Chapter 10
An English Tutorial
The Dramatic Climax by P.N. Dedeaux
"Miss Priss in person!"
The doorbell had barely completed its dulcet yodel-and Campus Tower its due hour-when he was looking once more, with unashamed delight, at the generously bodied girl-woman, the lyrically quivering (an almost invisible tremoring) summer song, the orthodox majesty of the well-slung, strong, young, and encunted woman-carcass who had come for her rendezvous royally clad in nothing but creaseless fawn slacks and black turtleneck sweater (covered things, he realized, like throat-throttle and wrist straps, just as the wide-bottomed bells, hung over high mules, concealed the ankle straps also).
He understood the potency of his fascination. And were her eyes, their whites almost milky blue beneath the slightly slitted, calculating lids, moistening already?
He himself, the prim prof, wore only a blue velours kimono or kung-fu robe, lightly belted, over a teak-tanned and remarkably well-preserved body, one intending to enjoy itself independent of him.
Rita tried her most insouciant stroll into the center of the big book-lined room, but her upper body was stiff and her cunt-walls squirmed within. Full flesh shivered. Even though he did have eighteen degrees, the man made her feel afraid. Her eyes traveled but, apart from paneled opulences, they met little.
"My, but you Henshaw girls come tittsy," he chuckled. He passed behind her. "Buttsy, too. That gear gives you really astonishing rear cleavage. Holds them out and up, too."
"Please. Let me get it off."
He frowned, tutting. "No poor puns in my class, Miss Prissy. I don't believe you've been to my ... ah . . . chambers before. They have some interesting aspects. As do you. Did Mona twig?"
"I don't think so. I've had to wear this sweater all the time, it's fisherman-knit and so darn itchy, and hot, and what's more the straps show, I mean, when . . ."
"Well?"
"When I bend."
"Do so. Touch your toes."
Rita only hesitated briefly.
"No, breech on," he corrected. She shuffled.
His eyes sharpened as the thin stuff moved over her broadened halves. There was a sultry weight about that butt that was total grist to his senses. He saw her shift uneasily from foot to foot, as if about to be punished at once, forming balance. Yes, the straps showed.
"To swap puns, m'dear, I like to watch your beam with delight. There have been times, watching you going from me, I mean, when I have longed to be no more than your chair for a week. And I assure you I shall take my revenge on it.
"By the time I have finished with you this evening you won't want to sit in a hurry. There is the kind of ass that is and the kind that isn't-made for sheer sodomy. Yours needs the hard male meat anchored up it instantly. Why, I declare I can almost see your tailhole through ..."
Rita got erect as if he had goosed her-tugging at once with a wince at her slacks. She was flushing hard.
"Let's get this over with. Please. I came on time. I'll take it best I can and I swear not to lay into Mona too hard . . ."
"Tush, tons of time. But, how charming. Look. Those pants are so tight tailored they even show your squish." "My what?"
A cane had grown in his hand. Its shivery tip indicated the tautened center of her person and she looked down. Close set, her thighs were strongly bowed, curving to her tody's lumpy hump where, yes, the material had formed a replical incision of herself-her striding, perhaps.
"Don't you remember when you were a little girl you used to call this your squish? And this," he tapped her nearest hind, "you called your squash. Used to be a dab at the game myself, say it who shouldn't."
The cane-tip's mocking rap had hurt more than expected, a reminder of its lacing venom, and she jerked. She hadn't counted on humiliation as well; this man could make her feel like two.
"Shade less squashier now. But all the lovelier to whip into for that. And these?" Into joggling distension he prodded one bursting bub.
Sickly she said, "My tibs."
He tweaked a stubby nipple through the wool. "And I'll bet that little mite in the middle of your muddle gave a gulp as I did that."
It had, but she tried to shake her head. "I only like to dish it out, not get it."
"Which makes the giving so much more rewarding. And, anyway, I think we can fix that little aberration up also. My dear, you should wear this gear always. Gives you the cardboard carriage of a guardsman, or woman. I've never seen you thrust them out so well. Let me feel the overhang. Excellent. Did you bring the instrument of remediation?"
Unseeing, she searched in her purse, aware of being beam on to him again. The strap was cold, heavy, hard of tail. She handed it to him with averted eyes. "Here. It'll hurt more than what I gave Mona. Anyhow, she can take it better."
"How d'you know?"
"Well, thicker."
"Moot point," said the professor, slapping the loaded tails of his calf. "Ouch. I'd forgotten this one had those little bits of lead sewn into each tail."
He cocked his head. "No, I'd say yours are just as thick through, if a trifle more solid, springy. Five with a garden hose equals five with the tawse by my math, provided you take 'em with a well spread seat, full on, and lots and lots of teary contrition. What was it? Over a hassock, eh?"
He kicked out a leather pouffe. "Go on, get over."
Rita looked round at him. Things were proceeding too fast.
"Can't I take this damn harness off first?" "No. Enjoy."
"Well, kneeling over it, as a matter of fact."
With a stunning whack he whunked the tawse into the pouffe. Rita stared at the furrows in its leather top.
