Painful Prize

by Stephen Rawlings

  She was rewarded with a green light on each passage of the prick in and out of her urgently contracting cunt, and the counter in front of her clicked up 1.

  "You see, you can do it if you try," Renee congratulated her, "now all you have to do is keep it going for 99 more."

  It didn't prove too difficult, once she got her mind round the pattern, 'lean back and relax', 'lean forward and squeeze'. Soon it was coming quite naturally and there were only three more red lights to spoil her record by the time the counter had clicked over to 100, each rewarded with a cut of the whip from one or other of her personal trainers.

  "You did all right," Renee conceded, "but that was about as simple as they come. Now for something a little harder. Concentrate carefully this time, or you'll be seriously sore before Neddy's satisfied."

  There were more clicks and mechanical noises and this time, when the cock sprang into life, its movements were far more vigorous. It plunged into her with more of rape than dalliance in the thrust, shaking her belly with its violence, then drawing back quite slowly, only to drive home again with the same force. As she tried to gather herself under the battering, the red light flashed and winked in derision. Gasping, she steadied herself and tried to make sense of it. The same pattern as before didn't help, so she tried reversing it, resisting the penetration, but relaxing as it left her body but, again, she failed to score. She seemed to be getting greens for her resistance to its inrush, but her slack vagina on exit seemed to infuriate the computerised Casanova and it winked a baleful red eye at her for her efforts. In desperation she closed up and clenched tight constantly, but even this didn't win the prize, or check the steady thrashing she was getting from the whips.

  As Renee had forecast, she was getting seriously sore and something had to be done. She tried to imagine what might be in a man's mind at a time like this or, rather, what kind of a man Renee had conjured up for her. He was being brutal to her, thrusting without feeling, hurling his loins against her. If it had been a flesh and blood man behind her his belly would have been battering her buttocks for sure. It was the action of an angry man, a man determined to punish her for some fault. How would he want her to react? Not resist him, that was for sure, but neither would he want to plunge into an inanimate lump of flesh. No he would want to feel her submit to his battering but be unable to take the violence of his strokes against her cervix so that he would feel her involuntary clenching as his prick approached its deepest penetration of her womb. And on the way out? Total submission, for sure. She changed her tack, letting the prick move forward inside her, clenching down tight on it as it reached its full depth, then relaxing the grip as soon as it had moved an inch or so backwards. Two green lights! She had cracked it. Now all she had to do was to keep up the unnatural rhythm until she had clocked up the 300 that she had been set.

  It wasn't easy, but she set her mind on it, to the exclusion of the whip cuts that still fell from time to time and eventually they slackened, then ceased altogether, as the red lights became less frequent, then virtually disappeared altogether. By the end of something approaching ten minutes sweat and strain, to say nothing of blazing buttocks, she had forced the counter over the 300 mark and the machine fell into merciful stillness.

  "Not bad at all, for a beginner," Renee admitted. "Did you just find that rhythm by chance or had you worked out that that was an angry man who was determined to take it out in your cunt and reduce you to a snivelling heap?"

  "I guessed what might be happening," the panting trainee got out between gasps, trying to toss the sweat soaked strands of hair out of her eyes. "He certainly didn't fuck like a lover, so some sort of disciplinary action seemed the likely answer."

  "Well that was a tough one deliberately, to test you. Now we'll get down to the real work," and she turned back to the controls to set the next exercise.

  For an hour every morning, sometimes two, and a similar session each afternoon, the training went on. Sometimes the prick was set to ravish her under its own power, sometimes it sat still and relaxed, while she rode it, teasing out its mood, adjusting her speed and pattern to meet its wishes, always strengthening her control over the muscles of her vagina until she had developed them into the perfect instrument for male pleasure.

  And not only her vagina. Her mouth received a similar education, sometimes entertaining a passive prick, sometimes laving and sucking on an active rod as it worked its way backwards and forwards between her caressing lips and deep into her throat. At first she gagged, it was set to penetrate so deep but, gradually, she learnt to let her throat relax and accept the solid gristle, taking its length far past the point where, when she started, her instincts told her it would choke her.

