CHAPTER ONE

 

'A day at the Manor'

 

It was bound to be a disappointment, thought Bob. How could it be anything else? The picture he had been painted sounded so much like heaven that the reality was bound to fall short.

"Bob, mate, you'll love it," Tom had said. "You can pick whichever one you like, and make her do whatever you like, and do to her whatever you like. It doesn't matter what she likes at all, she gets no say in it. And they're all lovely; really beautiful. Sure, it's not cheap, but believe me it'll be a night to remember."

Well, he wasn't short of a quid or two, so he paid his money and went, but even now he couldn't quite believe it. Beautiful young slave girls - real slaves, not pretend - in a large old house in England, only an hour or so's drive from London? Robert, old pal, he said to himself, someone is pulling your leg. This just can't be true.

But it was!

He arrived at the entrance to the estate, high walls and a solid wooden gate in an isolated part of Sussex, just as it had been described to him. His ringing on the bell was answered, as Tom said it would be, by this man in a sort of butler's outfit. Polite and urbane he might have been, but there was something quietly sinister about this short but plump little man: his baldness, the roundness of his face and the treble chin failed to make him look weak or harmless, but the moustache succeeded totally in giving him the look of someone it would be unwise to cross. His manner, however, was decorum itself. He checked Bob's identity, confirmed that he was expected, invited him to park his car just inside the gateway - Bob noticed that the gate was securely locked behind him, with the key immediately removed so that it could not be opened from the inside - and informed him that a "pony and cart" was on its way to collect him. It was just returning from delivering tonight's other visitor to the house - Bob had noted the other car which his was now parked beside.

He got quite a shock when he saw the "pony and cart." The cart was an unexceptional, very lightweight two-wheeler; but the "pony" was a striking flame-haired young woman of Amazonian proportions harnessed to it. She was almost six feet tall, with muscular yet feminine arms, a large and firm chest with a flat tummy and excitingly sculpted legs rising to an inviting love nest guarded only by luscious curls of red-blonde hair. All this he could tell quite easily, since apart from the harness and boots she was totally nude.

Somewhat hesitantly, Bob climbed up into the cart and took hold of the reins. The girl showed no signs of moving. Clearly a command was called for. A polite invitation to her to lead on was on his lips, but it would surely be the wrong thing to do. Instead, still rather uncertain, he flicked the reins. Immediately she began to push herself forward and the cart soon gathered pace. Her muscles rippled under her smooth and sensuous skin and she pulled the contraption as if it weighed nothing, although he could see a tiny trickle of sweat running down her back despite the coldness of the February evening. The harness made her bend over at the waist and her bottom filled his horizon: she was a big girl, but nevertheless there was not a trace of fat on her buttocks or thighs. If she had anything to say, she was unable to say it: a metal bit blocked her mouth, preventing her top and bottom lip from meeting but not impeding her breathing, which was deep but steady. Bob fingered the reins, hesitated, and then could not resist the impulse to flick the girl a second time with them. The two parallel leather straps slapped into the bare back with more force than he had intended, but there was no complaint; however, there was an immediate quickening of pace, despite the fact that they were already moving quite quickly.

The driveway widened into a courtyard, and the manor house came into view. It looked like an old vicarage, although he gathered that the goings-on there were certainly not the sort of thing that the local reverend might approve of. The girl pulled the cart right up to the entrance steps, and stopped. He stepped down, deliberately alighting on the wrong side of the house to give himself the excuse to walk in front of her and ogle her. Her chest rose and fell steadily, and her breathing was still even despite the impediment of the bit. A layer of perspiration made her breasts gleam, and he noticed a name stencilled neatly on her left breast in inch-high marker pen: Hercules. As he walked up the steps, she began to move off, heading down the drive once more. He watched her go, fascinated, and only when she was out of sight did he turn and ring the bell.

When the door was opened, he got another eyeful. Another naked young woman stood there.