"Get your bottom up on that, young lady. First pull up your pants, though I don't see how they could be much tauter. If I split a seam you can go right home. Legs back straight, arms out in front. So. And don't look so cheerful about it, this is only the first part of your trip."
Shoulders knotted, back arched, Rita stretched on fingertips and toes on the fulcrum of her pursy lips. She turned her face.
"Look, please. I didn't . . ." She felt the tails lagging in measured motion across her bunched cheeks. She felt their weight, tried to look at them, wretchedly. "Please. If I take it well . . ."
He answered harshly: "You're going to find yourself skewered in the guts in any case. You'll make it easier for yourself by relaxing that part of you which is uppermost and, yes, acting like a perfect lady. Come, let's get on with it. Or, get it on. Rump-a-dump, full across. Shift it up a bit, arch your back, and don't cry out. Moans I don't mind."
He stood back, legs apart, then swung the weighted tails into the richly proffered hinds, hard. They hit in with a socking sound. Rita, staring intensely ahead, heard their coming, muscled herself a little, then the jolt drove the breath from her body. Pain poured through her. She grunted. Did not cry.
He was pleased. He liked the way she kept her legs straight out stiff behind her like that, with no knee-flexion, massing up her lovely loaves, and he liked the way she stared so intently at a ceramic wall ornament across the room, concentration personified. He knew it had hurt far more than expected and, game girl that she was, she was mustering herself to weather the five.
He waited, thunking in again on the same band of tensed buttock meat, right where she sat. This time she panted and he was rewarded by an involuntary clutch, the lower quarters kneading briefly but eloquently together.
Excellent. This heavy hard leather would lay the groundwork for very passionate pain, later, indeed. No one could be bom with an ass like this and not expect to have it whipped-once in a while. After the fourth, she slowly dropped her head, her arms in almost a push-up position, to whisper, "Tcheeesus Priest!"
"Hurt?"
"What do you think?" "Sass earns you extra." "No! Please."
"Two extra, actually. With the cane." "I didn't mean ..."
The haunches were still bunched but flinching and he whacked the last across their halves, watching them bounce to the flacking blow.
"NNNNrgggh!"
He saw the rumps squirm together most satisfactorily, heard her hot panting, looked at her face-it was frowning and flushed, a little moistened with the mouth open. He picked up the cane, his favorite.
"I have often wondered whether leather hurts more on tautened or relaxed flesh. There are theories. Perhaps you could enlighten me, later. Can you relax those sides of meat, do you think?"
"I . . . aaaah . . . try . . . Christ, that thing stings!"
"Now stop the romantic moaning, Rita, it won't get you anywhere-except into more trouble, if I suspect it's put on. Let me introduce you to a weapon worthy of the gluteal endowment that is yours.
"Just about the thinnest, lickiest, and yet toughest Malay I've found. Got it from an auction in a British reformatory. Er, for boys. I'm sure you'll appreciate it across the cellulite excess. Hard to take. So they tell me."
Hard as I am, he thought, looking modestly down at the best belly-high erection he had mounted in months as it probed inquisitively through the folds of his robe, demanding a grandstand view of the action to come.
From high he thrashed down the limber limb, slicing vertically into muscled buttock. Rita hissed before it hit and his cockhead gave a trout-like leap at what it saw, the fatty screwing of the arse in absolute agony. The hiss turned into "Hhhieeeee!"
"A good ass, luv. Pity to have to mark it."
One more last one he laced in, possibly less hard yet a sheer all the same. He was satisfied, a mottled hue flooding face and fully turgid member alike.
He returned the cane to a corner and when he came back, Rita was huddled, kneeling over the hassock, not holding her bottom but gripping the pouffe's soft leather and panting for breath.
She looked up at him sickly, then her eyes fluttered and a schoolgirl's O of disbelief widened her cunt-pink lips yet further. It wasn't merely the muscular rigidity of his manhood that caused her the panicky convulsion in her belly's depths, nor the truly heroic angle from which it menaced her. It was the plump girth of the duckhead that undid her, turning her knees to jelly.
The stretched silk of the ski-slope head was furiously engorged, the Cyclops-eye a-dribble with the thinner fluid already, the whole rimmed with the thickest corona she had ever seen, even in her wildest, wettest dreams. It was almost a deformity, a ring of ruddy gristle that made her purely quake. "Uh."
"Get up," he said huskily.
"Do you always ... get one like that . . . after giving a beating?"
"Almost invariably. As you're going to feel every inch up you shortly you may be able to judge more about it. What's good for Mona must be good for her mentor. Get up and drop your britches."
"Some circumcision job." But she couldn't make it sound flip.
"Your backside's what I'm interested in. Bare it."
The material flopped about her ankles. "Be darned. Not bad at all. Alfy got to you, eh? Alfy's my favorite cane. Take a dekko for yourself."
He gently turned her. She peeked over a shoulder. There was a mirror set in the wall behind her. Across the room she saw her heavy heinie still juddering a little; across each cheek the strap had painted a puce patch, lumpily dark on the right where those frightful tails had flailed home.
