Chapter 6
Without any warning, the door of Cleve's cell swung open with a bang, and there before him, dressed in an utterly bizarre leather costume, stood Augusta Kreel, whip at the ready.
Cleve started at the sudden apparition of feminine beauty and cruelty, aware that her appearance could mean only one thing: pain.
"I suppose you haven't forgotten that I promised that your ridiculous clowning around would cost you dearly, she snarled."
Carry this was going to be no ordinary discipline session. Clearly Cleve was going to really find out what it meant to fall into the hands of a vicious dominant woman! Somehow, as he cringed back from the haughty woman, he sensed that what was in store for him would make him feel that everything else had just been a prologue.
Augusta towered, of course, on boots with six-inch heels, which perfectly molded her calves. How she got into them was a complete mystery to Cleve, for no unsightly lace broke the smooth line of the gleaming leather.
Her creamy legs were encased in a skin-tight leather skirt, slit up the sides to reveal the perfect skin. The skirt was a real hip-hugger, so Cleve could see the lovely curve of Augusta's magnificent belly. Everything about Augusta suggested power and strength and superiority in that moment Even her delicately formed navel seemed to stare haughtily at the abject Cleve.
His eyes followed the curve of her belly, followed it up to the swell of the rib cage and above that to where the naked undersides of her heavy breasts seemed to invite kissing and adoration, though of course that would be a pleasure to which no crawling male could ever aspire.
In the last bizarre costume Cleve had seen her wear, all of her gorgeous globes were covered in harsh leather save the luscious pink nipples. Now it was exactly the reverse. Everything was bare save the coral-pink tips, which were covered by little cups one and a half inches in diameter, held in place by gold chains running behind Augusta's back, across her neck, and up to a tight leather neck collar which almost completely encased the soft throat.
Cleve knew that the moment of discipline had come, but although the sight of the beautiful dominant lesbian filled him with terror, he could not help but noticing a tingling in his balls as his rod filled with blood and inched up until it was pointing right up.
"You dare try and threaten men with your gun?" Augusta snarled, slamming her boot against the stiff rod.
Cleve doubled over in pain, unendurable pain, thankful though that the terrible blow had caught the gorged penis rather than the even tenderer balls.
"Are you finished playing around, slave?" Augusta asked in her quiet, firm voice, so full of tenderness for other women, so full of harsh cruelty for any man unlucky enough to fall into her grasp.
"Y-yes...."
CRACKKK! The riding crop caught him across the ear and the side of the head. He dazedly tried to figure out what it was he had done to give offence, for Augusta usually had an at least nominal reason for everything she did.
"Y-yes Mistress," Cleve gasped.
"That's better. But don't think for an instant that it will save you from the pain I have in store!"
Those were terrible words indeed, but as Cleve rubbed his aching cock, he couldn't help finding something exciting in them too. Good grief, had he lost all his manhood, he wondered.
Next to Augusta stood slender, graceful Jane. She was wearing a skin-tight satin mini-skirt and a satin blouse, tied as Augusta's had been the day before to leave the firm young nipples and breasts completely bare!
It was clear that in so doing she was imitating her beloved headmistress. The pleasure she had given Augusta the night before, not to mention during the boxing match, had put her firmly in Miss Kreel's good books, and as a result, although doubtless many of the girls would be participating in the marathon discipline which Cleve knew he was in for, Jane could have the honor of being a sort of special deputy of pain.
In fact, it was soft, gentle little Jane who was to a large degree responsible for Cleve's plight. Augusta really had almost forgotten about the special discipline which she had promised Cleve for his "clowning around" by "boxing" little Ermengarde on his knees.
That morning, as the sun, filtering through the blind had woken the two females up as they lay in one another's arms, and as Augusta had begun gently stroking the lovely hair of the girl lying next to her, Jane had timidly asked, "may I please help you in teaching that Cleve the lesson he deserves today?"
"Cleve?" she had asked, still not quite recalled from the world of femininity represented by the gazelle-like young girl.
"You remember, Miss Krell. You were going to give him special discipline today."
