Cleve Litchfield was a stud and proud of it, but that was before he had the misfortune to wind up a helpless prisoner at the lovely Miss Augusta Kreel's Heatherrow boarding school for girls, a castle-like place that took sweet little eleven-year-olds and turned them into magnificent dominant women by the time they graduated.
Augusta was a lesbian, of course, as all sensible women are, and from the moment she saw the arrogant male she set her iron will on reducing him to a whimpering pain object.
It was a long task, for Cleve was as stubborn as most men are before they've had a taste of female domination, and Augusta had to use every means at her disposal, including the ultimate degradation for Cleve of being tortured and dominated by bitchy little girls young enough to be his daughters!
Finally, with the aid of whips, paddles, fists, ropes, and everything else the female imagination can think up, the abject and ridiculous Cleve was drained of all masculinity and will power, and became a helpless object, fit only for being the target of the natural wrath which females feel when they see a penis!
Life at Heatherrow Boarding School for girls was not just a matter of pain and beatings, though even the teachers, beautiful lesbians all, often had their fleshy asses turned fiery red by the stinging blows which Augusta knew so well how to deliver-for the sapphic arts were a major part of the curriculum, particularly for the slender, lovely Jane, a sixteen-year-old who demonstrated the superiority of women by taking Cleve on in a boxing match and beating him into a quivering wreck!
CHAPTER ONE
"You male chauvinist pig! I'll teach you what real women think of penises!"
Hearing these words, Cleve Litchfield groaned, for as he lay trussed up on the cold stone floor, he knew that they could only be a prelude to further torture and humiliation.
Towering above him was a magnificent statuesque brunette, her huge breasts molded and shaped by a super-tight leather bra with holes to allow the soft pink nipples to peep through. Her breasts heaved with the difficulty she had breathing, for a leather corset had her waist cinched in from twenty-three inches to eighteen.
Leather panties and high leather boots ending in six-inch spike heels completed her costume. Even though the boots didn't need it, she had attached the garters of her corset to them as if they were some kind of weird stockings, just to add to the thoroughly kinky effect.
Some men would have envied Cleve, for as every psychologist knows, there are plenty of super-masculine guys who like nothing better than to be thoroughly dominated by an aggressive bitch, particularly one as lovely as Miss Augusta Kreel, headmistress of the Heatherrow Boarding School for girls.
Some men would have been happy to be in Cleve's place, alright, but Cleve wasn't. As he worked his strength in vain against the merciless bonds which cut into his wrists and ankles, all he could think of was how badly he wanted to get away from this nightmare of total female domination and rule, and how afraid he was of Augusta Kreel's firm, quiet voice.
"You're not listening, are you, you whimpering excuse for a man!"
Cleve tried desperately to look attentive, for he knew that although there was no way he could keep himself from being severely disciplined by this magnificent dominatrice, failure to pay attention could only make the punishment even worse, for there was no end to the imagination Miss Kreel had at her disposal when it came to showing a man what the proper and natural relations between the sexes should be.
As he gazed up, his eyes became fixed on the lovely nipples. The contrast was so amazing between the soft womanly flesh, so delicate and nice, and the cruel black leather. Augusta Kreel would be a wonderful woman to be with, if only she were like any other woman.
"You pig! You're thinking how nice it would be to get that tongue of yours, that slimy tongue, on my nice soft nipples, aren't you? Aren't you!? "
"N-no. I. . .I wasn't. Honestly, Miss Kreel."
"You dare deny it? You dare deny that you wouldn't like to get that ludicrous filthy hose of yours inside of me?"
"Well, perhaps...." Cleve hoped that the confession would be looked on as less serious than stubborn denial, and the way the riding crop in Augusta's right hand was trembling with fury, he knew that he'd better not be wrong.
"I'll teach you to have such filthy fantasies! How dare you pretend that you would be able to fuck a woman! How dare you impersonate a real man?"
And with that, she bent down and grabbed Cleve by the hair and yanked him off the floor. His feet were still dragging, and nothing could have been easier for him to simply stand up, but though the pressure of his weight on the hair roots was unendurably painful, he dared not move. If Miss Kreel wanted him to hang by the hair, he had to hang by the hair, unless he wanted to be very severely punished indeed.
Augusta, who was immensely strong, despite the elegant slenderness of her milk-white arms, kept his head at the level of her stomach. She was able to do it because his dragging, limp legs did take some of the weight off her.
Cleve writhed as the riding crop came down squarely on his cock and balls. He was only naked to the waist, but the trousers didn't do much to make the agony any less endurable. As he twisted and writhed, his hair roots screamed all the more.
After slicing three more times into his meat with the crop, Augusta simply let go of his hair and he fell back to the floor, jarring every bone in his body. The breath was so knocked out of him that he couldn't even writhe around on the floor, clutching his aching balls and stinging cock as he wanted to do.
He couldn't even groan, though this time Augusta had not forbidden him to do so, as she sometimes did in the course of the most unbearable lashings. All he could do was he there panting, helpless, passive, completely at the mercy, at the whim, of the gorgeous figure towering above him. And the sly smile on her face showed what she thought of having a man helpless at her feet Assuming, of course, that she would even consider him a man, so abject and helpless had he become.
How had it happened that Cleve Litchfield, successful lawyer, should be in such a position? Why was it that instead of being in the sack with his lovely girlfriend, Linda, he was reduced to being a whimpering pain object, tasting petticoat rule of the most utterly uncompromising sort, forced to beg like a dog for table scraps from thirteen-year-old girls?
Cleve had been driving through a remote part of the country five days previously, when his car had broken down towards nightfall. The only building in sight had been the gloomy Heatherrow School, perched on a nearby hill like some sort of medieval castle.
Cleve, a man who loved comfort, had not particularly liked the idea of spending the night in his car, so he had climbed up to the school to ask if there might be some spare room where he could sleep.
Miss Kreel, who had seemed to be a thoroughly nice young lady, though with a rather strange cast given to her lovely face by her highly-arched eyebrows, had immediately agreed to put him up. She had been wearing an ordinary, rather expensive looking dress at the time, and when Cleve had talked with her, he had appreciatingly noticed the rise and fall of what were doubtless two really luscious globes under the tight fabric.
Mmmmm, not bad, he thought. He prided himself on being a real cocksman, and had chalked up a number of quick victories in his time. Way out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by girls and women-for the teachers, to whom he had been introduced at supper, were all women-she must get hungry for a slice of hard meat. Or so he had foolishly thought.
In fact, the instant she had set her eyes upon Cleve, Augusta's first thought had been to ask herself how she could change this self-confident male into a whimpering slave, begging for a mercy which, on account of the vile and ridiculous sex to which he belonged, he had no reason whatever to expect.
Cleve had sent wolfish glances over in Augusta's direction, and the shy glances she gave in return had seemed to promise hope.
Cleve liked his women demure and self-effacing, totally feminine, so his aggressive masculinity would be brought all the more into the open. Little did he know that he would be taught with a riding crop what femininity really was.
What a dainty chick, he thought droolingly.
That big dumb ox, Augusta had thought as she forced herself to smile in his direction. To her, anyone male was by definition dumb. The idea of having children didn't particularly appeal to her, but she kind of liked the idea of having a little boy of superior intelligence who could have had a successful career, but whose spirit she would break by constant taunting of his "dumbness" until his spirit was broken and he had to take some demeaning work.
Yes, that would be fun, but it would hardly be worth the degradation of having to allow a man to get his filthy cock up her sweet little cunt
Before I'm done with him, he'll wish he'd died when he was little, she told herself, glancing at Cleve.
So, all the time Cleve was laying out his plan of seduction, Augusta was laying out plans which would inevitably lead to absurd masculine pride ending up where it belongs-abased and crushed under the spike heel of feminine superiority.
During the rest of the evening, she had constantly brushed her silky hand against him, looked longingly at him, and generally behaved like a cat in heat. Which wasn't hard, because her clit really did stiffen, and her little snatch really did moisten at the sight of Cleve's broad shoulders. She could imagine them naked, reddening under the blows of a whip. She could imagine that handsome, arrogant face crumpling in pain and frustration, with shameful tears rolling down it, as her masterful domination stripped him of every shred of and revealed him as that which all men really are-silly, simpering little boys, selfishly unwilling to allow women to use their bodies as the target, the eminently natural target, for their pointed-toe shoes, their whips and their paddles.
It had been a long time for Miss Kreel, since she had seen the most wonderful spectacle in the world-the total absement and humiliation of a man. She had come out to the rather special school which she had headed because next to whipping men senseless, the thing she most enjoyed was getting her hands on the soft bodies and the unfledged little cunts of pubescent girls, teaching them what it means to be that most sensuous of creatures, a woman. And, after all, such pathetic creatures as man can hardly be expected to give a girl scope for her voluptuousness.
When she wants to be delicately felt and caressed, to have her breasts softly squeezed, her nipples tickled into a state of iron-hard rigidity, all a man can usually think of is where to stick his cock. While a woman, ah, a woman knows exactly what another woman wants, knows exactly which spots are the most deliciously tender and female.
So, Augusta Kreel had used her inherited money to found a very special boarding school where she could indulge her very special tastes. The girls, ranging in age from nine to eighteen, were all chosen for two qualities, which had to be combined-beauty and intelligence.
The beauty, of course, stood to reason. Augusta was turned on by any female body, including her own when she masturbated in front of a mirror, but there was something very special about the thrill she got from running her long soft fingers over really creamy skin, of planting her own pouting lips on a delicate little rosebud mouth hardly yet initiated into the pleasures of love, or to feel that same little rosebud pressed with eager curiosity against Augusta's labia, as some dear little thing first inhaled that smell that secretly all women think is the finest on earth, the smell of another woman's hole.
As for the intelligence, Augusta maintained that only two classes of people could benefit from discipline: those intelligent enough to understand its purpose, and one of the purposes, of course, was mutual pleasure, or those stupid brutes who could be cowed into servile submission. This class, of course, included all men.
Needless to say, discipline at Heatherrow was of the strictest and a girl who went more than two weeks without getting her little ass blistered was a rare bird indeed, while insufficient respect towards the headmistress was the cause of many a teacher learning that one's never too old to learn from pain.
But it had been a long time since Augusta had known the exquisite pleasure of reducing a man into a groveling thing, the delicate thrill that came when a really virile guy was dressed up in little girls clothes, including bloody panties, which he was obliged to show to "his" mommy as a sign of "his" first period.
Now, just the right victim had landed in Augusta's clutches, and she had been determined to make the most of it. Cleve, who was really hot for her cunt, made the usual clumsy manly advances. How much less subtle than those of a girl who's seducing another girl. And Augusta had egged him on until he felt that he had to bang off in her or burst.
She had given him a rendezvous in his bedroom. He had lain on the bed, waiting for her to come to him. He had looked down at his massive tool, which anticipation had turned into a sort of iron banana. He had run his hand along the length of it, sometimes giving it a convulsive squeeze that sent shivers up and down his spine and into his balls, which his tightening sac had lifted up against him.
He had squeezed several times, but had thought that he had better not jack off, even though his head was so full of the lovely Augusta that he was having a hell of a time keeping his paws off of his trembling meat. After all, he had great staying power, but it took him awhile to get worked up for a second shot.
A tap on the door. It had opened, and in she had come. Later, when he had seen her in all her dominating glory, bound by her tight leather clothes, he would hardly be able to believe that he had ever seen her looking so delicate and tender.
She had slipped off her wrapper and he had noticed the wonderfully proud line of her globes, with the taut nipples so gorged with anticipation that they looked as though they were going to burst the skin.
But anticipation of what? That's what Cleve Litchfield would learn later, at the time of his transformation from successful young lawyer to whipped cur.
Augusta herself had felt her globes swell, had felt the ache in her nipples, had felt the moisture in her lovely little twat, and the hardness of her tingling clit. She had been really turned on by the thought that she was looking at a man who was about to pass from freedom and happiness into the misery of life-time servitude under a cruel, implacable mistress.
Her hands had reached out, grabbing his cock. The response was a thrill that she could feel through her palms, as the massive tool somehow managed to grow even bigger and harder. She had leaned over and placed her soft lips on his, while his eager hands filled themselves with the eager flesh of her twin love spheres.
Augusta hated the thought of vulgar male hands being there, but she told herself that he would be paying for every second of undeserved pleasure with an hour of richly merited pain and degradation. Already, as she pretended to be intent on charging his batteries, her mind was full of projects.
Enjoy yourself, buddy boy, she had sneered to herself, because you may right now be in the last happy half hour of your life.
The idea of what it would be like to literally enslave a man for life, so that when he died at eighty he would have to figure that his life as a person had really ended half a century earlier, made her clit throb. She had had slaves before, of course, but they had been volunteers, so to speak, and though it was she who had turned them out when she got tired of them, she had lacked that feeling of real ownership which should be every girl and woman's by right
In fact, she sometimes dreamed about an amendment to the constitution which would read, "All males in the United States are in principle slaves. Any ownerless male may be claimed for life by any female who so chooses."
Now she was going to have a real slave. Not one whom she could introduce to the world as such, but one who had to obey her every whim just the same, who would have to sit with downcast eyes, or even agree when at parties she complained and joked about an entirely fictitious failure of his to perform in bed.
She wasn't going to be able to manage life-time servitude, but at least she was going to arrange for twenty years. Whether Cleve would have to serve the full twenty like some murderer, or would be allowed to change back from animal to man (not to human being, for Augusta was by no means certain that men counted as human) would, of course, depend on her merest whim.
Cleve had sucked a delicious pink nipple into his mouth, and had felt a quiver in his loins and cock every time he had pressed his tongue against the hard passion button. Funnily enough, it had seemed to him, although Augusta was clearly in real heat, specific things he did-as when he began molding the moist, buttery girl flesh between clit and slip, had not met with any real response.
Man, had he been glad to be where he was, to feel the pressure of Augusta's soft globes against his flesh, the feel of the delicious womanly wetness and softness on his fingers as he probed them lip her hole while the masterful squeezes she gave to his cock, the tickling way she had run her fingers over the tight snood of his balls, made him feel like he couldn't hold his come back for another second. And yet, Augusta played and played with him, winding him up to ever more unbearably delicious peaks of randy delight without ever giving him the release he had to have.
He had to have it. He couldn't wait. He had grabbed Augusta's shoulders and forced her back to the bed.
"Open up kid, this is it," he had said in his best machismo voice.
At the time, he had misinterpreted the sly smile that had spread over her lovely face. He had thought at the time it was the submissive smile of the girl waiting for red meat. It was only later that he would learn it was a smile of triumphant womanhood, a smile of contempt for the silliness of masculine pretensions, with perhaps a hint of pity that this arrogance would soon and properly be crushed by the hard, undeniable fact of the superiority of women over men, of the dark, soft cunt over the laughable cock.
Cleve had hesitated for a second to prolong his enjoyment, but he knew that any further waiting would result in his firing his load on the bedspread instead of into Augusta's delicious dark womanly recess. He had been about to stick it in when, a knock on the door.
"Miss Kreel, are you in there chatting with Mr. Litchfield? There is sort of an emergency. You had better come as quickly as you can."
In a trice, Augusta had jumped off the bed and covered her magnificent body with her wrapper. She planted a playful kiss on Cleve's nose.
"I'll be back," she whispered in that funny penetrating voice of hers.
Cleve had been hard put to figure out what the voice's special quality was until he was given a chance to discover that it was the voice of a woman in command!
Augusta had swirled out of the room as Cleve had felt he was vibrating like a piano string She. had set his teeth on edge with the most delectable foreplay he had ever known, and just as he had been about to nail her, she had disappeared. He gave a squeeze to his tool, and nearly had it spurting. Careful. He had to save himself, but shit, how could he wait?
Another tap at the door. Was it Augusta? He said to come in. The door pushed open and there stood not the magnificent full-blown woman who had left him instants earlier, but a graceful little nymph of twelve or thirteen, whose new-budding breasts made just a slight impression under her bathrobe.
"Miss Kreel told me to come and keep you company," the sprite said, showing her pearly teeth.
Cleve had been utterly taken aback. Just what did the kid mean by "keeping company?"
He soon found out, for a delicate little hand half the size of a woman's was already kneading his sac, applying a gentle pressure to the hard nuts inside.
Hell, this was real jail bait if anyone found out. What if Augusta came back and found what he was doing to one of her charges? What if....
But all his reason was drowned by the mounting tide of passion that had his prick so stiff it literally ached. The nymph had drawn open her bathrobe, and Cleve felt himself go wild at the sight of the unfledged little cunt, completely bare of any foliage. He reached a hand down there and felt the tiny, delicate labia, the clit, little but hard, and all the rest.
And as his eager hand went to work, he felt responsive spasms make the little shoulders heave, unlike Augusta. Shit! He had to have this child, there was just no question of that.
The little minx guessed his thoughts and lay on her back. Shit, Cleve had thought, he had better just make it a sixty-nine, but the little girl had pulled one of his hands up to her budding breast, and as he felt how small it was, how full of promise for a womanly future, he lost all self-control.
A look of terror seemed to come over the child's face as he nudged the tip of his whanger against the maidenhead. What Cleve had not known at the time was that his nymph was just as terrified of what Miss Kreel had assured her the consequences would be if he did not fuck her.
"He breaks that maidenhead of yours," the child had been told, "or you'll get something that will make last Saturday's strapping feel like a soft breeze!"
With a sharp shove Cleve had gotten it in, and heard the little girl gasp, and felt the warm blood on his prick.
"Blood from girls' cunts," he had laughed to himself, "what could possibly be nicer?" Got the little snatch was small, though. At first the kid had gasped with each of his movements, but she had a nice juicy cunt, and soon things were going more smoothly.
"Right about now," Augusta had told herself, "he's probably enjoying the last fuck he'll get for twenty years," and with that exciting thought she had given her own clit a sharp pinch.
Cleve tried to hold back to give the little girl a good time, but soon the constant squeezing pressure on his rod, the feel of the little tight breasts with hard nipples had him almost ... almost ... almost ... THERE. His gun went off in a series of shudders as he pumped his male goo into the little twat. And the girl had come too, with short, convulsive shivers that shook her slight body.
"There was an experience!" he said to himself, as he pulled the big tool out of the gorged little hole, and gazed at the ecstatic little girl. Then she was up with a bound, pulled on her bathrobe, and ran giggling out of the room, with a slight limp that made it clear she was a bit sore.
"Sex with little girls! Dangerous, maybe, but perhaps I should try it more often," he had thought.
Another tapping at the door. Shit, it was Augusta! In she had glided with an expectant smile on her face.
"Shit," Cleve had thought, "How on earth am I going to be able to get it up for her in such a short time. And if I don't, maybe she'll suspect something...."
Maybe he could have gotten his prick back in action without too much trouble in other circumstances. He was a pretty potent guy. But fear of being found out, of being suspected of something or regarded as a complete flop totally unmanned him-an excellent preparation for the thorough unmanning which was due to start soon.
Augusta pressed her swollen globes against him, while one of her hands went to work on his limp prick.
"So soft already?" she murmured, putting an end to a slight rally that had started to declare itself. She loved the feeling of taunting a man, of ridiculing his manhood. She always figured that any woman worth her sanitary napkins should be able to get a guy so worried about himself that he would never be able to have a regular fuck again.
And what could be a more sensible thing for a girl to do than to disarm a man's vulgar pistol. And she knew from personal experience that once a man's faith in his sexual prowess was destroyed, his spirit was half broken, it was easy enough-with the aid of the whip, or as she called it, "the girl's best friend"-to reduce him to a mass of blubbering jelly, as soft as his useless prick.
Not, of course, that she would want to completely break his spirit too soon. There was something so touching, so amusing, about the struggle that some men put up to keep from admitting to themselves that they were no longer men but simply absurd pain objects.
Cleve desperately tried to get his cock stiff, and the harder he tried, the more he worried about it, the softer it became.
"Shit, what an embarrassment," he had thought, unaware of what was to follow.
WHAMMMM! He found out the next instant as Augusta gave his face a slap that made his head ring. So astonished was he that he didn't even try and duck the return blow. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! That silky smooth hand exploded against his stinging skin like dynamite.
"You impotent bastard! How dare you humiliate me like this?! " Augusta snarles. "How dare you! Don't you think I'm good enough for you? Or pretty enough? You seemed to like my nipples half an hour ago, you pig! That's your style, huh? All take and no give? Well let me tell you one thing, you're going to be giving plenty from now on, starting with your so called manhood!" WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Taken completely aback by this pretended fury-for if Augusta was angry it was not with his non-performance, so carefully planned by her, but with the ideas of anyone daring to be a man-Cleve could only say, "stop, stop, I'll explain," without Augusta stopping for a moment laying ringing slaps on skin that felt like it couldn't take even one more, but in fact had to take ten more, each harder than the last.
Augusta's hand was burning, but she didn't mind, because she knew the unbearable agony it was inflicting with each blow. There was something satisfying about slapping a man, because traditionally society has made women the recipients' of slaps. But tradition knows nothing of all the glorious dominant women of this world, who would rather humiliate men than eat breakfast.
Cleve tried to rise but couldn't Augusta had placed her knees on his shoulders and had him securely pinned, like a butterfly in a collection box.
"Please," he groaned, "I ... I got so excited about you that ... when touching men cock in your absence ... it ... went off...."
This lame excuse was offered in between slaps. Augusta's hand was now going back and forth with the regularity of a pendulum, for after all, pain and humiliation would be regular, if not indeed constant, features of every man's life.
"Oh, so you masturbated did you, you filthy, nasty boy! Didn't your mother spank that out of you when you were little, like all good mothers should. A mother who doesn't inflict constant discipline on her little boy is making a terrible mistake, for it is only by constant application of discipline of the severest sort that the rebellious male spirit can be tamed into proper submissiveness and obedience towards women!"
"I ... couldn't help it ... you were so lovely...."
WHACKKK!
"Were?? You mean you don't think I am now?"
In all honesty Cleve could hardly have rejoiced to that question as he had not yet grown to love the sight of a woman tearing over him, inflicting pain on him. He had not yet come to see how wonderful it is to look up and see the underside of the heavy globes, the cruel, haughty face, the soft lips drawn back to reveal a row of sharp pearly teeth looking as if they would like to do nothing better than bite through his male sac. But like all tastes for good things, a taste for female domination must be acquired slowly, and in his own case, painfully, particularly as the dull male mind long resists the simple biological fact of the superiority of women.
"Ah? What's this?" Augusta said, as she spied on the bedsheet the blood left behind by the little girl she had sent "You ... you've been raping one of my pupils, haven't you?"
"N-no..." stammered Cleve, who, Augusta said to herself, must be particularly dim-witted to have not yet realized that denial to a dominant woman is like oil to a fire-it consumes her with a passionate desire to crush out every last trace of masculine pride and independence!
"Denials will do you no good in court, you filthy pervert!" It wasn't slaps that Cleve was now getting, but blows with a clenched fist that made his head swim. Each one, he felt sure, would dislocate his jaw. Although Augusta had minutely planned this scene, she had gotten so carried away with her pretended indignation, and with the sight she had missed for so long of a man utterly at her mercy, that she was on the point of losing control of herself. Cleve could feel against his chest the wetness of her dripping cunt, and the fiery nipples, of which he could only see the underside, stood out angrily from the creamy globes.
"I ... didn't mean to, honest...."
At this moment the door opened and the little nymph came in. Augusta thought she could read a glimmer of pity in the little girl's eyes for the man whom she had helped put in such a position.
"That'll never do," Augusta thought with a bit of disappointment. "Still, she's only very young, and hasn't yet learned what being a woman means. Maybe if I let her participate in torturing this lummox, she'll start to understand."
"Miss Kreel?"
"Yes, Sheila?"
"You know when you sent me to tell Mr. Litchfield you would be delayed a few minutes?"
"I'm all ears, darling." Augusta often called her charges darling, to help them understand that when they were punished-and that was often and severely-it was done out of love, as part of the basic training indispensable to anyone, even a future dominatrice.
