Belle Submission Read online

  ‘I don’t know…’

  Vip!

  ‘Uh! I guess so,’ she wailed.

  Hazel placed the canetip at Trina’s cunt, prising the lips apart to reveal glistening pink meat.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘The test is simple, mamselle, and is actually a trick of mine for your benefit. I must report all chastisements you receive, with copies to the committee, a privately annotated copy to the directress of discipline and to the public watch. A test, however, is in privilegio proctoris. I shall cane you on bare, a caning you may halt at any time, and the number of strokes you take shall be your slave number. The higher your number, the more privileges you shall receive under my domain. Guardian of virtue Beth Dudge shall observe your expressions of distress to ensure that you can take my strokes. No girly wriggling or yelling, mind, or the stroke isn’t counted. High numbers serve as my thralls, while the low numbers like Wendy and Marietta here…’

  She gestured at the hair-pantied maids who continued fanning her, and lashed her cane between Marietta’s legs. The girl shuddered and she took the stroke in full vulva, without a sound. Wendy winced and closed her eyes, before a similar stroke slashed her across the teats, ripping her bra. Hazel laughed.

  ‘They have no privileges,’ she said. ‘So afraid of cane, they’ll endure any shame to spare their bottoms. They are the lowest hospitality girls, taking cock in anus, or sucking cock — or both — ten times a shift, when they have only to accept a clean beating to escape. Let’s do it.’

  Beth Dudge pulled Trina to her feet and made her shuffle across the room to an iron flogging rail, three feet high in its wooden frame. Beth thrust Trina across it so that her face was on the floor, with the flogging rail biting between waist hobble and pubic mound. Her hips took her weight, with the iron rail grinding her and stretching her belly chain so that her cunt-flaps and nipples were pulled to whiteness. The waist hobble touched the floor at such an awkward angle that she had to strain her back to keep her head up. Her legs were splayed behind her, feet on tiptoe, and her bare bottom thrust into the air. Trina moaned as Hazel flexed her cane, letting it spring back with a whistle.

  ‘Please, mamselle? About the test — have I any choice?’

  Hazel stooped and put her face an inch from Trina’s. She placed the purple talon of her index at Trina’s cleft and rammed, piercing the anal pucker to the full depth of the fingernail. Trina’s buttocks clenched, trapping the finger nail inside her anus, and Hazel slowly reamed the elastic as she whispered.

  ‘Get a clue, bitch,’ she hissed. ‘I own you. I own your cunt and your ass and what’s inside. Anything I say is official and anything you say is trull’s slander.’

  Beth raised her leg high, her skirt falling away to reveal the thin thong of her rubber string panties biting deeply into her thick, oozing cunt-lips; she put her foot at the base of Trina’s spine, grinding hard on her spinal nubbin while Hazel penetrated Trina’s butthole with the whole of her index finger, right to the knuckle, and began a series of swift jabs. Trina’s ass-cheeks clenched and she groaned, her cunt- and teat-clamps wrenching her swollen flesh as she writhed. Hazel withdrew her finger from Trina’s anus and clawed the full length of her cunt-lips, raking the quim from clitoris to the perineum. Trina howled.

  ‘Sorry,’ Hazel said, ‘but you might have been one of those perverts. I can see you are a submissive belle gone astray, and really don’t get off on pain. Shall we begin?’

  ‘Yes, mamselle,’ Trina answered, then groaned as Beth’s heel ground her spinal nubbin.

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Yes, please, mamselle.’

  Hazel nodded, smiling, and raised her Georgia yew to the full reach of her arm over Trina’s trembling bare. Beth removed her foot and squatted in front of Trina. Her face flushed, she stared at Trina’s grimace of anguish; beneath her skirtlet, framing the tight rubber thong, her naked cunt-lips drooped, heavy, swollen and tangled in shiny, dripping hairs. The cane whistled and impacted Trina’s quivering naked melons, the strokes slicing fully across both fesses. Vip! Vip! Vip! Trina’s buttocks squirmed.

  ‘Oh!’ she moaned.

  ‘That’s three,’ Hazel said. ‘Is it OK to give you tracks of three? Most maids prefer to get it over fast. I sometimes prefer the delicate delivery, each stroke savoured as its caress eats into the flesh and the melons trembling so sweetly — the tight fruits of a girl’s bottom, quivering helplessly, are the artist’s perfect canvas. Your fesses are such a canvas, mamselle. Perhaps we may savour the slow pleasure in future.’

