Under Control Read online

  Title Page

  UNDER CONTROL

  By

  Victor Bruno

  Kinks Books is an imprint

  of W&H Publishing LLP.

  Publisher Information

  This eBook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2011

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Previously published by The Olympia Press PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.

  Copyright © Victor Bruno

  The right of Victor Bruno to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.

  This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.

  Chapter One

  The gleaming white Cadillac . . . a typical over-large, over-ornate American car . . . came smoothly to a halt at the road barrier and, from a small hut emerged a fat, middle-aged man dressed in something approaching a Marshal’s uniform.

  “Can’t go no further, ma’am,” he said, bending down to the open window on the driver’s side. “It’s private land ahead.”

  Gloria van Meer regarded the heavy yet weak and lecherous face, stubbled with grey and her expression was one of typical disgust and disdain. From the compartment in front of her she took a small blue folder, rather like a passport, flipped it open and handed it through the window. “I am an official guest of Mrs Dupont,” she said sharply.

  “Ahh . . .” The man’s aggressive demeanour changed at once to one of smiling servility. “That’s different, ma’am.” He studied the photograph of Gloria in her the folder and then read out her name. “Miss Gloria van Meer. That checks. I had advance warning of your coming, ma’am. Two days ago.” He peered into the car at the silent figure who sat on the far side, staring straight ahead. “That Paul Mansel then?”

  Glora flipped out a second folder. “It is,” she said briefly.

  “The other guest . . .” said the man, comparing the photograph of Paul.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call him that,” replied Gloria, and the faintest of smiles flickered over her lips. But he’s certainly going to Mrs Dupont’s.”

  The man looked faintly puzzled. “Yes . . . he’s on schedule,” he said. He looked again at Paul. “You all right, mister?” he enquired. Most men guests he checked through were animated and friendly . . . naturally looking forward to going up to the ‘Big House’, ready for the time of their lives. This one, pale and silent, looked as if he were going to a funeral.

  “He’s quite all right,” interposed Gloria, taking back both passes. The man nodded and put his hand to the wooden boom. It was no concern of his.

  “Go across the causeway, ma’am . . . it’s about a mile . . . and you come to the second barrier. Through that and you’re on the estate itself.”

  Gloria nodded but made no reply. The boom rose up and huge car glided smoothly forward onto a road raised up above swamps that stretched away into the distance. Swamps heavy with heat, alive with alligators and deadly snakes. Looking left and right, Gloria much approved of Amelia’s Dupont’s choice of site for her ‘set up’ and her security measures. There was no doubt she was a woman who knew what she was doing.

  The Marshal watched the car disappear round a gradual bend. Strange, he thought, very strange. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went back to his hut. The excitement, such as it was, was over with for another day. No more guests were scheduled. He sat down and lit a cigarette. In many ways his job was a boring one. But it was certainly easy . . . and well paid. He knew the excessive money was a bribe for his discretion and silence. That suited him fine. Why work when you could get more for doing virtually nothing? What’s more, there were perks to the job. He licked his pale lips as he felt the sudden heat in his loins. It was Wednesday, his night to enjoy one of those perks. At sundown he’d be on his way across the causeway up to the estate where, laid on for him would be one of those delicious young beauties Mrs Dupont kept on the estate. He began to dream up what he’d make that young beauty do to him and for him. The lust in him intensified. They always did what he wanted. They had to. At least, unless they wanted the hide taken off them later. And the little darlings didn’t want that. Not one little bit. He knew all about what went on up there. They whipped them quick as a flash, if they got lazy, sassy or plain stubborn. Like the old days in the south, he thought with relish, when a man could have dozens of black girls at his beck and call and lay the rawhide across their rumps whenever he felt like it. But of course, Mrs Dupont’s girls weren’t black, they were white. Lovely and white. Luscious. Oh my God, he thought, feeling the hard root on him, whatever I get tonight I’m going to fuck it good and strong! He took a swig from the Bourbon bottle alongside him, lay back, closed his eyes and sought to pass the time in sleep.

  Meanwhile, Gloria had crossed the causeway and passed a second closely-guarded barrier in similar fashion to the first. She noted that a high, mesh-wire fence extended on either side of the barrier. “Electrified, ma’am,” the guard had said, noting her interest. “Keeps the baddies from the swamps out . . . and the goodies in!” He grinned . . . but Gloria ignored him and drove onto the estate itself, along a dirt road. Even more efficient, she reflected. So much the better. She was well content.

  Seated silent beside her, Paul Mansel had also noted all these intense precautions. He realised he had entered a prison from which there was no escape . . . yet, somehow, that made remarkable little difference to him. He had come to the conclusion quite some time ago that he could never escape from Gloria. She was his eternal mistress and he was her basest slave. That was all there was to it.

  About a quarter of a mile up the road, Gloria brought the car to a halt. They were passing through an orange grove and she had caught sight of a young woman, who was dressed in a kind of a cow-girl outfit, lolling with her back against a five-barred gate. What interested her even more and caused her to stop, was the fact that within the grove itself she saw the figures of three young women. Each was quite naked and carried on her head a large basket of oranges. They were walking towards the roadside to dump the fruit on a huge pile which already lay there.

