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Part 8
Robin took me by the hand and led me to a huge room across the corridor from the terrible cages. I have a Discipline Room for my own household, but it's nothing like Trent's. His looked the way I imagine medieval torture chambers must have looked. There were no windows. The walls and floor were stone. It was filled with machinery and equipment designed to restrain, frighten and inflict a range of discomforts from irritation to agony. A pegboard on one wall was loaded with whips, floggers, canes, paddles, belts, shackles, lengths of chain and rope, gags of various types, hoods, cuffs, masks, mouth spreaders, leg spreaders, and other such devices. There were metal boxes with head holes, small cages, a rack, stocks of all kinds, a St. Andrews cross, and various evil looking constructions made out of pipes, chairs, rods and bars. Numerous chains and ropes dangled from pulleys hung from a grid about fifteen feet overhead.
“My God!” I said. “Do you use all this stuff?”
“Some,” she chuckled. “Amanda used a lot of it, or at least experimented with it.”
“Did Trent have this built and equipped?”
“Oh no. The original owner of the mansion built it about fifty years ago. It was designed by a famous dungeon architect. He also designed the cages across the hall. The original owner used it extensively, according to Master Trent, not just for discipline but for entertainment. Thank God Master Trent is not that kind of owner. He almost never watches his girls being punished. All he cares about is the results.”
“Were you ever punished here?”
She laughed. The sound of it and the brightness of her eyes made my overworked part stir again. “Oh yes, Master Curt, I've been punished here. Amanda was very strict and there was a time when I was a naughty little girl.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I teased, although it was not at all difficult to envision Robin as a little hellion. A cute little hellion, to be sure, but a handful for someone.
“Oh Master Curt,” she cooed, chucking my chin, “you're so sweet. If you're not careful, I'll insist you rape me , too.”
“None of that,” I said, kissing her chucking finger. “Tell me what bad things you did.”
“I sassed the wives and tormented some of the other girls and made myself a general pain in the ass.”
“You? That's hard to picture.”
She took my hand and placed it on her left breast. “That's because you're still thinking about these. Let's just say it took me a while to, uh, settle in.”
“But your future was secure. You'd already been purchased as a bride-to-be.”
“True, but I was also twelve. Twelve-year-olds are not always models of good sense. Girls who grow up knowing that they have little chance of living past sixteen often take a ‘what the hell, who cares' attitude toward the few years they have left.”
“But you knew when you came here that you would be a bride.”
“My basic attitude had been formed before I got here, though. Amanda had to straighten me out. She was a great disciplinarian. I think it was because there was always something strangely loving about the way she dealt with us girls, even when she was whipping us or locking us in these cages. By the time Master Trent took me as a bride, I loved her dearly.”
“Do all girls go through a bad attitude phase as they approach sixteen?”
“No. Some girls volunteer to be meat the day they turn sixteen.”
“Really? Why?”
“Mostly it's the girls who don't want to go to auction because they figure they won't be chosen as brides. They'd rather die here at home and be eaten by their friends than be taken off to a slaughterhouse. Then there are some girls who are actually turned on by the idea of being cooked and eaten, no matter who does it. Remember, we're taught from age one how glorious and exciting it is to give our bodies as nourishment to others. Me personally, the only nourishment I'm happy to give is my milk. Want some?”
“Definitely, but not here. I'm curious about those girls in the cages across the hall. What did they do?”
“Those girls will be on the auction block Saturday. It's too bad; they might have been sold as brides, but they fucked up. Literally. They snuck around and had sex with some of our studs, so they're no longer virgins. Master Trent is very honest about disclosing such things. They're going to be paraded around the grounds in disgrace Friday evening, dripping urine and shit, as a warning to calves hoping to be brides to guard their virginity.”
“But someone might still buy them at the auction as bargain brides if they're cleaned up.”
“Oh they'll be cleaned up, all right. And maybe someone will. I hope so. But even poor men would rather have a virgin. I've never been able to figure out what the big deal is about virgin brides. Men don't have any qualms about fucking the wives here, and they sure aren't virgins. But they won't buy a calf with a busted cherry.”
As Robin talked, I was meandering past the pegboard with its ominous display of implements. “So when you were naughty, how were you punished?”
“I was whipped twice and caned twice. The last time I was put in the Glass Maiden for two days. That cured me. That's it over there.”
