The tender teen slave was bound, gagged ready for raping.
Raped she would be-by her mistress, mad, majestic Clarissa.
Rochelle had once been a high school sweetheart, a beautiful cheerleader.
Now she was property-a slave-owned by Clarissa.
Rochelle writhed on Clarissa's silk-sheeted bed. She was nude, except for the gag in her mouth, and the ropes binding her arms.
Her pussy was nakedly exposed. To reinforce her slave status, her tender teen pubis had been shaved clean, smooth, and utterly hairless.
Clarissa was outfitted in an intricate black leather harness and high boots.
The purpose of the harness became apparent when she fastened a dildo to the harness.
Rochelle was young and still rather innocent, but even she could guess the purpose of the dildo, from its obscene erect shape.
It jutted stiffly from Clarissa's harnessed hips, bobbing as she came to the bed.
Clarissa spread Rochelle's bare legs and reached for her hairless pussy-
CHAPTER ONE
Young Dr. Tucker was being followed.
He had left the big house on the hill and come into town this morning. His stated purpose was to pick up some sundries and notions, personal items unavailable at the secluded estate located outside of town.
Other, more compelling reasons had sent him to town.
There was the constant, heavily oppressive atmosphere which pressed down on the house on the hill, and the occupants therein.
Dr. Tucker was a scientific man-quite brilliant. Even if he couldn't get the job he wanted in his field at this time.
He was a sensitive man, and the eerie atmosphere at the estate was overly intense.
It was good to get away for a time, good to leave the house and its bizarre denizens, and walk in the sunlight in a city of men.
Town, really, a large town with a population numbering some thirty thousand souls, a town in the Northeastern United States.
It was early fall, with chilly nights and dawns. But the days were still warm.
Dr. Tucker strolled down Main Street during the rush hour.
Dillsworth was the largest town in the county, a small county admittedly. Main Street, a broad avenue, was thronged by cars.
Its sidewalks teemed with pedestrians. It was noon, the lunch hour.
Offices had temporarily emptied out, spilling the drones out in search of lunch, to mingle with the shoppers on the thoroughfares.
It was good to be out in the open, with a host of sane, normal people.
Sometimes it seemed that sanity was in short supply, back at the estate.
Tucker loitered on the corner, standing close to a lamp post to remove himself out of the streaming flow of pedestrian traffic.
He was in his early thirties, young indeed to win his doctorate and to have published the advanced, important papers in his field.
He was handsome, well built, six feet tall, weight 180 pounds, none of it fat. He had a full head of handsome, wavy brown hair.
He was clean shaven, pale perhaps from too much time spent indoors, in the lab.
He had warm moist brown eyes, high forehead, tortoise-shell spectacles, strong chin, sensitive well formed mouth.
His shoulders were broad, his physique trim and well formed, torso tapering down to lean hips, his bearing easy with athletic grace.
He wore a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, a sweater, white shirt and tie, loose-fitting gray slacks, socks, shoes.
He paused to fill his pipe and toke up ... tobacco, naturally.
As he tamped the shredded tobacco from the pouch into the pipe bowl, he watched the passing parade go by.
There were farmers in town from the outlying districts, their wives, businessman on their lunch hour, traffic cops, kids, schoolgirls playing hookey.
An attractive young lady caught his eye.
She was a striking creature, in her early twenties, tall and slim and lithe, with red hair neatly styled and a finely featured face.
Young, attractive, well dressed, she was most likely a secretary or receptionist at one of the big companies in town.
Dillsworth was not the sort of advanced town where women executives were to be found in any great number.
The girl was a luscious redhead. She wore a ruffled white blouse, pale green blazer jacket, matching green skirt, tan shoes.
She walked with a bold stride and her heels click-clacked on the pavement.
Dr. Tucker looked appreciatively at her as she passed.
She was a stunner, all right.
He started to light his pipe. He struck a wooden match, cupping the flame to shield it from extinguishment.
The girl drew abreast of him. She was on the far side of the sidewalk, out of his way, but as she drew abreast, he came to her attention.
She looked at him, her gaze bright and bold and hot-eyed.
Gazes locked for an instant. She had not broken stride. The instant passed, and she continued on her way.
He watched her go. Her skirt was tight across the rounded globes of her buttocks, and as she walked, her bottom jiggled enticingly.
Pain flared in his hand.
In his interest in the girl, he had forgotten about the wooden match which had continued to burn, until it scorched him.
"Ouch! Damn!"
He dropped the charred matchstick from his fingers. They smarted where licked by flame. Gingerly, ruefully, he rubbed them.
He shook his head at his own stupidity. Carefully lighting another match, he lit the tobacco in the bowl, igniting it.
Beautiful girl! He had been instantly attracted to her, and, unless he missed his guess, she was not immune to his attraction.
But she had gone her way, and he his, and the odds said that might have been never would be, and that he would never set eyes on that beautiful redheaded stranger again.
Smiling ruefully, he puffed his pipe. He wondered where one could meet a charmer like that, in Dillsworth.
Was she married? No way to tell? Where did she go to play? What bars, cocktail lounges, restaurants, cliques, did she partake of?
The entertainments of the town of Dillsworth were a mystery to him.
Tucker was from out of town-indeed, from another part of the state. He had come here in order to take his present position.
He came into town but rarely, since he lived in a suite of rooms in the big old house owned by his patron, Clarissa Drogan.
During his infrequent free time, he did not prowl the watering holes and lounges of the town, looking for pickups and romance.
After all, he was a married man!
When he did have time off, he took the long train ride to the city, where he rendezvoused with Lynn, his beautiful wife.
Dr. Tucker was but recently married, within the last year, and was a man quite devoted to his wife, as well as physically enchanted by her.
He now saw Lynn but rarely, approximately three days out of every fourteen-day cycle. This was frustrating in the extreme.
For all his scholarly disposition and habits, Dr. Tucker was a man of strong passions and desire, with a more than healthy appetite for carnality.
He and Lynn had formerly copulated at least once every night. Never did he tire of the charms of her face, her flesh.
Since he had taken the position in Clarissa Drogan's employ, and lived at the estate, far from home, he had become quite, well, horny.
He was partially able to channel his sexual energies into his work, so that the more he desired Lynn, the harder he plunged into his researches.
But it was not easy, living at the big house. He believed that he was the only rational person under that gabled roof.
He would be glad when the project was completed.
He sensed, prayed, that it would be completed soon-successfully.
The research had arrived at a critical point now. Certain obstacles in the nature of the experiment were stubborn roadblocks.
Still, he intuited that a breakthrough was imminent.
Even if he was temporarily stymied. He had gone over the problem so many times that he feared he was growing a bit stale.
This trip into town had helped to refresh him ... although the sight of the redhead had reminded him of his physical desires.
He studied the passing pedestrians, no two alike. Each face bore the stamp, the personality, of he or she who wore it.
He speculated on different characters as they passed by.
That man with the thick features, work-gnarled hands, faded blue coveralls-a farmer, obviously, from the rich lands outside of town.
Or that woman there ... old, with stiff blue hair and equally cold blue eyes, eyes sharp as a pin, dressed all in black.
Interesting type. And that man there, with the hat and Van Dyke-
Dr. Tucker frowned.
Yes, that man standing in front of the drugstore, that man who wore a hat and a fine-tailored three-piece business suit-who was he?
A feeling of deja vu, so powerful as to sweep over him with a wave of near giddiness, pricked at his memory.
He had seen this total stranger before, on other occasions.
And the man knew him, that was obvious!
Frowning, furrowing his lofty brow, Tucker turned his attention to the stranger.
The stranger was a tall, handsome, one might even say distinguished man in what seemed to be his late forties.
Tall, slimly elegant, waspish, he carried himself with urbane assurance.
His clothes were conservative, custom-tailored, infinitely clean. His black shoes, oddly shaped, shone like hard coal.
The stranger had hair (what could be seen of it, not covered by the hat) which was straight, jet black, inky.
He had a gaunt, hollow face, with jutting cheekbones, deep eye sockets, a thin straight nose, cynical tightlipped mouth.
His neatly trimmed Van Dyke was trimmed with gray. Inside hollowed eye sockets were a pair of bright, glittering eyes.
He returned Dr. Tucker's searching gaze with cool confidence.
The stranger's lips quirked upwards at the corner in a small, tight smile.
Who the devil was the fellow?
Tucker knew he had seen him before, but had no idea of his identity. Whoever he was, he hardly seemed a townsman, with his cosmopolitan elegance.
Tucker looked away, breaking the gaze.
The stranger's smile widened.
Tucker was irritated. His imagination was working overtime. Whoever this fellow was, he was a stranger to Tucker, and a stranger he would remain.
No wonder that he was starting to let his apprehensions prey on him-the macabre setting of the old house would work on even the most iron-nerved!
On impulse, he decided to ring Lynn on a long-distance call.
It would be a pleasure just to hear her voice, chat with her.
There were phones in the drugstore, pay phones. He started forward.
The stranger reached into his jacket, into an inside breast pocket, and walked toward Dr.
Tucker.
The fellow came right up to Tucker, so that Tucker was forced to halt.
Of all the arrogant gall-
Dr. Tucker's face flashed hot and red, but, before he could speak, the stranger pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the scientist.
"This is for you, Dr. Tucker."
"What? Who-who are you?!"
"Please, Dr. Tucker. The envelope. Take it please."
The stranger put the envelope in Tucker's hand.
Saying no more, he turned and rapidly walked down the sidewalk.
Tucker stared at the envelope. It was a standard, legal-sized envelope, with no stamp, and no writing on the outside.
"Say! Wait a minute! Hold on, there!"
Dr. Tucker started after the stranger.
The stranger glanced over his shoulder and saw Tucker coming for him. His eyes flashed and he smiled cynically.
He quicked his pace, ignoring, actually evading the scientist.
Tucker hurried down the sidewalk, jostling a few pedestrians who scowled at this handsome but seemingly discourteous fellow.
"Say, there!"
The stranger halted in front of Krug's Department store.
He waited until Tucker had almost reached him.
"Hold on there, I want to ask you a few questions-"
"Some other time, Doctor Tucker."
"How do you know my name?"
"Don't lose the envelope, Doctor. You will find it most beneficial."
"Wait-"
"Au re voir, Doctor."
The stranger stepped into the whirling revolving door.
He entered the store.
Tucker followed-briefly.
Tucker determinedly stepped into the next section of the revolving door.
Like most revolving doors, this model consisted of a vertical pole which spun about on its axis. From it branched four glass doors.
Each of the doors partitioned the interior into four quadrants. The door constantly spun, with people entering and exiting the store.
As soon as the stranger entered the store, Tucker followed.
Here the stranger played him a clever trick.
As soon as he was inside, he turned, facing the spinning door. Tucker was inside one of the four separate partitions.
In the ordinary course of events, he would have pushed the door through and stepped into the store-but the stranger forestalled that.
When Tucker was inside the door, the stranger stepped forward, wedging his foot against the metal runner at the base of the partition.
He also used his palms to block.
The door stopped revolving.
Dr. Tucker was surprised and thrown off balance. He stumbled.
The door was stopped, penning him in a glass-walled cage.
The stranger acted quickly now. Up at the top of the door were metal bolts, mounted on the framework, which locked the door at night.
The stranger pulled these bolts down, so that they blocked the door. Tucker was penned.
He pounded the glass partition. It boomed dully.
The stranger stepped back, mockingly tipped his hat, turned, and vanished into the depths of the store, to exit via the rear.
A great commotion ensued. Shoppers gathered around the door. Tucker was trapped until a security guard came along to investigate.
The guard threw the bolts and pushed hard at the door, spinning it once more. Once stopped, it was heavy and hard to start.
Store personnel were extremely apologetic, for what they thought was some prank, or accident committed on Tucker.
Tucker just wanted to get out of the store and away from the crowd of smirking, neck-craning curious folk who clustered around.
It had been hot in that revolving door, and he was clammy with sweat.
Not until he was a few blocks away from Main Street, and seated on a park bench close to a pigeon-draped statue, did he remember the envelope.
He still held it clutched in his hand, now much begrimed and damp with his sweat.
He stared at it, holding it up to the sun to determine its contents.
It seemed to hold a sheet of paper and nothing more.
Paranoia made him toy with the idea that it was a letter bomb, or some such sinister device designed to do him harm.
Clarissa Drogan, and the even more bizarre Maria Manta, were types who swam in strange, dangerous currents of mystery and intrigue.
Their oddity was one of the major reasons why he had insisted that his wife stay home, not living with him up in the house on the hill.
Dr. Tucker was mystified by this day's odd events.
All the same, while he surely had reason to be disturbed, he could not credit the concept that he held a letter bomb or destructive device.
The stranger who had so cleverly foiled him, would hardly need take such elaborate measures if he should desire to eliminate Dr. Tucker for whatever reason.
Curiosity won out, of course.
Tucker tore open one end of the envelope, pulling out a piece of common typing paper, neatly folded in three.
He opened it and read its message:
"TRY A .033 MILLITER INFUSION OF ENGSTROM PRECIPITATED NUCLEONIC SOLUTION. ADD 2.5 MILLITERS OF HORMONAL EXTRACT."
That was the message.
Pure double-talk to all but a handle of superbly advanced scientific brains who understood the state of the art developments in cellular chemistry.
Dr. Tucker stared at the message.
His first reaction was one of insult. After all, he had worked on the problem for months, including six weeks of intensive lab work here.
He was as expert as any in the field. Yet a total stranger dared to presume to advise him on the proper way to complete a key stage in the process!
This momentary impulse of anger was replaced by wonderment.
Amazement.
Who could have written such a statement?
Not only did it presuppose a mastery of bio-chemistry, but it was so completely in accordance with Tucker's current research that it was uncanny.
Had the stranger, then, been a scientist?
But Dr. Tucker knew all the top people in the field, by picture if not in person, and the stranger was just that to him-a stranger.
Most importantly of all-what if he was right?
Rochelle's training was ... incomplete.
Clarissa Drogan did not particularly blame the girl in this matter.
When a slave is ill-trained, or poorly trained, blame falls on the master.
Or mistress, as the case may be.
Clarissa Drogan was the mistress of Rochelle, and of the old mansion on the Gryndyke estate outside Dillsworth.
Rochelle was a recent acquisition ... a beautiful cliild, but willful.
Clarissa had really not had the time to properly indoctrinate the girl. The ongoing PROJECT: HERMETAMORPHOSIS occupied virtually all her energies.
Still, even under the press of events, Clarissa still managed to find the time for delicious diversions of the carnal variety.
Clarissa lounged indolently in her boudoir, being orally serviced by Rochelle.
The boudoir was located on the second floor of the south wing. It was a vast spacious room whose space was broken up by furniture and screening panels.
Clarissa lay in bed. The bed was an antique four-poster with overhead canopy. It had a plush mattress and satin sheets.
The roof was gabled, giving the ceiling a skewed slant.
Tall wide windows looked out on the south iawn, a rolling meadow which rose to the tall cliffs overlooking the river.
Curtains were covering the windows. Clarissa disliked too much sun.
She was a creature of the night.
Today was the bright, shining, radiant sort of day she detested. With the curtains down, the room was thrown into some sort of proper gloom.
A round frosted glass bulb masked the wan lamp burning on her night table.
Clarissa lay naked in bed, her slave crouched between her spread legs.
She slumped against pillows propped against the headboard. Her long legs were extended.
Clarissa Drogan was young, rich, haughty, beautiful, and very, very bizarre.
She was in her mid-twenties, but looked ten years younger.
Her long straight hair was reddish-gold, falling to the middle of her back and breasts. She now wore it free, unbound.
She was long, slim, girlishly slight. She had the face of a young girl, a face of quite extraordinary loveliness.
She had finely formed facial features. Her eyebrows were thin, pale, so fair and light as to be nearly transparent.
She had green eyes, a thin straight nose, ripe strawberry colored lips. Her flesh was pale and glowing, like ivory.
Her breasts were pear-shaped, high, firm, with pert pink nipples.
Her hips were lean, the pelvic bones jutting. She had a fluffy, reddish bush, its hair color darker than the hair on her head.
Her pussy was a narrow cleft with thin, delicate rose-colored lips.
She lay with her long legs spread.
Her slave crouched between those legs.
Rochelle was a new toy.
A quality of Rochelle's which Clarissa found particularly stimulating was the fact that Rochelle resembled the popular conception of a high school sweetheart.
Rochelle was very pretty, with the wholesome good looks of the girl next door. She had those classic, all-American good looks.
Clarissa, by contrast, was more exotic. Her quirky personality, her obsessions, showed in her face, giving her an offbeat quality of attractiveness.
Rochelle was seventeen, a high school dropout turned slave.
She was young, healthy, wholesome. She had wavy brown hair, a full-breasted body, a lush bottom, strong thighs, juicy pussy.
She had light brown eyes, a sassy upturned nose, a pink-lipped mouth. Freckles were scattered over her cheeks and nose.
Her flesh was creamy pink, her breasts were the size of grapefruits, with fat pale pink nipples ringed by wide aureoles.
Around her neck was locked a black collar.
Her slave collar.
This collar consisted of a band of thin, flexible, tough metal shaped into a collar, then completely covered by a layer of stiff black leather.
The inside of the collar was further cushioned against chafing by a pink satin lining filled with stuffing.
The collar fit snugly but not chokingly around Rochelle's neck. Its twin edges were secured with a small padlock, to which Clarissa controlled the key.
Rochelle knelt on folded legs, bottom perched on the backs of her heels.
She huddled with her breasts pressing the tops of her taut thighs.
Her arms lay along her sides.
Her head was between the legs of Clarissa, with her face pressing the crotch of her mistress, her mouth fastened to the slitted succulent pussy.
Clarissa luxuriated under oral servitude.
"Lick me," she said distractedly.
"Yes, mistress," Rochelle murmured.
In high school, where she had been a cheerleader, member of the student council, functionary in various school-sponsored societies and gatherings, Rochelle had been a high-spirited, exuberant, boisterous young miss.
Under the rule of Clarissa, Rochelle had been subdued in her personality as well as in all other ways.
She was now soft-spoken, demure, polite, obedient, respectful.
Dutiful.
She stuck out her tongue and applied it to Clarissa's pussy.
She licked up and down the luscious slit. Her masses of wavy brown hair massaged the hips of Clarissa as Rochelle's head bobbed up and down.
She tongued the intricate folds of the pussy lips.
"Now, inside," Clarissa commanded.
Rochelle framed the slit with her parted lips. She pressed her tongue tip against the pussy lips, and pushed it in.
She inserted her extended tongue into Clarissa's slit.
It was tightly gripped by slippery, narrow-walled membranes. Wet with juices that tingled on Rochelle's tongue. Hot, humid, syrupy.