"Well ... Mr. Litchfield grabbed me ... and held me down on the bed, and ... did something awful to me." Sheila told this with a bit too much relish for it to be completely convincing, at least as far as the awfulness went, but a little coaching would have her in much better form in the event of a trial.
"You know what the penalty is for rape, don't you Mr. Litchfield? It was wonderful to say Mr. Litchfield, to savor the thought of the male independence which had lasted too long and was about to end now, if it hadn't already ended under Augusta's stinging slaps. Henceforth the forms of address would perhaps be "pig", "animal."
"you", "impotent bastard."
"cringing excuse for a man."
"slave," etc., though it might be fun too to continue to mock him with "Mr. Litchfield."
Augusta had stopped slapping him and had now grabbed both his cheeks in her hands. The cheeks were so tenderized by the slapping that they would have hardly been able to bear the lightest touch, let alone the vicious pinching they were getting, pinching that made Cleve feel as if the flesh would be torn from the bone!
"I didn't rape her. I didn't even seduce her. She seduced me." It was hideously humiliating to confess, but Cleve felt that anything would be better than the present pain.
"You dare pretend that I teach sluts in this school?" Augusta pinched harder, and started to twist the flame red cheeks. "You dare pretend that this angelic little girl came and voluntarily offered her sweet little cunt to your flabby cock? Answer me?"
Cleve was starting to realize that anything he said would be used as an excuse to hurt him some more, so he contented himself with murmuring through bloated lips, "I don't know...."
"Well, buster, that stands to reason, because there's nothing dumber than a man-or than the male of any species, for that matter-but you'd better learn this: the penalty in this state for rape is death, and at the school infirmary they'll be able to find out pretty quickly that this little angel has been fucked by you. After all, yours is the only sperm for miles around. Here at Heatherrow, we don't like filthy males with their big bad guns!" And to vary the routine she gave another slap.
Cleve was really panicked now. Even a statutory rape rap could cost him thirty years, and the way that little angel's eyes had started to glow in the last few seconds, to become hard and pitilessness, he wasn't at all sure that the charge would be statutory rape. A guy had been given the high dive only a year earlier for raping a college girl.
"No, no, please, I beg of you," he blubbered, tears of fright welling up in his eyes, clouding his view of the magnificent female animal kneeling over him like a tigress about to devour her prey and of the excited little girl who was going to be responsible for his losing his life.
"The electric chair would do you good. Maybe a little juice would put sone life into the lamentable prick of yours. As for your begging for your life, you can be sure that what I decide in that respect will depend not upon any feelings of pity for you, but upon my mearest whim. And it happens that my whim is that you live as my utter slave. In twenty years, the statute of limitations will be up and you will be able to go. Until then, you are going to live in a hell you had never imagined was possible. Every minute you will risk my choosing to inflict some new torture on you, and if at any moment I am dissatisfied with your service, off you go, to the electric chair. So how do you like that, buddy boy, huh?"
"W-well enough, I guess," Cleve said, trying to be conciliatory. The reply he got was another resounding slap.
"I hate hypocritical slaves."
"M-miss Kreel...."
Whappppp!
"You call me mistress!" ' M-Mis ... tress, why are you doing this to me?"
"Normally the impertinence of asking a question would be severely punished indeed, but this time I'll content myself with an ear-flick because I like nothing better than talking about the relations between the sexes. That women are biologically and intellectually superior to men is a matter of no dispute. Women live longer, little girls do better in school, and once the timidity which the present organization of society is stripped away, women have iron wills twice as hard as those of men! Further more, while men have a hard time indeed getting their silly tools to work, women have a multiple, an infinite capacity for orgasm."
At this moment, little Sheila, who was listening to all this wide-eyed but with usual female intelligence was catching on fast, punched Cleve in the balls with her little fist. All he could do was groan.
"So," Augusta went on, "women being so clearly superior, their duty is clearly one of reducing men to the most abject servility. And the task is an easy one. Beneath all the bravado and bluster most men are just nasty, snotty little boys, who really crave nothing half so much as the pleasures of slavery. Women's liberation means necessarily men's enslavement. Andonce women realize what femininity means, what task will men have except to feel pain? Girls' fingers and tongues can procure for each other ten times the pleasre to be had from any male, even the most "manly." And, of course, most men aren't that manly. A surprising number are crawling worms like you, already crying just because they're going to have to provide some females with some fun. Well, tough luck, cause you now have no say whatever over your life!"
And with this she had recommenced the slaps, while little Sheila, following her advice, had begun pinching his bare ass unmercifully, every now and then making a little fist and slamming it into his flaming balls. And that had gone on until the big arrogant he-man had fainted.
So that was how it had started. That had been days ago, and as he lay gasping for breath on the stone floor onto which he had been dropped, he could only hope that something would call Miss Kreel away before she could continue that day's torture any longer. He still thought in terms of days, but less and less now, for Augusta was an insomniac, and sometimes he would have just managed to doze off on the freezing flagstones when she would burst into his cell, and kick him awake, so that the horror could begin all over again.
Sometimes he thought of escape, or defiance, even of sacrificing his life just for the sake of being able to give his lovely tormentor his fist right in the face, but then he would think of the electric chair and calm down.
Not that he could really speak of one tormentor. Augusta had formally given him to little Sheila, and that angelic little girl had proved herself as cruel as her lovely headmistress. At first, she had been reticent, but had come to enjoy her slave more and more, until she had come to spend all her time dreaming up new humiliations for him. Many indeed had been the times that he had had to lick little feet only six inches long, only to receive a sharp little kick in the fac.
This time he was in luck, though. Augusta looked at her watch and ordered him to stand up.
"Hold out your hand!" Trembling, he did so.
Thakkkkkk! Down came the crop on his upstretched palm. In the old days he would have instinctively dropped his hand, but pain is a good teacher, and he had learned to grit his teeth and keep the burning flesh in place for a second blow.
Thakkkkkkk!!
"That's all I have time for, pig. But just because you didn't get your proper dose of discipline today, don't think I won't make up with compound interest later!"
And with that she turned and strode majestically out of the room, balancing perfectly on her towering heels.
As he heard the door lock behind her, Cleve Litchfield burst into tears at the thought of a lifetime of female discipline stretching out before him.
CHAPTER TWO
Cleve's reprieve had come because Augusta had school business to attend to. Administration bored her, and so the only work she really reserved to her personal attention was discipline! Of course, there was hardly anything she liked better though funnily enough, the distinction that most people make between work and play was present here too, namely that play is what one doesn't have to do, while, work is what one does have to do, so she would have much preferred to be working on Cleve, particularly since it was clear that he had reached the so-called "Limit of endurance," that is, the point where every joint and muscle in the victim cries out that it can't take even another second of pain, but in fact it still has to take minutes, sometimes hours more, as much as the lovely tormentor's whims have decided on.
But duty is duty, and so she had to leave Cleve for a while and take up the matter at hand.
Normally, she would have changed bizarre costumes, but didn't really have time. Of course, as headmistress, she could if she chose decide to come and go as her whims pleased her, but she was very eager to instill punctuality into the atmosphere of the school. After all, punctuality is really severe discipline, since it means that a human being is turned into the slave of a mere mechanical clock.
Miss Kreel sat behind her desk and gave each of her nipples a nasty tweak through the holes in the leather bra. Augusta didn't mind in the least that her victim would be able to see that she was sexually excited, for that was what this school was all about: sapphic pleasures and the joys of merciless discipline!
There was a timid knock at the door.
"Come in," Augusta said, with that firm, even voice of hers. The door opened and in crept not a nervous little girl, but a nervous young woman of 27-a year older than
Augusta Kreel herself.
"Ah, Miss Jones, you have come for your discipline. Right on time and you're lucky you are!"
The attractive Miss Jones, a tall blonde with large globes, blushed. She hardly knew what to make of all this, for she was new to the school, and though at the time she had been hired she had had the institution's special character explained to her, she had hardly been willing to seriously believe that Miss Kreel, who was younger than she was, would seriously think of exacting discipline from her own teachers. Why there were some who, though they were as good-looking as all of Heatherrow's teachers, were in their forties.
But discipline knew no bounds at the Heatherrow Boarding School for Girls, and although it was true that the teachers were punished much less frequently than the pupils, for it would never do for their spirit to be broken, Miss Jones's bottom was about to pay the price of her disbelief.
"Dear Miss Jones, you look so lovely in that organdy blouse of yours, it's going to be a real treat to punish you."
Miss Jones could only stammer and gaze at the floor. She had taken the job at Heatherrow in order to save some money so she could marry her sweetheart, Bill. She had come to be aware that Augusta was a lesbian, and although she had not yet made any advances to her, she felt very nervous whenever those liquid brown eyes were turned upon her.
Augusta got up from behind her desk and surveyed the discipline instruments hanging on the wall: whips, paddles, birch rods, riding crops, quirts, everything was there that could possibly be desired by someone whose heart was set on obtaining pleasure in exchange for another person's pain, for a woman whose clit tightened every time the harsh wood or leather drew a shriek from a hapless victim's throat.
"Hmmm," Augusta said to herself, "this should be about right for the seriousness of the offense." And she took down from a hook a mean-looking strap about a "quarter of an inch thick, three inches wide, and a foot and a half long. Just long enough to properly cover both cheeks, but short enough to allow one to concentrate on just one of them if one so desired. As Augusta knew, there was sometimes nothing so cruel as to be beaten mercilessly on one buttock while the other goes scot-free. Indeed, even better was to concentrate not just on only one buttock, but on only one spot, so as to get a nice pattern of creamy white surrounding the fiery red, as blow rained down on blow on exactly the same excruciating place!
But that would be far too severe for today's lesson, and with the new teachers, it was necessary to start them slowly, for unlike the pupils they could always leave. No, the teachers had to learn gradually to love the pleasure of pain!
"All right, dear, take off all your clothes," Kiss Kreel said. Miss Jones blushed and was on the point of refusing, of quitting her job first, and she looked up to tell Augusta so. But her eyes fell on the luscious pink nipples peeking through the severe, constraining leather, saw the corset cruelly nipping in the waist, with a ring of flesh bulging out above and below it, even though Augusta had a very fine figure indeed. And most of all she saw the long boots ending in the skyscraper heels, and her resistance collapsed. All of a sudden, there was something by no means unappealing in the idea of stripping naked in front of this other magnificent female-and Miss Jones was a magnificent female too, though she hadn't yet learned that a woman's crowning virtue is severity.
No, even the idea of being spanked by a woman like Augusta Kreel was far from unattractive. With trembling fingers, Miss Jones began to unbutton her blouse.
Augusta smiled to herself. She was only 26, but she was the daughter of a dominant woman, and her father had literally had to ask permission whenever he had had to go to the toilet-permission sometimes held up for an hour or so, with the cruelest punishment if he pissed in his pants-and so Augusta was pretty experienced when it came to human beings and discipline. She could have almost perfectly predicted exactly what Miss Jones would do from the moment she opened the door. And, of course, if one's every action can be predicted by someone, with regard to that person one has no real independence at all!
Miss Jones' blouse was off, and she was now reaching behind her to get the bra unhooked. Augusta liked that. The fact that Miss Jones was eager to get her breasts on view before getting her skirt down showed that she properly appreciated what wonderful things breasts are, and that she was turned on by the idea of having this slightly younger woman gaze at them.
Unashamedly Augusta reached between her own crotch and started poking and squeezing at her clit, which was as hard as a button, while her nice cunt-juices were already moistening the inside of the leather. Her own nipples swelled out, and Miss Jones did so in direct response-which caused Miss Jones to avert her face in embarrassment.
This might be duty, but Augusta was sure she was going to enjoy this discipline session almost as much as she did kicking that imbecile Litchfield around. Punishing little girls was nice, but there was something even nicer about punishing another woman her own age. Unlike little girls and men, an older woman was submitting semi-voluntarily (though Augusta suspected there were many of her little pupils who disobeyed on purpose in order to end up in Miss Kreel's office) and in punishing another woman there can be real tenderness too-not that that mitigates the cruelty-unlike the harsh hostility which is the only appropriate response to a male writhing in agony.
Miss Jones' skirt was down now, and Augusta noticed with approval the dark triangle showing through the filmy panties, which were pulled up high enough to make Miss Jones's fun-cleft clearly visible. Miss Jones had a very nice body indeed.
"Now, take the panties down, but leave on the garter belt, hose and shoes."
Miss Jones was astonished at how closely this order corresponded to her own secret desire. As she wiggled out of her panties, a breath of air through the open window tickled her cunt. Miss Jones very much wanted to give her little clit a squeeze, so sexy did her twat feel for some reason.
"Go ahead," Augusta said, divining the woman's thoughts. Miss Jones blushed and reached her hand between her legs. Ohhh, it was wet down there! The tender flesh responded with electric thrills to the probing of her long fingernails, which to her own surprise she dug in viciously.
"Okay, Miss Jones, that's enough of that." Augusta forbad her victim to fully relieve herself, partly as a form of torture, but mostly because she wanted her to feel good and sexy for the thrashing "Now, bend over my knee!"
There was no disobeying that voice!
Augusta felt the heavy weight of the young woman across her own shapely legs. Miss
Jones' breasts hung ponderously toward the floor, while her creamy ass waited apprehensively but longingly for the blows to come.
The paddle had a wooden handle, and Augusta pressed this lightly against Miss Jones' clit and got a passionate shudder for a reply.
"As I told you earlier, when I set our little appointment, dear Miss Jones," Augusta said, "You are to be punished for being too lenient. Angela definitely deserved a whipping, and it was absolutely wrong of you not to give it and not to report the matter to me."
"But Angela is only nine, Miss Kreel-"
"Girls are nothing other than little women! How can you expect them to get a proper idea of how to handle their menfolk later on in life unless they learn the meaning of discipline now. I might be more lenient with members of my own sex-if it were not that I fear that your education in matters of discipline is sadly wanting. I hired you because I judged you to have potential in the things which matter-in the only thing which matters! So far, to judge from the moony attitude you have towards that worm of yours, Bill, this potential has not been properly developed!
And with this she brought the strap slashing down on Miss Jones' bottom with a resounding crack.
The pretty teacher's face twisted in agony as one blow rained down after another on the tender flesh. She could imagine how its creamy whiteness must be turning a bright red beneath the hail of discipline!
Whack! Whack! Whack!
For the first two or three blows, Miss Jones found herself wondering-insofar as it is possible to think in such a state-how she could have ever thought that receiving a spanking from Miss Kreel could be fun. But as the relentless discipline continued, and as she struggled not to scream, she realized that the fire that the leather had lit on her buttocks was matched by a different sort of fire between her legs and deep inside her.
There was something so reassuring about the feel of Miss Kreel's strong legs under her belly, something so reassuring, even, about the sharp stabs of pain from the vicious strap.
Shit it hurt though! Whack! Whack! Whack! Miss Jones bucked and heaved on the younger woman's lap as the strap danced to the tune of discipline on the palpitating flesh.
Augusta was hot too, and not just from the exertion of bringing her arm down with all the strength she had. The idea of having another woman, slightly older than she, helpless beneath the lash made her snatch seem to contract, and her leather panties to grow even wetter. As Miss Jones quivered her breasts brushed against Augusta's legs, sending delicious shivers of anticipation up Augusta's spine.
Miss Jones' proud resistance had broken down now, and at the seventeenth unbearable stroke she had let out a shriek. Then she had shrieked herself out of breath until all she could do was choke and sob as the punishment continued space.
An outside observer would have thought that the lovely teacher was being pushed beyond endurance by the big brunette, but for Augusta Kreel the phrase "beyond endurance" had no meaning. The whole point of discipline is that one has to take it whether one-likes it or not, or whether or not in one's own selfish opinion one thinks one can stand it.
In fact, this was a comparatively mild spanking, though Augusta had been known to give milder ones to the youngest pupils. It was more severe than she ha originally planned, however, because the memory of her earlier fun and games with the object Cleve had gotten her a bit carried away. But now for the grand finale: pulling Miss Jones's legs apart, she applied the strap four times in succession on the super-tender inside of her thighs, right next to her little fun hole. Breathless as she was, Miss Jones found breath to shriek like a banshee at that.
Then it was over, and the lovely blonde lay exhausted over the knees of the brunette. Woman spanking woman! Punisher and victim! Two cunts equally hot and excited and ready for some lesbo fun, for some kinky girl-stuff!
Augusta felt as exhausted as Miss Jones. Wearily she stuck her long fingers between the other girl's legs and began squeezing and moulding her girl-flesh. The response was a shudder of gratitude for the reassuring feel of another woman's soft fingers on her own soft woman-parts.
It was precisely this after-discipline tenderness that had to be lacking when one was humbling a male, Augusta thought, as she gently squeezed Miss Jones' labia. Though of course with a man one has the fun of really letting go with one's hate!
"You know, Miss Kreel," Miss Jones said.
"Yes, dear, dear Miss Jones?"
"When you were punishing me, although I ... I enjoyed it, I couldn't help feeling that I would love to punish someone else. For a moment, as the blows were raining down, I tried to imagine that it was-well, Bill whom I was beating into utter submission!"
"Of course, darling. That's the whole point of discipline as a harsh dominatrice. While the more a man is disciplined, the more his spirit is broken, the more he's turned into a whimpering jellyfish unfit for anything but pain! Take Cleve Litchfield, for example....."
Miss Jones giggled at the thought of the once-arrogant, now so totally object Cleve. Until this spanking session, she had never realized what fun it must be for mercilessly correct him. Augusta smiled.
"If I can judge from that giggle, our Cleve is going to be in for some petticoat rule from your direction too!"
"Oh, is he ever! I only wish you'd left more spirit for me to break! May I go and torture him now? I'm starting to get some fiendish ideas about his cock, for instance."
"Every woman and Heatherrow, and every little girl is perfectly free to discipline Cleve any time she wants to for any pretext she thinks fit, or for no pretext at all, for that matter. The only condition is that he not be permanently injured, as he's the only male we've got. But as for now, there's something else I want you to do. Get up, please, dear Miss Jones."
Miss Jones drooled at the thought that the "something" would be sapphic fun with the lovely young headmistress. And she wasn't wrong, but there was something to do first.
Augusta stood up and pulled her leather panties down, revealing a luscious crotch with a high slit. She took one leg out of them as they fell to the floor and kicked them free with the other. It was a high kick, and Miss Jones glimpsed pink flesh winking out between the dark curls. Then off came the bra, though the corset remained.
"Now, Miss Jones, I want you to spank me!"
Miss Jones was flabbergasted.
"Oh, don't be surprised. Pain and pleasure are simply two sides of the same coin, as far as women are concerned. Admit it, you loved that nasty little strapping I gave you, and it made you feel just great! You just loved every minute of it! It made you just think how nice it would be to administer one yourself. I'm sure you mostly thought of Bill, but admit that you thought of getting revenge on me!"
Miss Jones giggled again, and Augusta could see her nipples swell even more in anticipation of punishing her punisher.
"No," Augusta said, "nothing is more natural than for a woman to want to be punished by an other woman. Whereas nothing could possibly be more perverse than for a woman to want to be punished by a man, or for a man to want to punish a woman, though some do until the urge is lashed out of them."
Augusta looked wistfully at the collection of pain implements on the wall.
"I'm afraid you'll have to use your bare hand," she said, "for although most of the teachers and some of the little girls know I like a bit of pain now and then, one must keep up appearances, and it would never do for the girls to notice that I was having difficulty sitting down. So you see, being a headmistress isn't all roses."
Miss Jones was already sitting in the chair that Augusta had used, and the big brunette laid herself across her lap. The added weight made Miss Jones' tender buttocks sting, but she didn't mind that, seeing what she was about to do.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Miss Jones's palm beat a tattoo on Augusta's soft, fleshy ass, which soon started to turn red. As far as
Augusta was concerned, there was nothing strange about submitting to this treatment, for as she had said earlier, receiving discipline just makes a woman all the more eager to be a dominatrice, as was evident from the stinging slaps the formerly gentle Miss Jones was laying on. Augusta could guess that in Miss Jones' mind she was filling the role of the helpless Bill, doubtless happy somewhere and quite unaware that someday his happiness would end in the nightmare of completely unrestrained female rule!
Whack! Whack! Whack! The whole school was arranged on the principle of learning to command through learning to obey. Each girl had a girl in the class below her assigned as a servant, whom she could chastise pretty much at will, though always with a teacher present, for some of the parents didn't want their kids too knocked about.
The result was that the graduating class was composed of pretty thorough-going dominatrices. Needless to say, there was some difference in aptitude, and although one star pupil, for example, now had a stable of twelve male slaves, man at the peak of their professions who begged themselves to satisfy their dominatrice's slightest whims and who had to constantly submit to being physically abused by her, there was also the occasional relapse who fell in love and let a "normal" (real dull) life, even going so far as to allow a crude penis up her luscious little cunt. It was a rare enough occurrence, but none the less disappointing for Augusta whenever she heard about it.
The system, set up to provide proper training for the daughters of dominant women too busy with their slaves to provide proper supervision was an excellent one, but it had one drawback. As Augusta had pointed out to Miss Jones, there was something fundamentally different about the cruel-tender lesbo discipline inflicted by one girl upon another-and physical intimacy between the girls was strongly encouraged-and the unremitting harshness which should be meted out to any and every man in punishment for having an impertinent cock.
It was this lack of practical experience in humiliating men that was responsible, Augusta had thought, for the occasional relapses. Though now with that fool Cleve reduced to complete helplessness, that problem was taken care of, for all the little girls had been given permission to punish him all they wanted.
Whack! Whack! Miss Jones was really laying it on. Even though Augusta regarded him "point of endurance" as a fiction, she had some idea of what victims meant by it. The burning palm of Miss Jones slammed into first one cheek, then the other. Sometimes in a rapid beat, sometimes with agonizing seconds of waiting between each blow, while Augusta gritted her teeth and told herself she wasn't going to scream. She was the headmistress, after all.
Miss Jones was determined that she was, and as its a cardinal point of all discipline exerts that any will, however stubborn, can be broken down by properly applied pain, she probably would have succeeded, though at the cost of having her hand hurt for hours.
But the agony ripping into her glowing ass had Augusta's cunt sopping wet, her tongue tingling with desire for a soft female tongue, her hanging breasts aching for the feel of soft female fingers.
Miss Jones was hardly in any better shape, and though her left hand was busy restraining her headmistresses' jerking body, she wished it were free so that she could use it on her own fun-button or on Augusta's-she could not tell which would like to get at first.
"Stop, dear Miss Jones, stop," Augusta said in a voice that made it clear that her discipline was voluntarily chosen, and would only go on as long as she wanted it to. "You're too nice for me to wait any longer before enjoying you."
The merciless shower of spanks stopped and with a sigh of pain and ecstasy Augusta got up. She took Miss Jones by the hand and gently-for the hand was almost burning as much as Augusta's flaming-helped her up and let her to the bed.
"Oh, Miss Kreel, I guess I got carried away," Miss Jones said, perhaps secretly hoping that her excessive severity would be the excuse for another spanking.
"You've got a real little cherry for an ass too, Augusta said, and giggled, for she was still a young woman. How Cleve would have marveled to hear the tenderness in her voice, in that voice which when he heard it always presaged humiliation and pain without any mitigating gentleness, the humiliation which is the natural state for those creatures whose body is disfigured by a cock!
Augusta's lips met those of the beautiful teacher. Woman-tongue found woman-tongue, and the two organs carred each other in the respective mouths, sliding, gliding, gently pressing, squeezing against the pearly teeth, while soft lips trembled at the softness of the girlish lips pressed against them.
Each woman's hands had found the other's cunts, and what a gentle squeezing and kneading of woman-flesh there was, with each gentle pressure sending a thrill through the other girl's body.
The two interlaced bodies fell onto the bed. Augusta pulled her mouth free of Miss Jones. "Sixty-nine!" she whispered.
The two women slid into the right position. Augusta looked up hungrily at the graceful slit, the crinkly inner labia, the hard clit. She hoped that Miss Jones found her own cunt as attractive.
Augusta breathed deeply, savoring the woman-smell made all the more pungent by the cunt juices which the spanking had caused to flow. Then her tongue darted out and pressed into the slit. She could feel Miss Jones shudder with delight.
