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Subject: Under Control part eleven of twenty eight
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Under Control - part eleven of twenty eight
by mailto: VictorBruno@mschristine.com
this story remains copyright Victor Bruno, release to publish
granted to Christine Stevenson.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Halt!" Delia's voice rang out. The two slave girls dragging Paul
stopped at once and Paul's relief was almost overwhelming. Could
it be over? He had sensed there was still time to go yet. Near to
tears, he looked at the naked flesh of the two girls before him,
the wire now slack between them. He saw the sweat that glistened
on their flesh . . . saw the muscles that twitched with fatigue
and pain . . . and realised that their sufferings could scarcely
be less than his. Delia came into view, blonde and beautifully
nude, smiling slightly in that smugly arrogant way of hers. How
he hated that. No! No . . . he must not hate! He must submit and
accept everything from her. She was his mistress.
"For the last half hour," she said, "we'll try it a little
differently . . ." Paul's heart sank. God, he had been right! His
ordeal was by no means over. And what did this smiling she-devil
with the lushly inviting body have in mind now?
He was soon to know. For Delia came swinging up on to the
steel-framed trolley on which Paul was secured kneeling. He was
riven by the sight, scent and sexual closeness of her. Tormented!
The smell of sexual arousal was intense as her blond triangle of
hair thrust into his face. Then she knelt and her lush breasts
were close to his face, she was unloosing the wire which was
around both the root of his penis and his scrotum. Paul gave a
little low moan of relief, head drooping. Grinning, Delia took
hold of his organ and toyed with it casually. "A little uncomfy,
eh?" she said. "How long since you had a piece?"
"Months . . . Miss . ." replied Paul hoarsely. "M-Months . . . ."
Despite what he had been and was even now enduring, Delia's close
presence and her touch were beginning to make themselves felt.
"That explains it . . . ." laughed Delia. "But it does not excuse
it." She was obviously referring to the instant reactions that
young Karen had produced, or perhaps she could tell the effect
she was having. "Right, you randy bastard," she went on, "now
we're going to do it differently."
The feeling of panic-terror gripped Paul once more as Delia now
looped the wire noose about his scrotum alone, tightening it
above his balls. "N-NO . . . no . . . ." he gasped out. "For
God's sake . . . NO . . . you . . . you'll . . . y-you'll
castrate m-me . . . ."
"Oh no," smiled Delia. 'Nothing so simple as that. Though, I
admit, you will probably feel as if you're losing your goolies."
"Mercy . . . oh God . . . I beseech you . . . have mercy . . . ."
He was at the end of his tether, literally and metaphorically. It
had been bad enough when the wire had encircled the girth of his
penis and the scrotum; now, he was hideously aware, to be pulled
in this way . . . to be literally pulled by his balls . . . .
would be even worse.
Completely disregarding his pleas, Delia stood up on the trolley
and turned. Right before Paul's eyes was the creamy-whiteness of
her curvaceous bottom. In her hand was the horsewhip. It cracked.
Once . . . twice. "Move, my beauties!" she commanded as she
pushed her buttocks back to smother Paul's face.
The two slave girls stepped forward. The wire tautened . . . and
Paul's balls took the strain. It was a strain all the worse with
Delia's added weight on the trolley. He cried out in terror and
torment and Delia turned around again to observe the results of
her handiwork.
Paul gasped and groaned alternately. The pain was excruciating.
Worse and more frightening than it had already been. Just before
him was Delia, her femininity exposed. Then, still smiling, she
raised one long limb and placed her foot on one of the side
rails, thus displaying herself quite uninhibitedly to him in
close-up. Deliberately. Tauntingly. Cruelly.
"You'll soon learn, big boy," she said, "that here, at Bel Air,
there's no limit to what can be done to a slave."
Gritting his teeth, Paul fought to adjust his mind and senses to
the increased torment he was enduring. For endure it he had to!
And, once again during the next half hour, he was to be made
further aware of the amazing powers of resilience that the human
body and spirit possesses. They are far tougher physically than
imagination lets one believe. And when one thinks one has reached
the limit, new resources are summoned up.
It would have been a blessing for Paul if it were not so . . .
for the limits of his endurance had been vastly extended by his
earlier experiences under the tutelage of Gloria van Meer!
* * *
"Did I not tell you I was fond of riding?" Delia was saying. Paul
knew the question was rhetorical; no answer was expected of him,
and he made none. "This form of mount makes an interesting
variation . . ."
Something over a quarter of an hour had passed and many more
circuits had been made. Delia had moved from the front of the
trolley, where she had been displaying herself so provocatively,
and was now seated on Paul's shoulders. The red boots dangled
down before him; the soft-warm white thighs gripped and enclosed
his neck, the sides of his head and his cheeks. The female scent
of his tormentor filled him and he felt the warm lubricity of her
sex on him. By moving her haunches and pressing herself close
against him, she was literally rubbing herself off on the nape of
his neck. Despite the never-ceasing torment, Paul found his mind
and body pulsing with the sheer sexuality of it. In every sense
Delia was overwhelming him. Just using him for her pleasure . . .
and though Paul's submission was enforced, for him, inwardly, it
became more complete. He gasped and sobbed under Delia's weight
and the unrelenting tug of the wire noose. At the same time he
heard her giving softer and more joyful gasps as her lust
mounted. It was the most intensely painful, yet strangely most
intensely erotic experience he could remember.
"Oh how I enjoyed caning you, you bastard . . ." he heard her say
between those gasps. "Yes . . . making a man yell is a real joy.
Better than any girl, I guess. Ahh . . . yes . . . yes . . . and
I shall do it again . . . slave. . . often . . . ahhhh . . . .
aaahhhhh . . . y-yes . . . often . . . ."
Then the jerking of Delia's haunches suddenly became more urgent.
In strange harmony, the force of her climax made Paul's body jerk
too, and thus his pains were intensified. His pains came to
climax as Delia reached hers. He bellowed out hoarsely whilst,
bending forward over him, she panted and moaned as she spent
herself with wriggles of lustful joy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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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