Even Ponygirls Sometimes Get The Blues

Chapter 22. The Guillotine
(Even Ponygirls Sometimes Get the Blues, by Aurelius)

THE DUNGEON

Jessica had endured many more painful punishments, but never one that left her as exhausted and dispirited as this. The joking and bravado which characterised their first evening turned to despair as the four column-chained prisoners sought comfort and rest where there was none. Jessica could either face her pillar, rubbing bare breasts against the stone pillar, or turn her back to lean against it. All night long she alternated restlessly between the two positions.

Judging by the light shining obliquely into the dungeon, the morning was several hours old before somebody came to visit them. Brenda entered carrying a bucket of water and an enamel mug.

Kate plucked up the courage to ask what was going to happen to them.

“It’s a surprise,” said Brenda, stuffing bread into Kate’s mouth, then tipping the mug of water down her throat. She left before Kate had cleared her throat to ask another question. The door closed with a heavy bang, then the key was turned, reminding them of their hopeless plight.

The day passed slowly, mainly in silence, as Jessica, Kate, Rachel and Karen became lost in their own thoughts. They were more likely to hear the splash of urine between spread feet than any conversation. A network of hollow channels in the floor effortlessly drained away their spillage, as it had for countless other prisoners in the last hundred years.

The evening brought no respite save for another mouthful of bread, another mug of water. A bucket of water was thrown over Kate’s feet, she was the only one who needed that small mercy to clear away the mess she had made of herself many hours before.

Karen complained of hunger, initiating the conversation they were trying to avoid. “Pizza! I wonder if we can order a pizza. Pepperoni for me!”

“Enchiladas,” Rachel offered, “with beans.”

“Spaghetti bolognese!” Jessica chipped in, “with lots of Parmesan.”

“I’d give my right arm for a full English breakfast!” said Kate. Her comment was greeted with silence until, for the first time that day, they laughed. Black humour was all that was left to them.

Their interlude of conversation turned to the food on Rabbit Island and then to life in general on the island. Karen’s memories were brief and unpleasant but the others found many things to reminisce about. However bad, it was what bonded them together.

“It sounds crazy but I’d love to see that beach again,” Rachel said wistfully, “that warm sea, the sand between my toes, the good friends, it was fun.”

“Aren’t you forgetting about the beatings, the bondage, the humiliation, the rapes?” Karen interjected.

Rachel defended her position. “I am, I suppose. But they sure knew how to get the right reaction from me. Did you know they kept detailed notes on how we responded to their various situations? Then they tailored our treatment to what they considered our preferences. After a while it was more like forced orgasm than rape. What can I say? Sometimes I liked it! I’m sure it was helped by the drugs they gave us. I’ve never wanted sex as much as when I was on Rabbit Island. When I was on the beach with my hands locked behind me I’d often rub myself up against a coconut tree or anything else I could put my thighs around. I swear to god I was nothing but a bitch in heat on many days!”

Jessica noticed that Rachel was becoming animated in her tale, opening up far more than usual. It was as if she felt compelled to talk about it. “Sometimes when we were in the beach cabin we’d be deliberately mischievous when the pony driver came with our meals, just so he could punish us, even though it wasn’t exactly punishment we wanted. All I wanted was a man’s cock, and any way would do!”

Kate squirmed with arousal against her pillar. She knew the feeling very well. Her mind turning to thoughts of Ray, the pony driver who hit his head in a fall - the one she and Jessica rescued. She was feeling guilty that her desire for a man’s body had so easily transferred to Riccardo.

Jessica and Kate looked sympathetically at each other in the evening gloom. Each pitied the other, seeing her wrists being cut into by the iron manacles, as if they were meat hanging up to dry. When they were awake it wasn’t a problem - just stand up straight with your belly again the stone pillar and the shackles won’t hurt - but at night, when they wanted so badly to sleep, they had all succumbed to hanging by their wrists just to give their legs a rest.

They had learned the terrible difference between suffering and erotic torment.

They stood at their pillars for four nights. The last day and night being more miserable, pathetic and despairing that anything they had ever known.

On the fifth morning it changed. Brenda and Thelma - her new sidekick now that Billy was in the breeding shed - came into the dungeon each carrying a heap of old leather garments, heavy enough that they immediately dropped them to the floor once inside the cell.

“I think you’ve been standing around long enough,” said Brenda. “It’s time for a rest.”

Gradually the four prisoners roused themselves from semi-consciousness as Brenda held up a shapeless brown leather garment.

“This is a cigar,” she announced, laying it on the ground while Thelma unlocked Jessica’s shackles. “I expect after four days standing you would like to lie down.”

The words ‘lie down’ sounded like a siren’s call. Jessica was too weak to resist as she was made to lay face down on the leather sheath. Thelma pulled Jessica’s weary arms behind her and snagged her wrists together with two interlocking plastic cable ties. Her ankles were crossed and likewise joined.

Then the lacing began. From ankles to neck Brenda and Thelma laced Jessica into the leather. For five busy minutes they tugged out every millimetre of slack from the criss-crossed laces. In parts the garment didn’t close fully leaving small diamonds of Jessica’s back exposed, although not for want of trying by Brenda. The cigar had a collar that folded down over where the laces finally knotted at the back of Jessica’s neck. A small padlock threaded through two metal-grommeted holes to ensure the lacing would not be tampered with.