"Right you are!" Augusta had exclaimed, forgetting to pretend, as she usually did, that she was incapable of forgetting anything. Her clit had been half charged just with the presence of the lovely girl beside her, but now tith the prospect of Cleve's body writhing in torment before her, it stiffened up like a sentry coming to attention.
Not that she wouldn't have been punishing him anyway that day. Man, after all, are always in need of punishment. But it was nice to remember that she had already decided that today's punishment would be extra severe.
Without a word, the two females turned, and meekly Cleve followed them out the door. During actual torture, it was generally necessary to bind the victim, but Augusta usually preferred to have Cleve go to his punishment untied. It emphasized the totality of the female control that he absolutely had to follow orders given him by women or girls, whether or not he was bound.
Augusta and Jane headed for the dining hall. It was not mealtime, but that was the room that could seat the most people. And the whole school had been told to turn up-though invited is a better word, for few are the women who willingly miss a chance to see a male being degraded, particularly at Heatherrow-to watch the next episode in "The Unmanning of Cleve."
Cleve turned his eyes away as he entered, aware of the scores of feminine eyes watching him as one might watch a mouse being played with by a cat, of the scores of femine cunts already moist with anticipation.
Cleve noticed that one of the chandeliers had been taken down, and that a rope was passing through the hook from which it usually hung He could guess that it would soon be him who would be hanging, though heaven only knew by what part of his tortured male body.
And yet ... his cock gave a twitch, and ached from being as erect as it was. That's just because so many women are looking at it, Cleve hastened to reassure himself, being unwilling to believe that he was looking forward to torture.
For, of course, his trousers had not been given back to him after the degrading sports day. Augusta was rather angry with herself in fact for the fact that she had not thought earlier how much Cleve's humiliation would be increased if she made him walk around naked all the time. And of course, Miss Kreel's anger against herself usually ended up by being
"outer-directed" so to speak.
"What's that thing sticking up in front of Mr. Litchfield," one of the monstrous little girls asked her neighbor with pretended ignorance as she pointed to Cleve's cock.
"What thing? I don't see anything? Maybe its too small for me to see from this far away."
There was a chorus of laughter, and Cleve blushed even deeper. A few days ago, a remark like that would have caused his erection to go down, but now, although he was bitterly aware of the humiliating nature of his position, it just caused his cock to stiffen all the more.
For a moment, he was afraid that Augusta, who was getting an end of the dangling rope ready was going to attach it to his cock or his balls, actually tearing the things out by the root! But he had forgotten that Augusta didn't believe in damaging property excessively.
Jane bent down with the rope, which she had taken from Augusta, and tied it to one of Cleve's ankles. Needless to day the one which had been injured the day before. Trust the lovely little fiend not to forget a detail like that.
Cleve could guess what was coming now, or thought he could. As his sluggish male mind was incapable of following the rapid flight of female thought when the latter is engaged in the task it most-likes, namely thinking up new ways to cause a male unbearable pain.
Cleve expected he would be asked to lie down on the floor so that he could be hoisted up by the leg. But instead, four or five girls, Jane among them, simply began pulling the rope, so that as he stood, his leg was drawn out to an angle of ninety degrees.
He struggled to keep his balance, aware of what would happened when he lost it.
Higher, higher ... there were giggles in the room as the girls watched Cleve stand on the toes of the one foot which was still resting on the ground. Cleve had no capacity for doing splits-who but a woman could do anything so gracefully?-and as the girls gave another yank, lost his foothold and cart-wheeled head downwards, as the rope cut into his ankle unbearably.
Wack! His head cracked against the floor as he swung down to a vertical position. The pain in his socket was killing him as the girls heaved the rope higher and higher.
His other leg was dangling crazily somewhere, and all he could do was wiggle it frantically, while everyone laughed at his comic gestures.
"Still clowning around, I see, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta sneered. "Don't you know it's impolite to hang upside down naked in the presence of ladies?"
And to punish him for his "impoliteness" she caught him a terrific crack across the bare legs with the riding crop, so that he swung lightly under the impact of the blow.
"That's an idea, girls! Line up and see which of you can make Mr. Litchfield swing the lardest with three blows of the riding crop."