Across the center of this duskening ran two twinned lines, ruby to purple to solid ink at the ends. She felt him ran a finger over their hot hard corrugations.
"What I call jumbo welting."
"Alfy . . . was . . . hell." She bridled as he caressed die glowing halves. His huge manhood clubbed one cheek as he drew up her sweater to examine her belt. She felt its olid weight. The sweater came up further.
"Such saucy sacks." The belt and backstraps had cut into her as he had intended them to-without pity. "Did you potty, Priss? Today, I mean."
At last she muttered, with lowered head and flaming face, "Number one."
"I see. You reserved the other until I had released you. But I thought I told you of the need to keep the passages open when wearing these dainties. Anyhow, I have just the thing for loosening and clearing them for you."
The professor strode to a walnut sideboard, his monster swinging before him like a branch in a gale. He ferreted, found, and came back to her holding the yellow lozenge coated with grease, on high, triumphant.
"What's that? Sir."
"What d'you think? Horse suppository, glycerine. Lean forward a little." He pried open, out-pooched her pucker and she felt the cold live suctioning slide of the thing up her sleeve. Automatically she grimaced. "Right up? I have an idea it will be right down again rather shortly, causing you to be all squeaky clean within and perfect for my purposes. In the meantime, let me fix you a lemonade."
He was at the sideboard, nearly through, when he heard her eek.
"What is it now?"
She bit her lip. "Please!"
"Now who's a spayed cat?"
She had plucked her slacks half up and looked at him now, writhing. Pleading.
"It's coming down!" There was panic in her face and voice. "For God's sake where's your JOHN?"
"Straight down the hall and to your left."
On a sob she fled, or hobbled, off, a perfect picture of indignity, slacks around her ankles, her hands pressing empurpled peach-halves together, protestingly, desperately.
"And leave the door wide open, would you."
He chuckled as she vanished, slugging the lemon drinks cordially with vodka. He wanted her pain threshold high for what had to come. In the distance he dimly heard squirtings and splashings. The toilet flushed and flushed.
Better just check, he told himself, and went out into the passage. She had indeed obediently left the door wide open and he could see her on the pot, her upper body perforce erect, her flushed face strained upwards and, evidently to facilitate maneuvers since she could not bow her torso, her legs doubled up, heels on the seat itself, her hands behind her thighs. Sudden convulsions jolted her.
From the doorway he bantered, "I never thought you could curl yourself into such a little nothing, dear."
She shot him a look of terror and disgrace nicely mixed with loathing.
When eventually Rita returned she strolled in coolly, bandbox-neat, not a hair out of skilliker. A trifle pale perhaps. She said nothing when he handed her the beaded glass, but drained it at once, then looked at it.
"Thanks for the vodka lacing, I needed that." Her lids fluttered downwards. He was, if possible, harder than ever.
"Take your clothes off and, before I let you out of your strappings, I'm going to bugger the bejesus out of you, miss."
"With that?" She pointed, faintly. "Have you never been cornholed, then?" "I beg your pardon. Sir." "Ass-fucked, idiot." "No."
"Remarkable. Can hardly believe it with a pair like yours. Y'r mother knew no better, while as for Toni, why I've slid this shank up her there many a time, while she wanked off in front almost continuously. Did you know Toni actually jets when she comes? Like a man. In fact, like several. That woman can orgasm simply brushing her teeth in the morning."
She was scared. Had heard of it but not done it. Nor had, she wagered, half those hellions who bragged in dorms and dens of the U. But with this bludgeon . . . she began to undress slowly.
"As a matter of fact, I don't mind if you diddle yourself in front, either, but the co-operation you show verso is what counts and will be counted in for the rest of your evening."
He placed her as he wanted, in the center of the carpet, shod feet apart and legs braced to quivering, hands on knees. Clearing his thighs of the kimono folds he gripped his colossal cob by the root and presented it at the horizontal, nosing between encarmined ass-halves. The glutted pine pulsed in his grip, longing to guzzle and root up the puckered crater.
She looked back in despair. "Cer-couldn't you put something on it first?"
"You're lubed a'ready, baby. The first two inches may be a trifle uncomfortable. For you. But I can't see that matters."
"Please ... I can't ... not up the butthole, please put it in my cunt ..."
"Greedy, greedy. One day I will and you'll feel it in your throat and be able to stir the resultant libation around with your tongue. But for the moment I want you to feel what those new dildoes they're using on the pledges in some of the sororities can do for you. Hold hard."
"Uingh!"
He was so hard he did not have to hold her, nor mar the vision of his strap's dark spoor. Already the head had slipped half in, tasting heaven.
"This is going to hurt you, lady, rather more than it does me."
"Naaaah ... I cahhhn't . . . !"
"If you back off like that again, I'll truss you like a turkey and give you a dozen. With Alfy."
"It's so huuuu . . ."
Grunting to himself "Something's got to give and it won't be me," the professor slid the entire egghead of his knobkerrie in. The sphincter ring enfolded it utterly, to a suctioning clamp he was certain he could hear. The buttocks gave a wriggle of impalement that spoke volumes to their observer.
