Belle Submission Read online

  The cunt-vice was wrenched from her bruised gash-flaps, and the first rack maid kneeled between Trina’s thighs. She looked up at the tortured girl and licked her lips. Then she buried her mouth in Tina’s cunt and fastened the lips between her teeth. Her jaws engorged the whole of Trina’s vulva, and her teeth scraped on Trina’s throbbing naked clitoris.

  ‘Ngnh…’ she moaned.

  The girl began to suck, only pausing to prise Trina’s cunt open with her fingers and extract the scuttling crustaceans from her pouch. There was a cracking as the girl crunched the creatures whole, slurping their juices mixed with Trina’s steadily gushing cunt-oil.

  ‘My turn,’ barked her colleague, and the girl gave way.

  The second maid guzzled the shellfish until Trina’s bruised cunt was empty, save for the river of cunt-slime she exuded, with little cries, as the hot droplets smeared her quivering bare thighs. When the maid rose, her mouth was bulging with molluscs; she sprang to Elvis’s face and planted a kiss on his lips. Elvis did not start but opened his mouth to meet hers and calmly took her whole cargo of creatures, which he crunched thoughtfully, looking down at Trina’s trembling body. He patted the donor’s ass and let his fingers stray inside her cleft as he swallowed. Then he took his scourge from his belt and sliced the air with the cluster of heavy rubber thongs.

  Trina screamed as the rack winched her tighter, and Elvis advised the rack maidens to leave some screaming for his whip. Zealla stood inches from him, her hand amid the thongs of his dangling quirt, stroking and rubbing the gleaming rubber. The rack creaked and Trina squealed. Zealla laughed.

  ‘The rack has scarcely tightened,’ she said. ‘A mere one twentieth of one degree. The idea of pain enthralls you. You demand whipping, like a submissive.’

  The crowd began to murmur.

  ‘Whip her! Whip the trull!’

  Girlish voices rose in a crescendo of lust and fury.

  ‘They want your ass to bear their scars,’ said Zealla. ‘To crave punishment of another’s flesh is desire to punish one’s own. They crave even your scheduled chastisement, hanged from ropes clamped to nipples, mane and chatte, slanted at forty-five degrees, with legs fully splayed, to take whipping on the bare fesses, back, ass-cleft and thighs.’

  The rack maidens began to unfasten Trina’s bonds; Elvis raised his scourge high, and brought it cracking on the deck, inches from Trina’s face, with a smack that made her shudder, shrieking.

  ‘Mmm,’ she gasped, as control vanished, and her stream of piss was punctuated by a plop of dungs. ‘Mmm! Mmm!’

  She lay, wriggling in her own exudations, her naked body lathered in sweat, tears and drool that trickled from her gagged mouth. Piss dribbled from her gaping cunt, mingled with a copious stream of come, which slopped her upper thighs and dripped into her ass-crack. She sobbed; Zealla smiled again and reached beneath her skirt. She drew out a sheaf of documents, with photographs, which she took some time to inspect. The maids raised the freed body of Trina and held her pinioned and upright in front of her tormentors. Come and piss dribbled unchecked down the sobbing girl’s bare thighs and puddled between her toes. Zealla turned her round and traced the pattern of fresh weals on her buttocks, the most recent being the plump trenches raised by her own cane. After a while, she nodded and pursed her lips. Then she reached forwards and ripped the gag from Trina’s lips. Trina squealed and jerked, but the arms of the rack maidens held her fast.

  ‘Let me go,’ she whined. ‘Please, mamselle.’

  ‘Of course, Mamselle Guelph,’ said Zealla. ‘As soon as you are calm enough for your own safety.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Why, there has indeed been a misunderstanding,’ Zealla purred, ‘though not an unreasonable one. Yes, I have been expecting Mamselle Trina Guelph, but the watchmaids were not informed, as we figured you would arrive in pomp and style, not sneak ashore like some illegal migrant, wanting to sell her body at the Stella Maris! You will agee that your ripeness of figure, mamselle, invites suspicions of sex migrancy at the very least — possibly a spy, into the bargain. Now that I have seen you bared, shrieking and fouling yourself, and inspected your buttocks, I recognise you as the Mamselle Trina Guelph described. I am honoured to invite you to occupy the intendant’s palace, as lawful intendant of New Arras.’

  Her hand cupped Trina’s left buttock, and kneaded her weals, the palm stroking and squeezing Trina’s fesse-meat.