The eager little cunts swarmed up onto the dias, and took their places in line with the perfect discipline which was expected at a place like Heatherrow. The first one, a lovely leggy girl of almost eighteen was handed the crop.
THACKKK! The blow cut into Cleve's ribs, causing him to swing slightly. As he swung back, and reached the highpoint in the other direction, the girl hit him again ... and then a third time as he swung back again.
The pain in the ribs from the riding crop was frightful, for all the time he had been at Heatherrow, Cleve had not yet learned to get used to that most useful of implements. But what was worse was the dizziness from hanging upside down, and the agonizing pressure that his weight brought to bear on his leg joints, not to mention the cutting effect of the cord, which was strong but had been chosen for its extra thinness, so that as many of the man's nerves could be feeling pain at once as was at all possible.
THACKKKK! Thackkkkk! Thackkkkk! That was the next contender. Only thirteen, with her breasts only beginning to bud, with surprising strength in her thin little arms. Of course, Miss Creel's riding crop, specially designed according to her specifications of length and springiness to give maximum pain, helped too.
Almost as bad as the pain caused by the blows and the hanging was the fantastic humiliation of being used for a purpose which a sack of potatoes could have fulfilled equally well, had the purpose of the contest been not its ostensible one of testing strength, but rather the further humbling of a male!
Cleve's head swam with the pain and the embarrassment. The blows of the riding crop fell everywhere, though it was felt by general consensus that the rib cage was the best place to strike to get the maximum swing, so welts were laid across welts and actually on top of other welts!
But although the rib cage was the most efficient spot to hit for the supposed purpose of getting him to swing, some girls figured that the most pain could be inflicted by concentrating in the swollen cock and the balls, though, aware of the danger of permanent damage in that spot, Augusta had told the girls to go easy. After all, Cleve only had two balls, and as they were unquestionably the best place to hit for the purpose of maximum pain, they had to be made to last a long time.
At last the series was over, and there wasn't a place on Cleve's body that hadn't at least once felt the cruel discipline of the crop. But because each girl had only been allowed three blows, the swinging had not been too terrible. Now Augusta stepped forward.
"Now girls, this is how she should do it. Remember, for when you're all married."
Many of the faces lit up in anticipation of the day when they would be full grown women, with a slave all their own to bruise and humiliate-their husbands!
Some of the other girls had been strong, but Cleve could really feel the change when Augusta's powerful arms went to work on him.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! She laid the blows methodically, all in exactly the same spot, so that spot was a sort of white-hot line of molten agony. And as the blows followed one another, Cleve began to swing like a pendulum.
As the swing increased and took longer to accomplish, the space between the blows increased too, for they were only given when he was at the highpoint of the swing, but that was small comfort, for the increased arc caused the pressure on the fiery ankle and the screaming joints to grow ever more intense, until Cleve thought the leg must be yanked from its socket, or the ankle cut through to the bone.
Neither happened, but the torment went on and on, as Augusta lost control of herself, and pushed her doctrine of their being no "Point of endurance" to the uttermost limits, raining agony down upon a swinging, writhing mass that could no longer be thought of as a human being but just as a quivering hunk of livid pain, of agony so terrible that it could hardly be believed that anyone could "endure" it for more than a minute. But of course with Cleve, he had to endure it, as much as this vicious queenly woman decreed.
Augusta had worn no panties under her slit skirt, and as the flaps flapped with the vigorous movement of her powerful body, the other girls and women caught glimpses of the spot which represented their conception of the height of feminine beauty-Miss creel's cunt!
"WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! She felt the pussy fluid trickle down her leg, felt the tightness in her snatch and clit, and with every increase in her own dose of pleasure was determined to double Cleve's dose of pain.
Gosh, it was good to be a woman, she thought, to have a cunt, and nice round breasts that swing crazily to the motion of your body as you lay it into an imbecilic slavering male. She would have liked to beat off right there, but there was plenty more work to do before her duty towards Cleve could be considered accomplished. Maybe later, with Jane....
Cleve was one fiery mass of agony, with one spot subject to a special suffering all its own. Cleve's cock, hard as iron, ached for the touch of a cunt, a mouth, a hand, anything, as it swelled more and more until it was as if the skin would burst.
