Chapter 4
Cleve awoke to a sharp knock on the door that called him back to reality from a fitful and unpleasant sleep. Every bone in his body ached from the cold harness of the stones he had to lie on, and whatever sleep he had been able to snatch had been spoiled by dreams in which he was subject to humiliation which made the ones he had undergone seem like nothing.
"Holy shit," he thought, is that bitch
Augusta Kreel not content with making my every waking moment agony? Does she have to pursue me through my sleep as well?
In fact, even Augusta could hardly plan that, though she certainly would have liked to control men's dreams as well as their waking hours, if she could have.
The door swung open, and in strutted one of his little tormentors, holding a riding crop half as long as she was. That meant she had been sent by Augusta, for whenever she used one of her pupils as an envoy, she always gave her the crop to make sure Cleve knew that the little girl had to be obeyed utterly.
Cleve groaned at the prospect of another day of torture and humiliation. His dazed mind could only wonder what new atrocities had been dreamed up by Miss Kreel and these lovely little monsters that she was forming in her own image.
"Come at once, pig!" the high voice piped.
Slaves were often never given any explanation of where they were being made to go, or what was in store for them. It was enough that a female had ordered, for a man to have to instantly obey, under pain of the lash!
Cleve pulled himself to his feet as fast as he could, for he knew that any delay would lead to the springly leather crop cutting mercilessly into his stupid male flesh. He followed the little girl out the door and then CRASH! He found his face striking the flagstones as he tumbled headlong. Two other little demons had been crouching outside the door and had grabbed his ankles as he unsuspectingly came out. Outwitted by females again, of course! And by very tiny ones at that. All three of his present tormentors could certainly not have had their first periods yet, but they were already training to be women by mastering the most fundamental womanly art: that of humbling a male and teaching him the all-important lesson of female superiority!
Dazed, Cleve hauled himself up on all fours, to weak for the moment to stand upright. His nose wasn't broken, but blood was pouring from it profusely, and the sigh of his abused bruised face and bleeding nose caused the air to be filled with girlish giggles.
"Holy shit," Cleve thought, "in the old days at the age they were playing with dolls."
But Cleve failed to realize that that was exactly what they were doing now. To them, his feelings were as unimportant as those of an old rag doll thrown into a gutter and trampled on Less, indeed, for a doll is more or less sexless, while Cleve was a male!
Before he could get up, the three little sprites climbed up on his back. Together, they made a very heavy load.
Kick, kick, kick! went the little heels in his aching ribs. "Giddup, nag!"
Realizing that resistance would be not merely useless but terribly dangerous, Cleve started lumbering off, the three little girls dancing up and down with glee on his sagging back.
They could perhaps have told him where they wanted to go, but as the intelligence of the average male is hardly very superior to that of a bright horse, they figured it was safer and simpler to indicate the direction in which to go by having the child in front give vicious pulls on his ears.
No matter how fast he went, of course, the heels slammed into his ribs, and the wicked-looking crop came dicing into his trembling ass, still frightfully sore for the competition he had lost the day before.
They were heading out onto the playing fields, where Cleve could see the whole school assembled. This must be the school Sports Day, and Cleve had a pretty fair idea what sort of sports these perverse little maidens were likely to enjoy.
To get onto the lawn Cleve had to crawl down seven stone steps, an almost impossible feat in any case, and doubly so with his back laden with three vicious little bundles of femininity who never ceased for an instant with the kicking and flogging. The sharp edges of the steps knifed cruelly into Cleve's legs and knees, his trembling hands sought one step at a time. The little girls didn't seem to realize that if he slipped they might be hurt. And, of course, any pain they suffered would be taken out of his skin at compound interest, while if they were hurt, he could not even imagine the tortures to which he would be subjected.
But females had given an order, and he dared not disobey!
With a sigh he eased his knees onto the moist grass. The hard part was over. All he had to do now was walk up to where Augusta and the others were, some six hundred yards away.
Walk! With girls in command? Never! Three vicious cuts of the crop right between his legs, right on the penis and balls, told him that nothing less than a full gallop would be acceptable. The fabric of his trousers protected him somewhat, but not enough for the blows to be agonizing. He lurched forward, trying his best to satisfy the tiny fiends.