Rochelle licked the pussy walls, lapping down Clarissa's secretions.
As soon as she licked them up, more oozed from the pores of the pussy to replace them.
Clarissa was a young lady with a great deal on her mind. Many important, pressing problems approached the crisis point.
Her mind turned over schemes, plots, plans, strategems, patterns.
Abruptly she realized that she was bored.
"Stop," she commanded curtly.
She needed something more raw, stronger, to fire up her blood.
Rochelle lifted her wet face from Clarissa's slit.
Alarmed, she said, "Have I-have I done something wrong, Mistress?"
"Oh, do be quiet, Rochelle!"
Rochelle was now very alarmed. Her pink face paled. She raised a hand to her open mouth. She blinked rapidly, repeatedly.
Clarissa pressed the electric buzzer by the night table to summon her servant.
Rochelle moaned. "Oh, Mistress, what have I done wrong? What?!"
"For one thing, you silly little girl", you don't know how to obey! I just told you to shut up, and you immediately speak thereafter!
"Worse than that, though, you begin to bore me!
"What you really need, my little miss slave girl Rochelle, is a good deal more seasoning from my disciplinarian!"
"Oh no, Mistress!"
"Oh yes, pet! I've summoned Sophronia to escort you to the attic! And here she is now, at the door, to take you away to your punishment!"
Amazonian Sophronia entered the room-
CHAPTER TWO
Sophronia put docile, dewy-eyed Rochelle into restraint.
Sophronia was a towering female, overwhelming in her powerful physique.
She was of Greek origin. She came from a rocky island whose people were renowned for their physical prowess, males and females alike.
She stood close to six feet tall, in her bare feet.
She was powerfully built. Gifted with an impressive, big-boned physique, she had improved it with scientific weight training techniques.
She was a female body builder, boxer, wrestler.
Female, yes-but no lady.
Her black thick hair was choppily cut to frame a dark helmet framing a wide face.
She had thick dark brows, dark brown eyes, a large nose, wide mouth.
Her skin was swarthy, her features Mediterranean.
She had broad shoulders, a solid torso, wide hips. Her shoulders and arms were impressively muscled, with good definition.
Her excellent body tone helped support a pair of melon-sized breasts.
The costume, or lack of costume which she now wore, exhibited her assets.
She wore only a brief, black triangle of fabric which covered her crotch, and covered that just barely, displaying much.
From the knees down, her strong shapely calves were sheathed in black leather boots which laced in criss-crossed stitching up the fronts.
The boots were flat-heeled, rather than high-heeled.
Such as Sophronia had little use or patience with frills, fashion, ornamentation.
Entering the boudoir after being given permission to approach, Sophronia crossed the room, halting at the foot of the bed.
Her face was blandly expressionless as her cool gaze took in the bed, Clarissa with legs spread and wet pussy, Rochelle.
Sophronia bowed, nodding her head respectfully.
"At your command, Mistress."
Her voice was thick with an accent. She spoke little English, but enough to understand the desires of her mistress, many of which she shared.
Clarissa had come across this startling creature while on a cruise of some of the more obscure Greek isles during a recent summer.
As soon as she set eyes on the Amazon, Clarissa knew she must have her.
With little difficulty, Sophronia was added to Clarissa's entourage. Many slaves, male and female, had come and gone, but she remained.
Rochelle stood on her knees on the bed, face all pale.
Clarissa pointed at her. "This slave girl requires discipline. Take her to Nola for a session of correction!"
Rochelle moaned, nervously chewing a knuckle, but remained silent.
Clarissa went on: "Tell Nola that I want the girl to have one hundred with the paddle, fifty with the strap, and twenty-five with the switch."
Rochelle cowered, trembling as sentence was passed.
Clarissa asked dryly, "Will you remember all that, Sophronia, or shall I write it all down on paper for you to bring to Nola?"
"I will remember, Mistress."
"I'm sure you will."
Clarissa sat up in bed, her pink-nippled, sharply pointed breasts bobbing.
"One more thing," she added. "After the discipline, have Rochelle locked into one of the chairs for an hour."
Rochelle's face was white and drawn, Sophronia's, impassive.
"Very good, Mistress."
"Oh, and Sophronia ... "
"Yes, Mistress?"
"Feel free to make what use you desire of Rochelle."
"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress."
"Don't be too harsh on the poor dear slave girl, Sophronia. After all, our little Rochelle is so very sweet!"
Clarissa said the word, "sweet," with distinctive malice.
"Go on now, Rochelle, and take your punishment like a good girl!"
"Yes, Mistress Clarissa!"
A sob choked Rochelle's voice. Her face trembled from the effort of holding back her tears. Her eyes were moist.
"Don't be a bore and cry, Rochelle. On your way, now."
"Yes, Mistress Clarissa. Th-thank you for letting me be with you."
"You're so very welcome, child. You may kiss my foot."
Rochelle lowered her head. Taking hold of Clarissa's foot and holding it on her palm, Rochelle feelingly kissed the top of the foot.
"That's all, Rochelle. Your session with Nola awaits. Take your medicine like a great big girl, and all will go well with you.
"If I get a good report on you, Rochelle, I may look with favor on you tonight, and possibly even allow you to amuse and entertain me later!
"Say nothing. Nola awaits. Sophronia will secure you for the trip upstairs."
Rochelle cast a last longing lingering glance at Clarissa, then climbed off the bed and meekly, timidly to Sophronia.
Her head was bowed, her eyes downcast, her steps slow and shuffling.
From a clip on her leather utility belt, Sophronia took a length of thin, quite tough nylon rope.
"Bend forward, Rochelle ... hands behind back."
Rochelle leaned forward from the waist, bending at a ninety degree angle.
Her heavy breasts dangled, swaying softly from side to side, jiggled by her trembling. She chewed her lower lip.
Sophronia formed a loop in the length of rope and threw it over the girl's hands.
Pulling the loop tight, she threw some hitches around it.
Rochelle's wrists were tied together, binding her hands behind her back.
Sophronia positioned Rochelle physically, rather than by verbal command.
Sophronia, after binding Rochelle's hands, stood the girl straight up.
Distressed and dismayed, Rochelle fidgeted and squirmed.
Rising from the black slave collar, attached to it, were a number of metal rings, for various purposes of restraint.
To one of these rings Sophronia attached the metal clip at the end of a dog chain, a leash about five feet long.
The opposite end of the leash terminated in a leather loop, which Sophronia slipped over her hand and around her right wrist.
These restraints were used for psychological purposes.
Mighty Sophronia was more than a match for the toughest of men, and handling a little snip of a girl like Rochelle was quite literally child's play.
She could easily manhandle Rochelle without restraints.
No, this bondage was used to help prepare Rochelle for her discipline session.
The bondage, the ritual of binding the hands and fastening the leash, all helped put the victim, Rochelle, into the properly intimidated frame of mind.
Clarissa sat up in bed, keen-eyed and alert, interested.
As she watched Rochelle being locked into restraint, Clarissa was aroused more even than she had been while being orally serviced by the slave girl.
After all, she could be eaten any time she desired.
She was jaded. She needed a more powerful, more cruel stimulus.
Seeing the girl secured aided that ... and the thought of what anticipated sweet suffering Rochelle upstairs positively thrilled Clarissa.
Her nipples tingled, puckered, stood out stiff and upright.
Sophronia looked questioningly at Clarissa.
"You may go, Sophronia. Take Rochelle to Nola."
"Yes, Mistress. Come along, girl."
Sophronia tugged on the leash. Rochelle started forward, following.
Sophronia exited the bedroom with Rochelle in tow. As she crossed the threshold, Rochelle cast an appealing, woeful glance over her shoulder at Clarissa.
Perhaps she foolishly hoped that her mistress would take pity on her at the last instant, and rescind the ordained discipline.
Clarissa's small smile was icy. She blew Rochelle a mocking little kiss.
Sophronia impatiently tugged the leash.
Rochelle was jerked forward. She gave out a little anguished cry.
Sophronia tactfully eased the door of Clarissa's boudoir closed.
Clarissa crawled across her bed on hands and knees, reaching for the night table.
She opened the top drawer in the table, a drawer filled with devices.
From it she selected a vibrator.
It was smooth, streamlined, seven inches long from tip to base, thick, and made of a flexible ultra-slick pink plastic.
Clarissa flopped down on her back in bed and spread her legs.
She flicked on the little black switch at the vibrator's base.
The vibrator hummed, buzzing with power, vibrating.
Clarissa settled in for a session of heated masturbation.
She pressed the huming head of the vibrator to her soft flesh, exciting it.
She pressed it to her sensitive nipples, which were stiff and throbbing.
Her nipples were points of pink flesh, hard as pebbles but warm. They seemed to sing with sensation when caressed by the vibrator tip.
She massaged her sensitive bosom with the vibrator.
She worked the device downward, rubbing breasts, belly, hips, inner thighs.
Her pussy was still wet from Rochelle's earlier oral service.
Wet, inside and out ... soon to be more so.
Clarissa raised her long legs, bending them at the knees.
She put the humming vibrator between her legs.
She was too sensitive to directly press the vibrator to her. She first rubbed the head outside the borders of her labia.
She gasped when she first touched her pussy flesh.
It was almost too intense to stand, and she eased off to a feather touch.
She brushed the humming head glancingly over her pussy lips.
She soon became accustomed herself to the super sensations, which shot through her pussy lips like electric currents.
She closed her eyes, heavy-lidded slits glimmering with lust.
She braced her heels into the mattress and rocked her hips. She worked them so her pussy rubbed back and forth against the vibrator.
Her face blushed a deep pink, while her pussy lips glowed a rich rose.
Her slit seethed with hot syrup.
She dared press the vibrator in her slit, running its wickedly humming tip up and down the honeyed trench.
The massage coaxed fresh secretions to come dripping from within.
They coated the vibrator head, gleaming on it.
Clarissa put the vibrator inside her.
Would she faint from such intense sensation?
Not as long as she only kept the vibrator inserted for a short interval.
Presently she was ready to move in for the kill.
She probed delicately for her clitoris.
It was a hard little marble of pearly flesh which now was full and swollen.
She cried out from the first touch of the vibrator.
She had to just flick it against her clitoris, time and time again, as if she were tapping out a message in morse code.
That was the only way she could prevent being overwhelmed all at once.
The communication was received, and she orgasmed.
As she came, she pulled her hand out from between her thighs, grabbing the vibrator away from her climaxing clitoris.
The clitoris was the flashpoint of the sizzling explosion inside her.
She writhed, groaned, choked, gasped, body jerking with convulsive ecstasy.
She moaned heavily, the vibrator slipping from her fingers, still humming away.
She rolled on her side, pressing her thighs together against her pussy.
She lay breathless and gasping for a long time.
Meanwhile, Rochelle was chained to the attic wall.
The mansion was a sprawling construction from the turn of the century. Even in that overly ornate age, this house must have seemed curious indeed.
It consisted of towers, cupolas, gables, peaked roofs, oddly slanted wings, verandahs, odd sections, a mish-mash of different styles.
It was isolated, and perfect for the purposes of Clarissa.
The attic had been redone into a punishment chamber and disciplinary area.
The attic itself was vast and sprawling, so vast that as yet only half of the space had been reclaimed from a century of neglect.
That half had been cleaned, redone, repaneled, prepared.
The walls and floor had been soundproofed, a precaution which proved wise since an outsider now resided in this most private world.
Mistress Nola, the house disciplinarian, commanded the attic chambers.
Sophronia conducted the naked, listless, fearful Rochelle through the winding passages of the third floor, leading her by the leash.
The outsider, Dr. Tucker, had gone into town.
His temporary absence permitted affairs to return to abnormality.
Sophronia unlocked a door which opened on a narrow flight of steep stairs.
She ushered Rochelle inside, followed, and closed and locked the door from inside Rochelle climbed the stairs first, stepping with care.
Having one's hands bound affects the balance, especially when climbing such steep stairs as these. So Rochelle picked her footing with care.
Her ripe buttocks swayed alluringly from side to side as she climbed.
As she lifted her legs, glimpses of her pink-lipped pussy were revealed.
Sophronia eyed the girl hungrily, her mouth watering.
Later, after the disciplinary session, the girl would be hers.
She had some interesting tricks and techniques to apply to the teen slave.
At the head of the stairs was a somewhat more spacious landing, where the Amazon and the slave could both stand at the same time.
Sophronia knocked on the door.
Footsteps sounded inside, bootheels clicking across a bare wooden floor.
A peephole opened in the door-an eye regarded Sophronia and Rochelle.
A hot, lurid gleam came into that eye.
The door was unlocked and opened by Nola.
Nola, house disciplinarian, was a former instructress at a distinguished girls' private school in New England.
Her obsession with disciplining, degrading and subjugating her young female charges fueled a massive scandal.
Nola had used her authority to subvert the girls into virtual slavery.
She specialized in correction. The girls were between the ages of ten and twelve, easily molded and controlled by the school mistress.
Nola used bondage, discipline, and humiliation to transform the pretty daughter's of the nation's elite into trembling sex slaves.
So extensive were her sins, that when the full nature and range of them became known to the school authorities and outraged parents, they were afraid to prosecute, for fear of triggering a nationwide scandal.
Better to let the guilty party, Nola, escape, they reasoned, than to have their precious daughters' futures tainted by this lurid shame.
So, Nola had been dismissed from her position, and taken to the train station by a pair of private detectives.
She was warned that if she ever showed her face in the state again, she would be arrested and framed if necessary and locked up for good.
Clarissa had secured the services of this formidable female.
Nola was in her early forties, and seemed eminently respectable, indeed even a bit old-fashioned, judging by her garments.
She contrasted vividly with the pink timid nudity of Rochelle, and the swarthy, brawny nakedness of Sophronia.
Nola was outfitted in very proper, even severe garb.
She was tall, thin, and wiry, with a fine-boned, aristocratically formed face.
Her hair was prematurely graying, perhaps from the dissolute life she had led.
Her hair was a rich chestnut brown color, marbled with gray streaks.
She wore her hair wrapped in one thick braid which then was pinned to the top of her head, accenting the sculpted facial features.
Her face was thin, pointed, chiseled, sharply featured.
Her eyes were cold blue, and very bright and sharp ... alert.
She was dressed in black and white. She wore a black blazer jacket, with a white handkerchief neatly inserted in the left breast pocket.
Under the jacket she wore a lovely blouse. White, frilly, ultrafeminine, it was charmingly out of date and fashion.
It had a high lace collar, which was buttoned at its throat. The cuffs of its long sleeves terminated with lacy ruffles, which shot past her blazer cuffs.
A thin black skirt, made of a clinging material, covered her from waist to ankles.
Her fine-grained flesh was very pale, with traceries of thin, delicate blue veins visible below the skin.
Her hands had long, slim fingers, some of them ringed.
Her outfit was completed by her shoes. They were made of black leather, and were low, like men's oxfords.
They had sharply pointed toes and chunky three-inch heels. They tied up the front, each of their laces bound in neat bows.
What could be glimpsed of her legs showed they were sheathed in dark stockings.
She closed the door and locked it, after admitting Amazon and slave.
The attic space, that of it which had been reclaimed, had been sectioned off by means of partitions, creating a number of rooms.
The front room was the receiving room, and a curious room it was.
It was furnished like a front parlor from the turn of the century.
The floor was carpeted with a rich Persian rug. The furniture was heavy and antique, with velvet and satin predominating.
It had a genteel atmosphere quite opposite to what lay beyond.
Rochelle kept her head bowed and watched her bare feet while she was discussed.
Tersely, with few words, Sophronia informed Nola of Clarissa's demands for the disciplining of Rochelle.
Nola kept her face neutral, but could not hide the hot gleam which came into her eyes at the announcement that the girl was delivered unto her.
When Sophronia finished describing the regimen Clarissa had ordained for Rochelleand describing it with letter-perfect accuracy, too-Nola stood silent for a time, blood pounding in her veins.
She drew in a thin breath, then let it out slowly, so that it hissed through her teeth with a sound like a serpent.
"I see," she said.
She smiled with her mouth, showing a double row of white even teeth.
"So you've been a naughty girl, hmmmm, Rochelle?"
Rochelle remained silent.
"You may speak to reply to me, Rochelle. No penalty will apply, as long as you are speaking in direct response to my questions."
In this house, it was a sin for a slave to speak out without permission.
Nola was strict. When discipline was required, she never shirked her duties, and never delivered less than the amount specified by Clarissa.
Often, she added on quite a few more penalty strokes to the victim.
Nola took the attitude of the disciplinee into account.
If the victim had the properly subservient attitude, took the intended strokes without making too much of a fuss, and appeared suitably chastened, then Nola would add few if any extra punishments.
But if the victim should not be cooperative-should show signs of temper, rebellion, even surliness-then Nola would add on the strokes.
Some high-spirited, willful slaves who had been brought to the attic for a relatively minor session, had won themselves real prolonged punishment by not showing proper signs of submission and repentence.
Nola folded her arms across her chest. She was tall and loomed over the slave.
"You have been remiss in your duties, Rochelle."
"Th-that's what Mistress Clarissa says, Disciplinarian."
Nola insisted the slaves address her only by means of the title of her office.
She said. "If Mistress Clarissa says that it is so, then it is so-agreed?"
"Yes, Disciplinarian."
"Indeed, yes. As you know, Rochelle, I am the cure for slaves who do not properly carry out their duties."
"Yes, Disciplinarian."
"I see no reason for delay. Sophronia, do you have any duties elsewhere?" Sophronia answered in the negative.
"Good," Nola said. "You may stay and assist me, if you so desire."
Sophronia's broad smile testified that that was what she very much desired.
She knew she would have the slave girl after the session, when Rochelle was chastened and quite deJiciously disciplined.
But it would be even more delicious to be present throughout the whole of that session, to participate in the punishment.
"Follow me, please," Nola said.
At the end of the front parlor opposite the entry door was a second door, with an old-fashioned ornate bronze door handle.
Nola opened the door, which opened on a passageway. The parlor was well lit, but behind the door it was dim and shadowy, with few lights.
The passageway was long and narrow. The ceiling tilted in various slanting blocks and planes, due to the variety of shapes of the roof directly above.
From floor to ceiling, the attic had been partitioned and divided into rooms which lay on either side of the corridor.
About halfway across the floor space, lay a blank wall, marking the limits of of the space that had been reclaimed and modernized.
On the other side of that wall lay the attic as it had been-musty, dusty, cobwebbed, shadowed, eerie, cluttered with the junk of one hundred years.
That space had fantastic atmosphere, and had been used on occasion. But the disciplining of Rochelle required no such trip behind that wall.
Nola opened and unlocked the first door on the left.
Here was a room whose spareness and functional utility suggested the gymnasium. Like its companion attic rooms, it was small and spare.
