Discipline of the Private House (27 page)

Still Jem's breasts were relatively unfettered. The man with brown eyes called for another length of rope, and carefully found its halfway point before tying the middle of it to the lower of the two knots nestling between Jem's breasts. There were now two long ends of rope hanging down the front of Jem's body, and two hanging at the back, from where the ends of the first length had been tied together.

'Legs wide apart, slave,' the man behind Jem said.

Jem obeyed. The man with brown eyes held the two ropes in front of her, one in each of his big hands. She assumed the man behind her was holding the two ropes there. The men who had been holding her arms were still at her sides, and all four of the men now worked together to bind Jem's body tightly with the ropes.

The ropes from her back were passed to the front, where they were slipped under the front ropes and then passed to the back again; both pairs of ropes were pulled against each other to create a tension that held the rope taut as it followed the contours of Jem's body. This procedure was followed once more, creating a rope lattice around Jem's torso, back and stomach.

Then, as Jem had expected, a pair of ropes was passed from her belly between her legs. It was quite usual in this school of bondage, Jem knew, for a pair of ropes to run between the labia and buttocks; often such ropes were tied particularly tightly, so that the bound woman was very aware of her bondage, and often large knots were tied in the ropes to put pressure on the clitoris or the anus. On this occasion, however, Jem noted with a slight pang of disappointment that the ropes were drawn into the creases at the tops of the insides of her thighs, so that her vulva was framed between them. The ropes came together between her buttocks and, once pulled very tight, were tied together to the lowest crossing-point of the ropes that zigzagged down her back.

The men stood back briefly to admire their handiwork. They tested the knots, and pulled on the ropes to ensure that all were tight. Now that Jem was attractively but very securely bound, with her arms tied behind her back, the men seemed more confident about touching her. Their hands strayed from the ropes to her breasts and bottom; within a few moments Jem found that all six of the men, jostling for space around her, had their hands on her. At least one man's fingers were puddling in the wetness of her vagina; other fingers were trying to infiltrate her anus; both of her breasts were being squeezed and pinched; fingers were inserted into her mouth; and at least one hand was slapping her buttocks. With her arms bound up Jem would have toppled over had it not been for the press of nearly naked strong young male bodies about her.

The brown-eyed man at last called his comrades to order. 'Let's get on,' he said. 'Chef won't be pleased if we're late. Let's tie her tits now.'

The knot behind Jem's neck was untied, and the loose ends were crossed and were passed back over her shoulders; at the front they were brought together and put through the loop between the two knots that separated her breasts. This loop, now anchored to the rope lattice around Jem's lower body, moved upwards hardly at all when the loose ends were pulled tightly up and to the left and right. They were passed under the ropes that ran from Jem's neck to under her arms, turned back over these ropes and pulled downwards, to the outer sides of Jem's breasts. Here they were looped under the ropes that ran under the breasts, and pulled upwards; the brown-eyed man used his big hands to adjust the tightness of the ropes and to prod and pull the flesh of Jem's breasts, so that they were entirely contained within the tightening network of bonds.

Jem's breasts were now constricted from underneath and from both sides, and were beginning to feel very swollen and tender. The two ends of rope went back up to and over the ropes lying diagonally across the upper part of Jem's chest, across to the central knot, and then, with a tug that Jem thought would snap the ropes, underneath Jem's arms to be tied at her back. Jem's breasts were now encircled with taut rope, and were held more tightly than by any corset or harness Jem had ever worn. Distended and almost spherical, their skin shining with tension, they jutted from her chest. He nipples stood out as large and hard as thimbles.

Jem was impressed. She had rarely been tied up as thoroughly. 'Thank you for binding me, sirs,' she said. 'I hope I'm adequately trussed now.'

'You'll do,' the brown-eyed man said, and rubbed his hands across her breasts. 'What's the next stage, lads? What do we do next before we cook our bird?'

'Tenderise her, tenderise her,' the other young men chanted. This made Jem apprehensive, and her fears were realised when one of the men went to a cupboard and produced various instruments of correction: four long, thin wooden dowels, and two leather straps.

Without further words, the men took one instrument each and arranged themselves in a formation that took up the entire length of the bakery. The two men swinging the leather straps stood facing each other at opposite ends of the room; between them, the four men with wooden switches stood at intervals.

It was clear to Jem that she was to run a gauntlet from one side of the room of the other. She had played games of this sort before, although she usually preferred watching to participating. At least, she thought, I'm not wearing high heels, and my legs and feet aren't tied.

'Come here, slave,' shouted one of the men holding a strap. 'Stand here in front of me, and turn to face the others. That's the way.'

Jem waited patiently for further instructions. She felt nervously excited, but she no longer believed that she was in danger of losing her wager with the Chatelaine - at least not here, this morning, in the bakery. All she had to do was to submit and show no resistance; in bondage, with her arms pinioned, and surrounded by six strong men, she would have little opportunity to rebel. They would carry out whatever plans they had made for her, and she would endure them. So far, she confessed to herself, it had been more a matter of enjoying than enduring.

'When I give you a smack, like this,' the man behind her said, whacking her bottom with the strap so hard that she almost fell forwards, 'you run straight ahead as fast as you can. Stop when you reach the other side of the bakery, turn round, and wait for another smack before you set off again. Understand, slave?'

'Yes, sir,' Jem said, looking over her shoulder and giving a smile to the serious-faced young man. 'And thank you for smacking me.'

The leather strap had been wielded with enthusiasm, and Jem's bottom felt afire.

'Get set, then,' the man said. 'Stick your arse out again.'