"Good evening, master," she began, and then, seeing that his attention was focused entirely on her body, patiently waited for his eyes to drink their fill before continuing, making no effort to hide herself, although he had the impression that she did not enjoy the attention. She was as elfin and petite as the first girl had been statuesque; fine blonde hair tied in ribbons emphasised her youth - she looked as if she was only sixteen - and framed a face that was both lovely and looked serenely innocent, in total contrast to her nudity. Apart from the ribbons, her only adornment was a lightweight black leather collar fastened loosely around her neck; below that nestled two still developing breasts pushing firmly upwards, the left of which bore the name "Egg". This, he later found out, was in reference to the bald state of her mound of Venus, she being the only shaved girl in the household. He was far too busy taking her body in to notice the slight flush of her cheeks as she stood there for his inspection. When she judged that he would now give sufficient attention to her voice, she said, "Please follow me, master" and turned and walked off. Bewitched by the unconscious gentle sway of her bottom as her bare feet padded over the sumptuous carpet, wild horses could not have prevented him from moving after her. Only faintly was it registering in his mind that she had twice referred to him as "master".

She led him into a lounge and turned to face him once more, indicating an armchair into which he sank.

"My fellow slaves will be with us momentarily, master, and then you may choose which of us you want," she said in a beautiful light voice. "There is a file giving information on us on the table by your side which may assist your choice. I regret that Longlegs is unavailable, as she is being used by another guest, but if you would like Hercules then she can be available shortly, and one of us will take over the cart." He looked at her slight form, unable to imagine her being able to pull that cart with a fully grown man in it.

"And don't think for a moment that she can't do it," said a male voice behind him, easily reading his thoughts. Bob turned and struggled out of the deep armchair to shake the offered hand of (he correctly assumed) his host. The newcomer introduced himself as Charles and identified Bob, explaining that only first names were used here.

"Of course, Hercules can beat her in a race, but Egg here can still take you anywhere you want in the cart at a quite reasonable pace. She just needs a bit more whip for encouragement sometimes, don't you girl?"

"Yes, master." Incredible that the girl accepted without argument the possibility of being whipped!

"Anyway," continued Charles, "I just popped in to make sure that they are taking good care of you. If the one you choose is not completely satisfying, do please let me know and we'll replace her with another of your choice and, of course, suitably deal with the faulty one. Have a good evening." With that, he departed.

Bob sank back into his chair just as another door to the lounge opened. Still struggling with the other shocks he had taken so far, Bob's jaw dropped as three more girls, each totally unclothed and apparently unconcerned about it, walked in and lined up in front of him. Egg moved to stand beside them to make the line four wide. At first Bob's eyes roved almost frantically, then he calmed a little and began looking at each girl in turn. The first was another blonde, with pale skin and just a hint of freckles. The word "Virgin" was printed on her firm pear-shaped mammary, although Bob, quite correctly, couldn't see how she could actually be virgo intacta if she was regularly "on offer" as she was tonight. She had the supple grace of an athlete, but just a hint of innocence. Next to her was a brunette, with curly uncontrolled hair, small but firm round breasts and, as Bob could not help but admire when he got them all to turn round, the most superb bottom he had yet seen. Her name, according to her bosom, was "Hot Lips". The third was rather older, auburn haired with an air of sophistication and evident class, rather mocked by the name "Milady Cunt". She looked somewhat crest-fallen, as if she had fallen a long way from aristocratic origins - which, in fact, she had. Actually, none of them looked wildly enthusiastic, but they were undoubtedly totally co-operative.

