Captives of Cheyner Close (26 page)

‘At least we get to sleep without being tied up and screwed half the night,’ she pointed out.

‘Yeah … inside an animal pen …’ Sian yawned.

‘Remember, when we get through this, I’m never talking to you again,’ Cassie reminded Tara sleepily.

Tara blinked, bleary-eyed, waking slowly.

Her exposed flesh was chilled, though the straw under her had kept the rest of her body moderately warm. But as she stiffly raised herself onto one elbow the stalks stuck to her skin, which she found was indented with its latticework pattern. Still, she had slept, and surprisingly deeply.

Now it was another dew-fresh morning. She could see out through the mesh of the cage into the garden … and saw things that had not been there the
previous
night. A sack and a bamboo cane lay by the outer door of the cage, while only a few paces further was a garden cart with low planking sides, riding on four small bulbous rubber tyres. A pair of heavy ropes had been fastened to the base of its towing handle. The ropes had hooks on their ends and a pair also spliced into their lengths.

Then Simon Pye appeared from round the corner of the cottage and walked towards the pen. He was carrying a large saucepan.

Tara scrambled across the pen, setting the others stirring and yawning. She grasped the wire mesh, staring up at Simon as he looked down at her. His lips were tight and there was a look of determination and self-assurance on his normally placid face she had never seen before.

‘Simon … I just want you to know how sorry I am for the way I’ve treated you in the past,’ she said, trying to keep her voice level. ‘That was wrong and you didn’t deserve it. If it had come to it I would never have let you take the blame for making those things for me. And I promise I’ll do everything I can to stop my father selling off Manor Woods. I’m not trying to get out of this and you can do what you like with me now, but I just wanted you to know how I feel.’

Hazel had joined Tara. She said: ‘I’m so sorry for the way we treated you. It was stupid and wrong. I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you.’

Gail was also pressing herself against the wire. ‘I hope you can keep on living here, Simon. These woods are lovely. I’m sorry for mixing you up in our stupid games … and you must do what you want to me.’

By now the rest had crowded about them. Daniela spoke up: ‘I hope you stay here as well. We deserve
to
be punished. Have fun with us until you feel we’ve properly paid you back.’

Sian sounded genuinely contrite. ‘I should never have called you “stupid” like that. I was being a stupid cow myself. That’s on top of the way we’ve used you and were never even properly grateful. So you just … do what you have to to make it right.’

Cassie’s words did not come easily, but she forced them out. ‘Calling you “Simple Simon” was nasty and I’m very sorry for it. I won’t blame you if you treat me worse than the others for saying it. I’d want to get back at somebody for talking about me like that. Do what you want now, as long as when it’s over I know that it’s for good and we’d be even. Please say you’ll …’

Simon was frowning at them. He put down the saucepan, picked up the bamboo cane and tapped the inner pen door meaningfully. Only now did they see it had a copy of the notice on the back door of the cottage pinned to the inside. The line
BITCHES DO NOT SPEAK
seemed to jump out at them.

They fell silent. Gail sat back on her heels, spread her legs and clasped her hands behind her neck in the position Warwick had taught them. The others quickly copied her. Tara felt her nipples rising automatically, standing to attention in a way that would have pleased the Major.

When he was satisfied they understood, Simon tipped the contents of the saucepan through a slot in the wire into the metal trough.

‘Eat,’ he said simply.

They crowded shoulder to shoulder as they bent their heads over the trough, not even attempting to use their fingers. It was salted porridge, which they ate greedily.

When they had licked the trough clean and drunk from the water bucket, they re-formed their line,
kneeling
on display once more. Simon, who had watched them in silence, nodded slightly, as though approving of their posture.

He emptied the sack out onto the grass where they could see. There were bundles of plastic-coated nylon clothesline, half a dozen large metal rings, what seemed to be small mesh baskets with pairs of straps trailing from them, plus several smaller lengths of rope and cord.

‘You’ve been bad, you’ve hurt people, you’ve been real mean bitches,’ he said simply. ‘So that’s the way I’m going to treat you. I don’t want to hear another word out of any of you ’til I say, because bitches can’t talk, right?’

