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CHAPTER 19 : THE USE AND ABUSE OF STATISTICIANS
Neena visits my cell in the evening. She doesn’t usually come at this time. It’s generally the time of day when I can get a few moments to recover my senses but suddenly it looks like I won’t even have that chance now.
I stand up as she enters the cell, bow my head and hold my hands behind my back. It’s becoming instinctive, I hardly realise that I‘ve done it. I glance up momentarily. She smiles, it’s friendly but it also seems like an expression of satisfaction at how I am learning to behave. "Your colleagues have been doing some good work recently," she says, "so it’s time to give them a reward."
‘Colleagues?’ She makes this sound like a normal workplace! I suppose she means the group of Koreans that I have been working alongside. I don’t think of them as colleagues: they have rather smart grey uniforms whilst I am always naked, none of them wear collars, and none of them have numbers tattooed on their skin so it’s clear that they are employees whilst I am a slave. A stereotypical response is needed from me now. All I say is, "How can I help, Gaspazha?"
"You can help because you are the reward. Tonight you will serve them in every way they wish. I shall of course receive reports on how you have performed. You will not let me down, I hope? After all, a Captain who gives a reward to her crew will feel very angry if the reward turns out not to be very rewarding?"
Once I would have been appalled. Now I am merely resigned to my fate. Accepting. It’s clear that Neena means that I am to be given as a sexual plaything to a trio of domestics who "had done good work recently". Neena hasn’t specified what exactly the Koreans are going to do with me but she doesn’t really need to.
The Koreans. Actually I have no idea where they come from. They might be from Mongolia? Perhaps China? I picked on Korea, because that was where … what was his name? Joseph! He was called Joseph and that was where he was going, the last time I saw him. How long ago was it now? I really have no idea. Ever so long …
Joe! I still think of him but I am so busy. Days go by before I spare him a thought and even then his memory has totally lost its vividness. It’s dulled, as if I’m anaesthetised. It is like seeing a tiny image of him which gets smaller and fainter, smaller and fainter each time I think of him. All my waking hours are full: wash, run, gym, fuck, do academic work on my data, do housework, wash, lick, suck, sleep and so on the next day. And the next day. And the next. And for so very many days now.
‘The Koreans’ all speak very fast and never really speak to me except to give instructions - "You wash" or "You clean here". One of them seems to be in charge of the other two and I have called her "Tiger Lily", after the Chinese conjurer’s daughter in the Rupert Bear Stories (1) but her real name seems to be Batachikan.
To fill the empty space until one of them arrives I find myself saying, "I shall do my best to entertain our Korean staff, Gaspazha"
"Korean? What are you talking about?"
"Er, Batachikan and her colleagues .. I mean … I thought …"
"Koreans? They are not Koreans. Whatever gave you that idea? They are Tartars, from Mongolia. Their ancestors held large parts of Russia until we overthrew them." She looks at me with a tired expression. "Of course, I sometimes forget that you know so little proper history. It was called ‘The Tartar Yoke’; a dreary period in our history. (2) Now the tables are turned and it is … satisfactory … for us to have them tamed and working as domestic servants. Whilst they are servants to us they are Superiors to you. Slaves never have colleagues except perhaps for other slaves. Slaves only ever have Superiors. Do you understand?"
"Yes Gaspazha. I am sorry I spoke in a careless way."
"You might be," Neena almost snaps. "Ah, here is Batachikan, now, come for you."
She comes over to Neena and I, smiling. She clips a lead to my collar and handcuffs my hands behind me. She puts her had to one side and then the other as if she is considering whether that will be sufficient for now. She seems happy enough.
Before she goes, Neena takes a broad leather spanking paddle from a bag she is carrying and hands it to ‘Tiger Lily’ who bows in gratitude and leads me away. I glance over my shoulder, only to see Neena smiling and blowing me a kiss – as she abandons me to my fate.
Together we climb up to the upper story of the dacha. I have a fleeting few moments to reflect on the short revelatory conversation with Gaspazha Neena. So they are from Mongolia. A wave of regret washes over me. Mongolia. Not Korea. Another thin strand which connects me with my former life has been slashed through: the two ends separate and fall away from each other. Not Korean. No connection with … with … Joe. Mongolian. Even more alien than they were before. I am not going to be used by the sort of people who Joe has rubbed shoulders with. I am in the hands of people whose name and whose home is the proverbial expression of the far-away and remote and utterly alien. Mongols, from Mongolia.