Mmmmm, that was good, Augusta thought, as her tongue slid upon the cunt-dringle. Mmmmmm, that was better, she thought, as she felt Miss Jones's tongue exploring her own private crannies.
The two young women were lying on their sides to spare their bruised buttocks, though of course Miss Jones's which had gotten the strapping, were much more tender than Augusta's.
The trouble with sixty-nine, Augusta thought, as she pressed her face against Miss Jones' dainty cuntflesh, is that you can't get at the other girl's breasts to be a general one which cut into the fun of any sixty-nine.
Probe, probe, lick, lick, Girl-stuff! luscious lesbo fun! Two healthy young women enjoying one of the only two things which healthy young women should enjoy-the other being converting men into whimpering slaves!
As Miss Jones's moist tongue probed and pushed against the delicate pinkness of Augusta's cunt and clit, Augusta realized that she was going to be coming very soon indeed. She wanted to come simultaneously with Miss Jones, so it was with renewed energy that she tickled and teased the other woman's oh-so nice girl-parts, while each of the two massaged their own breasts, being alternately tender and harsh, tickling their own nipples into states of unendurable tension, then giving them harsh pinches and flicks.
Ohh, here it was, there-NOW
Both girls went off at almost the same moment, and both shuddered as spasm of cunty sweetness washed over their bodies as their cookies busted. MMM. Pound! pound! Their graceful bodies bucked and heaved, while each strove to keep her face pressed against the other's jerking, leaking, love-mound. The tightness of Augusta's corset made her gasp frantically for breath.
Then it was over, and they both felt weak as the randy fun drained away. Miss Jones gave a lick to Augusta's moist cunt.
"You'd better not," Augusta said. "It's just not possible to lick another woman clean. She just keeps coming and coming. It's almost dinner time, and we'd better get showered and ready."
Punctuality again. And again, it was Augusta Kreel, headmistress, who was calling the shots. In Heatherrow there were many dominatrices in many stages of development, but only one headmistress, and she was totally in charge!
CHAPTER THREE
"Okay, pig, get up, it's dinner time!"
It was ten-year old Lucie, the most vicious of all the younger pupils at Heatherrow. She had the face of an angel, and the lust for torture of an inquisitor.
Cleve groaned. He was ravenously hungry, for he was kept on short rations indeed-it was Augusta's contention that since he was a cur he should be fed no more than a large dog, though with worse food. But somehow the mealtimes were the worst as far as humiliation went All the girls together in the dining hall somehow seemed to inspire each other to new and ingenious cruelties.
Every bone in Cleve's body ached from his last run through the wringer with Augusta, so although he raised himself off the flagstones on one arm, he was unable for a moment to gather his wits enough to realize that he had better get up. In Heatherrow, when a female gave an order-even as tiny a female as little Lucie-a man had to jump fast unless he wanted swift punishment. Not that he wouldn't get swift punishment anyway, but there was something about male defiance that really incites women to crush it without pity.
Pow! Pow! Pow! Little fists exploded in his face, bruising his eyes and lips.
"Up I said, you filthy cock!" Lucie screamed, boxing his ears.
God, it was amazing how much strength a ten-year-old girl could exert when hurting a man was the prize to be won. Of course, in normal circumstances, Cleve could have grabbed her, put her over his knee and taught her thin little ass a thing or two with the palm of his hand, but he knew that any such action would only have to be paid for at compound interest at Augusta's hands.
Wearily, he got to his feet.
"Why must you be so cruel to me, miss?"
"Cause your a filthy male, and it's impossible to be too cruel to a male!" And with this, she punched him in the balls.
Cleve doubled over with pain, gasping, helpless, completely unable to save himself from the monstrous little girl. With an effort, he straightened up and followed her to the dining room Clearly Lucie would have loved to discipline him some more, but she didn't dare show up late for dinner.
In the dining room, Cleve was astonished to find, instead of the usual potato peels and other scraps in a dog bowl on the floor, a place set for him at the faculty table next to Augusta. On it was a real dinner waiting for him.
Gosh, he thought, is that bitch turning human? For a moment he even thought she might have been attracted to him physically, for male pride is a stubborn weed, which is hard to destroy, even with a woman's spiked heel, though Augusta had never been known to fail in the end.
Trembling with anticipation at the thought of being allowed a real meal at last, he eased himself next to Augusta, who was wearing a regular dress. Cleve felt intensely embarrassed about being naked to the waist, and about the bruises and whip marks on his body. But no one laughed or taunted him.
Wondering at this miracle, he took up his fork as soon as Augusta took up hers-for, of course, everyone in the room knew that the penalty for starting before the headmistress would be a very severe spanking indeed-and took a bit forkful of mashed potatoes.
In the next moment he was choking and gagging, and coughing the mashed potatoes out while the room erupted into laughter. His dinner was just like everyone else's except that it must have had a whole canister of salt poured over it.
"Don't you know it's rude to show dislike of your host's food, Mr. Litchfield?" Augusta said quietly.
"Oh cripes, how ... how cruel," he gasped.
"You arrogant slave, daring to describe it as cruel of us to serve you the same kind of food we eat? But of course, I suppose you men are to good to eat food fit for mere women?"
Everyone smiled at the absurdity of the question.
"Well, you're going to eat it, every last ounce of it. And since your table manners don't seem to be quite up to the high table, you can eat in a manner more appropriate to your sex."
And with this she turned the plate upside down on the floor, where it landed in a vile mess. Every nerve in Cleve's body revolted against the injustice, but he only hesitated for a second, knowing what the price of male imprudence was at Heatherrow. With every eye upon him, he rose from his plate, walked round the end of the table and up to the front. The "High Table" was on a sort of dais, so there wasn't a detail of his humiliation lost to the eager little girls.
The floor was spotlessly clean, of course, but for a full grown man to have to kneel on his hands and knees on it and eat inedible food from it in front of dozens of women was a humbling thing indeed.
For an instant Cleve wondered if he dared use his hands to scoop the mess off the floor and shovel it into his mouth. He glanced up at Augusta. Her face gave no clue. He dreaded the humiliation of having to eat like a dog, but he dreaded the punishment which would be meted out for "Presumption."
Then with a sigh, he buried his face in the mess and started to eat.
Augusta's clit stiffened at the sight, and her swelling nipples poked out the fabric of her dress. When a male chooses the most degrading of two choices out of fear, when he has not been told that he must do so, but simply fears that he has to do the worst, then indeed his spirit is broken. Augusta would have liked to tug at her woman-flesh, to caress her breasts, but it would be inappropriate to do so at dinner. She glanced around her at the girls and women eagerly watching Cleve's humiliation. If she gave the signal, the dinner would turn into a big mutual masturbation spree, that was clear. But she kept from giving the signal. In the presence of men, even men as abject and debased as Cleve Litchfield, women should show total self-control
There were mashed potatoes and gravy all over Cleve's face as he gulped at the repulsive fare, gagging and choking, and struggling hard to keep from puking.
"You really have excellent table ... or should I say, floor ... manners, Mr. Litchfield. How long will we have the pleasure of your company here at Heatherrow?"
"I-I don't know. ... " Cleve stammered, at a complete loss for words.
"Oh yes you do," Augusta said sweetly, and everyone laughed.
"You stay here as long as it pleases me for you to stay. And that may be a rather long time." More laughter.
The little girls, and perhaps even some of the bigger ones in the higher grades would have loved to pelt this cringing male animal with food or cutlery, but they didn't dare. Augusta was always glad when someone thought up a new way of hurting or humiliating Cleve, but she believed that decorum should always reign during dinner.
With a gasp, Cleve bolted down the last morsel and looked up. What he saw struck terror into him. It was Augusta's eyes looking straight back down at him with a "what have you forgotten" look to them.
With a gulp, Cleve turned his face back down and started licking the floor spotless, dragging his tongue across the vile-tasting floor wax.
"You know, Miss Kreel," one of the women teachers said, "you really do seem to be getting along admirably with the training of your pet."
"I think so, though everyone had told me earlier that it would be very difficult to get a pig to perform tricks. That's what the farmer I bought him from said."
Laughter.
Cleve looked up timidly. He was afraid that for him to dare a question would risk severe chastisement, right in front of all the people in the dining hall, but his mouth and throat were on fire from the salt, and he couldn't hold himself back.
"Yes, Mr. Litchfield, you have permission to speak," Augusta said, looking down on him from the table. Everyone thought this formal use of "Mr. Litchfield" for addressing an abject slave extremely amusing. "M-may I have a glass of water, please, mistress," he said, trying to hit just the right tone. Impudence was punished with the crop, of course, but excessive servility was sometimes interpreted as sarcasm and punished with even more unmentionable cruelty. It was difficult to know what tone to use, because in principle, the attitude of the slave was expected to be one of complete and sincere subjection.
But this time, all Augusta did was answer sweetly, "Of course, Mr. Litchfield."
Dull male that he was, Cleve was beginning to see that at this dinner Augusta's sweetness was just sarcasm and taunting of the cruelest kind, a prelude, in every case, for him to be shoved yet further down into the pit of utter humiliation.
A fifteen-year-old girl, already well-formed, laid a dog bowl full of water next to him with a sweet smile.
"No, Mr. Litchfield, I was expecting you to want some water, so I saved some special water for you, since you're such a special guest. My bath-water."
So it was. Soapy water with a pubic hair floating in it.
"Don't leave anything behind, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said gently, "we wouldn't want to think you were ungrateful.
Ingratitude was paid for at Heatherrow with the most resolute punishment.
Gagging, Cleve lapped up the water, slopping some on the floor from which he would have to lick it later. When he was finished, he felt the pubic hair between his teeth. He was sure that if he tried to spit it out he would be noticed, so he swallowed it as best he could.
In came the dessert now. One of the luscious puddings was placed on the place he had occupied at the table. It looked like it would be heavenly after the salt and the soap, but Cleve figured it must contain something even more vile.
"Would you care to join us for some dessert, Mr. Litchfield?" Augusta asked. "Of course, if you're too full, we'll understand."
Taking his courage in his hands, Cleve stammered, "I-I am too full, mistress, from all that delicious dinner." The last phrase, if interpreted as sincere might bring a slight easing of present discipline. If interpreted as sarcasm, it would mean agonizing chastisement. As with everything else, Cleve's well being depended on the merest passing shim of his cruel mistress. For she managed to be thoroughly unpredictable, so that to the humiliation of petticoat rule, and the dreadful physical punishments, would be added the agony of uncertainty.
And, like all women, despite her iron will, she really did have whims, indeed regarded the having of them as a sign of female superiority.
This time, seemingly, Cleve was lucky.
"Are you sure you don't want any? It looks awfully good, and I promise, woman's honor, that you'll be allowed to finish it."
Oaths on 'woman's honor' Augusta never violated, as Cleve knew from the ones he had heard to the effect of 'I promise woman's honor to give you a hiding tomorrow like you never thought possible," and so forth.
Cleve was tempted but decided against it. He was going to outsmart that bitch this time. She and her female superiority crap!
Augusta ordered her own portion of pudding given to little Lucie for all the ingenuity she had shown in hurting Cleve, as seconds, and had the one intended for him put in front of her. She immediately tucked into it with great relish.
Poor stupid Cleve, cherishing the illusion that a man could conceivably outsmart a woman. She had foreseen how he would react, foreseen that he would refuse the pudding, which far from having anything unpleasant added to it, was perfectly delicious. Cleve's imbecile male brain had been unable to out-guess her, and as a result, after living on potato peels for a week, he had cheated himself out of the only pudding he was ever likely to be offered at Heatherrow.
Tears of humiliation, frustration and disappointment welled up in Cleve's eyes. He was like a little boy who was being punished by a harsh mother. Little lights of amusement danced in Augusta's liquid brown eyes as she watched this once proud male, who had pleaded for other men's lives before courts of justice, reduced to tears before a crowd of schoolgirls because he wasn't allowed to have any pudding.
An observer unfamiliar with the full glory of female ingenuity would have perhaps thought that Cleve had been as thoroughly humbled as was possible. But as far as Augusta Kreel was concerned, Cleve Litchfield had only just begun to learn what petticoat rule meant.
Through his watering eyes, Cleve gazed at Augusta, at her lovely features, her rich black hair, her heaving, perfectly formed breasts.
"Oh why couldn't she have been a woman like any other," he said to himself, "She's so lovely. I would have so liked to have gone to bed with her that first night."
But as he gazed, he really began to wonder if he would have deserved a chance to go to bed with a magnificent creature such as she. She was physically so perfect, and in a weird way, there was something perfect about her uncompromising cruelty. Maybe she was right about the superiority of women. Was that a twinge he felt in his cock? It had been utterly limp since that first terrible night on account of the constant humiliations he had been subjected to? He must be going mad. No man could like to be abased like this. But there was something about that smile of Augusta's . ...
"Turn around, Mr. Litchfield. Good, she said as he turned around on his knees to face the dining hall full of sadistic little bitches ranging in age from nine to eighteen. "Now girls, what do we call someone who's doing what Mr. Litchfield is doing now?"
"Crybaby, crybaby," all younger girls sang out in unison.
"Crybaby, crybaby," all the other women chimed in, in unison.
"I'm not a crybaby!" Cleve shouted in a sudden burst of defiance. "I'm a man and...."
"You were a man," Augusta broke in.
"I am a man!" Cleve shouted with emphasis. He didn't care what happened to him, even though he knew that this independence would have to be paid for dearly. All he knew was that he had to reassert his masculinity against these castrating bitches.
Augusta remained strangely calm.
"We'll see about that. Miss Chalmers, have you anyone particularly in your black books.
"Oh yes," the dean replied. Little Ermengard was overheard to call Miss Hougton a 'fat bitch'. "
Little Ermengard winced, for she knew that that sort of crime usually cost one about two days of being unable to sit down.
"Very well. Ermengard, come here. You are going to engage in a contest with Mr. Litchfield. You are both going to be severely spanked, to see which one of you can hold out the longest without screaming. I could try to reward you, for I would like to see Mr. Litchfield revealed for the slavering crybaby we all know him to be, but instead I will rely upon your honor as a little woman."
Tight lipped, little Ermengard nodded her head, fearful of the discipline to come, but eager for a chance to prove herself as a woman, that is as the bravest and strongest thing created.
Cleve couldn't figure Augusta's game. Surely she must know that a big, hairy man like himself could outlast a little girl.
Poor Cleve, unaware that the very fact that he had to submit to such a contest was proof positive that his manhood had been forever lost.
"All right. Bend down, both of you, and place your hands on your knees. Staggering or flinching counts as a scream."
As this was an endurance contest, there was no need for any ropes or chains.
"Since Ermengard is only ten, I hope you will agree that a lighter instrument should be used upon her than upon you, Mr. Litchfield."
Whether he agreed or not made no difference, as Augusta Kreel was not one to be swayed by the opinions of men, but Cleve gulped and said, "Of course," as if to pretend that he was entering this voluntarily.
It was as he was bent over that he realized the total state of degradation into which he had sunk. The idea of having his buttocks exposed for the gaze of scores of schoolgirls, of having them drool as a leather strap slammed into the pink skin, made his cheeks-the cheeks of his face, that is-turn as red as his lower cheeks soon would.
"Miss Kreel. . . ? "
"Yes, Ermengard?"
"To prove what a weak crybaby Mr. Litchfield is, I would like to be spanked with the same thing he is."
"Precious little girl," Augusta said. She will really go places some day, thought Augusta, doubtless at the expense of enslaved, whimpering men."
"All right, I'll use a medium tool. And to be fair, I won't do any of the spanking-myself.
Cleve, on order, dropped his pants. As his cock came into view, the room burst out into laughter. Whether at the size and shape of it, or at the mere idea of having such a thing disfiguring oneself, he couldn't tell.
Little Ermengard had been stripped, and the sight of her unfledged triangle made him think of the fateful pleasure he had taken hardly a week ago. It seemed like an eon, an eon of pain and humiliation.
Then two straps were brought out, similar to the ones used on Miss Jones earlier that day, though a bit lighter, with Ermengard's tender buttocks in mind. The two victims were, of course, made to inspect them. One given to the math teacher, the other to the librarian, who was somewhat younger.
The two victims had to wait in suspense for the first blow of course, and then it came. Two simultaneous cracks that resounded round, the room like piston shots, as cruel leather bit into tender human flesh.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Oooh, I'm not going to scream, I'm not going to scream, I'm not going to scream," Cleve desperately repeated to himself, aware of the terrible humiliation which would result if he couldn't hold back as long as a little girl.
It wasn't easy though. The math teacher had an arm which must have had steel springs for muscles, and every blow made his buttocks feel like they were having boiling water poured over them from a kettle.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Cleve's face was contorted in a mask of agony, his teeth ground together as if they wanted to wear each other down to the root, so much control did it take as the merciless female domination continued, as the strap beat a relentless tune on his ass as if it were the skin of a drum.
Craackk! Crack! Crack! There was no effort to help Ermengard, though everyone in the room but Cleve wanted to do so. The sharp cuts were coming almost simultaneously, and each one had the same resounding ring.
"Cripes, I can hardly take it much longer," Cleve thought to himself as waves of pain swept through his body. Why doesn't that little bitch scream and get it over with? She's got to lose, so why doesn't she hurry up?
The folly of masculine pride, which makes men think of women as their inferiors when in fact the finest man is not worthy to lick dog-shit off the shoes of the most degraded whore! Little Ermengard was only ten, but she realized it was up to her to prove the fact of her sex's superiority, and she was going to do so if it killed her. What were sheer agony to Cleve were unutterably worse to her, for though as a girl she was naturally braver and stronger, she was only ten, and her thin little buttocks did not provide much padding against the slicing leather.
Scores of hungry eyes watched the weird discipline contest go on. Scores of lovely feminine lips silently formed the word Ermengard. If it had been a grown woman that Cleve had been competing with, the interest would have been less intense, for everyone would have known what the outcome would have to be. Match a woman against a man in endurance or bravery, as in one of intelligence, and she will come out immeasurably superior every time. But Ermengard was only ten. Had Miss Kreel overmatched her? What could it be like to be a little girl under that rain of blows, trying not to scream? For when one is being lashed, screaming is the best solace there is.
What was it like? Hideously agonizing. But it was proud agony. Little Ermengard's clit, which had hardly gotten used to masturbation, was iron hard, and her virginal little cunt was tightly contracted, not just from the sexual stimulation of the blows, but from the proud knowledge that she was a woman, queen of creation, chosen to put a dumb ox of a man in his place. That she had been chosen as a punishment had quite slipped her mind.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Two minds, both trying to deny the flesh what it demanded, the one with the quiet firmness of a woman, the other with the stupid stubbornness of a man refusing to admit the utterly self-evident inferiority of his sex.
Blow piled on blow, and both bottoms were flaming red masses of pain, quivering, palpating, as if wishing to flee from a merciless bombardment from which there was no escape.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Both hapless victims had been pushed past what those unfamiliar with the basic concept of discipline call the point of endurance. But they had to endure, all that was dished out and more. Ermengard, if she did now want to let down her sex, Cleve if he did not want to finally admit that he was nothing but a blubbering mass of jelly, fit only to be hurt by lovely females.
Cleve could hardly breathe, for he was afraid that a breath that coincided with a blow might come out as a shriek. The agony was beyond description, and yet there was a funny half-stiffening in his penis, a tightening in his sac, which he couldn't understand. What conceivable pleasure could there be in being flogged half to death in front of a roomful of sadistic little girls and cruel, voluptuous women.
Both the floggers were covered with sweat, and their breasts heaved against the tight fabric of their bras as they kept the cuts raining down. Wow! Wouldn't Cleve ever scream?
And in the audience, where scores of clits were as hard as they could be, and scores of panties sopping wet, all anyone could think of was the word Ermengard.
She-she must-scream-soon, she MUST-thought Cleve, his features screwed up beyond recognition in pain as the leather bit into places it had bitten into a dozen times already, places so sore that if it weren't for his pride, he would have screamed if anyone had touched them with a feather. And this was no feather but a cruel leather strap which had humbled many a proud ass in its day.
"I've-got-to-hold-on, Cleve thought. If I can't outstay a-ten-year old-little-bitch-I'm no-man. Oh but I-I cn I-
"Aaaaagh! Mercy!"
As Cleve's scream filled the air, the scream of a man who has been so utterly debased that there is no further depth to go to, who has been drained of his manhood as a bottle might be drained of its contents, at least three girls in the audience suddenly felt spasms of pleasure ripple through their cunts, their bodies trembling and their panties dripping, coming by virtue of the mere pleasure of hearing a man shriek at the loss of his virility.
Cleve screamed all right. So sharp, so piercing, with all the pent-up longing of the long minutes gone past, that without any further order from Miss Kreel, the two floggers stopped their work, reveling in the sound.
No further blow fell on Cleve's molten ass, but the dam was broken and he blubbered over and over again, "Mercy, oh God, mercy! Please don't beat me any more. I'll do anything ... not that I wouldn't have anyway, but oh God, please, no more ... I can't take it ... I'm only a man. ... if that ... oh please....."
"Crybaby," Augusta dryly remarked. There was not any general chanting of it. All the girls somehow understood that it was more effective for it to be quietly spoken like that by Miss Kreel, the woman par excellence, like a stone being dropped into a well. Cleve didn't have to hear taunts. As he sobbed and blubbered uncontrollably, sobbing for his pain, and humiliation, sobbing because he was sobbing, he knew the contempt that filled the air, knew how abject and crawling he was, like some kind of unclean worm. And felt the strange semi-harness continue in his prick, without him being able to understand why.
"Mr. Litchfield, you can go to your room. I expect I am through with you for the moment. Ermengard, I needn't tell you how proud we all are of you. Come along with me, I'll do something to make that hurt less, you brave girl."
Ermengard could hardly walk, but she smiled through her tears as she felt Augusta's strong, comforting hand on her delicate little shoulder. As she looked at her headmistress's heaving breasts, her long white throat and delicate features, her own little twat tingled at the thought that she might one day be a woman like her. She hadn't had her first period yet, but she could hardly wair for it. Not least of all, perhaps, because first periods were the occasion at Heatherrow for parties like birthday parties, for they celebrated the transformation of a little girl into that most splendid of creatures, a woman.
No one bothered to escort Cleve back to his cell. It was as if he were too low for anyone to want to even be near him. No one even bothered to lock the door. Everyone knew that his spirit was so utterly broken that he would never try and escape, or at least not until his stubborn pride reasserted itself, at which time, as always, it would be ground beneath the iron heel of female rule.
As he lay down on the icy flagstone, dreaming of what heaven it would be to have even a blanket under him, and groaning at the thought that another nineteen years and fifty-one weeks had to go by before he would have anything under him when he slept, he kept thinking of the contest and his humiliation.
If only he had held out for a few seconds longer. Surely he could have. Then what would that bitchy Augusta have done, with her little pupil begging for mercy and him silent. But though men learn slowly, they do sometimes learn. He saw how much brighter Augusta was than he was, saw how she had put him in a no-win situation. What if he had held out longer than Ermengard? What would that have proved? That he was man enough to outlast a ten-year-old girl? And anyway, he was beginning to see that he couldn't have outlasted her. By being constantly surrounded by females, he really was beginning to soak up some of their mystique, really coming to sense their superiority. Something told him that little Ermengard would have allowed hot pins to be stuck into her ass before she would have admitted that a man was as strong as she.
And there, he was absolutely right.
Meanwhile, up in Augusta's bedroom, little Ermengard was being initiated into one of the greatest joys of womanhood-the sexual companionship of another female.
"Snuggle closer darling," Miss Kreel had said in a strangely soft voice, and the little girl had buried her angelic face between her headmistress's soft twin mounds, feeling the warmth, dreaming how one day she too would have a pair of luscious globes like that.
Augusta was totally naked, and so was the little girl, whose soft auburn locks Augusta tenderly stroked with her long, silky fingers. The nice thing about women, she thought for the millionth time, is that as far as sex goes, they're not always desperately inching to come. It was so pleasant to feel this tiny creature pressed against her, to know that in a few minutes her fingers would explore the minute cunt, feeling the tense little maidenhead.