  ‘You have a flagellant’s ass,’ she purred, ‘the skin satin-smooth, the welts a neat mosaic and the buttock beautifully tense, firm and ripe, without spare fat — unlike so many mainland females. You are a submissive and crave the lash, mamselle. Clenching under cane is the perfect isometric exercise.’

  ‘Let me see that,’ Trina whimpered.

  Zealla swept the documents away but a few papers fluttered to the ground. As the rack maids picked them up, Trina saw a naked girl, spanked and flogged on the bare, her ass livid with welts and her limbs contorted in agony. Who did this? Allan? Kimmi?

  ‘That’s not me,’ she shrilled.

  ‘I think it is,’ Zealla retorted.

  ‘I wasn’t informed,’ Elvis murmured sullenly.

  Zealla turned to him with a radiant smile.

  ‘Why should a mere public official be informed, sir?’ she said. ‘You might have guessed, if you learned to focus more, instead of pawing any girlmeat that takes your eye. Mamselle Guelph, we shall proceed to the palace at once. How fortunate that your behaviour under torture revealed who you really are, at the last moment, before the whip kissed your bare. It is with satisfaction and some relief that I shall hand to you the scroll of supreme authority. I realise my behaviour may have seemed uneasonable to you as a mainlander, so I’d understand and expect it if you wanted me whipped. I’m bound to say my chances of getting a majority of the committee to oppose my summary chastisement on bare are slim.’

  She licked her teeth as Trina, her gasps diminishing and her trembling eased, was freed from the rack.

  ‘Whip you, mamselle?’ she said. ‘Why, no.’

  Zealla smiled.

  ‘You aren’t tempted by my buttocks?’ she murmured.

  ‘Think of them, naked and red, squirming under your cane, mamselle intendant.’

  Zealla curtsied to Trina, bowing low and showing the firm jellies of her teats, quivering brown against white straining bra-fabric. There were murmurs from the maids standing to attention under the baking sun. Their ranks began to sway as they relaxed in defiance of the watchmaids’ canes. Random canestrokes seemed to further inflame the watching girls.

  ‘There is to be a fustigation,’ remarked Elvis, ‘and if they don’t get one you’ll have trouble, mamselle. I’m easy — you can pay me for strokes whipped or strokes unwhipped, don’t make no difference.’

  ‘So, Mamselle Guelph,’ Zealla said, ‘your first duty as intendant shall be to select a malfeasant for hanging. Mr Lesieur gets cranky any day he hasn’t whipped a girl’s bare melons. There are enough who deserve it.’

  ‘How can I? I don’t know them or who has committed crimes.’

  ‘They all have. Are you sure you don’t want me flogged, citizen?’

  Smiling, the blonde rubbed her breasts, licked a finger and dabbed the air. The crowd growled louder and louder.

  ‘No. I’m going to reform this wacky system,’ Trina declared. ‘Stop all this flogging and brutality and barbaric shit, like eating crusties from a girl’s pussy.’

  ‘Best think on it, mamselle,’ Zealla said. ‘Right now, I’d be reasonable and name a victim for Mr Lesieur.’

  The girls in the crowd began to chant, their voices drowning the tap of canes on fesses and the little shrieks of the victims. Trina looked desperately for a solution to the problem; saw faces avid to witness flogging. One girl, a heavy-breasted blonde, turned suddenly and mooned the group on the scaffold, drawing jeers and cheers from the girls around her. Trina saw a perfect ass-peach, its golden skin neatly pinked in lattices of canestripes.

&n
bsp; ‘The scholars expect you to… establish credibility,’ Zealla said. ‘I can suggest a few names, if you wish.’

  ‘Unnecessary,’ Trina hissed. ‘I am in charge — right?’

  ‘Right,’ Zealla said.

  ‘Bring Devora Dykes up here, and hang her,’ Trina said.

  The girls cheered and there was a struggle, the air peppered with screams and curses. At last the girl Devora Dykes was carried by watchmaids up on to the scaffold. Her clothing was in disarray so that she was half nude, big teats flopping, even before she was stripped and strapped, groaning, into the rack, still warm and piss-soaked from Trina’s own body. She was the girl who had mooned them minutes before.

  ‘Wise choice,’ Zealla said. ‘May I ask how you knew —?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ Trina rapped. ‘I am the intendant.’

  ‘Of course. Maid, fetch a robe for the new intendant.’

  Trina raised her arm.

  ‘It’s too hot for clothes,’ she said sweetly. ‘Isn’t nudity shameful, here in New Arras?’

  ‘The most shameful of things,’ Zealla replied.

  ‘Then I shall travel nude to my palace,’ said Trina, licking her teeth. ‘I am a mainlander, right?’

