Message-ID: <14593eli$9808201800@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: np98rb@mail.telepac.pt (Christine & David Stevenson) Subject: Under Control part three 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: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <35dacc0d.8359196@news.telepac.pt> 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...... ------------------------------------------------------ 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 `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----