  Trina’s buttocks clenched as her back shivered, and three pink welts coloured her bare buttock meat.

  ‘Yes, mamselle,’ she sobbed, choking. ‘Threes are fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ooh!’

  ‘Remember what I said about girly wriggling, and screeching and stuff.’

  ‘But, mamselle, you cane so tight…’

  ‘Tighter than Zealla?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Trina sobbed. ‘My ass feels on fire, it smarts so. You’re crueller than Zealla.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh!’

  Trina’s flogged buttocks jerked in spasm as the cane whipped her three cuts. By nine strokes, the bare fesses were fiery with the pink weals, darkening fast to crimson, and with trenches of puffy flesh already rising to flank the bruises made by the whippy little yew sapling. Trina’s groans grew in counterpoint to the rhythmic vip-vip-vip of Hazel’s cane. Pinioned, she could do no more than twitch her fesses as the bare flesh reddened under striping. Once in every dozen strokes, Hazel had to reprimand her for undue clenching and tell her the stroke would be disallowed in her tally.

  ‘You poor baby,’ she said, stroking Trina’s bare and running her purple fingernail down the freshest and rawest of Trina’s grooved welts. ‘It must hurt so. Say it’s over, and it shall be over — but you won’t have a high number. You do want one?’

  ‘Yes, mamselle,’ Trina gasped. ‘Please, how many have I taken?’

  ‘Such a juicy, full bottom, and quivering so painfully. That’s the beauty of no clenching — the caner can only guess at the pain her lash causes. How many? Not enough, mamselle.’

  Vip! Vip! Vip!

  ‘Ahh!’

  The caning progressed, until Trina’s naked fesses glowed red, mottled with purple streaks, mainly at the haunches and top buttock. She sobbed and wailed; her titties wobbled helplessly as her body jerked to the cane. Her trembling turned to clenching, with strokes disallowed. At last, she sobbed that she could take no more.

  ‘Very well.’

  Vip-vip-vip-vip-vip-vip!

  ‘Oh! Ohh…’

  Hazel released a flurry of cuts to the mottled mid-fesses and Trina clenched her nates frantically, her whole body squirming and jerking in her bonds. Hazel’s fingers stroked her buttocks once more, rubbing gel into her bruises and into the crevice of her perineum. She massaged the anus bud and stretched cunt-flaps, while poking one, two and then three fingers into Trina’s wet slit.

  ‘You took two hundred and forty-one strokes,’ she said, ‘so that’s your slave number. Wendy here is number 138, and Marietta 144.’

  She put her come-slimed fingers into Trina’s mouth.

  ‘You juice well under cane, number 241. I can only remember one number coming close, and that was 239. She was a juicer, too, a disgusting pervert like you. Time for you to hobble to your luncheon in the refectory, and then to the hospitality suite — you’ll stay nude until you earn a seduction dress, for basic hospitality doesn’t permit time for dressing, flirtation and the like.’

  ‘My privileges of high number, mamselle?’ Trina groaned.

  ‘Perhaps you misunderstood, slave,’ Hazel sneered.

  ‘Nudity is your only privilege. A high number indicates tolerance and craving for the cane — you are a degenerate, naked for shame, who has no privileges at all.’

  ‘That�
��s not fair!’

  Vip! Vip! Vip! Hazel’s cane lashed Trina’s naked breasts.

  ‘Ahh! Oh!’ Trina cried, as her teats wobbled.

  She was released and her arm hobble removed, but not her cunt-chains, nor her ankle hobble. Beth Dudge led her on all fours to the refectory and cast her inside.

  ‘Say, it’s mamselle the fucking intendant!’ cried a voice, to raucous laughter, and Trina spluttered as a bowl of ordure was poured over her head.

  ‘Please,’ she groaned, wiping the rotten slop from her face, ‘there’s been a misunderstanding… ooh!’

  A second bucket of slop cannoned into her teats, slopping garbage all over her breasts, belly and cunt. She looked up and saw a circle of maids standing over her, including Jennifer Tans, Dolores Henek and the former POW Odette van Kram. Odette’s voice had greeted her.

  ‘I’m a fucking citizen now, you fucking illegal alien bitch!’ she cried.

