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

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

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ten minutes later, the drinks were finished and Delia decided it
was time to bring to an end the wearisome toil of her three
slave-girl charges. She lined them up on the side of the road,
directly facing Paul, who stood rigidly at attention by Gloria's
car in the baking sun. And, for all his own fatigue and pain, his
eyes could not help devouring their naked beauty. They were all
young and curvaceous . . . particularly one, who was a little
plumper than the others and whose hair, as blonde as Delia's, was
tied in a pony tail. No more than eighteen, he thought. How, in a
combination of fatigue and fear, her soft girl-flesh trembled and
twitched! Paul noted, too, that none of the three carried any
trace of body hair (he learned later that this was one of Mrs
Dupont's little foibles) and the soft smooth swelling of each
mound, deliciously under slit, filled him with a fever of desire
which he fought to control and conceal.

Long-striding Delia, very much in command, came back from an
inspection of the grove. The strap, already unfastened from her
belt was swinging at her side. "Too much fruit left on too many
trees," she announced . . . and Paul saw the ripple of dread
which went through the three girls. "At least, for my liking. So
it's leather. Turn about . . . and get those backsides up!"

There was no delay in obeying and Paul watched fascinated as the
three turned, knelt and thrust up shapely posteriors. He knew
exactly how they felt at that moment but he knew, too, there must
be an added factor of womanly shame on account of his presence.
"Five apiece," announced Delia, "to remind you that I mean what I
say."

The strap flailed across the bottom of the first girl in line and
she squealed and squirmed. The young pony-tailed blonde was the
next in line and, as the leathern thong came sweeping down, Paul
saw the girl's right arm fling back so that the force of the
stroke was broken by her wrist.

Delia paused. "Karen," she said, "If you do that again, I shall
take you to the Punishment Room when we get to the Big House and
recommend that you get a sound caning." She turned towards Gloria
and shrugged. "She's rather new here, I'm afraid . . . still got
a lot to learn." Gloria nodded sympathetically in reply as the
strap swung again and, this time, fell full across Karen's plump
bottom.

"Aaghh . . . aaagggh . . . mercy . . . mercy . . ." the girl
cried, clasping at the darker-hued weld across her already
reddened nates.

Unconcerned, Delia moved on and laid a stroke across the third
girl . . . who took it, Paul considered, with remarkably silent
stoicism. Then back to the first girl, whose second yelp of
torment rang out loud and clear. Now it was the turn of young
Karen again . . . and Paul saw her bottom shuddering and twisting
half away in dread. But, somehow, she forced herself to take the
bite of the leather.

Then the third kneeling girl took her second stroke with no more
than a gasp and a shudder. She was, Paul realised, considerably
more experienced. Like himself.

In this fashion Delia continued to lay on her strap . . . and
each time Karen's contortions and cries became more anguished.
Paul's heart went out to the young girl in understanding
sympathy. At the same time he could not deny the mounting lust
within himself and the fascination that the scene held for him.
It took him back to those days in England when, in her country
mansion, Gloria had, for a brief period, acquired a slave maid.
He had often watched her being thrashed and felt similar lust and
fascination - even though he might be about to be dealt with in
similar fashion himself. Now, as then, he was an integral part of
the scene, as a slave . . . Yet, in another way, he stood apart
from it, as an observer. It was a strange sensation; frightening
and exciting at the same time.

How unfortunate it was for Karen that it was the fifth and final
stroke which was her undoing. For all her efforts and resolve,
something obviously snapped in her, and for the second time, her
arm and wrist flung back to check the stroke.

Delia was uncompromising. She made no allowance for the fact that
it was the last stroke.

"Right my girl," she snapped. "You can't say you weren't warned.
It's the Punishment room for you when you get back."

Paul's lust mounted as he watched the wretched Karen; she uttered
a despairing wail and, scrambling around, clasped abjectly at
Delia's boots. "M-Mercy . . . mercy . . . M-Miss . . ." she
begged, choking with tears. "I . . I didn't mean it . . . I . . .
I j-just couldn't h-help it, Miss . . ." She scrambled back
around again. "G-Give it to me . . . a-again, Miss," she begged,
thrusting up her plumply curvaceous bottom.

Delia obliged with full vigour, and then moved on to the third
girl. There was a sardonic smile on her hard features, as she
looked back at Karen. "You're still going to the Punishment
Room," she said.

Karen broke into a torrent of great heaving sobs, slumping down
on to the roadside. Paul felt a chill within himself. The girl
was obviously much in dread of that Punishment Room and, although
he had not seen it, his imagination was sufficient to fill him
with fearful apprehension. Because, knowing his Mistress, there
was no doubt there would be occasions when he would visit it too!