She pointed to what looked like an ancient Egyptian mummy case, only transparent. It was shaped vaguely in the form of a human, or like a glass coffin styled to conform to the shape of a body positioned with arms at the sides and legs spread out a little. It was standing vertically and fully opened up. Like a coffin, it was hinged along one side, but both the lid and the bottom part were nearly identical. As we drew closer to it, I could see that all the inner surfaces — front, back and sides — were covered with spikes or nails of the same glassy material. A crotch-high inverted V was clearly designed to separate the legs. It, too, was covered with short nails. Metal cuffs were situated where they could be clamped around wrists and ankles.
“You were put in this thing?!” I asked, aghast.
“For two long, long days, preceded by three enemas so I won't shit in it.”
“But you have no scars.”
“It's not really glass. It's a semi-hard plastic and the points of the nails don't usually puncture the skin, unless you thrash around. But they hurt like hell if you so much as twitch. Would you like to see it demonstrated?”
“You're offering to get in it.”
“God, no! I think I can find a volunteer.” She walked over to one of the small iron boxes, threw back a dead bolt and lifted up one side of the box. To my amazement there was a teenage girl jammed inside. A blonde, probably thirteen or fourteen, shackled hand and foot, gagged, drenched in sweat and looking out at Robin with huge, blue terrified eyes.
Robin bent over and spoke to her. “Starling, you're scheduled for a long, hard whipping with a bull whip in about five hours. Have you ever been punished with a bull whip, dear?”
The girl shook her head, clearly frightened.
“I have to tell you, it will probably cut you up pretty badly. It's more painful than anything you've ever imagined. Most girls pass out three or four times before it's over, but we always stop and revive them so they don't miss anything. Now, you can wait in here for your whipping, or you can opt to get out of the box now and skip the whipping in exchange for eight hours in the Glass Maiden. If it were me, I'd choose the Glass Maiden in a flash. But it's up to you. Would you rather stay here and take your whipping?”
The girl shook her head vigorously.
“You prefer the Glass Maiden?”
The child's nod was almost imperceptible. Clearly she thought of it as the lesser of two extremely unpleasant evils.
“Good choice.” Robin pulled her out of the box and helped her struggle to her feet. “Come along, dear.” Hours jammed in the box had created so much pain and stiffness it was impossible for the girl to stand or walk on her own, so Robin helped her limp in shuffling circles, her ankle chain clanking, until her knees stopped shaking. They ended up standing in front of the Maiden, its jaws open like a hungry shark.
“Starling is five foot six and will just fit,” Robin announced for my benefit. She removed the girl's handcuffs and let her move her arms around for a minute to relieve her sore shoulders (making sure she left the gag in place), then removed the ankle cuffs as well. “Will you help me place her in the Maiden, Master Curt, please?”
“Of course,” I said.
We each took one of the girl's arms and backed her up to the bottom half of the case. “Step up into it,” Robin instructed her. The girl reached behind her blindly with her right foot, found the base of the Maiden and started to push herself up. But the base was also covered with plastic points and she yelped through her gag. Robin and I took advantage of that initial push, however, and lifted her the rest of the way into the case. She yelped louder when her back hit the nails behind her, but we swiftly locked the cuffs over her wrists before she could try to escape it. Then we locked the ankle cuffs as well. By now the girl was crying, mostly in fear I suspect.
“Oh don't be such a sissy,” Robin scolded. “I once spent two days in this thing. If I could survive two days, you should be able to last eight hours. Just take shallow breaths and try not to move.” With that she closed the top and the girl wailed, plastic spikes stabbing at nearly every inch of her body. There were plenty of holes in the case that would allow her to breathe. Unfortunately, every movement of her chest would be aggravate the pain from the myriad nail points.
“You were actually in that device for two full days?” I said.
“And it changed my whole attitude about social interaction,” she said with a crooked smile. “Would you like to see how the rack works, or have you seen enough?”
“See how the rack works? You have someone waiting to go on the rack?”
“Oh, I can always find a calf who needs punishment, if that's your interest.”
“No thanks. I think I'd rather see something more pleasant.”
“Many men find it pleasant watching females suffer.”
“I'm not one of them.”
She smiled, much more warmly this time, then stretched up and gave me a long, open-mouth kiss. I was fully hard again (and she knew it) when she slipped her tongue out of my mouth, extracted herself from my arms, took my hand and said, “Come, Master Curt. I need to check on Petal. Then, if you'd like, I can show you my private quarters. You might even like to sample my milk supply.”
