by Toby Abbott
“That will do for the moment, gentlemen,” said Sir Roger, glancing at his watch. “Remove the gag. A glass of hock, Reggie? Mark? This is thirsty work, and we have scarcely begun.”
This reminder finally prompted Electra to speak.
“If I tell you what you want to know, will you spare my Amazons from torture?”
“You would think,” said Sir Roger, sipping his wine, and not even glancing in the major’s direction, “that even the most stupid woman would know enough to address a man with a whip as ‘master’.”
“I will call you anything you like if you will only let my women go.”
“This is not a negotiation. The gag, please. Now it is my turn.”
“No, wait, master, I will tell you. My name is Felicity Conway and ... meyur... meyur.”
“This grunting really is most undignified in one who claims to be an officer,” said Sir Roger. “Save your breath for talking, Felicity - in ten minutes’ time.” He stood back to give his arm scope, and cracked the whip a few times for intimidation. Practice he did not need, for his skill with that weapon was as famous as the Baroness’s with her tongue. Mark and Reggie stationed themselves where they could safely enjoy a master class in the art of giving the maximum pain with the minimum of effort. ‘Never waste a stroke’ and ‘Let the whipmaker do the work’ were Sir Roger’s two mottoes.
He seemed only to flick the whip, but its tip always landed exactly where he aimed it, and with explosive force. Watching him at work Mark and Reggie could understand why he was also a celebrated angler. He began with the calves, covering each with red blotches before proceeding downwards to the muscular thighs. The frantic Felicity was somehow managing to bounce up and down on the buggering phallus, momentarily raising herself several inches from the bench, and throwing all her weight onto her big toes.
As her muffled cries sounded even to herself like those of a stuck pig, Felicity tried to express all her submission through her supplicating eyes. Sir Roger, gazing into her soul through those beautiful windows, knew exactly what she was trying to say, but chose to ignore it. Instead, he transferred his attention to her breasts, beginning near her armpits, then punishing the tender undersides, where they were pulled up by the rings, and finally landing a series of stings on the nipples themselves. Mark and Reggie marvelled at his skill in catching them every time, despite Felicity’s desperate wriggling on the black phallus. But it was his whipping of Felicity’s belly and cunt that his assistants would always remember as Sir Roger’s masterpiece. His trick of wrapping the business end of the whip around the major’s clitoral barbell was worthy of any circus in the world.
It was after this excruciating blow that they knew for certain that Felicity was broken. The quality of her muffled cries changed suddenly from those of an angry wild beast to the whining of a beaten dog. Mark and Reggie drank her in with growing lust. Rivers of sweat had spread the black camouflage grease from her face to her breasts and belly. These black lines contrasted sharply with the pallor of most of her skin (the result of terror) and with the angry red spots that glowed wherever Sir Roger’s whip had landed. The symmetrical pattern of those marks was further testimony to his skill. He could easily have signed his name in whip lashes on a woman’s flesh.
“Is that the time, gentlemen?” said Sir Roger, consulting his watch again, “How quickly it passes when one is having fun. I am sorry, Felicity, but we must pause there for the moment. The gag, please.”
She almost bit off Mark’s finger in her frantic eagerness to be talking before the gag was out of her mouth.
“Oh please, master, please ask me a question! Ask me to tell you anything. Ask me to do anything. I am ready. Oh please, please, master!”
“She sounds sincere,” said Sir Roger. “What do you think, gentlemen. Shall we listen to her story, or shall we put back the gag?”
“O please, please, master!”
For their own pleasure Mark and Reggie would have been glad to inflict another twenty minutes’ worth of punishment, but they knew that in this instance Sir Roger was looking for information more than gratification. In twenty minutes the woman might not be in a state to tell them anything.
“Yes, give the slut a chance,” said Reggie. “I’ve been kept waiting for my breakfast long enough.”