But Neena began by calling them my colleagues and then had to correct herself by underlining the idea that they were my Superiors. Which they may be, but then Neena has made a mistake. She has spoken without due care and attention. So she is not infallible after all …
The Mongolians have a suite to themselves in the very top floor of the Dacha. I guess that it’s the former servant’s quarters. Batachikan points to the ground as we enter and I kneel obediently. She goes through to the sitting room and one of her colleagues – Ssisma - returns, smiling the same impassive smile she usually wears. There is a tug on my lead. I follow the two of them into the bedroom that they all share.
There is one single bed and one double. I am clipped to the foot of the double bed and one of them blindfolds me. The blindfold is leather; soft and completely effective. It is wrapped around my head and closed with a broad Velcro fastening. It is not coming loose until it is peeled off. There is silence. Then the rustle of clothes being removed. Then giggles. A hand begins to play with my breasts, then nipples. There is a gentle tug on my nipple rings followed by the wetness of a tongue. As the tongue swirls up and down my nipple I too start to giggle and, worse, I feel myself getting wet.
It confirms to me, that I have started to enjoy being used. My moral defences have been completely eroded and washed away by the constant assault on them.
There’s a hand brushing my labia. More giggles. They find my wetness. Many more giggles and incomprehensible words now. I don’t need a translation, though, because I can guess what they are saying. "Look at this slave. How wet she is. I thought she wouldn’t like this sort of thing but this one obviously does ……"
There’s a tug on my collar and I follow. It leads me up onto the bed and I am guided between someone’s thighs. A hand presses down on my head guiding it firmly down on a shaven crotch. My lips find a girl’s labia, so I start to brush them with my lips, as gently as they have been with me: up down, up, down. The labia smell slightly tangy, but clean. They get wet. Out comes my tongue, greeted by more giggling and excited words when they see my stud. I lick. Up. Down. Up. Down. The wetness gets more pronounced. Whoever it is must be enjoying themselves because they begin to mew and move their hips. They slide ever so slightly away from me. I have to lean forwards to catch them. It leaves my bum sticking up in the air and Slap! The paddle catches me. Firm. Not brutal. Just an ‘encouragement’ to keep going I suppose. I keep going and so do they. Whoever has the paddle keeps up a steady patter on my buttocks. My tongue keeps gently rubbing the other girl’s labia. She is so wet now that her lips part and I feel her clit. I swirl across it. Making the shapes of letters with the tip of my tongue. She seems to find "O" and "I" and "F" are particularly exciting, because this is where she starts to buck and really squeal and squeal and squeal and comes and how she comes! Comes with a twisting and bucking of her hips; she holds my lips firmly down onto herself and I am in complete intimate contact with this orgasmic female, trapped by her hands and by her colleague behind me.
They pause. There is more rustling. The girl in front of me moves away and some else takes her place. The performance begins once more. I, brush the girl’s labia (not shaven this time) with my tongue. One of them paddles my arse. I assume that the third is enjoying the show. Maybe masturbating herself?
The new girl climbs steadily to ecstasy as my bum begins to burn. I suppose that I am going to have to go through this for the third girl as well?
As the gentle beating goes on, I get more and more distracted by the burning, slapping, pain. It’s a real effort to keep my lips and tongue on target when at last the girl orgasms, thank goodness. I do my best to enjoy the short respite.
Ominously, there is another changing of places, but this time something different is happening. There is a finger on my anus. It runs something slippery across me. I kneel, keeping still. The finger slowly penetrates. It rubs round and round. My sphincter relaxes in spite of me. And then the finger is replaced by something else. Harder. Wider. They press, gently but constantly. I do all I can to relax. A dildo slides into me and there is someone on the other end of it. She mounts me. Holds me firmly round the waist. More noise in front of me and then my head is once more pushed towards another – the final vagina. As I lick, the girl behind me enthusiastically reams out my bum. I begin to pant as I try to lick the other girl’s clit. It’s not a polished performance but what I am now lacking in technique, I make up for in enthusiasm. I am being so completely slutty. As the girl behind me drives the dildo into my bum I gasp and squeal and press forward driving my tongue as far up the other girls vagina as I can and so we go on and on until both of them climax!
