices that I was now someone receiving public humiliation, someone to be degraded and reviled.
I felt my heart thumping in my chest. My breathing became more rapid - I was panting fast. But, I did not dare move in any way - Petra had told me to remain still.
I was there for what seemed ages - lying prone along the bench with my bottom held high, naked with the hood over my head, and only able to do as I was told.
Then I heard a swish - something moving quickly through the air. I didn’t have time to think what it was. It landed across my buttocks and cut them with an intense burning pain. It felt like the slap of leather and the edges that burnt my skin felt like the edges of a belt, but I was not sure. It pulled away, its tip just catching the side of my hip as it was withdrawn. Then I heard another swish and it landed again - heavy, smacking, intense.
‘That was just to let you know what to expect. Now, Syra, you will receive your proper punishment. First, for not keeping your arms by your side when instructed to do so.’
My bottom burnt as it came down again. I breathed in sharply and held it - it helped me absorb the pain. I gritted my teeth as the second one came down, and I clenched them hard with the third. There were six in total and then it stopped. I felt relieved but did not dare relax.
I waited to be told to get up. I imagined having the hood pulled from my head and the blindfold removed. I pictured myself laughing with Petra and Robin, caressing them and kissing them, before placing my head first between Petra’s thighs and then Robin’s. I saw myself licking their soft fleshy cunts one after another until, in the end, I took my turn and together they licked mine.
‘Now, for raising your arms without being told!’
The lashing strap came down again. I was shocked from my reverie and felt sure I jolted forward. I tightened myself against it, hoping I had not moved enough to be noticed. As the next five were delivered with increasing ferocity, I bit onto my lips and held onto my screams, fixing my mind more than anything on remaining still.
‘And for wearing panties!’
This time I heard my screams trying to escape. It was a pathetic whimpering but, in the end, I could not hold it back. On the sixth lashing smack I gave way and suddenly screamed out loudly.
‘And that will mean more, Syra. Oh dear, you are going to feel the cutting leather of the strap much more than I thought’
I bit my lips again, but I knew it was hopeless - now I would not be able to hold my screams back.
‘And for lifting your leg when not told to!’
I did not even suppress my scream on the first. It was muffled by the hood of my T shirt, but it was loud nevertheless. I just gave way to it. I lifted my bottom into the pain and the added exposure made me scream even louder. On the fourth I was screeching, but now I was also hoping that this time there would be more than six. When it stopped again I felt a wave of disappointment. The flesh of my cunt was wet and hot. Spit was running from my mouth. I sucked it back into my nostrils and swallowed it heavily. I opened my mouth wide. I knew that each scream would bring more punishment, and I wanted to scream as loudly as I possibly could.
‘And for stepping out of your panties - which you shouldn’t have been wearing anyway - without an instruction from me or Robin.’
And it continued, and all I heard inside the hood made by my T shirt were the screams that by now had turned into begging pleas for more.
I did not know how long it was that I did not move. In the end one of the youths who had been playing soccer pulled the wound-up T shirt from my head. Even then, I did not attempt to remove the blindfold - I still felt too controlled, too in need of instructions in order to act.
‘Shall I take this blindfold off?’ he asked.
I don’t know whether I said anything or not, or if I nodded or gave my assent - it didn’t seem important.
When it came away, I was blinded by the sudden burst of light. My head spun with it. The youth was joining his friends again by the time I could see anything. My eyes filled with tears but, slowly, things came into focus.
I saw Petra ad Robin leaning against the black Ford sedan that was parked between the other cars. A hand extended from the driver’s window and held out a wad of notes. Robin took it and stuffed it into the picnic bag that hung from her shoulder. She bent forward and blew a kiss to the driver. Petra giggled and, in unison, they turned and strode away arm in arm.
The car stayed there for a few minutes. I couldn’t move, I was frozen to the spot. It had to be Father Dawson! It was his car! It had to be him! But how could he be here? How could he have found me? My mouth went dry. No, it was impossible. I was imagining things again. I was exhausted by the punishment I had received. I was bewildered by the light. I was worn out by travelling. Of course, I was confused. I must be wrong.
The window closed, the car reversed from the g
rassy meadow onto the road. It paused for a moment, as if giving me an opportunity for a last look, then it drove away.