Jessica struggled to take in enough breath as the cigar squeezed her body like a python. She could barely bend at the knees and hips, yet despite her immobility and shortness of breath it was a relief to be lying down at last.

While Jessica was being ‘cigared’ Kate peed, having realised that it might be her last chance a while. Brenda heard the gentle splash and laughed.

“Clever girl. It’ll be your last chance! These cigars are Madame’s favourite you know,” Brenda casually informed them. She seemed in good spirits, apparently recovered from her orgasmic ordeal on the breeding frame, and not appearing to hold a grudge against Jessica for putting her in the frame.

Shortly afterwards four cigared females were lying side by side on the cell floor. “Brenda, why haven’t we been punished?” Kate asked, “I thought someone would have whipped our hides off by now.”

“There’s no point in punishing you,” said Brenda. “My instructions were to keep you secure. It was my idea to put you in cigars just in case you were too exhausted before your big day.”

Kate tried to hide the alarm in her voice. “Big day? What kind of big day?”

“The kind of big day when people are reminded what happens to those who commit terrible crimes.”

Kate lacked the courage for further questions. She had an idea what the big day might involve but preferred to retain the glimmer of uncertainty that existed as long as those words remained unspoken.

Much else would also go unspoken - Thelma was cutting four long strips from a roll of three-inch surgical tape.

Brenda lifted Kate’s chin high off the floor ensuring that her jaws were clamped as Thelma pressed the tape over Kate’s mouth and cheeks. Jessica, Karen and Rachel submitted to the same treatment.

When Brenda left the cell, and the heavy key clanged as it turned the lock, there was nothing to do but sleep.

It was many hours before they awoke, almost dusk. Jessica glanced at her neighbours - Kate to her right, mmmphing something to herself as if devising a plan, and Rachel to her left, her eyes red with tears. Jessica gave her a weak grunt of comfort, then hoped that sleep would claim her for a few more hours. The tightness of the cigar scarcely permitted even the idea of a struggle, let alone any real resistance.

The following day brought no change in their condition, and no visitor except Brenda with bread and water. She inspected the row of four cigars, all shoulder-to-shoulder just as she left them twelve hours earlier. Her heavy boots passed deliberately close to their noses, leaving them in no doubt about their lowly status.

She bent down and yet still towered threateningly over them. Then she ripped the tape from Kate’s face.

“Water! Please!” Kate croaked.

“Silly cunt! What else do you think I’m here for?” She ripped a piece of bread of her small brown loaf and pushed it into Kate’s mouth. Mercifully the water followed immediately behind it, soaking the bread and enabling Kate to swallow. Brenda caressed Kate’s face and blonde hair as she craned her neck upwards to take on as much water as possible.

“Want some juice?” Brenda asked.

“Yes please,” said Kate without hesitation.

Brenda suddenly let go of Kate’s chin, stood up, then sat down heavily on top of Karen. Karen groaned as the little air she had in her lungs was expelled by Brenda’s crushing weight. Mercifully Brenda stood up as soon as she’d removed her boots.

“Very comfortable!” she pronounced of Karen.

The prisoners were treated to a most unlikely striptease as Brenda unclipped the bib of her dungarees. They dropped around her feet directly in front of Kate, filling Kate’s view with her fat white calves.

“I meant pussy juice of course,” Brenda chuckled, “and if you do a good job your friends will have bread and water too!”

Brenda sat her buttocks down on her dungarees and shuffled her ass forward until Kate's face was pressed against the smelly folds of flesh around her sex. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good! Now starting making juice.” Brenda rasped.

Kate’s tongue gave a tentative lick and used her chin and nose to stimulate the region. Then, as her tongue loosened and Kate became used to Brenda’s taste, she licked deeper and deeper between the labial folds, then withdrew it onto Brenda’s sizeable clitoris. When she felt Brenda’s finger gripping her short hair, Kate was happy in the knowledge that Jessica, Rachel and Karen would soon have their bread and water.

The days spent in Cervoix’s class ‘Oral Training for Slavegirls’ proved invaluable as Kate put her distaste aside as she tried to bring Brenda to orgasm. Brenda’s ever-rising moans seemed more of anger than pleasure, but her juice dripping from Kate’s chin told a truer story.

Through gritted teeth and with her clenched hand almost pulling out Kate’s hair by its roots, Brenda blasphemed her way a crude and lingering climax. Like a trooper, Kate continued to lick even after Brenda’s palpitations had subsided.

Brenda stood up, as happy as someone who’d just been expertly fucked. Only after she had put on her dungarees did she notice the prominent wet patches. It put paid to any notion she might have had of making a quick exit, knowing that she would encounter other people on her way out of the dungeon.

She replaced the tape over Kate’s mouth without offering her so much as a swig of water. Then, keeping her word, she fed and watered the other three, taking her time as she waited for the wet patches to dry.

The next morning they were roused by the banging of hammers and the whine of rotary saws. Something was happening outside. They were constructing something large, to judge by the calls and shouts of workers.

A stage! Jessica definitely heard them talking about a stage. Cameras and lighting were also mentioned. A look between her and Kate was enough: They knew they would be taking part in whatever kind of show it was, and that Madame Cavallo would have her retribution.