"Sooo BIG ..."
She was panting frantically now.
"Steady the Buffs!" He slid an inch or more in and felt the glorious slippery clasp of her body-hot tallow. He set himself, held her lips, and heaved. His thighs met her buttocks with a thud. "GAWWWWHHHHH!"
He was lammed, crammed, jammed inside her now and she, twisting in his grip, was standing up against him on tiptoes, carrying his monstrous mast high up her entrails.
"Get it out of me." There was terror in her eyes.
"Still an inch to go, m'dear. Relax and it'll be the easier."
"It's too big I tell you."
"I agree it's stretching you a bit but I don't see you have piles."
Suddenly she twisted and clawed, missing his face by inches and joggling herself with a stifled cry even deeper on his member. He laughed and cuffed her in the side of her solar plexus and she collapsed doll-like forward in his arms, mewing.
"I thought as much. Fortunately I came prepared." He took the padlock from his robe-pocket and snapped her wrists together behind her back.
Then, parading her forward on the end of his prick, he advanced to the fireplace and slapped her down over the back of a leather chair there. Stiffly she fell, grunting. She lay with her strapped upper body limp as he began to slice in and out of her.
"Now then, Miss Priss, let me introduce you to Dirk the Dork. Or vice versa."
Only her panting, his breathing, and pronounced slucking sounds could now be heard in the professional "chambers." He used her: as an oil-slick sleeve, a muscly noose, a turgid tunnel of his lust. He slammed into her till she gurgled, drooling.
"Jesus God, woman, you're practically pulling me inside out."
"Please. Get it off. Shoot into me." "All in good time." He continued for perhaps two minutes. "I. . . beg you," he heard her say.
"Is it hurting less now?" he asked. "No."
Later, he swore he had felt it in his prick before he'd seen it. She was sobbing. He looked down at her face, twisted to its left on the leather cushion. She was definitely crying. And this was bliss.
A few more strokes would suffice, for he had to be in rut for what he wanted to do, in a total contained fury of desire to rib those hefty hams the color of burgundy-blue or beef's blood. Then let her feel it when she sat.
But it was beginning to happen.
"Ger-getting bigger," she moaned.
Indeed, the celestial music had begun its elements, inner percussion, thump of the drums, string semi-quavers, blasts of sheer brass, a universe of elemental sound scored by the sawing into slippery streaked ass-cheeks.
Panting hard himself, he pucked out of her bunghole, watching the angry humid tube of himself, scarce besmeared, jerk up from the quickly shrinking muscle. And "Down boy!" he chortled then and speared, was sheathed, in suddenly quaking cuntal silk.
"Just rinse off in here a second."
"Shit!" she hissed, rising tremendously to her toes, her sweaty, strained and fully fettered upper body coming up in knotted tension of shoulder and neck muscle, buttocks bunched, face a-gape as the first spasms started to jolt her. He could not withdraw; she was sucking him off in her crisis of coming.
"This has to beeeee," she began when, realizing what was happening, he bored, rooting hard into her, turning her words to a lost-soul wail, on which stricken cry she teetered, tensed, upright a second longer or more in the pain-pleasure, the ecstagony of her biting straps, then collapsed sack-like over the chair-back while he continued to gush gallons of gism into her boiling, squirming, queenly, animal quim.
Twitches shook the upthrust fat where he had beaten it. He was glad to see the tip marks were still retaining bruise. She would need something later for acting like a cat.
Withdrawing with gravamen he said, "You may need a Kleenex after that."
"Or a couple of Turkish towels," came from the seat-cushion. "Please let me out of this rig. It's hurting like hell and I do have to use the bathroom again."
This time he obliged, unclicking expertly.
"My oh my, more like your slush than your squish, I'd say." Again he watched her wade unsteadily off, this time one hand under her cunt. She was good to look at. The straps had really bitten in. As all straps should.
Rita regarded him. It was effectively all she could do, and she had got beyond pleasing, it would only excite him the more. So she watched, a mouse its teasing tabby. But her mounded breasts tingled, her bulging buttocks still felt ... it.
She looked with dread at the bow of whip-cane in his hands. She was sitting on one side in the chair she had been fucked over, wearing only what he had invited her to wear, namely (to save her own clothing soiling) one of his shirts, cream silk or shantung, collarless and with cuffs a little frayed from overwashing that she had rolled up to her elbows-but the label was Sulka.
With a thong belt she looked ultra-chic. The coat-style front scarcely covered her gism-gristled furrow, bearded in a sole plump line, but the tail nearly hid opulent hers. Her long tan legs entwined and shifted--watching.
The third drink was good. She did not intend to excite this pedant any further; already his monstrous cock was considering coming up again. Her bowel sleeve felt as if a locomotive had slammed up it.
In fine form the professor was perorating away: "... sort of another first for me, too, actually . . . never done a snatch and shit-chute job like that before . . . hear 'bout it, of course ... oh you're beautiful, all right, ought to stay naked all your life . . . bent over for ass-fucking and shellacking . . . Toni has all the luck ..."
She wet her lips. Composure, come.