"God, no ... " Cleve thought, as the unmistakable evidence of his being sexually aroused through woman-torture was forced upon him. "No . ... "
Augusta would have liked to go on lashing that swinging form forever, but she was aware that Cleve would black out soon unless the routine were varied.
"Let go the rope!" she ordered the girls who were straining to hold it. It went away with a run, and Cleve's arc of pain was transformed into a flight that ended with a tooth-jarring crash to the floor.
"Not very graceful are you?" Augusta asked.
Dazed, wondering if he had any broken bones, Cleve hardly heard her. He knew what the punishment for inattentiveness was, but there wasn't a thing he could do to avoid it now. This was a final defeat. The final passivity. To he on the ground unable even to continue playing the meaningless game of self-defense, to feel, in a weird, kindy way, that he had to thrust himself to the females who were tormenting him, as a child might trust himself to a kind of sympathetic mother. These females weren't kind and sympathetic at all. They were vicious and cruel. But he had to trust himself to them anyway. Who else could a man trust himself to? He certainly wouldn't be able to look after himself.
Dimly he saw in front of him the magnificent boots of Augusta and above them the creamy flesh of the legs. God, what a magnificent creature. Of course it was natural that she should decide on his pain and pleasure. Everyone had pain in his life, and what more natural than that the amount should be minutely regulated, with no surprises, because the pain was always at the maximum. How natural . ...
In his daze he found himself voluntarily crawling, inching forward on his bruised belly towards those magnificent gleaming boots. He could imagine the lovely feet inside them, wished he could look at them, but wouldn't have wanted to miss the sight of the spiked boots, symbolizing the totality of female superiority. What a contradiction, he told himself. Wanting to see the feet and the boots at once. Just went to show that men couldn't be trusted to think for themselves.
He inched himself painfully forward, his dazed mind trying to piece together somehow everything he had learned-and he had learned many important things-during his stay up to now at Heatherrow. And he would have to stay a long time, doubtless he would be learning a lot more.
He was there, and like some beaten cur which remains faithful to its master, he voluntarily began licking Augusta's boots in an act of self-surrender, of adoration ... perhaps of love.
There was utter silence in the room now. All the females realized that they had seen the last act in the most thrilling drama there is: the proper re-ordering fo the relations between the sexes, the reduction of an arrogant man into a creature of utter servility, genuinely grateful for not being beaten.
Cleve felt genuinely grateful that Augusta's crop had not descended with cutting viciousness upon his agony-felled body, grateful that she had allowed him to perform this final act of self-surrender.
The eyes of the girls, from the little darlings of nine to the already-women of eighteen were glowing as they realized what a beautiful sight they had seen. A sight that they would doubtless see once more when, a little older, they had pushed their own husbands to the same point-the point of recognizing, realizing and admitting that there is nothing unjust whatsoever in a woman doing whatever she pleases with a man-even if she decided to take his miserable life, for surely something so valueless must be as the disposition of women too.
"So you're capable of learning something after all," Augusta's steady voice said.
The firm, frightening voice that Cleve so feared. Yet, as he lay there in his total non-existence, he couldn't help wondering if there wasn't just a touch of tenderness in it, the same tenderness which might be used towards a naughty child who has come to say he is sorry.
As she looked down at the body before her, bleeding, cut, trembling in fear and adoration, Augusta felt her snatch tighten with a sensation of triumph, of femininity victorious. But what else was it she felt? Disappointment that the process of breaking Cleve had ended so quickly? Pity? No, pity wasn't the word, for there could be no pitying a man, and the most abject masculine submission was something as natural and necessary as the rain falling.
No, it wasn't pity ... it was maybe a certain tolerance for weakness, a realization that Cleve couldn't help the abominable fact of his having a penis, though that didn't mean the punishment was to let up. On the contrary. If masculine submission was given to avoid pain, it wouldn't be a proper submission at all, but only a clumsy ruse of a kind that women have no difficulty whatever in seeing through.