The grass was soft and moist to his hands, but his ass was burning, and his ears two flaps of pain, for now that there were no more directions to indicate, the girl in front felt free to pull and twist them as much as she liked, and she liked to do that a lot. And every now and then the crop would stop playing across his buttocks, and would find its way to his genitals, almost causing him to faint with pain each time.
But he couldn't faint because he wasn't allowed to. He was only allowed to do what he was told, and that was run, his lungs bursting, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his bruised face. Sometimes he would try and glance up at the distant figures, to see if he had come any closer. But that caused a frightful pain in his neck, so he would look down at the grass beneath him as he forced himself past that most absurd of fictions, the point of no endurance. Then he would look up again and see that somehow the figures hardly seemed to have come any closer at all.
His failure the night before in the screaming contest had given him doubts about his ability to hold out. He was afraid he would faint with the frightful agony in his lungs, and he could imagine the means that would be used to revive him! But the point of no endurance does not exist for a properly trained male, for he must endure as much as the whim of his commanding female wants, even at the cost of his own life!
Thack! Thack! Thack! Kick! Kick! Kick! Cleve thought at every moment that he would have to give up, but somehow he kept on out of that male determination which unlike a woman's determination is not composed of good qualities, but is instead compounded of mule-like stubbornness and fear.
Shit, he couldn't take it any longer, he couldn't, but as he raised his eyes he saw a pair of gorgeous shapely legs which had to belong to Augusta. Somehow, for reasons he couldn't understand, if he had to collapse in abject exhaustion, he wanted to do at her feet. Why? His dazed mind could no more have told him the reason than it could have explained to him why he had had an erection from the time the little girls had first climbed on him and started their severe punishment.
Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! There he was. With a last effort he was up to Augusta. All he could see of her were her glorious smooth legs (for she was in shorts). Then he couldn't do any more. He collapsed utterly exhausted and spent, the little girls tumbling giggling to the ground. Whether they were giggling because they had tumbled, as normal children would, or in anticipation of the punishment that they would be able to inflict upon him for failing to allow them to get off properly?
He didn't know. He was too weak to care. As he huddled gasping in a quasi-fetal position on the ground, without an ounce of strength left in his tortured body, all that mattered to him somehow was that he was in front of Augusta, in front of her glorious female legs, lying weak and helpless, while she towered silently above him in all her feminine glory!
Had she ordered him to get up, he would have been unable to, and she would have had an excellent excuse-disobedience-to inflict upon him very severe chastisement indeed. But instead, all she did was gaze down with an amused smile at this broken husk who was trembling for fear that he would not be allowed to he at her feet!
Cleve dared a glance upward, and marveled at the beauty of his dominatrice. As he had guessed, it was the school sports day, and in consequence Augusta was wearing tennis shoes, incredibly tight white silk shorts which plainly showed her cleft, and a dark blue silk blue blouse, the tails of which were knotted high under her luscious breasts, leaving the soft, smooth stomach bare. And as the blouse was unbuttoned, both her breasts protruded out of it, with their creamy softness and the delightful pink of the delicate nipples.
Cleve quickly turned his eyes away, less he be charged with looking lustfully at his mistress and punished accordingly, Le. with special severity.
"Like what you see, huh buster," Augusta sneered, her coral pink Up curling back over the pearly teeth. Although she punished slaves for looking at her lustfully, she loved the idea, loved the thought of being desired by men who had no further hope of ever getting even to touch her. Needless to say, since that first fatal night, Cleve had never been allowed to touch her, except by having his face cruelly slapped until it was red like a tomato!
"I suppose Mr. Litchfield will want to participate in our little sports events," Miss Jones said sweetly. She was standing near by with her breast-likewise exposed.
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't miss doing so for the world ... would you, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta broke in.
"N ... no ... its really very good of you to let me play along too," he stammered. He would doubtless have been almost as servile in tone anyway, even if Augusta hadn't raised one of her feet slightly off the ground, ready to slam it into his mouth on the slightest passing whim, though of course that helped.
"In fact, I think you had better get up, Mr. Litchfield. My how messy you are! Why you're lucky you're not one of my little pupils, Mr. Litchfield, for if one of them had shown up here with blood on her face, she would have had to be punished."
