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Subject: {ASSM} Under Control - part one
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Under Control - part one of twenty eight
copyright Victor Bruno, release to publish
granted to Christine Stevenson.


THE WHITE Cadillac . . . a typically over-large, over-ornate
American car . . . came smoothly to a halt at the road
barrier and, from a small hut emerged a fat, middle-aged man
dressed in something approaching a Marshal's uniform.

"Can't go no further ma'am," he said, bending down to the
open window on the driver's side. "It's private land ahead."

Gloria van Meer regarded the heavy yet weak and lecherous
face, stubbled with grey, and her expression was one of
typical disgust and disdain. From the compartment in front of
her she took a small blue folder, rather like a passport,
flipped it open and handed it through the window. "I am an
official guest of Mrs Dupont," she said sharply.

"Ahh . . ." The man's aggressive demeanour changed at once to
one of smiling servility. "That's different, ma'am." He
studied the photograph of Gloria in the folder and then read
out her name. "Miss Gloria van Meer. That checks. I had
advanced warning of your coming, ma'am. Two days ago." He
peered into the car at the silent figure who sat on the far
side, staring straight ahead. "That Paul Mansel then?"

Gloria flipped out a second folder. "It is," she said
briefly.

"The other guest . . ." said the man, comparing the
photograph with Paul.

"I wouldn't exactly call him that," replied Gloria, and the
faintest of smiles flickered over her lips. But he's
certainly going to Mrs Dupont's."

The man looked faintly puzzled. "Yes . . . he's on the
schedule," he said. He looked again at Paul. "You alright,
mister?" he enquired. Most men guests he checked through were
animated and friendly . . . naturally looking forward to
going up to the 'Big House', ready for the time of their
lives. This one, pale and silent, looked as if he were going
to a funeral.

"He's quite alright," interposed Gloria, taking back both
passes. The man nodded and put his hand to the wooden boom.
It was no concern of his.

"Go across the causeway, ma'am . . . it's about a mile . . .
and you come to the second barrier. Through that and you're
on the estate itself."

Gloria nodded but made no reply. The boom rose up and the
huge car glided smoothly forward; up on to a road raised up
above swamps that stretched away into the distance. Swamps
heavy with heat, alive with alligators and deadly snakes.
Looking left and right, Gloria much approved Amelia Dupont's
choice of site for her 'set-up' and her security measures.
There was no doubt she was a woman who knew what she was
doing.

The Marshal watched the car disappear round a gradual bend.
Strange, he thought, very strange. Then he shrugged his
shoulders and went back to his hut. The excitement, such as
it was, was over for the day. No more guests were scheduled.
He sat down and lit a cigarette. In many ways his job was a
boring one. But it was certainly easy . . . and well paid. He
knew the excessive money was a bribe for his discretion and
silence. That suited him fine. Why work when you could get
more for doing virtually nothing? What's more, there were
perks to the job. He licked his pale lips as he felt the
sudden heat in his loins. It was Wednesday, his night to
enjoy one of those perks. At sundown he'd be on his way
across the causeway up to the estate where, laid on for him
would be one of those delicious young beauties Mrs Dupont
kept on the estate. He began to dream up what he'd make that
young beauty do to him and for him. The lust in him
intensified. They always did what he wanted. They had to. At
least, unless they wanted the hide taken off them later. And
the little darlings didn't want that. Not one little bit. He
knew all about what went on up there. They whipped them quick
as a flash, if they got lazy, sassy, or just plain stubborn.
Like the old days in the South, he thought with relish, when
a man could have dozens of black girls at his beck and call
and lay the rawhide across their rumps whenever he felt like
it. But, of course, Mrs Dupont's girls weren't black, they
were white. Lovely and white. Luscious. Oh my God, he
thought, feeling the hard root on him, whatever I get tonight
I'm going to fuck it good and strong! He took a swig from the
Bourbon bottle alongside him, lay back, closed his eyes and
sought to pass the time in sleep.