But that wasn't the case here. Augusta realized that Cleve had crawled forward to kiss her boots not in the hope of being hurt less-he was surely aware by now that demands for pity were never met at Heatherrow-but because it had seemed necessary, just, reasonable, that this glorious statuesque woman rule him totally as a little girl rules a pet dog, because he wanted to show to all the world that he at last understood the most self-evident fact of all: the simple, complete, utter superiority of women to men.
"I trust you realize that this changes nothing as far as your present punishment goes?"
Cleve shook his bruised, dazed head in acknowledgement, as he gazed up at the lovely legs disappearing into the slits of the leather skirt, and at the underside of the heavy round breasts, crisscrossed as they were with the gold chain, and finally at the beautiful, voluptuous features, with the haughty smile upon them.
Of course, the punishment had to go on. He had been impudent hadn't he? Or what was it he had done? The terrible pain he had received, remnants of which still shot through his body, prevented him from remembering, but if Augusta had decided that he deserved punishment, surely he deserved it. She was so lovely....
Down came the rope again. Cleve winced. The fact that he now at last understood how right and proper it was for him to have to suffer at the slightest whim of a female didn't prevent him from weakly fearing pain, from wishing to avoid it.
If only he could jack off. His prick felt like it was going to burst. But of course, any unseemly action like that would meet with the severest retribution, and that instantly.
This time, Jane's delicate little fingers knotted the cords around his wrist. For a crazy moment Cleve thought how nice it would be to be married to Augusta and have a daughter like Jane, one who would be utterly unsparing of her lummox father.
"What am I thinking? Good Gosh!" Cleve realized, as his head started to clear, how far he had descended into the abyss of total self-denial. He must be made, wanting to spend a life of torture like this. He trembled at the contact of the ropes, now just resting against his skin, but soon to bite into it in the harshest and most resolute manner.
So it is always with masculine stupidity and masculine pride! Moments of awareness are followed by moments of rebellion which must be crushed again and again until nothing is left but a beating heart, and breathing lungs, functioning with no will whatever!
This was a moment of rebellion, and Cleve's bruised cheeks glowed flame red at the thought of the voluntary submission which he had just made.
Augusta saw the new mood pass over her slave's face and smiled. Although the ideal of many women was to have an utterly servile male, Augusta preferred to be engaged in the task of breaking male spirits. Certainly the lash and many other tortures would have to be used to drain every last drop of will out of Cleve's stubborn male soul.
The shame and anger welled up within Cleve as part of the reaction. How dare this woman subject him to all this humiliation and hurt? What right did some bloody cunt have to boss him around ... He tried to step forward to slap Augusta's face, whatever the consequences.
Luckily for him (unless one considers that the best luck a man can have is to actually be engaged in suffering at the hands of a woman) he was brought down to earth by being lifted off of it, as the girls took up the last slack on the rope.
Cleve, defiant Cleve, who had had the presumption of split-second earlier to dream of defying a woman found himself once again a dangling object whom little schoolgirls could hurt at will.
As the rope cut into his wrists, and the pain in his joints made the sweat stand out in his dumb male face and body, he dizzily wondered what could be in store for him now. Not just hanging, that was certain, nor pendulum-swinging. That had already been gone through before, in an even more painful fashion, for hideous though it was to dangle from one's wrists, it was surely far better than to hang upside down from one ankle.
Tug, pull, the straining girls hoisted him higher and higher. Were they going to allow him to drop? Leave him suspended until he lost consciousness and then punish him for not paying attention? God only knew.
At Augusta's orders, two tables were brought with the ends almost four feet apart, with the gap being directly under Cleve. At another word, the girls started lowering the victim towards the floor. Lower, lower. Cleve couldn't figure out what they were going to do. That might be because of the dizziness his hanging had caused. But more probably because of his natural masculine stupidity.
Already the rebellion was ebbing away. It is hard to feel very proud when one is hanging naked like a side of beef in the slaughterhouse.
Augusta and one of the girls took his ankles and pulled his legs apart, so the heels were resting one on each table. Then the lowering began again.
"It had been said that only girls are capable of learning to do the splits," Augusta remarked quietly. "We shall see if that's true or not."
Down and down came Cleve, and the ankle of his legs went wider and wider as his heels slit outward along the table top. Already the pain was shooting through his pelvis and down into his excited cock.