I trailed after her, gripping her small hand, admiring the erotic sway of her hips and thinking about her delectable invitation. We wended our way back to the courtyard where a crowd of girls was gaping at Petal on the cross. Her suffering was now dramatically greater than when we had left her, her legs splayed wide lewdly, displaying her bloodied cunt on the blade. Her head lolled back and forth, eyes closed, mouth open and drooling. Her body was lathered in perspiration and she groaned continuously. Robin's expression had hardened the instant we stepped into the courtyard, no doubt for the benefit of the girls for whom Petal's ordeal was a lesson. Robin moved at once to the thickset guard on duty and spoke to her softly.
“Echo, how's she holding up. She doesn't look so good.”
“Aw, she's just playing for sympathy. Don't think she likes it up there.”
“Have you been giving her water?”
“I squeeze it into her mouth but she lets it run out.”
“She has to have water. Look at her sweat! And I can see a puddle where she's pissed.”
“Yeah. It was pretty funny. She ain't never pissed in public before.”
“We can't let her get dehydrated.”
“She'll drink when she's thirsty enough.”
“In a few hours it'll be time to feed her that mash, too. If she won't eat it, give her the liquified stuff with a straw. Master Trent wants her healthy for the auction Saturday. You understand, Echo?”
“Yeah, Mistress Robin. I'll get the shit down her bitchy throat one way or another.”
Robin's eyes narrowed at the guard who probably outweighed her by seventy pounds. “That's yes , not yeah . And if this female goes into shock during your watch and doesn't make it to the auction, you'll take her place. Got that, Echo?”
Fear flashed into the woman's eyes. “Yes, Mistress Robin.”
Robin took time to examine Petal more closely, obviously troubled by the girl's appearance. Was she faking most of it? Or was she really in greater distress than she should be after only a few hours? Robin finally snorted and walked away briskly.
“Think she's putting it on?” I asked as we headed for the dining hall.
“It's hard to believe she could be in serious trouble at this point. Crucifixions are supposed to last for days. And Master Trent specifically okayed a two-and-a-half-day crucifixion in light of what she did. But he also made me personally responsible to see that she doesn't lose her meat value. I really don't know what to do. She must eat and drink.”
“Have you ever crucified anyone before?”
“No. But Amanda said it was safe to leave a girl on the cross for up to five days if she was given the blade to rest on and kept fed and hydrated. The three Amanda did came through fine, except for damage to their pussy lips, hands and shoulders, which don't matter much at the auctions.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I guess maybe Echo is right, that Petal's just exaggerating her distress, hoping we'll take her down. I'll check her again this evening to see how she's doing.”
“So where to now?”
“To the dining hall, Master Curt, so you can see how well Master Trent feeds his pride.” She took my hand and led me back inside.
“Does the pride eat separately from the calves?”
“Yes. We all spend a lot of time riding herd on the calves, which is exhausting, so Master Trent allows us three peaceful meals a day. The calves are fed on different time schedules according to age and we have to supervise and maintain discipline. You can't eat and deal with hundreds of hyperactive young girls at the same time.”
The dining hall was located on the south side of the building and that side of the room was filled with windows that flooded the room with late afternoon sunlight. As one would expect for a household of this size, the hall was cavernous and fairly Spartan. There were dozens of long tables covered with linen and set up with place settings consisting of forks, knives, spoons and paper napkins. I counted ten chairs and settings to a side, twenty places at each table. Five tables had been set up for the pride, ten or fifteen of whom were already in line at the serving window.
“Where are the calves while the pride is eating?” I asked Robin as we picked up our plates.
“We keep them locked in their quarters for safekeeping. Except for those on kitchen duty, of course.”
Several teenage girls were hustling about in the kitchen and doling out food at the window.
“Who does the cooking?”
“Some of the wives are good cooks. They do it in rotation. Master Trent makes sure he has sufficient cooks among his pride to prepare decent meals. They have to be able to cope with specific diets for each wife as required by our dietician.”
“How do they do that?”
She showed me the bar code tattooed on the underpart of her left forearm. “The girl at the window scans this and it comes up on a screen. It tells her what to put on our tray.”
When we reached the window, I insisted Robin go first. She was scanned and given a bowl of mixed, sliced fruit, cooked broccoli and a three slices of broiled girl rump meat. I, as an honored male guest, was given a generous portion of sauteed girl breast, whipped potato seasoned with garlic and basil and my choice of vegetables, fruit and dessert. They obviously knew I was coming since the breast of girl was hot and perfectly cooked. The calf at the window was a striking beauty, dark and tawny like Robin. I asked about her when we reached a table Robin liked.