And touch your toes and brace your knees back tight, if you drop the coin between your knees . . .
"Tell you what I'll do. I won't report you to her if. . ."
She said in a considered way, "I don't think I need punishing any more."
He grinned, brows leaping. "Not for hellcat scratching? Not for trying to pick me eyes out?"
Hers she dropped. "I'm sorry. It was ... an involuntary action."
"Like pulling me off at the end just now. No, you know you're going to get it, don't you? Urn?"
After a long silence she said, "How many of these visits are there likely to be?"
He chuckled. "Listen. I don't often bargain but with you, darling, I'll make a deal. I don't know if you're aware I do a little private tutoring here-mostly girls sent to me by their mothers for sharpening-up.
"Mona has not told you? Well, in my bedroom at this moment, as a matter of fact, is one undergoing contemplation. Preliminary to a little skipping. Nothing much. Six of the best on the bare. Momma's orders.
"Rowthena is sixteen years old-of Finnish descent, I believe, and very stoical about her corrections. Since you claim to be such an impresario with the rod I shall let you take my place and cane her lovely butt; if it doesn't turn you on, nothing will.
"Rowthena's bottom is poetry, if on the fat side. If you make her cry, come up, in general reduce her to disorder I shall let you off with . . . four."
Rita stiffened. "She's only sixteen, you say? And with that cane? What happens if I fail?"
"I won't fool around with you. It won't be six, it won't be eight--ten across the plumpest part of your gorgeous globes."
He grinned as she chewed her lips. "A dubbio, you might say. And don't decide yet. Rowthena isn't ready, anyway. I'll give you a ten-minute cooling-off period in my special den. Come."
He turned. "And I don't mean come. At least not yet."
Bar and game-room in the basement, she supposed sickly, a-flutter following him down the passage. No steps were involved, however. The heavy door he opened gave onto some paneled gym, surely, tile-floored, the ceiling crossed by big beams. Not the kind Professor P. favored, either.
"Looks like some set for a Round Table loop," she tried, unconvincingly.
He was fiddling with switches. She saw horses and trestles and trampolines and . . . things. Lights there were everywhere, some helmet-shielded, and the whole damn place was far too hot, and all sorts and kind of equipment, lots of hungry lengths hanging from walls.
He dimmed down by rheostat and she felt the color pour over her like sweat ... it was sweat . . . then adjusted so that the room was purplish-red (to match her ass?), eerie light that made her all too sullied flesh surfaces gleam. The heat heaved on her.
"Use this spot for workouts myself ... as well as for those of others . . . here, try a ride on this."
Surely it was some exercise saddle, adjusted by him now to a little lower than crotch-height and stanchioned by a chrome shaft to the flooring, got from some dumb Y. She bestrode it with a shrug, noticing short stirrups, set back a bit. Deftly he caught her arms together behind her back.
"Ow!"
Hard he buckled the strap above her elbow joints, bracing her shoulders to bursting point. Her hands fluttered at her sides.
"I'm going to gag you for your ride, m'dear."
What went into her wondering mouth first was, as he widened her jaws like some mare's for its master's bit, a stubby wet black mackintosh dong, of bulk yet pulpy to ber tongue and teeth. It went deep in and fully filled her mouth but she sensed that the inch or so protruding from her distended lips had some orifice or buckle on it.
The broad yellow studded strap he next brought forward looked far more cruel. It was. It covered the front of her face from the bridge of her brows to jawline, being designed to follow the ridge of her nose with a cutout for nostrils. She could breathe, at least.
Or could she?
At the mouth itself an O was cut in the gag, fitting over the plug he had pushed in and which she was now so uncomfortably mouthing. Where was she? In darkness that's where. A strap was being buckled from temple to temple over her head and her brain began to beat. She could not see. But she could hear.
"In that shirt your dugs look just like sacks of cement. Ever had them whippy-whipped? Of course, I forgot you can't answer. This one's inflatable, by the way."
She felt him attaching something to the forepart of her mouth plug, heard the thin hiss of something plumping precious air, and in pure panic realized the soft lump in her mouth was enlarging. Idiot! He would suffocate her if he wasn't careful. Her face darkened, her nostrils flared out wide. Soft folds lapped the insides of her cheeks. Wo-wo-wo . . .
"Just relax."
No. Fight. Struggle. Sheer terror. No air! Black clingingness inside her mouth. It was engorging more yet still not inflated at all tight, just gollops of moistened rubber.
"Mouthful for you?"
Suddenly the buckles of the gag-strap tightened at the back of her neck and her head yanked hideously backwards as a broad strap was now attached from behind her head to fasten to the one connecting her breaking elbows. God in heaven, what was she? Quivering a-tiptoe, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a breathless puppet of a will not her own.
Behind her he tucked shirt into belt, palped rolls of massive ass. "You certainly are spankable, I can hardly blame Toni. Now sit down and enjoy your ride, said the spider to the fly." "Nnnnniiiiiiigh!"
