Chapter 8
"Nghhhhhh...." Cleve could only give a choked gurgle as his bonds were cut the next morning, allowing his tortured limbs to collapse lifeless about him.
He had spent the whole night watching the minute hand of the clock creep agonizingly from one minute to the next, and watching Augusta and Jane sleep and play.
No one sleeps perfectly still, and Cleve had seen the strange sort of automatic tenderness that caused the two women to snuggle close to one another even when unconscious, or to pass an arm over the other's shoulders as they turned gently in the soft warm bed, while a ridiculous male gasped for breath and counted it a miracle if in between glances at the clock two or three minutes had crept by.
Needless to say, two healthy young females can hardly be expected to occupy the same bed and just sleep all night, and so it was that just as Cleve thought that even in his hideous position he might be able to doze off, either one of the females would whisper something into the ear of the other, or gently squeeze her shoulder.
The other would have dreamily turned her lips, and there would be a heavenly half-asleep kiss. Then, the passions noised by the kiss would gradually waken the sleeper, and more and more active and passionate embraces would follow until the helpless Cleve had once again to witness the beautiful-but for him, the agonizingly tempting and frustrating-spectacle of lesbian love.
His penis had swollen and throbbed as he had seen silky hands caress soft breasts, delicate fingers probe the wonderful mysterious recesses of womanhood, recesses which he would never be permitted to enjoy, or what was worse, to have.
For who, watching two lovely women at play in bed, could resist the desire to become like them, to have a soft, wet cunt and smooth round breasts, with delicate pink nipples that turned hard in the moment of passion? Certainly not Cleve
At last he understood what life was all about, how it was only a quirk in history that these lovely creatures were not everywhere in command, with the most utter power over the vile and useless male!
Now morning had come, and it was their whim to set him free. Augusta had pulled a long knife out of her drawer, and had long dallied with it around Cleve's genitals. Only a passing whim would determine whether he was to be set free from the cutting bounds which forced his body into an impossible position and dug deep into his flesh, or whether he would have sliced from him the absurd organs which were the preposterous symbol of his natural subjection.
Even the most ardent believer in female rule knows fear, for fear is a matter of weakness, and men are by nature weak, so Cleve sweated cold sweat as he felt the keen edge rest playfully against the root of his scrotum.
"Would that she would at least leave me the penis!" he murmured silently to himself, not daring to plead, or say anything, or even breathe, in case his impudence in thinking that he had any right whatever to an opinion in his castration be used as an excuse for carrying out that fearful but so eminently natural operation.
In the end it was Augusta's whim not to relieve him of his balls ("I feel sorry for you, Mr. Litchfield, having to lug all that around, even though it's small by male standards"), but to instead use the knife to cut him free.
He had felt sure it would be the balls that would go, for at one instant the edge of the knife drew a few drops of blood. And even as every fiber in his body longed for him to shriek "Stop, I beg you!" the presence of the knife had brought an extra stiffening in the very organ which it was threatening with extinction! Such is the illogicality of males!
Seeing him lying on the table, Jane gave him a shove which sent him sliding off with a thump onto the floor. Getting up only meant getting up for more torture, but lying down meant the same thing. And somehow, the idea of following this voluptuous woman and this slim, elegant girl to further indignities and pain was not an entirely unattractive proposition.
Cleve tried to stand, but couldn't. The stiffness in his joints made it literally impossible, and every effort just made him slump to the floor, while Augusta and Jane shook with laughter while occasionally interjecting remarks such as "Didn't I tell you to get up?" in a joking, light tone which in no way lessened the seriousness of the implied threat of added discipline.
"Girls, come here!" Augusta shouted. A group did. "Mr. Litchfield still seems tired after a good night's sleep, so I would like you to help him downstairs."
This was the typical Augusta Kreel technique of training dominatrices by giving wide latitude in the manner of carrying out her orders, as long as the fundamental idea, "hurt the male" was preserved.
Little hands, strong in unison, grabbed Cleve's ankles and started dragging him out of the room. There was something almost restful in being pulled along like this, Cleve thought, until he realized that he was going to be dragged downstairs too.
Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump! The pain of jolting from one step to another was great, and he was sure he could stand up and walk now, but to do so would be to spoil these little minxs' fun, and Cleve knew full well by now about the fury of a woman scorned, even if the women in question were only eighteen.
All he could do to protect himself was to maintain his head raised so that it did not bang on the hardwood steps. But the pain of the steps slamming one by one into his already aching shoulder was frightful.
Augusta was striding down alongside him. Between jolts he could see her towering over him. She was so beautiful, he thought though the pain.
The girls dragged him to his cell, where he was left and ignored. Heatherrow had a busy academic schedule, and the morning was to be filled with classes. So Cleve had a rest period, but he knew full well that its purpose was to allow him to recover enough to be able to live through the severe domination which would follow that afternoon.
Don't worry, you won't have to spend the whole day alone," Augusta had told him with a little sneer that made her fine face all the lovelier.
Before leaving him she had his hands tied behind his back so that he would not be able to masturbate while thinking of the scenes of the previous night.
But he was at least able to think, insofar as the male brain is capable of this at all. He had undergone a total transformation since coming to Heatherrow hardly more than a week before. Now he fully understood how logical and necessary it was that he be subjected to these frightful tortures for the rest of his life, even though he feared and dreaded them too.
The time passed quickly, as it always does when one is waiting for fresh discipline. It is only during the discipline itself that it slows down. The door swung open and two seventeen year old girls strode in. Grabbing him by the arms, enjoying the feel of "womanhandling" a man, they yanked him to his feet, one of them giving his left ear, still sore from the flogging he had received on his face, sharp flick with hw lovely long finger.
He was lead to the dining hall, the usual scene of his abasement. It was Augusta's whim that day that he not even be given his usual bowl of filthy potato peelings. He felt so hungry he would even have liked the chance to wring out a mop with tomato soup in it. The girls had finished their lunch, and were waiting eagerly with gleaming eyes, tingling clits and wet twats for the afternoon's discipline and fun.
To Cleve's horror a lighted brazier was standing in one cornel of the room, with a long handle sticking out of the top-the handle of a branding iron, no doubt, heating white hot on the bed of glowing coals.
Cleve realized how necessary it was that as the school's livestock, he be branded-though the thought made him tremble in every limb-but could only hope that the mark would be applied to some place other than his face. That, of course, would depend on Augusta's whim at the time, which could in turn depend on factors such as pre-menstrual tension, and so forth.
But that was to be a grand finale. Clearly other agony was in store for him too, to build up to a crescendo of pain.
Cleve was sat on the floor with his legs outspread, and his cock standing straight. Some of the girls gave it little nudges with the sharp toes of their shoes, as if to say, "We'll take the starch out of that, have no fear!"
Cleve closed his eyes, resigned to the pain to come, and hoping that if he couldn't see how frightful it was, he would somehow feel it less.
There was a funny feeling of something being sifted on his cock and balls. Surprised, he opened his eyes and saw that Jane was pouring sugar on them.
What was that little box that was being placed next to his cock. Long, soft hands-soft in everything except dealing with males, lifted the lid and turned it on its side.
Out marched an army of huge red ants, making right for the sugar sprinkled on his balls.
He screamed in horror. He had always had a loathing for insects, and now on top of the vile touch of the monsters he was going to feel their razor-like jaws on his most private parts!
First it was just the feel of the ants that he felt, as they crawled into every nook and cranny. Then a stinging sensation like that given by a nettle as the ants went for him, biting into the skin covering his balls and cock. They were biting in a million little places, until his whole mass of meat seemed afire with pain, as if some dominant woman were sticking needles into his balls one by one.
Cleve hastened to put that thought out of his mind, for Augusta often seemed to be gifted with telepathic powers when it came to divining his thoughts and twisting them in the most horrible way.
He was sobbing now and shrieking alternately, hardly able to catch his breath as the loathing and pain washed over him. The ants were drawing blood in their greed. Maybe they liked blood! Maybe they would continue until there was no meat left at all! He wasn't even worthy of being castrated by women, he had to be unmanned by ants! In his hysterical delirium he wondered vaguely if the ants were female. He suspected they must be, judging with the voracity with which they gnawed his most tender skin!