The floor was polished, bare wood. The walls of the partition were made of plasterboard painted a neutral off-white color.
Suspended from the ceiling was a bondage hoist. The room contained a bondage horse, spanking block, and a narrow cot at one side.
Each room was supplied with an identical cot. Often during the course of a steamy session of correction, the disciplinarian or her assistants became over-stimulated.
When that happened, she or he or they would take the slave, male or female, to the bed, and use them for relief, release, and sexual satisfaction.
Thus refreshed, the disciplinarians would once more put the slaves back in bondage and continue the session.
On the side of the room opposite the door was a wooden cupboard.
Nola requested that Sophronia free Rochelle from the restraints she had worn.
The dog leash was unclipped from the slave collar, while the nylon rope was unbound from Rochelle's wrists.
Rochelle chafed her wrists, which had become sore from the binding.
The room was small, crowded by the trio of two dominants and one submissive.
Rochelle knew the routine.
She got down on hands and knees on the floor. She pressed her forehead to the floor and huddled there, pinkly naked, achingly vulnerable.
Nola stood in front of Rochelle, feet spread, hands on hips.
"You may speak, Rochelle."
"I have been a bad girl, Disciplinarian."
"Indeed you have ... "
"I need to be punished for my misdeeds."
"And so you shall be."
"Please correct my misbehavior, I beg you!"
"With relish," said Nola. "Get up, girl. Sophronia, please put this naughty miss in chains, to prepare her for punishment!"
CHAPTER THREE
Naked Rochelle was secured standing up, with chains, cuffs, and spreader bar.
Once again, the purpose of the bondage was psychologically oriented.
By herself, imperious Nola, wiry, tough, and domineering, was more than a match for a simple little teen slave girl like Rochelle.
She could have given the girl her entire session without putting her in restraint, by manhandling her and forcing her to submit.
But the binding, the chaining, the ritual aspect, all had importance, in that they concentrated the victim's mind, focusing it more fully on her plight.
Bolted to a rafter beam was a pulley, over which ran a stout chain, one end of which was secured to a hook at shoulder-height on the wall.
While Nola went to the cupboard to select the implements required, Sophronia went to the wall, to lower the hoist.
Said hoist could have held the full weight of the girl freely suspended, should that be desired, since the chains and pulley were stout.
But such vigorous bondage was not needed for this minor session.
Sophronia unlatched the chain at the wall. The chain rose to the pulley, where it ran through a complicated system of blocks and tackles.
It was so rigged that even a child could lift a full-grown man or woman off the floor, merely by turning the hand crank on the wall.
The crank squeaked and the chains jingled as they were lowered.
Sophronia locked the chain in place, halting its descent.
Going to Rochelle, she lifted the slave girl's arms so that her hands were held at the level of her slim shoulders.
From the main, thick chain, four thinner chains branched off. Only two of these would be needed for now.
Each of the thin chains terminated in a thick leather cuff.
Sophronia locked the cuffs, one around each of Rochelle's wrists.
Rochelle docilely submitted to the binding. Her head hung down, with her eyes nearly closed, and her chin resting on her chest.
Her breasts bobbed heavily from the few deep, sighing breaths she took.
She tried not to stare at the massive melons of flesh that were Sophronia's breasts, as they dangled in front of her face.
The insides of the cuffs were thickly cushioned and padded, for the protection of the one to be put in restraint.
Sophronia adjusted the width of each cuff, matching them to fit Rochelle's slender wrists, then locking them in place.
Rochelle shivered as each little lock was clicked shut. .
Nola's chunky-heeled shoes scuffed across the floor.
"This spreader bar will be useful ... for all our purposes," Nola said.
She looked over the shoulder of the slave girl at Sophronia.
Sophronia met Nola's gaze, and the eyes of the two dominatrices flared with perfect mutual understanding.
Nola, too, shared the taste of Clarissa and Sophronia for sweet young girls.
Rochelle was sweet indeed.
Nola requested that Sophronia fasten the spreader bar.
Sophronia took the bar, a yard-long metal bar with leather cuffs at each end.
She knelt in front of Rochelle.
It was a position which put her stolid face level with Rochelle's crotch.
Rochelle had a rich, curly, dark brown bush. She was a nubile teen.
Her breasts were full and firm, the size of large apples, and shaped similarly. Her nipples were pale pink, with wide aureoles.
She was quite curvacious, especially for a youngster of her tender years.
Her hips were wide and womanly, flaring out from a narrow, almost a wasp waist.
She had a perfect pussy with soft full pussy lips, colored a dusky rose, and partially veiled by the brown bush.
Some of Clarissa's slaves were shaved, with hairless genitals. Others were permitted to keep this body hair.
It all depended on the whim of the mistress, on her fancies.
Thus far, Rochelle had been allowed to keep her fluffy, furry bush.
As she knelt to fasten the spreader, Sophronia was so close to the girl that her breath rustled through Rochelle's bush.
The pussy lips tingled as that moist, warm breath played over them.
Sophronia said, "Spread your legs more."
Rochelle obeyed, planting her feet more than shoulder-width apart.
Sophronia secured one end of the spreader bar, locking its leather cuff around Rochelle's right ankle, pulling it tight.
She lay the bar horizontally on the floor between Rochelle's feet, then locked the opposite end of the bar by its cuff to Rochelle's left foot.
The spreader bar thus prevented Rochelle from closing her legs.
The implications of this restraint were not lost on Rochelle.
Nola, when Sophronia had straightened up after finishing the locking, turned the hand crank on the wall, winding up the chain.
The main branch of the chain was pulled taut. Rochelle's arms, hands cuffed, were lifted until they were high over her head.
The chain continued to rise.
Tension, pressure pulled on the girl's shoulder joints.
Squirming, moaning softly, Rochelle rose on her toes to ease the pressure.
This was the point at which Nola locked the suspension chain in place.
Rochelle was so chained that her body was under taut pulling pressure from above, except when she rose on tiptoes.
Rising on tiptoes lessened the pulling pressure, affording some relief.
However, it was a strain to stay on tiptoes for too long, so Rochelle must alternate between rising on toes, or hanging by the chains.
Her face showed white and pale under its smooth pink skin.
Having her arms raised caused her breasts to lift and arch out.
Nola hefted the paddle.
"We are now ready to begin."
She went to Rochelle, confronting her.
On a conveniently nearby table, close at hand to the chained naked girl, Nola set out the instruments of correction.
A paddle, a strap, a switch.
Nola had gone diligently through the cupboard on the far side of the chamber, which contained a variety of devices of punishment and restraint.
She had selected her tools with care, as always.
Rochelle was white-faced and tightly tense.
Sophronia stood to one side, where she was not in the way of the action, but where she had a clear view of all that would occur.
She folded her muscular arms across melon-sized breasts, waiting.
Her stolid, impassive face betrayed not a whit of the eagerness within her.
Nola smiled thinly. She stood facing Rochelle.
Nola unbuttoned her coat, removed it.
"Sophronia, please be so good as to hang up my coat."
"Of course, Disciplinarian."
"Uh, and my blouse as well," Nola went on.
She was tall and slim and straight, with fine posture, erect and dignified.
Her breasts were high, firm, conically pointed within their bra. Twin points pressed out sharply against her ruffled white blouse.
Slim long fingers plucked open the buttons running down the front of the blouse. She opened it to the waist, pulled it from the top of the skirt.
She wore a frilly, ultra-feminine bra with lace cups and satin ribbons.
Her skin was very white, presenting little contrast with the white bra.
She handed her blouse to Sophronia, who folded it over her arm, along with the jacket.
"Thank you," Nola said. "I like to make myself comfortable for these sessions. Disrobing assures me a certain freedom of movement."
Sophronia hung up the garments on hooks inside the cupboard door.
Nola picked up the paddle and handled it lovingly.
The paddle was similarly shaped to a ping-pong paddle, yet was oversized, so that the paddle part was twice the size of a normal ping-pong paddle.
Its handle presented certain readily obvious adaptations from the standard.
The handle was long, thick, dildo-shapedin fact, it was a dildo.
The paddle and handle were covered with fine-grained black leather. Nola hefted her paddle, slippings its thong over her wrist.
Her gimlet eyes flashed as she caressed sleek, smooth, aromatic leather.
Stepping up to Rochelle, she rubbed the teen's pink body with the black paddle.
Rochelle stared down at the floor while fondled.
Nola rubbed the girl with the flat of the paddle. She pressed it against Rochelle's bosom, caressing the breasts with a circular motion.
She worked her way down to the girl's belly, flat and trim. She smoothed the paddle against Rochelle's hips, flanks.
She ran it down her sides, over taut pink thighs on the outside, then from the knees up, along the insides of the thighs.
Rochelle's apple-shaped breasts jiggled from her shallow, nervous breathing.
Nola brought the paddle up against Rochelle's pussy.
Turning the paddle around, Nola brandished its dildo handle.
Rochelle looked down, to see the handle pointed at her pussy.
The handle was over eight inches long, thick, with a knobbed pommel. Its shape was that of a penis in stiff erection.
Nola touched the tip of the dildo handle to the pink rosy pussy lips.
Rochelle drew in her breath. Her pussy lips quivered.
Nola rubbed the dildo head up and down the pussy.
Its lips were parted, exposing quivering pink membranes.
"Can it be that you are wet already?" Nola wondered. "Wet, even before the paddle has touched you even once?
"My, my, Rochelle, what a naughty little wanton you are! Seems that Mistress Clarissa sent you to me for correction none too soon!"
Rochelle grunted as Nola pressed the dildo handle's tip deeper. The pussy lips were spread, and the head penetrated.
Rochelle strained against her chains, which jingled softly.
The knobbed dildo head was inside Rochelle.
Nola caressed the girl's long fair hair, whose tresses fell across her breasts. She ran it silkily through her fingers.
"You'd like me to fuck you with this dildo, wouldn't you, slave girl?"
"N-no, Disciplinarian ... "
"Come now, dear girl, no false modesty, no pretense here. Pretense ends when the chains go on. We both know what a little slut you are.
"Now come, Rochelle, confess-you want your pussy fucked, don't you?"
"Disciplinarian, please don't-"
"You know that I deal harshly with little lying misses, Rochelle."
"I'm not lying, Disciplinarian. I-uh, it's too big!"
"The dildo too big? Indeed?"
"It hurts me when I'm not all ready for it, Disciplinarian!"
"A little pain is good for the soul, as we well know, hmmmmm? Not ready, are you? I shall see for myself ... "
Nola took the dildo handle of the paddle away from Rochelle's sex.
The pommel of the handle, its dildo head, was wet with shiny secretions. Nola transferred the paddle to her left hand, freeing her right.
She put her hand between Rochelle's legs and rubbed the mound of her pussy.
"You certainly seem warmed up enough to me, Rochelle. And yet, a deeper, a more probingly intimate inspection surely is called for."
So saying, Nola pressed the tip of her middle finger to the girl's pussy lips.
She inserted her finger deep in Rochelle.
Rochelle jerked unsteadily. Yet the spreader bar kept her legs open, while the chains locked her into position, standing.
Nola's eyes flashed, sparkling as her finger penetrated the girl.
Rochelle was tight and only lightly lubricated within her slit.
Nola pushed her middle finger in, up to the knuckle. She thrust it in and out, back and forth, working it inside the girl.
She took her finger out, and the pussy lips sealed up.
"How very tight you are, Rochelle! The men will certainly fancy you! But you are a bit dry ... I see that you need to be warmed up!"
Nola handled her paddle. "And of course, I have the perfect remedy to make the juices of shy young misses flow thickly!"
Nola lifted her right hand to Rochelle's face.
"Your juices are on my finger, dear. Clean them off, with your mouth.
"Yes, Disciplinarian."
Nola inserted her middle finger between Rochelle's lips, which pressed closed on the finger. Rochelle sucked.
"Show me how you suck off your gentlemen callers, Rochelle, and pretend that my finger is the male member you so ardently desire to mouth!"
Rochelle sucked the middle finger as if it were an erection.
She bobbed her head back and forth, hair swirling and sweeping across her breasts.
"That should suffice, Rochelle, thank you very much, dear."
Nola removed her finger from the girl's mouth. Where before, pussy juices shone on the finger, they now were replaced by dripping saliva.
Nola wiped her finger clean and dry, using Rochelle's hair as a towel.
"And now, without further delay, we may begin, Rochelle!"
Nola's sharp-toed, chunky-heeled shoes clattered over wooden floorboards as she walked behind Rochelle.
Nola took up a posture for delivering the paddling.
She spread her feet, loosened her wrist, beheld the girl's behind.
Rochelle's head hung down low, shamed, as the girl stared at the floor.
"What a saucy bottom you have, Rochelle! Ummmm, oh, it's so very pink and pale! Needs more than a touch of color, in my opinion!"
Nola rubbed the flat of the paddle against the girl's bottom.
Rochelle made little moaning noises.
"As I deliver each stroke, Rochelle, you shall count it out aloud!"
"Yes, Disciplinarian!"
"Very good!"
Nola swatted the girl's bare backside with the paddle..
"One!" Rochelle said, forcing her voice to stay level.
The broad surface area of the paddle spread out the impact of the strokes over a wide area of the girl's backside.
The paddle was good for that overall reddening and heating of the buttocks, to spread a deep-dyed warmth into the ass cheeks.
The sound of the paddle striking soft flesh was a loud slapping sound. The buttocks jiggled when paddled.
Nola settled in for a long session.
She paced herself. This afternoon, no other slaves were scheduled for correction, so she could take as long as she liked to discipline Rochelle.
Discipline her, and more....
By the twenty-fifth stroke, Rochelle was in a good deal of discomfort.
Before the first stroke fell, Rochelle's bottom was a very pale, soft pink.
As the paddling began and continued, the paddled ass cheeks darkened into a rich rose color, a warmth which suffused the skin.
Rochelle's voice betrayed more and more of the strain she felt, as she continued to count off the number of paddling strokes.
At the fortieth stroke, Nola paused, to handle the buttocks and determine the degree of warmth which the paddling had thus infused.
Rochelle rocked with the impact. Her discomfort was multiplied due to the chains in which she was bound, which pulled her standing body taut.
Her face was red, as well as her bottom, and her eyes glowed with wetness.
Tears spilled from her eyes. They clung to her thick, fluttering lashes, then dribbled down her face.
Presently, the girl sobbed with each stroke of the paddle.
At the sixtieth stroke, the buttocks had darkened to the beginning of a ripe red color, and the buttocks displayed significant heat.
The seventieth stroke found Rochelle crying, not only when the paddle came down to punish, but in the intervals between strokes.
Nola betrayed all the signs of sadistic stimulation.
Her pale face was shiny and waxy. Twin rose spots of heat shone in her high cheekbones, while her eyes sparkled.
Inside the cups of her bra, her nipples were stiffly erect, and jutting.
Nola had the precision of a paddling machine. Each stroke was delivered perfectly on target, their force increasing as the paddling wore on.
Statuesque Sophronia was herself excited, and when she unfolded her crossed arms from her chest, and put her hands along her sides, her stiff nipples were displayed.
Those nipples were the size of thimbles, dark brown thimbles of throbbing flesh. She restlessly pressed her thick thighs against her pussy.
At last, stroke number one hundred was delivered.
"And so ends at least the paddling part of your discipline, Rochelle!"
Nola examined her handiwork.
Well had she warmed the girl's backside. From the small of the back, to the tops of Rochelle's taut thighs, the buttocks were a rich, dark red.
The redness of the paddling contrasted with the overall pinkness of Rochelle's body, so that she seemed to be wearing a pair of red shorts over her rear.
The punished buttocks were swollen from the sizzling paddle.
Nola tested for heat, clutching Rochelle's buttocks in both hands.
Rochelle squealed, her chains rattling as she jerked.
The bottom flesh was hot against the hands of Nola. When she squeezed the buttocks, they whitened under her grip.
As soon as she let go of them, the buttocks showed their bright red color.
Rochelle's eyes were blurred with steadily flowing tears.
Nola said, "Let's see if your paddling has moistened up your pussy, dear. Perhaps the dildo will not be unwelcome to you now."
Nola slipped the thong of the paddle handle off her wrist, and reversed the paddle so that the jutting black leather dildo pointed at Rochelle's pussy.
"First I'll check by hand ... I favor the personal touch," Nola said.
Standing behind Rochelle, she put her hand between the girl's spread legs.
Freely she fondled the quivering pussy lips.
Rochelle made little moans, mixed with her soft, steady sobbing.
Nola pressed her index and middle fingers together and speared them into Rochelle.
They spread the pussy lips and stretched the membranes.
Rochelle gasped as Nola inserted the fingers, both of them, up inside her.
Nola leered, "Why, Rochelle, darling, you're positively dripping!"
She finger-fucked her for a moment, then withdrew her fingers, wiping them clean on Rochelle's paddled backside, where the juices shone in glistening smears.
"As wet as you are, my little miss, you're more than ready for the dildo. But I am not yet so ready to use it on you!"
Nola reached around to the front of Rochelle's chest and clutched her bosom.
The disciplinarian gripped the breasts in both hands, squeezing them.
Tears had run off Rochelle's face and spattered on her breasts, leaving damp patches which were smeared by Nola's hands.
Nola made the happy discovery that Rochelle's nipples were fully stiff.
"Erect nipples, too? Oh, Rochelle, you are responding so well to the treatment, that I can no longer bear to delay your strapping!
"Before I bring the strap into play, you must kiss the first instrument of your chastisement, the paddle."
Here Nola held the paddle in front of Rochelle's face.
The girl puckered her quivering lips and pressed a kiss on the black leather paddle.
Nola moved to the table, to put aside the paddle and take up the strap.
Before she reached the table, she halted in mid-step, as if remembering some item or another, turned to face Rochelle.
"Rochelle ... "
The girl's head lifted. "Y-yes, Disciplinarian?"
"How thoughtless you are, child! You forgot to thank me for disciplining you with the paddle, a gross oversight on your part!"
"Oh, Disciplinarian, I am sorry!"
"And will no doubt be sorrier, since I am adding an additional ten strokes to the total of punishment allotted to you!"
Nola put down the paddle, and took up the strap.
The black leather strap was some eighteen inches long, an inch wide, and hefty. It was loose, flexible, a snake of black leather.
"Sophronia, be a dear and unhook my bra in the back, please."
"Yes, Disciplinarian."
Sophronia stood behind Nola and opened the bra, her thick strong fingers moving with surprising nimbleness to open the tiny bra hooks.
Nola, her bra opened, took it off.
She was high-bosomed, with fine breasts that showed no sag when freed from the lacy cups of the bra.
Her bosom was snowy white, with shapely breasts displaying sharp nipples. Their aureoles were the size of twenty-five cent pieces.
"One does like to be comfortable during the session," Nola confided.