“Very well. But stand behind her with the gag, please, and at the faintest hint of disguise, evasion, inconsistency, or deception, insert it without warning. I have a new torment I am anxious to try, that makes the whip feel like a tickler, and this woman seems like the perfect experimental subject. Now, the raid. Tell me everything. And remember that my name is Sir Roger. Use it!”
The story came tumbling from Felicity’s mouth in abject haste, all about Madame, the Baroness, the Sisters of Sappho, Casco Island, the Amazons. She was so terrified of the gag, which Reggie held so that she could see it out of the corner of her eye, that the words kept forming a bottleneck in her throat, choking Felicity in her eagerness to force them out. Sir Roger would halt her occasionally by laying a cane against her lips like a silencing finger while he asked a question, but by and large it was not necessary for the three men to speak. In ten minutes they knew everything about their enemies, and Sir Roger had taken the precaution of recording the confession for future study.
When the torrent of words finally ended Mark and Reggie lifted Felicity off ‘What a Bugger!’, and laid her on her tender back, with her doubed-up buttocks just protruding over the edge of the bench. Her wrists and ankles were still clipped behind her neck, propping up her head, so that she was forced to look down between her stretched breasts to where Mark and Reggie were eagerly unbuttoning their flies. The sturdy cocks of the two young men were already erect and throbbing.
“Well, now, Felicity,” said Sir Roger, his upside-down face suddenly appearing above hers, “you have learnt what a valuable asset her voice is to a slave. If she can speak, she always has a chance of placating her master, but if she is gagged ...”
“No, Sir Roger, I beg you ...” said Felicity, whose heart would ever after be set pounding by that word.
“Be quiet! Remember that a voice can also be a trap to a slave, if she uses it out of turn. For the present you have my permission to speak. Use it to persuade these two young masters to spill their seed in your unworthy body.”
Although she had been penetrated by many a dildo, wielded by herself or an Amazon comrade, Felicity was a virgin to the male, one of the true vegans of the Lesbian faith. But to hear her plead with Mark and Reggie to put their beautiful cocks in her cunt, her arse, her mouth, her ears if they liked, one would have thought her a nymphomaniac, an insatiable man-eater. Fortified by their recent acting experiences, Mark and Reggie put up a creditable show of reluctance in spite of their erections, but before long they graciously consented to grant the slave’s request. The young Englishman, who went first, chose to explore the path opened up by ‘What a Bugger!’ It had already contracted enough to milk him dry within minutes. The American’s cock thus had the honour of claiming this hypothetical maidenhead, and he also had the more solid satisfaction of provoking the first tremors of sexual response from Felicity. Before he could fan this spark into a fire he was forced to scramble up her body and come explosively in her mouth - for it was a point of honour among the Millionaires not to leave a friend a buttered bun - giving the old master the task of supplying the coup de grace.
Sir Roger’s experience enabled him to plumb a cunt as scientifically as he fished a pool. His long and slender rod gave him access to nooks and cranies denied to his more ponderously built assistants. He was soon alternately rooting around Felicity’s barbell (so recently spun like a top by his whip) and plunging in up to his grey-haired pubic buffers. The ex-major was panting now, and the whip marks on her breasts were merging into a general hectic glow. The Millionaires always wished to establish an association of pleasure with pain in the mi
nds of their slaves, so when Sir Roger sensed that Felicity was losing control he let his full weight drop on her body, and thrust vigorously to set her caned back rubbing against the rough bench. It was an intense and noisy orgasm, only kept within bounds by the bondage, and climaxed by Felicity’s whispered “I love you, Sir Roger!” While the two young men looked on with mingled admiration and jealousy, regretting their impatience, Sir Roger cheerfully contemplated a long vista of pleasures to be enjoyed with this fine acquisition. He had discovered a natural submissive in the most unexpected of places.