When he could at last wrest his eyes away from their exposed charms, Bob consulted the file. Each girl had a page of data, in addition to full frontal nude photos, which were rather superfluous given that they were displaying themselves before him at this very moment. Egg was just sixteen, Virgin seventeen, Hot Lips was twenty and Milady Cunt twenty-six. Measurements, weight, details of slave experience and all sorts of private information, including sexual prowess, was here. Virgin had been a virgin when she "joined", hence the name, and consequently had only ever known sex as a slave. When roused, she would get deliciously embarrassed. Egg was keen to please; all of them, he had been assured, would make every effort to satisfy him, but she seemed to have the idea that since he was paying for this, he deserved the best she could give. Hot Lips was a specialist in oral sex. Milady Cunt, who was indeed a former member of the aristocracy, was quite a nymphomaniac: in her former life she had screwed around a great deal and, although she could no longer choose either the time or the partner, still needed regular doses of sex. Hercules' file was also there: she was nineteen, a former female body-builder with what was described as a firm body and, of course, plenty of stamina. Longlegs' curriculum was also worth a look: the photo was that of a poised model, as the file confirmed she had been. She was twenty-two. Bob sighed. What a choice!

In the end he opted for Egg, who sent a shiver through him every time he looked at her. The others departed obediently, one or two looking relieved that they hadn't been chosen. Egg remained standing before him, and for a moment he did not know what to do next, but she quickly guided him through the choices.

"If you want to beat me a little, master," she said in that thrilling voice of hers, "there is a choice of instruments in the bureau over there. There are some bondage rooms elsewhere in the house if you want, or a dungeon if you want to do it hard." She sounded unenthusiastic about the prospect, but clearly prepared to obey if need be. However, he chose the bedroom instead. He had a wonderful time: she skilfully built him up whilst keeping him from going off for as long as possible; when he finally did explode into the condom the house rules insisted upon, she cleaned him off and gently caressed him until he built up for a second climax.

It was quite late when he almost staggered out of the house; Hercules was waiting in the floodlit courtyard, goose pimples now evident on her flesh in the cold, to take him back to the gate-house and his car. The sight of that magnificent rear pumping away as she pulled the cart revitalised him once more, and when they reached their destination he alighted and then nerved himself to reach out and stroke her lovely flanks. She made absolutely no move to resist him, and so he explored further. She was totally docile, staring out expressionlessly into the darkness. The butler appeared and discreetly mentioned that there was a supply of condoms in the gate-house, and Hercules could be quickly and easily unharnessed. The young woman made absolutely no reaction to this offering of her body without consultation with her. Bob was tempted, but he sorely doubted his ability to come again after Egg had drained him so thoroughly, and he did not want to risk failing. On the other hand, this incredibly succulent creature was completely and freely available. Still hesitating, he looked into her eyes, and saw that the possibility of being used had intensified the unhappiness behind the blank expression. A thrill of power surged through him, that she was his despite her own wishes, and that settled it. He nodded, and the butler began freeing the girl of her harness. He could feel his manhood rising once more, and felt confident now that he could give her a good seeing-to. And one day very soon he would be back here again. Oh, yes, indeed!

 

***

 

Hot Lips settled down on the mattress in her kennel for the night and turned out the light. Neither of tonight's visitors had chosen her. The first looked a nasty piece of work, and Longlegs had returned to her kennel with some fresh cane marks on her rear as well as suffering a fairly brutal penetration. The other one had looked all right, but even so, Egg was welcome to him.

Hot Lips had been christened Alison Balcombe, though the name Alison had soon been shortened to Ali. For the first seventeen years of her life she had led a normal existence, slightly sheltered where boys were concerned, but beginning to flirt more as she matured. Then, on holiday in Cornwall, she had been spanked by a dishy young lad when alone with him. The experience had been surprisingly exciting, and she began to get spanked regularly by him, even allowing him to take her jeans down, although not her boxer shorts. Eager to explore this, she had agreed somewhat hesitantly to go with this lad, called Jamie, to a spanking club called the "Wench Whackers Ball" (see the novel of the same title). She hadn't quite realised what she was letting herself in for: there, in front of an audience of over thirty men, she had her shorts and knickers taken down for the first time ever, and had her first ever taste of the cane: a searing twenty-four strokes. At the end of it, not fully cognisant by this stage of anything except the pain, she had been stripped naked in front of the audience.