She opened her skirt at the side, took it down, draped it over the table.
She wore a garter belt, stockings, and lacy white panties over the garters.
They nylons rustled as she walked in back of the chained girl.
Taking up the position, she brought the strap into play.
The strap struck differently than the paddle.
Where the paddle laid its impact over a broad flat area, the strap's strike was more concentrated.
The paddle slapped, where the strap was whippier, more flexible.
The difference in instruments was evident from the very first stroke.
It fell across the backside of Rochelle with a sharp cracking sound.
The girl jerked in her chains as if galvanized with an electric shock.
"Oh! Oh!"
"Naughty, naughty," Nola chided. "You neglected to call out the number of the stroke, Rochelle, therefore, it will not be counted in the total.
"Each time hereafter that you are similarly neglectful, no stroke will be counted unless you promptly call it out! Understood?"
"Yes, Disciplinarian!"
Nola continued the strapping.
The crack of leather on soft bottom flesh mixed with Rochelle's anguished cries, as the punished girl counted out the strokes.
The strap was flexible, and curled caressingly around already red buttocks when it fell.
Rochelle's suffering cries demonstrated conclusively that the strap was no picnic.
The overall redness of her bottom darkened even more as the strapping wore on.
Nola concentrated the strokes in the center of each buttock! These areas grew deeper and darker, becoming purple-red.
Welts rose up and bruises showed on the backside.
Rochelle wept continuously, but continued to count out the call.
Nola halted the proceedings at the thirtieth stroke, to add new torment.
She strode to the front of the girl and examined her, cupping her breasts.
"My, my, miss, how stiff your nipples are! They're simply crying out for attention, and attention they shall have!
"A pair of clothespins attached to those nipples is certainly in order!"
Nola fetched a handful of wooden clothespins from the cupboard, where they were kept in a soft leather bag.
Rochelle was shivering and fought to keep from wailing.
Nola cupped a breast. The soft mound quivered on her palm like jelly.
She felt, fondled, kneaded the breast with tenderness. She lowered her head and planted a soft kiss on a rock-hard nipple.
She took hold of the nipple and pinched it, pulling the nipple out from the breast, then affixing the clothespin to it.
It was an ordinary wooden clothespin, of the sort sold in stores everywhere.
Rochelle gasped as the wooden jaws of the pin pressed closed on her stiff nipple.
The job was only half-done, until the opposite nipple was equally pinned.
The clothespins looked like some kind of barbaric ornaments, fastened as they were to Rochelle's tender nipples.
Nola took up the strap and continued the punishment.
Rochelle was slated, not for fifty strokes of the paddle, as prescribed by Clarissa, but for sixty, due to the additional ten added to the total by Nola.
Nola halted the strapping again at the forty-fifth stroke.
More clothespins were fastened to Rochelle's breasts. These were clamped, not to the nipples, but to the undersides of the tender mounds.
Rochelle now wore six clothespins on her breasts-one on each nipple, and an additional pair fastened to pinches of bosom flesh.
Nola took up the strap and finished this section of the discipline.
Rochelle's voice rasped with strain as she thanked the disciplinarian.
Before taking up the switch, for the third and final portion of punishment, Nola added to Rochelle's torment, with yet more clothespins.
Nola took a pinch of the smooth skin from Rochelle's inner thigh, and affixed a clothespin thereon, and on the other thigh as well.
Still, she was not done.
"Please, Disciplinarian, don't put them on my pussy!
Nola waved a chiding finger in front of. Rochelle's face.
"I will be generous and ignore that outburst, girl, but let's have no more of your childish protests, lest I increase your punishment further!"
Nola knelt facing Rochelle's front, head level with her little pussy.
Rochelle sobbed brokenly as Nola fingered her pussy lips.
Taking hold of one of the tender labia between thumb and forefinger, Nola pulled out the pussy lip, flashing pink membranes.
"My, my, my! How very wet you are now, dear girl!"
Nola fastened a clothespin on the labia.
Rochelle squealed, body going all taut. She sobbed gurglingly. Her cries increased as her other pussy lips was similarly pinned and mistreated.
Nola stood up and took up the switch.
The switch was some two feet long and very, very thin. It was made of specially cured and prepared wood which tapered to a whippy point.
Nola tormented the girl by caressing her with the switch. She pressed its tip against the swollen buttons of the nipples.
She rubbed the switch lengthwise up and down Rochelle's front, over breasts, belly, thighs, sides.
When she brushed the clothespins, Rochelle's pains increased.
She went behind Rochelle to apply the switch to her backside.
The buttocks glowed cherry red, with angry purplish red blotches and brui; ;s in the centers of both cheeks.
The switch was the thinnest and thus the most cutting instrument of all. It possessed a pinpoint accuracy.
It made a wicked whooshing sound as it cut through the air, and made an even uglier sound as it slashed into the bare bottom.
Rochelle shrieked.
"Ah, you forgot to call that one out," Nola remonstrated.
She wielded the switch. Where it struck, across quivering buttocks, it left a long thin welted line, a welt which rose up from the smooth bottom flesh.
Nola applied the switch with her right hand. Her left hand busied itself between her legs, stroking her sex through her panties.
Frantic and hysterical, Rochelle still remembered to count out the strokes until all twenty-five had been delivered.
CHAPTER FOUR
"After the pain," Nola purred, "comes the pleasure."
Rochelle huddled naked on the floor, softly sobbing.
Rochelle had been freed from her chains, now that her discipline session was done.
Or, rather, almost done.
Mistress Clarissa had prescribed yet one more procedure of correction for Rochelle, correction which remained to be applied.
In her torment, in her immediate pain, confused Rochelle had forgotten the full measure of the session slated for her.
Others were not so forgetful.
But that final corrective was not yet to be applied. Nola had worked hard, disciplining Rochelle, and now she rested from her labors.
Nola was ready to reap the rewards of a properly dutiful slave miss.
The Greek peasant Amazon, Sophronia, would likewise plunder her share.
Rochelle was now unchained. Like a film sequence run in reverse, all the bonds which had been locked on her were taken off.
First the clothespin were removed from breasts and pussy.
Her nipples had come close to the point of numbness many times. But Nola had taken care that no real permanent damage could occur.
Constantly she played with the clothespins during the whipping, opening them to free the flow of normal circulation.
She pinned them back in the same place, but only after the circulation flowed freely for a time. This prevented numbness.
It was not entirely merciful, either. By preventing numbness, it increased the girl's portion of pain, by restoring feeling so she could further suffer.
But now the clothespins were taken off from breasts, nipples, labia.
Rochelle shivered, shook, shuddered under the pain of returning sensation.
While she moaned and gasped, her legs were unlocked from the spreader bar.
The winch creaked, lowering the chain which bound her hands over her head, taking the strain off her taut body.
Her wrists were freed from the leather cuffs at the chains' ends.
Released from all bondage, exhausted, Rochelle sank to the floor.
The girl was in a near-faint, but the pain of throbbing nipples, pinched breasts, sore labia, and an aching whipped bottom, kept her fully conscious.
She was too weak to stand. She slumped down to the floor.
She lay huddled on the bare floorboards, on hands and knees.
Her face was red from crying. Strands of hair were plastered down to her sweating face. She pressed her forehead to the floor.
She knelt with her palms and head on the floor, her nipples barely grazing the floorboards, her legs bent at the knees.
Her bottom was raised up high, punished buttocks red as beacons.
Constant moans and groans came from the girl on the floor.
Nola let the girl rest for a moment, and surveyed the signs of punishment.
The nipples were dark red, throbbing, ultra-sensitive.
The labia were likewise mistreated, and were swollen with irritation.
Paddled, strapped, and switched, the seat of correction, Rochelle's bottom, would continue to pain her for the next day or two.
The bottom burned a uniform shade of bright rich red. The red tinge of warmth spread in a wide blotch.
It went to her hips, to the middle of her thighs. It seethed.
In the center of each buttock was a palm-sized purple-red patch, raw and ugly. These were the areas where the strapping had concentrated.
Criss-crossed over both cheeks were twenty-six thin red welts, angry lines which rose up from the swollen red globes.
The buttocks twitched and jerked, as though still struck by a phantom whipper.
Nola let the girl rest, but not for long.
Her lust permitted little patience. She strode over to Rochelle. Her feet in those stiff, ugly shoes, came into the field of Rochelle's vision.
Sniffing, choking back sobs, Rochelle looked up.
"Time to kiss away those tears, Rochelle," Nola smiled.
Her panties were in disarray. Black lace panties, their inner crotch was damp with moisture from Nola's self-fondling.
Merely punishing the captive girl had thrown Nola into a state of high sexual stimulation, so that she was dripping within.
This state was added to at the end of the switching, when she could no longer resist the temptation of touching herself.
Nola had put her free hand-the one which wasn't wielding the switch-between her legs, and fondled her pussy.
She first rubbed her crotch through the panties, then put her hand inside, to directly stroke and caress herself.
Now, she burned in anticipation of more direct stimulation.
"Stand on your knees, girl."
"Y-y-yes, Disciplinarian."
Rochelle stood on her knees. Each movment pained her sore, tender bottom, and she gasped, shook, and shivered.
Her nipples, still stiff and dark purple, stood out like honeys.
Her red, tear-streaked face was level with Nola's crotch.
Nola pulled down her panties, rolling them to the tops of her nylons.
She had lean white hips and a dark thick bush, sprinkled with gray, hairs. The fur was full and fleecy, with its edges neatly manicured.
Her pussy was long and thin, with delicately formed pussy lips to match.
The quivering labia were shiny and sticky with smeared secretions.
The panties were at the tops of her taut ivory thighs, where they emerged from the stocking tops. Nola pulled them all the way down.
Panties rustled as they fell down dark nylons.
They fell to her ankles and she stepped out of them.
Naked below the garter belt and above the stocking tops, she rubbed herself.
"Look what I have for you,. Rochelle ... such a treat ... ah, a bad girl like you hardly deserves the privilege of serving my pussy.
"Still, you did take your punishment with a good attitude, so I suppose that I can afford to show some latitude, and take mercy.
"I warn you though, girl, that your mouthing of me must be first-rate, since I expect and demand nothing but the best.
"If your tonguing should seem uninspired then you will regret it!
"So, then-kiss my precious pussy, Rochelle."
"Yes, Disciplinarian. Thank you ... thank you for letting me serve you."
"Use your mouth for more than speaking."
Nola put her hand on the back of Rochelle's head and pulled it to her, pressing the red, wet face against her naked crotch.
Rochelle nuzzled the tufted bush, the infinitely soft warm pussy lips.
Nola held the girl in place and ground her hips against Rochelle's face.
The pussy lips split and spread, exposing slippery membranes which smeared hot juices on Rochelle's face.
Rochelle's puckered lips pressed scores of heated kisses on the pussy.
After her pussy had been thoroughly kissed, Nola put Rochelle's tongue to work.
Rochelle polished the pussy lips to a seething glow with her tongue.
Rochelle was suffering from her whipped bottom. She moaned, sighed, shivered.
Since her mouth was attached to Nola's pussy, Nola received the additional stimulation of all the vibrating noises.
Nola's pussy was awash with musk that made Rochelle lightheaded.
The juices were thick, coating the girl's probing tongue as she licked within.
Nola's clitoris was a marble of flesh, swollen with lust. It was offered up to the caressing tongue of Rochelle.
Rochelle put everything she had into the oral service.
Nola reached her climax.
As she came, she pressed Rochelle's face hard against her orgasming pussy.
Nola's tall, wiry body went rigid. Her pussy heaved convulsively.
Squeals were squeezed from her by the force of orgasm.
Her passion peaked, then ebbed, leaving her breathless and gasping.
"I, er, ah, need to sit down for a moment to recover," Nola wheezed. "Sophronia, will you make use of Rochelle, and keep her busy?"
"With pleasure, Disciplinarian!"
Nola sat down on a leather cushioned bench. Her nipples were stiff, while her breasts shone with glistening sweat.
Her bush and labia dripped with frothy saliva. She hugged herself, hunching forward.
Sophronia ushered Rochelle to the bed, the narrow single bed of the model with which every chamber in the attic was equipped.
The mattress was covered with a thin white plastic liner, a waterproof sheet necessary to keep the bed from being stained.
Nola turned on the bench to watch the bed.
Sophronia's heavy, mammoth, stiff-nippled breasts dangled ominously as she leaned forward to take down her panties.
Her G-string, actually, since the athletic garment, similar to a jockstrap, was hardly feminine enough to qualify as a pah of panties.
Her hips were wide, her thighs powerful. She had a fattish crotch, complete with heavily furred pussy and full fat labia.
The reek of her animal odor of arousal was overpowering.
The crotch of the G-string was moist with her juices. She stepped out of the straps of the leg openings, lifting the garment.
Standing upright, she reversed the garment, so its soiled crotch faced out.
She pressed it against Rochelle's face, smearing the face with it.
Rochelle moaned but made no resistance.
"Oh, that's simply delightful, Sophronia!" Nola enthused.
"I thank you, Disciplinarian."
"It looks rather fetching, on Rochelle's head that way-and what an honor for her, to be permitted to wear one of your most intimate items!
"Sophronia, you should have her wear it for a while ... adusting it, of course, so that her mouth is in open access."
Sophronia nodded gravely. "As you wish, Disciplinarian."
She adjusted her garment on Rochelle's head, using its leg straps, which were elastic, as was the waistband, to secure it to Rochelle's head.
She covered Rochelle's face with the crotch, pulling it to one side so that the lips and tongue of the girl were uncovered.
Sophronia lay down on the bed, its frame creaking under her weight.
She lay on her back. So tall was she, that her feet dangled off the edge at the foot of the bed, while the mattress and bedsprings sagged under her weight.
Her breasts were mounds of semi-solid flesh, crowned at the summit with thimble-sized nipples, the nipples ringed with wide aureoles.
The breasts slid, plumping up even more when she rolled on her side to face Rochelle. She beckoned the girl to her.
Rochelle moved hesitantly, wincing with each movement that agitated her buttocks.
She got into bed with Sophronia.
"OWWWWWWWW!!!"
Rochelle cried out in pain as she put some weight on the curve of her hip, since even that part of her was tenderized by the punishment.
She lay on her side, cringing, moaning, tears welling up in her eyes.
Her head lay cradled on Sophronia's brawny arm, face close to the mighty bosom.
Sophronia cupped her breast, the one nearest Rochelle's teary-eyed face.
She squeezed, plumping up her breast, making its stiff nipple jut.
She pulled Rochelle's head down to her bosom.
Her fat swollen nipple throbbed as it nuzzled the girl's red wet face.
She pressed the nipple to the lips and stuffed it in Rochelle's mouth.
Sophronia fingered herself while her nipples were sucked. She offered up first one, then the other, so that both were well mouthed.
When finally freed from Rochelle's subservient mouth, both nipples, and a good deal of the surrounding bosom flesh, dripped with saliva.
Sophronia grunted as she changed position in bed.
She got on hands and knees, fat-nippled breasts hanging down like udders, buttocks seemingly as wide as serving plates.
She ordered Rochelle to kneel behind her, facing her big behind.
Rochelle once more sobbed and gasped from the pain of movement.
She got on her knees at the foot of the bed, crouching behind the Amazon.
Sophronia wanted, not her pussy, but her bottom, to be orally adored.
The Amazon peered over her shoulders, eyes hard as black marbles.
She took hold of some of Rochelle's hair, wrapping it around a hand.
The hair would serve as silken reins by which to control the girl.
Sophronia pulled Rochelle's head to her bottom, face against the ripe buttocks. She twisted by the roots, adding to Rochelle's torment.
Rochelle nuzzled the big buttocks.
They were massive, firm, smooth, with an excess of warm surplus flesh. Rochelle's tears smeared on the smooth, unblemished cheeks.
Her own bottom blazed red and brightly, making her shiver constantly.
She pressed kisses against the buttocks, passionately kissing them all over.
Sophronia next put the girl's tongue into operation.
Rochelle polished the Amazon's buttocks. She laid her pink tongue flat on the bottom of the buttock, and started lapping.
Warm smooth bottom flesh rippled under the gliding tongue.
Rochelle's head bobbed up and down as she licked the buttocks all over.
Sophronia kept Rochelle working until the buttocks were shiny with saliva.
Squatting, she let go of Rochelle's hair, and took hold of her buttocks, one in each hand, salivated bottom flesh oozing through spread fingers.
Clutching the bottom cheeks, she spread them to the sides.
The bottom cleft plunged dizzyingly. Nestled within was the brown button of the anus.
Nola got up from her bench and came to the bed. She put her hand on the back of Rochelle's head and pushed it forward.
Rochelle's face was wedged between the buttocks.
Inside it was dark and warm. Rochelle kissed the wrinkled rosebud.
She parted her lips into an O shape and ringed the anus with them.
She rubbed her tongue against the folds, caressing them, slurping them with saliva.
She stuck her tongue inside the ass. The hole was tight, and she had to push hard.
The slippery rectum clutched the tongue tightly.
Sophronia leaned backward, thrusting her face even more pressingly against Rochelle.
Rochelle pushed her tongue back and forth in the rectum, working it like a little penis.
While Rochelle ongued her ass, the Amazon masturbated herseif.
Sophronia's thick fingers writhed on her labia, and between them.
Rochelle hissed with pain, as Nola began fondling her super-sore buttocks.
Nola reached down the crack of the ass, for the pussy, which she caressed.
She fingered Rochelle, while Rochelle went down on the Amazon's ass.
Sophronia soon climaxed.
As she came, she made bull-like bellows from deep in her belly.
Her climax was joined by that of Rochelle, whom Nola fingered to orgasm.
Rochelle wailed, shivering from the mutuality of pleasure and pain.
Sophronia and Nola had been satisfied, but more torment was reserved for Rochelle.
Nola waited until the dominant and the slave girl had somewhat recovered.
She stood Rochelle beside her, slipping an arm around the girl's slim shoulders.
"Your performance shows a great deal of improvement, young lady."
"Thank you, Disciplinarian."
"You are quite welcome. As it happens, your discipline is done, well, almost done-or had you forgotten?"
Alarmed, Rochelle gasped, "Forgotten?
Forgotten what, Disciplinarian?!"
"Forgotten that you are scheduled for a session of one hour's duration on a chair of correction?"
"Oh, no! I--I had forgotten, Disciplinarian!"
"Forgotten, or chose to forget? Well, no matter ... fortunately, your disciplinarian is not nearly so absent-minded as the silly slave girls!
"Before I put you into the chair, Rochelle, I will bind you first."
Nola brought forth a rod and a length of rope from the cupboard, along with a pair of black leather cuffs, joined by a thin piece of chain.
She put her hands on the girl's shoulders and turned her, so that Rochelle's back was presented to her.
"Hands behind your back, young lady!"