Jem did so, and was rewarded with another blazing stripe. She set off, running awkwardly because her arms were tied behind her back. As she passed the four men along her route she* tried to duck and weave to avoid the hissing switches. Her breasts, held tight and prominent within their rope bindings, seemed alarmingly vulnerable, and most of the men tried to strike her bosom as she ran towards them. They missed their target, but laughed as she bobbed and swerved, and shouted when one of them managed to imprint a glowing line on her right buttock as she raced past him.

She stopped in front of the other strap-wielding man, and drew in lungfuls of air. It was the young fellow with the hazel eyes, and she smiled at him as she tried to catch her breath.

Turn around, you slut,' he said. 'You'll get no rest until we've finished this. We've got to make up time. Come on, turn round and stick your arse out.'

Jem had no sooner leaned forwards than the strap landed forcefully on her left buttock, making her gasp and propelling her at a run towards the men waiting with big grins on their faces and their switches raised. This time none of them aimed for her breasts; copying the example of the one who had succeeded in lashing her during her first run, they all waited until she had run past before swinging their thin wooden rods at her backside.

Jem's buttocks had four fresh stripes by the time she reached the end of the room.

'Turn!' the man shouted at her. 'Bend! Run!'

With a breathless sob, Jem started on her third run. The men wielding the switches had now learned the technique of swinging them in Jem's wake, adding a flick of the wrist to catch one or other of Jem's buttocks as she raced past. Jem could do nothing to avoid the blows except to try to outrun them. A rational part of her mind kept trying to remind her that the men would whip her as much or as little as they pleased, whether she ran through the gauntlet or strolled; the stinging lashes and the shouted instructions impelled her to run, however - and, in any case, she would lose her wager if she failed to obey the men's commands.

And so Jem ignored the voice of reason, and the jeering laughter, and the throbbing of her bound breasts, and the tightness of the ropes around her body and between her legs, and the increasing temperature of her bottom; she simply ran up and down the room, as fast as she could, until her legs felt weak and she was gasping for breath.

Turn,' ordered the brown-eyed man as she staggered towards him for what, she thought, must have been the fifth or sixth time.

Panting, and proceeding at little more than a walking pace, she lifted her head and stared at him with what she hoped was her most winsome, wide-eyed expression of helplessness.

There was not a hint of pity in his face. Turn around, slut,' he shouted, 'and be quick about it.'

Sobbing with breathlessness and indignation, Jem presented her bottom to him. His leather strap swung upwards and landed with a loud report on the lower inside curves of both of Jem's buttocks; the tip went between her legs and caught her vulva. With a gasping cry, Jem set off again towards the other end of the room.

She could no longer sprint. Tears of frustration blinded her as, with her chest heaving, she trotted towards the line of young men with the wooden dowels. They were cheering her ironically, calling her vile names and making loud claims about which parts of her body they intended to aim for.

This time they concentrated on her breasts. Bound, distended and sensitised, the constricted bulbs of flesh were irresistible targets. With her arms tied behind her back, Jem could do nothing to protect them except to swing her torso from side to side, which seemed to make the young men even more excited.

The wooden dowels were very thin and smooth, and circular in section: they had no rough or sharp edges, and were obviously light and difficult to wield with much force. Nonetheless, each of the three that landed on one or other of Jem's breasts wrung a little shriek of pain from her, much to the amusement of the young men.

The fourth lash caught her stingingly on the right buttock, and then she was through the gauntlet and approaching the end of the room. She slowed to a walk, and veered from side to side as though she was having difficulty staying on her feet. If she exaggerated her exhaustion, she thought, the men might lose interest and move on to the next stage of this culinary ordeal.

At the last moment Jem stumbled, and fell against the man standing with his back to the wall. Her tight, sore breasts were pressed against his naked chest. She looked up at him imploringly.

He grinned. Turn around, slave,' he said. 'You're not ready for cooking yet. Turn and bend, my little chicken.'

The lash against her bottom was almost gentle this time, and Jem jogged forwards. As she approached the waiting line of men a voice behind her called out, 'Stop!', and she came to a halt in the centre of the room.

Grinning and joking, the four men with switches converged on her, surrounded her, and allowed her a moment to recover her breath before they began to whip her.

As she writhed and twisted within the circle of swishing laths, Jem felt stinging lines all over her body, catching her in such quick succession that she had no time to register them as individual stripes. She knew only that her buttocks, thighs and breasts were becoming incandescent. Her breasts, in particular, had never felt so hot and sore. Worse than the punishment was the sense of helplessness; she could not run away, she could not protect the vulnerable and tender parts of her body. The only way to escape from the torment was, she knew, to protest: to stand still, gather the tattered remnants of her dignity, and demand that they stop. And if she were to do that, the Chatelaine would have won.

As the switches continued to hiss and sting, and she found herself gasping with each lash so rapidly that, as the men laughingly commented, she sounded as if she was reaching a climax, she decided that she could bear it no longer. She would call a halt to this, and admit defeat. But then the whipping ceased.

It was the man with brown eyes who inspected her. He ran his hands over her breasts, and then her buttocks. He put a hand between her thighs, and pushed upwards so that Jem was lifted on to the tips of her toes.

'She'll do, I reckon,' he announced. 'Breasts and haunches feel nice and tender. And I tell you what, lads,' he added, 'she's still as wet as a lake down here. I think she
enjoyed
being tenderised. Did you, you little whore?'

Jem couldn't deny that she was aroused. Her whole body felt raw but alive, and the man's rough hand pressing into her vulva had shocked her by causing an almost climactic spasm of desire.

'Yes, thank you, sir,' she said, trying to control her panting voice. 'It was very exciting.'

The man laughed. 'We'd better hurry,' he said. 'Give me a hand to get her oiled.' With his hand still between her legs he lifted her from the ground, and with enthusiastic cries all of the other young men crowded around him, trying to grab Jem and to help carry her towards a corner of the room.