The cell door opened, and two burly men dressed in construction workers’ checked shirts and jeans entered. “There they are,” one said as if he had spotted the wooden planks he was looking for, although by then the girls looked no more attractive than a wooden plank, and smelt a good deal worse.

High up on the back of a cigar there is a leather grab handle. Lifting one woman in each hand them men dragged them from the cell, their bound and encased feet trailing on the floor behind them. For Jessica, with her fractured ankle, the pain was excruciating as she was bounced up a short flight of steps to ground level.

A ponygirl trailer was parked outside waiting. They were secured onto its flat bed and netted over. Four bound-up bunnies constituted a light load, Jessica thought to herself as the pony trap lurched unsteadily into motion. The gentle ‘hyar’ of encouragement by the pony driver was unmistakable. Jessica had heard it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. No longer did she wonder what had happened to Riccardo. Her spirits lifted. Surely he wouldn’t let anything terrible happen to them, would he?

The ponygirls picked up their pace as they headed for the doctor’s surgery, but Jessica still wasn’t impressed. She could do much better than these... if they would only give her another chance.

Rubbing leather-encased shoulders with Jessica, Kate’s thoughts were not about ponygirl performance, but pony driver performance. She was convinced Riccardo was planning something to help them, perhaps taking them to another part of the island where he would help them escape. It wasn’t to be. They stopped at the surgery. The infamous surgery.

They called them cigars, but Jessica thought ‘worm’ would be a better name, a helpless brown wriggling thing at ground level. Watching the parade of shoes passing by inches away from her nose she was left in no doubt about her worm-like status. A familiar pair of white heels stopped in front of them. Kate craned her neck to look up the slim white-stockinged legs. The stocking tops and garter fixings came into view even before the hem of the dress. It was very familiar to Kate, the nurse’s uniform she had commandeered from this very same nurse last week. Kate envied her and longed to be wearing the tight white dress again, however unlikely that now seemed.

“You’ll all be dressed splendidly for your last day,” the cheerful nurse reassured them.

Jessica was the first to be unlaced from her cigar. The nurse and the other handlers didn’t hide their disgust as Jessica’s body odour was unleashed, as if somehow she might have taken care of her personal hygiene.

She was led from the room, almost too weak to walk. After a cold shower and scrub they started to dress her. Much to Jessica’s surprise she was being rigged out as a ponygirl - Rabbit Island style - even though they knew about her swollen ankle. She stifled her scream as her ankle was fitted into her ponyboot. Surely they didn’t expect her to run?

The leather harness was lifted over her shoulders to be strapped around her torso. Her arms were hammerlocked behind her and buckled into a relatively comfortable position. Her hands were made into fists and wrapped in the tight netted bags so there was no chance of wriggling fingers ruining the aesthetics of a ponygirl’s rear view. All the while somebody was applying make up to her face and rouging her lips with a bright red gloss.

The bridle was fitted, Jessica opening her mouth and taking the bit between her teeth and feeling the threaded prong of her tongue bar slip through the hole in the middle of the bit. The bridle straps prevented the removal of the steel and rubber bit but they still spun the wing nut onto the thread of her tongue bar. She didn’t and couldn’t resist, so conditioned was she to complying with her pony dressing. It wasn’t enjoyable like when Riccardo was doing the dressing, but after a week in hell it felt oddly reassuring to be in ponygirl tack. Against her better judgement she became hopeful.

The handlers and the nurse weren’t experts at ponygirl dressing but they managed it. Jessica stood resplendent in formal ponygirl attire, complete with plumed headdress and butt-plug holding a plaited tail of her own hair. They led her outside.

Riccardo was no longer there. A four-pony carriage had replaced his ponygirl trailer. Behind the driver were two bench seats fancing inwards, wide enough for two people on each side. Kate, Rachel and Karen were already seated, bound and gagged in their costumes, each very different from the other.

Just as they were helping Jessica into the remaining seat alongside Kate somebody called out:

“Let the ponygirl run behind!”

The suggestion was taken and Jessica was attached to the rear of the carriage by a three-metre rein. They set off back to the main building.

The pace wasn’t as fast as Jessica feared, she could keep up well enough, because it was an intermediate speed designed for a ceremonial trot. The four ponygirls up front, healthy and well-drilled, executed their high steps with a precision that Jessica couldn’t match, not without a searing pain in her ankle. It didn’t matter, nobody demanded anything of her except to stay on her feet and not hold up the carriage.

In front of Jessica sat Kate, looking back at her sympathetically. Her mouth was covered with surgical tape, her eyes transmitted a rare anxiety, as if she had to tell her something.

They soon reached the main building complex with its attractive lawned gardens. There was to be a show, judging by the all equipment on view. When the carriage stopped, Jessica saw two cameramen filming them from various angles. Handlers helped the three prisoners down from the carriage giving Jessica her first look at them.

Kate was dressed in the same tight-fitting nurse’s dress that she wore during her rescue but with a couple of crucial additions. As well as her taped mouth she had her wrists taped behind her. Even her fingers had been taped together just in case she harboured any more ideas of escape.

