Under Control Read online

  He saw Delia’s high-heeled boots pass within inches of him as she descended from the car.

  “How many?” he heard her ask.

  “I’ll tell you when to stop,” replied Gloria. Despair filled Paul and his hands clawed into the dust road as he summoned his will and strength. He heard the faint whirl of the thong through the air, then it blazed across his up thrust rump . . . just as it had done so recently across that enchanting young girl’s!

  Tthhwwaacckkk!

  Paul grunted again through clenched teeth and his bottom jerked.

  It came again. Jesus . . . it hurt! Not so much as some rods, nor, of course, so much as the whip. But it hurt plenty. What was more, Delia was really laying it on . . . and, being as tall as she was, she could give the thong a really full sweep.

  Three more strokes fell . . . and Paul’s grunts grew louder. The jerking of his bottom more violent, too, yet still he maintained his nose-to-the-ground, crouching posture. God, how many was he going to get? It was better to know. Better to know how to pace one’s endurance.

  “I can see you’re experienced,” he heard Gloria say, in that calm, matter-of-fact way of hers.

  “Thanks,” said Delia . . . and he heard her give a little grunt of effort as she swung the thong again.

  Thhwwaccckkk!

  Paul yelped. For Delia had overlaid the first welt she had raised. Whilst Gloria’s eyes told her that Delia was experienced, it was Paul’s flesh that did so! The stroke had been cruelly accurate . . . as were the succeeding four, each of which overlaid previous welts. Squirming and juddering, yet maintaining his posture, Paul continued to yelp between clenched teeth as each one larruped across his burning rump.

  “Thank you, Delia, I think that will do,” said Gloria when the tenth stroke had thwacked down.

  “A pleasure, Miss van Meer,” smiled Delia, re-fastening the strap to her belt. “Anytime . . .”

  Paul remained on hands and knees, face in the dirt, absorbing the familiar burning pain. “He’s quite tough, isn’t he?” she remarked, re-seating herself in the car seat, with her legs slung over the side.

  “He’s learnt to be,” said Gloria perfunctorily, “get up slave,” she ordered.

  Paul got up, standing rigid before Delia. It was the first time he had a full look at her. She was quite a stunner. A typical, blue-eyed American blonde in her early twenties. The small leather bolero did little to conceal the fulsomeness of her creamy-white breasts. He saw her smiling at him tauntingly - triumphantly. Obviously he was the first male slave she had ever dealt with.

  “What have you to say?” came Gloria’s rasping voice.

  Dry as he was, Paul managed to answer. “I . . . I beg to th-thank Miss Delia for correcting my, mistress. I d-deserved to be corrected for my . . . my error . . . “

  “Quite so,” nodded Gloria. Delia went on smiling almost roguishly. That she enjoyed seeing a man completely debased was very evident.

  “I’ll correct him any time you want, Miss van Meer,” said Delia. “I’ve got a few items up at the big house that will discover how tough he really is.” She ran her hand down the leather strap. “This is just run-of-the-mill stuff, you know.”

  “I imagined so,” smiled Gloria. “I’ll bear what you said in mind. Frankly, I’d welcome an independent opinion on how well trained Paul is. I might give him to you for an evening, or a day, and then have your report.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” replied Delia. She continued smiling and looking at Paul with a rapacity that frightened him. He knew then that he need not expect one iota of mercy from this arrogant young Southern belle! “And now he can finish my boots,” she said, crossing her shapely limbs.

  Paul fell at once to his knees again . . . and, with arid tongue, completed the task he had been set by licking the soles of Delia’s boots.

  *****

  Ten minutes later 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 to attention by Gloria’s car. 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 pain, 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. Turnabout . . . 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 the 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 . . . and still has a lot to learn.” Gloria nodded sympathetically in reply as the strap was swung again and, this time, fell full across Karen’s plump bottom.

  “Aaghh . . . aaagggh . . . mercy . . . mercy . . .” the girl cried, clasping at the darker hued-welt 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 the 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 had felt similar lust and fascination - even though he might be about to be dealt with in a similar fashion himself. 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 we get back.”
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  The wretched Karen 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 round back 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 onto the third girl. There was a sardonic smile on her hard features. “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 enough to fill him with fearful apprehension. Because there was no doubt that there would be occasions when he would visit it too!

  Having completed her ration of corrective discipline, Delia lined the three girls up alongside Paul. Karen, next to Paul, continued to sob uninhibitedly, but the other two were silent. Out of the corner of his eye 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,” replied Delia. “I ride horse; they run alongside attached by lead-traces. 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 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,” she said as she went about her work. “How about Paul?”

