Under Control - part nine

Oh God, thought Paul, this thin wire will cut my balls off. Not
only my balls . . . but my prick as well! They were trying to
make him a eunuch. Panic gripped him, but there was absolutely
nothing he could do. The sweat burst out all over his body and he
could only pray for some kind of deliverance which, in his heart,
he knew would not come.

Ahead of him the naked buttocks of the two slave-girls who were
pulling him along swayed and juddered. They, too, were suffering,
he realised. But surely not as much as he!

He passed the Birching Hurdle where so recently he had been
thrashed. He passed the Whipping Block with the slave-girl still
secured over it, her bottom ablaze with deep red welts where the
heavy strap had fallen. He saw, even in his own anguish, the
flesh still twitching and quivering in its torment. This is a
terrible place, he thought. Here there is no mercy. None!

He passed the cruelly amused faces of Miss Mandy . . . . of Delia
. . . of Ilse. Delia was actually still laughing, one hand held
over her mouth, her big breasts heaving under their flimsy
covering. What a joke . . . Christ what a joke! Tears of
self-pity came to his eyes. And his Mistress did not even know
what was happening to him. She did not care, of course. She had
put Miss Mandy in charge of him. That sufficed. After all his
loyalty and devotion!

His brain seemed to reel. Oh how can I endure? For so long?

Yet, in fact, Paul was at the beginning of the painful process of
finding out that he was far tougher than even he thought himself.

                                   * * *

Miss Mandy remained in the Punishment Room to watch Paul complete
half a dozen or so painful circuits. Obviously she found it
unusually entertaining and enjoyable to have a male slave to deal
with rather than one of the large troupe of slave girls. So did
her two assistants, Delia and Ilse.

With gritted teeth, Paul strove to endure the relentless cutting
of the wire noose about his genitalia in silence. All the same,
low whimpers were forced from him repeatedly. He had, he knew,
somehow to try and come to terms with the perpetual pain the
pulling slave-girls produced. For, if it was bad now, what would
it be like in half an hour's time? An hour's time? Gradually he
began to realise that his fear that the noose would sever his
manhood completely was exaggerated. The wire was not that thin.
The human form . . . bones, gristle, muscle and flesh . . . was
always stronger than the individual imagined. Nevertheless that
did not compensate for the perpetual pain. Oh God, the bitter
injustice of it! His sufferings were because of what was simply
the natural male reaction to close contact with young female
flesh; following an afternoon of repeated visual titillation.
Could he really be blamed?

Of course not, he realised. He was simply a 'guinea pig' for the
amusement of these sadistic women who served Mrs. Dupont's
monstrous regime.

Before him constantly was the bouncing, quivering bottom flesh of
the two slave girls undergoing the cruel discipline of Saddle
Strap. An image that might have roused him but for the cruel
cutting pain he was enduring. The girls too were being cut where
they were most sensitive by the thong drawn viciously tight
between their legs and up between their nates . . . a torment
made all the worse by the high-stepping gait they had to perform.
Even in his own plight, for which they were involuntarily
responsible, Paul felt sympathy for them.

In due time Miss Mandy left the Punishment Room, accompanied by
Ilse, thus leaving Delia as overseer. The curvaceous blonde
leaned against one of the whipping blocks, smoking a cigarette,
watching the little cavalcade of torment. Occasionally she
cracked the horse whip menacingly . . . warning the two girls to
keep their limbs moving high . . . and reminding them they would
feel the lash if they fell. The only other occupant of the
Punishment Room was the girl Paul had seen being strapped by Ilse
when he had arrived. She remained secured down to a whipping
block and Paul was confronted by her naked bottom, covered with
red-purple welts, every time he completed another circuit. On one
occasion Delia strolled over and spoke to the girl at some
length. Being mostly out of earshot, Paul heard little of what
she said, but that she was not using words of comfort was pretty
obvious! For, as he passed, he heard Delia saying: "You
thoroughly deserve what you've got coming to you tomorrow, my
girl!" . . . referring to the second strapping the girl was due
to receive.

After half an hour or so, Paul had become somewhat adjusted to
the incessant cutting pain. Not that it had lessened. Rather to
the contrary. But, to an extent, he had become enured to it,
since his past experience of enduring pain had enabled him to
build up a kind of inner resistance to it. But how long he would
be able to maintain his concentration? That was another matter.
Perhaps for the whole two hours, he thought.

Let it be remembered that the terrible cutting of the wire noose
was not all that Paul had to endure. There were, too, the
burning-throbbing weals that Delia had raised across his rump! By
concentrating on one he could to some extent shut out the other.

Paul saw Delia yawn . . . and felt a sudden flair of hate for her
callousness. She was actually becoming bored! Quickly he
suppressed the emotion. It was very dangerous to hate those who
had complete power over one, he knew. Because it lessened one's
ability to submit utterly to them. One must not submit to the
hate and bitterness . . . but give oneself over to the feeling
that one was honoured to be the slave of one's dominatrix, and
that there was a 'rightness' in it! That was the mark of a true
slave. Such as he was.

A short while later Paul noticed that Delia had moved. She was
using a house telephone set in an alcove in one wall. "Send
Janice to me," he heard her order crisply. "And tell her to bring
the massage oil with her . . . ."

The next time Paul saw her, he was both startled and fascinated
to see that she had removed the brief bra and pantie set she had
been wearing and was standing nonchalantly naked but for her
thigh-length red leather boots. Despite his torment, his eyes
fastened on her almost greedily. He noted at once that, unlike
the slave girls whose body hair was shaven, there was an
enchanting triangle of blonde down at the apex of her smooth
white thighs. Had she done this to tantalise him further, he
wondered. If so, she was succeeding. He was torn between desire
and despair . . . and he gritted his teeth even more firmly as he
was pulled so helplessly and humiliatingly around the room.

Shortly afterwards a pretty young, raven-haired slave girl came
hurrying in, carrying a small urn and it then became apparent why
Delia had stripped. For she stretched herself out, face down, on
a leathern couch set in the centre of the room and the girl
Janice at once began to rub oil from the urn into Delia's lush
body and then massage her. Soon Delia was sighing softly under
the treatment and stretching voluptuously under the kneading
hands. It became apparent before long that this was more than a
simple relaxing exercise; by the movement and placing of Janice's
hands, Paul could see it had sexual overtones. Delia, uttering
little moans, became an island of pleasure in the sea of pain
surrounding her.