"Yes, Disciplinarian!"
When the hands were behind the back, Rochelle made an effort to keep them from touching her backside, which was still so sore.
Nola locked the cuffs on Rochelle's wrists, securing them behind her back.
Having her hands bound back, and her arms pulled to the rear, arched Rochelle's back, and thrust out her chest.
This made her breasts stand out even more prominently than usual.
After the hands were cuffed, Nola took up the rod. It was some three feet long, made of painted polished wood, and was as thick as a police nightstick.
She inserted the rod horizontally between Rochelle's back and arms.
Taking up the sections of thin, tough rope, Nola bound the rod at the insides of Rochelle's elbows, tying them tightly.
This reinforced the arch in the girl's back, thrusting out her breasts.
Nola requested that Sophronia fetch a chair of correction.
No such chair was to be found in this chamber, so Sophronia had to go to the adjacent chamber to procure the device.
Returning, she set up the chair in the center of the floor.
Rochelle's pussy lips quivered, her pussy heaved, and her tummy knotted as she beheld the sinister chair of correction.
The chair was a seemingly ordinary wooden chair, high-backed, with arms and a seat polished and curved by innumerable buttocks occupying it.
Its sinister aspect was evident in the socket in the center of the chair seat, a socket whose use would now become apparent.
Nola went to the cupboard, where a velvet-lined drawer displayed a variety of dildos, in different lengths and thicknesses.
Estimating (accurately) the interior of Rochelle's pussy, she selected a model dildo which would be the right size for the girl.
This dildo must be neither too big nor too small. It was pink and made of a warm, flexible rubber, smooth and firm, penis-shaped.
It had a thick bullet head, and a shaft slightly less thick. At the base of the shaft was a screw about an inch long.
Standing over the chair of correction, Nola screwed the dildo into the socket in the seat, so that the dildo rose vertically upright.
Rochelle sobbed and squirmed as Sophronia escorted her to the chair.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rochelle cried.
"Stop that silly snivelling, girl!"
"I-I'm sorry, Disciplinarian-but I'm scared!"
"Don't be such a baby, Rochelle!"
"B-b-b-but, Disc-Disciplinarian, that d-d-dildo is so big!"
"Don't worry, you silly little goose! I am not totally without mercy! I'm going to lubricate you up fully before putting you in the chair!"
"You-you are?! Oh, thank you, Disciplinarian!"
"In fact, while I grease you up, perhaps Sophronia would be so good as to prepare the chair of correction for your occupancy.'"
Sophronia said, "At once, Disciplinarian!"
The chair contained sections which could be detached and removed, depending on the style or mode of bondage in which the sitter was restrained.
Sophronia unscrewed the base of the chair's high back, where it met the rear of the seat, and fully took it off.
The chair, minus its back, now was more like a stool.
From a shelf on the cupboard, Nola fetched a kingsize jar of lubricating jelly. She brought it to the bench, sat down.
Her bare buttocks squeaked against the leather cushions of the bench. Her legs were open, exposing her pussy above white thigh tops.
"Come here, Rochelle."
Rochelle went to the disciplinarian, walking with small mincing steps, since the least little movement steamed up the pain of her punished bottom.
"Stand right here, Rochelle, facing me, where I can reach you."
Nola opened the jar of lubricant. Pressing two fingers together, she dipped them into the white grease and scooped out a mass.
"Spread your legs."
Rochelle choked back a groan as she opened her legs for lubrication.
Her pussy lips were dark, rosy red, irritated still from the clothespins.
Nola groped the girl with her ungreased hand.
"Hmmm, you hardly seem to need any grease at all, Rochelle, since you're so wet inside your pussy!"
"Oh, Disciplinarian, please, I-"
"Hush, hush. I will not go back on my word. You will be lubricated."
"Thank you, Disciplinarian."
"You may soon be called on to thank me through deeds, not words."
"I will obey, Disciplinarian."
"Of course you will, child, for such is your destiny."
Nola massaged the lubricant into the labia first. She rubbed it along the slit, then deep inside, making the inner membranes slippery with grease.
"That should do for you, Rochelle."
Nola rose, crossed to the chair of correction. Rochelle trotted after, with her pussy lips shining brightly from the applied lubricant.
"I will also grease up the dildo, since it is somewhat large."
Nola scooped out still more grease and rubbed it on the dildo head.
Her motions were lewdly suggestive as she lubricated the dildo head and shaft. She acted as though she caressed an actual male member.
"And now both you and the dildo are greased, Rochelle, so there are no more obstacles to prevent you from mounting for correction."
"Yes, Disciplinarian ... "
"Sophronia, please assist me."
Sophronia, entirely naked except for her knee-high leather boots, stood at the rear of the chair, facing Rochelle's back.
The Amazon reached under Rochelle's bound arms, hooking her big hands under the armpits and above the rod bound to the inside of the elbows.
"Spread your legs wide, Rochelle ... wider, wider. Don't worry about falling, you are quite completely safe in the strong arms of Sophronia.
"Bend your legs, and lower your crotch over the dildo, Rochelle."
Rochelle stood with her bare feet spread wider than shoulder width apart, each foot planted on a side of the chair.
She straddled the chair seat, muscles flexing in her thighs.
"Lower yourself some more, Rochelle, touch the dildo ... "
Rochelle stared down between her legs, which trembled from muscular strain. But Sophronia held her in arms solid as rocks.
Nola moved the chair, slightly altering its position so the dildo was in place.
"Sophronia, you lower her down slowly, while I make the adjustments."
Rochelle gasped when her pussy lips pressed the smooth dildo head.
"A little lower ... "
Nola moved the shaft. The dildo head pressed the slit, the labia spreading and the head penetrating as Rochelle was lowered.
"Oh!" Rochelle gasped. "Oh! Oh! Oh!!!"
The dildo was properly positioned. It was tight inside Rochelle, but nothing that she could not endure without too great discomfort.
"I can't see from where I stand," Sophronia rumbled. "Is the dildo fitting inside her, Disciplinarian?"
"Indeed, yes! Just keep lowering her down very, very slowly, please ... ah, there we go, its filling her now, good, good ... "
The shining lubricated shaft was swallowed up inside Rochelle.
Luckily for her, the dildo, while thick, was not particularly lengthy.
Still, her face was contorted by intense sensation, when finally she was fully penetrated and settled on the dildo.
Her pussy lips pressed the base of the shaft.
Rochelle wailed with new pain, as the full weight of her body pressed down on her ultra-irritated buttocks.
She was breathless, gasping, shivering. Waves of pain seethed upward from her buttocks. Her eyes were shut, while her open mouth moaned.
"Come now, little girl, it's not as bad as that!" Nola chided.
"Oh, yes, Disciplinarian, it is!"
"Don't make such a fuss, that dildo is only of average size, and certainly nothing more than you can handle, Rochelle. Why, I know for a fact that you've taken larger than that in your little bottom, not to mention your pussy!"
"It's not the dildo that's so very bad, Disciplinarian! It's my bottom! Oh, it hurts so much, I feel like I'm going to faint!"
"Well, keep quiet about it. I've next to no tolerance for the whinings of saucy little wretches who've gotten no more than they deserve!
"If you continue to make all this fuss, I shall simply have to gag you!"
"I'm sorry, Disciplinarian. Please forgive me.
I didn't mean to complain."
"Hush, now."
Nola secured Rochelle in the chair of correction. The girl was already well locked in place, by the peg of a vertical dildo which penetrated her.
A leather strap circled Rochelle's hips. When locked, it strapped her fully to the chair. Rochelle was tearful and quivering.
"The clock has begun to tick, Rochelle," Nola said. "In sixty minutes from now, you shall be released from the chair."
Fretful, aching Rochelle shifted as much as her bonds and the dildo permitted.
She squirmed, shifting her weight repeatedly from one buttock to the other, unable to find any ease from pain, since both were equally sore.
Nola said, "Sophronia, you are hereby excused, at least until the hour is up ... unless perhaps you would care to make more use of our little miss?"
"I would prefer to remain, Disciplinarian."
"Feel free to make what use of her you desire, then. As for myself, I have to make the rounds, to check up on some of my other pets."
Nola started for her clothes, then thought better of it.
"I had planned to dress before going to torment my little charges. But it will be even more tormenting for the bound darlings to behold me in my beautiful nudity, whose delights are for now denied to them!"
Nola exited. Clad in garter belt, stockings, and shoes, she carried a key ring. She promised she would return within ten minutes, more or less.
Sophronia went to Rochelle, stood facing her.
Rochelle's head hung and she shook with sobbing. Her breasts bobbed.
Sophronia fingered her own pussy. Thick fingers stroked heat into the labia. Warm wetness seethed within.
She spread her stout legs and straddled the chair. She pulled Rochelle's head down and jammed the face up against her crotch.
Still sobbing, Rochelle put her lips and tongue to work on the Amazon's pleasure....
Maria Manta interrupted Clarissa's toilet session with a slave boy.
Clarissa was in the bathroom attached to her boudoir. Her slave, Robin, crouched at her feet, in diapers and rubber pants and restraint.
The bathroom was equally as opulent as the boudoir. It was a large room, as large if not larger than many a Manhattan studio apartment.
Built like the rest of the mansion in the previous century, when hard cash bought top-flight craftsmanship, the bathroom was beautifully done.
An old-fashioned bathtub stood along the wall opposite the door. The massive tub was mounted on four metal legs.
The tub was all pink porcelain, as was the sink and toilet. The ceramic finish was flawlessly clean and reflectively shiny.
The fixtures all shone like silver. The walls and floor were done in pink tiles. Large mirrors multiplied the images of dominatrix and diapered slave.
Clarissa was dressed for the occasion in bizarre rubberwear.
She was outfitted in a skintight red rubber garment shaped similarly to a woman's onepiece bathing suit-with special modifications.
The garment had flaps at strategic anatomical locations, flaps which could be unbuttoned to expose that tender, intimate anatomy.
Neat circles opened over each breast, so that the breasts were jutting through them, with the rubber hole wrapping the base of the breasts.
From slick red rubber jutted a pair of shapely, stiff-nippled, naked breasts.
Another modification, more useful, was the crotch flap, which now was buttoned closed, but which would not so remain.
Her long legs were sheathed in a pair of thigh-high, red vinyl "wet-look" boots, boots with sharply pointed toes and high spiked heels.
Robin was one of her male slaves ... boy slaves, rather.
He was a handsome, well-formed lad in his early teens, a prime pet. Clarissa delighted in sexually using and abusing him in every humiliating way possible.
As with most newly acquired slaves, bathroom sessions and toilet slavery were particularly upsetting and distasteful to Robin.
This dislike ensured that he would be subject to numerous sessions of same.
Robin was 5'9" and lightweight. Even in her bare feet, Clarissa was taller than he, a psychological advantage which she found amusing.
In her high spiked heels, she was a good deal taller.
Robin's soft light brown hair was worn in a pageboy style. Bangs fell across his forehead, and hair covered his ears, falling in a sweeping curve to his shoulders.
It was a frankly feminine hairstyle which Clarissa had ordered for him.
His face was handsome, boyish, still soft with some youthful baby fat. He was most definitely post-pubescent, yet far from having to shave his face.
His body was smooth and slim and shiny pink, with dark rosy-pink points for nipples, and dusky, rosy genitals.
His body was mostly smooth and hairless, except for a dark brown pubic patch, and light brown fuzz on his legs.
His underarms were shaved clean and kept that way by Clarissa's command.
Robin now was dressed in rubber pants, diapers, and restraints.
His hands were secured in front of him in a pair of unusual mittens. These mittens, similar to boxing gloves but minus thumbs, had at their bases leather cuffs which were locked around the lad's wrists.
A length of thin tough chain joined the mittens.
A pair of pink plastic pants covered his hips, their folds pressed out by the absorbent cotton wadding of the diaper beneath.
Clarissa had earlier teased and toyed with her slave boy in the boudoir.
Slave he was, and very sensual, so she had easily stimulated him. She teased and taunted him into a state of aching erection.
Some satisfaction would be permitted himbut he would pay for it dearly.
When she had him steaming, she brought him out of bed and into the bathroom.
Robin frowned and fretted, fearing the sessions he had suffered in the bathroom.
His fear failed to diminish the erection which bulged the crotch of his diapers. Perhaps it increased it, with the stimulus of suspense.
Clarissa had been teasing and sweet, thus far.
Talking to him in mocking baby talk, yet not showing the streak of taunting viciousness which always lay close to the surface in her, she brought him into the bathroom.
She sat down on the white plastic toilet seat lid, rubber-booted legs spread.
The red rubber bathing suit which bared her pear-shaped breasts was also as tight as a second skin against her crotch.
The mound of her pussy, the shape of her labia, were fully outlined.
She brought her slave to her, so that he stood facing her. Robin's hands, secured in kinky mittens, were pressed to his chest, his arms bent at the elbows.
"What's this, little boy?" Clarissa teased.
She ran her fingertip up and down the bulge of his erection.
"Don't answer, babykins-Clarissa knows what it is, all right! And it feels so very, very hard, too!"
She put one hand on his bottom, and pressed the other hand to his crotch.
Robin gasped, sighed, and shivered as she fondled him through rubber pants and diapers.
"Ummmmm! Doesn't that feel good?!"
Robin, not permitted to speak in this session, nodded in the affirmative.
"And I know that this will feel even better!"
Clarissa grinned wickedly. Her caresses were even more wicked, as she fondled his bottom and caressed his penis.
She ground her palm into his erection. Robin moaned. He rocked his hips as she rubbed her palm up and down the penis.
"Ummmmm, that's just what babykins needs, especially after his mistress got him so hot and bothered in her bed!"
Robin's face was flushed to a bright color nearly as red as Clarissa's outfit. He wheezed and gasped for breath.
Sweat streamed down from his face. His thighs were tight, his hips were thrusting.
"Oh! Ohhhhlihhhhhhhhhh! Oh!"
Robin orgasmed.
Clarissa's writhing fingers skillfully writhed over the diapered penis, squeezing, milking gouts of semen from it.
Robin gasped, spine arching, body glowing as he peaked.
The penis jumped and jerked inside the wrapping.
Clarissa held him in place.
His eyes closed, his open mouth wailed, he shuddered from a forceful climax.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhh ... "
Stiffness fled from his body. Lines of tension from the orgasm were smoothed out as his boyish face relaxed.
His heavy-lidded eyes were nearly closed, their lashes fluttering.
Clarissa waited, while Robin's quickened breath slowed to normal.
Then she said sternly, "Robin ... "
His eyes snapped open, focusing on her.
Her voice menacingly gentle, Clarissa said, "Babykins, I didn't give you permission to come-but come you did!
"You were put in your nice dry diapers less than an hour ago, and if you messed them, I'm going to be very, very cross!
"And you did mess them, babykins, I'm sure of that! I'll just check for wetness, first, to see just how severely you have misbehaved!"
Clarissa pulled back the elastic waistband of the rubber pants, then slipped her hand inside the absorbent cloth diaper.
Reaching inside, she discovered without surprise that Robin's still-stiff penis was sticky with masses of spilled semen.
"I knew it! Robin, you're a very bad boy!
Not only did you totally mess your diapers, but you dared to come without my permission!"
Robin, agitated to the point of tears, dared to speak.
"But Mistress Clarissa, you told me not to talk, so how could I ask you for permission to allow me to come?!"
"That, you fresh little brat, is your problem, and most certainly not mine!"
Clarissa slapped his face, both cheeks, hard little stinging slaps.
"I also ordered you not to talk, Robin, so that's another bit of misbehavior on your part! I see that I've been altogether too lax on you!
"I've made allowances for you because of your age, because this is so new to you! But I see now that my kindness was in error!
"Well, it's not too late to set things right! You're going to be punished, Robin! I'm going to teach you how to behave!"
While Clarissa prepared her slave boy for punishment, Disciplinarian Nola and Amazon Sophronia heaped more torments on Rochelle.
Once again, Nola was fully dressed, and seemed the model of proper and correct deportment, with every hair in place.
Sophronia had put on her G-string, but was still mostly naked.
Her pussy had been licked and tongued to multiple orgasms earlier by Rochelle.
Nola thoughtfully rubbed her chin as she studied the girl.
"It seems to me that this is entirely too mild for Rochelle, she mused. "I think that something a bit stricter is called for!"
Sophronia's dark eyes glinted like black glass at the suggestion.
Rochelle, dazed, drifted in a haze of pain. But her mental fog cleared the instant she realized that she was to be subjected to further unpleasantness.
"It occurs to me that your posture is none too good," Nola said.
Rochelle was sitting slumped, with chin resting on chest. Now she sat up straight, gasping from the sensation of the penetrating dildo.
"Yes, Rochelle, you need a reminder to maintain always a lady-like demeanor."
From the cupboard drawer, Nola selected two long lengths of thin tough twine.
Not far from where Rochelle sat was a pegboard with various loops and screws and eyelets attached to its face.
This board, mounted on a vertical stand with rollers, was wheeled into place so that it was a few feet from Rochelle's front.
Nola knotted each piece of cord at one end to its respective eyelet.
Her nimble fingers formed loops at the opposite, untied ends of the twine.
Leaning over Rochelle, Nola cupped and examined the girl's breasts.
"Ah, I see that your nipples have quite recovered!"
During the course of her sexual servitude and bondage on the chair of correction, Rochelle's nipples had lost most of the soreness from the clamping clothespins.
Her nipples were now quite flat and unerect.
Nola lowered her head and nuzzled Rochelle's bare bosom.
Their nipples, while not stiff, were still sore from earlier mistreatment, and tingled with twinges of sharp sensation.
"What a pretty, pretty bosom you have, Rochelle!"
Nola rubbed her thin dry lips against the bosom flesh, caressing it.
"And such pretty, pert little nipples!"
Puckering up, she planted kisses on each tingling nipple.
Rochelle moaned softly.
Nola went on, "Still, I prefer those nipples stiff, I do believe ... "
Parting her lips, she sucked a nipple up between them and chewed it.
She sucked and slurped and tongued, and when she finally took her mouth off, the saliva-coated nipple was once more stiffly erect.
She performed the identical service on the other nipple, sucking it stiff.
"And, to keep those nipples hard, we must make use of these little cords!"
Nola pinched a nipple at the base, distending it, stretching it out.
She pulled the loop of the twine over the nipple, snugging it at the base.
Rochelle squealed when the thin tough string pulled tightly into her nipple.
Rochelle gasped as her other nipple was put in identical bondage.
She thus was secured to the pegboard, with those tough strings secured to the eyelets in the board.
"Disciplinarian, this-really-hurts!!"
"Be thankful that I didn't put weights on your nipples as well! Besides, you'll only have to wear them until the end of your session on the chair.
Nola checked her watch.
"That's only twenty minutes from now, Rochelle, so cheer up!"