"Here, darling, put your fingers here." And she guided the little hand to the moist warmth between her legs.
Ermengard felt her little clit tingle as she reached her little fingers around, felt the thickness of her headmistress's labia, felt her hard clit, felt everything just like what she had, almost, except so much bigger. And that wonderful hair that tickled her wrist!
"Will it be a long time until I'm like that?" she asked, as with the other hand she had lightly pulled at the moss on Miss Kreel's triangle.
"No darling, not long," Augusta had answered, planting her soft lips on Ermengard's rosebud mouth. "No long at all." And her own fingers began to mold and pull the little girl's veal-tender parts and every pull made the little legs stiffen.
There was no need for Augusta to tell little Ermengard to do the same to her. The child had a woman's natural intuition for such things, and though there was a novice quality about her prodding and squeezings, the tininess of the hand, the knowledge that this little darling was making what was probably her very first essay in love, more than compensated for that.
"See my nipples, darling?" Augusta breathed. It was a rather silly question, for the round little eyes had been glued on them for several seconds as the little girl wondered if she dared to do what comes naturally to any female when another female's pink tips are in sight. Guessing what Augusta was going to say, she planted her little dainty mouth on one of them, and started sucking.
Augusta smiled as the pleasure swept through her swollen breasts, smiled at the feel of the girlish lips on the swelling nipple. Ermengard was ten. It was only a bit more than nine years to ago, or maybe less, that she had stopped doing that for quite different reasons. It would not be kind to tell her that, though, for she already thought of herself as quite a little woman, and although the purpose of discipline is to crush out pride in men, it should faster it in girls and women.
The insistent little hands had already gotten Augusta surprisingly wound up. There was a sort of funny tension all through her body, and particularly in her pelvis and breasts, one of which was being busily sucked, the other of which was feeling Augusta's own attentive fingers. Oh yes, yes, here they went.
Augusta shook and heaved as her muscles went off, as spasms of pleasure ran down her cunt, as her crotch shoved against the prying little hand, already wet from Augusta's come. And little Ermengard came with heaving shudders that shook her little shoulders.
Not her first come. Augusta knew that. The child must have masturbated, after all. But her first proper come, her first come with another female.
"That was wonderful darling. No, don't go, tonight you're going to sleep here with me."
Ermengard's eyes filled with delight at the idea of being allowed to pass the night next to her heroin, of being able to feel that huge round body next to her.
And Augusta could guess that the night wouldn't just be spent sleeping. It would be wonderful to wake up in the middle of the night and go for that little cunt. And Ermengard was a saucy little girl.
"In the night, darling," Augusta said as she pulled the covers over both of them, "do anything you think I might enjoy."
A look at the eager little face told Augusta that before the night was over she would be awakened by those prying little hands, and she looked forward to the idea.
As she turned the light out, she felt Ermengard snuggle her frail little body close to her in the warm bed, and thought of that imbecile Cleve lying on the hard, cold flagstones, bitterly moaning over his lost manhood, ruing the day he was born a man instead of a woman.
It had been a thoroughly satisfactory day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cleve awoke to a sharp knock on the door that called him back to reality from a fitful and unpleasant sleep. Every bone in his body ached from the cold harness of the stones he had to lie on, and whatever sleep he had been able to snatch had been spoiled by dreams in which he was subject to humiliation which made the ones he had undergone seem like nothing.
"Holy shit," he thought, is that bitch
Augusta Kreel not content with making my every waking moment agony? Does she have to pursue me through my sleep as well?
In fact, even Augusta could hardly plan that, though she certainly would have liked to control men's dreams as well as their waking hours, if she could have.
The door swung open, and in strutted one of his little tormentors, holding a riding crop half as long as she was. That meant she had been sent by Augusta, for whenever she used one of her pupils as an envoy, she always gave her the crop to make sure Cleve knew that the little girl had to be obeyed utterly.
Cleve groaned at the prospect of another day of torture and humiliation. His dazed mind could only wonder what new atrocities had been dreamed up by Miss Kreel and these lovely little monsters that she was forming in her own image.
"Come at once, pig!" the high voice piped.
Slaves were often never given any explanation of where they were being made to go, or what was in store for them. It was enough that a female had ordered, for a man to have to instantly obey, under pain of the lash!
Cleve pulled himself to his feet as fast as he could, for he knew that any delay would lead to the springly leather crop cutting mercilessly into his stupid male flesh. He followed the little girl out the door and then CRASH! He found his face striking the flagstones as he tumbled headlong. Two other little demons had been crouching outside the door and had grabbed his ankles as he unsuspectingly came out. Outwitted by females again, of course! And by very tiny ones at that. All three of his present tormentors could certainly not have had their first periods yet, but they were already training to be women by mastering the most fundamental womanly art: that of humbling a male and teaching him the all-important lesson of female superiority!
Dazed, Cleve hauled himself up on all fours, to weak for the moment to stand upright. His nose wasn't broken, but blood was pouring from it profusely, and the sigh of his abused bruised face and bleeding nose caused the air to be filled with girlish giggles.
"Holy shit," Cleve thought, "in the old days at the age they were playing with dolls."
But Cleve failed to realize that that was exactly what they were doing now. To them, his feelings were as unimportant as those of an old rag doll thrown into a gutter and trampled on Less, indeed, for a doll is more or less sexless, while Cleve was a male!
Before he could get up, the three little sprites climbed up on his back. Together, they made a very heavy load.
Kick, kick, kick! went the little heels in his aching ribs. "Giddup, nag!"
Realizing that resistance would be not merely useless but terribly dangerous, Cleve started lumbering off, the three little girls dancing up and down with glee on his sagging back.
They could perhaps have told him where they wanted to go, but as the intelligence of the average male is hardly very superior to that of a bright horse, they figured it was safer and simpler to indicate the direction in which to go by having the child in front give vicious pulls on his ears.
No matter how fast he went, of course, the heels slammed into his ribs, and the wicked-looking crop came dicing into his trembling ass, still frightfully sore for the competition he had lost the day before.
They were heading out onto the playing fields, where Cleve could see the whole school assembled. This must be the school Sports Day, and Cleve had a pretty fair idea what sort of sports these perverse little maidens were likely to enjoy.
To get onto the lawn Cleve had to crawl down seven stone steps, an almost impossible feat in any case, and doubly so with his back laden with three vicious little bundles of femininity who never ceased for an instant with the kicking and flogging. The sharp edges of the steps knifed cruelly into Cleve's legs and knees, his trembling hands sought one step at a time. The little girls didn't seem to realize that if he slipped they might be hurt. And, of course, any pain they suffered would be taken out of his skin at compound interest, while if they were hurt, he could not even imagine the tortures to which he would be subjected.
But females had given an order, and he dared not disobey!
With a sigh he eased his knees onto the moist grass. The hard part was over. All he had to do now was walk up to where Augusta and the others were, some six hundred yards away.
Walk! With girls in command? Never! Three vicious cuts of the crop right between his legs, right on the penis and balls, told him that nothing less than a full gallop would be acceptable. The fabric of his trousers protected him somewhat, but not enough for the blows to be agonizing. He lurched forward, trying his best to satisfy the tiny fiends.
The grass was soft and moist to his hands, but his ass was burning, and his ears two flaps of pain, for now that there were no more directions to indicate, the girl in front felt free to pull and twist them as much as she liked, and she liked to do that a lot. And every now and then the crop would stop playing across his buttocks, and would find its way to his genitals, almost causing him to faint with pain each time.
But he couldn't faint because he wasn't allowed to. He was only allowed to do what he was told, and that was run, his lungs bursting, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his bruised face. Sometimes he would try and glance up at the distant figures, to see if he had come any closer. But that caused a frightful pain in his neck, so he would look down at the grass beneath him as he forced himself past that most absurd of fictions, the point of no endurance. Then he would look up again and see that somehow the figures hardly seemed to have come any closer at all.
His failure the night before in the screaming contest had given him doubts about his ability to hold out. He was afraid he would faint with the frightful agony in his lungs, and he could imagine the means that would be used to revive him! But the point of no endurance does not exist for a properly trained male, for he must endure as much as the whim of his commanding female wants, even at the cost of his own life!
Thack! Thack! Thack! Kick! Kick! Kick! Cleve thought at every moment that he would have to give up, but somehow he kept on out of that male determination which unlike a woman's determination is not composed of good qualities, but is instead compounded of mule-like stubbornness and fear.
Shit, he couldn't take it any longer, he couldn't, but as he raised his eyes he saw a pair of gorgeous shapely legs which had to belong to Augusta. Somehow, for reasons he couldn't understand, if he had to collapse in abject exhaustion, he wanted to do at her feet. Why? His dazed mind could no more have told him the reason than it could have explained to him why he had had an erection from the time the little girls had first climbed on him and started their severe punishment.
Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! There he was. With a last effort he was up to Augusta. All he could see of her were her glorious smooth legs (for she was in shorts). Then he couldn't do any more. He collapsed utterly exhausted and spent, the little girls tumbling giggling to the ground. Whether they were giggling because they had tumbled, as normal children would, or in anticipation of the punishment that they would be able to inflict upon him for failing to allow them to get off properly?
He didn't know. He was too weak to care. As he huddled gasping in a quasi-fetal position on the ground, without an ounce of strength left in his tortured body, all that mattered to him somehow was that he was in front of Augusta, in front of her glorious female legs, lying weak and helpless, while she towered silently above him in all her feminine glory!
Had she ordered him to get up, he would have been unable to, and she would have had an excellent excuse-disobedience-to inflict upon him very severe chastisement indeed. But instead, all she did was gaze down with an amused smile at this broken husk who was trembling for fear that he would not be allowed to he at her feet!
Cleve dared a glance upward, and marveled at the beauty of his dominatrice. As he had guessed, it was the school sports day, and in consequence Augusta was wearing tennis shoes, incredibly tight white silk shorts which plainly showed her cleft, and a dark blue silk blue blouse, the tails of which were knotted high under her luscious breasts, leaving the soft, smooth stomach bare. And as the blouse was unbuttoned, both her breasts protruded out of it, with their creamy softness and the delightful pink of the delicate nipples.
Cleve quickly turned his eyes away, less he be charged with looking lustfully at his mistress and punished accordingly, Le. with special severity.
"Like what you see, huh buster," Augusta sneered, her coral pink Up curling back over the pearly teeth. Although she punished slaves for looking at her lustfully, she loved the idea, loved the thought of being desired by men who had no further hope of ever getting even to touch her. Needless to say, since that first fatal night, Cleve had never been allowed to touch her, except by having his face cruelly slapped until it was red like a tomato!
"I suppose Mr. Litchfield will want to participate in our little sports events," Miss Jones said sweetly. She was standing near by with her breast-likewise exposed.
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't miss doing so for the world ... would you, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta broke in.
"N ... no ... its really very good of you to let me play along too," he stammered. He would doubtless have been almost as servile in tone anyway, even if Augusta hadn't raised one of her feet slightly off the ground, ready to slam it into his mouth on the slightest passing whim, though of course that helped.
"In fact, I think you had better get up, Mr. Litchfield. My how messy you are! Why you're lucky you're not one of my little pupils, Mr. Litchfield, for if one of them had shown up here with blood on her face, she would have had to be punished."
There was a chorus of laughter from the girls and teachers. All Cleve could do was cringe like a stray dog. He never knew now whether a remark like that on Augusta's part was simply pure humiliation, or whether there would be physical pain too.
It was her whim that for the moment, physical pain not be added. But, of course, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind at any moment, particularly when something as utterly unimportant as the happiness of a man is at stake!
Cleve glanced at the sporting activities going on. There was something terribly sexy about watching the scores of girls compete. Some were only little things, others were already mature women of seventeen, and eighteen, their delicate faces miracles of softness and tenderness, until they looked his way, in which case they hardened into frightful cruelty, or lit up with anticipation of the further torment which they knew would be inflicted upon the hapless Cleve.
The first event was to be a high-jump. A striped pole was set between two verticals, and the girls jumped by age group, their lithe bodies pulsing with the glorious majesty of femininity, and making Cleve, who stood waiting his (obligatory) turn look like some sort of deformed rhinoceros. And, of course, had everyone been naked the comparison would have been even more obvious with the girls and their neat, sweet cunts and Cleve with his ridiculous garbage hanging from the front of his body.
The girls jumped by age group, the bar being raised slightly each time for the older, leggier girls. Then, after the last magnificent eighteen-year-old had easily cleared four feet, it was Cleve's turn.
"Put the bar down somewhat, girls," Augusta ordered. "After all, we know from the experiment of last night how feeble men are."
There was a chorus of laughter, and the bar was lowered two inches, the supporting pegs in the verticals being moved down to a lower hole.
"Have you never done sports before, Mr. Litchfield? I'm surprised. After all, you look well enough formed, all things considered."
The things considered were that he had had the infernal luck to be born a man.
"Surely you don't plan to jump in your trousers, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta continued. "Take them off at once."
Down came the trousers. As Cleve glanced down at the ground in shame at thus being subject to such complete petticoat rule, he noticed his hairy legs. How coarse and vulgar they looked compared to Augusta's lovely smooth stems, to the graceful limbs of the seventeen-year-olds, even to the slim legs of the little girls in the lowest classes.
Though he couldn't figure out why, he still had a semi erection, and a funny tingle in his tightly-pulled balls.
"I'm sure your shorts will get in your way," Augusta said.
There was nothing for it but to take them down, for the most momentary delay spelled punishment for males at Heatherrow. Cleve's face turned bright red as "he pulled them down and the half-hard cock bobbed free. A chorus of laughter greeted the sight of the male genitals.
"Good heavens, Mr. Litchfield, I never knew you were born deformed. What sort of strange growth is this?" And she slammed her fist right into his balls so he would have doubled up except for a superhuman exertion. He knew Augusta liked to get him to double over, then straighten him up with a neat uppercut to the chin.
"Is it some kind of growth? Surely a surgeon would be able to do something about it. After all, normal people don't have anything of the kind." And she pulled down her own panties so the comparison between the neat triangle and the grotesque cock was all the more obvious, while all the girls and women feasted their eyes, for only a few had been privileged to see Miss Kreel's pussy close up, and those who did talked of it in the most enthusiastic terms, praising its softness, tenderness, beauty, etc.
"After all, if you're a cripple, perhaps you would prefer not to compete," she said, pulling back her skin tight short-shorts.
"Oh, I think I'll be all right," Cleve said, playing the hideous game to the end. Gathering all the strength he had left, he took a run at the pole, determined to clear it or die trying.
Crack! Thuddd! Cleve writhed on the ground in agony, unaware of how he could have failed to clear the pole, which, having smashed into his ankles lay beside him on the ground. The humiliation was so intense, he did not even realize that at the last moment, as he was sailing over it, the two girls on either side had raised it to catch his leg, so his beautiful jump that he had wanted to do so well with was turned into yet another proof of masculine inferiority, assuming that could possibly need proving.
There followed the beanbag run. And with his aching ankle, Cleve came in last, to a chorus of jeers, while his cock flopped and his balls tingled. Somehow, terrible though the humiliation was, he dimly felt that it was not as thoroughly disagreeable as he would have expected. Being a man, of course, his sluggish, selfish brain could not quickly grasp what was going on, but perhaps he was beginning to see part of the light.
Next was the long-jump. Cleve's ankle had partly recovered, and he figured that maybe here he would be able to regain some of his thoroughly lost masculinity, for there were no bars to raise. With a sprint he sent himself sailing, only to feel a knife-like slice in his right ankle, a frightful yank at his right leg-socket, and the hard-packed sand slamming into his face. One of the cruel little minxes had tied a light cord with a loose running knot around his ankle. The ankle had hurt so much already from his earlier fall that he had failed to notice the slight pressure of the cord.
"Punish him, girls, punish him," Augusta called out. "He's obviously not trying. He's making fun of our sports day. He's trying to lose because he thinks that we women wouldn't be any completion for a real-he-man like him."
Girls of all ages swarmed forward. One gorgeous, slim little number must have been about sixteen began kicking sand in his eyes, while a little nymph got on his back and began boxing his ears with the regularity of a pendulum, whap! Whap! Whap! Someone else was pulling his hair, as he writhed in agony, and a slender feminine had slid between his body and the sand had gotten hold of his sac and was mercilessly pinching the skin and squeezing the aching balls themselves, or digging fingernails-for after their first period all the girls at Heatherrow were expected to have a attractive long fingernails-into the definitely excited cock.
Thhkkk! Thakkkk! Some lovely had gotten the riding crop which had been used when Cleve had been ridden out to the playing fields, and was slicing the pain-instrument deep into the playing fields, and was slicing the pain-instrument deep into the reddening cheeks of Cleve's ass!
Goddamn was there no end to feminine ingenuity, Cleve wondered, as he felt tiny fingers pinch his legs like crabs, and as one little girl-he could tell from the size of her fingers that she must be only nine or ten, was demonstrating on the soles of his get that tickling, when done with sufficient persistence, was no slight torture.
Female hands were everywhere hurting male flesh, soft, soft fingers causing dreadful pain, as Cleve writhed, physically unable to get out from under the weight of the females who had swarmed on him like so many rats.
"That's enough for the moment, girls," Augusta said. "After all, Mr. Litchfield, if he wants to get back in our good books still has several events to compete in."
There was the three-legged race, for instance, in which two competitors have their right and left legs respectively tied together, and have to race as a team against similar combination. A great favorite as a fun number but no fun for Cleve. Needless to say, none of the fleet maidens wished to be tied to a grubby, lumbering ox like him, so for him a variation was tried: He was bent over with each wrist tied to a corresponding ankle. A girl was given a riding crop to make sure that he didn't "make fun of the games" by not trying. So as the girls took off, giggling and stumbling, but still making good progress for they were used to the game, Cleve fell farther and farther behind, and paid for his slowness with sharp cuts of the crop on his curved spine.
He arrived at the finish line last of all, where he stumbled and fell only to be given a shower of kicks with the order to get up. But tied as he was, it was physically impossible for him to get up. He tried twice and fell each time, being rewarded for his "Laziness" with more kicks and more good sound blows of the crop, so that all he could do was huddle in anguish on the muddy ground, unable, because of the fashion in which his wrists and ankles were trussed together to be able to offer even the most token protection to his exposed hide. So all he could do was suffer and cringe before the torturing little girls and the sleek teen-agers-Augusta and the teachers having decided to give the girls some practice on their own-and whimper for mercy.
"Please ... I ... did my best. I couldn't do any better ... I swear. It's because I'm ... only a man ... please ... take that ... into account!"
"We are taking it into account," a beautiful sixteen year old said as she laid into him, "that's why you're being punished so severely-because you're a man!"
With every blow she gave he could see her fine breasts bulge and heave against the tight tee-shirt, the hard nipples very evident indeed. Cleve felt his cock swelling to huge size, and hoped the girls would notice because of his crouching position, for a man to believe himself capable of getting an erection, let alone for his actually getting one, punishment was severe at Heatherrow, as Augusta had reminded him a couple of times, though always adding that on that score he had nothing to worry about.
"Enough for the present, girls," Augusta said. "Mr. Litchfield has one more event to compete in-boxing!" The girls gasped in delight. Boxing was taught at Heatherrow, of course, as something indispensable for a woman who expects to spend her life dominating men. Usually the girls wore face-guards to keep their features protected and wore padding so that blows on the breasts would be merely painful instead of agonizing. But they could well expect that no such precautions would be taken to protect the absurd Cleve Litchfield.
"Jane," Augusta said to a lithe sixteen-year old. "You're the best boxer in the school, you take on Mr. Litchfield. I would, but I want to give him some chance of winning at least one event against us feeble women."
Chorus of laughter. A slender, lovely brunette with eyes almost as dark and liquid as those of Augusta herself came forward. She was already wearing tight shorts that were the school sports outfit, but to make it look more like a real boxing match, she stripped to the waist. As the tight tee shirt peeled off, two lovely round breasts bobbed into view, their nipples already swelling with excitement.
Cleve of course, had to box naked.
"So confident am I in Jane," August said, "that I'll give you permission to strike her anywhere you would strike a man."
"That means," Cleve thought, "that I can land one right on one of those soft female globes." His cock stiffened anew at the thought of thus being able to revenge himself on this tormenting female sex which had so abased and humiliated him. He had been a good amateur boxer once in college, and he could imagine the round flesh flattening under his blow.
"Further more, if you should win, I promise, woman's honor, that you will be allowed to end your stay at Heatherrow if you should so desire."
Cleve gasped. Holy shit, there was really a chance that this hell might finish, and that he might finish it in a burst of glory, humbling some proud little bitch.
Jane felt every eye upon her as the gloves were fastened. Her breasts swelled with excitement, the iron hard nipples poking toward her adversary as if they wished to aid her fists! Down by the crotch of her shorts, a slight dark spot of semi-circle could be seen where her flowing pussy-juices had spread through the fabric like water through tissue paper. Her clit could hardly stand the pressure of her legs and labia.
"Steady, steady," she kept telling herself. She knew she was a match for any man, but was afraid she might blow the whole works by nervousness, and this fear could, of course, make her all the more nervous.
She knew how much Miss Kreel wanted to keep Cleve in the most severe subjugation, knew what a humiliation it would be for the school and the female sex if the big lummox got away after knocking her out.
One problem was that her period was coming up in a few days, she feared that the tension which always preceded it with her would keep her too much on edge to enable her to slam the ridiculous Cleve back into his place, that's to say, cringing on the ground.
"Dingggg!" went a little bicycle bell. There was no ring as such, but outline marked on the ground indicated where its edges should be.
The two opponents advanced, Cleve trembling for fear of blowing his chance for freedom, Jane afraid of not living up to the terrible responsibility which rested upon her slim, graceful shoulders.
The vulgar brute strength-of a man against the agility and speed of a "young woman! It would hardly have been a contest anyway, and the element of nervousness decided it, for like so many men Cleve was unable to stop worrying, while Jane possessed that self-control which is one of the most evident signs of female superiority.
Cleve let fly first, with a roundhouse right which Jane ducked out from in front of with no trouble at all. He tried a left hook, which she-likewise avoided. She was playing with him, and the humiliation, the desire to prove himself a man again, clouded all his judgment. He aimed a body blow straight at the right breast of the delightful girl, and before he could connect he felt a short, sharp right crack into his unguarded face, causing him to miss his shot and stagger back.
Crack! Pow! Rights and lefts on his sweaty chin, delivered by slender arms with a hell of a lot of power. Dazed, fearing that he was losing, he tried to connect on the gorgeous, regular features. If only he could mess that pretty scenery up a bit.
Jane knew she was winning now, and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Although Miss Kreel never offered rewards for doing something before it was accomplished-that would of course have been thoroughly subversive to proper discipline-Jane knew as did all the girls that really good performance of any kind could sometimes get one an order to appear in the headmistresses' bedroom for a night of pleasure which made the sort of things which the healthy young females did to each other in the dorm seem like standing waiting for a bus. Jane's nipples, already hard, could almost feel Miss Kreel's full, sensuous lips upon them, and she pressed her tongue against the inside of her teeth, imagining that it was in Miss Kreel's mouth, or even on Miss Kreel's labia, which report had it were the pinkest and nicest one could ever hope to find.
Crack! None of this fantasy was keeping her from landing blow upon blow on Cleve's hapless battered face which no longer wore an expression of arrogance, as it had at the beginning of the fight, but one of humiliation and fear and physical pain.
Oh, it would be so wonderful to be lying passive in Miss Kreel's arms, Jane thought. like so many women, she could imagine the pleasure of being passive with another woman, but could only imagine the most severe harshness towards any impudent males, ("any" was somewhat redundant, of course. All males are impudent, by the mere fact of having those cocks with which, unless they are properly schooled, they sometimes dare to threaten women.)
Cleve was staggering in a daze, aware that he had as good as lost the fight, but trying desperately to put up a good front, so that he would not be punished for "not trying." Had he not been so run through the wringer, he thought, he might have stood a better chance against this lovely, slender opponent.