“Her name is Lynx. She's sixteen. Master Trent has been grooming her for a big showing at Atherton's Auction House in New York for prime brides. She should bring in a handsome profit.”
“Is he the sire?”
“Yes, out of Fox, a girl he bought at Atherton's seventeen years ago.”
“Is Fox still here?”
“No. Unfortunately, she developed breast cancer a few years ago. Master Trent had it taken out, but the doctor said it would spread, so he sold her for meat. It was really sad because she was so beautiful, just like Lynx.”
“That is sad. How old was she?”
“Thirty-four, thirty-five. Something like that.”
“Still fertile, then.”
“Oh yes.”
“I wonder why Trent didn't simply continue to breed her, especially if her calves were as beautiful as Lynx.”
“Master Trent doesn't mate with maimed females. He says it's a matter of principle. And studs won't, either. Master Trent says he had no choice. He had to send her to auction before the cancer popped up again, while she was still worth something as meat.”
“I see.” But I didn't. If Fox were as lovely as her daughter, I'd keep her around simply as a beautiful ornament. But then, I'm not the businessman Trent is. That's one of the reasons he's ideal for the Advisory Council. He's not distracted by sentimental arguments. In the end, the value of any female is what she can produce for profit, either via her womb or in the meat market.
As I was contemplating these truths, I happened to look up and see Shadow and Kitten smiling at me from the line at the window.
“Don't you dare,” Robin said.
I nearly dropped my fork. “What?!” I couldn't believe she'd said that.
“Don't you dare invite those two vixen to our room tonight. I want you all to myself tonight, Master Curt.”
Appalled, I said, “No female has ever given me an order. It's unheard of! I can't believe you did it.”
She dropped her eyes, pretending to be penitent. “Please forgive me, Master Curt. Or turn me in to Master Trent. He'll have me flogged, then caned, then stuffed into the cages for two weeks before selling me as meat. But it will be worth it for one night with you, having you all to myself.” She pouted and looked so pathetic (yet so incredibly desirable) that I couldn't help but forgive her. If any of my pride had committed such an offense I would have had them strung up and whipped, and left them hanging by their wrists overnight to consider the consequences of their insolence. But there was a quality to Robin's “don't you dare” that was irresistibly playful and sexually charged, as was her affected sorrow. “Please, Master Curt,” she whispered as the two girls drew near with their trays, “just us tonight. Please, please, please. You won't regret it, I promise.”
I sighed heavily. “I won't turn you in, but I may decide to punish you myself,” I warned.
She raised those magnificent eyes to mine and gave me a smile that made me instantly hard. “Whatever you choose to do to me I richly deserve. My body and heart are yours tonight, Master Curt.”
I hardly noticed the antics of Kitten and Shadow through the meal, although they tried their best to excite me. I was already overly excited by the extraordinary female next to me whose knee kept rubbing up against mine. The two younger girls sat opposite us chattering away with double entendres and saucy suggestions, but the beautiful and presumptuous woman on my right had captured me beyond their powers of temptation. I should have invited them to join us for the night just to spite Robin's cheeky demands on exclusivity, but the truth was that I craved only her that night. I couldn't let on, of course, so when we excused ourselves and left the disappointed horny duo behind and Robin led me to Trent's private reading room, I was prepared to upbraid her again.
She surprised me by standing before me with her hands at her sides and her head bowed, saying, “I was very bad at the dinner table and I'm really, really sorry, Master Curt. If you wish, I will take you to the Discipline Room and you may punish me severely in any way you wish, as I deserve.”
“Is that what you'd like?” I asked.
“No, Master Curt. I don't like pain. What I'd like is your forgiveness for my inexcusable behavior. But I will suffer whatever punishment you feel I should. I only beg that afterwards you'll let me find ways to please you in my own way. All through the night.” She kept her eyes cast down and spoke her words in such a fetchingly apologetic tone that I wanted to sweep her up and kiss her. But my sensible self (or maybe it's my cruel Doppelgänger) decided it would be best to teach her a lesson in proper etiquette before banging her.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Take me to the Discipline Room!”
“Certainly, Master Curt,” she said in that achingly submissive tone.”
In short order we found ourselves back in the Medieval torture chamber. Starling was still in the Glass Maiden, her cheeks glistening with tears.