Rochelle was not even permitted the consolation of tears, since sobbing caused her chest and thus her breasts to heave.
This would only increase the painful pulling pressure of the nipple bondage.
Rochelle fought to stay as still as possible, without motion.
Paddled, strapped, switched, tormented with clothespins as clamps, pressed into sexual slavery, penetrated by the deep dildo of the chair of correction, Rochelle knew that despite these torments, her session of chastisement had been mild.
When she was finally released from the attic, she would be obedient indeed!
CHAPTER SIX
It was a tearful, sore, and exhausted Rochelle at the end of the session.
Maria Manta arrived at the attic to fetch the slave girl.
Maria was a stunningly attractive, bosomy brunette in her early twenties.
She was dressed informally ... one of the privileges of her dominant status.
Slave girls, of which the mansion contained more than a few, were required to dress in lady-like fashion-when permitted to dress at all.
Ordinarily, in the normal (that is, abnormal) course of events with the entourage of Clarissa Drogan, slaves, male and female, were kept naked.
Since the METAMORPHOSIS PROJECT had begun, things were different.
For the first time, an outsider had been brought into the circle.
Said outsider was the brilliant biochemist, Dr. Tucker.
Unlike all the others in the mansion, Tucker did not openly share the tastes of Clarissayet he was highly needed.
Clarissa had the cash, but only Tucker, it seemed, had the expertise to make the goal of the project a living reality.
Since the mansion was isolated, since Tucker lived on the premises, masters and slaves were forced to maintain a certain discretion.
Tucker was a fanatic about his work, and spent most of his time in the lab, so the dominant and submissive goings-on continued.
But of necessity, they were conducted behind closed doors.
Tucker had seen much of Clarissa's bizarre lifestyle, and intuited more. He had serious moral reservations about such activities.
Not that he thought of them in such terms as "sin."
Tucker, man of science, liked to believe that he had gone beyond the religious mumbo-jumbo, the dogma of churches and commandments.
No, his objections were founded in the orthodoxies of psychology.
Tucker thought that it was "sick" for one human being to dominate another.
He believed that it was pathological for a person to delight in the infliction of pain, or the enjoyment of same.
He had seen enough of Clarissa and her relations with her entourage to guess something of the full dimensions of her kinkiness.
But, as a man of science, he was a realist, too.
The reality was that in this time of tight money, recession, and government cutbacks, funds for scientific research were drying up.
Tucker had been unable to find work in his field. Oh, of course he could have gone to work at a high-salaried position with one of the big companies.
But that would have diverted him from his researches, and thus kept him from achieving goals in his chosen field.
He was a very stubborn man, was Tucker, and dedicated to his science.
Just when things looked blackest, along came Clarissa Drogan.
Clarissa had need of the brilliant biochemist No scientist, she, but a mad heiress, a multi-milhonairess.
Clarissa was able to call on the experts and use their advice. And they had told her that Tucker was one of the top men in the field.
So she had contacted Tucker, and put forth her proposition.
He would be provided with a superbly equipped private laboratory, a high and handsome salary, and the opportunity to follow through his researches.
Tucker thought her more than a little mad, particularly when he discovered the real reason behind her patronage.
But when it came to the subject of scientific research, Tucker was perhaps a little mad himself, and would allow nothing to impede his goal.
He had made, as it were, a Faustian bargain.
Still, he was an outsider, and a very important one at that, and Clarissa was determined that he not be driven away from the mansion.
Some of the sexual practices she considered normal fare would have shocked and disgusted the average individual.
Clarissa made an effort to insure that such practices took place far from Tucker. Since he was often closeted in his lab, this was not too difficult.
Maria Manta came to fetch Rochelle. Maria, a dominant, had long jet black hair reaching to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face.
She had arched black brows, green eyes, Roman nose, wide, red, sensual lips.
Her physique was lushly abundant, with hourglass curves, big breasts and bottom, tiny waist, strong legs with thick thighs.
Today she dressed casually, in pullover black sweater and skin-tight jeans. Her feet were bare in open-toed, high-heeled shoes.
She brought some clothes for Rochelle, when she went to fetch her.
Rochelle rested on the cot where she had been used by Sophronia.
She was exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.
Her shoulder joints ached. Her muscles were sore. Her nipples were throbbing points of pain that sent aches shooting through her breasts.
Her pussy lips were red, chafed, irritated. Within, she was equally sore and stretched, thanks to the hour of restraint in the chair of correction.
Of course, her bottom was the center of soreness, from the discipline.
Rochelle lay on her side, to keep her weight from pressing down on either breasts or red, burning, welted buttocks.
She was untied, and free to rest, her session having ended.
Maria was admitted to the room.
"I've come for Rochelle," she said.
"Take her," Nola said.
Maria's high heels clicked on the polished wooden floor as she crossed to the girl.
"Hmmmra!" she said. "Looks like somebody got taught a lesson!"
"Yes, Rochelle was rather thoroughly chastised."
"How did she take it?"
"Very well, actually."
Maria leaned over the girl. "Rochelle? Are you awake?"
"Yes, Mistress Maria."
"Get up then, honey. Clarissa wants you downstairs."
Rochelle groaned as she sat up in bed. Moving stiffly, she swung her legs off the cot, planted feet on the floor.
She lifted herself off the mattress, trying to avoid pressing or touching her spanked welted rear.
Rochelle's legs were shaky and her knees were weak.
"I'll bet that yoYve had a time of it!" Maria laughed.
"Yes, Mistress ... "
"Here, I've brought you some clothes to put on."
Nola asked, "The doctor has returned?"
"Yes."
Nola nodded, saying nothing, looking thoughtful.
Maria said, "That pretty little bottom of yours still looks red-hot, Rochelle!"
"It is, Mistress Maria."
"I'll just see that for myself."
Maria turned the girl around so that her backside was presented.
Rochelle groaned and gasped as Maria handled her buttocks.
"That's hot, all right!" Maria grinned. "I practically burned my hand on it!"
Maria selected out Rochelle's blouse from the clothes.
"Here, dear, I'll help you put this on. We want you dressed nice and modestly, so that the good Dr. Tucker isn't too scandalized!"
Maria held the blouse, slipping its sleeves over Rochelle's arms, pulling the blouse up on her. Rochelle buttoned it up.
It was a pretty little white blouse, thin, with lace at the collar and cuffs.
Rochelle wore no bra. Her nipples were still stiff, and they jutted sharply against the front of the bra.
Even the slight pressure of cloth against the sensitive nipples pained her.
"Here are your panties, Rochelle!"
Rochelle winced when she saw the panties. Here was no ordinary pair of silky, smooth, sensual undies.
These panties were made from a burlap sack which had been cut and sewn and formed into a pair of tight panties.
Maria put her hands in the waistband, opening the panties to expose the crotch.
The crotch was lined with rough rugged pads of emery, the kind often found on one side of a kitchen sponge, for scraping clean sticky pots and pans.
"Oh, do I have to wear these panties, Mistress Maria?!"
"You'll wear a chastity belt complete with two plugs, if you keep on whining!"
Rochelle sighed. "I'm sorry, Mistress Maria."
"Under the circumstances, you are forgiven, Rochelle."
"Thank you, Mistress Maria."
"Put on the panties, girl."
Rochelle groaned from the effort of bending over. Her buttocks tautened.
She stepped into the panties and pulled them up her legs. These panties had their own locking belt, to secure them in place.
Rochelle gasped and winced as she put her panties on over sensitive, chafed pussy lips and super-sore, aching buttocks.
She looked like she might faint, and Maria reached out a steadying hand.
The emery pads scraped and rubbed her pussy lips, while the burlap fabric, which would have been maddeningly irritating under normal conditions, was sheer torment against a whipped, sensitized bottom.
Maria tightened and buckled the belt which locked on the panties.
"Very good, dear. Now put on your socks."
Rochelle stood up while putting on a pair of white knee socks. It was no small feat of balance, but it was infinitely better than sitting down to put them on.
"And now your little skirt, Rochelle ... "
Rochelle donned a plaid pleated skirt whose hem reached to her knees.
The shoes she lastly donned completed the picture.
Maria examined the girl.
Rochelle's eyes were wickedly bloodshot from all her tears. Her face was swollen from so much crying, and her hair was tangled and matted.
"Oh, well, we can clean you up more thoroughly when you're downstairs," Maria said. "We will go now, Rochelle."
"Yes, Mistress Maria."
Rochelle stood with her hands at her sides. Docilely she turned to face Nola.
"Thank you, Disciplinarian, for taking the time to correct my bad behavior."
Nola came to the girl.
"You're very welcome, dear. I assure you, the pleasure was all mine ... and Sophronia's, of course. I hope this will serve as a lesson for you, in the future."
"It will, Disciplinarian. I promise to be a good girl from now on."
"Such promises are more easily made than kept ... still, I wish you luck."
Nola smiled, knowing that no matter how correct Rochelle's conduct was, excuses could and would always be found to send her to Nola.
Nola kissed the girl on both cheeks and the forehead.
Maria said goodbye to Nola, and escorted the girl out of the attic.
Downstairs, in her bathroom, Clarissa was interrupted in the midst of her session with Robin, whom she was greatly tormenting and humiliating.
Clarissa sat on the toilet seat. The crotch flap of her red rubber suit had been unsealed, exposing her pussy and backside.
The nipples of her pear-shaped breasts stood out stiffly.
Robin crouched on his knees at her feet, in front of the toilet. His face showed his discomfort, with his features red and swollen.
Redder still was his ass, which had been thoroughly strapped by his mistress.
Hanging from a hook on the bathroom door was an empty, deflated rubber enema bag, tubing, and nozzle.
Only recently, the contents of a one-quart enema had been pumped into Robin, following his blistering bare-bottom strapping.
Robin had not been permitted to void the contents of his bowels.
A black rubber butt plug, inserted when he was filled up and the enema nozzle removed, kept him sealed up like a cork in a bottle.
His normally flat tummy was now distended and pressed outward. His diapers had been removed for the enema and he was quite naked.
The rigid red rod jutting from his hips testified to his stimulation-arousal which was quite aginst his will, but no less potent for that.
Clarissa's pussy lips shone with stickiness. She had just urinated.
Now, Robin was required to cleanse his mistress in her intimate anatomy.
Clarissa took hold of his head and pulled it between rubber clad legs, pressing his moaning red face against her pussy which glistened with wetness.
In the front hall, Dr. Tucker was most insistent about seeing his employer....
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maria Manta said, "Dr. Tucker won't take no for an answer."
"That stubborn son of a bitch!" Clarissa swore.
"He's most determined to see you. Now. Talk to you ... "
"Did he say why he wants to see me?"
"He won't tell me-only you."
"Could it be about the Project, do you think?"
Maria shrugged. "I couldn't say."
"Well, how does he seem? What's his mood?"
"He seems, well, not disturbed, but ... excited. Why? I don't know, and he won't tell me. He insists-demands-to speak to you."
"Demands, eh?"
The bathroom door was wide open, and Maria stood framed in its open door, talking to Clarissa, who was still being tongued by Robin.
Robin's red squirming face was pressed to Clarissa's crotch. His tongue glided up and down her slit, licking it clean of moisture.
Neither Clarissa nor Maria were one whit abashed at this intimate service, but Robin, a fairly new recruit, was mortified.
Clarissa's eyes flashed. "The doctor rarely makes demands on my time, so if he wants an audience with me, I suppose I must grant it.
"I'll just have to straighten things up in here. Please inform the doctor that I will receive him in my boudoir in, oh, ten minutes."
"Very well, Clarissa."
Maria nodded her head in a quick bow, eased the door shut, crossed the bedroom, and went downstairs to the great front hall.
"Lick faster, Robin," Clarissa said, "there's not much time. In fact, just clean me out, there's not enough time now for you to get me off, too.
"Stick your tongue deep inside me, Robin, and lap up all my hot sweet piss!"
Robin's parted lips pressed her pussy as his tongue lanced inside her.
His head bobbed as his tongue thrust and glided. It slid along the pussy walls and lapped the juices from them.
Robin, under great discomfort from the internal pressure of the enema filling him, moaned and murmured.
Since his mouth was attached to Clarissa's pussy, each sound rippled through her, adding to her excitement.
Excitement which regrettably must be cut short on this unexpected interruption.
Clarissa ran her fingers through Robin's smooth silken hair, fondling it.
He was a sweet slave boy and she was quite fond of him. He would be a perfect human toy when he was finally and completely broken to her will.
She had many schemes and scenarios to make that a reality. Toilet slavery and total humiliation were only part of the program.
And, of course, if the METAMORPHOSIS PROJECT should become a reality, and she had every hope that it would, well, then, it would begin an entirely new era in her domination of her male and female slaves.
Perhaps that was why Dr. Tucker had requested this urgent meeting.
Perhaps he was on the verge of making the long-awaited breakthrough in the Project!
This excited Clarissa even more than the immediate physical reality of her slave tonguing her between the legs, cleaning her.
Well, she was cleaned enough for now ... if Tucker was on to something new, she would not waste a moment that might delay the project.
Clarissa took hold of Robin's hair, pulling his face from her crotch.
Her pussy still was wet, but with slippery saliva from Robin, rather than urine. His face was red, wet, suffering.
"That's all for now, Robin. This session is going to be temporarily interrupted for a little while ... but I'm hardly through with you yet!"
She stood up, flushed the toilet, sealed the crotch flap of her rubber suit.
Robin stood on his knees, hunched forward, hugging his distended tummy.
"Mistress Clarissa," he gasped through clenched teeth, "please, please, may I be allowed to go to the bathroom now?!"
"Why, Robin," she teased, "you are in the bathroom!"
"I mean, may I use the toilet now, Mistress?
Please?"
"No, Robin, you may not! Just because unexpected circumstances call me away for a few moments, do not think that you will be let off so lightly!"
"Please, Mistress, I feel like I'm going to explode!"
"Yes, indeed-but which part of you?"
With the elegantly sharp toe of her red vinyl boot, Clarissa nudged the swollen red erection jutting from the boy's hips.
"I'd say that your penis is in more danger of bursting than your belly! Now stand up, Robin, I really don't have time for this right now!"
Like a stiff old man, Robin rose shakily to his feet.
"Just to keep you out of mischief, Robin, I'm going to put you in restraint."
Clarissa went into the bedroom, returning with a rope to the bathroom.
His hands were still secured in the bondage mittens, which were joined with a chain, and which bound his hands in front of him.
Mittens or not, he could still masturbate himself to orgasm if left unsupervised, although she doubted he could removed the butt plug with those clumsy mittens.
She tied one end of the rope to the chain joining the mittens. She stood him with his back against the bathroom door.
"Put your hands up over your head, Robin."
Robin groaned, and his expanded stomach gurgled as he lifted his arms.
A number of hooks were attached to the door. Clarissa stood on tiptoes to bind his mittened hands to the highest hook.
She faced him frontally, and her stiff-nippled breasts nuzzled his face.
Robin was in too much discomfort to enjoy the sensual contact.
Clarissa tied the other end of the rope to the hook. Thus, Robin's hands were tied over his head, securing him in place to the door.
"Oh, Mistress, please, please-"
"I see that I'll have to gag you, too, Robin."
Clarissa brought forth a penis gag.
This device consisted of a leather band to which was attached a short, thick, fat, penis-shaped rubber plug.
Smiling evilly, Clarissa brandished the penis gag in front of Robin's face.
"Open your mouth, Robin. This will be good practice for when you are soon presented with a real penis to service and suck!"
Robin's gaping jaws received the rubber penis-shaped plug.
It jammed in his mouth, filling it from roof to tongue. Clarissa pulled his head forward, buckling its leather band at the back of his head.
Robin was bound, silenced with a penis gag, strapped, filled with a one-quart enema, and corked with the plug inserted in his rectum.
"There!" Clarissa smiled. "After all, we can't have you upsetting the dear doctor with your cries and whinings, can we?"
The question was purely rhetorical, since the gag prevented Robin from replying.
"I shouldn't be too long, Robin. But if I am ... well, what can you do about it?"
Clarissa closed but did not lock the bathroom door.
Uninhibited as she was, she decided on discretion, donning a full-length robe over her outfit, an opaque black velvet robe.
Belted closed at the waist, the robe covered but did not conceal the lush curves of her willowy, long-legged physique.
She stared into the mirror to make sure she looked fine. Her masses of hair had been pinned up for the session in the bathroom.
Some few minutes later, a knock sounded on her door.
Clarissa called, "Who is it, please?"
"Maria, with Dr. Tucker."
"The door's open!"
Tucker entered, his gaze scanning the room and Clarissa.
Her nipples were stiff and jutted against the front of the robe. He could not fail to notice them, but tried not to stare.
Clarissa rose from her bed, long legs flashing in their shiny red vinyl boots.
"So nice to see you, Doctor. Do come in."
Maria asked, "Will you be needing me, Clarissa?"
"I think not. Thank you, Maria. You may go."
Maria bowed, withdrew, easing the door shut behind her.
Clarissa extended her hand to the scientist, who gravely shook it.
She escorted him to a table around which were grouped a trio of chairs.
"Do sit down, Dr. Tucker, and make yourself comfortable!"
"This isn't a social call, Miss Drogan."
"All the more reason for it to be conducted in a relaxed atmosphere."
Dr. Tucker reluctantly nodded. He walked around the table and pulled out Clarissa's chair, courteously holding it for her.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said. "You are a gentleman."
Tucker occupied the opposite chair, facing her across the table.
"May I offer you something to drink, Doctor? Sherry? Brantly?"
"No thank you, Miss Drogan. I'm not much of a drinker."
"Some other refreshments, then? Coffee? Tea?"
"Nothing, thanks."
"I will similarly abstain, then."
Despite her erratic personal life, the full extent of which Tucker could only guess at, his dealings with Clarissa had always been strictly aboveboard.
Their relationship was studiously correct, marked with politeness on both sides, the relationship of patron and artist.
It was a strictly non-sexual relationship ... perhaps too much so.
Clarissa had applied none of her seductive wiles on the scientist, although, truth to tell, he was a handsome, attractive man.
He had wavy brown hair, a fine, good-looking face, athletic figure ... he interested her, and under other circumstances might have become her prey.
But he seemed sexually straight, conventional to the point of orthodoxy, while Clarissa must always dominate those she bedded, be they male or female.
Most importantly, Clarissa refused to vamp him for fear of distracting him from the all-important project on which he labored.
Had she thought it necessary for the success of the Project, she would have bedded him in a second ... but his work was his premier love.
Which was fine with her, since she had the keenest personal interest in the completion of the Project-of which she would be the main beneficiary.
Her thoughts raced back, to the moment when the idea, the obsession, had fully taken root in her mindIt had happened over a year ago, during the early days of Rochelle's service.
