A Gentleman's Property

by Toby Abbott

  “Look at this disgusting object,” said Madame, cuffing it dismissively, and raising the pitch of Angelo’s strangled cries as a famous diamond cut the flesh. “The Baroness’s number one is bigger, and infinitely better designed. Here,” she added, picking up a riding crop from the bedside table and tossing it to an Amazon, “beat this insolent little thing, this piccolo, into submission - if you can see it.”

  They all laughed derisively when Angelo’s rare erection shrivelled away to nothing before their eyes without a further blow being struck. It seemed as though it were trying to hide itself inside his shrivelled scrotum.

  “Look at this,” said Electra, calling Madame’s attention to Lucia on her saddle of pain. That unfortunate lady had been pleading for help ever since the arrival of the Amazons, but they would have ignored her muffled moans even if they had been able to interpret them. Now she believed that rescue was at hand, but the point of immediate interest for Electra and Madame was not the slave, but the equipment.

  “Is this one of yours, Madame?” asked the major. “It seems far too neat for a man to have imagined.”

  “Very likely you are right, though it is not mine. Can we take it with us, or is it a fixture?”

  The two crouched to examine the bar and its knob in more detail, while Lucia groaned and squirmed in frustration. Satisfied that they could not remove the device without special tools, the major took note of its specifications for recreation on Casco.

  “Don’t worry, Signora,” said Madame, stroking Lucia’s stretched nipple in what she thought of as a comforting gesture, “you will not feel homesick in your new environment. All your old toys will be waiting for you to play with, or to play with you.”

  Finally, Lucia was lifted off the awful bar and placed on unsteady feet, next to the docile Anna. Her gag and all her bonds were left in place.

  “2674,” said Electra, “take these two to the stern for dispatch to one of the launches.”

  “I can do that,” said Madame. “You don’t need me any more, now that you have seen the layout and the technique. Besides, I am anxious to make sure they have secured my Mary safely. You will want all your Amazons with you.”

  “Very well, Madame. We will continue methodically along this corridor until you return.”

  As Madame led Anna and Lucia away she heard the major say comfortingly to Angelo, now strapped to his bunk, “Stay there, scum, we will return to deal with you later.”

  Before arranging anything else, Sir Roger sent two crewmen to explore the ship for any indications of trouble. One unfortunate sailor blundered into an Amazon patrol, and was captured. The second noticed suspicious activity at the stern, and hurried back to report without venturing any closer. So by the time he had issued guns to the rest of the crew, Sir Roger had confirmation of the raid, and a good idea where the enemy was to be found.

  “Was it women you saw?” he asked the returned scout.

  “Hard to tell at the distance, Sir Roger, and in the dark, but I would say either women or small men.”

  “That’s not very likely, unless we’ve run into a pocket of unreconciled Japanese. No, the information is that the invading force is female. This seems to confirm it. If so, I want them alive. A bounty to every man who brings me one of these harpies unharmed. Except for bruises, of course. As many of those as you like, men.”

  Sir Roger stationed several sailors in defensive positions amidships, and led the rest to the saloon to help arm the members and organise a regular search below decks.

  In the cabin next to the Tangellis’ Major Electra and her Amazons found little Helmut Holle continuing his training of the statuesque Lady Lathom. She was in the centre of the cabin, naked except for high heels, and held upright and with head tilted back by a cable running from her nose ring to the ceiling. Her arms were behind her, the wrists joined to her cunt by short chains that had burrowed deeply into her cleft. To prevent them rubbing too painfully she was forced to arch her back, pull back her shoulders, and thrust out her ample breasts, making them an excellent target for the flogger wielded by Helmut. It was a light whip, chosen not out of compassion, but to prolong Helmut’s pleasure almost indefinitely. To judge from the uniform redness of the punished breasts the flogging had been proceeding on and off for most of the evening. Helmut had even provided himself with a box to stand on, so that he could attack his target from above as well as below. ‘A boxing match with Boxy’ was how the German had described the method at an early stage. Proud of his ability to relish an English pun, he had been trying to explain the joke to Lady Lathom for hours, but she was yet to laugh.