Snot snorted from her nostrils, as the weeping keen fought through them. Standing behind her he had unceremoniously pulled up her ankles and she had sat flat as some split split-skater on the saddle-and soundlessly howled. A thousand hornets stung and sang beneath her. Fastening her ankles up under her seat in the stirrups, splaying her wide and sitting her well down, he chuckled again, "Boar's hide, with the bristles cut close, to make 'em stand up straight. The bigger the butt, the steadier, I've found, they sit. Contemplation should take place in complete silence and, of course, calm. You really do have a superior posterior, Rita."
She keened hysterically again, her forehead squeezing like a nut, tears wettening the inside of her face-strap. He was leaving! What if she cramped? Couldn't beathe? Odor of rubber, odor of leather. Her breath sucking. Nightmare of suffocation. The bristles achieving their purchase in the fattier parts of her so halved halves.
"The expression is 'on pins and needles,' eh? Let's say twenty minutes for your decision. That's best Corsican boar you're sitting on." The door closed after him.
Her head thrown back she tried to sob, her fingers clawing into air. Air! Pure threads of oxygen through hot nostrils. Her breasts felt scalding, twice their weight, the tibs toughening. The bristles worried her buttocks. They were indeed needle-sharp yet dug into her feelingly, livingly, since her arched body found it hard to still, the thing being she had to rock quickly off her slit for whenever the bristles touched her vulva it was pure agony.
She tried to gain purchase with the insides of her thighs but doubled-up legs only rocked her into rawer prickier prickings. The saddle-shape meant the bristles could make themselves felt right inside her divide. You chump! To let yourself in for this . . .
Eternities went past. She wept openly, once shouted, her voice lost, smothered, unheard. Sweat soaked her shirt and sides. Some ten minutes had to have gone by now. Then fingers teased her tibs and she jolted . . . agonizingly. She had not heard him come back in. Her hair switched.
Ecstasy of rescue, ecstasy of the end, for the measure of nightmare is the bliss of awakening. Thank God, oh thank God. The airless blinding of the inside of her mouth would be over, she was experiencing utter subservience to another's will in a way she never had before. She quivered like a brood mare. Her own will was gone, relinquished, its burden no more hers. A very saint, she would do anything he said. Anything.
"A little scratching for scratching, eh. This thing can be put into motion, actually. But let's put you into movement instead!"
"Eeeee-ighhh!"
Again he had scarcely touched her slickened clit, fully erect, when the first smoking started inside her. Slowly she soared, building into body-knotting convulsion. This too was unlike anything she had ever known.
Shocks volted her pinioned body, bobbing her well-strapped head, turning her hams agonizingly on the boarish bristles, the warnings before each spasm thundering into mind-rocking explosions, double in power for her flesh's fetterings. Her eyes dimmed. What was happening? She couldn't see any more . . .
Then air was in her lungs, sweet as kisses after death. She was free and unencumbered, hunched before him on the tiled floor once more, pulling down her shirt-tails like a child of old pleating her pinny.
"What did I tell you? I knew we'd reform you."
The door was open. He let her pass first, watching how the sweat-patched shirt tail stuck in her peach-cleft, observing how her rolling motions speckled its cream with pin-dots of strawberry. Back in the living room he began clinking blessed ice.
"Make mine a triple," she said. One hand soothed at a buttock-chub; it felt moist, or at least oozy. "Thanks." "Know how long I left you in there, luv?" "No."
"Two whole minutes."
She shook her head and drained the beaded tumbler.
"What's your mind?"
"I can't take more than four. Please."
"Makes sense. Let's go and see Rowthena."
"Give me a second to get my breath back."
She had begun to do so when it went again-she looked down. He was in total monstrosity again, thrusting through folds. And again her belly squirreled within.
"All right to do it like this, I mean?"
"Perfect. Freedom of movement. I shall enjoy the view."
There was another drink and another long and softly carpeted corridor, leading in the opposite direction. All the worst things happen in the west wing, she told herself as she stalked lusciously before him, sultry of hip and swishing the cane. He opened the door for her, modestly drawing his robe to.
If the "play"-room had been mid-Arthurian, the professor's bedroom was manorial. The maid Rowthena was kneeling at the foot of the four-poster and she was really kneeling. She made no movements as they came in, nor might she have. A corn-blonde in shirt and low-slung belted jeans, she was tethered spinnaker-taut with her arms behind her with her legs doubled up, her heels behind her butt.
In fact, the scuffed sneaks were sole up. She wore the same face gag Rita had just enjoyed; from the bolt at its back a thin chain led down through straps wrenching her elbows together, through more cuffing her wrists, down to a bar holding her ankles tight up behind her. She balanced on her knees against the bed-board.
The professor proceeded to unfasten her facial attire. Rita saw a snug, if smeary little bunny who must have used a bucket of blue eye-shadow. Fully released and stood up-after some understandable knee-nibbing-she turned out to be an insouciant little sixteener, smaller than Rita had expected but less stocky.
A sexpot, in short, shrugging her cute hind-ends deeper into her jeans by tugging on her wide leather belt. She vouchsafed an expressionless glance at Rita, a longer and more calculating one at the bow of cane.
"You are ready to be punished now?" said the professor.
"Yes, sir." With quick nod.