Rochelle was a recent recruit. The girl was a runaway, who, fleeing her suburban home, had fallen into the nets of vice in the city.
By a chain of events too intricate to detail here, Rochelle had become the property of Clarissa, who purchased her at a subterranean slave auction.
Rochelle was very young and fresh then. She was no virgin, at least not vaginally, but she was a maiden in her mouth and bottom.
At that time, Clarissa and her entourage lived in a brownstone in a fashionably exclusive neighborhood. Clarissa owned the entire building.
Early in her servitude, Rochelle was brought forth to Clarissa.
Rochelle was bound and gagged. Sophronia and Lupus, a male servant of Clarissa's, brought the girl to Clarissa's bedroom that night.
Depositing the restrained captive Rochelle on the bed, the servants departed.
Clarissa removed her robe, displaying her outrageous outfit and costume.
Rochelle gasped through her gag.
During her captivity to modern-day urban slave traders, Rochelle had been repeatedly raped by the male masters.
They had not touched her rectum, since the former high school cheerleader, like any other male or female slave, would fetch a higher price if the virginity of her anus was intactand such virginity could be determined by the buyer, easily.
All her captors up to auction time had been male, and she had been untouched by women from the first moment she was stolen off the street.
Rochelle was terrified she would be purchased by a mad male sadist who would torture and mutilate her, possibly worse.
She had been relieved when her new owner was the lovely, angel-faced Clarissa.
Clarissa was sexually cruel, but no raving sadist, compared to some masters. She had dominant tastes as powerful as any man.
Rochelle mistakenly fancied that her captivity would go easier on her, if her master was a female, rather than a male.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first night that Clarissa fucked Rochelle, the dominant took the slave girl in the manner of a man, rather than a woman.
Rochelle lay on her back on the silk-sheeted bed.
Her fair hair hung loose and free. Her gag and bonds were all she wore.
She was richly, lushly, pinkly nude. Wrapped around the lower half of her face was the white band of the cloth holding the gag in her mouth.
Her hands were cuffed behind her back. Ropes circled her upper body, pinning her upper arms tightly to her sides.
Additionally, the ropes were so bound as to torment her tender breasts.
The ropes wrapped across her chest, their rough-fibred stands pressing deep into soft pink bosom flesh.
Bosom flesh oozed out through the cruelly tight strands in wide ripples.
The strands were wrapped in such a fashion that her nipples were trapped between a pair of the strands.
Those nipples had been stimulated to stiffness prior to the rope bondage.
Now, the nipples were red from the chafing irritation of constant rubbing against the ropes, which also kept the nipples stiff.
Clarissa was outfitted in an elaborate black leather harness.
The harness consisted of two-inch wide black patent leather bands, rings, straps, and buckles. She was strapped into it.
A pair of brass rings were fitted over her bosom, each ring circling the base of a breast, and making it jut out prominently.
The rings were tight, squeezing the breasts at the base and plumping them out.
As a result of this-and her own stimulation-Clarissa's nipples jutted erect.
The brass rings in their turn were held in place by the leather harness bands. " A pair of bands criss-crossed her white front, making a black X. The bands crossed her smooth shoulders, criss-crossing in her back as well.
Another part of the harness was the leather belt circling her waist.
Jutting down from the belt was a black leather triangle, the crotchpiece, which molded tightly against her pubic mound.
The triangle covered her pussy, but, like a jockstrap, left her round buttocks bared, with leather bands securing the item in place.
In the center of the black leather triangle covering Clarissa's crotch lay a circular socket, currently empty.
Clarissa's long legs were sheathed in a pair of high-heeled black latex boots, whose tops reached her upper thighs.
"Hello, slave," Clarissa drawled lazily.
She stood at the bedside, smiling down at bound and gagged Rochelle.
"You are a pretty little thing ... "
Clarissa reached for Rochelle. Her hands were sheathed in skin-tight, thin black leather opera gloves which reached up to the elbows.
Rochelle moaned and flinched.
Clarissa chuckled.
"Don't be afraid, little girl, I'm not going to hurt you ... much."
She went on, "I just wanted to touch your pretty hair."
She did. She fondled hair, then face, with leather-gloved fingers.
"Oh, you are a pretty thing, the prettiest I've seen in some time!"
She caressed Rochelle's quaking shoulders, raising shivers in the girl.
"And what pretty breasts! My, what a heartbreaker you must have been in your high school! I'm sure the boys all miss you very much!"
She fondled Rochelle's breasts, running fingers along the flesh where it oozed and rippled through the rope strands.
She tweaked a nipple, pinching it roughly.
Rochelle groaned through her gag.
"Those ropes make it hard for me to tell for sure, little girl, but I'd say that in the bosom department, you're not so very little at all!
"In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if your bust was larger than mine!
"I'll find that out for sure ... later. Much later. Before I'm done with you, Rochelle, I'll know everything there is to know about you!"
Goose bumps rose on Rochelle's pale pink flesh.
Clarissa's stiff-nippled breasts dangled as she leaned over the girl.
She caressed Rochelle's taut pink thighs, which were pressed closed.
"Open your legs for me, Rochelle."
The girl hesitated.
"Open them and spread, I say, or I'll take a whip to you!"
Blinking back tears, Rochelle obeyed.
Clarissa chuckled. "That's better. I'm glad that the slavers shaved your precious little pussy, Rochelle. I can better examine it."
Rochelle's bush had been shaved off by the slave traders. Despite the lush nubility of her body, she looked young indeed, with a shaved pubis.
Between the legs she was bald as a billiard ball, her masters having scrupulously shaved her only today, to prepare her for the auction.
Clarissa inspected the pussy. Leather-gloved fingers fondled the labia. She spread the pussy lips and peered at slippery pink membranes.
"Oh, you'll do nicely, Rochelle, and I'll do you nicely, too!"
She pressed her fingertip to the slit and inserted it.
Rochelle shuddered as she was penetrated. "You're a juicy little slut, Rochelle! Your pussy is just crying out for a fucking!"
Clarissa took her hand out from between Rochelle's spread legs.
The middle gloved finger shone with smeared vaginal secretions.
"Yes, your pussy is crying out for a good deep fucking, and I will heed the call!"
Rochelle suspected that Clarissa would summon some manservant to assist her and copulate with the teen captive.
But Clarissa intended to fuck Rochelle herself.
Clarissa opened a drawer in her night table, and removed an object.
"Do you know what this is, Rochelle?"
Clarissa tauntingly brandished a dildo under Rochelle's nose.
The dildo was made of black rubber. Streamlined, with bullet-shaped head and sleek slick shaft, it measured seven inches from stem to stern.
"This is what I'm going to fuck you with, little slave girl."
Clarissa teasingly rubbed the dildo against Rochelle's fearful face.
"I'd have you suck it to make it wet, Rochelle, but I really don't want to take that gag out of your pretty mouth ... not yet."
Clarissa pressed the tip of the dildo head against Rochelle's nipples.
The stiff nipples, trapped between rope strands, stood out so rigidly that they sang with taut vibration when touched by the dildo.
Clarissa rolled the dildo down the girl's belly, between her legs....
She stroked the dildo head, black and smooth and firm, against pink pussy lips which were denuded of hair and nakedly, fully exposed.
Clarissa attached the dildo to her harness, screwing its base into the ring-shaped socket in the crotchpiece of the harness.
The dildo jutted obscenely from her undeniably female hips.
Clarissa bent over the bed and rolled Rochelle over.
Rochelle was put on her knees, with her bottom raised high. Her head lay on the mattress, turned to the side, her eyes wild and rolling.
"A tight little pussy like yours, Rochelle, calls for some greasing before this big fat dildo will penetrate it!"
Clarissa applied lubricating jelly. Still wearing her gloves, she massaged the oily grease into the labia, then between them.
She stuffed plenty of lubricant in the slit.
Rochelle moaned and groaned as she was greased in prepartion for penetration.
"What's that you said, little girl? The gag in your mouth does make it difficult for you to talk-which is why I had it put there.
"But you don't need to talk, Rochelle. Frankly, the thoughts and opinions of slaves interest me not in the slightest.
"I have other uses for that mouth of yours, but you'll stay gagged for now."
After greasing up Rochelle, Clarissa lubricated the dildo.
Jelly coated the head and shaft of the black dildo, making it shine with bars of reflected light.
Clarissa climbed up on the bed.
She stood on her knees behind Rochelle. She wiped the excess grease off her gloved hand, wiping it on Rochelle's rounded pink hip.
She moved the girl into position, spreading her knees wider apart, opening her thighs and thus exposing her pussy for penetration.
Under the shiny coating of smeared grease, the pussy lips quivered.
Clarissa gripped the dildo and guided its bullet-shaped black head to the slit.
She hooked her left forearm under Rochelle's belly, holding the girl in place.
She pressed the dildo head to the labia, then glided it up and down the oiled slit, massaging the pussy lips with it.
The black tip of the dildo pried open the pussy lips.
Clarissa inserted the dildo head inside the girl.
Rochelle, no virgin, was still quite youthfully tight in her pussy, which clutched the intruding dildo as it entered her.
Clarissa pushed her hips forward, thrusting the dildo in. She entered the girl slowly but surely, burying the dildo deep.
Through her gag, Rochelle squealed breathlessly as she was penetrated.
Her breasts, aching already from the tight bondage with rough ropes, throbbed with fresh pain from pressing and nudging the mattress.
She hissed and gasped for breath as she was fully entered.
Clarissa smiled with satisfaction when the dildo was fully inserted.
Holding Rochelle in place, Clarissa began to thrust.
She rocked back and forth, working the dildo inside the girl, the sweet sliding friction coaxing masses of secretions from within.
When she pushed forward, she plunged the dildo so deep that its base pressed the shaved hairless shining pussy lips of the slave girl.
Clarissa was virtually climaxing from sexual excitement.
She loved the thrill of violation-giving, that is.
As she worked the dildo back and forth, she manipulated Rochelle's clitoris, pressing and stroking it, stimulating it to the boiling point.
Reluctant Rochelle could hardly withstand the skilled manipulations, and her climax crashed down on her like a tidal wave.
As Rochelle came, Clarissa plunged the dildo deep.
Clarissa was ... dissatisfied.
It was not enough to ravish a slave with a mere dildo. How fortunate was the most humble of men, who could penetrate and fuck with a real penis!
Sometimes Clarissa bitterly regretted her womanhood. She fancied that she should have been born a man, with a man's equipment.
That way, when she fucked her slave girls and boys, she would use, not a cool and hfeless dildo, but a stiff swollen male member of heated flesh.
How delightful it would have been, to rape and ravish and violate Rochelle in her pussy, mouth, and ass, with a real penis!
Of course she could use her dildo, as she had done in the past with others.
Or she could call in male servants to assist her, by using their tools to undo all vestiges of Rochelle's modesty and morals.
But why should she?
Why should she, Clarissa, be denied that pleasure of fucking a slave, a pleasure which was available to the crudest, the poorest of men?
Why should she stand at the bedside, watching some lucky manservant of hers penetrate and rape and come in Rochelle's orifices?
Why could she not do it herself?
And so a dream, a fantasy, was born on the night she took Rochelle.
It was not suddenly generated. Such thoughts, such bizarre longings, had been in her mind over the years, building up steam.
But taking Rochelle had crystalized her thoughts and determined her on a course of action-one which she immediately undertook.
Destiny had made her a woman, rather than a man. But in these days of transsexuals and sex-change operations, anatomy was no longer destiny.
Many was the transvestite whom the surgeons had made into "women."
Why could not the process be reversed?
Why couldn't a female be made into a man?
The facts showed that the scientists had been able to create artificial male members.
Soviet surgeons, using flesh from other parts of the patient's body, had grafted on a penis of flesh and blood.
But the state of the art was crude, not refined enough for Rochelle.
Which is where Dr. Tucker came into the picture.
Tucker was a biochemist specialing in the study of how genes determine sexual characteristics, in the system of body cells.
Clarissa consulted highly paid confidential experts. Their consensus was that if anyone could make her dream a reality, it was Tucker.
Clarissa's agents contacted Tucker. The contract was arranged, the elaborate, expensive", high-precision equipment was ordered and installed.
Here, in the laboratory which occupied nearly all the basement, Dr. Tucker pursued his goal of advanced research.
This, then, was the METAMORPHOSIS PROJECT.
A project whose goal was the equipping of Clarissa Drogan with a male member....
This past history faded from memory as Clarissa faced the present reality.
"So tell me, Doctor, why it was so urgent for you to see me now?"
"Something very strange happened to me while I was in town...."
Tucker related his narrative of how he had been accosted by the bearded, stylish stranger who had handed him a novel formula.
Tucker suspected that the stranger was known to Clarissa-perhaps another scientist on her payroll, working on the same project, unbeknownst to Tucker.
But the puzzlement on Clarissa's face convinced him that the identity of the stranger was as much a mystery to her as it was to him.
"What's more important than who he is, is his message," Tucker went on.
His face shone with the excitement of scientific discovery as he related his belief that the concise instructions on the mysterious message contained the key to making the big breakthrough on the Project.
Tucker enthused, "Whoever he was-or whoever is behind him-has a brilliant grasp of this exact field of study!
"I have the feeling that this may be the watershed-the breakthrough!"
"Then don't delay, Dr. Tucker! I will do what I can to discover who this unknown benefactor is-that's my concern.
"Your concern is to set the project in motion-bring it to completion! Do you really think that the message will set you on the right track?"
Tucker said, "Of course, I can't be sure until I've gone into the lab and run the formula through the computer to triple-check it!
"But I have every confidence that this clue will put me on the right path!"
Clarissa said, 'Then by all means, Doctor, don't let me detain you!"
Tucker hastily excused himself and exited the boudoir. With even greater haste he hurried to the basement lab, to get to work.
Clarissa was exultant. Tucker's excitement was infectious. She shared his confidence that the breakthrough for the Project was imminent.
The identity of the mysterious stranger vexed her. She would put her agents to work, to discover who it was.
But that was a small matter, compared to the excitement she felt over the possible immenent success of the Project!
She raced into the bathroom to work off some of her enthusiasm on Robin.
CHAPTER NINE
Clarissa held supreme command-and ultimate control.
She taunted, "As a scientist, Dr. Tucker, you should appreciate this as a demonstration of the power of your achievement!
"And, as a new slave, you should appreciate this demonstration even more, since it will give you the opportunity to see your mistress in action!"
Clarissa threw back her head and laughed merrily.
"Did I say 'mistress'? Perhaps I should have said, 'master!'"
Clarissa crossed to the bound and gagged beauty at the far wall.
This beauty was a lovely woman in her late twenties. Of average height, she had an exquisite face and ripely voluptuous physique.
Her total nudity put that physique on stark display.
The captive woman was a few years older than the other female slaves who were the property of dominant Clarissa.
Just as Tucker was five years older than most of Clarissa's male slaves.
The woman's hair was stylishly cut, brown, glossy, the silken hair straight and fine, falling in bangs across her forehead, framing her face in a helmet of hair.
She had a wide face with deepset hazel eyes, a sassily upturned snub nose, rosy cheeks, and a wide-lipped pink mouth.
That mouth was currently filled from roof to tongue with a wadded cloth ball.
A strip of white cloth pressed between her parted jaws, holding the gag firmly in place so she could not spit it out.
The gag was tied tightly, and cut into the sides of her mouth.
She was about five and a half feet tall, bosomy and buxom. Her breasts, shaped like pink grapefruits, were high and firm.
Her body was magnificently toned. Ordinarily it was pink and rosy, but fear had bleached away some of her rosy color temporarily.
Her torso was wickedly curved, bulging buttery bosom narrowing down to a wasp waist, then flaring out into wide womanly hips.
Her nipples were dark brown, thick, with wide aureoles whose edges were blurred.
Her bush had once been black as a raven's wing. Now it was no longer in existence, since she had been shaved hairless between the legs.
The shaving of her crotch was only part of the preparation for enslavement.
Her hands were tied behind her back. Other ropes secured her upper arms, just above the elbows, further confining her.
Those upper ropes pulled her arms close together on her back, which pressed out her front and caused her oversized breasts to jut out even more prominently.
The new captive was seated on a chair at one side of the attic chamber.
Happily for her, she was seated on on ordinary chair, not the seat of correction.
Indeed, her pussy would be duly penetrated-but not by a dildo.
The captive's eyes widened as Clarissa stood next to her. Fearfully she looked up at the dominatrix leering down at her.
The female captive flinched as Clarissa reached for her.
"My, my, aren't we skittish? A nervous colt to be broken to halter!"
Clarissa rested a hand on the captive's shoulder.
The captive shuddered.
Clarissa squeezed the shoulder. Her hand drifted down to the woman's bosom, to make free and fondle the heavy, rounded breasts.
Clarissa said, "I'm sure your wife, Lynn, will equally appreciate the demonstration. I wouldn't be surprised if she appreciates it even more!"
"Damn you!" Tucker groaned. Sophronia lifted her heavy hand to strike him for insolence. Clarissa halted her.
"No, Sophronia, don't let your justified anger carry you away!. As one of our, er, newest recruits, I allow him a certain latitude ... for now."
Tucker said, "I should have let you die on the operating table!"
"You never could have done that, Doctor. You're too much the dedicated scientist. A brilliant scientist whose accomplishments I salute."
Tucker strained uselessly against his bonds.
"Careful, Doctor, you'll do yourself an injury," Clarissa smiled. "Those straps were designed to secure the most violently homicidal mental patients!
"I suggest that you stop fighting your fate, and accept it!"
"Never!"
"Never say never, Doctor. Sometime soon in the future, you'll look back at your resistance to my domination with amazement that you could ever be so silly!"
"You're mad!"
"Ah yes, mad ... that's what they called me when I started the Project. Indeed, that's what some of your colleagues called you for your theories!"
"I wish to heaven that I'd never begun this awful work!"
"So you say, so you say ... well, we shall see. Personally, I think that you protest altogether too much, Doctor."
It was some six weeks since the night on which the METAMORPHOSIS PROJECT had been brought to a mind-staggering conclusion.
Working on the clue provided him by the still unknown stranger-from whom nothing had since been heard, and of whom neither hide nor hair could be found-Dr. Tucker had made the final breakthrough in his research.
His goal-sexual transformation through cellular manipulation.
Tucker had rejected the techniques of the surgeons in sex-change operations. He thought their work too crude by far.
No, he would not cut and sew and graft. His approach was altogether different.
He would work in the nuclei of the cells themselves, manipulating them chemically to stimulate their growth in the desired direction.
In effect, he would cause Clarissa to literally grow a penis ... just as, in Nature, the growing embryo develops sexually.
And he had succeeded.
The stranger's clue had opened up a whole new line of investigation which he had hitherto not stumbled across.