Another sound filled the air besides Cleve's screams, sobs and hopeless appeals for mercy-the laughter of women and the giggling of little girls, all naturally amused to see the male gun, so often used to threaten their sex, being submitted to discipline on the on the most humble of all creatures, except for the male!
Splat! Some liquid was tossed over his balls and the agony increased a thousand times. It was now as if his balls had been plunged into a fire of molten iron!
"You men always exaggerate things so absurdly," Augusta sneered. She had of course, guessed his thoughts, for he was thinking that perhaps sulphuric acid had been tossed upon his privates and would eat them to nothing. "After all, we want to preserve that little tool of your for lots more fun in the future!"
It had been pure alcohol that had been poured over Cleve's wounds, and the intense burning pain which it had caused was just a fringe benefit for the torturing females. Its real purpose had been to kill the ants so that Cleve's meat would be left intact for further torture, and so that the ants wouldn't get spread out and make life in the school a misery.
But as the pain gradually died away, Cleve realized that the even more dreadful moment was at hand, for Augusta, who was dressed in a bright yellow bizarre outfit that included skin-tight pants with no crotch and a nipple exposing bra, was standing over the brazier poking the coals. The heat was so intense that sweat stood out in little beads on her glorious bare midriff. Cleve twinged at the thought of how hot the iron must be.
Out it came, glowing a shade of very light red. It was not quite white hot, but it would do. It was in the form of a huge H, for Heatherrow. It might have well been in a giant D for discipline, the guiding principle of the school!
Even at a distance of several feet the heat from it was unbearably hot, and Augusta was bringing it gradually nearer, unable to decide what part of the tempting male anatomy it would be best to permanently disfigure with it. Unfortunately, the balls did not offer a flat enough surface, or a big one.
The searing metal came closer and closer to Cleve's forehead. That was it, then, that was where he was to be permanently disfigured. No ... she was taking it away, moving it to the ass.
Unable to see the progress of the blowing metal toward his twinging buttocks, able only to judge the slowly lessening distance by the increase in heat, Cleve could hardly bear the agony of waiting. He almost longed to feel the metal sear into his flesh, so terrible was the wait.
Horror! It was back now near his sweating face, and about to descend on his cheek!
"Please, please ... all powerful mistress, I know I don't have any right to beg of anything, I who am no longer a man, nor a human being, but just a quivering object at your entire disposal, and almost willingly so, plant the iron wherever you wish, as is your right to do so, disfigure me as much as you like, for I am yours utterly, but please, oh please, do it now."
"In fact," said Augusta, "I shall not do it now at all. It is not pity that has moved me, you sniveling, whining cur, but curiosity. The punishment I was about to inflict on you is the most terrible of all. I am curious to see if your taste for discipline, which you seem to at long last have acquired, extends this far. Girls, give Mr. Litchfield some farewell kisses."
The kisses came in the form of savage bites on every part of his body, inflicted by the ravenous little wolf-bitches as he writhes in agony. Then as if on a signal, it was all over.
"In one second, Mr. Litchfield, you will be free to go." And saying that, Augusta slammed a frightful kick into his balls that doubled him over with pain.
She stood silently watching as he tried to recover. Free to go? What did she mean?
"The mark of successful female domination," she said," is that the simpering victim, while hating it, cannot live without it.
Life under a domineering bitch is unmitigated hell and pain. Life away from her is unbearable boredom. The victim realizes, therefore, that he can never be happy again, for the rest of his days. I am curious to see if you will return of your own free will to Heatherrow, knowing that if you do you will never be permitted to leave again, and that the week of pain that has seemed unbearable to you will spread into an endless succession of weeks that will only finish with your death. If you come back, as I know you will, you will know that your manhood, your personality, your very being has been so annihilated that a life without rulers is unbearable to you. That is the final abasement of the male pride, the final triumph of the soft, sometimes bloody cunt over the hard but stupid prick. Go. And remember that if you come back, you will surely be branded on the face as a sign of your permanent and unending nothingness.
Drained of feeling, uncomprehending, Cleve staggered to his feet and back to his cell, the only certain thing in this crazy world. Female eyes devoured his limping figure, as the girls of Heatherrow realized what a subtle and clever dominatrice their beloved headmistress was, and how hopeless it was for a male to ever try to get out of her web!