  Too immersed in his pleasure to notice anything else, Helmut was easily overpowered. Electra plucked him from his box, and an Amazon gagged him as he opened his mouth to scream. Boxy, staring at the ceiling, had no idea what was happening. Her mind was confused by prolonged pain, and all her remaining physical and mental energy was needed for the vital work of shaking her breasts. That gave some minimal relief from her agony.

  Electra was still studying Lady Lathom’s bondage with a good deal of professional interest and admiration when distant screaming recalled all her attention to military matters. An agitated Amazon plunged into the cabin and locked the door behind her.

  “Major,” she cried, “armed men in the corridor!”

  “Where is the rest of your patrol? I told you to stay together.”

  “Captured, major. It was an ambush. I only just escaped. I expected a bullet in my back any second while I was running away.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps and the rattling of the handle was heard from the corridor.

  “Quick, barricade the door!” ordered the major. “Does that bathroom communicate with another cabin? Damn! Is the porthole large enough to squeeze through?”

  While some of the Amazons were roughly wedging priceless originals from Helmut’s bondage collection against the door, others were trying the porthole, which they found just big enough for a fit young woman to wriggle through. It required great nerve, especially from the first volunteer, who would have to clamber up some pipework to the deck above, without the benefit of any help. The daring pioneer made it safely to her objective, but before she could look about her a sailor’s hairy hand was clamped over her mouth, and she was whisked away to captivity in the saloon.

  Worse still, Sir Roger and his men, who had been eavesdropping on the Amazon plans, had prepared one of the patrol captured earlier to act as a decoy. This terrified young woman, her uniform trousers removed, and a cane hovering threateningly above her naked bottom was forced to lean over the rail and answer reassuringly when the Amazons in the cabin called up to know whether their pioneer was safe.

  “Yes, yes,” cried the decoy, feeling the cane’s tip start tickling her clit, “hurry up, take my hand.”

  One by one the Amazons were hauled up into the waiting arms and gags of the crewmen and Millionaires on the deck. The last was Major Electra. She had remained behind to vent her frustration on Helmut Holle, who was left battered and unconscious. As secrecy was no longer necessary, Sir Roger greeted Electra with one of his courtly bows.

  “Welcome aboard the Bonaventure, Miss. I fear it has not proved a fortunate adventure for you, but I am delighted to see you in any case. A pretty young thing is never wasted on this ship.”

  While Sir Roger and his men were capturing the major, a party of Millionaires led by Tommy Khan was creeping up on the sergeant guarding the rope ladder in the stern. They had discovered that the narrow passage between the lifeboats and the rail, where the major and Madame had met, was not being watched. By this route they reached a point from which they could observe all the activity at the ladder. The last of the female plunder from the slave cabins was being slung over the side into the waiting launch. A much larger bundle lay wriggling wildly by the sergeant’s feet. It was Sir Roger’s scout, captured early in the ra
id.

  “We may as well get this thing loaded,” she said, kicking him. “I am looking forward to operating on him when we get back to Casco. I will pretend he is my husband.”

  “Ted!” a sailor whispered urgently in Tommy’s ear. “We can’t let the bitches have him.”

  Tommy passed back the order for an instant rush, which he led himself. The surprise was complete, and most of the Amazons in the stern gave themselves up without a struggle. The sergeant managed to shout an order for the launch to shove off and warn Hesione, before Tommy felled her with a blow to the jaw.

  “I will see that Ted has an opportunity to operate on you,” he promised the unconscious woman.

  With Sir Roger in control of the members’ corridors and Tommy of their escape route in the stern, the remaining Amazons under Lieutenants Helen and Atthis were trapped in the slave quarters below. “A foretaste of their fate.” said Sir Roger with a laugh, when Tommy’s messenger explained the situation to him.

