Message-ID: <15442eli$9809182301@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/15442.txt> From: np98rb@mail.telepac.pt (Christine & David Stevenson) Subject: Under Control part twenty-seven 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: <36024a8a.11681901@news.telepac.pt> Under Control - part twenty-seven of twenty eight by mailto: VictorBruno@mschristine.com this story remains copyright Victor Bruno, release to publish granted to Christine Stevenson. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Miss Mandy, the chief overseer, looked absolutely splendid; even though Paul was hardly in the mood for admiration, it could not be denied. Her coffee-coloured body was clad in a white leotard made of the very thinnest material, almost transparent and fitting like a second skin. She was shod in a pair of thigh-length boots of white leather. Delia was still in her black leather outfit of the day. Ten minutes earlier Paul had been taken from his cell and down to the Punishment Room . . . where Delia recounted the various 'misdeeds' of the day which she considered merited extra punishment. Then Miss Mandy adjudicated. The first girl - there were six of them in all - was awarded ten strokes of the medium cane. Paul watched as she was secured to a whipping block right before them. Two overseers did the job, then one of them, a beefy-looking woman of about forty produced the rod and approached the curving hindquarters helplessly presented. She looked at Miss Mandy . . . and Miss Mandy nodded. The caning began. Paul was appalled by the violence with which the muscular overseer laid on the cuts. She took two brisk steps forward before laying on each stroke, using the full force of her sweeping arm on each occasion. The wretched girl's screams echoed round the chamber and her bottom squirmed violently as weal after weal was raised. Still, reflected Paul, by Bel Air standards, her punishment was relatively mild. He hoped he got off as lightly anyway. It soon became apparent that he was to be last . . . so had the added ordeal of waiting and watching. The strokes awarded varied between ten and fifteen . . . though one of the tens was laid on with the heavy cane. It was as thick as a middle finger, yet just as supple as the medium rod. At last Paul's turn came and he felt sick at heart. Miss Mandy regarded him icily as Delia detailed his faults, making them sound far worse than they were. One could almost have imagined he had been constantly slacking for the last six days! "She looks big and strong," said Miss Mandy. "There should be plenty of work in her. I can't understand it." "Just laziness, I guess," said Delia, putting the knife in. "You think so?" queried Miss Mandy sharply. Delia simply nodded. Oh God, thought Paul, how could it possibly be said that he was lazy! Like all the others, he had been sweating his guts out. It was typical Bel Air 'justice' . . . from which there was no appeal. "I can't abide laziness," said Miss Mandy coldly, "especially when it appears to be persistent." Paul felt the hair on the nape of his neck beginning to rise. His fault was beginning to be made to appear far worse than it was. For some deliberate purpose it seemed. And if his fault were worse so would his punishment be. He bit his lips in an effort to stop them trembling. Since he had been made to look like a woman . . . and had been filled regularly with female hormones . . . he had certainly come to react and behave much more like a woman. He both trembled and wept easily. Gradually the last traces of manhood were being taken from him. The bitterness of that was like iron in his soul. Paul felt the tears begin to prick the back of his eyes as he wallowed in self-pity. "Give her twenty. With the heavy rod," ordered Miss Mandy. Paul shuddered. He had already seen the ridged weals that the heavy rod produced across the flesh. The girl who had received it was still sobbing louder than all the rest. And she had only received ten. "I'll give them to her," said Delia. Miss Mandy nodded her approval . . . and Paul saw the look of smug cruelty on the luscious blonde's features. This woman, he thought, has already given me more pain than any other. More even than his actual mistress, Gloria van Meer. "Put her over the block," said Delia in that dispassionate way of hers. Two of the overseers took Paul's arms in a vice like grip. Anyone would have imagined he was actually going to attempt to escape his fate! One of the women also took him by a hank of hair as she forced him to his knees before the block. "You'll learn not to be lazy, here, my girl," she said. Many of the guards and overseers . . . obviously except Miss Mandy, Delia and his mistress, were seemingly unaware that Paul was not a girl. The transformation was now virtually undetectable, especially as his breasts had matured considerably. Paul supposed it was this overseers ignorance of how tough he was that caused her to think he might try to escape. It was a severe punishment to give to a girl! Gripped still, Paul was forced curving over the block, his buttocks upthrusting by reason of the curved hump at the rear. Dread was like ice in his stomach. Used as he was to pain, he was aware this was going to be beyond the normal. Turning his head a little to one side, he was aware of Delia standing alongside the block. Her long limbs were a little astride; one toe of a high-heeled boot tapped lightly on the floor. In her strong fingers the heavy rod was being flexed back and forth, arcing into a semi-circle. Oh Christ, thought Paul, how she loves doing this! Had she not told him so often enough? The woman was a sadist through and through . . . not simply an administrator in the slave camp . The heavy leathern straps went about him. Two to secure his wrists, two more to pinion his lower limbs, and one even broader strap to secure his waist flat to the block. The latter was drawn excruciatingly tight crushing him down. No one could have felt more helpless. Paul felt the quivering quake of his nates as the seconds dragged by. Then Delia moved and he clenched his teeth desperately. "You, Pauline, will put your back into it in future," he heard her say. Then the rod whistled down . . . and flame of agony blazed across his rump. Deep . . . deep . . searing deep . . . making him writhe convulsively as the howl of torment erupted from his throat. Even the strongest of men would not have been able to endure such pain in silence . . . and he, Paul, had been emasculated. The thought of twenty such strokes like that was well-nigh unendurable, but he was well aware that he would receive every one of them and that every one of them would be laid on with all the force at Delia's command. Delia continued to lay on the whistling rod at five second intervals . . . and Paul's howls grew louder and his writhing more convulsive. After five strokes Delia moved from the left hand side of him to the right and continued to lay on the strokes in the same measured way. Even over his own cries, he could hear her grunts of effort as she whip-lashed the rod down with all her might. "Merc . . . eeeee!" Paul heard himself crying out in a high-pitched, feminine-sounding voice. "Merceee . . . eeeee!" Of course, he knew in his heart he would receive none. It was just an involuntary shriek from the depths of his pain-racked being. After ten strokes Delia changed her position to the other side again. The torment grew worse as one weal began to over-lay another. Thrashed as he had been often enough before, Paul could not remember a worse one. The weight of the rod plus Delia's strength and venom, all conspired to produce the peaks of pain. Eleven . . . . Twelve . . . . It was unendurable . . . yet had to be endured! "Ahhhhh . . . . . merceee . . . . merceee . . . aaaiieeeee!" Thirteen . . . . Fourteen . . . . No more . . . . ah no more . . . he could endure no more! Flesh and blood must have their limits! Sssssswwweee . . . . eeepppttttt! The fifteenth stroke contorted Paul as all the rest and, once more, Delia changed the direction of her attack. With the same, measured, remorseless cruelty, she caned Paul to the end . . . and the sweat was beading her brow and between the cleft of her heaving breasts when she had finished. It was very evident that she had put everything into it. Miss Mandy gave her a nod of approval. "That should encourage her to a little extra effort," she said. "I reckon so," agreed Delia, regarding Paul's still juddering buttocks with satisfaction. They were covered in a mass of red and purple weals . . . weals that lacerated the flesh into distinct ridges . . . each one a living torment in itself. And Paul had twenty such to agonize him. He lay there sobbing unashamedly. Once again he had been completely broken. Once it had shamed him. Now he no longer cared. Was he not but a weak woman? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 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. 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