  After the first fortnight there were more muscles to exercise. On alternate days she had returned to Greta's lair where the plug in her anus had been cleaned and adjusted, increasing the degree of stretch to the inflamed anus, until she was convinced she would tear and be permanently damaged. Into the distended tissues Greta injected her stinging muscle weakening fluid, its effect as painful as ever each time the needle went in. And there was always 'lunch'. Now that she knew what the glutinous and noisesome fluid was she had to suckle on, her stomach revolted even more strongly, but Greta would brook no refusal. Under threat of the whip and other, unspecified torments, she sucked on her loathsome bottle, drawing in the nauseous substance that was, Greta maintained, the finest protein for a sexually active girl that Mother Nature could provide. Two weeks on, and Greta declared the rimming process complete, the anal ring's elasticity so degraded that it could no longer contract enough to contribute to the defence of the rectal tube from invasion. Instead, it protruded where before it had sunk shyly in the humid trench between the fleshy buttock halves, a raised ridge, the celebrated 'rim' that marked the true Sexton wife or Swive.

  Now that she was declared fit for service in all orifices, she had to present her newly modified anus to 'Neddy' and repeat the programme of exercises she had undergone to train her cunt to an educated and intelligent organ. Her hours working with Neddy extended every day, his ingenious micro-brain constantly coming up with new combinations to test her. Any time not spent copulating with the mechanical sex maniac, she had to devote to strenuous exercises, to firm her belly and strengthen her pelvic floor, improve her pectorals and thereby throw her not inconsiderable breasts into even greater prominence, their firm mounds thrusting out the thick teats that seemed to be permanently engorged these days. From her icy douche each morning, until she dropped exhausted on the hard planks of her bed, where she slept as if they were the softest down, her every minute was taken up.

  Her appetite grew to match her exertions. Although she was not starved, her rations were carefully monitored to ensure her bread and water diet was just sufficient for her needs, without adding an ounce of superfluous fat to her frame, the starkness of the diet relieved only by the rewards that Renee and Laura condescended to offer her. Sometimes she was so hungry she felt she might almost welcome the nauseous 'bottles' that Greta had provided; almost but not quite.

  And she missed Henry. It was not as if she was not getting sexual stimulation. Neddy was programmed to replicate a man's varying moods as intercourse progressed, from animal capture of a mate, to sensuous pleasure in riding her, to the crescendo that led ultimately to explosive ejaculation. The plastic cock was even fitted with a device to inject repeated gouts of hot creamy semen substitute into her mouth, her vagina, her butt. A healthy sexual animal like herself could not help but respond to this stimulation, indeed, her mentors insisted that she surrender to it, letting her body heat with gathering arousal, timing her orgasmic spasms, when they burst, to coincide with the hot jets of spunk hitting her cervix, her rectum, her gaping throat.

  But Neddy didn't taste of Henry, didn't smell like him, lacked the wiry feel of the hair on his chest, the hardness of his muscles as he gripped her during their lovemaking. She yearned for his
embrace, for the chance to show him how much she could pleasure him now she was aware of herself as a woman. In a month she had learnt more of how to make use of her body for a man's benefit than a professional whore after a life-time career between the sheets, and she was desperate to demonstrate it to the man she loved. She suspected that Renee and Laura were feeling the loss of their men as badly, but they could take some comfort in each other's warm human bodies. She was stuck with a metal mule and she hungered for human flesh.