There was a chorus of laughter from the girls and teachers. All Cleve could do was cringe like a stray dog. He never knew now whether a remark like that on Augusta's part was simply pure humiliation, or whether there would be physical pain too.
It was her whim that for the moment, physical pain not be added. But, of course, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind at any moment, particularly when something as utterly unimportant as the happiness of a man is at stake!
Cleve glanced at the sporting activities going on. There was something terribly sexy about watching the scores of girls compete. Some were only little things, others were already mature women of seventeen, and eighteen, their delicate faces miracles of softness and tenderness, until they looked his way, in which case they hardened into frightful cruelty, or lit up with anticipation of the further torment which they knew would be inflicted upon the hapless Cleve.
The first event was to be a high-jump. A striped pole was set between two verticals, and the girls jumped by age group, their lithe bodies pulsing with the glorious majesty of femininity, and making Cleve, who stood waiting his (obligatory) turn look like some sort of deformed rhinoceros. And, of course, had everyone been naked the comparison would have been even more obvious with the girls and their neat, sweet cunts and Cleve with his ridiculous garbage hanging from the front of his body.
The girls jumped by age group, the bar being raised slightly each time for the older, leggier girls. Then, after the last magnificent eighteen-year-old had easily cleared four feet, it was Cleve's turn.
"Put the bar down somewhat, girls," Augusta ordered. "After all, we know from the experiment of last night how feeble men are."
There was a chorus of laughter, and the bar was lowered two inches, the supporting pegs in the verticals being moved down to a lower hole.
"Have you never done sports before, Mr. Litchfield? I'm surprised. After all, you look well enough formed, all things considered."
The things considered were that he had had the infernal luck to be born a man.
"Surely you don't plan to jump in your trousers, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta continued. "Take them off at once."
Down came the trousers. As Cleve glanced down at the ground in shame at thus being subject to such complete petticoat rule, he noticed his hairy legs. How coarse and vulgar they looked compared to Augusta's lovely smooth stems, to the graceful limbs of the seventeen-year-olds, even to the slim legs of the little girls in the lowest classes.
Though he couldn't figure out why, he still had a semi erection, and a funny tingle in his tightly-pulled balls.
"I'm sure your shorts will get in your way," Augusta said.
There was nothing for it but to take them down, for the most momentary delay spelled punishment for males at Heatherrow. Cleve's face turned bright red as "he pulled them down and the half-hard cock bobbed free. A chorus of laughter greeted the sight of the male genitals.
"Good heavens, Mr. Litchfield, I never knew you were born deformed. What sort of strange growth is this?" And she slammed her fist right into his balls so he would have doubled up except for a superhuman exertion. He knew Augusta liked to get him to double over, then straighten him up with a neat uppercut to the chin.
"Is it some kind of growth? Surely a surgeon would be able to do something about it. After all, normal people don't have anything of the kind." And she pulled down her own panties so the comparison between the neat triangle and the grotesque cock was all the more obvious, while all the girls and women feasted their eyes, for only a few had been privileged to see Miss Kreel's pussy close up, and those who did talked of it in the most enthusiastic terms, praising its softness, tenderness, beauty, etc.
"After all, if you're a cripple, perhaps you would prefer not to compete," she said, pulling back her skin tight short-shorts.
"Oh, I think I'll be all right," Cleve said, playing the hideous game to the end. Gathering all the strength he had left, he took a run at the pole, determined to clear it or die trying.
Crack! Thuddd! Cleve writhed on the ground in agony, unaware of how he could have failed to clear the pole, which, having smashed into his ankles lay beside him on the ground. The humiliation was so intense, he did not even realize that at the last moment, as he was sailing over it, the two girls on either side had raised it to catch his leg, so his beautiful jump that he had wanted to do so well with was turned into yet another proof of masculine inferiority, assuming that could possibly need proving.
There followed the beanbag run. And with his aching ankle, Cleve came in last, to a chorus of jeers, while his cock flopped and his balls tingled. Somehow, terrible though the humiliation was, he dimly felt that it was not as thoroughly disagreeable as he would have expected. Being a man, of course, his sluggish, selfish brain could not quickly grasp what was going on, but perhaps he was beginning to see part of the light.