  Their confidence buoyed by success, the Millionaires and sailors began to enjoy the sport of hunt the Amazon. Given the astonishing fact that the women had chosen to raid them without the support of firearms, it was no more dangerous than fighting a bull with blunted horns, but for most of the men this tameness was the game’s greatest attraction. To reduce the risk even further Sir Roger and Tommy directed a very cautious mopping up operation. Some of the Amazons were caught in nets or brought down with trip wires, others were betrayed by the terrorised decoy. Particular fun was had with the panicky Amazon who became wedged in a ventilation pipe while trying to escape. Two sailors had pulled her trousers and pants down to her knees, and slapped her bottom to a glorious sunset red before Tommy intervened. The woman’s howls were heard loudly below decks, but scarcely at all above. As the Amazons were captured they were hogtied, and added to a squirming heap in the great saloon. Sir George Carmichael, too infirm for active service, sat there to keep an eye on them, and to tot up the number of captures made by each sailor, and the bounties earned.

  Helen and Atthis put up the longest resistance, retreating from position to position with a few brave followers until they were finally trapped between Sir Roger’s men and Tommy’s, in Mary’s old slave cabin. Here, completely outnumbered, they were forced to surrender. Atthis attempted to negotiate terms, but a laughing Tommy told her that his only terms for women were ‘bitch’ and ‘slave’.

  The three launches carrying Madame Colet, together with Mary and the other captured slaves, had barely reached Lieutenant Hesione’s boat, and Madame was still reporting the situation to her, when the Bonaventure steamed out of the channel at full speed. Sir Roger, worried about the possibility of torpedos, had ordered an immediate flight. Some of the Amazons wanted to attack the Bonaventure, while Madame urged caution. The terrified Hesione, unnerved by her sudden elevation to command, did not know what to do. Whether a counter-attack was a possibility was a point long argued among the Amazons. It would certainly have required immediate action to have any chance of success. Hesione was saved from the agony of decision by the ship’s rapid retreat, which soon took it beyond any prospect of pursuit. The eleven Amazons who were all that survived from this hopeful expedition watched it out of sight, and then sadly set their course for Casco.

  The Spoils

  Sir Roger had Electra strapped to a chair in the saloon, and sat down opposite her, puffing on a cigarette.

  “It is obvious that you were the leader of this ill-fated adventure, my dear, but I cannot believe you planned it. Signor Tangelli is in a state of shock, but from his garbled account I gather that Madame Colet was one of the party that invaded his room, and that she was an active participant in the outrages committed there. Can I take it that this was all Madame’s idea?”

  Electra did not reply, but continued to stare back defiantly at her questioner, eye to eye.

  “Very well. I may permit you to answer that later, if you plead prettily enough for permission. Now here is an easy one that any prisoner of war can answer without reproach. What is your name?”

  “I am Major Electra of the Amazon Legion, number 962.”

  “I am delighted to meet you, Major. But enough of this pseudo-classical nonsense. What is your real name? Is it Wendy? Or Gwendoline? Don’t be shy. We teach femininity here, so nothing can be too fluffy. Tell me your real name and I will spare you a world of torment. No? Are you sure, Major? This is your last chance. Nothing? Then it is time for you and I to adjourn to a sound-proofed room.”

  Sir Roger surveyed the heap of bound and leather-clad Amazons squirming in the corner like fish in a net, then, turning to the crew, he pronounced their sentence:

  “Secure the ship. Set good watch. Then take those things away and turn them into women.”

  Sir Roger conducted Electra’s interrogation in the special punishment cabin, a room lavishly equipped with instruments of retribution for rebellious slaves. Mark and Reggie, his assistants, wiped a wet sponge across the major’s face, removing some of the black grease that covered it. Her beauty shone through the streaks that remained. They tore off her leather uniform and rather masculine pants, while Sir Roger prepared his instruments. They were amused by the rank flashes and campaign ribbons dangling from Electra’s nipple rings (“Such vanity!”), and even more by the well-oiled barbell that pierced the hood of her clitoris.

  “It looks like violence excites this dame, Sir Roger,” was Mark’s comment. “Shall we be kind and treat her to some more?”