“What do you wish to do to me, Master Curt?” Robin asked, assuming her wonderfully submissive pose: head bowed, eyes on the floor.
“Take off your clothes.”
“Yes, Master Curt.” She stripped naked and kicked everything aside.
“You admit you've been a bad girl, don't you?”
Robin's eyes flew up to mine, then dropped swiftly back. With that brief glance she realized I was not planning to hurt her seriously, that I was simply joining in her game. “Yes, Master Curt. Very bad.”
“I wish to string you up by your wrists.”
“Thank you, kind Master, for giving me the opportunity to suffer the consequences of my bad manners.”
She led me to a pair of padded cuffs at the end of ropes dangling from the overhead grid, and held out her wrists for me to attach them, keeping her eyes cast down in shame. I wrapped the cuffs around her wrists, secured them with their Velcro straps and traced the ropes through a set of pulleys to a cleat on the wall. Unwinding the ropes from the cleat, I pulled on them, raising first her arms, then her whole body until she was suspended off the floor by a few inches. I tied off the ropes on the cleat. She kept her head hung in humiliation.
“Are you ready for your punishment?” I asked, walking to the pegboard filled with torture implements.
“Yes, Master Curt. I was very bad. Please correct me.”
I surveyed the collection of whips, belts, canes, paddles, riding crops, cattle prods, nipple clamps, electric stims and other punitive tools. When she saw me place a hand on the bullwhip, her eyes widened and her confidence collapsed.
“Please, Master Curt,” she said in a voice edged with real fear, “please don't hurt me too much. I know what I said was terribly wrong, but I only said it because those two girls would have hogged you all night and I'd been looking forward all day to having you all to myself. I'm really, really sorry I offended you. Please have pity on me, sir. Please!”
Perhaps now that she was strung up and helpless she was regretting the trust she had shown earlier. “What about the girl in the Glass Maiden?” I asked, just to be mean. “Look how she's suffering. What pity did you show her?”
A look of abject guilt swept over her face, intensifying her fear. She looked so desperate I nearly laughed.
“I'll let her out!” she almost shouted. “I'll take her place. I'll do whatever you want! But please don't use the bullwhip on me, sir! Please Master Curt!”
I had no intention of using it, of course. I was merely impressing her with the power I had over her immediate fate, power she had placed in my hands when she offered up her wrists to the cuffs from which she now dangled.
“You don't like the bullwhip?”
“No, sir. It cuts and makes permanent scars. If Master Trent sees you've had to whip me, he'll send me to auction.”
“So you're telling me you don't really fear the pain?”
“Oh yes I do! I hate pain! But mostly it's that I'd hoped to live a few years longer. I really am sorry for what I said. I've never talked to a man like that before. I'd be ever so grateful to you, Master Curt, if it pleased you not to whip me with that, or hurt me too badly. I'd do whatever you want, all night long. Even things that make me cry and get sick.”
“You would, huh?”
“Anything at all! Please, sir!”
She looked up at me with those astonishing dark eyes and an expression so piteous that it was all I could do not to throw my arms around her and comfort her with soft words and kisses. I raised the bull whip, drew and snapped it forward. There was a loud crack and she screamed! Then realized it hadn't hit her.
“Anything at all, you said?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Please! Anything, and for as long as you want! I'll even ask Shadow and Kitten to join us and I won't complain if you fuck them all night and just use me for a toilet. Please! Please!”
Terror had now replaced all vestiges of playfulness. She was close to panic, writhing helplessly at the end of the ropes. I made a show of slowly coiling up the whip. I might have been preparing for an actual strike or to hang it up. She trembled, her eyes round with dread.
“Anything,” I mumbled as if contemplating the possibilities as I ambled over to the pegboard, hung up the bullwhip and plucked up a multi-tailed flogger, a whip used more for play than punishment. Her relief was so palpable I thought she might melt.
“I won't undermine your authority as Household Enforcer by freeing Starling and putting you in her place,” I said, “but you do deserve punishment for your unacceptable conduct, don't you?”
“Yes, Master Curt. Yes I do.” She lowered her eyes again, back into her role, reasonably confident that I did not intend to hurt her, her voice once again honied and seductive. “I'm deeply sorry for what I said. Please punish me, sir.”