  Paul saw them too, though he dare not turn his head more than fractionally. He had to slant his eyes sideways to observe the bouncing of the breasts and the quivering of the flesh of the thighs of the trio. A stab of lustful excitement seared him.

  “Come on, you sluggards,” came the rasping voice of the ‘cow-girl’, “there’s two more rows to pick yet. And you’ll pick ‘em. Or feel leather. Plenty!”

  That each of the three had the misfortune to ‘feel leather’ was apparent to Paul as they reached the roadside and turned, backs to the car, to bend and dump their loads. His eyes riveted not only on their female secrets, blatantly exposed, but also on the numerous pink-red welts that criss-crossed buttocks and thighs. The oranges tumbled out and the girls hurried back to the grove, teetering absurdly on high heels. No more unsuitable footwear could have been devised for their task but, as a slave himself, Paul was well aware that such considerations counted for nothing with an owner.

  “Hi there!” the ‘cow girl’ had turned and strolled over to the car, “welcome to Bel Air, ma’am,” she said in a southern drawl. Her outfit consi
sted of a white Stetson hat, a brief black leather bolero and equally black leather skirt and a pair of black, high-heeled boots. Around her waist was slung a leather belt but, from where a holster would have hung, there was instead a two-foot long strap of reddish-brown cowhide attached to a short wooden handle. It was two inches wide and a quarter of an inch thick.

  “Good afternoon,” said Gloria. She smiled pleasantly. “I gather you are one of Mrs Dupont’s staff.”

  The young, fair-haired woman showed dazzling white teeth as she smiled in reply. “Right,” she said. “Assistant slave mistress. The name’s Delia.” She extended her hand and Gloria shook it. Delia peered at Paul who continued to look straight ahead.

  “What goes on?” asked Gloria, nodding towards the grove.

  “Extra fatigues,” answered Delia perfunctorily, “Miss Mandy wasn’t satisfied with some of their work up at the Big House. She told me to make ‘em sweat real good for a couple of hours . . . “

  “Miss Mandy?” queried Gloria.

  “Head slave mistress,” said Delia. “She’s our boss, I mean, under Mrs Dupont, of course. Say, who’s the guy?”

  “Mmmm?” queried Gloria. Her attention had been focussed on the three toiling figures in the grove. “Oh him . . . he’s my slave.”

  Delia’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t say!” she said. “Ain’t that something?” She looked more closely at the rigid Paul. “Mrs Dupont only has girls. We ain’t had no male slaves before.”

  “Well, now you’ve got one,” smiled Gloria pleasantly. “I know all about Mrs Dupont’s arrangements. We are old friends. In fact, at her suggestion, I’m considering setting up a male slave farm nearby.”

  “Really,” said Delia, looking even more surprised. “Well, if that’s the way you want it . . . “

  “That’s the way I DO want it,” said Gloria emphatically.

  “But you’ve no objection to slave GIRLS, have you?” asked Delia. Plainly male slaves were something beyond her normal comprehension.

  “None at all,” replied Gloria. “It’s just that I prefer male slaves.”

  “Ain’t he going to cause some . . . well . . . trouble here?” enquired Delia. “I mean . . . amongst all these dolls. We’ve got some real beauties, you know.”

  “Oh no,” smiled Gloria icily. “He’ll cause NO trouble at all. Believe me. No trouble at all!”

  Delia shrugged, rather disbelievingly and turned back to survey her charge who were approaching the roadside once more. Paul felt that stab of excitement again as they came into his vision. How deliciously young and shapely they were. It was incredible that they could be just as much in servitude as he was! He watched one bend with her load . . . saw the revealing, widened cleft of her nates . . . then he saw the girl following her trip and sprawl, sending oranges tumbling over the road.

  “You careless slut!” bellowed Delia. She came fully into Paul’s vision for the first time as she moved forward from the car, long-striding, hip-swinging, unfastening the leathern thong that hung at her waist. “Pick ‘em up . . . you stupid bitch!”

  On hands and knees the girl scrabbled frantically about in the dust of the road, striving to replace the oranges in her basket as quickly as possible. Paul saw Delia’s strap swing up.

  Tthhwaaccckkk!

  It fell across the girl’s up thrust bottom and she yelped with pain as she squirmed down into the dirt. But she didn’t stop picking up the fruit.

  Tthwwaaccckkk!

  She got it again . . .

  Tthhwaacckkk!

  And then again . . .

  Each stroke across her juddering buttocks. “Pick ‘em up . . . pick ‘em up!” shouted Delia, as if the girl were not already doing so with all her might and main. “You’ll feel leather till you do!”

  Ttwwacckkk!

  And again . . .

  Tthwaaackkkk!

  And yet again . . .

  Tthwwaaccckkkk!

  Paul felt sympathy. He knew just what such a thong felt like. But he felt a fierce excitement too as he watched the girl threshing and kicking in the dust, displaying all she possessed quite uninhibitedly to him. He felt the hardness of his root beginning to press painfully on the tight leathern restrainer Gloria had fastened on him.