  All wore bra and panties sets of skimpy, clinging pink latex, hinged with silver, and with peekaboo openings at the nipples and quim. Each girl wore black fishnet nylon stockings, one foot unshod and the other encased in a high, platformed surgical boot of black rubber.

  ‘241, huh?’ said another girl. ‘Sumpweed and goosefoot, that’s your lunch, you fucking submissive bitch. Eat what we give you, suck the cocks you’re told to suck, take it in the ass without a squeak, and your whippings too. You prove you’re 100% slut, maybe you get to wear seduction dress, stockings and all, and you’re allowed to masturbate and keep a quarter of your tips from the fucking rednecks. You squeal, we’ll ram your hobble up your asshole and tape you fucking shut. Catch you diddling after stripes, we’ll buttfuck you with a hot brick. Mamselle Hazel hates fucking submissives. We hate fucking submissives. Get it?’

  ‘I’m not a submissive,’ Trina sobbed.

  A surgical boot rose, looped itself behind her jouguette, and jerked, wrenching Trina’s quim-lips and nipples.

  ‘Oh! that hurts!’

  Another boot dug into her stretched teat-flesh, while the heel of a third dug into her crotch and mashed her clitty and gash. Trina doubled up, choking.

  ‘Get it, cunt?’ demanded the girl.

  The speaker was Corporal Cindi Kock. Sobbing, Trina nodded.

  There were over twenty girls confined in the Stella Maris, of which only two were sub-sluts. The other official sub was Jolene Bracken, a tow-haired girl of nineteen from Pine Bluff, Arkansas. With Trina, Jolene ate, chained naked to the post in the refectory, formerly a stable. Like Trina, she wore a slave ring on her neck. Superior slaves, those who had earned seduction dress, threw scraps of sumpweed or chitterlings, with an occasional spoonful of mushy grits slopped on their faces or poured into their clamped-open cunts. Monitors guarded the proceedings but there was no rule against talking, save that every now and then a monitor would select one girl for a thrashing, bend her over the gnarled hickory table and whip her bare until she pissed all over the spread food. Jolene said it was better than living in a trailer park with her bad cousins. She was strung up on the gallows every morning beside Trina to receive a ‘livener’ of twenty-five lashes from a rubber quirt with four-foot thongs, before they got their crusts for breakfast. The floggings were alternately on back or buttocks, and Jolene said she didn’t mind which as it gave her an appetite and made her frisky for her day’s work. She had been a slave for thirteen months, refusing the offer of seduction dress and a place at table.

  ‘Guess I am one of those submissives,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be uppity, like those whores in panties. Who do they think they are? Just buttfuck sluts like the rest of us. Even back home, I didn’t feel right unless one of the menfolk whaled me bare-ass every day. Never could enjoy diddling unless my ass was ribbed. Mamselle Hazel offered me one of them lewd bikinis, and a place at table, but I feel better naked and squealing like a hog. I like being whupped and buttfucked. A girl should be honest about herself. Don’t you like being a slave, Trina?’

  ‘No! I’ve never been so degraded! I’ve reached the pits,’ Trina gasped. ‘Jolene, what are you?’

  ‘What’s any of us? A female, fit for whupping and juicing and coming, that’s all.’

  One rule, almost the only rule, was never to ask a girl’s offence. Rumours abounded — that Cindi had offered her bottom to unlimited caning in order to cause a run on the currency, that Jennifer and Dolores had planned to kidnap Sophie Petrarque and sell her as a slave to Lady Juliet Gorges of New Albion. Such fancies were immaterial, serving merely to enliven the sameness of every day. Activities were the lash, hard labour and duties in the cathouse, as the vast, airy service building was nicknamed.

  Each girl was assigned her cubicle in the great hall, the spaces separated only by canvas sheeting, and there she awaited her guests. Walkways at each open end of the cubicle permitted customers to scrutinise the girlmeats on offer in the intervals between clients — or even in the act, if the client agreed. Cane-wielding monitors patrolled the floor of the hall and the balcony above. Slaves were forbidden all speech during their service. They had to obey every order their visitors gave, understanding that any humiliance, however vile, had Hazel’s approval.

  Each girl had to keep a selection of canes and dildos in her cubicle for use on her person. New slaves were kept nude and received the busiest traffic. After four days of intensive pleasure service, Trina was released from her hobble and cunt-chain. Hazel was pleased that she had serviced forty-three clients, of which eighteen were female, in those days: mostly, she took anal sex, often with a strap-on dildo, and gave oral sex, whether to male or female. That did not count the canings and hand spankings most visitors chose to apply to her naked bottom. Thereafter, her average of clients fell to a median eight per day, drawing praise from Hazel, who complimented Trina on her compliance under cane and fellatio and her prowess at feigning orgasm under buttfucking.

