Captives of Cheyner Close (28 page)

Crouching low she saw two figures approaching along the edge of the field, chatting in low but excited tones as they went. She recognised them at once. It was Hazel and Daniela.

They passed by Tara heading in the same direction she planned to go: the route they had all taken from Fernleigh Rise when they made their clandestine raids on the Close. But what were they doing here?

Tara shadowed the unsuspecting pair as they made their way along the edge of the field and then round the perimeter fences of Cheyner Close. Where were they going?

They stopped two thirds of the way round outside the back fence of Number 7, the house shared by Hilary Beck and Rachel Villiers. The small gate set in the fence, which had been heavily locked and bolted during the war, now opened silently on oiled hinges.
The
two girls went through and closed it behind them.

Tara crouched in the shadows, debating whether she should follow them. She didn’t want to upset her own plans, yet she had to know what was going on.

Giving them another minute to get clear, she slipped through the gate.

Light was streaming out of the uncurtained kitchen windows. Tara cat-footed up the garden and round to the smaller side window of the kitchen, which looked out over the narrow passage where the bins were kept, and cautiously peered inside.

Hazel and Daniela were kneeling side by side on all fours on the kitchen table. Both were completely naked and beaming happily. Hilary and Rachel were fussing round them, petting and stroking the girls as though they were prize pets on display at a dog show. Full pendant breasts, already tipped by swollen erect nipples, were cupped and squeezed. Smooth buttocks were patted and pinched. Pouting pubic clefts were tickled and vaginal passages probed.

And in response to this intimate inspection the pair were acting just like excited puppies. If they had tails they would have been wagging them. They were loving it.

At a word of command they sat back on their heels and extended their arms. Disposable cotton gloves were slipped onto the hands and then these were bound round with tape, turning them into ‘paws’. Another order and they knelt forward again so that collars could be buckled round their necks and bright red ball-gags were stuffed into their mouths. Going down onto their stomachs they lay flat and crossed their wrists behind their backs so that the two older women could cuff them together.

Hazel and Daniela’s responses were quick and sure.
Tara
suspected they’d gone through this little routine more than once before.

The latch of the front gate rattled. Tara shrank away from the window, crouching down into the shadows between the wheelie bins.

Roberta Pemberton walked past and around the side of house to the back door. Tara heard the murmur of voices from the kitchen for a minute or two, then Roberta reappeared leading Hazel on a leash. The light from the window illuminated the younger girl’s face as she passed. She was looking up at her mistress with joyous excitement.

The pair went out of the gate and round out of sight to Roberta’s house. Tara stood up and went back to the window.

Daniela was now standing between Rachel and Hilary as they caressed and fondled her; telling her everything they were going to do with her, while she squirmed in delight. Then each woman took hold of one of Daniela’s nipples and led her out of the kitchen. The light went out, leaving Tara alone in the dark alleyway.

Well, she thought, they all had somehow to fill the void left in their lives by those nine incredible days they had spent as captives and slaves. She knew ordinary life was, by comparison, rather dull. Hazel and Daniela had chosen outright submission and simply handed themselves over to those they most wished to serve. She did not begrudge the girls whatever happiness they could find with their respective mistresses, but that way was not to Tara’s tastes. She had a different objective, though it was not far away.

Tara made her way back down the garden, through the gate and turned right, taking the few paces that led to the back of Number 8. Aware of the excited
thudding
of her heart, she felt along the fence until she came to the pair of loose boards. She pried them open and slipped through into the narrow space between the fence and garden shed.

All was still and quiet. She stepped out onto the lawn, heading towards the house …

A strong hand closed over her mouth while another caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back.

‘You’re late,’ Major Warwick grunted in her ear. ‘That’s going to cost you …’

Tara struggled but he was too strong for her. She would not have had it any other way. Tara Ashwell did not give herself to just anybody. She had to be conquered by somebody who proved himself worthy of her. A mature man, not a boy …

Warwick dragged her through his back door, kicking it shut behind him, and into his kitchen. Bending her across the kitchen table he said: ‘Girls who sneak round other people’s gardens at night must expect to get punished.’