While Sir Roger put on a fresh suit, the old being soaked and soiled with Felicity’s sweat, Mark and Reggie thrust the new slave into a hot tub, completely submerging her while they worked away with soap and shampoo. Only when she was squeaky clean did they release her from her stringent bonds, which they replaced with others less fierce but more humiliating. Felicity was now to become a pony, with head harness and reins, clip-clopping high heels, and a tight corset that hoisted her breasts almost to her chin. Her nipple ribbons had been removed when she resigned her commission with the words ‘I love you, master’. Now they were replaced by little bells. Her arms were strapped palm to elbow across her back. She was pleased, but puzzled, to be spared the insertion of a bit. Every pony she had driven on Casco had been cruelly bitted.
This little mystery was cleared up when a spotless Sir Roger returned.
“Now, my dear,” he said, pinching Felicity’s nipples in high good humour, “we want the world to see how happy you are with your new role in life. What better way to do so than to smile. Smile, my dear, and make an old man happy.”
Felicity tried, but it was a feeble attempt, a sickly grin that faded almost as soon as it appeared.
“What do you call that?” said Sir Roger, suddenly a lot less genial. “I’ve seen corpses do better. I really believe you could smile more brightly with a gag in your mouth”
The magic word, emphasised by Sir Roger, did the trick again. Felicity drew up her cheeks and eyebrows and displayed all her teeth in the professional smile of a politician on the campaign trail.
“That’s better,” said Sir Roger. “Now hold that, or it’s back to the drawing board with you.”
“Don’t you mean buggering board, Sir Roger,” said Mark, who had little sense of subtlety.
“But smiling is not the only way in which we want you to express your happiness. You must also learn to prance for joy. To help you with that, here is a present.”
The present was a saddle strap with two adjustable plugs attached. In her days as an officer - yesterday already seemed infinitely distant - Felicity had fitted many pony girls with such accoutrements. With a sudden jolt of lust she remembered the lovely Mrs Grant and her maid Purity, ponies whose training she had supervised. Now she must herself look as erotic as Peggy Grant.
Felicity knew exactly how to stand while Sir Roger inserted the two plugs and buckled the strap to her corset front and back. He pulled it tight, of course, there was otherwise no point in such a strap. Felicity was the tamer tamed, so naturally she understood all the rules. Sir Roger took firm hold of the reins with his left hand and poised a small whip in his right.
“Now, Felicity,” he said, “let me see you trot round me in a circle, like a thoroughbred filly showing her paces. The knees higher than that. Much higher. I want you to ring a bell with your knee at every step. And don’t forget to smile.”
It was both exhausting and stimulating, for the plugs slid and flexed constantly in her well-lubricated holes. In the circumstances it was difficult to maintain the steady rhythm demanded by Sir Roger, but judicious application of the whip to her tender buttocks proved an excellent teaching aid.
“Now you have it just right,” said Sir Roger, cocking his head to one side while he enjoyed the music of the bells. “Keep smiling, Felicity, and keep prancing. It is time to visit your friends.”
The Boxes
The Bonaventure’s femininity factory was below the water line. Mr Morimoto had designed it and ran it. All round the rear hold, raised to eye level by opaque stands, there was a closely set circle of glass boxes, each about two feet six inches square. They had individual curtains that could be drawn across the front if required, removeable ventilated glass tops, and at the bottom oval drains, shaped to accept a woman’s buttocks. Firmly fixed to base and frame on the inside of each box were numerous sturdy rings.
Running round behind the boxes, at the level of their tops, was a circular walkway. The inmates could be serviced from there, and it made an excellent viewing platform for spectators. The large space enclosed by the circle of boxes, which was broken only by a single entrance, was filled with racks, frames, pulleys, sawhorses, stocks, a branding furnace and irons, and every other implement of erotic torture that ever haunted a virgin’s nightmares.
When the former Major Electra, now slave Felicity, was trotted into the hold she found her erstwhile Amazons tied higgledy-piggledy to these various items, while the crewmen slowly and methodically stripped off their leather uniforms, and removed their chastity belts with bolt cutters. While Felicity took in the scene she continued her high-kneed prancing on the spot, and kept a cheescake smile plastered to her face, as instructed. She did not mean ever to return to the punishment cabin.