They nodded meekly.

He slid open the inner door of the pen and pointed his cane at Gail. ‘You: get out here,’ he said.

Nervously, she went down on all fours and shuffled into the tunnel.

The cart rattled along the twisting path through the woods. Simon was standing on the platform holding its raised towing bar like a tiller, occasionally calling out directions to his team of sweating bitches. Tara gasped at every bump and turn, but she dared not fall out of step. She was part of the team, harnessed to the cart and to the other girls like animals. It was painful, degrading, exhausting and cruelly exciting.

Tara, like the rest, was bound in an improvised harness of plastic-coated nylon clothesline. Its many coils circled her waist, crossed between her breasts and over her shoulders, looped about her upper arms, pulling them in to her sides, and bound her wrists behind her back. The cord was perfectly smooth but it was tight and cut into her flesh. A large metal ring had been tied to the coils where they crossed her
navel,
so that it dangled against her lower belly. Clipped to it was one of the snap-hooks spliced to the left-hand towing rope. This ran forward from the cart between Tara’s legs and then Daniela’s and finally Cassie’s, linking all their belly rings. The right-hand rope ran from the cart through Gail’s legs, then Hazel’s and then Sian’s.

As they strained to draw the cart the ropes were dragged up between the slippery lips of their now sodden pubes, their twisted cords grinding and rubbing and teasing their swollen clits. Tara drooled round her muzzle at the sensations this generated. She was not gagged but muzzled like a real bitch. A plastic-coated wire cup, designed for some short-snouted breed of dog, was strapped in place over her nose and mouth. An extra thick wire crosspiece had been added inside the muzzle so that it acted like a bit.

As if that was not enough, Simon had ensured each of his pairs stayed shoulder to shoulder and in step by tethering them together with short lengths of rope clipped between their navel rings and also lighter cords fitted with spring clamps linking their breasts. Tara’s right nipple was thus linked to Gail’s left, tugging painfully as their big sweating breasts bobbed and bounced in and out of synchronism.

And so through the woods they went, following a meandering path that led eventually to the spot where a birch tree had fallen, opening a gap in the canopy overhead. Simon called a halt and jumped off the cart, while the girls sank down gratefully onto their knees.

The birch was in the process of being cut up. Some of the main trunk had already been reduced to firewood-sized blocks, while the thinner straighter branches had been roughly trimmed into manageable
lengths
and were stacked in piles. It was these that Simon began loading onto the cart, while the girls trembled at the prospect of hauling such a weight.

The cart took about half the pile. Simon tied a cord in series to the middle of each of their nipple tethers, then began to lead them back along the path. They had no choice but to follow, straining to draw the cart along, whimpering as the heavy tow ropes cut into their vulvas even as they stained it with their secretions. They walked hunched over to reduce the angle through which the ropes grated across their tender flesh.

The return journey to the garden seemed twice as far as the outward one, and they were gasping and panting by the time they arrived. But Simon gave them little time to rest. He unloaded the branches, jumped on the cart and turned them round for a second load. When they had delivered the remainder of the branches to the garden, he took them back once more to collect a load of firewood. The last trip almost finished them. It was the heaviest of them all. Pulling the roller over Gerald Spooner’s lawn had been light work by comparison. But they were just mute beasts of burden, and what they felt did not matter. With tottering steps they finally dragged the cart back to the garden and sank to their knees; breasts heaving and splattered with drool, hair lank with sweat, eyes smarting, thighs wet with lubrication and pubes raw.

Once the wood was unloaded, Simon freed them from the cart but left them harnessed and nipple-tethered. He briefly removed their muzzles so they could drink, then allowed them to sprawl on their backs to recover, their legs spread wide to allow cool air to soothe their sore groins. Meanwhile, he began laying out the branches on a little secluded patch of
lawn
next to their pen and trimming them with a saw and axe. Through her multitude of aches and pains, Tara wondered what he was building and whether it had anything to do with them.