I’m exhausted from the physical effort of it and from the psychological shame of it. They strip my blindfold from me and I face them. The three of them are lounging naked, in post orgasmic bliss. They are laughing at me. They know that while they have reached physical emotional sexual satisfaction, I’m high and dry; still panting for it. The front shield on my chastity belt is implacably preventing me getting any relief of my own. Of course they realise and they laugh some more at my predicament. It’s true - I am just here to be used. And the worst of it is that I love it now. I could go through the whole thing again and still want to do it yet again, over and over again.
The following day I am taken back to the University. Somehow Neena seems to expect that I can just forget the things I am being put through, and pick up my academic work as if I were any other researcher. It’s another bizarre contradiction; the measured, analytical me on one hand and the debauched, sexual me on the other.
Neena tells me that I am to see to Dr Mendeleyev and Julia Romanova. I am to give them a report on the progress with my (or maybe their?) research.
She takes me in to a tutorial room half way up the University’s main tower. The windows of the room give magnificent views across the city. Neena has given me the same clothes to wear once more, so I feel rather more confident about giving a presentation. There was a time when I would never think twice about doing this but by now, after taking the subservient role all the time, it feels very strange to "command attention" again and I’m not sure that I even like it anymore. I find I am asking myself if Dr Mendeleyev or Julia or even Neena could present the data and just have me on hand to deal with any details? But it seems that I am not going to be allowed this luxury.
As we are waiting for two other people to arrive, I shuffle my papers nervously and re-read the list of points I have to make. The door opens. The others all rise and greet a tall, very attractive woman in her - well? – it’s hard to say. She’s certainly at least thirty, but could be in her forties, even fifties. She is confident, attractive, poised, elegant. She is followed in by a man ….. oh fuck! ….. oh, oh oh!
It’s the man in the photograph, the photograph that "Agency" showed me after they took me from Inward Bound! This is the man that "The Agency" was so interested in; the man in the photograph on Angela’s desk. I start to feel sick.
"Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky and Gaspazha Svetlana Nikitechna Kustenskaya! Thank you so much for coming!" begins Dr Mendeleyev.
Kustensky. Kustenskaya? The name of the Dacha. So it’s the name of the Owner ….. my Owner!
I burst out in a cold sweat, heart racing, feeling sick with anxiety. This is the man who arranged my abduction and my enslavement. Coming here to listen to me discuss how young innocent men and women were prepared to lay bare their innermost fantasies. To strip themselves more than naked. What on earth might my research be leading to?
Dr Mendeleyev has just finished introducing Julia (Neena needs no introduction) … " and this of course is Vyera. Have you met in person yet? Vyera: come to meet Gaspadeen and Gaspazha." Dr Mendeleyev is using the adult version of my name. For the first time in a long time, I am Vyera.
They stand only twenty feet from me but the journey towards then seems to take hours. What do I say? Do I smile? Even allowing for my inherent desire to be polite I can’t bring myself to say, "Such a pleasure to meet you." What do slaves do when they meet their Master and Mistress for the first time? Their new owners? The people who apparently have the power of life or death over them?
I walk unsteadily over, bow my head and hold my hands behind my back just as I do when I greet Neena in the mornings. For goodness sake why? But I just stand there. The woman takes my chin in her hand and lifts my face so our eyes meet.
"I am Svetlana Nikitechna," she says.
"And I am Anatoly Sergeyevitch", says the man, resting his hand on my shoulder.
"I’m sorry" I try to say, "I am not sure what to do", falling over my words.
"You are doing well, rabinya," replies the woman. She smiles at her companion as if to say, you see there is truth in Vyera. "Please, we should start."
Once these bizarre formalities are concluded, Dr Mendeleyev steers proceedings back towards something approaching normality, in as much as it can be.
"Our purpose today is to give Vyera the chance to describe her findings from this most interesting research project. She has been responsible for data collection and analysis. I have provided advice concerning the approach to analysis and Julia here has provided detailed advice concerning the use of the statistical tests for the significance of differences between the groups of subjects. However, I can say that the work which Vyera is going to describe is the results of her own very considerable efforts ……"
He smiles and holds out his arm, palm open as a signal to me to begin. Everyone sits and turns their chairs towards me. I feel lonely, cold; more naked than if I wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
I suddenly think, what happens to me after this project is complete? Will I merely be disposed of, my usefulness at an end? I shake this thought away. It can’t help things now. Now I just have to get through the report. I clear my throat and begin.