Once started on it, he knew that it was the path to success.
And he had succeeded beyond his-or Clarissa's-wildest dreams.
Now, he paid the price of such brilliant success.
Lynn, his lovely wife, would pay along with him.
After the success of the Project, there had been a recuperative period of a month. Tucker was astounded by how well the transformation had taken.
The member had been put to the test, the baptism of fire, when it was used to enter, penetrate, and fuck Rochelle.
Since this was the all-important maiden voyage, so to speak, of the creation, it had taken place in the lab, monitored by Tucker.
Strange scene, that-Rochelle kneeling on the lab table, ass raised high, offering up her pussy to the bizarre erection jutting from Clarissa's hips.
And Clarissa herself, with various electrodes taped to her, monitoring her body functions, feeding a constant stream of data into the computer bank.
There was Tucker, in lab coat and glasses, checking the instruments, watching the readings on the computer video terminals.
Watching Clarissa fuck Rochelle.
The cultivated penis worked just as intended.
A great success-a triumph!
A triumph which proved to be his undoing....
Much work remained to be done, but it was the afterwork, now that the main goal of the Project had been realized.
There were graphs to make, charts to organize, notebook after notebook of data on the Project to collate.
Clarissa held a small victory celebration.
Tucker was uncomfortable with his employer in any sort of social occasion.
Still, she was most insistent that he attend, leaving him no choice of refusal.
At the little party held in one of the parlors-in the attic, a section of the mansion from which he had been forbidden until the celebration-Clarissa had looked fetching and utterly feminine.
Only a telltale bulge under the dress, at her crotch, betrayed her secret.
The parlor room was small, stuffy, old-fashioned. Tucker wondered what all the secrecy was about. This attic seemed perfectly ordinary, even unchic.
The small group included Maria, Sophronia, Nola, and of course Clarissa. Tucker was the only male present in the attic parlor.
Had Tucker been able to see beyond the closed door which separated the parlor from the quartet of punishment chambers, he would have been even more uneasy.
As it was, he was slightly ill-at-ease, as Clarissa poured out champagne into four crystal goblets for a victory toast.
His imagination conjured up all sorts of lurid pictures of the bizarre lust rituals that this quartet of conventionally clad females practiced.
He felt like a canary surrounded by smug, smiling cats.
Clarissa handed him his glass. The other females joined her in taking up their own respective glasses and raising them high.
Clarissa proposed the toast: "To the brilliant Dr. Tucker, without whom this most marvelous transformation could not have happened!"
Goblets clinked together. In his unease, Tucker gulped his down.
The champagne was a bit sour in his mouth, bitter. He frowned. But after he nibbled some of the hors d'oeuvres, the taste vanished.
Odd how stuffy it had suddenly become in the parlor, though....
Sweat streamed down his face. He tugged at his collar, loosening it, but still felt stuffier than ever.
Her echoing voice seemed to be coming from deep inside a well.
"I ... feel ill-dizzy," he mumbled, slurring his words.
His stomach heaved and he clutched the table to keep his balance. The room whirled.
"Why, Doctor," Clarissa laughed, "I do believe that you're drunk!"
His heavy head hung down between his shoulders and it was an effort to raise it.
When he looked at Clarissa, he saw double.
"You-you drugged me!" he accused.
The four females laughed mockingly.
Tucker tried to get out. He stumbled heavily against a chair, upsetting it.
Before he reached the door, he joined the chair on the floor.
When finally he awoke from his dazed drugged trance, hours later, he was naked and in chains which resisted his maddened efforts.
Clarissa waited until he had quieted down. She could afford to wait. She had all the time in the world, now that he was in her clutches.
Eventually, his rage ebbed, after hours of ranting and raving. Hunger, thirst, and isolation also curbed his aggressive impulses.
Then it was that Clarissa came to see him.
He lay on his back, naked, strapped down to a cot. She sat on a stool at the bedside, cool, elegant, mocking ... in command.
"You succeeded all too well, Doctor," she explained. "You know too much of my secrets for me to permit you to run free.
"Besides, I have more than one motive. You are a very handsome man. You attract me. And it has been a long time since I have taken an outsider into my circle of dominance and transformed him into my slave!
"In a sense, you created the new Clarissa, Doctor. Nothing could be more fitting than that you should become my slave!"
"I'll never serve you!" he croaked, throat parched from thirst.
"Already you have served me ... as a man of science. Soon you will serve me in much more delightfully intimate ways.
"You are thirsty. Here, drink this."
She held a plastic squeeze bottle capped with a long thin plastic tube and filled with clear water. She brought it to his mouth.
He opened his mouth and she squeezed the water into it. It sprayed through the straw, moistening tongue and throat, trickling like pure ecstasy.
When he drank his fill, he contrived to catch a bit of the water in his mouth and hold it. He spat it on Clarissa.
Instead of being angry, she was only amused.
"Before too long, Doctor, you yourself will fall to your knees and beg for my strict punishment to make payment for what you just did.
"You seem to have forgotten one very important, indeed vital fact, Doctor. I have an ace in the hole which gives me total power over you.
"See if you can guess what it is!"
That "ace in the hole" was none other than Lynn, Tucker's wife.
Deceiving Lynn that her husband required her presence at the mansion, Clarissa lured the lovely, unsuspecting housewife into her web.
Now both Tucker and his wife were captives of Clarissa.
Tucker, locked in heavy restraint, was brought to the punishment chamber and chained to the wall, so he would have a good view.
Then Lynn was brought bound, gagged, fearful, and weeping to the chamber.
Also present were Sophronia, Maria, and Nola-making for a crowded room. This was the largest of all four chambers.
Clarissa was outfitted for dominance.
She was regal, queenly. Her hair was elaborately styled in a mass of curls and braids, her face was exotically, dramatically made-up.
She wore a black lace Merry Widow corset, garters, stockings, boots.
Over her crotch, over the garters, she wore a pair of black silk panties. Those panties bulged out from her masculine endowment.
Lynn was innocent of the nature of her husband's research, and totally ignorant of the Project he had carried out for Clarissa.
Clarissa now stood behind Lynn. She rubbed herself through her panties.
Movement showed in the bulging crotch of the panties. It seemed as though a piece of pipe was stuffed in the front of the undies.
"You will be my slave, Doctor," Clarissa purred. "You will watch me enslave your wife, right under your very nose!"
Her voice was as feminine and silvery as ever, with no masculine coarseness. Clarissa was all woman-except for what was concealed in her panties.
Panties which she now pulled down, to nakedly expose a stiffly swollen penis!
CHAPTER TEN
Here was biochemical super-science gone berserk.
Clarissa was all woman-and something else.
When she rolled her panties down to the tops of her thighs, her new addition was on display, jutting in front of Lynn's astonished face.
Clarissa had quite literally grown a penis! And yet, she was still female, an astounding paradox.
She had a vagina, and all the female internal plumbing. The male member had been cultivated and developed from the clitoris.
Neither surgery nor hormones had been used. Instead, chemical infusions mixed with low dosages of radiation were applied to the cells of the clitoris.
The body is made of cells which constantly renew. The technique developed by Tucker gave direction and control to this process.
Working on the foundation of the clitoris, the technique had caused the marble of flesh to multiply its cells at a lightning pace.
From the clitoris was developed, first a finger of flesh, then a long thick member of erectile tissue.
This was not a true penis, in that it was not connected with the reproductive organs. Clarissa's hormonal balance was female.
She had no semen producing sacs or ducts. Her male member similarly held no urethra, no orifice for the passing of urine or semen.
It was a tube of flesh, of erectile tissue. In its unstimulated stage, it was a thick limp member capable of erection.
And, although it could not ejaculate, it could orgasm, just as stimulation of the clitoris would produce orgasm without ejaculation.
The male member was, in effect, a super-clitoris.
Lynn was stunned, staggered, overwhelmed by the erection rising from the top of the slitted vagina of Clarissa.
In essence, Clarissa had become a true hermaphrodite, a creature of two sexes.
She could still have intercourse in the normal fashion of a woman, by taking an erect penis into her pussy.
Since no hormone treatments were involved, her basic body chemistry remained the same, including monthly menstruation.
But she had ... something extra.
Clarissa spread her booted legs, proud, aggressive.
She took hold of the member. Instead of rising at the base of the crotch, it began much higher up on her mound, where the clitoris had been.
It was a penis, with a bullet-shaped head and a thick, seven-inch shaft.
Stiffly erect, it glowed like a red furnace, veins throbbing.
She took hold of Lynn's head and rubbed the penis against her fearful face.
The member was hot, throbbing, and ultra-sensitive, since it retained all the sensitivity of the clitoris.
She commanded, "Ready this slut for my pleasure!"
Sophronia and Nola moved to carry out the command.
They took hold of Lynn and half-carried, half-dragged her to the bed.
Lynn was limp with startlement, wonder having overpowered even her fear.
She was placed on the bed in a kneeling position, with her bottom raised.
At this point, Tucker became so noisy that it was found necessary to gag him.
Even gagged, he continued to make a good deal of agitated noise.
"Patience, Doctor, patience!" Clarissa mockingly counseled. "Your own turn to serve shall come soon enough, I promise you!"
Clarissa ordered Maria to more intimately prepare Lynn for penetration.
Maria shucked off her garments and padded naked to the bondage bed.
Maria got on her knees and put her head under Lynn.
Lynn's naked, hairless pussy poised over Maria's widely grinning mouth.
Maria licked her lips, then pressed her face to the pussy.
Lynn had a delicious young pussy. Its lips were full, fleshy, soft, warm, smooth.
She gasped and groaned through her gag as Maria lavished kisses on her pussy.
Clarissa stood at the foot of the bed, watching, stroking her erection.
Maria stuck out her tongue and polished Lynn's labia.
When the pussy lips were slippery and dripping, she inserted her tongue.
Lynn was betrayed by her body, which responded to Maria's artful mouth.
Secretions were coaxed from her membranes, oozing warm wetness within her.
Her pussy lips glowed hotly. Lynn gurgled, sobbed ... sighed.
"That seems to be quite enough," Clarissa said. "Your wife is quite the sensualist, Doctor ... I do believe that she enjoys this!"
Tears in her eyes, Lynn shook her head, denying the accusation. But the warm moisture oozing in her pussy gave the lie to her denial.
Clarissa took up a stance behind Lynn.
"What a lush, lovely bottom! I'm going to enjoy disciplining it very much!"
Laughing, Clarissa looked at her co-conspirators, Sophronia, Nola, Maria.
"I know that we all will enjoy disciplining Lynn," she added.
Lynn flinched when Clarissa took hold of her bottom.
Clarissa fondled the buttocks, her hands drifting down to the rosy, pink-lipped slit below the pale rounded ass cheeks.
She fingered the pussy, stroking the labia, then inserting her middle finger.
Lynn sobbed as she was penetrated-sobbed from shame, rather than pain.
Clarissa took hold of her member. "It would have been amusing to have her husband suck me wet and ready ... well, some other time soon."
She pressed the head of the penis against the slitted pussy lips.
Sophronia held struggling, squirming Lynn's wide hips in place for raping.
Clarissa pressed the tip of her penis against the pussy lips, parting them.
The labia split and spread under the pressure of the fleshy wedge.
Pink membranes, slippery with saliva and secretions, were exposed.
The member was wide, and stretched the membranes when its head was inserted.
Lynn screeched as she was entered.
Clarissa moaned, "This is as good as I always dreamed it would be!"
She took hold of Lynn's wiggling hips and threw her own hips forward.
She thrust her penis deep, burying it in Lynn's seething pussy flesh.
She plunged it in, up to the hilt, savoring the novel sensations.
This was the realization of a lifelong dream-to possess her slaves in all ways, to take them both as a man and a woman.
Clarissa, holding tight to the hips, fucked Lynn's pussy.
Clarissa's pert pink nipples were as sharply pointed and stiff as her penis.
Her pear-shaped breasts bobbed as she rocked back and forth, thrusting.
Dr. Tucker's senses reeled ... his mind whirled.
He blacked out....
He floated in red darkness. Hazy scarlet mists streamed upward in roiling currents in a vast, limitless void.
He floated in the void. Near him was a chunk of jet black rock, an asteroid, floating in the steaming, blood-red clouds.
On that rock was a majestic throne, and on that throne, a king.
It was the stranger who had given him the secret clue needed to perfect the process which had transformed Clarissa into a new creature.
Tucker recognized the stranger now.
He was the King of Hell.
Satan.
Satan chuckled. His mouth did not move, yet his words boomed and echoed in the mind of Dr. Tucker.
"You have my thanks, Doctor," Satan said.
"You have done well by one of my favorites, my dear disciple Clarissa.
"As a reward for your efforts, you will be permitted to serve as her slave-and, by serving her, to serve me!"
Tucker struggled back to consciousness, awoke.
He was back in the punishment room. Indeed, he had never left, since he remained secured in the bondage position he was chained in.
How long had he blacked out? Only a few seconds, it seemed, since Clarissa was still feverishly fucking his bound and gagged bride.
Tucker was haunted by the strange hallucination he had suffered.
Space-the void-Hell-Satan! Surely this was only a projection of his own mind, the feverish fantasy of a man tormented beyond his mental limits!
Surely it was just a dream-wasn't it?
It was no dream, what Clarissa was doing to his wife.
Clarissa stood behind Lynn, her penis inserted in Lynn's slit, the member burning hot and red, heating further with each frantic stroke.
Lynn writhed in her bonds as her pussy was raped, and gurgled through her gag.
Clarissa reached the peak of her experience.
Orgasm approached.
Her mind teemed with visions of lust, with plans for all the use she would make of the powerful male member with which she was now endowed.
Her slaves would know new depthsheights, rather-of slavery, as their mistress, Clarissa, was now able to use them in all ways.
Ever since purchasing Rochelle, Clarissa had refrained from allowing any of her male assistants to deflower the girl's anal virginity.
Now, she would take it herself. Rochelle's luscious ass would be offered up to the stiff penis of her transsexualized owner.
Clarissa had already savored some of the delights of fucking Rochelle's pussy.
And Robin-ah, Robin was due for new journeys into degradation.
He would be forced to surrender his honeyed mouth to the stiff member of Clarissa, to slurp and suck her erection to orgasm.
Robin was a virgin in his ass, and that flower of innocence would soon be plucked when Clarissa spread his cheeks and raped his bottom.
What novel thrills and delights awaited her! And it was different, so very different, to have a penis to use.
The very act of inserting the stiff member in a mouth, a pussy, or an ass, was an act of aggression, of sexual violence.
Since the awesome member was grown from her clitoris, all its intricate web of sensation-carrying nerves and veins was still intact.
Since she did not ejaculate, she could remain hard for a long time-yet her male member retained the ability of the clitoris to enjoy multiple orgasms.
In fact, she was on the verge of one now....
Clarissa climaxed.
She plunged the penis into the pussy, burying it deep, lodging its head against the mouth of the womb of Lynn's pussy.
Clarissa shuddered with orgasmic convulsions, the member steaming in the pussy.
Her every nerve, every cell, glowed with heated pleasure.
Lynn ... ah, Lynn was a lovely addition to her stable of slaves. She was beautiful and buxom. Best of all, she was unwilling.
It would be the very distillation of sweetness, to ensnare this rebellious captive in her web of domination, and seduce her into total slavery.
And Lynn would have a companion captive-her husband, Dr. Tucker.
The only thing that vexed Clarissa was the mystery of the unknown stranger, whose timely advice had perfected the transformation process.
His identity was still unknown to her. Ah, but Tucker knew ... Satan be praised! His will be done....
Something new now existed under the sun. Something new had been created through satanically-inspired super-science.
Clarissa was something, all right-something male and something female.
And still hungry.
She was overcome by the force of her orgasm. She shivered with sensation.
Nola held Clarissa by the arms, supporting her.
"Clarissa, are you all right?"
"Yes ... yes, just a bit shaken, that's all-I'm fine!"
Clarissa threw off her daze of the flesh, rousing herself.
"And this slut's pussy was just fine, too!" Clarissa slapped sobbing Lynn's flank smartly, leaving a red mark where her hand struck.
"That was your baptism into my service, slave," Clarissa stated.
She pulled out, her constructed penis still swollen, stiff, seething.
"Good lord, Clarissa, that's a mighty machine of lust!" Nola said.
"Oh, yes, indeed! Our good doctor did his work well! Look how hard it remains, as though it were made of bone, rather than flesh!
"And now, since I am still far from satisfied, I think it only necessary that our-scientific friend experience his creation at first hand!
"Prepare him for my pleasure!"
Tucker's resistance was so great that, despite his secure, escape-proof bonds, it was found necessary to sedate him.
The injection of a tranquilizing drug weakened his will, dazing him.
"Careful with the dosage," Clarissa said. "I want him pacified, but not unconscious! He must know what I'm doing to him!"
But everything was under control. Tucker lost some of his coordination. His will was weakened, and his resistance ebbed.
In this stunned state, he was taken from his chained bondage on the wall, and strapped down on the cot in position for penetration.
He was bound with his legs folded under him, and his ass out-thrust.
Lynn blinked away her tears to watch in horror as her husband was raped.
Nola greased him up. She spread his buttocks, exposing the rosebud.
"A virgin, Clarissa!" she exulted.
"Not for long," Clarissa promised.
Clarissa took up a position behind him. Nola took a handful of lubricant and smeared it on Clarissa's member.
The penis, still stiff, firmed up even more when massaged with grease.
Nola held the male captive's buttocks spread for the mistress.
Taking hold of the erection which was a product of Tucker's scientific genius, Clarissa gripped it under the head and guided it to the rosebud.
She pressed its tip to the quivering anal folds, parting them.
The wrinkles were smoothed as the ring was stretched and plugged by penis flesh.
Tucker groaned and gasped as his rear entry stretched to accept the intruder.
Clarissa grunted and groaned, then shoved her cock head past the anal ring and lodged it home inside the rectum.
Even through his drugged daze, Tucker suffered shame, pain, fear.
He had been one of the guiding lights in the creation of this new creature which was Clarissa. Now, he must accept the consequences!
He and his wife would serve side by side as slaves of the strange she-male....
As the intruder invaded his forbidden flesh, raping him anally, Tucker was crushed spiritually.
He was still a scientist, but no longer a man.
His manhood had been sacrificed offered up to Clarissa's male member. Now, she was the master, and he was the slave.
Even worse than the shame of penetration was the strange delight he now took in degradation. He longed to be wracked now with further humiliations of the mind and body. In this, he would not be disappointed.
Clarissa would take him far beyond the boundaries of normality, and deep into the chains of perversity.
But he would not be alone on his journey to degradation. Lynn, his beautiful captive wife, would accompany him every step of the way. He and Lynn were only the first recruits.
Soon, the outside world would grovel at Clarissa's booted feet.