Simon extended the arrangement of nipple tethers for lunchtime and also put one of the thinner birch branches to use. He cut it into two waist-high posts and hammered them into the ground in the shade of a tree. The stakes were far enough apart so that the six of them could kneel in a row, shoulder to shoulder, between them, with the short lengths of spring-clipped cord linking their nipples to those of the girl on either side. The two on the ends had their nipples fastened to the posts.

Simon took off their muzzles and sat in front of them eating his own meal, while tossing them chunks of bread, cubes of cheese or slices of apple. They soon learned to catch the titbits in their mouths like dogs being fed treats, though if they moved too energetically they risked giving both their nipples and those either side of them a nasty yank. Anything they missed they had to hunker down awkwardly and pick up off the grass with their teeth.

Nevertheless, their nipples were painfully erect and pussies shamefully moist as they watched Simon eat and snapped at the morsels he tossed them. They were helplessly expectant, waiting for the moment when he would start screwing them, as he must be planning to do, secretly wondering who would be first.

But he kept them in suspense while he put them through another degradation. He had dug a small latrine pit in a patch of rough grass near their cage. Replacing their muzzles he led them, still nipple-tethered together, over to it. One by one they had to
squat
over the pit with their thighs spread wide and pee and void their bowels while he watched.

Cassie and Sian stared fixedly at the ground while they falteringly relieved themselves. Tara did not try to avoid Simon’s grinning face, but met his gaze calmly, trying to show she accepted this further indignity without looking as though she was actually attempting to defy him. Daniela and Hazel both gave Simon shy smiles through their muzzles, suggesting mingled embarrassment and excitement at him witnessing their private functions. Gail gazed at him with curious intensity, as though readily offering her shame in payment for past misdemeanours.

When they were done he unselfconsciously wiped them clean with handfuls of grass, adding one more intimate defilement of their persons. Was this calculated? Did he know he was sowing the seeds of shame that would haunt them for months if not years? How could they ever see him tending their gardens back in Fernleigh Rise after he had wiped their bottoms clean? Yet what possible reason could they give their parents not to employ him again?

Simon tethered them round a tree while he used a post driver to hammer a ring of six trimmed branches into the ground until they stood at about head height. He then nailed lighter branches across the post tops to form lintels, bridging the gaps between them. Tara chewed on her bit as she watched the structure take shape, knowing it was meant for them, fearful of how it would work yet perversely desperate to find out.

Simon brought out a high stool from his cottage and set it down under the crossbars. One by one he laid the girls on their backs across the stool and raised and spread their legs so he could tie their ankles to the lintel posts. He lifted them easily onto the stool as
though
they were children. Tara had not realised how strong he was. It made her sense of helplessness seem even more profound.

Once each girl’s ankles were bound, Simon ran more rope through the coils of her harness where it crossed between her breasts and tied its ends to the crossbar by her ankles. The tension bent her like a fishhook until her head was level with her knees. Then he pulled away the stool from under her bottom, leaving her dangling in the air.

Soon he had all six of them suspended and facing inward while he stood at the centre of the ring, a cane in his hands, grinning at the spectacle they made as they displayed their intimacies. Six exclamation marks sculpted in flesh: six red-lipped pussy clefts gaping and glistening, dotted underneath by dark anal puckers. In turn they looked helplessly back at him through the V’s of their widespread legs.

Slowly Simon unzipped his flies, releasing an erect penis of impressive dimensions. The girls squirmed in their bonds. He walked round the circle stroking and pinching their pouting lovemouths, sliding his fingers into their honeypots and drawing them out wet and scented, bringing forth muffled groans from his captives. Tara could smell the sensual aroma of apprehension and need filling the air, knowing she was contributing her share to the intimate perfume. Just get it over with, she shrieked silently to herself.

Simon began to cane them. Not hard strokes, but enough to paint blushing stripes across their thighs and taut backsides and cause their anuses to pinch tight as the tendons on the backs of their knees contracted, making them jerk and sway in their bonds. Because of their doubled-over postures their pubic mounds protruded beyond the stretched flesh of their haunches and so received a proportion of the
cane’s
stinging kisses. But such modest pain had by now become hard for their bodies to distinguish from foreplay, and their labia gaped even wider as they blossomed in anticipation while their clitorises rose brazenly from their hoods.