Next was the long-jump. Cleve's ankle had partly recovered, and he figured that maybe here he would be able to regain some of his thoroughly lost masculinity, for there were no bars to raise. With a sprint he sent himself sailing, only to feel a knife-like slice in his right ankle, a frightful yank at his right leg-socket, and the hard-packed sand slamming into his face. One of the cruel little minxes had tied a light cord with a loose running knot around his ankle. The ankle had hurt so much already from his earlier fall that he had failed to notice the slight pressure of the cord.
"Punish him, girls, punish him," Augusta called out. "He's obviously not trying. He's making fun of our sports day. He's trying to lose because he thinks that we women wouldn't be any completion for a real-he-man like him."
Girls of all ages swarmed forward. One gorgeous, slim little number must have been about sixteen began kicking sand in his eyes, while a little nymph got on his back and began boxing his ears with the regularity of a pendulum, whap! Whap! Whap! Someone else was pulling his hair, as he writhed in agony, and a slender feminine had slid between his body and the sand had gotten hold of his sac and was mercilessly pinching the skin and squeezing the aching balls themselves, or digging fingernails-for after their first period all the girls at Heatherrow were expected to have a attractive long fingernails-into the definitely excited cock.
Thhkkk! Thakkkk! Some lovely had gotten the riding crop which had been used when Cleve had been ridden out to the playing fields, and was slicing the pain-instrument deep into the playing fields, and was slicing the pain-instrument deep into the reddening cheeks of Cleve's ass!
Goddamn was there no end to feminine ingenuity, Cleve wondered, as he felt tiny fingers pinch his legs like crabs, and as one little girl-he could tell from the size of her fingers that she must be only nine or ten, was demonstrating on the soles of his get that tickling, when done with sufficient persistence, was no slight torture.
Female hands were everywhere hurting male flesh, soft, soft fingers causing dreadful pain, as Cleve writhed, physically unable to get out from under the weight of the females who had swarmed on him like so many rats.
"That's enough for the moment, girls," Augusta said. "After all, Mr. Litchfield, if he wants to get back in our good books still has several events to compete in."
There was the three-legged race, for instance, in which two competitors have their right and left legs respectively tied together, and have to race as a team against similar combination. A great favorite as a fun number but no fun for Cleve. Needless to say, none of the fleet maidens wished to be tied to a grubby, lumbering ox like him, so for him a variation was tried: He was bent over with each wrist tied to a corresponding ankle. A girl was given a riding crop to make sure that he didn't "make fun of the games" by not trying. So as the girls took off, giggling and stumbling, but still making good progress for they were used to the game, Cleve fell farther and farther behind, and paid for his slowness with sharp cuts of the crop on his curved spine.
He arrived at the finish line last of all, where he stumbled and fell only to be given a shower of kicks with the order to get up. But tied as he was, it was physically impossible for him to get up. He tried twice and fell each time, being rewarded for his "Laziness" with more kicks and more good sound blows of the crop, so that all he could do was huddle in anguish on the muddy ground, unable, because of the fashion in which his wrists and ankles were trussed together to be able to offer even the most token protection to his exposed hide. So all he could do was suffer and cringe before the torturing little girls and the sleek teen-agers-Augusta and the teachers having decided to give the girls some practice on their own-and whimper for mercy.
"Please ... I ... did my best. I couldn't do any better ... I swear. It's because I'm ... only a man ... please ... take that ... into account!"
"We are taking it into account," a beautiful sixteen year old said as she laid into him, "that's why you're being punished so severely-because you're a man!"
With every blow she gave he could see her fine breasts bulge and heave against the tight tee-shirt, the hard nipples very evident indeed. Cleve felt his cock swelling to huge size, and hoped the girls would notice because of his crouching position, for a man to believe himself capable of getting an erection, let alone for his actually getting one, punishment was severe at Heatherrow, as Augusta had reminded him a couple of times, though always adding that on that score he had nothing to worry about.
"Enough for the present, girls," Augusta said. "Mr. Litchfield has one more event to compete in-boxing!" The girls gasped in delight. Boxing was taught at Heatherrow, of course, as something indispensable for a woman who expects to spend her life dominating men. Usually the girls wore face-guards to keep their features protected and wore padding so that blows on the breasts would be merely painful instead of agonizing. But they could well expect that no such precautions would be taken to protect the absurd Cleve Litchfield.