  The reunion took place, as did most social events in Sexton, in the bar of the Trident. As the three vibrant young women entered the long low room there was a pause in the general buzz of conversation as all heads turned to see them, then a spontaneous outbreak of applause. Walking proudly between her sponsors, a fully fledged Swive at last, Jenny moved directly to Henry and dropped to her knees before him. She wasn't left there long. Henry snatched her up in a bear hug and pressed his mouth to hers in a long kiss that left them both panting, she with nipples that threatened to burst through her blouse, and a hot wetness between her legs, he with an iron hard poker tenting out his pants. Politeness dictated that they should stay and let her greet all her acquaintances, but their need was obvious and no one could have been surprised when they slipped away to find each other again in the privacy of their bedroom.

  At first Henry teased her, keeping her at arm's length, while he explored and approved her rings and the neat rod that pierced her clit from end to end, turning her, and making her bend, while he admired the delicate architecture of her remodelled anus. She was panting with her need and begged to be allowed to serve him, to show him just what she could do.

  "Please, please, Henry," she pleaded between her parted legs as she hung head down looking at him where he stood behind her gloating over her lovely bottom, and the gleam of gold in the gap, "I can't wait. Don't be so cruel. Let me rape you right now."

  He laughed and threw himself back on the bed, his penis pointing skyward like a flagstaff.

  "Permission granted," he replied, and was overwhelmed by an avalanche of hot pulsing femininity.

  Part Five: Displayed

  "I reckon we'll be the dream team this year," Renee said, as she sipped her Martini. "One Blonde, one brunette and a redhead. Now that you've become one of us and qualify for the festival, the set's complete."

  "What are we going to have to do, anyway?" Jenny wanted to know. "All Henry would tell me was that I'm elected and to report to Lady Hartington up at the manor for training."

  "All you need to know, as an obedient Swive. Men aren't obliged to tell us anything they don't want, or can't be bothered to," Laura reminded her.

  "I know that, but I can't help wondering."

  "Then we'll put you out of your misery," Renee laughed. "There's no law against it."

  "Shouldn't be too sure of that," Laura put in, "it's sure to come under being mouthy or some such but, hell, we can sort that out on Friday night."

  "As per usual," Renee agreed. "Anyway, Friday bottom or not, it's an annual affair, a left over from a very ancient fertility rite they say, even before the Romans came this way. At one time virgins were deflowered in the fields to help the crops along but there seems to be a shortage of such these days, virgins that is, so more experienced women, to whit Swives, appear in public with just a token nod to decency, but little else on, and ride on decorated floats from village to village. All the pubs in the valley enter a float, usually with something relevant to their name as the theme. Being the Trident, we usually have something to do with the sea."

  "So what's it to be this year?" the latest recruit wanted to know.

  "Ah, that's a secret," Laura said, "Tom and George and some others lock themselves away in the big shed behind the pub every evening. Besides consuming a fair amount of beer, they bang away on their little secret and won't tell us a thing."

  "We'll find out soon enough," Renee assured her, "and, knowing our men, I have no doubt we can look forward to being both very uncomfortable and very embarrassed."

  Lady Hartington was a well-preserved woman somewhere in her mid fifties, just possibly a year or two older, her grey hair but upright carriage making estimates difficult. The girls were disinclined to ask her since besides a totally commanding manner, she also sported a very vicious crop which, she made clear from the start, she had every authority and intention to use on their tender behinds should discipline be infringed, or duty shirked.

  The purpose of their twice-weekly visits to the manor, where Lady Hartington lived, was twofold. In the first place they were to construct the costumes that they were to wear on the float and, in the second place, they were to undergo periods of special exercises to acclimatise certain vital parts of their anatomy for the occasion. Mostly they were able to combine the two.

  The costumes consisted of fishtails, made from a specially moulded plastic material with the texture of giant fish scales, which wrapped around their closed legs, leaving them with the appearance of mermaids. The material had to be measured, cut, sewn, fitted with eyelets for laces along the back, and attached to a pair of flippers that would take their feet below. It was obvious that the maritime motif was to be maintained. It seemed to the most recently joined that the costume might be a little less than adequate for an English rural scene, seeing that the fish scales came scarcely up to her mons, and there were, as yet, no signs of any covering for her not insignificant breasts. She was discouraged from curiosity in the matter though after Lady H had dismissed her questions as irrelevant and emphasised the point with three stinging cuts of her ubiquitous crop to a pair of tautened buttock tops.