Lining up on her left side to flog her — forehand to her backside, backhand to her front — I raised my whip hand once again. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips grimly together, hoping for a love tap but bracing for the worst. When it came, it was neither. I wielded the flogger hard enough to sting a little but not really hurt. She gasped at the shock of the blow, then opened her eyes and gave me a shy smile of approval. I continued to rain blows on her from all directions, walking round and round, whipping her rump, her belly, her thighs, her back, her breasts. I grabbed an ankle and pulled the leg up to expose her inner thighs and whipped them thoroughly, then whipped her cunt and nipples in a three-cornered flurry of blows. She writhed and squealed as her skin turned pink and then red under the assault of the flogger's many soft leather strips. But in truth, judging from the girl juice dribbling from her vaginal lips and the flickering smile that brightened her face, I think she could have endured her “punishment” happily all through the night.
Finally I stopped, not out of pity for her, but because my arm was tired and my hugely aroused southern zone was demanding a different kind of activity. As I stepped back, I was struck by the erotic sight of Robin's lovely form hanging limply, panting quietly from her body's involuntary reactions to the hundreds of whip blows. Moving to her, I ran my hands over the smooth, sweat-slicked shape of her, dwelling on the firm curves of her girl parts and the gentle swell of her tummy, rounded by carrying six of Trent's assets to term, with the possibility of a seventh underway. For some reason I couldn't resist touching my lips and tongue to that sweet belly. The taste of her moist skin was strangely exciting. I circled her, kissing and licking rings around her, enjoying the salty tang of her living flesh, thinking of the time, probably soon, when those shapely limbs, rumps and breasts would be carved into their various cuts and cooked. Curiously, the thought triggered an unexpected ache in my heart. I don't know why, but I was gripped by an illogical sorrow at the necessity of turning such a scintillating and beautiful woman into food. But all of us have moments of sentimental foolishness, I suppose.
Remembering her earlier suggestion that I taste her milk, I put my mouth over one of her hard nipples and began to suck. Sure enough, I began to draw a little milk. It was sweet and warm. I suckled it hungrily, then moved to the other tit and did the same. It was gloriously exciting and she moaned with pleasure as I sucked.
Knowing the pain in her shoulders must be considerable by now, I reluctantly gave up her teats and lowered her to the floor, removing the cuffs. She stood demurely, hands at her side, head bowed.
“Thank you for punishing me, Master Curt,” she said softly. “May I have your permission to ask if I'm forgiven?”
“You may and you are.” I kissed the top of her head.
“Oh THANK YOU, sir!” she shouted and leaped upon me, her arms wrapped around my neck, her legs around my waist, devouring my face with kisses and love nibbles. With her lips still lightly touching mine she asked, “May I show you to my quarters, now, Master Curt?” She wiggled her pussy against the lump in my pants.
“Immediately!” I said, afraid I was about to come. “But you'd better grab your sarong.”
“Why?” She teased, climbing down. “You can pull me around naked by my hair for all I care. I just want to please you.”
“You just want to fuck me.”
“God, YES!” She snatched up her sarong and wrapped it around her. Then lowering her chin and looking deferentially up at me through her dark lashes added, “Shall I ask Kitten and Shadow to join us, sir? I'm sure they will.”
I grinned back at her and traced the delicate shape of her left ear with one finger. “I'm sure they will, too. But tonight, sweet Robin, I believe I'll concentrate on just you.”
She pressed her breasts against me, cupped my face in her hands and drew me down for a long, probing kiss, through which she said, “Thank you, dear Master Curt. You won't regret it.”
And I didn't.
Although I almost didn't make it to her quarters because as we walked she persisted in caressing my swollen member through the fabric it was straining behind. “If you keep doing that,” I warned her, “I'll ejaculate before we get there.”
“If you feel yourself coming,” she answered, “let me know and I'll take it all in my mouth so you won't stain your pants.” The thought nearly put me over the edge.
Robin's “quarters” turned out to be a small room filled mostly with a large, frilly bed. Only the First Wife was accorded that much luxury. The remainder of the pride shared several large bunk rooms. Robin said Trent never visits her there, preferring to mate with his wives in the Seraglio where he can play with several at once. If it's evening, he then takes whoever strikes his fancy to his own luxurious suite for the rest of the night. Another practical advantage of that system is that he only fucks the wives who want it. Those who don't want sex stay out of the Seraglio until he's had his fun and selected his overnight partner. “I refuse to mate with wives who fuck only out of duty,” he told Robin once. “If I wanted to rape someone, I'd go to a slaughterhouse. Unhappy wives poison the whole pride.”