"Jane," Augusta said to a lithe sixteen-year old. "You're the best boxer in the school, you take on Mr. Litchfield. I would, but I want to give him some chance of winning at least one event against us feeble women."
Chorus of laughter. A slender, lovely brunette with eyes almost as dark and liquid as those of Augusta herself came forward. She was already wearing tight shorts that were the school sports outfit, but to make it look more like a real boxing match, she stripped to the waist. As the tight tee shirt peeled off, two lovely round breasts bobbed into view, their nipples already swelling with excitement.
Cleve of course, had to box naked.
"So confident am I in Jane," August said, "that I'll give you permission to strike her anywhere you would strike a man."
"That means," Cleve thought, "that I can land one right on one of those soft female globes." His cock stiffened anew at the thought of thus being able to revenge himself on this tormenting female sex which had so abased and humiliated him. He had been a good amateur boxer once in college, and he could imagine the round flesh flattening under his blow.
"Further more, if you should win, I promise, woman's honor, that you will be allowed to end your stay at Heatherrow if you should so desire."
Cleve gasped. Holy shit, there was really a chance that this hell might finish, and that he might finish it in a burst of glory, humbling some proud little bitch.
Jane felt every eye upon her as the gloves were fastened. Her breasts swelled with excitement, the iron hard nipples poking toward her adversary as if they wished to aid her fists! Down by the crotch of her shorts, a slight dark spot of semi-circle could be seen where her flowing pussy-juices had spread through the fabric like water through tissue paper. Her clit could hardly stand the pressure of her legs and labia.
"Steady, steady," she kept telling herself. She knew she was a match for any man, but was afraid she might blow the whole works by nervousness, and this fear could, of course, make her all the more nervous.
She knew how much Miss Kreel wanted to keep Cleve in the most severe subjugation, knew what a humiliation it would be for the school and the female sex if the big lummox got away after knocking her out.
One problem was that her period was coming up in a few days, she feared that the tension which always preceded it with her would keep her too much on edge to enable her to slam the ridiculous Cleve back into his place, that's to say, cringing on the ground.
"Dingggg!" went a little bicycle bell. There was no ring as such, but outline marked on the ground indicated where its edges should be.
The two opponents advanced, Cleve trembling for fear of blowing his chance for freedom, Jane afraid of not living up to the terrible responsibility which rested upon her slim, graceful shoulders.
The vulgar brute strength-of a man against the agility and speed of a "young woman! It would hardly have been a contest anyway, and the element of nervousness decided it, for like so many men Cleve was unable to stop worrying, while Jane possessed that self-control which is one of the most evident signs of female superiority.
Cleve let fly first, with a roundhouse right which Jane ducked out from in front of with no trouble at all. He tried a left hook, which she-likewise avoided. She was playing with him, and the humiliation, the desire to prove himself a man again, clouded all his judgment. He aimed a body blow straight at the right breast of the delightful girl, and before he could connect he felt a short, sharp right crack into his unguarded face, causing him to miss his shot and stagger back.
Crack! Pow! Rights and lefts on his sweaty chin, delivered by slender arms with a hell of a lot of power. Dazed, fearing that he was losing, he tried to connect on the gorgeous, regular features. If only he could mess that pretty scenery up a bit.
Jane knew she was winning now, and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Although Miss Kreel never offered rewards for doing something before it was accomplished-that would of course have been thoroughly subversive to proper discipline-Jane knew as did all the girls that really good performance of any kind could sometimes get one an order to appear in the headmistresses' bedroom for a night of pleasure which made the sort of things which the healthy young females did to each other in the dorm seem like standing waiting for a bus. Jane's nipples, already hard, could almost feel Miss Kreel's full, sensuous lips upon them, and she pressed her tongue against the inside of her teeth, imagining that it was in Miss Kreel's mouth, or even on Miss Kreel's labia, which report had it were the pinkest and nicest one could ever hope to find.
Crack! None of this fantasy was keeping her from landing blow upon blow on Cleve's hapless battered face which no longer wore an expression of arrogance, as it had at the beginning of the fight, but one of humiliation and fear and physical pain.