  The two young men put a collar, and wrist and ankle cuffs, on the major, clipped her wrists to the back of the collar, and dumped her kneeling on a sturdy bench in the middle of the room. It’s only feature was an extremely naturalistic ebony statuette of an erect penis that erupted from the centre. Sir Roger, rather superfluously, drew Electra’s attention to this threatening object.

  “It is modelled from the tool of a well-known heavyweight boxer, major...”

  “A real pain in the ass!” interjected Mark.

  “...We call it ‘What a Bugger!’ In two minutes’ time it is going to be buggering you. I wouldn’t call the Bonaventure liberty hall exactly, but whenever possible we do like to give our guests an option. ‘What a Bugger!’ is very dry at the moment. You can take it that way if you wish. If you prefer your cocks wet you have one minute and thirty seconds to do something about it.”

  Electra wanted to tell him to bugger off, but the soldier’s instinct for self-preservation came to her rescue. She bit back the words, and bending forward as far as she could without overbalancing, she began to slobber all over the disgusting object. Her mouth was dry with fear, but from somewhere she managed to force up enough spittle to get the phallus glistening. Her appreciative audience did not know which of three charming sights to concentrate on, the major’s well-stretched mouth and flickering tongue servicing the black cock, her pretty young nipples dancing (and her rings tapping) on the surface of the rough bench, or the delicious rear view of her cunt, with the light glinting off the slick barbell. Each was so amusing that Sir Roger allowed Electra at least an extra minute for her lubricating work.

  Even with the phallus coated in saliva, the penetration was agony. Mark and Reggie held her poised above the bench, her legs folded up to her ears, while Sir Roger pried her buttocks apart and guided her to the target. When he had positioned her to his satisfaction - his deep satisfaction - he gave the word to his assistants, and they pressed down firmly on her shoulders. Buggery was practised among the officers of the Legion, but usually with slim and well-greased dildos. Electra had never taken anything half so big. But then she had never experienced the strength of two vigorous young men propelling her to her fate. Little by little the six inches of shiny black stone were forced into her body, while at the same time a trickle of piss was forced out.

  “Excellent! More natural lubrication,” was Sir Roger’s only comment. The bench was already
covered with suspicious-looking stains, for many a slave had suffered on it before Electra. Mark and Reggie did not cease from their labours until the sobbing woman’s buttocks made contact with the sodden wood.

  “The major seems to be a splendid athlete, gentlemen. Do you think you can feed her feet through the crooks of her elbows, and fasten her ankles together behind her neck?”

  With a good deal of pulling and squeezing from Mark and Reggie, and screaming from Electra, they could. Her bondage was completed by two cords drawn down from a ceiling pulley, which they tied to her big toes. Electra now formed a straight and very painful line between the bench and the ceiling, with all her weight born by her impaled buttocks. As a decorative finishing touch Mark and Reggie pulled up the rank and campaign ribbons dangling from the major’s nipples and tied them to her ear rings, which had the practical side effect of making the undersides of her breasts more vulnerable.

  Sir Roger collected a selection of whips, canes, switches, and crops from a cupboard, and flicked Electra’s nipples with the lightest cane to secure her attention.

  “Now, don’t worry, major, I am not going to ask you any questions. We will gag you now, and give you some exercise. In five minutes I will remove the gag briefly, which will be your chance to beg me to ask a question. If you fail to take it the gag will be replaced and the exercise will be resumed for ten minutes. Then you will get a second chance, but you will have to plead before I will speak. If you neglect that opportunity it will be twenty minutes before a third comes along, and to take advantage of that will require some really spectacular grovelling. The gag, Reggie.”

  For a moment Sir Roger thought she was going to speak before it was inserted. The woman in her wanted to, but the feminist still had the upper hand. It was the woman who was going to suffer.

  For the five minute session Sir Roger had his assistants cane Electra’s back and buttocks, while he stood smiling affably in her purple and bloated face, just occasionally tweaking a nipple or resting a hand on her taut belly to feel the vibrations coursing through from a lash on her tortured bottom. The first few blows did wonders for the cause of Electra the feminist, but after the fifth the woman steadily gained ground.