“And he never fucks deadwood wives who only do it out of duty,” she confided to me. “They have to hope they get knocked up by studs.”
Robin was about as distant from deadwood as it's possible to be! She had most of my clothes off before I could close the door behind us and was licking the end of my twitching member as she tore off my shoes and socks. “Uh-oh!” she said between licks. “I can taste your advance scouts. Hurry up!” She threw off her sarong, pushed me back on the bed and climbed atop, inserting me into her wet cave and plunging downward on the shaft just as a tremendous orgasm swept through me. She rode up and down furiously, head thrown back, keening with her own pleasure as I bucked up against her, emptying myself into her. When my own frantic spasms had stopped, she slowed down and tightened her envelope to milk my aftershocks, then slowly laid her body over me and placed her lips on mine for a long, languorous kiss.
“Forgive me, sir, for acting so aggressively,” she whispered, extending her kisses to my eyes and neck. “I'm very bad when I'm with you. I can't seem to help myself. I want you so much! Please punish me if you feel I deserve it.”
“Oh no you don't,” I murmured, countering her incessant kisses with my own. “You enjoy punishment too much.”
“Only when you do it, sweet sir.”
“You've got my number. You know I won't hurt you.”
“Do you know how rare that is in a man, these days?” she breathed in my ear before taking it into her mouth. She let it slide out between her lips. “I was really scared when you picked up the bullwhip. I was afraid I'd misjudged you. But you're a sweet and lovely man, just as I thought you were. Your pride is very, very, very lucky to have such a compassionate, forgiving and sexually irresistible Master. Please do with me tonight whatever you wish. Ask of me whatever you wish. I will not only be obedient, as is proper, but eager to please, because I want you so badly.”
The rest of the night brought little sleep, punctuated as it was with a quantity of unbridled and imaginative sex beyond anything I had imagined I was capable of performing. Before dawn arrived I had explored with hands, mouth and penis every inch of that lovely body, including all its delightful caverns, as she had done likewise with me. A few times we even left the room to try new positions in different places. One of those times I tied her to the rack in the Discipline Room, stretched her out just a little with her legs spread, whipped her into a sexual frenzy with the flogger, then climbed up on the rack and took her just as she started to come. It was a fantastic night!
In the morning at breakfast we discussed the day's agenda. We would tour the pride's bunk rooms, then the calves quarters.
“Officially they're supposed to be called the ‘Virgin Dorms,' but not all the calves are virgins, of course,” Robin said, sipping her allotted tomato juice.
“How does that happen?” I asked, as if I didn't know. I just wanted to hear her talk so I could enjoy the sweetness of her voice and the sensual way she moved her lips as she spoke.
“Oh, sometimes they sneak into one of the mating rooms where wives are entertaining guests or studs. The wives don't care as long as they get the first load of semen. Sometimes the studs sneak into the calves dorms, but the prettiest girls shun them if they're smart. Non-virgins are unlikely to be brides.”
Next on the tour was the Infirmary. “You'll see that Master Trent insists on a really clean and sterile environment. There are usually three or four births going on, and as many other wives miscarrying male embryos. That can be pretty messy.”
The Exercise Room would be next. “Master Trent demands we all keep in good shape, both calves and wives. Our exercise is individually designed to keep our bodies well shaped and our meat firm but not tough. Wives who have just dropped a calf have it the worst. They're required to get all their measurements down to the approved size within a month, or be put into a really grueling regimen. And if that doesn't do it, it's off to the auction block.”
“While we're here,” I said, “how about a look at your kitchen?”
“Certainly, Master Curt. Whatever you want is yours.”
Her smoldering look had me going again, but I forced myself to be businesslike. At least for now.
It happens that the kitchen crew was preparing a whole roast for my benefit as a special guest that evening and as we entered they were just bringing in the girl for slaughter. Her eyes were wide and terrified, which is pretty typical, but she offered no resistence or complaints as they led her to the slaughtering deck, a mark of good training. She was nicely shaped with an attractive face but somewhat thick. Not bride material but perfect as a whole roaster.
“Is she from this household?” I asked Robin.
“Yes. Her name is Rainbow. She's seventeen. Master Trent kept her around an extra year because she's been an especially effective nurse in the infirmary, but he selected her for this occasion in honor of your visit. She should be very tender and juicy.”