Cleve figured that an angle of about ninety degrees between the two angle's legs would be all he would be capable of without something breaking. Of course, Augusta might order ninety-five degrees.
"In case you're wondering," she said to Cleve, "you'll be doing 180 degree splits, with the legs straight out.
Gosh it wasn't possible. Wasn't possible that any one could be so cruel, wasn't possible that such a thing could be expected of him, wasn't possible that there could be such pain as he was feeling now, and he was only a fraction of the way there. In rage, humiliation, pain, Cleve started to blubber.
"Please, oh no please ... don't be so cruel ... I don't mean cruel, because ... as a ... Aggggh ... man I deserve ... Oh Gosh, anything you care ... to dish out, but please, no ... no ... no....."
Tears rolled down his face, which was a crumpled paper mask of pain, and still the girls lowered him as he told himself over and over again that something would have to break, that he would rather die than face such pain.
An unearthly shriek cut from Cleve's lips as he was lowered the last of the distance, fire shooting around his joints like flames around a gas ring, his balls hanging down in ridiculous fashion to the floor but his cock sticking up like a ramrod.
Wham! That was Augusta's right hand exploding across his tearstained cheek.
"Stop whining, you baby!" My Gosh, aren't you men capable of doing anything, or of taking any pain at all? Just look.
Startled by the blow, Cleve opened his eyes, to see Augusta's firm lovely face in front of him. All of a sudden, the earlier submission didn't seem to be so ridiculous after all.
"Girls ... so splits!" She commanded, and every female in the place went down plop! like a can-can girl, smiling. Obviously, none of them had felt an instant's pain. Then Augusta went down and tot up again.
Of course, gymnastics was an important part of sports at Heatherrow, but for Cleve, who couldn't know how much time the girls spent on the bars, he had just witnessed another startling example of female superiority. Had any of those girls felt any pain? If they hadn't, they were superior to him, who was afire with agony, hot just from the rope cutting into his tortured arms, but from the pain in his sockets where the legs met the pelvis. And if, on the other hand, they had felt pain and were concealing it, they were still superior, for he had let out that ridiculous scream.
"Why on earth is everything such a big production for you men?" Augusta asked the gasping, agonized figure hanging in front of her. Maybe you can't do splits because of this nonsense you have hanging down in front of you!" And with the end of her riding crop she started giving sharp prods to Cleve in the scrotum. Then FLICK! FLICKE! She gave quick little flicks to the upright-standing cock with the loops on the end of the crop, which snapped around the male organ as it knocked it from first one side to the other. The only reply of Cleve was a choked moan and a violent jerking of the hip region, as the tongues of fire continued to sear into his impudent prick.
When punished a pupil or a teacher, Augusta was always a mistress of self-control, but just as a shark goes wild on the sight of blood, so the sight of a male suffering to the utmost made it difficult for her to stop the infliction of pain!
FLIK! FLIK! then PROD! to vary the pace, as Cleve bucked and heaved on the end of the rope like a salmon on a line, with every jerk of his body causing intense suffering to the arms from which he was hanging, and to the leg sockets which were twisted on the table by the ungainly motions of his ox-like body.
"I think Mr. Litchfield has had enough of doing splits for the moment girls," Augusta said.
Cleve breathed a sight of relief, though he knew that this respite did not by any means indicate that the torture session was over. Far from it. like a cat with a mouse, Augusta was always eager to dream up new wyas of making him suffer.
Yank! with an intentionally sharp pull, the girls of the rope lifted him clear of the table, and his legs dangled heavily from his body. Then, when Augusta said, "you may let him down now," the girls let the rope go with a run, and Cleve crashed like a sack of rotten potatoes.
He was dazed by the shock, but found to his surprise that his prick was still hard as ever. In fact, however long this torture session might last, Cleve could be sure that he could look forward to masturbating in the privacy of his cell.
And he knew what he would be thinking about while he masturbated: Augusta's smooth legs, and his own whimpering submission. He wished he were more of a man ... wished he were entitled to be called a man at all ... but he could no longer deny it. He found an incredible sexual stimulation in being thoroughly ruled, punished and dominated by beautiful women.