Rachel looked surprisingly elegant in a navy blue and gold evening dress and high heels. Her bondage was just as elegant: cleave-gagged with a silk scarf, and further silk scarves binding her wrists and elbows together.

Karen’s attire was more predictable. She wore a black wet-look corset and stockings that accentuated her bust and shapely figure. She was ball-gagged and tightly bound with white cord.

They were made up for the cameras, Jessica realised - something for all tastes. The handlers were also made up for the cameras in a sense. They wore black half-masks that covered the head and upper half of the face, like executioners.

The half-acre lawn area had been transformed into an arena, with stages and props spaced around it. At the building’s side was a small luxurious grandstand, accommodating perhaps thirty people. At their centre, in something akin to a royal box sat Madame Cavallo. Flanking each side of her were two petite women covered from head to toe in a close-fitting fabric. The only gap was a postbox sized opening for their eyes.

Today was a special day, with each event to be fully savoured by the assembled connoisseurs. These men and women had travelled thousands of miles to attend Cavallo’s invitation-only event. The yachts in the harbour showed they had bank balances to match their extravagant tastes.

Jessica and her three companions were made to sit down on a long bench, secured with a thick chain threaded through all their bound arms. They were to star in the show’s finale. Before that came the warmup acts.

How typical of Madame Cavallo to open her show with a crucifixion, just like the regular Friday bacchanals!

A naked young woman was being laid out on a wooden cross, her limbs and body thoroughly roped to it so that she would be firmly and safely held to the cross once it was in the vertical position. She didn’t utter a sound as the nails passed through the palms of her hands and into the hard wood. Nor did she make a cry when her feet were nailed. Four men hoisted the cross up into its vertical stand. The woman winced with pain as the rope bit into her flesh as it took her full weight.

Polite applause and murmurs of appreciation emitted from around the grandstand.

“We’ve created permanent piercings in her hands and feet,” Cavallo explained to her nearest neighbours. “They’ve almost completely healed so this slave can be a full-time crucifixion exhibit, providing she is properly secured. As you can see she is quite skinny so there is very little weight to be supported.”

“Is she for sale?” one of the guests asked.

Cavallo smiled coyly. “Not officially, but we all have a price. Speak to me later.”

Now the crucified woman was presiding over the lawn, the show commenced.

A woman was crawling into view of the grandstand, led by a handler on a collar and leash. He took her to the middle of the lawn. Kate recognised her as one of her companions during her bitch-dog episode, horrified to discover that this woman was still with the dogs more than a month later. The iron bitch-frame awaited her in the middle of the lawn. She crawled onto the device, meekly allowing the handler to secure her wrists, knees and ankles into the frame’s worn leather straps.

All the while a cameraman circled her looking for the best shots - the caress of straps around her slender limbs, the ambiguous expression of humiliation and lust upon the woman’s face. He closed in on her dangling breasts just as the handler yanked her nipples downwards to meet the frame’s cruel serrated clamps. The live pictures were fed straight to a Diamond Vision screen on the far side of the lawn. It was a modest display by current standards, having served in a football ground for several years before being replaced by more modern technology. Madame Cavallo picked it up for a song several years ago.

“She’ll perform without the frame, but she seems to prefer being strapped in,” Cavallo commented to her fellow spectators, “and who are we to deny her that small pleasure?”

The bitch-woman squirmed in what can only be described as anticipation. Facing neither the grandstand nor the large screen she seemed oblivious to her surroundings as she waited for what had become her only pleasure in life. The barking dogs in the distance caused an involuntary wiggle of her ass, captured by the video cameras of course.

The first dog, a brown Doberman, was led onto the lawn, obedient but eager and lustful. Its handler ensured that the bitch woman received a rough slobbering pussy licking before allowing the dog to mount her.

The second dog, an English pointer, pointed the way to the bitch’s orgasm although his brief performance left her gasping in pre-orgasm madness. Her face, mouth gagged with a bitch’s regular bone and leather strap, the dilated pupils of her eyes darting involuntarily from side to side, showed large upon the screen for the delighted appreciation of the audience.

The third dog, a fat Saint Bernard, mounted her. Whether it was through her training or her own needs was open to debate as the woman finally reached her orgasm whilst still being vigorously pumped by the dog. She ‘woofed’ loudly throughout her orgasm just as she had been trained.

While the crucified woman hung on her cross, and the bitch-woman slumped satisfied yet dejected in her frame, the next event got under way:

It was the striping contest. Two men, two whips, and two naked females fixed into adjacent frames, stretched taut like canvasses awaiting the brush strokes of a painter. Except that the colour of the stripes came not from a painter’s brush but from beneath their own skin.

Madame Cavallo reassured her guests that these two women really deserved their upcoming punishment, but felt no obligation to go into details.

Each naked woman had separate ropes around each wrist and ankle, connecting their limbs to the four corners of an upright frame, like a wide doorway. The crank and pulley system built into the frame clicked and clacked as a handler turned the cog. The women’s feet gradually lost contact with the ground as their wrists were pulled to the top corners of the frames. Then, as the heavy ropes pulled tighter still, their ankles were drawn towards the bottom corners until all slack had been removed, leaving the women tethered in mid-air like sails on a mast. Pain was etched on their faces as they struggled for breath.