Ever since the capture of the Amazons, Lieutenants Helen and Atthis had been encouraging their women with whispered exhortations not to let down Major Electra, to be worthy of the courage and indomitable will of their ‘heroinic’ leader. The major would surely escape, rally the surviving Amazons, and return to rescue her friends. The major would never let herself be intimidated by men, and they must be equally strong. Now, Helen and Atthis stared slack-jawed at the vision of their admired commander transformed into an obedient pony girl. Defiance could almost be heard escaping from the stripped Amazons like air from a punctured balloon.
“What is your name, slave?”
“Felicity, Sir Roger.”
“Who ordered this treacherous raid?”
“Baroness Walter, Sir Roger.”
“Who planned it?”
“Madame Colet, Sir Roger.”
“Who led it?”
“I did, Sir Roger. Forgive me!”
“Who were your assistants? Indicate them.”
“Lieutenant Helen, there, and Lieutenant Atthis, there.”
“How many escaped?”
“Madame Colet, Sir Roger, with about ten Amazons and as many stolen slaves. They are on Lieutenant Hesione’s launch, you might still catch them if...”
“Enough, Felicity, you may stand still.”
Helen and Atthis watch round-eyed as the celebrated Major Electra stopped prancing at Sir Roger’s command. She was exhausted, and panting so heavily that her nipple bells continued to tinkle. Even so, she was almost sorry to stop, the cunt plug and the strap rubbing against her barbell had been producing such exciting sensations.
“Good girl,” said Sir Roger, holding out a sugar lump on his palm. Felicity picked it up delicately in her teeth, lodged it in the corner of her mouth, and licked the feeding hand gratefully.
“Thank you, Sir Roger,” she said, before crunching the sugar. The toothpaste smile was back on her face before she had finished swallowing.
The crewmen had continued with their stripping and chastity belt removing work while Sir Roger exhibited Felicity, and the thirty or so Amazons were now naked. Their faces were still, to varying degrees, covered or blotched with black grease.
“Box them,” Sir Roger now ordered, “except those two. They can be sat facing one another on the sawhorse there.”
Helen and Atthis were bound as Sir Roger directed, where each could read her own terror mirrored in the face of her friend. Their Amazon nipple rings and ribbons were removed, and all four nipples threaded onto a single larger ring, leaving their breasts squashed to
gether and their eyes only a few inches apart. The lieutenants’ arms were forced into back prayers, and their wrists fastened to their collars by short chains. Their legs were kept straight by weights hanging from the ankle cuffs. Sir Roger trotted the docile Felicity round and round the sawhorse, questioning her about Helen and Atthis, their strengths and weaknesses, their sexual obsessions, their fears and phobias. Her answers were full and frank, and Sir Roger noted with relish that Helen’s whole body blushed when her favourite perversions were described. Atthis seemed proof against sexual shame, but became agitated when her secret fears were revealed. The resolve of both lieutenants was ebbing away in face of Electra’s unthinkable betrayal.
Meanwhile, the boxing of the Amazons was proceeding. The crewmen worked in teams from the walkway behind the boxes. It was approached from matching staircases in the entrance passage. The Amazons, some still struggling, most listless with despair, were hauled up the steps to the walkway, where gags, collars, cuffs, and rings were attached or inserted. Nearly all the Amazons had the necessary piercings. The few who didn’t acquired them on the spot, with no preparation or ceremony.
For ease of handling, the Amazons’ wrists were clipped to the backs of their collars, their ankles to the fronts, via as short a link as each woman’s anatomy would allow. Strong elastic tapes were attached individually to their outer labia rings. Each Amazon was then lowered most of the way into her box by two men. A third leant in and fixed the elastic tapes to rings on either side of the drain shaped like a woman’s bottom. The woman was then lowered the rest of the way, until she fitted snugly into the drain. This final lowering stretched the elastic, pulling the sex lips widely apart. As the tapes were of a standard length, it was something of a procrustean bed. Some of the women were uncomfortable, others in agony. As they were all heavily gagged it would not have been easy to distinguish between levels of pain, even if anyone had cared to try.