But here he was completely wrong, and in his heart of hearts he knew it. The graceful Jane was a superb little punishment-machine, and was slamming her gloves into Cleve's face like pistons.
Crack! Thud! One of Cleve's eyes was swelling shut, his nose and mouth were bleeding, he longed to throw the fight, to fall at the knees of his tormentrice and beg not to have to feel any more pain. But some stubborn remnant of masculine pride kept him on his feet until a smashing uppercut made him stagger back and sink to his knees, and then fall with a thud on the ground, semi-conscious.
Semi conscious, but that was too conscious. As he gazed up in agony and saw Augusta raise Jane's slender arm in triumph, saw the smile of victory of his sixteen-year-old opponent's face, saw the beads of sweat glistening on the smooth, round breasts, heard the cheers and acclamations of the crowd, he was all too conscious of himself, a thirty-nine year old man reduced to a hulk by a little teenage girl whom the law would have forbidden him to fuck on the grounds that she needed protection. Protection! It had been a fair fight, and she had beaten a grown man-or, as Cleve told himself bitterly, what used to pass for one-into a beaten hulk, lying helpless at her feet, whom, if it had not been for the rules of boxing, she could have continued to punch at whim, even if he had been allowed to try and defend himself further.
"Up, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta's quiet, firm voice commanded. "Ermengarde wants to fight
Ermengarde was the little ten-year-old who had bested Cleve in the spanking-endurance contest the night before. Augusta must be mocking him. Groggy as he was, he could best that little pipsqueak.
But no, the little girl was having the huge gloves fastened on her tiny hands.
"Of course, Mr. Litchfield, gentleman that you are, won't allow such a tiny girl a slight handicap." And with this Augusta grabbed his hands and tied them tightly behind his back. A foot long length of rope tied his feet together to keep him from running away.
Bound, like that, there was of course no way he could box. The only thing he could do was feel pain and humiliation, and yet his prick was as stiff as a flagpole, and for a fleeting second he almost felt that he was looking forward to being given a thorough drubbing by this cruel little girl. But that was crazy! He put the thought out of his mind at once.
"After the performance you put up against Jane, I don't think I've put you at much of a disadvantage, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said dryly. Everyone giggled, for it was true that while being turned from an eager fighter into a slavering object, Cleve had not been able to land one punch.
Whap! Pow! He might have guessed it. Little Ermengard was going for his balls with her fists like a fish goes for bait. His upstanding prick bobbed from side to side as each blow landed.
Only the strength of a ten-year-old, but in the balls.
Three sharp blows there and he was doubled over enough for the little girl to get at his face, where she planted new bruises on top of the ones left there by Jane. Crack! Thap! Her gloves had been loaded with something, Cleve was sure of that. As he sought to avoid the hail of blows, he slipped on the wet grass and came down with a tooth-jarring crash. He tried to pull himself up, but as he got to his knees, the punches continued to explode in his battered wreck of a face. Those gloves really were loaded! He thought.
"She's so little, she doesn't know all the rules yet," Augusta laughed as Ermengarde placed a right and a left on Cleve's face in quick succession. The cord tying his feet together made it impossible to rise.
"I ... I ... mustn't pass out because ... of ... a ten-year old" he thought to himself groggily. But the field, with its panorama of lovely female legs was swirling around him. On top of Jane's recent knockout, the lighter stuff that Ermengarde was delivering with those loaded gloves was more than he could take.
The last thing he heard before he passed out was Augusta's voice saying, "You know perfectly well, Mr. Litchfield, that one is supposed to box on one's feet. For your clowning around you will have to be stringently taken in hand and severely punished!"
CHAPTER FIVE
As Augusta lay with Jane's sweet, graceful arms about her in the warm, soft bed, Cleve was suffering the torments of the damned.
Not that anything physically painful was happening to him, other than the usual discomfort of the flagstone floor. That was just it.
When he had groggily come to he was back in his cell. As he had felt the bruises all over his face, he had recalled the humiliations of the previous hours, and remembered with fear the threat hanging over him.
He thought he could remember Augusta's voice saying to him, "you will have to be taken stringently in hand, and severely punished."
That was a threat to strike terror into the hearts of anyone in Augusta's little empire, for the lovely dominatrice hated exaggeration, and usually just spoke of the various tortures she dished out as "punishment."
"Severe punishment" would be something much, much worse, Cleve knew, and the thought made the sweat stand out on his battered face.
In his agitation he had tried to get up and pace the narrow confines of his cell, but had fallen as soon as he had tried to put any weight on his injured ankle. His face ached, his arms and legs ached, his bruised balls felt as if someone were still hitting them. Throbbing waves of pain pulsated in them as if some lovely girl were using them for their natural purpose, that of punching-bag! Wearily, Cleve had lain back on the floor and tried to imagine what further agony would be in store for him.
In fact, unknown to him, Augusta had simply tossed off that line about "severe" punishment on a whim, and had at the moment almost forgotten about it.
Almost. Augusta never left a threat unfulfilled, as anyone who had ever had any dealings with her knew full well. But at the moment, giving Jane her reward, her thoughts were very far from Cleve. It was a typical example of idiotic male pride that the fool should imagine that he would be constantly in her thought. There is no freedom at all, if one spends one's time worrying about what to do with one's slaves. Not that women don't have to spend some time dreaming up new and exciting ways of punishing the arrogance of the cock, or that they don't love doing so. There could hardly be a more natural, healthy activity for a woman to engage in. But there are other things to think of too, and no man is worth worrying about that much.
Cleve, on the other hand, in the terrifying solitude of his cell, allowed his imagination to run riot, and could not help imagining tortures, each more frightful than the last, which he was sure Augusta must be plotting to inflict on him.
If she would only come and inflict them, he thought, that would not be so bad. Well, actually it would, for a torture session with Augusta was nothing if not unpleasant in the highest degree, involving as it did cruel chastisement of both the body and the mind. But Cleve in his fear had forgotten that it was one of her principles never to needlessly waste anything, and in consequence, never to permanently injure or in other way damage or wear out a victim. So the tortures that ran though his mind were even worse than the ones which he would in reality have to face, and surpassed the wildest dreams of the most sadistic inquisitor.
If only she'd get it over. Was there a trace of longing in that thought? Surely not, Cleve told himself, though it was hard to drive out of his mind the picture of the long, cool, utterly feminine and superior legs which had risen above him as he lay huddled breathless on the grass at the beginning of the sports day. And there was something about the firmness of the voice that had cut through the fog of his unconsciousness to warn him of the impending "severe" discipline which was in store for him.
But the emotion he really felt was fear-the kind of fear that utterly emasculates a man, would have emasculated Cleve if he had felt that he had any masculinity left after the drubbing which he had received from pretty little Jane.
He groaned as the memory of that scene surfaced: he relived his own pathetic hopes of freedom, saw the lithe, graceful figure of his tormentrice as she weaved in and out, skillfully hurting him with all the verve which a woman usually puts into hurting a man.
He saw himself on his knees, collapsing, saw the arm, the oh so lovely arm that he would have loved to kiss, had Jane been a normal girl, raised in triumph, raised as a symbol of his humiliation and defeat. Of his utter degradation.
"Oh fuck," he thought, "why do I keep dwelling on that?" It was an unmistakable fact that his cock had gone hard as a rock, and unconsciously he found himself reaching down to squeeze it. Mmmmm. That felt good.
He started to stroke his big tool as the image of lovely young Jane standing over him like a tigress over her prey came back to his mind.
"What on earth," he said to himself, as he realized that he was fantasizing over his most utter and most recent emasculation. He was too excited to stop his hand from running down the length of his rod. It had been such a long time since he had had a come ... he tried to have a normal fantasy, tried to think of Linda, his girlfriend back in the real world that he had perhaps left forever. It was amazing that girls could be so soft and gentle, or such cruel bitches.
He tried to see Linda lying passive on his bed, waiting for his virile cock-he had had a virile cock in those days, he told himself bitterly-but it was no good. His erection went soft and to harden his penis up again he had to think of Jane, standing over him with the sweat glistening on the young breasts which he had not been manly enough to be able to hit, or Augusta's firm, lovely legs towering over him as he had gasped for breath like a fish out of water on the sports field.
"No, no, what's happening to me...? " He tried to think of something else, for he realized that to enjoy the kind of treatment women dished out at Heatherrow would be an indication that he could no longer consider himself a man of any kind at all, but would henceforth only be able to look upon himself as an abject eunuch.
The pressure in his rod had built up until now only a couple of strokes would do it. On ... two ... he felt the rings of pleasure running down the shaft as his palm rubbed the sensitive skin.
Jane ... Augusta ... Linda ... Jane ... LINDA....
He had already reached that pre-come state, that plateau where a guy knows that he's going to be blasting, where nothing can stop it, where its as a bowstring being coiled back, and the image in his mind had been the triumphant smile of Jane's delicate face. Knowing the blastoff was coming, he desperately shifted images to try and save some remnant of his manhood.
He failed utterly. As his penis fired in long spurts, though it was just possible for him to keep the image of the passive Linda in front of his mind, he knew damn well that it had been Jane and his humiliation that he had wanted to think about And it had been the image of Jane and his humiliation which had brought him to the pre-com plateau, after which everything was just mechanical, so that he could have thought of a newspaper if he'd wanted to without diminishing the force of the come.
As the goo spurted all over his belly, he felt a tremendous letdown ... a tremendous, final, irrevocable loss of his masculinity.
What was he, some kind of masochist? It wasn't the kinky angle of the idea that bothered him, as the fact that he couldn't yet see that it was possible to be a man and a masochist at the same time.
And then, as he turned the question of whether or not he really liked discipline, the memory of Augusta's frightful threat came back to his mind.
Funnily enough, the thought that he might really like punishment did nothing at all to relieve the abject fear he felt of what was impending. And what was worse, he had two things to worry about now instead of one.
Formerly, all he had to do was take what was dished out, and hope that some day his cruel tormentrice would relent. He still had to do that, for the idea of liking such utter petticoat domination and rule struck him as unnatural and degrading, and he had not yet developed to the point of enjoying this degradation.
But now, during the punishment, he would have to worry about whether or not he was liking it, as he feared he might. With every cut of the whip-assuming that such a tame instrument could be included in what Augusta had in mind-he would not only feel the outward pain of his tormented body, but would suffer the inward agony of fearing that he might really be enjoying it, and psychologically "repressing" the enjoyment. A man who liked pain-he was no man at all, he was even less of a man than Cleve had believed himself to be up to his beating-off, for that beating off was going to cost him dearly in peace of mind, he could see that.
And so, the whole day passed, with him never knowing whether or not at any moment Augusta would stride into the room, dressed in some utterly bizarre leather costume, to begin the next chapter in "The Unmanning of Cleve," and he desperately, hopelessly, tried to analyze his thoughts and feelings, to find out whether the hard-ons that he had experienced with increasing frequency during his week of captivity really were an indication of his having lost every last shred of the right that he had once felt so sure of to call himself a man.
And the worry continued on into the night, the abject fear, the mental pain matched by the physical pain in his body. Oh, if only he could sleep in a bed for one night, he had thought. Then he had said to himself, "If I want a bed, surely I'm not a masochist." And then he had realized the falseness of that argument, and so it went, with his tormented soul floundering in the mire.
It had not been until nightfall that a tap on the door of Augusta's bedroom told her of the pleasant task she had to perform. As she often told herself, she was not just giving a reward, but she was treating herself. Not that she had anything against rewards, as long as given after the good act accomplished, as a free gift, and as long as they were limited to members of her own sex. The idea of giving a reward to a male slave would have struck her as being totally absurd. They were lucky not to have their balls ripped from their roots and thrust down their throats, and it was only the constraints of a society inadequately, as yet under petticoat rule, which resulted in this not being the general rule as yet. The constraints of society, and the whim of women, perhaps.
"Come in," Augusta said.
The door opened gently and there stood Jane in a pale yellow nightgown. She looked so fresh and feminine, with her lovely hair falling over her slender shoulders, and her medium-sized but perfectly proportioned breasts poking out the fabric in twin mounds of delight in front. There was a smile on her sweet face, a smile of sexual anticipation, mixed with reverence for the magnificent woman, her idol in every respect, into whose bedroom and genitals she had been invited to enter.
Augusta's long fingers felt between her legs. She had been sitting in an armchair reading when Jane had come. She had only been wearing a completely see-through "Baby-Doll" nightie, with no panties.
Jane gasped as she drunk in the fantastic beauty in front of her. The massive white mounds, with the tips, the pink of which was only partly concealed by the transparent nightie, poking out the fabric in little peaks to which Jane longed to glue her mouth, and the luxuriant dark triangle.
The sight of Miss Kreel's hand playing with her own crotch excited Jane even more, for it meant that this glorious woman found her, slim little Jane, sexually attractive. And the gasp had been one of pride, too, for one of the nicest of the many nice qualities of women is that they are aware of what wonderful beings they are, and are never hypocritical to themselves about their charms. Jane had intense admiration for the full body in front of her, but knew that her own airy gracefulness was the othe side of the coin of femininity, and equally acceptable version, so to speak.
The women-or a woman and a girl-looking at each other at once, held back by no silly hang-ups about using each other to obtain the fullest measure of joy. Two twats, contracting in anticipation, moistening with female love-juice. Two tingling clits, waiting for the gentle but persistent pleasure of feeling woman fingers on woman-flesh. Four nipples budding like flowers, not so much in response to one another, as automatically at the pleasure of being in the presence of another beautiful woman, at the pleasure of knowing that breasts will soon be mashed against breast, hairy mount to hairy mount, long fingernails digging lovingly into the soft flesh of buttocks, girl-lips to girl lips, tongues exchanging the complete sweetness of lesbian enjoyment, the pleasure which no vulgar male would ever be able to afford to a woman. Some famous french writer of the nineteenth century had said that for a man to try and make love to a woman is like an ape trying to play the violin, and truer words were never spoken, though they were written by someone who had the disgraceful vice of being a man.
"Come closer Jane," Augusta's soft voice said, and the girl eagerly obeyed, moving lightly on the balls of her feet.
Augusta usually liked to call the shots when it came to love-making, but she was curious to see just how inventive and sensual the Jane really was. Augusta let her nightie fall on the floor.
Jane reached the chair and paused a second, then she sat down on Augusta's knees taking off her own nightie, and offered a gently, dainty, pink little mouth.
"What a delightful child," Augusta thought. Forward enough to let you know what she wants, but respectful enough of her elders to ask for something instead of taking it.
The something was something which Augusta would be glad to give, though she paused an instant to survey the soft lips, the pearly teeth, the small mouth-cavity, and the elegant features of the face, with the eyes half closed, the long lashes fluttering over brown pools which Augusta knew were as deep as her own.
Then Augusta leaned forward slightly. There was just the faintest contact between the two women's lips, each female exerting a slight pouting pressure to maintain the contact.
It was like some glorious slow motion movie in which all the pleasures of sex (that is lesbianism, for on any serious level the two are identical) were revealed. Open mouth to open mouth. Then Augusta's tongue slowly slid out and met Jane's half way. The two tongue-tips touched in a ginger, exploratory fashion, like two people who have just made one another's acquaintance. Then, they pressed against each other a little more boldly, before sliding past each other into the delicate pink mouths.
Meanwhile, Cleve Litchfield lay rolling and groaning on the hard flagstones of his cell, consumed with humiliation and fear of the most complicated sort.
Mmmmm. The mouth-contact was good, but it was time for something more, each female's eager clit told her owner. Jane didn't want to be pushy, held back, was delighted when she felt the tips of one of Augusta's fingers lightly drag over her breast, moving under them, lifting them slightly, then letting them plop gently down.
Regarding herself as invited to do so, Jane imitated her headmistress, filling her smooth palms with the other female's opulent breast-flesh.
Ohhhhh. Jane felt Augusta's fingers tighten on her nipples. At first it was just a gentle pressure on the gorged flesh, but then it became ever more insistent, until both tips positively stung under the squeeze of Miss Kreel.
Jane felt unsure of whether she should do-likewise, whether or not it would be disrespectful to her headmistress to cause her pain-and it was the fear of being disrespectful in itself, not any crude male fear of punishment, which made her hesitate-but the hurting of her own nipples felt so utterly delicious that she longed to share it with this woman whom she, along with almost all the other pupils, secretly loved from afar.
The increasing pressure of Jane's fingers on Augusta's nipples brought a shudder of pleasure from the older woman which Jane regarded as a green light.
It was so utterly heavenly to be there, with her mouth actually glued to that of the Miss Kreel whom she had so admired, and to be engaged with her in a deliciously kinky nipple-hurting contest.
The pressure increased until Jane felt she could hardly stand it any longer-either the pain in the nipples, into which Miss Kreel's elegant fingernails were really digging, or the fantastic thrills in her cunt which this pain evoked. Each was wonderful, terrible, completely feminine.
All of a sudden, one of her nipples felt the fingers ease off of it. Jane knew what was coming next though it was something which she had never dared hope would come about before today, though when masturbating it had
"happened" to her in her fantasies a million times.
An electric thrill! The graceful teen-ager felt the soft, gentle touch of Miss Kreel's fingers on her most feminine part. Not hard like on the nipple, but tender, oh so tender. The other nipple was abandoned, and Augusta used the fre hand to stroke Jane's long, wavy hair as it fell down around her shoulders. A thorough going sensualist, Augusta believed that there was hardly any part of a woman's body that could not be used both to give and receive pleasure.
Jane took her hand off of Augusta's nipples, and gingerly moved one down to the mossy luxuriance of the headmistresses' totally developed womanhood. Jane's delicate fingers felt the cleft in fact, brushed passed the spike-hard clit-causing another shudder of pleasure to run through Augusta's body and causing her to reply in kind on Jane's clit, evoking a similar, equally feminine reaction.
"There are the labia," Jane said to herself, and "there is the hole," as she slid her fingers into the dark womanly recesses, feeling the moisture dripping on her fingers. Her other hand was stroking not Augusta's own lovely hair-Jane was too imaginative to want to be a mere copy cat-but her headmistresses cheek, as a sign of the most respectful adoration.
The two bodies were pressed close together now and the still-tingling nipples actually touched, brushing against each other's tender hardness.
Jane decided to be inventive though she did not want her idol to think of her as presumptuous. With one of the fingers inside Miss Kreel's cunt she pressed against the inside of the cunt wall rather hard, using the joint of the partially bent finger. A similar gesture from Miss Kreel told her that her action had found favor.
The tongues were still busy at work, caressing the inside of the mouths, so delicate and sweet and unlike a man's crude maw, usually stained as it is with nicotine. The hand that had been caressing Jane's hair was now used to press the head closer against Augusta's while Jane continued the cheek stroking.
Mouth to mouth, breast to breast, fingers in each other cunts, together Augusta and Jane floated up to the highest levels of feminine delight, their springs winding tighter and tighter, their twats aching for the final release of the come-spasms, yet hoping that the unbearable teasing count go on a little bit longer. Every nerve in the two females' bodies were quivering, and particularly those in the swollen breasts and the hot cunts!
All the while, although they had been doing similar things to each other, it had been Augusta who had been firmly in charge, as was evident from the hesitancy with which Jane had tried her sweet little experiments. And that was how it should be. And so of course it was up to Augusta to decide when they should both come.
Not that the moment could be long delayed. Everything was in suspense as the long fingers probed deeply. Something had to give soon. It was ... toooo ... unbearable.....
Augusta suddenly moved her fingers out of Jane's slick little cunt, being careful not to injure the maidenhead, and went for the aching little clit. Jane, realizing that the time had come did the same.
The sudden attention to the pleasure-seat, the almost vicious way in which the two female's grabbed at the most tender spot the other had, was enough to break the dam, and wham! Wham! WHAM! They both shook violently in each others arms in the weird sitting position they were still occupying. The breasts quivered against each other like jelly, and the mouths felt the extra pressure.
But it was in the hot little twats themselves where the action was, as spasm after spasm passed down the inside of the cunts like rings of fire, and as the girl-flesh quivered as if it were a living animal.
Whooooo! Ohhh that was fantastic, both females though in unison, as they felt the moisture covering their fingers. Then, gently, they pulled their hands and their mouths free and for the first time in several minutes opened their eyes and looked each other squarely in the face, smiling, as if astonished at the amount of pleasure they had succeeded in giving to one another.
"Now that really was fun, wasn't it darling," Augusta said cheerfully. Jane's only reply was to half close her eyelids and sigh.
"OH, Miss Kreel, that was ... just heaven. It ... it ... " she was evidently searching for superlatives "it was ... even more fun than that beating up that fool Cleve today.
And that was saying a great deal, for however soft and tender she was when being loved by another woman, Jane had already shown herself that she could be an implacable bitch-and bitch was a word girls were proud to use at the. Heatherrow Boarding School-when it came to disciplining a saucy man.
The only thing that worried Jane was that she was afraid that after Miss Kreel's fantastic lovemaking, she would have a hard time getting used to the stuff she had to be content with in the dormitory and at the hands of those teachers who liked her.
Augusta looked admiringly at her young pupil. What a pure bundle of femininity! Soft and graceful, yielding in love, but hard as iron when it comes to stripping a male of his last vestiges of self-respect. And a good boxer, too. That would serve her well in later life when she married. For although the graduates of Heatherrow were pretty much lesbians to a woman, most of them got married. There was something so solid feeling about knowing that your slave is bound to you not merely by the natural ties which bind the weak, inept, male to the domineering female, the drone to the queen bee, but also by legal ties which were hard to break. They could always be broken by charges of cruelty, but the absurd, stubborn obstinacy of most men made them prefer a lifetime of petticoat rule to the humiliation of admitting in court that they were physically no match for their wives.
"Divorce is one of those things which we women will have to abolish when we really bring our rule out in the open, "Augusta had often told herself.
As it was, divorce on grounds other than cruelty could only usually be obtained with difficulty in many states, and even then the crushing alimony which a wise society imposed upon the impudent male who sought to escape from his rightful ruler and mistress was usually a form of servitude almost as bad as direct female domination! To wear the same old shabby suit for years, and be laughed at for looking like a ass, while all of one's hard-earned money goes to buy one's ex-wife fantastically expensive hand-made leather garments of the most bizarre cut was abasement indeed!
Augusta gave Jane a little pat on the ass. Understanding what was meant, she scooted off of Augusta's knees. Augusta took her by the hand and gently led her to the big double bed, with the most comfortable of mattresses, as if she were leading a bride! Jane was just a passing imagine, but an awfully nice one.
Meanwhile, shivering on the merciless floor of his cell, Cleve cursed the day he was born, and tormented himself with endless questioning of his own masculinity, and vain efforts to avoid facing the simple fact of female superiority.
And Augusta and Jane passed the night in each others arms, cuddled against each other, soft breasts against soft breasts, waking up in the middle of the night for a dreamy half-asleep fuck, and then dozing gently off again.
And so as Augusta lay with Jane's sweet, graceful arms about her, Cleve, who had not yet received the punishment he was due for trembled in the momentary expectation of terrible discipline-for he had it in the middle of the night many times before-and suffered the largely self-inflicted tortures of the damned. And damned he was, too, to a life spent under the rule of haughty women!
CHAPTER SIX
Without any warning, the door of Cleve's cell swung open with a bang, and there before him, dressed in an utterly bizarre leather costume, stood Augusta Kreel, whip at the ready.
Cleve started at the sudden apparition of feminine beauty and cruelty, aware that her appearance could mean only one thing: pain.
"I suppose you haven't forgotten that I promised that your ridiculous clowning around would cost you dearly, she snarled."
Carry this was going to be no ordinary discipline session. Clearly Cleve was going to really find out what it meant to fall into the hands of a vicious dominant woman! Somehow, as he cringed back from the haughty woman, he sensed that what was in store for him would make him feel that everything else had just been a prologue.
Augusta towered, of course, on boots with six-inch heels, which perfectly molded her calves. How she got into them was a complete mystery to Cleve, for no unsightly lace broke the smooth line of the gleaming leather.