After a brief pause, allowing the human canvasses to catch their breath, the cranks were turned one further notch. Gasps came from the women, and several from the grandstand too, fearing that their limbs might dislocate at any moment.

The rules of the striping competition were simple. Taking alternate turns the two men would lash the whip against their chosen targets trying to make distinct horizontal welts at approximately two-inch intervals. Drawing blood was permitted but not encouraged; that was better left for the flaying contest that evening, where those with a penchant for blood and suffering properly indulged their passion.

The red striping of female flesh commenced. Each lash of the whip garnered either polite applause or muttered disappointment from the grandstand, depending equally on the sound of the whip crack, the mark it made and the women’s screams. When they were evenly striped from shoulder to ankles the frames were turned around so that they faced the grandstand, although by that stage the women knew and cared little about the change of orientation.

The whipmasters grabbed a bottle of water each and shared a private joke as they oiled their whips during the five-minute half-time interval. They resumed their positions, and without prompting the spectators quietened for the second half. This time their whips worked upwards from shins to breasts.

After the third lash against the thighs, the whipmasters turned to the grandstand, as if waiting for permission for their next very special stroke. It was granted. In tandem they lowered their whips and lashed upward between the splayed legs of their victims. Their cries of agony came in tandom also, but were largely drowned by applause.

The men continued to stripe the women, at the hips, belly, rib cage, and finally their breasts. One of the whipmasters caught both his woman’s nipples with a single blow. She seemed to jerk; then hung her head, the pain too much for consciousness to endure. The whipmasters received the applause and took their bows. Judging would commence in half an hour, when the flushing of the slavegirls’ skin had receded enough to accentuate the full glory of their striping.

Cavallo had just the thing to entertain her guests in the meantime - a ponygirl parade.

Jessica had kept her eyes shut throughout the whipping and wished she could have blocked her ears too, but the sight and sound of ponygirls renewed her attention to proceedings.

The first pair to make a circuit were nothing special, though the sleigh bells on their boots made a harmonious rhythm reminiscent of the ponygirls on Rabbit Island.

The next pair were better drilled, stepping with a precision that even a casual spectator could appreciate. The driver was Riccardo, but he didn’t even glance in the direction of his former ponygirl and the slavegirl that he had frequently dallied with. Jessica and Kate could only stare, though Jessica reminded herself that Riccardo was always incredibly focussed during pony displays.

Receiving polite applause from the grandstand - these people were here for much stronger action - Riccardo parked his ponygirls on the outer edge of the lawn.

Next to appear was Madame Cavallo’s pride and joy. A ponygirl threesome, so incredibly lithe and graceful; slim and yet powerful too. An uninitiated observer mightn’t notice immediately that their slimness and the snug fit of their leatherbodies was due to their being upper-amputees. Jessica admired their precise paces, admitting to herself that she would never be as good as them, yet failing to acknowledge how bizarre it was that she wanted to attain such a skill, and at such a price.

It didn’t matter anyway. Jessica was only trying to take her mind off the stage equipment on the far side of the lawn. A French guillotine and a hanging noose loomed large and threatening over all the previous events. Jessica’s mind was in turmoil, her vision a blur, as she tried to concentrate on the intricate stepping of the armless ponygirls. Not even Kate rocking anxiously beside her could attract her attention. She yearned to stand up and shout that she was willing to go through with the operation after all, better to lose your arms than your head, she told herself!

The armless ponygirls trotted to the edge of the lawn, joining their inferiors, turning to face the scene of the execution. Even before they had settled into their position a booming bass drum sounded, slow and portentous.

A group of masked men took Jessica and Kate to the scaffold. One man on each arm proved not enough as Jessica violently twisted herself from their grasp. Another man came to assist, pushing Jessica from behind and forcing her up the stage. Kate followed with equal unwillingness. The bass drum continued to bang so slowly it could scarcely be called a beat.

They forced Jessica to her knees, pushing her head between the two wooden retaining sections. A brutal hand pushed her neck down into the semi-circular cut out. The upper piece dropped with such weight that for a ghastly moment it felt like the guillotine blade itself. With her neck trapped between two-inch thick wooden planks and her body strapped into a harness all Jessica could do was wait, unable to comprehend that this horror was really happening.

Just two yards away Kate was being prepared, fitted with a double dildo harness. Two cameramen were capturing every detail of her struggle, focusing on a close-up of Kate’s pussy as the monstrous phallus was forced into her. The handlers strapped it neatly beneath her dress, tidying the white skirt so that she was presentable for the cameras. Then she was noosed, and forced to stand on her tiptoes on a small block of wood. The soles of her high heels struggled to find a grip as the coarse rope noose was pulled tight, choking her even before it took her weight.

One of the cameras left Kate’s trembling body to follow the noose upwards, detailing her exquisitely awful predicament. The rope was threaded through a series of pulleys and towards the guillotine, finally tied onto the lever which would release the guillotine’s blade.

When Kate toppled from her precarious perch, as she surely would once her vibrating dildos were switched on, the last thing she would see was the blade slicing through Jessica’s neck.

Madame Cavallo was delighted by her idea, and the way it demonstrated that the actions of one slave can have a terrible effect on others. It was no coincidence that so many slavegirls and ponygirls were present to witness this ultimate punishment. It was something they would never forget.