‘You can’t do this to me!’ Tara shrieked, her stomach knotting with exquisite anticipation.

‘I can do anything I like to you, girl.’

There was a rope coiled waiting on the table, one end already tied about its right front leg, slip-knot loops halfway along its length. Dragging Tara’s wrists together, Warwick pulled the loops tight around them, then tied the rope’s free end about the table’s back left leg. Now she was held face down over the table, her hardened nipples sunk into the flattened pancakes of her breasts.

‘Let me go,’ she demanded, kicking desperately.

But Warwick caught hold of her flailing legs and one by one wrenched off her trainers. Hooking his fingers round the waistband of her jogging pants, he stripped both them and her knickers down her legs
and
pulled them free. Suddenly naked from the waist down she clamped her thighs defensively together, knowing it was a last futile gesture. Warwick dragged her ankles wide and tied them to the foot of the table legs with more rope ready for just that purpose.

Her perfect backside was now open and trembling at his mercy. He could do anything he liked to her, she thought with near delirious pleasure, her loins churning, pumping oily warmth into her vagina.

‘Don’t you dare!’ she cried aloud, tugging against her bonds.

Extracting her knickers from the bundle of her discarded jogging pants, Warwick balled them up and stuffed them into Tara’s mouth. She was gagged with her own underwear. She could taste a smear of her own excited juices on them. Now she could protest to her heart’s content in complete abandon and wonderful futility.

The first crisp slap of his hand across her bottom lifted her pale fleshy hemispheres, drove her hips against the edge of the table and brought hot tears pricking to the back of her eyes. She gurgled and shrieked into her gag, but of course he took no notice.

By the sixth spank she had stopped struggling. Her bottom was burning so hotly she thought it must be glowing and her eyes were wet with tears. Convention and ‘honour’ had been satisfied. Now she could allow herself to slip down the slope of sweet surrender. She had no choice. She wanted no choice. He was too strong for her … she was helpless … he could do anything her liked with her … she was just a silly little girl … she deserved everything that was coming to her …

His hands were on her hips. The plum of his erect cock was finding the ready-greased mouth of her
anus.
She felt the ring of muscle being stretched wide as he forced his way through. Then his shaft was sliding up inside her, making the contours of her rectum conform to its dimensions. He began to pump her, grinding her against the side of the table, careless of her feelings. She was being sodomised, bruised, degraded … which at that moment was exactly what she wanted.

Joyously she let go of her last vestiges of shame and surrendered to her master’s pleasure like the slavish slut she was.

Sometime later they were in Warwick’s sitting room.

Warwick, now dressed in robe and slippers, was sipping a glass of wine while he rested his feet on Tara’s sore and blushing bottom. She was hogtied face down on the rug.

An elastic cord was hooked to the back of her new collar of broad black studded leather. It ran down her back to twist round the chain of her handcuffs, where they secured her wrists to the small of her back, and then on to loop about her crossed ankles, its tension excitingly bending her legs over and bowing her body. Her hands were gloved and taped, binding her fingers. She would not have the use of them again until six o’clock on Sunday evening, and the knowledge added deliciously to her sense of helplessness. Besides, the binding would protect her hands when her master took her out for a walk on her leash or during meals, which like a good bitch she would eat straight out of her bowl on the floor.

Tara relaxed in her bonds, feeling perfectly content … except for one small detail. Best to get it out the way now so she could enjoy the rest of the weekend.

She made the little throaty whimper that signalled she was begging for permission to speak.

‘Is it important?’ Warwick asked.

Tara nodded.

‘Then you may speak.’

‘Thank you, Master. I want to tell you I saw Hazel and Daniela coming here this evening. I know where they went … and what they’re doing.’

Warwick smiled. ‘You’ve only just found out? This arrangement began less than a week after we had had you all as our unexpected guests.’

‘They came back so soon, Master? It took me nearly three weeks to get up the nerve.’

‘You’re very different in some ways. Submission comes more easily to them.’ He rubbed his toes over her scarlet bottom cheeks. ‘You had to find a different accommodation with your nature.’