Her creamy legs were encased in a skin-tight leather skirt, slit up the sides to reveal the perfect skin. The skirt was a real hip-hugger, so Cleve could see the lovely curve of Augusta's magnificent belly. Everything about Augusta suggested power and strength and superiority in that moment Even her delicately formed navel seemed to stare haughtily at the abject Cleve.
His eyes followed the curve of her belly, followed it up to the swell of the rib cage and above that to where the naked undersides of her heavy breasts seemed to invite kissing and adoration, though of course that would be a pleasure to which no crawling male could ever aspire.
In the last bizarre costume Cleve had seen her wear, all of her gorgeous globes were covered in harsh leather save the luscious pink nipples. Now it was exactly the reverse. Everything was bare save the coral-pink tips, which were covered by little cups one and a half inches in diameter, held in place by gold chains running behind Augusta's back, across her neck, and up to a tight leather neck collar which almost completely encased the soft throat.
Cleve knew that the moment of discipline had come, but although the sight of the beautiful dominant lesbian filled him with terror, he could not help but noticing a tingling in his balls as his rod filled with blood and inched up until it was pointing right up.
"You dare try and threaten men with your gun?" Augusta snarled, slamming her boot against the stiff rod.
Cleve doubled over in pain, unendurable pain, thankful though that the terrible blow had caught the gorged penis rather than the even tenderer balls.
"Are you finished playing around, slave?" Augusta asked in her quiet, firm voice, so full of tenderness for other women, so full of harsh cruelty for any man unlucky enough to fall into her grasp.
"Y-yes...."
CRACKKK! The riding crop caught him across the ear and the side of the head. He dazedly tried to figure out what it was he had done to give offence, for Augusta usually had an at least nominal reason for everything she did.
"Y-yes Mistress," Cleve gasped.
"That's better. But don't think for an instant that it will save you from the pain I have in store!"
Those were terrible words indeed, but as Cleve rubbed his aching cock, he couldn't help finding something exciting in them too. Good grief, had he lost all his manhood, he wondered.
Next to Augusta stood slender, graceful Jane. She was wearing a skin-tight satin mini-skirt and a satin blouse, tied as Augusta's had been the day before to leave the firm young nipples and breasts completely bare!
It was clear that in so doing she was imitating her beloved headmistress. The pleasure she had given Augusta the night before, not to mention during the boxing match, had put her firmly in Miss Kreel's good books, and as a result, although doubtless many of the girls would be participating in the marathon discipline which Cleve knew he was in for, Jane could have the honor of being a sort of special deputy of pain.
In fact, it was soft, gentle little Jane who was to a large degree responsible for Cleve's plight. Augusta really had almost forgotten about the special discipline which she had promised Cleve for his "clowning around" by "boxing" little Ermengarde on his knees.
That morning, as the sun, filtering through the blind had woken the two females up as they lay in one another's arms, and as Augusta had begun gently stroking the lovely hair of the girl lying next to her, Jane had timidly asked, "may I please help you in teaching that Cleve the lesson he deserves today?"
"Cleve?" she had asked, still not quite recalled from the world of femininity represented by the gazelle-like young girl.
"You remember, Miss Krell. You were going to give him special discipline today."
"Right you are!" Augusta had exclaimed, forgetting to pretend, as she usually did, that she was incapable of forgetting anything. Her clit had been half charged just with the presence of the lovely girl beside her, but now tith the prospect of Cleve's body writhing in torment before her, it stiffened up like a sentry coming to attention.
Not that she wouldn't have been punishing him anyway that day. Man, after all, are always in need of punishment. But it was nice to remember that she had already decided that today's punishment would be extra severe.
Without a word, the two females turned, and meekly Cleve followed them out the door. During actual torture, it was generally necessary to bind the victim, but Augusta usually preferred to have Cleve go to his punishment untied. It emphasized the totality of the female control that he absolutely had to follow orders given him by women or girls, whether or not he was bound.
Augusta and Jane headed for the dining hall. It was not mealtime, but that was the room that could seat the most people. And the whole school had been told to turn up-though invited is a better word, for few are the women who willingly miss a chance to see a male being degraded, particularly at Heatherrow-to watch the next episode in "The Unmanning of Cleve."
Cleve turned his eyes away as he entered, aware of the scores of feminine eyes watching him as one might watch a mouse being played with by a cat, of the scores of femine cunts already moist with anticipation.
Cleve noticed that one of the chandeliers had been taken down, and that a rope was passing through the hook from which it usually hung He could guess that it would soon be him who would be hanging, though heaven only knew by what part of his tortured male body.
And yet ... his cock gave a twitch, and ached from being as erect as it was. That's just because so many women are looking at it, Cleve hastened to reassure himself, being unwilling to believe that he was looking forward to torture.
For, of course, his trousers had not been given back to him after the degrading sports day. Augusta was rather angry with herself in fact for the fact that she had not thought earlier how much Cleve's humiliation would be increased if she made him walk around naked all the time. And of course, Miss Kreel's anger against herself usually ended up by being
"outer-directed" so to speak.
"What's that thing sticking up in front of Mr. Litchfield," one of the monstrous little girls asked her neighbor with pretended ignorance as she pointed to Cleve's cock.
"What thing? I don't see anything? Maybe its too small for me to see from this far away."
There was a chorus of laughter, and Cleve blushed even deeper. A few days ago, a remark like that would have caused his erection to go down, but now, although he was bitterly aware of the humiliating nature of his position, it just caused his cock to stiffen all the more.
For a moment, he was afraid that Augusta, who was getting an end of the dangling rope ready was going to attach it to his cock or his balls, actually tearing the things out by the root! But he had forgotten that Augusta didn't believe in damaging property excessively.
Jane bent down with the rope, which she had taken from Augusta, and tied it to one of Cleve's ankles. Needless to day the one which had been injured the day before. Trust the lovely little fiend not to forget a detail like that.
Cleve could guess what was coming now, or thought he could. As his sluggish male mind was incapable of following the rapid flight of female thought when the latter is engaged in the task it most-likes, namely thinking up new ways to cause a male unbearable pain.
Cleve expected he would be asked to lie down on the floor so that he could be hoisted up by the leg. But instead, four or five girls, Jane among them, simply began pulling the rope, so that as he stood, his leg was drawn out to an angle of ninety degrees.
He struggled to keep his balance, aware of what would happened when he lost it.
Higher, higher ... there were giggles in the room as the girls watched Cleve stand on the toes of the one foot which was still resting on the ground. Cleve had no capacity for doing splits-who but a woman could do anything so gracefully?-and as the girls gave another yank, lost his foothold and cart-wheeled head downwards, as the rope cut into his ankle unbearably.
Wack! His head cracked against the floor as he swung down to a vertical position. The pain in his socket was killing him as the girls heaved the rope higher and higher.
His other leg was dangling crazily somewhere, and all he could do was wiggle it frantically, while everyone laughed at his comic gestures.
"Still clowning around, I see, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta sneered. "Don't you know it's impolite to hang upside down naked in the presence of ladies?"
And to punish him for his "impoliteness" she caught him a terrific crack across the bare legs with the riding crop, so that he swung lightly under the impact of the blow.
"That's an idea, girls! Line up and see which of you can make Mr. Litchfield swing the lardest with three blows of the riding crop."
The eager little cunts swarmed up onto the dias, and took their places in line with the perfect discipline which was expected at a place like Heatherrow. The first one, a lovely leggy girl of almost eighteen was handed the crop.
THACKKK! The blow cut into Cleve's ribs, causing him to swing slightly. As he swung back, and reached the highpoint in the other direction, the girl hit him again ... and then a third time as he swung back again.
The pain in the ribs from the riding crop was frightful, for all the time he had been at Heatherrow, Cleve had not yet learned to get used to that most useful of implements. But what was worse was the dizziness from hanging upside down, and the agonizing pressure that his weight brought to bear on his leg joints, not to mention the cutting effect of the cord, which was strong but had been chosen for its extra thinness, so that as many of the man's nerves could be feeling pain at once as was at all possible.
THACKKKK! Thackkkkk! Thackkkkk! That was the next contender. Only thirteen, with her breasts only beginning to bud, with surprising strength in her thin little arms. Of course, Miss Creel's riding crop, specially designed according to her specifications of length and springiness to give maximum pain, helped too.
Almost as bad as the pain caused by the blows and the hanging was the fantastic humiliation of being used for a purpose which a sack of potatoes could have fulfilled equally well, had the purpose of the contest been not its ostensible one of testing strength, but rather the further humbling of a male!
Cleve's head swam with the pain and the embarrassment. The blows of the riding crop fell everywhere, though it was felt by general consensus that the rib cage was the best place to strike to get the maximum swing, so welts were laid across welts and actually on top of other welts!
But although the rib cage was the most efficient spot to hit for the supposed purpose of getting him to swing, some girls figured that the most pain could be inflicted by concentrating in the swollen cock and the balls, though, aware of the danger of permanent damage in that spot, Augusta had told the girls to go easy. After all, Cleve only had two balls, and as they were unquestionably the best place to hit for the purpose of maximum pain, they had to be made to last a long time.
At last the series was over, and there wasn't a place on Cleve's body that hadn't at least once felt the cruel discipline of the crop. But because each girl had only been allowed three blows, the swinging had not been too terrible. Now Augusta stepped forward.
"Now girls, this is how she should do it. Remember, for when you're all married."
Many of the faces lit up in anticipation of the day when they would be full grown women, with a slave all their own to bruise and humiliate-their husbands!
Some of the other girls had been strong, but Cleve could really feel the change when Augusta's powerful arms went to work on him.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! She laid the blows methodically, all in exactly the same spot, so that spot was a sort of white-hot line of molten agony. And as the blows followed one another, Cleve began to swing like a pendulum.
As the swing increased and took longer to accomplish, the space between the blows increased too, for they were only given when he was at the highpoint of the swing, but that was small comfort, for the increased arc caused the pressure on the fiery ankle and the screaming joints to grow ever more intense, until Cleve thought the leg must be yanked from its socket, or the ankle cut through to the bone.
Neither happened, but the torment went on and on, as Augusta lost control of herself, and pushed her doctrine of their being no "Point of endurance" to the uttermost limits, raining agony down upon a swinging, writhing mass that could no longer be thought of as a human being but just as a quivering hunk of livid pain, of agony so terrible that it could hardly be believed that anyone could "endure" it for more than a minute. But of course with Cleve, he had to endure it, as much as this vicious queenly woman decreed.
Augusta had worn no panties under her slit skirt, and as the flaps flapped with the vigorous movement of her powerful body, the other girls and women caught glimpses of the spot which represented their conception of the height of feminine beauty-Miss creel's cunt!
"WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! She felt the pussy fluid trickle down her leg, felt the tightness in her snatch and clit, and with every increase in her own dose of pleasure was determined to double Cleve's dose of pain.
Gosh, it was good to be a woman, she thought, to have a cunt, and nice round breasts that swing crazily to the motion of your body as you lay it into an imbecilic slavering male. She would have liked to beat off right there, but there was plenty more work to do before her duty towards Cleve could be considered accomplished. Maybe later, with Jane....
Cleve was one fiery mass of agony, with one spot subject to a special suffering all its own. Cleve's cock, hard as iron, ached for the touch of a cunt, a mouth, a hand, anything, as it swelled more and more until it was as if the skin would burst.
"God, no ... " Cleve thought, as the unmistakable evidence of his being sexually aroused through woman-torture was forced upon him. "No . ... "
Augusta would have liked to go on lashing that swinging form forever, but she was aware that Cleve would black out soon unless the routine were varied.
"Let go the rope!" she ordered the girls who were straining to hold it. It went away with a run, and Cleve's arc of pain was transformed into a flight that ended with a tooth-jarring crash to the floor.
"Not very graceful are you?" Augusta asked.
Dazed, wondering if he had any broken bones, Cleve hardly heard her. He knew what the punishment for inattentiveness was, but there wasn't a thing he could do to avoid it now. This was a final defeat. The final passivity. To he on the ground unable even to continue playing the meaningless game of self-defense, to feel, in a weird, kindy way, that he had to thrust himself to the females who were tormenting him, as a child might trust himself to a kind of sympathetic mother. These females weren't kind and sympathetic at all. They were vicious and cruel. But he had to trust himself to them anyway. Who else could a man trust himself to? He certainly wouldn't be able to look after himself.
Dimly he saw in front of him the magnificent boots of Augusta and above them the creamy flesh of the legs. God, what a magnificent creature. Of course it was natural that she should decide on his pain and pleasure. Everyone had pain in his life, and what more natural than that the amount should be minutely regulated, with no surprises, because the pain was always at the maximum. How natural . ...
In his daze he found himself voluntarily crawling, inching forward on his bruised belly towards those magnificent gleaming boots. He could imagine the lovely feet inside them, wished he could look at them, but wouldn't have wanted to miss the sight of the spiked boots, symbolizing the totality of female superiority. What a contradiction, he told himself. Wanting to see the feet and the boots at once. Just went to show that men couldn't be trusted to think for themselves.
He inched himself painfully forward, his dazed mind trying to piece together somehow everything he had learned-and he had learned many important things-during his stay up to now at Heatherrow. And he would have to stay a long time, doubtless he would be learning a lot more.
Forward he crawled in the silence of the room, towards the gleaming boots, crawling of his own fee will, without having to be ordered to do so. Who knows? Perhaps he would be punished for what he was about to do, for he was not normally allowed to touch Augusta.
He was there, and like some beaten cur which remains faithful to its master, he voluntarily began licking Augusta's boots in an act of self-surrender, of adoration ... perhaps of love.
There was utter silence in the room now. All the females realized that they had seen the last act in the most thrilling drama there is: the proper re-ordering fo the relations between the sexes, the reduction of an arrogant man into a creature of utter servility, genuinely grateful for not being beaten.
Cleve felt genuinely grateful that Augusta's crop had not descended with cutting viciousness upon his agony-felled body, grateful that she had allowed him to perform this final act of self-surrender.
The eyes of the girls, from the little darlings of nine to the already-women of eighteen were glowing as they realized what a beautiful sight they had seen. A sight that they would doubtless see once more when, a little older, they had pushed their own husbands to the same point-the point of recognizing, realizing and admitting that there is nothing unjust whatsoever in a woman doing whatever she pleases with a man-even if she decided to take his miserable life, for surely something so valueless must be as the disposition of women too.
"So you're capable of learning something after all," Augusta's steady voice said.
The firm, frightening voice that Cleve so feared. Yet, as he lay there in his total non-existence, he couldn't help wondering if there wasn't just a touch of tenderness in it, the same tenderness which might be used towards a naughty child who has come to say he is sorry.
As she looked down at the body before her, bleeding, cut, trembling in fear and adoration, Augusta felt her snatch tighten with a sensation of triumph, of femininity victorious. But what else was it she felt? Disappointment that the process of breaking Cleve had ended so quickly? Pity? No, pity wasn't the word, for there could be no pitying a man, and the most abject masculine submission was something as natural and necessary as the rain falling.
No, it wasn't pity ... it was maybe a certain tolerance for weakness, a realization that Cleve couldn't help the abominable fact of his having a penis, though that didn't mean the punishment was to let up. On the contrary. If masculine submission was given to avoid pain, it wouldn't be a proper submission at all, but only a clumsy ruse of a kind that women have no difficulty whatever in seeing through.
But that wasn't the case here. Augusta realized that Cleve had crawled forward to kiss her boots not in the hope of being hurt less-he was surely aware by now that demands for pity were never met at Heatherrow-but because it had seemed necessary, just, reasonable, that this glorious statuesque woman rule him totally as a little girl rules a pet dog, because he wanted to show to all the world that he at last understood the most self-evident fact of all: the simple, complete, utter superiority of women to men.
"I trust you realize that this changes nothing as far as your present punishment goes?"
Cleve shook his bruised, dazed head in acknowledgement, as he gazed up at the lovely legs disappearing into the slits of the leather skirt, and at the underside of the heavy round breasts, crisscrossed as they were with the gold chain, and finally at the beautiful, voluptuous features, with the haughty smile upon them.
Of course, the punishment had to go on. He had been impudent hadn't he? Or what was it he had done? The terrible pain he had received, remnants of which still shot through his body, prevented him from remembering, but if Augusta had decided that he deserved punishment, surely he deserved it. She was so lovely....
Down came the rope again. Cleve winced. The fact that he now at last understood how right and proper it was for him to have to suffer at the slightest whim of a female didn't prevent him from weakly fearing pain, from wishing to avoid it.
If only he could jack off. His prick felt like it was going to burst. But of course, any unseemly action like that would meet with the severest retribution, and that instantly.
This time, Jane's delicate little fingers knotted the cords around his wrist. For a crazy moment Cleve thought how nice it would be to be married to Augusta and have a daughter like Jane, one who would be utterly unsparing of her lummox father.
"What am I thinking? Good Gosh!" Cleve realized, as his head started to clear, how far he had descended into the abyss of total self-denial. He must be made, wanting to spend a life of torture like this. He trembled at the contact of the ropes, now just resting against his skin, but soon to bite into it in the harshest and most resolute manner.
So it is always with masculine stupidity and masculine pride! Moments of awareness are followed by moments of rebellion which must be crushed again and again until nothing is left but a beating heart, and breathing lungs, functioning with no will whatever!
This was a moment of rebellion, and Cleve's bruised cheeks glowed flame red at the thought of the voluntary submission which he had just made.
Augusta saw the new mood pass over her slave's face and smiled. Although the ideal of many women was to have an utterly servile male, Augusta preferred to be engaged in the task of breaking male spirits. Certainly the lash and many other tortures would have to be used to drain every last drop of will out of Cleve's stubborn male soul.
The shame and anger welled up within Cleve as part of the reaction. How dare this woman subject him to all this humiliation and hurt? What right did some bloody cunt have to boss him around ... He tried to step forward to slap Augusta's face, whatever the consequences.
Luckily for him (unless one considers that the best luck a man can have is to actually be engaged in suffering at the hands of a woman) he was brought down to earth by being lifted off of it, as the girls took up the last slack on the rope.
Cleve, defiant Cleve, who had had the presumption of split-second earlier to dream of defying a woman found himself once again a dangling object whom little schoolgirls could hurt at will.
As the rope cut into his wrists, and the pain in his joints made the sweat stand out in his dumb male face and body, he dizzily wondered what could be in store for him now. Not just hanging, that was certain, nor pendulum-swinging. That had already been gone through before, in an even more painful fashion, for hideous though it was to dangle from one's wrists, it was surely far better than to hang upside down from one ankle.
Tug, pull, the straining girls hoisted him higher and higher. Were they going to allow him to drop? Leave him suspended until he lost consciousness and then punish him for not paying attention? God only knew.
At Augusta's orders, two tables were brought with the ends almost four feet apart, with the gap being directly under Cleve. At another word, the girls started lowering the victim towards the floor. Lower, lower. Cleve couldn't figure out what they were going to do. That might be because of the dizziness his hanging had caused. But more probably because of his natural masculine stupidity.
Already the rebellion was ebbing away. It is hard to feel very proud when one is hanging naked like a side of beef in the slaughterhouse.
Augusta and one of the girls took his ankles and pulled his legs apart, so the heels were resting one on each table. Then the lowering began again.
"It had been said that only girls are capable of learning to do the splits," Augusta remarked quietly. "We shall see if that's true or not."
Down and down came Cleve, and the ankle of his legs went wider and wider as his heels slit outward along the table top. Already the pain was shooting through his pelvis and down into his excited cock.
Cleve figured that an angle of about ninety degrees between the two angle's legs would be all he would be capable of without something breaking. Of course, Augusta might order ninety-five degrees.
"In case you're wondering," she said to Cleve, "you'll be doing 180 degree splits, with the legs straight out.
Gosh it wasn't possible. Wasn't possible that any one could be so cruel, wasn't possible that such a thing could be expected of him, wasn't possible that there could be such pain as he was feeling now, and he was only a fraction of the way there. In rage, humiliation, pain, Cleve started to blubber.
"Please, oh no please ... don't be so cruel ... I don't mean cruel, because ... as a ... Aggggh ... man I deserve ... Oh Gosh, anything you care ... to dish out, but please, no ... no ... no....."
Tears rolled down his face, which was a crumpled paper mask of pain, and still the girls lowered him as he told himself over and over again that something would have to break, that he would rather die than face such pain.
An unearthly shriek cut from Cleve's lips as he was lowered the last of the distance, fire shooting around his joints like flames around a gas ring, his balls hanging down in ridiculous fashion to the floor but his cock sticking up like a ramrod.
Wham! That was Augusta's right hand exploding across his tearstained cheek.
"Stop whining, you baby!" My Gosh, aren't you men capable of doing anything, or of taking any pain at all? Just look.
Startled by the blow, Cleve opened his eyes, to see Augusta's firm lovely face in front of him. All of a sudden, the earlier submission didn't seem to be so ridiculous after all.
"Girls ... so splits!" She commanded, and every female in the place went down plop! like a can-can girl, smiling. Obviously, none of them had felt an instant's pain. Then Augusta went down and tot up again.
Of course, gymnastics was an important part of sports at Heatherrow, but for Cleve, who couldn't know how much time the girls spent on the bars, he had just witnessed another startling example of female superiority. Had any of those girls felt any pain? If they hadn't, they were superior to him, who was afire with agony, hot just from the rope cutting into his tortured arms, but from the pain in his sockets where the legs met the pelvis. And if, on the other hand, they had felt pain and were concealing it, they were still superior, for he had let out that ridiculous scream.
"Why on earth is everything such a big production for you men?" Augusta asked the gasping, agonized figure hanging in front of her. Maybe you can't do splits because of this nonsense you have hanging down in front of you!" And with the end of her riding crop she started giving sharp prods to Cleve in the scrotum. Then FLICK! FLICKE! She gave quick little flicks to the upright-standing cock with the loops on the end of the crop, which snapped around the male organ as it knocked it from first one side to the other. The only reply of Cleve was a choked moan and a violent jerking of the hip region, as the tongues of fire continued to sear into his impudent prick.
When punished a pupil or a teacher, Augusta was always a mistress of self-control, but just as a shark goes wild on the sight of blood, so the sight of a male suffering to the utmost made it difficult for her to stop the infliction of pain!
FLIK! FLIK! then PROD! to vary the pace, as Cleve bucked and heaved on the end of the rope like a salmon on a line, with every jerk of his body causing intense suffering to the arms from which he was hanging, and to the leg sockets which were twisted on the table by the ungainly motions of his ox-like body.
"I think Mr. Litchfield has had enough of doing splits for the moment girls," Augusta said.
Cleve breathed a sight of relief, though he knew that this respite did not by any means indicate that the torture session was over. Far from it. like a cat with a mouse, Augusta was always eager to dream up new wyas of making him suffer.
Yank! with an intentionally sharp pull, the girls of the rope lifted him clear of the table, and his legs dangled heavily from his body. Then, when Augusta said, "you may let him down now," the girls let the rope go with a run, and Cleve crashed like a sack of rotten potatoes.
He was dazed by the shock, but found to his surprise that his prick was still hard as ever. In fact, however long this torture session might last, Cleve could be sure that he could look forward to masturbating in the privacy of his cell.
And he knew what he would be thinking about while he masturbated: Augusta's smooth legs, and his own whimpering submission. He wished he were more of a man ... wished he were entitled to be called a man at all ... but he could no longer deny it. He found an incredible sexual stimulation in being thoroughly ruled, punished and dominated by beautiful women.
Of course that's true of many men, perhaps even most men, though they are unaware of the fact, but for Cleve, who had always prided himself on his masculinity up until that fateful night at Heatherrow, it was a source of profound humiliation and suffering to know that he was so little a man that he enjoyed having his male strength set at naught by a pack of slender schoolgirls, his male brain showed up for the sluggish instrument it was by Augusta's ever more inventive and surprising tricks.
The humiliation that Cleve was suffering seemed unbearable.
All the girls were staring at that penis, with a look of contempt, and one of desire. Not desire to have such a vile object inside their clean feminine bodies, but desire to have it in their hands that they might degrade it all the more, and hurt it in new and up to them unthought-of ways.
Clack! Clack! Clack! With a measured step like a metronome, Augusta strode in her six-inch heels over to her slave.