The bass drum ceased. The drummer removed the shoulder straps and rested it on the ground with its heavy beaters. He then picked up the snare drum, looping the strap around his neck, took a drumstick in each hand and waited for a signal. It came from the video director once he was sure his three cameramen were positioned and taping.

The rasping drumroll started. Many in the grandstand shuffled in their seats in anticipation at this rare spectacle, whilst groans of horror came from the slaves.

The executioner approached Kate from behind, brutishly grabbing her breasts through the fabric of her dress; kissing her, even biting her on the neck. Then he reached between her buttocks and switched on the vibrators.

Kate gasped, eyes wide open in terror as she tried to breathe. The executioner left the stage, leaving just her and Jessica. The latter’s fate was utterly in her hands, the ultimate test of her endurance and self-control. The vibrations inside her were insistent, irritating and unsettling. Did they really think she might be turned on by such treatment? An orgasm in death?

She adjusted her feet on their narrow perch, almost slipping. Just as she regained her composure somebody pushed her from behind, her flailing feet lost contact with the platform. It felt like her ribs were cracking.

The tug of the noose lessened rather than increased. Kate became aware of commotion all around her. People were rushing towards the stage.

A gunshot sounded, followed by a loud scream of pain. Kate immediately sensed it wasn’t Jessica. Then the executioner ran in front of her holding half of his mutilated and blood-spurting hand in front of him.

“It’s me Kate,” a voice in her ear said, “stop struggling or I might drop you!”

Riccardo continued to hold Kate’s panicking body against his knowing she would be hanging if he let go. And needing both hands to hold her, he couldn’t remove the noose.

Kate looked down in amazement as a fist fight erupted immediately below her in front of the stage. A man she’d never seen before, a giant of a man, flattened two of the execution gang with successive swings of his formidable fists. She could have sworn he winked at her.

She recognised the next man as he leapt athletically onto the three-foot high stage. It was Vince. It took a moment for Kate to register the significance. Why was Vince on La Plata?

With genuine urgency Vince lifted the top slat from Jessica’s neck and helped her unsteadily to her feet.

Jessica saw Kate wide-eyed in panic, knowing that a noose around the neck and feet not touching the ground wasn’t good.

Vince loosened and lifted the noose from Kate’s neck. Riccardo’s relief was audible as he’d been holding Kate in mid-air for more than a minute. He turned her to face him and hugged her again.

“Excuse me. Your man just shot one of my men!” Cavallo shouted out to a middle-aged man standing imperiously amid the chaos that had descended on her carefully choreographed video movie.

“He’ll live!” Master Alex said pointedly.

Cavallo was indignant. “You weren’t invited to this event. This is for specially invited guests only. You’ve ruined my movie!” Her black-clad sidekick on her right shook her fist at him.

Alex merely smiled. “I’ve come to collect my slaves. My need of them is clearly greater than yours.”

Whilst Alex and Madame Cavallo conducted their conversation in front of the disarrayed grandstand his four bewildered slaves were hustled down to the dock area. The specially invited guests were dispersing - a gala supper awaited them.

They also had inspections to do: The striped women were still stretched out in the frames, the girl on the bitch-frame, the crucified woman and all the ponygirls. The gallows and guillotine demanded inspecting too. Some guests were muttering that the dramatic conclusion to the afternoon’s event had been staged and there never was to be a real execution.

Alex climbed the few steps into the grandstand up to Cavallo’s level.

“Have you seen what they did to me?” Cavallo sniffed, glancing at each shoulder. Alex offered his genuine condolences, promising to punish the offenders severely when they returned to Rabbit Island. As he listed a series of imaginative and bizarre punishments that Kate and Jessica would be made to suffer Cavallo’s mood lightened considerably.

The damage done, her festivities all-but-ruined, she nonetheless invited him to stay for supper. Alex accepted. It would have been rude to refuse. Besides, he had known her since she was ten years old, back in the days when her father ruled La Plata (and her) with an iron fist.

Another man was also invited to dine at Cavallo’s table. A distinguished grey-haired man in his sixties, he was the owner of the largest yacht in the harbour, the one on which Alex and Vince had sneaked a ride. Ranulph Markham cared little for Madame Cavallo, receiving the invite to her deathly festivities because of his connections and influence in their slave society, certainly not because of any friendship between them.

“Have you met my Siamese twins before?” Cavallo asked, nodding at the small lycra-clad women flanking her. The one to her right waved cutely with her right hand, the one on her left with her left hand. “You could say we’ve become quite attached this last few days. They are my new arms.”

She didn’t show them exactly how attached they were - this was a practical arrangement not a sexual one. The thick belt drawn tight around Cavallo’s narrow waist was their securing point. A single set of handcuffs attached to the back of the belt held one wrist of each twin. Having been waited on and pampered all her life Cavallo was adapting quickly to her new life.

The other female making up the dining foursome (the twins didn’t count) was Lucinda. Alex exchanged an awkward greeting with the bronze-necked beauty. She wasn’t at all what he expected, which isn’t to say he was disappointed.

During supper Alex admired how well the twins were managing to feed their mistress, even managing a knife and fork between them. Cavallo accepted their mistakes and fumblings graciously. She was as gracious in public as she was cruel in private.