The crew had cuffed her ankles together, inserted the hook through the cuffs chain and hoisted her up until her head was at the level of our waists. Her arms were wired together behind her back, her dark blond hair already wrapped into a bun. As one of the girls on the crew slid the collection tub under the upside down girl, her eyes welled up and her lips began to tremble, but the chef approached quickly to put a merciful end to her terror with a quick slash across her throat. It took the girl about eight seconds to die. As soon the flow of blood slowed to a drip, the crew sliced open her belly and the gutting process began. A nice clean, humane slaughter. She would now be stuffed, spitted, basted and set to turn slowly over an open roasting pit for several hours before being presented whole at the banquet, still on the spit, to be carved and served.
After leading me through an inspection of the rest of the kitchen where veggies and fruits were being pared and chopped up for the evening extravaganza, and the cold storage rooms where quartered girls hung from hooks and various cuts of girl waited in trays to be sliced into smaller portions, Robin said she needed to check on Petal to see if she'd taken nourishment yet.
When we arrived at the cross in the exercise yard, Petal was hanging motionless and the guard was watching a palm TV. “Has she eaten anything, yet, Sequoia?” Robin asked the guard.
“Not since I been here,” the hefty guard replied, jumping to her feet.
Robin inspected the girl more closely, frowning. “How long have you been here?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Robin placed her hand on Petal's chest. Then her ear. Then felt for her pulse. “My God!” she said. “This girl is dead!” She turned on the guard in fury. “How could you not notice she's dead? Was she alive when you got here?”
The guard, suddenly afraid for her own life, turned pale. “She was just like that. Lake said she was sleeping. How was I to know?”
“How were you to know?! God Almighty! You could have checked! Get Lake and Echo! I want all three of you here in two minutes! Go! Master Curt, may I ask you to help me take her down?”
“Of course. But what's the problem? So she's dead. Butcher her and put her in cold storage with the rest of the meat.”
“I told you!” Robin shouted, obviously in a panic. “Master Trent made me personally responsible for seeing that she get to the auction alive and well.” She turned to me, chewing on a knuckle. “This is a disaster! I should have been down here checking on her last night! Those damn fools let her die!”
By the time we had removed the ropes and nails holding Petal to the cross and lowered her body to the ground, the three guards were running up to face their enraged and frightened boss.
“Echo!” she yelled. “When did you change watch?”
“At midnight, Mistress Robin,” the cringing guard answered.
“Was she alive? Did you check?”
“She was fine. Just bitching as usual.”
“Had she eaten or drunk anything?”
“No. She let it run out of her mouth. What could I do?”
Robin glared at her, then turned to the second guard. “Lake, how long were you on duty?”
“From midnight to eight, Mistress Robin. She was alive when I left.”
“How do you know?”
“She was moving, trying to get off the blade and groaning. And she wouldn't eat or drink for me, either.”
“So,” Robin said to Sequoia, her voice a dentist's drill, “Lake says Petal was moving and groaning. You just told me she was sleeping.”
“She's a liar!” the frightened guard shouted. “Lake's a fucking liar! Petal wasn't moving, she was just hanging there. And Lake told me she was sleeping.”
“That ain't true!” Lake screamed back. “Sequoia's the fucking liar! Petal was alive when I left at eight o'clock.”
“Take this carcass to the kitchen, you sorry bitches,” Robin screamed. “I'll deal with you later!”
The three guards picked up the dead girl and hustled her away, leaving Robin shaking with anger and dread. Tears began to flow down her cheeks.
“It can't be that bad,” I offered lamely. “Trent will understand.”
At that she burst into wracking sobs and collapsed to her knees. “He'll understand, all right,” she managed to say. “He'll understand that someone has to take her place on the auction block, and that someone is me.”
I knelt down and put my arms around her, trying to console her, trying to assure her that Trent would not do that to her.
There was no way to tell which of the two guards was lying, Lake or Sequoia. Another Household Enforcer might torture them both until one confessed, but Robin knew that that's no solution. The only thing it would prove is that one girl can stand more pain than the other. So Robin merely ordered them whipped, fifty strokes each with the bull whip, and put in the cages for two weeks.
Then, like the honorable wife she was, she called Trent and told him what happened. As she had predicted, he affirmed that she was personally responsible for costing him the loss of a valuable piece of property and ordered her to take Petal's place at the auction. He further ordered her to inform Kitten that she was now officially First Wife and Household Enforcer. He gave Robin the choice of being arrested by Security or turning herself in to Shipping and Receiving. Robin chose the latter.
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