Message-ID: <14500eli$9808181804@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/14500.txt>
From: np98rb@mail.telepac.pt (Christine & David Stevenson)
Subject: Under Control part one of twenty eight
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <35d827c8.2463670@news.ip.pt>


Under Control - part one of twenty eight
by mailto: VictorBruno@mschristine.com

this story remains 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 is being released as an illustrated web book. For
details of Victor Bruno Books available please contact

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

Also published as text simultaneously on......

------------------------------------------------------
The DOMestic mailing list is free of charge.
Subscribe in subject line:- DOMestic@Ms-Christine.com
Moderated by David & Christine Stevenson.
Subscribe online at http://www.mschristine.com/domestic.html
------------------------------------------------------

Under Control
by Victor Bruno

this story remains copyright Victor Bruno, release to publish
granted to Christine Stevenson.


-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>