If Alex and Ranulph Markham could hardly bear to look at Cavallo, they couldn’t take their eyes off Lucinda - that beautiful face atop her impossibly long bronze-encased neck. Cavallo readily extolled Lucinda’s praises, explaining how her kindness and loyalty had helped at such a terrible time.

Alex needed no further convincing as to Lucinda’s qualities. He and Lucinda exchanged many fleeting glances during dinner each one accompanied by a knowing smile. Seldom had Alex been so immediately taken with somebody. It wasn’t just with her unique beauty, but her coolness and bravery too. She had telephoned him almost daily during the last few weeks, keeping him informed of unfolding events and nervously relaying Riccardo’s messages. La Plata’s only telephone was in Cavallo’s private quarters, so she had been taking considerable and repeated risks. She also influenced Cavallo’s thinking that Riccardo, having promised to stop interfering with La Plata’s affairs, should be allowed to resume his innocuous job of pony trainer.

“I can see that Lucinda is very special. How much will you sell her for?” Markham enquired.

Far from being rude, in these circles it was good manners to enquire about the value of another’s slaves, and there was a certain pleasure in having such a conversation in that very slave’s presence. Having been a slave all her life, and sold once before, Lucinda was more curious than embarrassed as she waited for Cavallo’s considered answer.

“When I sell her it will be for half a million dollars,” Cavallo answered. Markham nodded. It was about what he expected. Lucinda had no idea what such an amount of money meant. For all she knew a cup of coffee might have cost a thousand dollars.

“Interested, Alex?” Markham asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Very! She’s beautiful, intelligent, charming, loyal and unique. It would be a bargain.”

Lucinda smiled coyly and blushed. She had a good life on La Plata but found herself wondering what life could be like on Rabbit Island with Master Alex and, of course, Riccardo.

She had to continue wondering. After an hour and a half Alex and Markham took their leave of Madame Cavallo having consumed a bottle of wine each.

When Alex kissed Madame Cavallo goodbye her twins wrapped their arms around him in lieu of a Cavallo hug. They got that wrong. Their mistress never hugged men, not even Alex.

Alex and Markham declined the offer of a ponygirl ride to the harbour, opting for a satisfying post-prandial fifteen-minute walk instead.

To say Jessica and Kate were pleased to be leaving La Plata was an understatement. Kate’s vibrator was still running as the walked down to the harbour. She crumpled to the ground as an orgasm rippled painfully through her. She stayed there writhing and panting for several minutes before being helped to her feet by Riccardo. He was as eager to get away from La Plata as anybody.

Riccardo dusted her down. “Feel better now?” he asked rather condescendingly. Kate could only nod in the affirmative. She did appreciate his hand around her waist as she staggered the rest of the way.

The four rescued slaves waiting on the rear deck seating weren’t in good humour when Alex stepped aboard Markham’s sleek 150-foot yacht an hour after them. Riccardo followed Alex’s instruction not to release them until he returned, obeying to the letter in leaving them all gagged, dressed and bound. Meanwhile the ship’s captain entertained him on the bridge.

Jessica was accustomed to spending a day in harness while Kate’s nurse’s uniform and tape were the least of her problems compared to the dildo still strapped into her. The batteries had long since expired.

Rachel, in her dress and silk scarf bondage was suffering nothing more than tiredness, thirst and hunger.

Karen, in her latex corset, stockings, high heels, ballgag and very tight ropework biting into her flesh was faring worse, with pain and stress etched on her face.

Riccardo made them stand to attention when Master Alex approached.

Alex inspected their weary bodies, surprised to find anger instead of gratitude in their eyes. His supper date with Cavallo hadn’t helped. He addressed them as a major might address his soldiers: “I have promised Madame Cavallo that the slaves who carried out those dreadful deeds shall be severely punished.”

Four heads dropped in collective despair. He continued: “And several months ago Madame Cavallo promised to care for my slaves and to ensure they were kept safe. So I think we’re even now, don’t you? You will be punished in due course, but only when we return to on Rabbit Island. Now you’ll be taken to your quarters, unbound and given food and rest. It looks like you need it.”

Vince led the way through a luxurious cream leather and teak-panelled stateroom. Kate, Karen, Rachel and Jessica following eagerly behind with two words bouncing around in their brains: Food and rest!

As Jessica walked past Alex he grabbed her, pulling her backwards onto his chest, holding her body against his. He groped her with deliberate crudeness, a finger worming its way between her padlocked labia. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck as if savouring her sweaty aroma. She smelt the alcohol on his breath as he whispered something in her ear.

Jessica angrily shrugged herself from his grasp and walked quickly away to catch up with her companions.

Alex liked Jessica’s face - a lot - but admired even more the view of her rear, particularly when, as now, the perfect curve between her sturdy thighs, hips and trim waist was accentuated by pony strapping and a tight waist band.

And now she had a new point of interest: Between her thighs, descending from her butt-plug, was the plaited pony tail made from her own hair. He preferred Jessica’s luxuriant thick hair to be on her head, but felt an erotic tingle when sensing the humiliation she must feel at the shaving and relocation of her crowning glory.

Jessica’s hands, netted into fists and fixed to the belt in the small of her back, were straining for freedom. Perhaps she wanted to strike him? He didn’t mind. What was the point of restraining a female who didn’t need restraining?