Having completed her ration of corrective discipline, Delia lined
the three girls up. Gloria ordered Paul to join the line. Karen,
standing next to Paul, continued to sob uninhibitedly, but the
other two were silent. Out of the corner of his eyes Paul could
see the rise and fall of her big, milky white breasts. Ripe half
melons. How he would have loved to be able to get his hands on
them! Little wonder that the pressure on his tight restrainer was
exceedingly painful.

"How do you get them back?" asked Gloria from the car, where she
had been watching events with interest and approval.

"Same way as I got them down here," answered Delia. "I ride
horse, and they run alongside attached by lead-traces."
"Excellent!" called Gloria, "will you run mine back with the
rest."

"Sure thing," Delia smiled, "I'll go and get my mount. He's
grazing in a paddock behind that copse." She pointed to the other
side of the dirt road, and then strode off, lithe and
long-limbed.

In the interval, there was only the sound of Karen's sobs and the
heavy breathing of the other two. Paul stood rigid as a pole,
almost feeling Gloria's eyes boring into him and diagnosing his
thoughts and emotions. She would be well aware of how disturbed
he had been and still was, by the sight of the three naked young
girls . . . and he prayed that she was planning no reprisals for
emotions and reactions which he could not be truly expected to be
able to control fully.

Delia came back riding a big bay stallion. She swung to the
ground and briskly ordered her charges alongside it. Two on each
side. Paul found himself at the rear on the left with Karen in
front of him, the other two girls being on the opposite side.

Delia fastened each of them by a wrist to one of the leathern
lead-traces which hung from the saddle. "I'm hosing my three down
when I get back to slave-quarters," Delia said as she went about
her work. "How about Paul?"

"Hose him down too," answered Gloria. "Then secure him. In fact,
treat him just like the others. I'll have a chat with Mrs. Dupont
before we decide future arrangements . . ."

Delia shot her a quick smile. "We'll soon have to be calling him
Pauline," she said.

"Could well be . . ." smiled Gloria in return.

Paul tethered by his right wrist, stared straight ahead as he
listened. There, a few feet before him, was the shapely nakedness
of his fellow slave, young Karen. He saw the gleam of sweat on
her body; he saw the pink-red strap welts across her plump
bottom. Assuredly that bottom burnt and throbbed as much as his
did. Maybe more. Because as a girl, she was more sensitive than
he - and certainly less experienced.

He couldn't help but wonder why she was here. The fact that she
was going back to receive, almost without any doubt, a caning,
must have been an agony in her mind. No wonder that soft young
bottom twitched and quivered incessantly! He just couldn't keep
his eyes off it . . . and he thought hotly of what he would do if
he were not a slave but free and alone with her.

"Right then," said Delia, having completed the attachments.
"You'll follow on behind then, Miss van Meer. Is there anything
else?"

Paul listened tense, his mouth dried by the dust within it. Then
Gloria spoke again. "You're taking that girl to the Punishment
Room, aren't you?"

"That's right," replied Delia, "I shall speak to Miss Mandy and
recommend that she gets a good caning. I may say that my advice
is rarely ignored."

"Excellent," said Gloria . . . and Paul observed the quick
quivering contraction of Karen's nates at the thought of what was
to come. "In that case I want Paul taken to the Punishment Room
with her. I have by no means been satisfied with his behaviour
this afternoon . . . and I sense certain other faults which I
will not enumerate at this moment. Suffice it to say that were he
not restrained he would surely make a disgusting exhibition of
himself. He will receive the same punishment as she does.
Precisely alongside her. Preferably at the same time. Do you
follow me?"

"Sure thing, Miss van Meer," answered Delia. "I follow you right
well, I can deal with Paul while Miss Mandy deals with Karen."

Paul felt a coldness stab through him, despite the heat of the
afternoon, and just as Karen's nates had done, his own contracted
involuntarily in dread anticipation of what lay ahead. Delia, he
was aware, would not spare him; the very fact that he was the
first male slave she had ever dealt with seemed to add to her
merciless venom.

Over his head, Delia swung up into the saddle . . . and Paul had
a quick glimpse of a pair of abbreviated black leather knickers
under the equally abbreviated skirt. Then, before him, was the
long white thigh and the high heeled boot in the stirrup. I am
truly a slave, thought Paul, for though this woman is but an
assistant slave mistress I am utterly in her power.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 


This story is being released as an illustrated web book, for
autoresponder details of Victor Bruno Books available please
contact

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

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

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Under Control
by Victor Bruno

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


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