  At last the girl had restored her load and then dumped it properly into the grove. Then Delia came strolling casually back, re-fastening the strap to her belt. Paul saw that she had remarkably long legs, particularly her thighs, it seemed, most of which were visible beneath her abbreviated skirt.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said, leaning on Gloria’s window again.

  “That’s quite all right,” smiled Gloria. “Discipline has to be maintained.” She offered Delia a cigarette, who accepted it. As quick as a flash, Paul had the car lighter at the ready, lighting first Gloria’s cigarette, then Delia’s.

  Gloria’s hand, swinging back, smashed across Paul’s face. “Oaf!” she rasped, “this lady is our hostess . . . you should have had hers lit first!”

  “I . . . I beg pardon, mistress,” whispered Paul, his head still ringing.

  Della looked suitably impressed. “I see you maintain discipline all right,” she said.

  “Iron discipline,” nodded Gloria, puffing contentedly on her cigarette.

  Delia continued to study Paul with unabashed interest. At Bel Air she was accustomed to seeing the men getting exactly what they wanted. This complete reversal was not only new to her, but quite fascinating.

  “Your boots have got dusty,” remarked Gloria.

  “Mmmm . . . yes,” agreed Delia. “Still, it doesn’t matter. I’ll have them cleaned and polished later.”

  “You can have them cleaned now,” said Gloria. “Paul will do it.” She gave Paul another stinging back-hander. “Get out of that seat!” she rasped. Paul opened the door and stumbled from the car. “And you can get out of that suit, too,” went on Gloria. “You’ve been dandied up long enough. Strip off.”

  *****

  Paul had, of course, had to wear normal clothes for the trip. Now on the estate that was no longer necessary. Delia watched with interest as he stripped down to the leather restrainer.

  “Does he always wear that thing?” she asked.

  “Most of the time,” nodded Gloria. “Why don’t you come and sit on this seat, Delia,” she suggested. “You can swing your legs out of the door.”

  “Fine idea,” said Delia. “I feel like taking the weight off my feet.”

  Paul watched those legs come striding round the car, the short skirt swinging from side to side with the swivel of the hips. He realised that now he was as subservient to this woman as he was to Gloria. “Lick those boots . . . and lick them spotless clean,” ordered Gloria.

  At once Paul went down on his knees before Delia’s long limbs which projected from the car. At once he went to work, laving away the fine dust with his tongue, starting with the toe of the left boot and working upwards. Soon his mouth was as dry as the dust itself, but not for an instant dare he pause. Behind him he was conscious of the scurrying to and fro of the slave girls as they continued with their tasks. Slave . . . all of us . . . thought Paul. Abject slaves. Male and female.

  Reaching the top of Delia’s left boot, he was very aware of the splendour and tapering length of her white thighs, the one crossed casually over the other. But he must not let his eyes linger too long. He descended . . . the legs uncrossed and re-crossed . . . and he began on the right boot.

  “Care for a drink?” asked Gloria.

  “Would I not . . . I’m parched,” said Delia.

  God, what does she imagine I am, thought Paul, with dust-filled mouth. Let alone her three charges who had been sweating their guts out in the sun. He heard Gloria open the small drinks cabinet in the car . . . and soon the ice was tinkling merrily in two
long John Collins.

  “I’m enjoying this,” said Delia.

  “The drink?” asked Gloria.

  “Yes . . . but actually I meant having your slave lick my boots this. Of course, I have had plenty of girls do it often enough, as a matter of discipline. But having a man do it gives me an extra kick.”

  Gloria smiled understandingly. “It’s always been that way with me,” she said, “although, as I told you, I can get a lot out of a slave farm, you might care to join me.”

  “I might at that,” nodded Delia, looking down at Paul’s kneeling naked figure and noting the numerous traces of weals and welts on his back, buttocks and thighs. It would, he reflected, be an intriguing experience to have men grovelling and begging for mercy rather than girls.”

  Paul reached the top of the right boot. Then his slumped and, panting hoarsely, he knelt awaiting further orders. “That’s better,” he heard Delia say, “they really look quite clean.” Paul felt relief.

  “Did he clean the soles?” enquired Gloria coolly.

  “No,” said Delia, “only the heels . . . “

  There was a moment’s pause and then Gloria’s voice cracked like a whip over Paul’s head.

  “Slave,” she rasped, “do you not always clean the soles of your mistress’s boots?”

  “Y-Yes . . . yes, mistress,” choked Paul dryly. “But . . . but . . . I thought . . .” He had no chance to finish, but what he was trying to explain was that there was little point in cleaning soles that would be coming immediately dusty once again Delia set foot on the road. All the same, he knew he had erred. And since he had erred he would pay for it.

  “Delia,” said Gloria, “you would oblige me by unhitching that strap off your belt again and laying it across this forgetful bastard’s backside!”

  “Certainly,” answered Delia . . . and with obvious pleasure. Paul’s heart sank as he gritted his teeth. He lowered his face till his nose was pressed into the dusty road and thrust his hindquarters up. As he must.