My stomach filled with nerves. I started trembling. I couldn’t stop myself. I was shaking all over. I thought I was going to faint. I knew it was him. It was pointless deceiving myself. He had found me. I knew it. Perhaps he had never lost me. Suddenly, I was overcome with a wave of panic. The thought that I had never truly escaped from him made my head spin. And the idea that he was pursuing me but not bothering to take me back, made me feel more insecure than ever. Seeing him like that, and watching him drive away, was worse than if he had got out and laid claim on me again. Yes, it was worse to be left there than it would be to be taken once more into his captivity. The idea that he was out there, that he knew where I was, that he could follow me at will, and that, when he chose, he could again take me under his control - it was terrifying.
When, finally, I picked up the courage to move, I ran to the pick-up and drove away as fast as I could. I should have known it was a mistake - the 20 mph speed limit is a strict rule in a state park, and I was doing 50!
The park ranger was the one who had met me at the entrance. He did not make too many demands - I would have preferred it if he had. He fucked my anus and smacked me hard across the bottom with the flat of his hand, but it was not enough - nothing like enough, and I felt deeply disappointed. I stayed on my hands and knees in the back of the pick-up and waited for him to take off his belt and give me a whipping with it, or perhaps thrash me with a stick or a rolled magazine or anything that would hurt and make me cry out for mercy. But he just spat on the floor dismissively and walked back to his truck. He looked back for a second and threw his eyes up in contempt, but even the thrill of his disdain was not enough to make me forget the new horror which had suddenly broken back into my world. I wanted something which would obliterate what I had seen. I needed something to make me forget the knowledge that, even though he had not taken possession of me yet, Father Dawson was once again my master.
BOSTON
THE SATYR
I drove straight to a bar and got drunk - badly drunk. All the while I imagined that Father Dawson was waiting outside, spying on me, and deciding when he would take the opportunity to reclaim me. Every few minutes I went outside to look, but there was no sinister black sedan, no one lurking in the shadows. In the end, although I was filled with anxiety, I got fed up with checking, got increasingly drunk and forgot him completely.
The next morning I woke up in an alley. I knew I had been thrashed - my bottom was red and bruised - but I couldn’t remember anything about it - who had done it, how long it had lasted, or what had been used to inflict the blows. I rubbed my hand across my buttocks - they were very sore. And I was freezing cold. My blouse had been torn down the front and my left breast was exposed. My nipple was soft and pink and there were distinct red bite marks around it. I touched it and winced - it was really sensitive. I tried hard to remember what had happened, but nothing would come back.
I struggled to get up - my head was pounding, and I felt dizzy and unstable. I pulled my blouse together as well as I could. I felt dishevelled and dirty. How could I not remember what had happened to me and then wake up like this, in this state, in an alley? I felt disgusted with myself.
I saw my pick-up parked at the end of the alley. I could hardly believe it. I thought there must be someone watching over me. I winced again as I sat down on the shiny plastic bench seat. I checked in the glove compartment. I was still solvent!
I decided I needed a treat, some pampering. I booked into a Best Western just outside Boston - it had a swimming pool and spa. I thought I would rest up there before moving on. I got some strange looks when I walked into the reception - a pretty Hispanic girl behind the desk looked at me with contempt. But she took my money in advance without any argument and I dropped a five dollar bill on her desk just so that she would feel guilty about her attitude. She smiled back broadly. She had beautiful teeth.
I soaked in the bath, sat in the spa and had a massage. After two days I felt completely renewed - my fears had disappeared, my soreness had gone and I was totally refreshed. The second night, I ate with the Hispanic receptionist. She was very pretty and had a beautiful body. We slept together and the next morning, as I knelt on all fours on the edge of the swimming pool, she bound my wrists and ankles with rope and drove a cock-shaped vibrator deep into my cunt. My screams of joy echoed around the swimming pool. She said I sounded like a banshee and we both laughed and dived naked into the pool together. When the manager came in shouting and waving his arms, we climbed out, gathered our towels and ran out to the pick-up giggling and laughing. She said she didn’t like working there anyway and, when I dropped her off at the ‘T’ subway station at Alewife, she said she was going to Florida for some sun. She kissed me passionately and ran down the platform.