  Elvis leered but Zealla’s face crisped, pale in anger.

  ‘Your privilege, mamselle intendant,’ she said, curtseying, ‘but remember that all officials are subject to the constitution, and one who sports shame may retroactively accrue the punishment leading thereto.’

  Trina said she would take her chances. Nude and cheerful, she folded her arms and spread her legs to watch the chastisement of the squealing, cursing Devora Dykes. An hour later, she stumbled away from Devora’s inert and silent body, lathered in sweat and glowing with welts. Still nude and pale of face, she was escorted by Zealla and a dozen watchmaids to the intendant’s palace perched on a wooded hillock overlooking the harbour.

  Zealla Pure invited the committee of public safety to hear and heed their new intendant.

  ‘I don’t ever want to witness such a hideous thing again,’ Trina blurted. ‘I thought I’d been brutalised, but what Devora endured…’

  Droplets of golden tea spilled from the cup to her saucer.

  Zealla Pure shrugged.

  ‘That was nothing, mamselle intendant,’ she said, and the committee murmured agreement. ‘Devora is no stranger to the lash, or to nipple- and quim-clamps.’

  ‘She screamed so,’ Trina said faintly.

  ‘Not as much as you would have, mamselle intendant,’ said Zealla sweetly and the other maids laughed, while Trina blushed furiously, knowing it was true.

  ‘Nor was her juice so copious,’ said Sirena Toitte, a silky brunette with ruby lips and large conic teats quivering in braless merriment.

  The committee consisted of four other directresses, costumed like Zealla: Sirena Toitte, Alice Frequemme, Heidi Absorb and Dorita Carawn, all scarcely — perhaps not yet — out of their teens. All were ripe maids with the same swelling titties and ass sported by Zealla, the confidence of youth and beauty and the gravity of those accustomed to power over other bodies. With full breasts ballooning inside tight blouses, buttoned to the neck, they sat at a rectangular rosewood table, each girl with a stack of papers before her, a quill pen and inkpot, and a slave — politely, a thrall — in attendance. Thralls kept their heads down, wore shame dress of only skimpy bra and panties and were barefoot on rough floorboards. Their croups, almost fully exposed by their loinstrings, bore marks of recent caning, and the directresses sat with their canes of office hung on the chairbacks behind them. Trina sat alone at the table’s head.

  ‘You’ll want a senior thrall as your secretary and some drudges under her,’ Zealla said. ‘You subdue thralls by playing them off against each other, with promise of reward or punishment. Thralls are indolent scum, but the threat of a return to the prisoner of war camp or, at the least, unpaid duty in the Stella Maris, is enough to quell the boldest. The more harshly you treat them, the more they worship you, especially New Albion prisoners. I think most Anglo trulls from New Albion are lesbians.’

  ‘That sounds like slavery,’ Trina said.

  ‘You have a problem with that?’

  ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘Slavery of humans is forbidden on New Arras and always has been. Anglo trulls do not qualify as human. They are lustful, dirty animals, prey to the most obscene vices, of which lesbian perversion is the mildest.’

  Trina was robed in a power business suit, not unlike her normal workwear: linen, with a white cotton blouse and white scalloped bra and string panties, and nylon stockings, which Zealla assured her were essential for an intendant — although, like the rapidly soaked panties and bra, they clung to her skin and dripped sweat in the high humidity. Her thin blouse was translucent and Trina shifted in her chair, unable to hide her bosom, plastered to the scanty bra, with her nipples bulging against bra and shirt fabric.

  ‘I feel so guilty. I had to watch poor Devora take a hundred strokes with the rubber quirt…’ she gasped.

  ‘And hung so cruelly, by her flaps and nipples, but with clamps beneath her, and her ass-melons strung up.’

  ‘Then you approve, mamselle intendant,’ said Zealla briskly, ‘and we may proceed to business — your rapid induction into the laws and traditions of New Arras.’

  ‘But I don’t approve.’

  ‘Mamselle intendant chose to watch the chastisement in the nude,’ said Heidi Absorb drily: a hard-muscled blonde, with her mane in bangs. ‘Was mamselle intendant excited by the spectacle? Enough to moisten?’