Somehow this horrendous experience struck a chord, and she appeared several more times at these parties. After the third such party on the following year's holiday, she surrendered her virginity to Jamie, later also copulating with his friend Carl and even, despite her otherwise complete inexperience, taking part in the club orgy where three more young Cornish studs tasted her now eighteen year-old flesh. Still, the club sessions had become a little boring, and in any case she could only do them when on holiday; at the end of that summer she faced returning home, with no more c.p. and no more sex (back home she didn't even have a close boy-friend); so, the club secretary, Steve Langley, had arranged six one-off activities for her, which they called the "Six Labours Of Alison". The first and third had been comparatively mild, but the second had involved her being skilfully dominated for a weekend by an exceptionally able and experienced master, a Mister Pugh. Lacking any other sexual outlet, Ali fixated on that weekend, and wanted to go again; but Mister Pugh would only accept her after she completed the six labours. The fourth and fifth were painful and severe; and although she did not yet realise it, her enthusiasm for corporal punishment and domination was fast fading. She told herself that she must finish the six labours so that Mister Pugh would take her back for another weekend. Even though she was already planning to give up c.p. after that sixth labour, she still felt she had to do it in order to go back to Mister Pugh once more, even though that was for more of the same.

Confused? Yes, she was. Only much later, looking back with maturity and hindsight, could Ali begin to understand her own bizarre behaviour. That first spanking experience with Jamie had been unplanned, but it became the gateway for further intimate behaviour - a woman's behind is after all an erogenous zone and the touching or gentle spanking of it is undoubtedly erotic - and a substitute for the sexual activity which the then virgin secretly wanted but did not have the nerve to actually initiate. Also, and this she had realised at the time, she could be an arrogant bitch, and she felt she needed the training in being submissive to cure that character fault.

The twenty-four strokes of the cane at that first W.W.B. meeting had been far too painful to be erotic. The real draw of that had been the fact that she had been forced, as a condition, to bare her backside completely before the audience of some three dozen men and, at the end of the beating, the now dazed girl had been completely and unexpectedly stripped naked. Again, it was a sex substitute. Lacking sufficient confidence in her body to strip of her own choice (and also lacking a suitable excuse for doing so), she could only do it by being forced into it. With no other outlet for her growing sexual fever, she went to a second meeting where she was nude almost throughout, and subjected to a further severe dosage of pain. Possibly, had she been asked to another meeting soon after, she would have declined, but as Cornwall was far from her home she could only go to a meeting when on holiday, and consequently eight months of total inactivity followed, during which time her memory glossed over the pain and humiliation, so next year she attended a third meeting, at which she finally got herself sufficiently worked up to lose her virginity to Jamie. A summer of regular sex with both him and Carl ensued, with fairly mild c.p. more of an excuse to get undressed and ready for sex than anything else. When that also began to bore - Jamie and Carl were unsophisticated and truthfully unimaginative - the surface glamour and excitement of new activities seemed attractive, especially when set against the likely alternative of another eight months inactivity. The real significance of her feelings towards the Mister Pugh weekend lay in the fact that she had really craved sex, despite his greater age, and he had frustrated that. Indeed, as she had set out for the sixth labour, it had been nearly eight months once more since her last coupling. (Her exploits up to this point were chronicled in the novel "The Wench Whackers Ball").

And so she had arrived at the manor for a severe weekend of slavery. The revelation upon her arrival that she would be expected to have sex this weekend was, however much she might deny it, not quite such bad news as she made out, even if she had to believe herself that she was forced into it in order to assuage her guilt. The sex at times that weekend had been wonderful; but it had been accompanied by hours of blazing, terrible pain and degradation. Indeed, the weekend had barely begun before she was regretting signing up for it, and before much longer she would have preferred to pack up and leave, but she had no choice: early departure was not permitted, and the manor was VERY secure.