  The cuts were delivered vertically from above on two swelling hams overlapping an inadequately seated stool, an immensely painful way in which to be hewn by a length of leather covered whalebone. Moreover, the cuts had to be taken with perfect immovability not only because it would have been considered insubordination to wriggle while whipped, but because the stool was equipped with a very substantial vertical phallus, and that phallus was lodged firmly and deeply in her protesting rectum. The pole sitting was part of the preparatory exercises prescribed for these nubile float riders and they were made to mount these punitive pegs whenever the nature of their work allowed it. It did not bode well for their comfort on the day of the festival; since it did not take much imagination to deduce in what manner they would be seated on the float.

  Their leg casings completed to Lady Hartington's satisfaction, at some considerable cost in female yelps and writhing from her favourite crop, they were given a mass of imitation plastic seaweed, from which they were invited to cut suitable pieces to just cover their nipples and surrounding areolae. Too much modesty was punished in the usual way, certain backsides becoming seriously sore and, the minimal coverings being deemed acceptable, they had to fit them with some nasty looking spring loaded clamps, whose sickle blades and sharp teeth promised more misery on the ride. Finally, their anuses well-exercised, their costumes complete, the day of the festival dawned bright and clear, and they were introduced for the first time to the vehicle they were to adorn with their near-naked nubility.

  The float carried an enormous fibreglass head of the sea god Neptune, with beard dripping seaweed, and a hand grasping a huge trident, rising from a sea of rolling waves, each forming a seat for a mermaid attendant, dolphins emerging to cover the front of the pick-up truck that formed the basis and motive power of the exhibit, blue tinted glass slots enabling Tom, who was to drive it, to see out.

  One mermaid sat either side of the head, and one in front. Each had her feet and legs encased in a tight 'fishtail' of moulded silver latex, which just came onto her buttocks behind and wrapped around her hips to finish along the creases at the tops of her thighs in front, just about covering her mons and leaving her belly and navel quite bare. The rest of each female body was just as bare, save for bunches of seaweed strategically placed to barely cover the nipp
les and their pink areolae. The green sea-wrack seemed to be without visible means of support though it was, in fact, securely fastened to their dugs, and only the girls knew the true cost of this inadequate concession to 'decency', and how much pain they were suffering from the cruel clamps that chewed unmercifully on the gristly stems of their teats.

  The girls appeared to sit quite freely on their moulded seats, their arms able to wave at the crowd and throw small blossoms from the baskets in their laps. In fact they were as much prisoners as butterflies pinned to a board. The 'tails', which bound their legs so cruelly they ached from the moment they were donned, tight laced behind to ensure absolute rigidity from ankle to hip, were secured to the deck at their feet and, moreover, were split behind, under their bottoms. Here was the ultimate cruelty, for the small bucket seats, that supported them, letting their partially scale covered buttocks flare out over the edges, carried two prongs, seven inch cylinders, one tapering from a root over an inch and a half across to a one inch neck, above which a knob like the male glans swelled, and a very well endowed male at that. The other phallus was an inch and a half all along its length, crowned with a two-inch ball. Once the shafts were inserted, and locked by wing nuts below the seats, there was no way the girl could extricate herself. She had to stay on her impalement, feeling it thrust deeper against her womb and guts with every jolt of the float. Luckily for them, the procession moved at a slow pace, but the village street was pitted and uneven and, even at a walking pace, there was many a gasp, and a smile momentarily wiped out by a grunt of pain. When the wheels from time to time, encountered a more well defined obstruction, they clung to the float as best they could, Laura gripping the shaft of the trident, where it rose beside her, Renee throwing her arm around his maritime Majesty's moulded neck, the third member of the nubile trio leaning back against his beard, and holding on as best she could.