Something about that even tread let Cleve guess what was coming. Through half-closed eyes he glanced up at the magnificent apparition towering above him. Saw one of the boots lift off of the ground, felt it come lightly to rest on his chest.
Lightly! At first! For, Augusta believe, the most exquisite torture is that of waiting for certain pain. Then, slowly, she eased her weight off the other foot.
The spiked heel dug mercilessly into Cleve's rib cage, and even the delicate little sole pressed suffocatingly down upon him.
Down came the other boot upon him. Almost twice as much pain, but not quite, because the weight was spread between two places.
Augusta sensed this, and began to walk up and down on the wretched body, carefully lifting her feet one after another so that the maximum amount of suffering possible would be inflicted. She walked all the way up his heaving chest until she was standing on his heaving breastbone. Then she pirouetted around, the heels tearing into the flesh, and trod down in the other direction.
Once she got to his stomach she lifted one leg gracefully off of him and held it out as a ballerina does. Then she brought it down straight until the sole of the boot was only an inch from Cleve's mouth.
Cleve knew what he had to do. Not just what he had to do to avoid punishment, but simply had to do! All the renascent rebelliousness was gone, and he was in the same mental state-that is, the proper one for a male-in which he was when he had crawled forward to lick the uppers of this dame boot.
As always, a man was barely intelligent enough to perceive his proper place in the scheme of things when under the influence of direct, female-inflicted suffering. like the brutes they are, they can only learn under the influence of pain! No better argument for female domination could possibly be brought forward.
Cleve's tongue went out and began to lick the sole of the boot. As he felt the gritty dirt in his mouth while his tongue rasped over a piece of leather which for all he knew might have accidentally trodden once in dog-shit or vomit, and as he felt the merciless pressure of the other boot on his stomach, he noticed that with Augusta's leg outstretched, he could almost, but not quite, get a glimpse of her cunt. It was too dark under her skirt, but even this darkness suggested the mysterious recesses of the female body, so superior to the vulgarly displayed male organs!
Gosh, his cock was throbbing! He wanted desperately to jack off, to relieve the incredible longing he had for a come, but he didn't dare, not in front of all these girls, not with Augusta ready to sentence him to yet further agony.
Augusta lifted her foot away from Cleve's mouth, and to his surprise he found himself straining his neck upward to try and follow the lovely object with his tongue. Then, she turned and placed one of her spike heels right on the root of the cock and pressed down. Agony, utter agony, but . ...
"My Gosh," Cleve thought, "I'm going to come."
The heel pressed harder and harder, and all of a sudden Cleve was on the top of that come plateau, and then going down like on a roller coaster, the semen spurting in great gobs from his over-wrought prick, despite the pressure of the heel!
Had Augusta realized that he needed a come and obliged him? Certainly not! There is a world of difference between jacking yourself off and being made to have an orgasm at another person's whim, without one even getting to touch one's own body.
Right in front of a whole school of girls Cleve had found himself reduced to a sort of toy fountain by the pressure of a woman's heel, with no say at all even as to what should be done with his body fluids.
And while formerly he had fired his come into the cunts of eager girls, now the only contact it was allowed to have with a woman, or ever would be, was with the unfeeling heel, symbol of the total superiority of women over mere flat-heeled men.
"We're not finished with you yet Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said with elaborate irony, looking at the semen on the stomach of the gasping man beneath her feet. "Not by a long shot we aren't."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The dining hall chairs and tables had been put back in place, and everyone was eating a delicious dinner. Everyone, that was, except for Cleve.
He had a bow of the usual filthy potato peels. But to add to the humiliation, his nick had been attached to a table leg with a very short leash, so that the potato peels were not quite, but almost, beyond his reach.
To get any food at all, he had to strain forward, the rope cutting cruelly into his neck, to try and snap at the vile morsels in front of him. Needless to say, his hands were tightly tied behind his back.
He had only been given a slight reprieve from his "very severe" discipline because of the approach of dinner. Augusta hated the schedule to be upset, even for something as much fun and as instructive as the humiliation of a male!
"Mr. Litchfield, you don't seem to be enjoying your food," Augusta calmly remarked.
Cleve's face crumpled in pain, and he started to cry, for he knew that when Augusta made a low-key, offhand remark of that sort, it usually presaged pain. It was humiliating enough to be staked out here in the same spot, almost, where he had suffered so terribly only a few minutes before, with all eyes hungrily upon him and he was aware that when the dessert plates were cleared away, a new episode would begin in "the unmanning of Cleve." Not that there was much unmanning that was left to do.
"Don't be such a baby, or you will most certainly be chastised! I simply remarked that you didn't seem to be enjoying your meal. Or do you think yourself above my dinner-table conversation?"
Cleve looked up in sheer terror now, for he knew what that meant when Augusta made one of those fake self-depreciating remarks. He dared not speak without permission, dared only look up at the splendid woman with the eyes a cornered deer uses to look at a wolf.
"Oh, don't worry. I was just wondering if you might like to help do the serving. Jane, help Mr. Litchfield get ready to do the serving."
That line was a dead giveaway, for the "help" could only mean some terrible hindrance.
Jane walked around to the front of the table, conscious of her grace and beauty, and untied Cleve's leash.
Cleve started to get up, for there was no way she could lead him on all fours with that short lead, and got a smart kick in the side for his trouble.
"Thinking," she remarked coolly, clearly trying to model herself on her heroine, and doing a remarkably good job at it, "is not something which men are capable of doing or permitted to do. I decide when you get up. Get up."
Cleve got up.
"Sit!"
Cleve sat.
"Good, now we're getting somewhere." Jane hoped that miss Kreel had approved of the way she had dealt with Cleve's impertinence.
On her order, Cleve got up again, and followed her into the kitchen. When he reappeared every one burst into laughter. A cord no more than three inches long connected his ankles together and his knees. Together he could only take mincing steps.
Furthermore, he had been placed in knee-hobbles, which Augusta had provided earlier out of her large collection of bizarre restraints.
The knee hobbles were leather casings which snapped over the knees. They were shaped like a pipe joint, and consequently compelled the victim to walk with his knees bent at an angle, the knees sticking forward, the body painfully maintained erect.
A tight rope wrapped around Cleve's chest held his elbows in firmly to the sides. In front of him he carried in his aching fingers a huge tureen of scalding soup.
"Faster, faster, or the soup will get cold and the slave will get punished," Augusta said with a chuckle.
Jane walked beside Cleve laughing heartily at the latter's attempts to walk, and giving him an occasional prod in the ribs with a carving knife that she had found in the kitchen.
Cleve gasped and staggered, hardly able to breathe because of the uncomfortable position into which his knees and legs were forced. With something between a rabbit hop and walk, mincing as if he were a woman in a super-tight skirt, he strained towards Augusta. It was like that time only the day before, when he had struggled to reach her distant figure on the playing fields as the three little girls had flailed the living daylights out of him. His "Clowning" then had led to the severe discipline of today. The rhythm of life for a man: one day of pain flows naturally into another, with the punishments of the second day being the natural results of the stupidity of the day before, and that stupidity being something inherent in being a man.
He was almost at the high table with the huge soup bowl when all of a sudden he felt an agonizing searing pain in his right buttock. With a shriek he bucked backward and fell, spilling scalding soup all over his body, steaming, almost boding tomato soup, which covered him a laughable red.
Inwardly, Augusta smiled at Jane's cleverness. The girl had waited until just the right moment before jabbing her carving knife into Cleve's vulnerable ass, right when he had least suspected it. It was the surprise that made him drop the soup, for the knife jab, though painful, was not that painful. In typically stupid male fashion, Cleve had thought that since he had been allowed to almost reach his goal he would be allowed to go the rest of the way. He had been most on his guard at the beginning, when the punishment had started.
An intelligent creature, on the other hand, such as a woman, would have seen that the whole point of the exercise was to allow him to expend limitless pain and effort in trying to accomplish his task, and then make all the effort wasted and useless.
But there was no time, Augusta realized, to muse over the situation. There was a clumsy male to be punished instantly.
"You pig!" she screamed," just because you men like to wallow in your own filth and crumminess doesn't mean that we women do. How dare you spill tomato soup all over the floor? I'd make you lick up every last drop, but you'd probably enjoy that too much. Go get a kitchen mop.
Cleve did so still stunned by the catastrophe which had come upon him-for the dinner had only been intended as a respite to further punishment anyway, and now to that would be added yet more punishment, and more and more.
His skin felt like it would come off, so scalding had the soup been.
He was back in a moment with a mop used to soap the kitchen floor. With that he began to wipe up the soup.
He had brought a bucket into which to wring the full mob, but just as he was about to do so, he heard Augusta say, "do that buster, and you won't believe what hit you."
Lying at the ready on the table was Augusta's riding crop, so Cleve had a pretty good idea of what would hit him.
"W-what am I supposed to do with it."
"That's perfectly obvious, but at least you're learning no to try and think. Wring it into your mouth and drink it."
Cleve's face was a mask of agony at the thought of the unpleasantness in store for him, and he knew that this was just extra unpleasantness, brought on by his own masculine clumsiness, and had nothing to do with the much greater unpleasantness which was waiting for him once the lunch was over.
Slop, slop, the mop, filthy with floor-wax and soap and the crud that collects behind stoves and things slurped up the soup. Cleve held it hesitantly over his open mouth for a second, until a glance told him that a second longer, and he'd wish he'd died when he was little, if he didn't already. Then he wrung the vile blackish-orangish fluid into his mouth, and drunk it down.
Oh Heavens, he thought, I'm going to puke!"
The diamond-like glitter in Augusta's eyes told her she knew he was too, and could hardly wait.
With a heave, the soup and water came up Cleve's throat. He tried to keep his mouth closed, but couldn't, and the vomit poured onto the floor.
Normally the girls would have been disgusted during meal time to see someone puke, but they had no thought for disgust now, because the possible punishments that could now be inflicted upon Cleve for doing such an unmentionable thing were almost limitless.
"Bet she makes him lick it up," one little girl said to her fascinated neighbor. And of course she was right. "And if you vomit up your swallowed vomit," Augusta said, "you will simply have to lick it up again. And for each time you puke again, you will get twenty-five lashes in a spot even you haven't dreamed of."
Gagging and choking Cleve liked the vile liquid off the floor. Every muscle in his throat and stomach wanted to keep him from doing so but so terrified was he by Augusta's threat that he somehow managed to get it all down and lick the floor clean.
"I hope you've enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Litchfield," she remarked. "We try to set a good table her at Heatherrow."
Cleve's action in keeping the re-swallowed puke down would have been a noteworthy feat of self discipline, if it had not been inspired by one. of the basest of all motives, fear. There was no more connection between Cleve's act and self-discipline than there was between masculine stubbornness and feminine determination.
What Cleve wondered was whether the threat of 25 lashes for every time he re-vomited meant that he already had twenty five on the books for the first vomiting.
He most certainly did!
Finally the agonizing meal was over, and the tables were cleared away. The girls gathered around like vultures, wondering what would be done to Cleve Now.
Cleve found himself tied with big leather things, that bound his arms into his chest, while Augusta was armed with a long, wicked looking strap, just right for teaching impudent men a thing or two.
These were the twenty-five lashes in an "unheard-of place.
Jane, who was currently Augusta's favorite and hence hencewoman, brought down form the headmistress' room a sort of curious band. It consisted of a strap with two large cotton pads on the inside.
Passive and helpless, Cleve waited to find out what the possible use of the strange object could be. He assumed that it couldn't be for beating. After all, why would a discipline-strap need cotton pads? And surely it was that more-normal looking affair in Augusta's hand which was going to inflict the twenty-five lashes.
Jane reached forwards and placed the strap over Cleve's head so the two cotton pads covered his closed eyes, then she fastened it in the back.
It was a strap to protect his eyes! He was going to be whipped in the head and face! that was the unhard place!
"NO! he screamed. "NO! You can't."
"THAKK! a band of fire seared across Cleve's left cheek and left ear.
"Oh I can't, can't I?" Augusta said with malice. She was perfectly delighted at this momentary show of defiance, for once can't fall unless one is high up, and it is the humbling of male pride which is all the fun.
"Not only can I, and will I, but you have just doubled the number of strokes for your defiance."
"Oh please-oh mistress, I wasn't defying you, I swear I wasn't. It'd so hard to learn to be an obedient slave, particularly for a man like me."
"Are you implying that a woman would ever be enslaved? That her proud nature would ever bend to servitude more quickly (if indeed at all) than you impotent slavishness. Take that you pig, and another ten in addition!"
Augusta's clit was as hard as a pebble as she laid the lash onto Cleve's cheeks and nose and bruised, battered mouth, and flame-red ears, one after another. The chains of her weird bra were digging into her own flesh as her breasts struggled for liberty and as her nipples objected in vain against the confinement of the little leather cups. Augusta always liked to be slightly uncomfortable when inflicting punishment, so as to be sure not to be too lenient with the helpless victim who found himself a willess object under the cruel discipline of her lash.
Cleve gasped in pain as the strap cut his face and neck. Being whipped on the head was like being whipped in one's innermost part, for somehow the head was the most central part of one's being. And the humiliation of being unable to see, of being deprived of that vital sense, so as to not even be able to make a show of trying to defend oneself in that humiliating manner which is the only property of the slave: ducking to avoid the blows of the incensed mistress.
"Sixteen ... seventeen ... eighteen..." Jane counted to herself, as she watched the pain bomb explode on the side of Cleve's head. Her own delicate fingers found their way down to her crotch, and she figured that with no-one looking she could give her clit a little squeeze. A furtive glance around showed that she was not the only girl who had had that idea, for many others were-likewise stimulating the flow of their pussy-juices in a similar manner, or were feeling their nipples, sometimes rather harshly, through the fabric of their blouses.
For Jane it was a special pleasure to watch Cleve receive this fearful discipline, for she could congratulate herself on being the cause of it. It was she who had given the prod which had sent Cleve flying with the soup bowl, just as it was she who had bound him in such an artful way.
But, of course she had to admit that really all the credit belonged to Miss Kreel, who had supplied the hobbles, who had ordered Cleve to 'help with the serving'-thus giving Jane's imagination a chance to show itself in carrying out and interpreting these orders-who had made him eat his own vomit, and who had had the idea of whipping him on the side of the head.
"Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. ... " Cleve's brain was all foggy and his head just one round glowing hot cannonball, unable even to express his emotions because every expression was immediately changed by the pain following another cut of the strap.
No, Jane though, Miss Kreel was really wonderful. She was sure Miss Kreel had enjoyed the way she had performed in bed the night before, and sure she had appreciated the way she had made Cleve fall. Maybe ... just maybe, for Miss Kreel was fickle ... she would invite her again into her bed for some more of the heavenly lovemaking she had given Jane the night before. Ohh, that would be delicious. Jane's hard little clit tingled between her graceful thighs, and her nicely shaped breasts strained out against the fabric of her blouse. (Bras were not allowed at Heatherrow, except for the kinky bras that Miss Kreel sometimes wore.)
If Jane was hot from watching Cleve get the business, Augusta was even hotter from giving it to him. She had decided what Cleve's final torture of the day would be, and knew that it would relieve herself and a little someone of whom she was really very fond.
Forty-four, forty five . . , . .
And if Augusta's genitals tingled to every Thack! Thack! of the strap cutting into bare flesh, the blind-folded Cleve, naked and choking for breath, unable to see anything because of the protective blinker but well able to imagine the feminine eyes greedily feasting on his torment, was even hotter, with his pick standing up like a hard banana.
So hard that Augusta couldn't resists the temptation to divert the direction of her blows and lay it on down there too, so that as Cleve shuddered with the horrible cutting pain as the strap curled around skin supposed to feel girls' soft cunts and not cruel leather, he lost count of the blows, and then had to wait on the rest of the flogging of his head, when it resumed, without knowing if the last blow given him was the last of the series, or just the forerunner of another, and another and another.
Thack! Thack! Augusta had guessed that he must have lost count, and so she would lay three on extra hard and fast, as if they constituted something of a finale, and then wait for several seconds, until Cleve had begun to hope that this particular torment was over, before beginning again, harder than ever. Sensing what her beloved Miss Kreel was doing, Jane darted forward during one of the pauses and started to tug on the straps of Cleve's eye-guard so that he really thought the pain was finished, only to dart away again so that further discipline could be rained down on the absurd male head.
Thack! And it was over. Really over. Though Augusta stayed silent and left the guard on for a while so that Cleve would have to think that there might be at least one more coming. So typical of men, to see complexity where everything is simple to fall into traps which are obvious, and to suspect traps when there are none.
Off came the mask and Cleve fell in a half-faint onto the floor. His head was ringing, his nose bleeding profusely-and he feared that he would have to lick the blood off of the floor-his ears mangled and swollen, his lips so puffy that he could hardly have spoken even if given a direct order to do so.
A bucket of ice water, which had been cooling in the freezer for the purpose since dinner time was thrown over him to bring him to his senses, it cut like a knife, and was a cruel torment, because being brought fully to his senses simply meant that he would have to be aware that all the future held him was pain, and all the immediate future held was the prospect of immediate pain.
"Mr. Litchfield seems to like blood. Can any of you girls oblige him? I can't at the moment, I'm afraid."
One of the girls nearest the door darted out to the bathroom and came back in a second holding a bloody sanitary napkin which she had just been wearing.
"Excellent. I was thinking that Mr. Litchfield might oblige us by serving as a horse, and of course every bridle need a bit.
And of course, there was a bridle handy, a man-bridle, from out of Augusta's bottomless treasures of dominalia.
Cleve looked aghast at the red-soaked thing, with that special reek which is at once unpleasant and mfinitely delightful. What could be more logical than that Cleve, a man, should be tamed and directed by a sanitary napkin, when the sanitary napkin is one of the clearest indications of the female's biological superiority over the male.
"Open up, if you know what's good for you," Augusta's firm voice said.
Trying not to gag or vomit, Cleve opened, and the moist, bloody tasting thing covered as it was with fluid from a girl's most wonderful and private parts was crammed in his mouth. He felt himself choking as the weird "bit" was attached to the bridle, which was fitted over his head.
Cleve felt Augusta sit on top of him. She was heavy, but not too much heavier that the three little girls who had ridden him mercilessly out to the sports field.
"Alright girls, someone get on my shoulders."
A weight on Cleve's ass, then a heavier weight where Augusta was sitting told Cleve that a girl had climbed up and then climbed onto Augusta's shoulders. Having someone on your shoulders isn't painful at all, but having the weight of two females on the sag of your back is quite another matter!
"Giddap!"
Cleve lurched forward, and all the girls in the room followed him in a happy feminine torrent, kicking him in the ribs, flailing him on the bare ass with the riding crop, pulling his swollen ears.
Yank! A sharp pull of the rains and of the sickly-tasting bridle, symbol of man's abasement. Cleve turned the direction indicated.
"He didn't turn fast enough, Girls, lay it on!"
And they did with a vengeance.
Another turn, equally unpleasant, and then the staircase. Cleve could hardly believe that Augusta expected him to climb that with her and another girl on his back. In fact he was partly right, for Augusta was afraid that if he fell, the other girl might go over the banister, so she had her get down. But the remaining eight was terrible enough when it came to climbing stairs.
Step at a time Cleve struggled up. Augusta had her legs bent all the way back, so that the heels could give nasty little prods in the groin.
Gasping and panting, Cleve reached the top of the stairs. A yank on the bridle turned him in the direction of Augusta's bedroom. The other girls followed, giggling, for not all of them had seen the wonderful private chambers of Miss Kreel, though all had seen the office where the discipline was administered.
All this was Augusta's idea, and none of the other girls had any idea what this final torture of Cleve's was going to be, though they could imagine it would be worthy of its inventrice!
There was a knowing, womanly smile on Jane's pink little lips though, for she was sure she had guessed. She was bright as a button a real credit to her glorious sex.
In the bedroom, Augusta dismounted. Grabbing Cleve by the wrists, she forced him to get up. Although she preferred often to simply rely on her will and the hold she had over men psychologically to make sure her commands were carried out at once and to the letter, every now and then she liked the feeling of power she got from physically "womanhandling" a man.
The stunned Cleve got up, noticing that Augusta was twisting his wrists far more tightly that was necessary to restrain him, even if he had dared try and run away.
The subtlest tortures, Augusta had always thought, are those with a large element of psychological as well as physical suffering involved. She ordered Cleve to haul a small table next to her bed, and then to lie flat upon it. Grabbing his feet, she raised them straight in the air. Then taking hold if his hair she yanked his head and shoulders back, while Jane tied a cord to one wrist, passed it around behind the legs and tied it to the other wrist.
Another cord ran from the ankles down to the first one, which passed above the knees, bending the legs down in a painful fashion. A final cord, attached to the sanitary-napkin bit which had been replaced in Cleve's mouth bent his head back as far as it could go.
The result was that Cleve was lying on his belly, with his legs bent up and around towards his head, and his head and shoulders were bent back toward the legs, he formed, as it were, a sort of painful, "O."
The agony of this particular mode of discipline was, of course, intense, but that was not all there was to it. From where he was Cleve could not help looking directly at Augusta's bed.
"AH right girls, you may go to bed now. Jane, you stay behind with me."
Those few words told everyone of the magnificently ingenious punishment through which Cleve was to be put. He would have to spend the whole night in an acutely painful position, and what was more, he would have to spend it with his face inches from a soft, warm bed, inches from a couple of females enjoying all the physical pleasures, including those of physical love, which were permanently denied to him. Further, the way in which he was bound he had no possible way of touching his prick, of easing the-tremendous longing to masturbate that would surely build up there as he say the two females at play. Even masturbation, a low form of sex indeed compared to the sweet delights which women can offer one another would be denied him, as would be comfort, sleep, everything except the chance to meditate on his own hopeless situation and upon the degree to which he fully deserved it for being "a male.
With a sigh of relief, Augusta undid the fastenings on her kinky chain-bra. With another sigh she pulled off the skirt, which was sufficiently tight to have cut into her flesh somewhat. She sat down and tried to pull her boots off. She couldn't quite manage it so tight were they.
"Jane dear, would you please help me with my boots."
In those few words were contained all the difference between being a man and a woman. Although the request would have had to be obeyed, it was a genuine request, and not an order, for Augusta knew perfectly well that Jane would be delighted to obey, and the order, given that way to another female, had nothing degrading about it. Had it been Cleve to whom she had spoken, however, a special harsh tone would have been used, and the giving of help would have been interrupted by insults and beatings.
Jane smiled and kneeled in front of the older woman, grasping the boot in her hand.
Cleve, gasping for breath and wondering how he would ever be able to spend the night this way when he was sure he "couldn't take" another five minutes of this, realized that Jane, as she kneeled, must be looking directly up into Augusta's warm, moist cunt. His prick tingled as he thought how much he would like to be doing the same, instead of being bent over in this painful pretzel position and deposited on a table with less thought than one gives to the placing of a lamp of a vase. They, after all, can be attractive and useful, while no man can be either.
It wasn't just the sight of Augusta which made Cleve's balls pull up in a tight little snood. Jane had already taken off her blouse, revealing her exquisitely formed breasts, with the pink nipples already pouting at the prospect of another night with Miss Kreel. Jane knew from experience, however, that they would pant a good deal more once they felt the skilled touch of her heroine!
Augusta was smiling as she gazed down at the fresh young face with its super-refined features. As Jane pulled off the second boot, Augusta couldn't resist placing her hand right under Jane's breasts, clasping the chest, and then sliding the hands up the chest wall, so that the lovely globes bulged on top of them.
"Golly, how I'd like to be doing that," Cleve thought. "Shit, I'd be satisfied with a chance to beat off!"
But although as he looked at Jane he could easily imagine himself in bed with her having a good old fashioned fuck, there was another image which kept creeping into his mind as he looked at the lithe young body: that of Jane standing triumphant above him, wearing nothing but shorts and boxing gloves, the sweat glistening upon her breasts, those breasts on which Augusta was lavishing such loving attention.
"Here, darling, you helped me, I'll help you with your skirt." And so saying, Augusta, now a picture of naked loveliness, rose and unzipped Jane's skirt.