  ‘I wish it was feigned, mamselle,’ said Trina bitterly.

  She divided her time between her cubicle and the ocean or the potato fields, where maids scrabbled for tubers with their bare hands. Diving duty meant scouring the sea-bed for crustaceans, and a diver had to spend at least two minutes under water, on pain of a pertinent caning on the wet buttocks. At first, Trina was caned after every dive, until her lungs got used to long airlessness. The divers were nude and clients watched, sometimes paying extra for fellatio administered under water: most days, Trina was obliged to suck cock with her head under water and her bare melons raised for a whipping with flails of knotted seaweed, studded with shells and driftwood fragments — forbidden to rise apart from necessary breaths until she had swallowed a full load of sperm, however long it took to bring the male to orgasm. When she surfaced, mouth dripping with molluscs and sperm, males plastered her titties with mushed-up hamburger so that gulls swooped to claw her teats, as they seized the raw meat. For this treatment she had to stand rigid, hands clasped on her head, and the males liked to pepper her bare ass and vulva with broken clamshells fired from slingshots. Far away on the horizon, through her tears, shimmered the golden slab of New Albion.

  After a scanty lunch of slop, she went straight to duty in her cubicle where, mutely obedient, she bared and spread for cock after cock in her anus. There were no sleeping quarters: slaves had to bed down without blanket on any patch of privacy they could find or secure. There were furious catspats as nude slaves gouged and kicked each other in titties and cunt, arguing over a secluded spot, stinking of piss and spiders, beneath some staircase. Those discovered fighting were yoked on an outside gallows, flogged on the back and buttocks and left overnight, to be flogged again at dawn on the breasts. Trina took to bedding down with Jolene outside in the sultry air, with coverlets made of palm leaves, rushes and dried seaweed. Jolene made some secret Arkansas liniment that kept the bugs away. Naked, they watched the turtles lumber up from the sea to lay their eggs, and shivering at the wails of gibbeted escapers. Slaves dreamed of escape, but the ‘SM’ ring round their necks, requiring a
hacksaw for removal, made recapture almost certain. Even in the maze of streets in the old quarter of New Arras, it was impossible to evade spies or the security corps, and a removed slave ring left an imprint on the flesh for several days.

  Stella Maris was surrounded on land by walls forty feet high, with broken glass, and escape from the sea meant swimming a mile out to circumvent the breakwaters of sheer rocks. Spies inside Stella Maris were just as eager for reward. Gerdie Nichols had swum to freedom and, recaptured in a wine shop by the security corps, had been brought back in chains. Before the assembled slaves, all hobbled and yoked for Gerdie’s crime, she had been whipped two hundred lashes, tarred and feathered, then had stinging sea anemones stuffed in her cunt and crabs in her anus, both orifices sealed with duct tape, before being hoisted on the gibbèt on the beach. Mouth gagged by two pairs of soiled panties, she was whipped thrice daily for a week until the lash had denuded her body of feathers, her only sustenance a pint of rainwater per day and a single mouldy crust. Twice a day her holes were untaped to permit her evacuations, then at once refastened. For days after Gerdie was released, her body covered in livid weals and bruises, her cubicle was the most popular.

  Crouching below the dining table, Trina heard snippets of gossip. There was to be an assault on New Albion, and all the slaves were to be freed to form a shock battalion in the vanguard of the invasion; Zealla Pure was to be commander, having ousted Alice Frequemme from command of the armed forces. She had ousted Heidi Absorb from direction of Stella Maris, and Heidi was already a slave amongst them, disguised in a perruque and pubic wig. Hazel had her own cubicle in the cathouse, and could be seen giving head and taking it up the ass after midnight. Jolene told Trina to ignore such rumours, except the last.

  ‘Only assault going to come is from New Albion,’ she said one night in Trina’s tenth week of enslavement, as they lay naked under the stars, with the sobbing of a gibbeted escaper and the swishing of the waves.

  Idly, they discussed their duties of the day past: Trina had taken ten cocks in the ass, compared to Jolene’s six, and sucked seven, to Jolene’s five.