"Very well. Six of the best, as your mother ordered. Since I have a touch of arthritis in my wrist today, Rowthena, Miss Henshaw here will perform the, ah, necessary. Take them down and assume the position."
The teener needed no second bidding. Skintight jeans and puerile panties were tucked in scrupulous folds around ankles. She faced the bed and bent over and grasped its board. She even solicitiously tucked her shirt up to her armpits.
Rita was faced with a pair of beauties that weren't, as the professor had promised, fat at all. They were perfect, a Brigitte-Bardot can, liquid and lithe, very vulnerable in the underbum, set on silken legs that had seen the sun.
Rita began to thump inside. She stood well back, swishing her wand. She gave an interrogative look at their host who nodded, with a softly growled-"Just above the tanline, please."
Rita measured off. It was important to make this first one really hurt. Get her going early, if she was to win her dubbio, as win she had to.
She paced, heard the hushed rushing of its coming, then felt the stick's tip chew into muscleless girl-flesh. Damn, a trifle high.
Rowthena gasped, yet the buttocks, though brilliantly branded, gave no sign but for a clam-like quiver at their base. A blue eye peeked back, under the mane of com.
A second whistled in. A third. She was stoical, all right. But with a butt like that it had to be hurting like hell . . . then Rita saw the hands wrestling with the bedboard.
Suddenly that stretched, striped and now slightly shifting seat was Mona's and she ached behind her eyeballs to see it squirm in pain.
It made the difference. The fourth, a scorcher in the fold, brought Rowthena's head up to a startled "Ow!" The fifth stiffened her stricken sit-upon to tensed humps and the sixth, lashed in without respite, sent her spinning like a top, a-burst with girlish tears. Rita knew she had won.
"Let that be a lesson to you, my dear. Do up your things. You may go."
At the door a minute later a tear-bleared face was turned upon them. "Thank you, sir."
"Did you good, d'ye think?"
"Oh yes, sir." Emphatically. With a rub at rear. Then she turned her glorious orbs on Rita's. "Thank you, Miss. That was a real licking."
Any time, Rita wanted to say, but the imp had gone.
And she wanted to swallow.
The professor's condition had been improved, not only by watching a wobbly bottom whipped but by the rotund revelations of the winsome whipper--and was now again apparent and rampant.
"Four," said Rita levelly. "You promised."
He took the cane from her. "I could go on thrashing your soft squash all night, and you know it. But I did promise, it's true enough. Get in there and get everything off." He swung her to the door by an earlobe. "Before I do."
Back in the living room there were categoric preparatives. From the table against one wall the professor extracted a lean leaf. Rita, now greatly bare, had to bend over the table end, hands behind, and drop her heavy fleshed jugs into the empty slot left by the extracted leaf.
When she was well down on the shining surface, he firmly closed the table to, until its top squeezed home on the base of those udders, imprisoning them within its bite.
Again Rita felt her wrists fettered behind. She turned her face to the left.
"Now these go on your tibs, childie," he was saying. "First, we must firm them up. Pull them hard."
He disappeared from view with agile bend and she began hissing. He didn't have to milk her, for God's sake! "Rub 'em briskly between finger and thumb, so. Can't you get them any tougher than that? Well, it's okay, I guess. Will do. We now clasp these rings deep on each one."
"OW!"
The "rings," which he first held up for her inspection, were pretty enough, but very torment on. Each was sized smaller than a little finger-tib-sized, in short. Made of a sort of latticed and elasticized steel, rugous within, a'purpose. From each depended an adjustable stretch of piano wire, concluding in two further rings, or, rather, larger thongs, made of thick black rubber.
The two plump oranges of flesh that now confronted the so active professor under the table were tugged, inflated, blood-engorged, the rubbery stubs in their midst tethered tight to her big toes, where the stirrups were adjusted drum-taut. Crawling out he cawed, "Should stop all that silly trampling and stamping. If you pull one off it's a couple extra. With the switch."
He stood back, and admired.
The meaty masses, meekly bent looked slow-witted things, voluptuously indulgent, stained by the strapping, dotted with the boar-hide, broad-on and both pear-halves tracked crimson. Already the rumps quivered in apprehension. a fine tail to scorch.
"Won't stop any clutchings though. Only my Centipede will do that. Here." He hurried to a drawer in the cabinet behind him, adding, "Hardly necessary to grease it first, now."
What he extracted was a strip of metal thinner than a pencil, if a little longer. It was gently curved in a scimitar shape. Along its length on either side bristled out the teeth or entipede's "legs," as he jocularly explained to her. From the forward edge, midway down, stuck out the mushroom or toadstool of the device; this was of dark grey rubber attached by a stem to the steel centipede shaft, a solid round inch or so, from which flowered the head of the hideous thing, a domed two inches or more in width, and round at its edges.
"I plug this in and drive it fully home. Then you won't want to clench, Ma'am."