Of course that's true of many men, perhaps even most men, though they are unaware of the fact, but for Cleve, who had always prided himself on his masculinity up until that fateful night at Heatherrow, it was a source of profound humiliation and suffering to know that he was so little a man that he enjoyed having his male strength set at naught by a pack of slender schoolgirls, his male brain showed up for the sluggish instrument it was by Augusta's ever more inventive and surprising tricks.
The humiliation that Cleve was suffering seemed unbearable.
All the girls were staring at that penis, with a look of contempt, and one of desire. Not desire to have such a vile object inside their clean feminine bodies, but desire to have it in their hands that they might degrade it all the more, and hurt it in new and up to them unthought-of ways.
Clack! Clack! Clack! With a measured step like a metronome, Augusta strode in her six-inch heels over to her slave.
Something about that even tread let Cleve guess what was coming. Through half-closed eyes he glanced up at the magnificent apparition towering above him. Saw one of the boots lift off of the ground, felt it come lightly to rest on his chest.
Lightly! At first! For, Augusta believe, the most exquisite torture is that of waiting for certain pain. Then, slowly, she eased her weight off the other foot.
The spiked heel dug mercilessly into Cleve's rib cage, and even the delicate little sole pressed suffocatingly down upon him.
Down came the other boot upon him. Almost twice as much pain, but not quite, because the weight was spread between two places.
Augusta sensed this, and began to walk up and down on the wretched body, carefully lifting her feet one after another so that the maximum amount of suffering possible would be inflicted. She walked all the way up his heaving chest until she was standing on his heaving breastbone. Then she pirouetted around, the heels tearing into the flesh, and trod down in the other direction.
Once she got to his stomach she lifted one leg gracefully off of him and held it out as a ballerina does. Then she brought it down straight until the sole of the boot was only an inch from Cleve's mouth.
Cleve knew what he had to do. Not just what he had to do to avoid punishment, but simply had to do! All the renascent rebelliousness was gone, and he was in the same mental state-that is, the proper one for a male-in which he was when he had crawled forward to lick the uppers of this dame boot.
As always, a man was barely intelligent enough to perceive his proper place in the scheme of things when under the influence of direct, female-inflicted suffering. like the brutes they are, they can only learn under the influence of pain! No better argument for female domination could possibly be brought forward.
Cleve's tongue went out and began to lick the sole of the boot. As he felt the gritty dirt in his mouth while his tongue rasped over a piece of leather which for all he knew might have accidentally trodden once in dog-shit or vomit, and as he felt the merciless pressure of the other boot on his stomach, he noticed that with Augusta's leg outstretched, he could almost, but not quite, get a glimpse of her cunt. It was too dark under her skirt, but even this darkness suggested the mysterious recesses of the female body, so superior to the vulgarly displayed male organs!
Gosh, his cock was throbbing! He wanted desperately to jack off, to relieve the incredible longing he had for a come, but he didn't dare, not in front of all these girls, not with Augusta ready to sentence him to yet further agony.
Augusta lifted her foot away from Cleve's mouth, and to his surprise he found himself straining his neck upward to try and follow the lovely object with his tongue. Then, she turned and placed one of her spike heels right on the root of the cock and pressed down. Agony, utter agony, but . ...
"My Gosh," Cleve thought, "I'm going to come."
The heel pressed harder and harder, and all of a sudden Cleve was on the top of that come plateau, and then going down like on a roller coaster, the semen spurting in great gobs from his over-wrought prick, despite the pressure of the heel!
Had Augusta realized that he needed a come and obliged him? Certainly not! There is a world of difference between jacking yourself off and being made to have an orgasm at another person's whim, without one even getting to touch one's own body.
Right in front of a whole school of girls Cleve had found himself reduced to a sort of toy fountain by the pressure of a woman's heel, with no say at all even as to what should be done with his body fluids.
And while formerly he had fired his come into the cunts of eager girls, now the only contact it was allowed to have with a woman, or ever would be, was with the unfeeling heel, symbol of the total superiority of women over mere flat-heeled men.
"We're not finished with you yet Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said with elaborate irony, looking at the semen on the stomach of the gasping man beneath her feet. "Not by a long shot we aren't."