Jessica needed control and restraint in so many respects, and Alex, seeing her for the first time in several months, suddenly remember how much he enjoyed giving her what she needed.

The scarves knotted around Rachel’s wrists and elbows had become so tight that nothing short of a sharp knife could release her. Vince also cut through the tape of Kate’s bondage. Then he closed the door on the small bedroom leaving Rachel and Kate to release Jessica and Karen. It couldn’t come soon enough.

The bedroom, on the lowest of the ship’s three floors, contained two pairs of man-sized bunk beds. The accommodation consisted of a built-in dressing table, drawers and a wardrobe, and an en-suite shower room. They each showered hastily, not wanting to deprive others of that pleasure for a moment longer than necessary.

The door knocked, a key turned, and a man entered the room carrying a tray of food: a platter of sandwiches, other snacks and a selection of drinks.

Kate’s eyes studied the slim young man in his smart maroon uniform - clearly one of the ship’s crew. She smiled. “You don’t need to knock. We haven’t any clothes to wear, so we’ll be naked no matter how much warning you give us.”

He retreated from the room with a nervous smile, overwhelmed by sight and smell of the four freshly showered naked bodies. The door locked behind him. For a few moments they stood and stared unbelieving at the feast he had laid before them... then the scramble started.

Kate noticed something else on the tray and squealed with delight “Oh my god! Champagne!”

The bottle had already been uncorked, so Kate quickly slopped it into the plastic glasses. A half bottle didn’t go far between four but nobody was complaining. They settled back on the bunks, eating, drinking, talking and laughing loudly until a hand banged several times on the door.

“Keep it down,” said Vince’s commanding voice. They chuckled quietly like schoolgirls.

Kate saw that Jessica seemed pensive after their burst of euphoria wore off. “What’s up, Jessi?”

“Oh! It’s Master Alex. He annoyed me.”

“I saw him grab you, the horny devil. I expect he was pleased to see his favourite ponygirl again!” teased Kate.

“Madame Cavallo was right!”

“Don’t be silly, how can she be right about anything?”

“While I was strapped to the operating table, she spoke about him. She said his method of torture was far worse than anything she could devise.”

“That sounds unlikely, Jessi.”

“She meant mentally and emotionally. That he would screw me up badly.”

Kate sighed. “Well Jessi, looking at you right now, I think maybe she had a point. But would you rather be on La Plata where men are cruel and women are crueller? Besides, I really don’t think they’d have us back.”

“Of course I don’t want to go back. I just wish he wouldn’t mess with my mind.”

“It’s gone!” interrupted Rachel, who had been staring out of the porthole for some time. La Plata’s peaks had disappeared from the dark horizon. “I never thought I’d be glad to return to Rabbit Island!”

“It’s only the lesser of two evils, it’s not paradise,” Karen reminded her. “You’ll soon be strung up, whipped and fucked. Their chains are like anyone else’s chains!”

Rachel might have corrected Karen on that point except she wasn’t the arguing type. She knew Rabbit Island’s handcuffs had smooth, rounded edges that didn’t cut into her wrists like La Plata’s. She fingered the handcuffs which were fixed by a chain to the headboard of each bunk. The foot of the bunk had a similar arrangement for the ankles. They were the same type as Rabbit Island’s.

The precise low frequency throb of the ship’s engines seemed louder as the revs increased, and as their conversation petered out with tiredness. Each retired, defeated by exhaustion, to her bunk. Kate and Jessica were side by side on the lower bunks. Karen, on the top bunk, switched of the main light to leave just the faint red glow of emergency lighting.

Jessica slipped her hands into the cuffs and quietly ratcheted them closed.

While the slaves slept in their quarters, the men drank and talked in the luxurious stateroom on the floor above them.

“When Lucinda told me they planned to do mock executions ‘a la Tosca’,” Riccardo recounted, “that’s when I knew it was serious. She said Cavallo had promised it would only be pretend executions. I explained that Tosca the opera wasn’t like that. Just like in the opera they were only pretending to pretend. Typical of Cavallo’s humour!”

“So true! When Ranulph received his faxed invitation I knew we’d be at the event in perfect time, invited or not!” Alex shook his head. “I still can’t believe she was going to do it. In fact, not until the very last moment did I believe it!”

A silence descended as Riccardo, Vince, Alex, Ranulph Markham and Cormack, his handsome giant of a bodyguard, considered the possibility. “But we’ve never had our arms amputated by a slave,” Vince reminded them.

“Nor have we wanted to amputate a slave’s arms,” Alex added, “and on that subject, I’m going to check on the slaves now.”

He’d had his fill of alcohol on La Plata and late in the evening he was fully sober, even though the others had continued to drink - Markham, Cormack, Vince and particularly Riccardo still drinking in some quantity as they mused on the day’s events.

Alex opened the door into the slave’s darkened room. The four bodies were motionless.

He seemed to instinctively know which was Jessica’s bunk, as if by smell alone. Bending down to his knees he spoke softly to her, even though, or perhaps because, she was sleeping.

He wanted to touch her, but didn’t. He sighed and spoke softly in her ear.

“I meant what I said, Jessica. I really did miss you.”