‘They’re like Gail, Master. I think she’s seeing Simon Pye.’

‘She is. But she hasn’t forgotten us either …’

Warwick got up and left the room for a minute. He came back with a folder which he opened on the floor where she could see its contents.

‘Entertaining you as we did made Jim Curry realise there was a specialised market for certain novel restraining devices,’ Warwick explained. ‘He’s been very busy ever since, and has already made several sales. Gail was delighted to try out his new inventions, and even model for the catalogue …’

There was an A4 sheet headed: ‘Dual Function Head and Breast Stocks’, complete with price, specifications and dimensions, together with photos taken from different angles of the device in use. The naked girl shown bent forward in the stocks was wearing a ball-gag held in place by straps running under her chin, across the bridge of her nose and over the top of her head which partly concealed her features, but there was no mistaking who it was. Her neck and
wrists
were secured between the two halves of a board tilted on its side, while her large pendant breasts ballooned out from under holes in a horizontally mounted board that pinched tightly about their roots. Another horizontal board set at ankle height held her legs spread wide.

Tara thought Gail looked unbelievably arousing and vulnerable, yet at the same time perfectly at ease. She was where she belonged.

‘This reminds me of something else I was thinking of showing you,’ Warwick said. ‘We had a visit from Sian and Cassie last week …’

He went to a rack of DVDs beside his television, selected one and put it into the player. Clasping Tara’s upper arms he hauled her onto her knees and twisted her round so she could sit back on her heels and watch the recording.

Sian and Cassie’s faces appeared side by side on the screen. The pair looked nervous but determined, staring straight at the camera.

‘This is to prove not all of us lose control as easily as Sian and the others who peed themselves on Mr Fanning’s electric machine,’ Cassie declared.

‘I bet her she couldn’t help doing exactly the same,’ Sian interjected.

‘But I said I’d only have a go if she did too,’ Cassie added.

‘So to make sure nobody chickens out after the other one’s gone, we’ve agreed to let Mr Fanning tie us up and told him we’re both to get exactly the same treatment whatever happens,’ Sian said.

‘Which is why we’re recording this bit to say we’re doing this voluntarily,’ Cassie continued. ‘And we’re having the session videoed as well as proof for whoever wins the bet … which’ll be me.’

‘You wait!’ Sian retorted.

‘We’ll see, Miss Wet Knickers!’ Cassie jibed.

The scene dissolved into a view of Sian naked and strapped securely to the electrical stimulator she had described to them. Cassie, also naked, stood in the background looking on, her arms tied behind her back.

The camera moved round to show the electrodes clamped to Sian’s nipples and her clipped and widespread labia, and the rod up her rectum. She gazed back into the lens grinning foolishly. Tara wondered at her willingness to revisit an experience that only a short while ago had been seen as painful, shaming and deeply embarrassing; all for the purpose, supposedly, of settling a bet. Whatever the truth of it, she was hardly in a position to criticise.

Tom Fanning, who must have been operating the camera, said from off screen: ‘Cassie won the coin toss and decided Sian should go first. To make it less messy I’ve arranged a bucket to catch the evidence …’ The camera dipped to show that beyond the motor-driven foam rubber dildo there was now a bucket tilted at an angle and mounted on a bracket between Sian’s legs, so half of its rim showed above the top of the blockboard platform, which was covered in a plastic sheet.

‘The test is to see if Cassie can come without wetting herself like she says,’ Fanning continued. ‘Both of them went to the loo half an hour ago, then drank the same amount of water, so their bladders should be equally full. I’ve set up a programme to run the stimulator automatically, ensuring each subject will get exactly the same pattern, duration and intensity of shocks. Sian’s session will start – now!’

The motor hummed into life and started to crank the dildo in and out of Sian’s vagina, while at the same time she began to twitch and gasp as electric
shocks
coursed through her crocodile-clipped nipples and labia. It was fascinating, and deeply exciting, to watch. Tara felt her own lovemouth growing oily at the sight.