"As you know I can speak a little Russian but this report is technical and I do not know enough words so may I speak in English? "
Heads nod around the table ……
"This project began as a doctoral research project at a University in the UK. It was sponsored by the University Department of Psychology as part of a wider investigative effort into the effect of play behaviour on psychological stress in adult men and women." I am relieved to find that as I fall into my stride everything else slips away and once more, I can function as an academic with something to say: "This investigation tracks the psychological changes which take place in volunteers who take part in extended consensual slavery games.
"Can I ask who proposed this research?" interjects the woman, Svetlana.
"Er, it was suggested to me by the head of department, Professor Dawney … er, as a suitable project and because not much was known about …."
The woman smirks and looks pointedly at her husband who looks oddly – just for a moment – uncomfortable. There has been an unspoken communication. I get the strong feeling that they know all about Angela and the games she likes to play. Gaspazha Kustenskaya clearly does not like her ……
"The project was based at ……."
The more I speak, the more I slip back into the skin of my former self. The more I seem like the self-confident, precise, informed, articulate woman who used to be Jennifer McEwan. Perhaps I am now possessed by her ghost. The slutty creature who lost herself in licking out women she barely knew last evening begins to fade away.
" …… so to summarise. First, our experimental sample was self-selected and thus biased to contain subjects who were likely to enjoy BDSM and MS experiences. Second, during their adventure, they became more confident in their fantasies and more confident about actualising their fantasies in real life. Third, these differences were clearly significant with p values of < = 0.05 and in some cases p values of < or = 0.01." (3)
Dr Mendeleyev raises his eyebrows at this point and glances at the Kustenskys.
"Fourth, the experimental group were significantly different from the reference population whose sexual outlook was (in the statistical sense) normally distributed. Fifth, the strongest "reactors" to the various experiences could be predicted from the answers to the initial questionnaires but there were some other subjects who showed milder initial bias towards BDSM and MS fantasies but who nevertheless began to react strongly and positively as their adventure unfolded."
I stop speaking, my presentation over. My audience sits chewing over my concluding remarks and then spontaneously begins to applaud. I smile broadly and my eyes begin to water. I wipe them with a tissue from the pocket of the jeans I am wearing. So it seems I have done well after all.
"Questions?", asks Dr Mendeleyev, rising from his chair.
"I would like to start", responds Gaspadeen Kustensky. Dr Mendeleyev nods. "So you could identify subjects who would enjoy their slavery experience and complete their training successfully by the use of a screening questionnaire and your identification is usually accurate?"
"Yes, in this sample."
"Can you tell if the training itself was the most important factor, or the people?"
"No: the population was already biased to include only people who were likely to make the most of their experience and training. It’s not possible to determine from this project if it is the people or the training which is most important."
"So if you picked up a subject at random, does the Inward Bound programme make them different people? Are you able to predict the extent to which they are likely to be affected by their experiences?"
Suddenly with a shock I realise where this is going. They are interested in my research because it might identify people who could be trained most easily for slavery! I open my mouth and close it. I feel very dry. I try to speak again but nothing comes out. It is a confirmation of what I have begun to suspect. I am not the first abductee and I will not be the last girl or boy to be kidnapped into slavery and it is the results of my research which will smooth the path of the slavers and help them to identify and train the future slaves!
Gaspazha Svetlana takes up the questioning. "It seems to me that you have tracked changes in people who are already enthusiasts?"
It feels easier to answer factual questions than to give opinions. Somehow I feel that makes me less complicit in all this dreadful criminal conspiracy. "Yes"
"And enthusiasts get more enthusiastic if they are encouraged in the right way?"
"Yes. That’s what the data show."
"And you would need a quite separate investigation into the effects of BDSM and MS training on people who had no bias towards that sort of sexuality in the first place?"
"Yes, certainly."
"So perhaps a randomised controlled trial would accomplish this?"
"I am sorry?" This level of sophistication in Gaspazha Kustenskaya takes me completely by surprise.
"I mean," she continues, looking towards the others in the room, "if one collected a sample of say, 100 subjects and then allocated them at random to two groups of fifty, and exposed one group to BDSM and MS training and the other merely to deprivation of freedom, it would then be possible to assess how effective the Inward Bound methods were at changing a subject’s mindset?"