  There was more giggling until Zealla suggested mamselle intendant called the meeting to order. Her lip trembling, Trina did so and allowed each directress to lecture her on the nuances and structure of New Arras life. Her attempts to remind them they were now thralls of GG Baggs — she couldn’t help using their terminology — were greeted with tolerant smiles. Her questions as to who had made this takeover deal — and how, in the absence of phones, computers or faxes — were brushed aside. She slumped in her chair while china tea and petits fours refreshed her and the sleek quintet lectured her on her duties. Beyond the mullioned windows in the intendant’s palace, her new home, tendrils of white clematis, trumpet creeper and Carolina jasmine jostled to penetrate the conference chamber. Sun darted through the thick glass, its hard light turning the sweating girls’ breasts into shimmering prisms. Dust was heavy in the scented air. The directresses swayed like flowers as they spoke, shifting buttocks on wood chairs, crossing bare legs with a swish of skin that echoed the rustle of Trina’s soaked nylons.

  Sirena Toitte directed the department of justice and prisoners of war; Alice Frequemme, the public watch, which was also the army and navy; Heidi Absorb ran the academy and the Stella Maris therapeutic institute; Dorita Carawn, the Bank of New Arras and the bare-breasted canewielders of the security corps, separate and in rivalry to the watchmaids. The former intendant Zealla Pure was now overall directress of discipline and commander-in-chief of the armed forces general staff, staying in residence at the intendant’s palace —‘for the safety of the head of state’, she reassured Trina. Sirena Toitte observed that the state was at war, and it behoved all citizens to pull together for the common weal. Trina must provide herself with a personal maidservant or secretary as her thrall. Sirena offered to send the least despicable prisoners of war for the citizen intendant to select her staff.

  ‘Remember to cane them naked and melons up before you make your choice,’ she said. ‘A girl can never lie under caning.’

  ‘Must they all be prisoners?’ Trina asked.

  ‘It is customary,’ said Zealla.

  ‘Reason suggests it,’ said Dorita Carawn, a haughty, sloe-eyed brunette who flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her right nipple-plum as she spoke.

  ‘In fact,’ Zealla continued, ‘I have already selected a suitable —’

  ‘Hold up,’ Trina said. ‘I can pick my own staff, thanks, mamselle. I want a maid of my own ch
oice to voluntarily accept the position of secretary and personal assistant.’

  ‘Some might think you forward, mamselle intendant, after such short residence,’ said Zealla acidly.

  ‘Directress Pure,’ Trina declared, ‘please summon Constable Harriet Stooplaugh, whom, I trust, Directress Frequemme will release from her duties as watchmaid.’

  The directresses looked at each other sullenly. Only Zealla smiled.

  ‘Of course, mamselle intendant,’ she said.

  Trina sat back, smirking.

  ‘However,’ Zealla continued, ‘may I remind you that you still have a debt to pay — one which I do not think the committee will derogate in your case.’

  Sirena, Alice, Heidi and Dorita shook heads.

  ‘By debt, I mean chastisement. Public servants Acajou and Felt have you on a charge of bribery and corruption, and not even the intendant is above the law.’

  ‘That’s crazy! Sure, I offered them a favour, whenever I got things straight, but —’

  ‘Corruption is unconditional, even suborning maids on your own staff. Plus which, I surprised you in flagrante delicto, masturbating with a prisoner of the republic. So if you decide to thrash me in compense for your ordeals this day, it may be that as directress of discipline I shall first have the pleasure of flogging you, mamselle intendant. Melons up.’

  From the Journal of Mlle Augustine Flageolet, anno 1760 5 I have taken to inflicting punishments simultaneously for the good of my maids. Where triple or quadruple canings are required, it seems merciful to inflict the strokes all at once, with the girls bent over a lowered ship’s mast, or tied by hands and ankles to the rigging, in order to instil esprit de corps. Dorette Lapune, a cheeky minx whose bare bottom is well marked by cane welts, argued for solitary punishment, since part of the punishment is waiting and witnessing of other maids’ bottoms as they redden under strokes. I accused her of egoism, and she admitted it excited her to be the centre of attention as she took a naked flogging. She said all females like to exhibit their bare bodies; in hypocritical bourgeois society, modesty forbids them, which is why they commit crimes, inviting lashes on the bare, in order to enjoy such exhibitions beyond control of their modesty. In particular, girls like the cane on naked buttocks, whose reddening shows their beauty of form. Helpless, she may indulge — indeed, the pain of lashes obliges her to indulge — in wriggles and pouts of her naked buttocks, tantalising any observer sensitive to beauty, and otherwise forbidden by bourgeois modesty. The bare nates of a flogged girl are the hillocks and waves, trembling in a breeze of strokes, of nature herself; or the smooth orbs of moons and planets, virtuously pocked by celestial hail. Lashes on the back are arguably less painful but more humiliating, as they make the naked breasts shudder to an immodest degree. I awarded Dorette a caning of sixty strokes on the bare buttocks, in public, to satisfy her ego.