  “Hose him down too,” answered Gloria. “Then secure him. In fact, treat him 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 from 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. 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 her attachments. “You’ll follow on behind them, 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. 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 would 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.

  Chapter Two

  It was about a quarter of a mile up to the big house and, since Delia kept the bay at a brisk pace, Paul Mansel was glad it was no further. He felt sorry for the girls who had already had a hard afternoon in the orange grove and he could hear their rasping breath as they approached near-exhaustion. Several times he saw young Karen stumble and almost fall . . . and there came crisp warnings from Delia above that anyone who didn’t keep going would ‘feel leather’. Behind the little entourage Gloria van Meer purred along in comfort in the Cadillac. It amused her to think that Paul had, for the time being anyway, joined a slave-girl colony . . . for she could imagine the kind of stresses and frustrations he was going to be put to in the days ahead.

  Gloria was well content too, with what she had so far seen of Amelia Dupont’s set-up at Bel Air. She had liked the way Delia had treated those girls; obviously discipline was iron hard. She had also liked the way Delia had laid into Paul; he was certainly going to get no change out of her. Indeed, the whole enclosed environment of a secure slave system delighted her. It was going to be an exciting venture to build up a male slave farm in this unique setting. Paul, now tamed, would be a founder member . . . but many more would ultimately come to join him. And, those ‘recruits’ there would be much taming to be done!

  The Big House came into view. It was a massive Colonial style mansion. Delia turned and waved, indicating that Gloria should drive up to the main door whilst she proceeded to the rear of the house, where the slave quarters obviously were. Gloria waved happily back. She was very much looking forward to seeing Amelia Dupont again, studying her organisation at first hand and, of course, discussing her own plans.

  *****

  Delia swung down from the bay and began untethering her charges. The girls were covered in sweat and dust, breasts heaving wildly; Paul was comparatively fresh. He looked around cautiously, seeing that they were in a huge kind of stable courtyard which was surrounded on all sides by buildings of varying heights and proportions. Some of these buildings, with rows of small barred windows, had a very prison-like appearance. Paul felt a little cold shudder go through him despite the warmth of the late afternoon.

  “Right, in you go,” he heard Delia order and Paul quickly followed the example of girls down an iron ladder into an empty bathing pool of grey stone. He saw Delia stride along the side of the pool and pick up what appeared to be the nozzle of a fireman’s hose. This, in fact, was exactly what it was and Paul was made startlingly aware of it when an icy stream of water jetted fiercely into his stomach, robbing him of breath and almost knocking him over
. Delia laughed gaily at the shock she had given him and proceeded to spray him all over before turning her attention to the girls. Gasping, they jumped up and down, breasts bouncing. For them it was half pleasure, half torment. It was wonderful to have the sweat and dust washed off one, to soak the water into one’s arid pores, to lick at it greedily as it ran down one’s face. But it was not so wonderful to endure the repeated fierce jetting of water all over one’s body. After a minute or more, pain would outweigh pleasure . . . and Delia made a practise of hosing down for four or five minutes at a time. In some strange way it gave her a very great deal of pleasure to do so. There was a great ‘power kick’ in it . . . standing up there, making one’s victims dance and squeal at will, buffeting them from side to side and sometimes sending them sprawling flat.

  Paul had certainly had enough by the time the hose was turned off. In some sense he felt refreshed, in another he felt weak and battered, his head ringing. The girls climbed up the ladder one by one. Karen, limbs rubbery went just ahead of him. At the foot of the ladder he looked up, seeing her ample hindquarters swinging from side to side . . . and receiving briefly and tantalisingly a ‘worm’s eye view’ of her most intimate womanly secrets!

  As Delia herded the four of them across the big courtyard - towards one of the prison like buildings - Paul saw numerous other slave-girls moving to and fro in the distance or passing nearer at hand. He noted that whilst a number were as naked as the three he was with, he saw many who wore a fetchingly abbreviated version of a ‘maid’s uniform’ . . . complete with suspender belt and black stockings and a frilly little white apron and cap. Some wore no uniforms but only belt, stockings, high heels and the apron. These made a most fetching sight in Paul’s eyes . . . as did those who wore only scanty briefs and bra, or those who went topless in nothing but a tiny skirt. All were variations of a theme. The theme of exposure. Sometimes complete, sometimes partial. Shaming to the girl; titillating to the observer. Paul supposed that these various types of garb, or lack of it, were at the whim of Mrs Dupont and her slave mistress assistants. In this he was correct . . . and, of course, any guests at Bel Air could have a say in the matter.