Meanwhile, Gloria had crossed the causeway and passed a
second closely-guarded barrier in similar fashion to the
first. She noted that a high, mesh-wire fence extended on
either side of the barrier. "Electrified, ma'am," the guard
had said, noting her interest. "Keeps the baddies from the
swamps out . . . and the goodies in!" He grinned . . . but
Gloria ignored him and drove on into the estate itself, along
a dirt road. Even more efficient, she reflected. So much the
better. She was well content.

Seated silent beside her, Paul Mansel had also noted all
these intense precautions. He realised he had entered a
'prison' from which there was no escape . . . yet, somehow,
that made remarkably little difference to him. He had come to
the conclusion quite some time ago that he could never escape
from Gloria. She was his eternal mistress and he was her
basest slave. That was all there was to it.

About a quarter of a mile up the road, Gloria brought the car
to a halt. They were passing through an orange grove and she
had caught sight of a young woman, who was dressed in a kind
of cow-girl outfit, lolling with her back against a
five-barred gate. What interested her even more, and caused
her to stop, was the fact that, within the grove itself she
saw the figures of three young women. Each was quite naked
and carried on her head a large basket of oranges. They were
walking towards the roadside to dump the fruit on a huge pile
which already lay there.

Paul saw them too, though he dare not turn his head more than
fractionally. He had to slant his eyes sideways to observe
the bouncing of the breasts and the quivering of the flesh of
the thighs of the trio. A stab of lustful excitement seared
him.

"Come on, you sluggards," came the rasping voice of the
'cow-girl', "there's two more rows to pick yet. And you'll
pick 'em. Or feel leather. Plenty!"

That each of the three had previously had the misfortune to
'feel leather' was apparent to Paul as they reached the
roadside and turned, backs to the car, to bend and dump their
loads. His eyes rivetted not only on the female secrets,
blatantly exposed, but also on the numerous pink-red welts
that criss-crossed buttocks and thighs. The oranges tumbled
out and the girls hurried back to the grove, teetering
absurdly on high heels. No more unsuitable footwear could
have been devised for their task but, as a slave himself,
Paul was well aware that such considerations counted for
nothing with an owner.

"Hi there!" The 'cow-girl' had turned and strolled over to
the drivers door of the car; "Welcome to Bel Air, ma'am," she
said in a southern drawl. Her outfit consisted of a white
Stetson hat, a brief black leather bolero, and an equally
brief black leather skirt and a pair of black, high-heeled
boots. Around her waist was slung a leather belt but, from
where a holster would have hung, there was instead a two-foot
long strap of reddish-brown cowhide attached to a short
wooden handle. It was two inches wide and a quarter of an
inch thick.

"Good afternoon," said Gloria. She smiled pleasantly. "I
gather you are one of Mrs Dupont's staff."

The young, fair-haired woman showed dazzling white teeth as
she smiled in reply. "Right," she said. "Assistant slave
mistress. The name's Delia." She extended her hand and Gloria
shook it. Delia peered in expectantly at Paul who continued
to look straight ahead.

"Pleased to meet you," said Gloria, "I'll be staying here for
some weeks."

Delia looked a little surprised. Most guests were men, and
they didn't generally stay that long. Must be friends of Mrs.
Dupont she concluded. "What goes on?" asked Gloria, nodding
towards the grove.

"Extra fatigues," answered Delia perfunctorily. "Miss Mandy
wasn't satisfied with some of their work up at the Big House.
She told me to make 'em sweat real good for a couple of hours
.. . ."

"Miss Mandy?" queried Gloria.

"Head slave mistress," said Delia. "She's our boss, I mean,
under Mrs Dupont, of course. Say, who's the guy?"

"Mmmm?" queried Gloria. Her attention had been focused on the
three toiling figures in the grove. "Oh . . . him. He's my
slave."

Delia's eyebrows went up. "You don't say!" she said. "Ain't
that something." She looked more closely at the rigid Paul.
"Mrs Dupont only has girls. We ain't had no male slaves
before."

"Well now you've got one," smiled Gloria pleasantly. "I know
all about Mrs Dupont's arrangements. We are old friends. In
fact, at her suggestion, I'm considering setting up a male
slave farm nearby."

"Really," said Delia, looking even more surprised. "Well, if
that's the way you want it . . ."