I waited as she left - she looked delectable, sitting behind the glass of the subway coach. She smiled and waved enthusiastically as it pulled out - I was overcome by her youth, her vitality and her beauty.
I thought I would find some culture in Boston - educated people everywhere - Harvard, MIT, Tufts, and all the museums.
As I wandered through the leafy streets of downtown, I began again to think of my own research work, my involvement with the Greek manuscripts that I had worked on with Professor Harrington - it seemed like a lifetime ago. Suddenly, I remembered the name of someone at the Boston Museum of Art who had once helped me with some of my translation work- Dr Filipe Fitz. I decided to look him up to see if I could find again something of my old life - something of a life which was my own. Perhaps, I thought, I might even be able to pick up again on my work. Yes, contact with something of my past would definitely help me re-orientate myself. I had been too long on my own, trying to sort things out and getting nowhere. I felt a surge of excitement at the prospect, and I was seized by a wave of optimism at the idea of a fresh start.
The museum had only just opened for the day when I arrived. I was directed to Dr Fitz’s office. It was located at the end of several grey and featureless corridors that lay behind the more appealing public façade of brightly lit and cleverly mounted exhibits in the seemingly endless galleries and halls.
I opened a door and peered around its thick steel-banded edge.
I recognised him straight away - he was tall and dark with a day’s growth of beard. He sat behind a desk piled high with files and papers, a neat blue scarf wrapped loosely round his neck. A young woman in a black skirt and white blouse stood beside him taking notes. He looked up.
‘I’m Syra, Syra Bond. I don’t know if you remember me. I was - ‘
‘Syra! Remember you! How could I forget you? Wow! It’s so good to see you again. What a business about poor old Harrington. It was a great shock. So sudden. What am I thinking? Dulcie, get Syra a chair. Here, come and sit beside me. My, you look good. Fantastic!’
‘You look pretty good yourself.’
‘Syra, you’re just flattering me. My, you look good! Dulcie, get us some coffee!’
Dulcie went to the coffee machine on the other side of the room.
Dr Fitz stared at me and smiled.
‘Syra, I’ve got some important guests here today - a special exhibit, very special. I’d like to show it to you. Forget the coffee, Dulcie, but come along with us.’
He grabbed my hand and pulled me enthusiastically back out into the corridor. Dulcie followed behind.
‘She’s Spanish. Beautiful, don’t you think?’
He was right. She was delicately formed, black haired and tanned. Her white blouse and black skirt gave her an air of competence and efficiency. She carried her notebook in her left hand and her pencil in her right. When I looked at her, she smiled quickly before demurely looking down to the ground.
‘Yes, she is. What’s the exhibit?’
‘It’s right up your
street. “Slave of the Satyr King”. That’s what it’s called. It’s taken ages to mount and this is the first day it’s ready to be seen. You’re very honoured, Syra. Here we are.’
He led me into a dark room. Our footsteps echoed. I couldn’t see anything. The door closed behind us with a dull thud. Dulcie switched on the lights.
‘What do you think, Syra? Is that magnificent or what? Our latest exhibit - “Slave of the Satyr King”. Ancient Greece has come to Boston in a big way don’t you think?’
It was a huge room. On three sides were statues of the Bacchii - drunken revellers - spilling goblets clutched in their hands, their arms around in other in inebriated bonhomie as they luxuriated in the pleasures of debauched drunkenness. The third side was bare black glass. In the centre, and the attention of the drunken Bacchanalians, a satyr - half man, half beast - his pipes to his mouth, his massive erect phallus pressing upwards from his fur-covered legs.
‘Isn’t he just magnificent, Syra. Look at his phallus! Have you ever seen such an erection! It’s often asked what it must have been like to have a satyr’s cock. What do you think, Syra? Can you imagine it?’
Dr Fitz walked over to the satyr. Dulcie followed behind. Her face was flushed and she looked down at her feet.
‘Dulcie finds it embarrassing, don’t you Dulcie?’
Dulcie shuffled her feet. For an instant I saw a flash of her white panties reflected in the glossy black of her shiny leather shoes. I could hardly believe it, but when I looked again she had moved her feet and the delightful image had gone. I smiled at her, but she was too embarrassed to look up at me.
‘No matter. Syra, what do you think?’
I walked over to join him. The satyr was so lifelike - I could hardly believe it was a statue.