Oh, it would be so wonderful to be lying passive in Miss Kreel's arms, Jane thought. like so many women, she could imagine the pleasure of being passive with another woman, but could only imagine the most severe harshness towards any impudent males, ("any" was somewhat redundant, of course. All males are impudent, by the mere fact of having those cocks with which, unless they are properly schooled, they sometimes dare to threaten women.)
Cleve was staggering in a daze, aware that he had as good as lost the fight, but trying desperately to put up a good front, so that he would not be punished for "not trying." Had he not been so run through the wringer, he thought, he might have stood a better chance against this lovely, slender opponent.
But here he was completely wrong, and in his heart of hearts he knew it. The graceful Jane was a superb little punishment-machine, and was slamming her gloves into Cleve's face like pistons.
Crack! Thud! One of Cleve's eyes was swelling shut, his nose and mouth were bleeding, he longed to throw the fight, to fall at the knees of his tormentrice and beg not to have to feel any more pain. But some stubborn remnant of masculine pride kept him on his feet until a smashing uppercut made him stagger back and sink to his knees, and then fall with a thud on the ground, semi-conscious.
Semi conscious, but that was too conscious. As he gazed up in agony and saw Augusta raise Jane's slender arm in triumph, saw the smile of victory of his sixteen-year-old opponent's face, saw the beads of sweat glistening on the smooth, round breasts, heard the cheers and acclamations of the crowd, he was all too conscious of himself, a thirty-nine year old man reduced to a hulk by a little teenage girl whom the law would have forbidden him to fuck on the grounds that she needed protection. Protection! It had been a fair fight, and she had beaten a grown man-or, as Cleve told himself bitterly, what used to pass for one-into a beaten hulk, lying helpless at her feet, whom, if it had not been for the rules of boxing, she could have continued to punch at whim, even if he had been allowed to try and defend himself further.
"Up, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta's quiet, firm voice commanded. "Ermengarde wants to fight
Ermengarde was the little ten-year-old who had bested Cleve in the spanking-endurance contest the night before. Augusta must be mocking him. Groggy as he was, he could best that little pipsqueak.
But no, the little girl was having the huge gloves fastened on her tiny hands.
"Of course, Mr. Litchfield, gentleman that you are, won't allow such a tiny girl a slight handicap." And with this Augusta grabbed his hands and tied them tightly behind his back. A foot long length of rope tied his feet together to keep him from running away.
Bound, like that, there was of course no way he could box. The only thing he could do was feel pain and humiliation, and yet his prick was as stiff as a flagpole, and for a fleeting second he almost felt that he was looking forward to being given a thorough drubbing by this cruel little girl. But that was crazy! He put the thought out of his mind at once.
"After the performance you put up against Jane, I don't think I've put you at much of a disadvantage, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said dryly. Everyone giggled, for it was true that while being turned from an eager fighter into a slavering object, Cleve had not been able to land one punch.
Whap! Pow! He might have guessed it. Little Ermengard was going for his balls with her fists like a fish goes for bait. His upstanding prick bobbed from side to side as each blow landed.
Only the strength of a ten-year-old, but in the balls.
Three sharp blows there and he was doubled over enough for the little girl to get at his face, where she planted new bruises on top of the ones left there by Jane. Crack! Thap! Her gloves had been loaded with something, Cleve was sure of that. As he sought to avoid the hail of blows, he slipped on the wet grass and came down with a tooth-jarring crash. He tried to pull himself up, but as he got to his knees, the punches continued to explode in his battered wreck of a face. Those gloves really were loaded! He thought.
"She's so little, she doesn't know all the rules yet," Augusta laughed as Ermengarde placed a right and a left on Cleve's face in quick succession. The cord tying his feet together made it impossible to rise.
"I ... I ... mustn't pass out because ... of ... a ten-year old" he thought to himself groggily. But the field, with its panorama of lovely female legs was swirling around him. On top of Jane's recent knockout, the lighter stuff that Ermengarde was delivering with those loaded gloves was more than he could take.
The last thing he heard before he passed out was Augusta's voice saying, "You know perfectly well, Mr. Litchfield, that one is supposed to box on one's feet. For your clowning around you will have to be stringently taken in hand and severely punished!"