Riven with the ripping weals, Rita's hams quivered and twitched as the professor held them open with his left fingers, presenting the bung to the most private orifice of her person, her pure base. The muscled ring dilated and dimpled. Rita groaned. "Please . . . it's too big ..." "Nonsense. You've passed bigger than that by far." He pressed again and to another, deeper groan the anal ring gave. She tried to tense. Octopus-like the sphinctral ring swallowed the domed head, slid together, embedding the neck. Panting anguish accompanied the slight suctioning-in as the stem rooted home. "No, God!"
He pressed the barbed bar well into the divide, at which both side-cheeks winced in quickly.
"To this day," he opined, "I do not know what they made the legs of my little Centipede of, but to me the teeth look much like the old HMV gramophone needles of my youth, soldered in. Indeed, they may be such.
"I'm told that standing up with the Centipede well in, or, should I say, up, is like having a cat slowly unleash its claws into your tenderest person. Four, I think I said."
The effect on Rita was electric, or excruciating. Heavy-hammed as she was, several needles soon pierced her flesh down the divide to the velvet-lozenged vulva, quivering like jelly. With a hiss she tried to part her legs but could only do so a trifle. The Centipede's bite could only be mitigated by a bucking or arching-up of her hip basin.
This vigorous thrust-up of the buttocks put them wholly on display, in a lewd trounce, as if they asked to be beaten and the professor needed no second invitation. The cane was measured off across the emblazoned nudity of these so magnificent posterior portions.
"Four," he said again.
With a sickening wheep! the stick numbly whickered and fled into the flesh, the fat part low down, plummily wealing the violated bases. Pain writhed like lightning through her loins. Again the cane flickered on the air, unbraided and licked in, to a transport of agony.
"GAWWWHHH!"
The inner sides cringed in. With a buccal jerk, as if to throw off a branding iron, Rita rose a-tiptoe, no agony worse. Her parted halves were now perfectly thrust out and quivering their lengths to the knees, beneath which calf muscles bunched. On offer was the tenderest skin, where she folded.
"As good a spread as I have seen you give," said the professor. "Keep your crupper up like that for just two more."
She heard her teary whine-"Mer-mer-ceee! Please Take it out of meee . . . it's agony."
"Tsck!" The professor briskly crossed the room, came back with an embroidered tea-cozy and capped it on her head. "Your face distracts me, dear. Especially when you're crying. All I want to concentrate on is your arse. Besides, it'll give you something to bite on."
He stood back. "Mother o' mine, Toni should be here to see this. Two to come."
Once more the cane flayed the air and seared the cringing skin. This time he felt its bite like the flicker of a tongue on soft air. Her full thighs squeezed, her head came up as the vicious weal awoke, laddered her so sensual hide lower; the hams juddered and jammed together in their twin pain.
Her muffled weeping turned to a quick cry then as the cat pulsed its claws into the insides of the churning hinds. They bucked up and she stamped, tugging the tether off her right nipple to a squeal. Her head shook like a cock in a cage.
"I told you that would teach you to clench," he chuckled. "Heeeiihhhh!"
A final clean cut and another piteous and convulsive cringe and once more the Centipede BIT!
He took off the tib-tethers and stood her up, hopping, her hands still manacled behind, her neck hooded (was it tears or sweat that streaked that noble neck? he would stream his spunk down it later . . .). The heaving rounds were still helplessly writhing in, corrugated raw ruby across, and deep in their depths the Centipede BIT! She tried to stick out backwards, feet astride. The switch he fetched was pick-thin bone. His eyes were live coals now.
"You didn't think I'd forget the two extra, for pulling clear."
"Mmmmmngggh!" Rump-presented, heaving, she mewled her keening protest.
"Stand up straight and THINK! Now, Rita, when I say Down! I want you to go into a full squat bend before me, haunches wide. This way we shall seat or bed the Centipede fully into your person.
"Down!'" She sank into the position, balancing well, her thigh muscles taut. "When I say Up! I want you to jump up straight, legs together from feet to cheeks. If you don't do it sharp we shall go on until you do. Up!"
Her straining legs straightened like springs, and a hissing cry started from her stifled lips. No pain could be worse. Then the switch licked in the arched and pouting croup. Which squirmed in undignified haste, her hands trying to reach down and open and spread the stricken cheeks.
"DOWN!"
She came up with a dreadful jump again, and was a ballerina of pain, striving to grasp her hinder halves. She was in hell.
He, the professor, however, was in heaven.
Kneeling before him, her body shone with sweat. The sheened skin purely served him, the whip-ribbed buttock cheeks moved in the mirror behind her, over her shoulder She still wore her face mask but it was tilted back so that her softly rounded mouth could lavishly accept and tongue the pulsing bludgeon of his body. The fervent oval slurped his shaft. Splutters and gaggings and waggings. The high boned cheeks hollowed, anticipating their bloating inundation. And then it came. He gushed like a flood, and the lovely column of her throat worked in spasmodic gulps which with wet sucking sounds told him of her dazed and stricken (so invisible) eyes. Rita was conquered, her lips come-strung.
Later she walked to the car park, her buttocks hot and hard. Even the motion of her slacks over them irritated. "My God, Mona," she said to herself, "here I come!"
End of SUMMER FROLICS The Sigma Cycle, Volume I