"That's the way I DO want it," said Gloria emphatically.

"But you've no objection to slave GIRLS, have you?" asked
Delia. Plainly male slaves were something beyond her normal
comprehension.

"None at all," replied Gloria. "In fact I rather enjoy them
too. It's just that I like to own males, to make them into
slaves."

"Ain't he going to cause some . . . well . . . trouble here?"
enquired Delia "I mean . . . amongst all these dolls. We've
got some real beauties, you know."

"Oh no," smiled Gloria icily. "He'll cause NO trouble at all.
Believe me. No trouble at all!"

Delia shrugged, rather disbelievingly, and turned back to
survey her charges who were approaching the roadside once
more. Paul felt that stab of excitement again as they came
into his vision. How deliciously young and shapely they were.
It was incredible that they could all be just as much in
servitude as he was! He had never imagined that many girls
would be willing slaves, having only ever encountered
Gloria's maids.

He watched one bend with her load . . . saw the revealing,
widened cleft of her nates . . . then he saw the girl
following her trip and sprawl, sending oranges tumbling over
the road.

"You careless slut!" bellowed Delia, She came fully into
Paul's vision for the first time as she moved forward from
the car, long-striding, hip-swinging, unfastening the
leathern thong that hung at her waist.

"Pick 'em up . . . . you stupid bitch!"

On hands and knees the girl scrabbled frantically about in
the dust of the road, striving to replace the oranges in her
basket as quickly as possible. Paul saw Delia's strap swing
up.

Tthhwaacckkk!

It fell across the girl's upthrust bottom and she yelped with
pain as she squirmed down into the dirt. But she didn't stop
picking up the fruit.

Tthwwaaccckkk!

She got it again . . .

Tthhwaacckkk!

And then again . . .

Each stroke across her juddering buttocks. "Pick 'em up . . .
pick 'em up!" shouted Delia as if the girl were not already
doing so with all her might and main. "You'll feel leather
till you do!"

Tthwwacckkk!

And again . . .

Tthwaaackkkk!

And yet again . . .

Tthwwaaccckkkk!

Paul was at once stunned and felt sympathy. He knew just what
such a thong felt like. But he felt a fierce excitement too
as he watched the girl threshing and kicking in the dust,
displaying all she possessed quite uninhibitedly to him. He
felt the hardness of his root beginning to press painfully on
the tight leathern restrainer Gloria had fastened on him.

At last the girl had restored her load and then dumped it
properly on the pile. Then Delia came strolling casually
back, re-fastening the strap to her belt. Paul saw that she
had remarkably long legs, particularly her thighs, it seemed,
most of which were visible beneath her abbreviated skirt.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, leaning on Gloria's window
again.

"That's quite alright," smiled Gloria. "Discipline has to be
maintained." She offered Delia a cigarette, who accepted it.
As quick as a flash, Paul had the car lighter at the ready,
lighting first Gloria's cigarette, then Delia's.

Gloria's hand, swinging back, smashed across Paul's face.
"Oaf!" she rasped, "this lady is our hostess . . . you should
have lit her's first!"

"I . . . I beg pardon, mistress," whispered Paul, his head
still ringing.

Delia looked suitably impressed. "I see you maintain
discipline alright," she said.

"Iron discipline," nodded Gloria, puffing contentedly on her
cigarette.

Delia continued to study Paul with unabashed
interest. At Bel Air she was accustomed to seeing
the men getting exactly what they wanted. This
complete reversal was not only new to her, but
quite fascinating.

"Your boots have got dusty," remarked Gloria.

"Mmmm . . . yes," agreed Delia. "Still, it doesn't
matter. I'll have them cleaned and polished later."

"You can have them cleaned now," said Gloria.
"Paul will do it." She gave Paul another stinging
backhander. "Get out of that seat!" she rasped.
Paul opened the door and stumbled from the car.
"And you can get out of that suit, too," went on
Gloria. "You've been dandied up long enough.
Strip off."

                   * * *

This story was released as an illustrated web book. For
details of Victor Bruno Books available please contact

VictorBruno@MsChristine.com
http://www.mschristine.com/bruno.html

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