As the garment fell away, to reveal a pair of filmy panties which hid nothing of Jane's pubic moss, Augusta reached inside the panties from the top and poked a finger inside the fun cleft, while he stood somewhat behind Jane, cupping one of her breasts in the other hand and lightly kissing a perfectly formed ear.
Cleve yanked desperately against his cutting bonds, not out of hope of release, for he knew that was impossible, but out of sheer frustration at the contrast between the voluptuous world of sexy pleasure into which the two girls were entering, and his own world of sodden pain.
Augusta designed to spare a glance at her unwilling guest. She too was struck by a contrast-that between the elegance and beauty represented by Jane, and the insolent ugliness and crassness of Man as represented by the hapless Cleve.
How good it was to have her in her power! How good it was to humiliate him thus, while at the same time being able to taste the sweetest fruits the female sex has to offer-and those are sweet indeed!
Jane felt the prying finger of Miss Kreel fingering the pink skin of her girl-parts, and reveled in having been born a woman, in being able to enjoy the delights reserved for women.
Cleve, twisted like a face cloth being wrung, cursed the day he was born. He wasn't specifically cursing the day he was born a man, but that would come in the course of the night. When every second is so painful it seems like a minute, and every minute like an hour.
The night goes very slowly by.
Augusta withdrew her hand and whispered, "I must just attend to the lights, darling."
She turned them off one by one, leaving on a night light that she had in her drawer for some reason or other. The pale bluish light was just enough for Cleve to be able to see almost every detail of female loveliness, and to guess what he couldn't see.
When she turned to pull Jane into bed she burst out laughing. The little minx was already kneeling on the bed, and holding a luscious breast only millimeters away from Cleve's frantically stretching tongue.
"Go on, taste it," the graceful sixteen-year-old was saying in a silvery voice. I won't punish you if you do!"
The punishment was that no matter how he stretched out his tongue, till it was straining at the roots, the slightest fraction of space remained between it and the delectable rosebud.
"What a generous thing for you to do Jane," Augusta laughed, "offering yourself to our guest like that. But perhaps you should be even more generous
Jane picked up the cue and threw herself down on the bed, spreading her long, lovely legs up in the air. Her cunt was hardly an inch from Cleve's face.
"Oh shit," he thought it's been so long since I've had any, I'd kiss it if it were to cost me my life!"
How typical of strange, masculine desires, that a man should wish to press his lips and tongue against that delightful spot which is the symbol of the female sex and consequently a symbol of his own irrevocable inferiority!
At least he could breath in the smell of pussy fluid. If only he could touch, just once.
He dared not beg for a touch, not merely because begging rarely got one anything at Heatherrow, but because he realized the enormity of his request. Imagine, a male slave asking to be allowed to place his slimy lips upon a girl's nicest part! If a girl decided to present it to him as a matter or torment, that was quite another matter!
Augusta had crawled on the bed now, and was kneeling there, watching the proceedings and stealing glances at Jane's little cunt.
Jane now had her finger down there and was playing with her clit, right in front of Cleve's nose! Even by the limited light of the night lamp he could see the pussy fluid glistening in the mysterious feminine recessed.
"Save yourself for me dear," Augusta chided gently. Jane, who had been resting on her back did a neat little backward roll that ended with her sitting on the bed rather farther from Cleve, who had thought he was going to die when he saw the way the little breasts had bobbed during the somersault.
Augusta was still kneeling on the bed, and Jane copied her, aware of how much could always be learned from the mistress of pleasures.
There were things which Cleve could learn too, but they were harsher lessons-the abject status of the male! female superiority! the hopelessness of disobedience!
The two kneeling females were side to side, now, their asses and their cunts both facing Cleve as if too taunt his helplessness. They were pressing side to side, each with an arm around each others' shoulder heads turned to allow soft lips to meet soft, pink lips, in a lingering kiss of the kind that only lesbians-or rather, only women, for all women are fundamentally lesbians-know of.
Cleve felt as if his lungs were going to burst, so short was his breath as the action of the two women worked him up into a frenzy of hopeless lust which he couldn't even satisfy by touching his quivering penis. He was sure it would go off if he touched it just once of course he had already had a come once today. His cheeks burned as he remembered the humiliation of Augusta making him come in front of a school full of girls with a press of her heel as if she were touching the accelerator pedal of a car.
Both Augusta and Jane felt a swell of tenderness inside them as they gently mouthed each other. More serious pleasures could wait! And the thought of Cleve's tortured body and tortured soul bound only a foot away for them made their lesbo fun all the more exciting.
Augusta reached her arm all the way across Jane's slight back and was able with her finger tips to fondle the side of the hanging breast.
It was so good to be a woman, and to have breasts! each girl thought. It must be so vile to be a male and have a penis!
Slowly, Cleve was coming to think the same thing. He noticed the delicate tenderness existing between the two females, and he began to wonder wistfully what it would be like to be not a 39-year-old man, but slim, sixteen-year-old Jane in the bed with Augusta.
It wasn't just that that would give him as chance to make love to the magnificent Augusta. The very idea of being a girls, of having soft breasts and a softer cunt, and little monthly periods, all appealed to him immensely.
As before, his male pride surged up to make him stop thinking such thoughts, but every surge was weaker than the one before, as he slipped slowly deeper and deeper into true mental servitude. Such is the meaning of female domination when it is properly conducted.
Jane gently withdrew her lips from those of Augusta and planted them on the side of the older woman's neck in a gesture of respect and love. She loved to feel the dark locks cascade over the side of her face as she did so.
Augusta gently took the wrist on which Jane was supporting herself and pulled it away, so that both females fell giggling onto the bed.
The soft springs gave gently under them.
The hard wooden table didn't give at all under the dead weight of the parcel Cleve.
Now that they were both lying on their sides on the bed, they could snuggle close to each other, soft breasts to soft breasts, hairy mound to hairy mound. Their hands were already at each others' cunts, pulling the flesh that is the tenderest spot of a girl, feeling the juiciness of the hole, delicately touching the ! nerve-bomb which is the clitoris! Clit and slit! Girl fun!
Cleve had thought that girls had fun with men once, but now that he saw Augusta and Jane in action, he wasn't so sure that any girl would really be able to appreciate a man's clumsy, fumbling advances, his aggression with his big cock. Oh to be a girl!
Later, perhaps, Jane and Augusta thought, they would sixty-nine. But for the present nothing could be nicer than to lie facing each other, nipples pressed to nipples, mouths to mouths, exchanging secret love messages with their fingers.
Jane would give a particularly insistent feel to some particularly tender spot of her headmistresses' woman-flesh and revel at the thrill she would feel shudder through the other woman's body. Then one or the other of them-usually Augusta-would start some of the pleasant hurting, and this would continue until one or the other, usually Jane, would indicate by letting up on the other woman's labia that she liked what they were doing, but would like some tenderness too.
Slowly, in continuous pain, the facts of life were dawning on Cleve. He had glimpsed them before, when he had crawled forward to offer his tortured body to Augusta by licking her boots, and also when hanging from the ceiling doing the frightful splits. But in each case the pain had let up, and he had been able to partly forget, to resist the lesson. But now pain was part of his whole being. As an added torment, Augusta had placed a clock with a glowing dial where Cleve could see it, so he could watch how slowly the night was passing. Only ten minutes had passed so far, in parcels of five seconds, each of which seemed to Cleve the maximum time he could bear. Though, of course, there was nothing he could do even if he couldn't bear it, for the sanitary napkin stuffed in his mouth prevented him from even groaning.
Now, then, with pain coursing through his every joint, with pain, the only effective teacher of the dull male mind, accompanying his every second, the lesson he had learned before could be re-learned until it was permanently engraved on his memory, and the lesson consisted of four words: the superiority of women.
As he looked at the incredible tenderness with which Augusta and Jane were working their way up to orgasm, he felt ashamed of the crude aggression which he had committed on
Linda and other girls. As he remembered the sweet little cunt shown to him by Jane-a cunt which in a few weeks, or even a few days, would once again be menstruating-he felt ashamed of the vulgar meat which passes for the male sex-organs. He could never be a woman, however much he might like to, but at least he could obey woman, however much he might like to, but at least he could obey women, be their slave, show by his unquestioning obedience how well he understood the fact of his own necessary and natural subordination.
Jane and Augusta were reaching the point of climax now, and there was a dreamy quality-nothing jerky or frantic-about their motions as they fingered each other the rest of the way to the mutual come. It was a gentle come, with the two female bodies quivering against one another, with the two twats contracting on the long, silky fingers.
That was just the beginning of the night's fun, for certain. They would perhaps doze off now, and then one or the other of them would wake up in the middle of the night, conscious of the other's sweet presence, and with gentle fingers would call her partner to further delights.
Cleve, bent double on his table, exposed like and object desperately longed to be free. To touch the female bodies, though he was not sure he was worthy to do so, so spread his aching arms and legs. For no matter how much one recognizes the necessity of male pain, it is hard when it is inflicted not to wish that it was over. But it is just a hard when it is not being inflicted not to ardently desire it.
Cleve gasped and suffered as he lay on his table. But he also was beginning to understand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Nghhhhhh...." Cleve could only give a choked gurgle as his bonds were cut the next morning, allowing his tortured limbs to collapse lifeless about him.
He had spent the whole night watching the minute hand of the clock creep agonizingly from one minute to the next, and watching Augusta and Jane sleep and play.
No one sleeps perfectly still, and Cleve had seen the strange sort of automatic tenderness that caused the two women to snuggle close to one another even when unconscious, or to pass an arm over the other's shoulders as they turned gently in the soft warm bed, while a ridiculous male gasped for breath and counted it a miracle if in between glances at the clock two or three minutes had crept by.
Needless to say, two healthy young females can hardly be expected to occupy the same bed and just sleep all night, and so it was that just as Cleve thought that even in his hideous position he might be able to doze off, either one of the females would whisper something into the ear of the other, or gently squeeze her shoulder.
The other would have dreamily turned her lips, and there would be a heavenly half-asleep kiss. Then, the passions noised by the kiss would gradually waken the sleeper, and more and more active and passionate embraces would follow until the helpless Cleve had once again to witness the beautiful-but for him, the agonizingly tempting and frustrating-spectacle of lesbian love.
His penis had swollen and throbbed as he had seen silky hands caress soft breasts, delicate fingers probe the wonderful mysterious recesses of womanhood, recesses which he would never be permitted to enjoy, or what was worse, to have.
For who, watching two lovely women at play in bed, could resist the desire to become like them, to have a soft, wet cunt and smooth round breasts, with delicate pink nipples that turned hard in the moment of passion? Certainly not Cleve
At last he understood what life was all about, how it was only a quirk in history that these lovely creatures were not everywhere in command, with the most utter power over the vile and useless male!
Now morning had come, and it was their whim to set him free. Augusta had pulled a long knife out of her drawer, and had long dallied with it around Cleve's genitals. Only a passing whim would determine whether he was to be set free from the cutting bounds which forced his body into an impossible position and dug deep into his flesh, or whether he would have sliced from him the absurd organs which were the preposterous symbol of his natural subjection.
Even the most ardent believer in female rule knows fear, for fear is a matter of weakness, and men are by nature weak, so Cleve sweated cold sweat as he felt the keen edge rest playfully against the root of his scrotum.
"Would that she would at least leave me the penis!" he murmured silently to himself, not daring to plead, or say anything, or even breathe, in case his impudence in thinking that he had any right whatever to an opinion in his castration be used as an excuse for carrying out that fearful but so eminently natural operation.
In the end it was Augusta's whim not to relieve him of his balls ("I feel sorry for you, Mr. Litchfield, having to lug all that around, even though it's small by male standards"), but to instead use the knife to cut him free.
He had felt sure it would be the balls that would go, for at one instant the edge of the knife drew a few drops of blood. And even as every fiber in his body longed for him to shriek "Stop, I beg you!" the presence of the knife had brought an extra stiffening in the very organ which it was threatening with extinction! Such is the illogicality of males!
Seeing him lying on the table, Jane gave him a shove which sent him sliding off with a thump onto the floor. Getting up only meant getting up for more torture, but lying down meant the same thing. And somehow, the idea of following this voluptuous woman and this slim, elegant girl to further indignities and pain was not an entirely unattractive proposition.
Cleve tried to stand, but couldn't. The stiffness in his joints made it literally impossible, and every effort just made him slump to the floor, while Augusta and Jane shook with laughter while occasionally interjecting remarks such as "Didn't I tell you to get up?" in a joking, light tone which in no way lessened the seriousness of the implied threat of added discipline.
"Girls, come here!" Augusta shouted. A group did. "Mr. Litchfield still seems tired after a good night's sleep, so I would like you to help him downstairs."
This was the typical Augusta Kreel technique of training dominatrices by giving wide latitude in the manner of carrying out her orders, as long as the fundamental idea, "hurt the male" was preserved.
Little hands, strong in unison, grabbed Cleve's ankles and started dragging him out of the room. There was something almost restful in being pulled along like this, Cleve thought, until he realized that he was going to be dragged downstairs too.
Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! The pain of jolting from one step to another was great, and he was sure he could stand up and walk now, but to do so would be to spoil these little minxs' fun, and Cleve knew full well by now about the fury of a woman scorned, even if the women in question were only eighteen.
All he could do to protect himself was to maintain his head raised so that it did not bang on the hardwood steps. But the pain of the steps slamming one by one into his already aching shoulder was frightful.
Augusta was striding down alongside him. Between jolts he could see her towering over him. She was so beautiful, he thought though the pain.
The girls dragged him to his cell, where he was left and ignored. Heatherrow had a busy academic schedule, and the morning was to be filled with classes. So Cleve had a rest period, but he knew full well that its purpose was to allow him to recover enough to be able to live through the severe domination which would follow that afternoon.
Don't worry, you won't have to spend the whole day alone," Augusta had told him with a little sneer that made her fine face all the lovelier.
Before leaving him she had his hands tied behind his back so that he would not be able to masturbate while thinking of the scenes of the previous night.
But he was at least able to think, insofar as the male brain is capable of this at all. He had undergone a total transformation since coming to Heatherrow hardly more than a week before. Now he fully understood how logical and necessary it was that he be subjected to these frightful tortures for the rest of his life, even though he feared and dreaded them too.
The time passed quickly, as it always does when one is waiting for fresh discipline. It is only during the discipline itself that it slows down. The door swung open and two seventeen year old girls strode in. Grabbing him by the arms, enjoying the feel of "womanhandling" a man, they yanked him to his feet, one of them giving his left ear, still sore from the flogging he had received on his face, sharp flick with hw lovely long finger.
He was lead to the dining hall, the usual scene of his abasement. It was Augusta's whim that day that he not even be given his usual bowl of filthy potato peelings. He felt so hungry he would even have liked the chance to wring out a mop with tomato soup in it. The girls had finished their lunch, and were waiting eagerly with gleaming eyes, tingling clits and wet twats for the afternoon's discipline and fun.
To Cleve's horror a lighted brazier was standing in one cornel of the room, with a long handle sticking out of the top-the handle of a branding iron, no doubt, heating white hot on the bed of glowing coals.
Cleve realized how necessary it was that as the school's livestock, he be branded-though the thought made him tremble in every limb-but could only hope that the mark would be applied to some place other than his face. That, of course, would depend on Augusta's whim at the time, which could in turn depend on factors such as pre-menstrual tension, and so forth.
But that was to be a grand finale. Clearly other agony was in store for him too, to build up to a crescendo of pain.
Cleve was sat on the floor with his legs outspread, and his cock standing straight. Some of the girls gave it little nudges with the sharp toes of their shoes, as if to say, "We'll take the starch out of that, have no fear!"
Cleve closed his eyes, resigned to the pain to come, and hoping that if he couldn't see how frightful it was, he would somehow feel it less.
There was a funny feeling of something being sifted on his cock and balls. Surprised, he opened his eyes and saw that Jane was pouring sugar on them.
What was that little box that was being placed next to his cock. Long, soft hands-soft in everything except dealing with males, lifted the lid and turned it on its side.
Out marched an army of huge red ants, making right for the sugar sprinkled on his balls.
He screamed in horror. He had always had a loathing for insects, and now on top of the vile touch of the monsters he was going to feel their razor-like jaws on his most private parts!
First it was just the feel of the ants that he felt, as they crawled into every nook and cranny. Then a stinging sensation like that given by a nettle as the ants went for him, biting into the skin covering his balls and cock. They were biting in a million little places, until his whole mass of meat seemed afire with pain, as if some dominant woman were sticking needles into his balls one by one.
Cleve hastened to put that thought out of his mind, for Augusta often seemed to be gifted with telepathic powers when it came to divining his thoughts and twisting them in the most horrible way.
He was sobbing now and shrieking alternately, hardly able to catch his breath as the loathing and pain washed over him. The ants were drawing blood in their greed. Maybe they liked blood! Maybe they would continue until there was no meat left at all! He wasn't even worthy of being castrated by women, he had to be unmanned by ants! In his hysterical delirium he wondered vaguely if the ants were female. He suspected they must be, judging with the voracity with which they gnawed his most tender skin!
Another sound filled the air besides Cleve's screams, sobs and hopeless appeals for mercy-the laughter of women and the giggling of little girls, all naturally amused to see the male gun, so often used to threaten their sex, being submitted to discipline on the on the most humble of all creatures, except for the male!
Splat! Some liquid was tossed over his balls and the agony increased a thousand times. It was now as if his balls had been plunged into a fire of molten iron!
"You men always exaggerate things so absurdly," Augusta sneered. She had of course, guessed his thoughts, for he was thinking that perhaps sulphuric acid had been tossed upon his privates and would eat them to nothing. "After all, we want to preserve that little tool of your for lots more fun in the future!"
It had been pure alcohol that had been poured over Cleve's wounds, and the intense burning pain which it had caused was just a fringe benefit for the torturing females. Its real purpose had been to kill the ants so that Cleve's meat would be left intact for further torture, and so that the ants wouldn't get spread out and make life in the school a misery.
But as the pain gradually died away, Cleve realized that the even more dreadful moment was at hand, for Augusta, who was dressed in a bright yellow bizarre outfit that included skin-tight pants with no crotch and a nipple exposing bra, was standing over the brazier poking the coals. The heat was so intense that sweat stood out in little beads on her glorious bare midriff. Cleve twinged at the thought of how hot the iron must be.
Out it came, glowing a shade of very light red. It was not quite white hot, but it would do. It was in the form of a huge H, for Heatherrow. It might have well been in a giant D for discipline, the guiding principle of the school!
Even at a distance of several feet the heat from it was unbearably hot, and Augusta was bringing it gradually nearer, unable to decide what part of the tempting male anatomy it would be best to permanently disfigure with it. Unfortunately, the balls did not offer a flat enough surface, or a big one.
The searing metal came closer and closer to Cleve's forehead. That was it, then, that was where he was to be permanently disfigured. No ... she was taking it away, moving it to the ass.
Unable to see the progress of the blowing metal toward his twinging buttocks, able only to judge the slowly lessening distance by the increase in heat, Cleve could hardly bear the agony of waiting. He almost longed to feel the metal sear into his flesh, so terrible was the wait.
Horror! It was back now near his sweating face, and about to descend on his cheek!
"Please, please ... all powerful mistress, I know I don't have any right to beg of anything, I who am no longer a man, nor a human being, but just a quivering object at your entire disposal, and almost willingly so, plant the iron wherever you wish, as is your right to do so, disfigure me as much as you like, for I am yours utterly, but please, oh please, do it now."
"In fact," said Augusta, "I shall not do it now at all. It is not pity that has moved me, you sniveling, whining cur, but curiosity. The punishment I was about to inflict on you is the most terrible of all. I am curious to see if your taste for discipline, which you seem to at long last have acquired, extends this far. Girls, give Mr. Litchfield some farewell kisses."
The kisses came in the form of savage bites on every part of his body, inflicted by the ravenous little wolf-bitches as he writhes in agony. Then as if on a signal, it was all over.
"In one second, Mr. Litchfield, you will be free to go." And saying that, Augusta slammed a frightful kick into his balls that doubled him over with pain.
She stood silently watching as he tried to recover. Free to go? What did she mean?
"The mark of successful female domination," she said," is that the simpering victim, while hating it, cannot live without it.
Life under a domineering bitch is unmitigated hell and pain. Life away from her is unbearable boredom. The victim realizes, therefore, that he can never be happy again, for the rest of his days. I am curious to see if you will return of your own free will to Heatherrow, knowing that if you do you will never be permitted to leave again, and that the week of pain that has seemed unbearable to you will spread into an endless succession of weeks that will only finish with your death. If you come back, as I know you will, you will know that your manhood, your personality, your very being has been so annihilated that a life without rulers is unbearable to you. That is the final abasement of the male pride, the final triumph of the soft, sometimes bloody cunt over the hard but stupid prick. Go. And remember that if you come back, you will surely be branded on the face as a sign of your permanent and unending nothingness.
Drained of feeling, uncomprehending, Cleve staggered to his feet and back to his cell, the only certain thing in this crazy world. Female eyes devoured his limping figure, as the girls of Heatherrow realized what a subtle and clever dominatrice their beloved headmistress was, and how hopeless it was for a male to ever try to get out of her web!
CHAPTER NINE
Cleve glanced at Linda with a touch of pity. He thought Linda probably had never had a Lesbian experience in her life. What could she know about love? Certainly nothing connected with the vile things she had been foolish enough to allow him to do to her in the past, things which were matters of male aggression, not love, and for which men weren't really well equipped at all. The only part man could possibly have in the love act was that of passive pain objects. They were too low to deserve any pleasure of their own. It was enough for them if by their suffering, inflicted at will and by whim, they should provide pleasure to women! It would not be too unreasonable to expect a man to have to give his life simply so that some woman should be able to enjoy a passing masturbation.
Poor little Linda. Cleve looked at her as she stood there with the limp belt in his hand, utterly confused, a picture of the feminine passivity which Cleve had once though so delightful and which now seemed to him utterly boring and repugnant.
"Okay, honey," he said to her, "I guess that wraps it up for tonight. Sorry I'm not in better shape."
And as he saw her walk weakly away from his front door, all he could think of was Augusta marching away on her pencil-slim heels! His mind was made up, and at the thought of what he was going to do, his prick hardened into attention. He had a host of fantasies whirling in his brain now that the distraction of Linda was gone, he desperately wanted to beat off.
In the bedroom again, he pulled and worked on his swollen cock as his mind whirled round. He saw Augusta's cool, shapely legs towering above him as he lay gasping on the playing field. He felt the leathering straining across his back as little Ermengarde proved that a ten-year-old girl is stronger than any man, even one who like Cleve had been in the Marines in Korea. He felt the pleasure build up in his tool until it quavered with anticipation, as his powerful fingers stroked and stroked. Then, the gathering of the muscles in the small of his back before with great pulsating gushes that seemed to come all the way from his balls, he spurted his goo in a great arc on his belly. He could be potent enough when he thought the right thoughts, and as he fired, he thought of the humiliating way in which, with her heel, Augusta had turned him on like a tap for the girls of Heatherrow.
A sharp-pointed boot slammed into Cleve's face, causing him to reel back on all fours.
"Love! A beast, an object, a nothing such as you dares profess love! for me!! You will be severely punished for that, I promise you! Punished so the 'severe discipline' you received here a while ago will seem at last even to your stupid masculine mind like the child's play it was!"
Cleve shivered in delicious but genuinely fearful anticipation, for the severe discipline had included the whipping of the head, the ants, the hideous night spent tied up for eight hours in a position so uncomfortable that in ten minutes of it one literally feels more pain than most people experience in a lifetime. She turned on her heels and walked in the direction of the dining hall. Even Cleve knew what that meant, and he trotted obediently behind her on all fours towards his own punishment.
The little girl who had opened the door had run to tell her fellow pupils that that punching-bag had come back, and they poured down the stairs in a joyous flood, then sweet faces glowing with anticipation of the male humiliation and torture that they were about to see.
"Show Mr. Litchfield how welcome he is, and how glad we are to have him back, girls!"