"Well, yes but how could one ever do that? You would need Ethical Approval and that would imply describing the nature of the experiment to the subjects and then there is the question of informed consent. At Inward Bound they ……." I do not finish the sentence. As I speak, I know that consent, informed or otherwise, is not on their agenda.
Gaspazha Kustenskaya just smiles broadly and nods. Her husband continues, "Yes. I agree ordinarily this would be difficult to achieve."
His tone and facial expression convince me that the sinister implications of his remarks are not only in my mind and that ethical approval isn’t something that comes high upon his agenda. I try to grasp what might be my one last opportunity to rescue the situation and to rescue innocent men and women who might fall prey to these slavers, as I have done.
"But Gaspadeen, but Gaspazha do you need to know if the Inward Bound methods are effective at changing the mindset of someone with no BDSM or MS interest? There is no shortage of volunteers – paying customers too, don’t forget - who want to go to Inward Bound and follow the course there ….."
Gaspazha Kustenskaya then smiles broadly once more and says to her husband, "Well there you are Tolya. That’s why they are interested. Instead of having to go after people, the people come after them!"
I cannot understand the full implications of this remark, in particular who exactly "they" are, but everyone else in the room obviously does. Gaspadeen Kustensky is nodding in his head in a way that says whatever it is that he has just learned has impressed him. Svetlana his wife is looking smug.
We travel back to the Dacha, walking back to the car, then driving through suburban Moscow. As we go I cannot help noticing how many people are speaking on mobile ‘phones. Mobiles: once a luxury to acquire, then something merely useful, now something which could bring about my execution. My hand strays to stroke the collar that defines my slavery and sits around my neck as a continual threat to my life.
The thought wriggles and writhes in my mind. I know I should probably not ask but I cannot let it lay. "Gaszphaza Neena?"
"Da, rabinya?"
"Can I ask you…"
"Well, there will be a cost." She cuts me off. "You have not had a caning recently and I was thinking that it is probably time you felt the cane again, especially after this afternoon. You performed well. Your owners were very pleased with you, but it is important for slaves never to forget what they are, and the cane is a wonderful way to remind them – or the whip, of course." She sees my nervous acceptance of what she says. "Is your question worth an extra caning, given that you will be caned tomorrow in any event?"
I don’t need to think. "Da, Gaspazha. It is worth it."
"Really? No hesitation? So definite? So sure? Well, you had better ask me."
Odd. This woman is my own age. Perhaps younger. We are from the same educational background, I guess. We probably enjoyed a similar upbringing, and yet she is now in charge of me and I must obey her commands. She can dispense physical punishment to me and I have to gratefully accept it. All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All because others were interested in work I was asked to do by yet another ‘someone else’. How strange the twists and turns of our lives are!
"And your question is?"
"My special number on your mobile phone …."
"Your execution number?" Her blunt response convinces me more than anything else of how real that threat is.
"Er, yes. I am worried about people dialling wrong numbers ….."
"Ha!" Neena laughs out loud. It’s obviously a foolish question but it doesn’t feel that way to me. "Well, what should I to tell you? I could say that’s it’s none of your business - and it’s not, by the way. I could say that it’s a risk you will have to live with." I bow my head but Neena continues. "I could point out that your new country went from a backwards agricultural nation to a nuclear power in 30 years, launched the first satellite, put the first animal in space, sent the first space probe to the moon, photographed the dark side of the moon for the first time, put the first man in orbit and brought him back safely to earth, launched the first useable space station and landed the first ever functioning space probe on Venus. So with all this in mind, do you think our country is incapable of arranging a secure mobile telephone connection?"
"I’m sorry Gsapazha. I see I was foolish."
"Actually, rabinya, you can’t dial the number with just any ‘phone and there has to be two way device to device communication. That’s the real answer. Reassured?"
"Yes Gaspazha. Thank you."
"How much are you reassured? How many strokes is my explanation worth, do you think?"
For a moment I am at a loss for words. "Er … er … well it has set my mind at rest so it has to be worth … several." Neena is really making me squirm now.
"Several? Is that all? To be reassured that you will not be accidentally killed by someone, oh, ordering a pizza say, or calling their lover?" She looks at me with one quizzical eyebrow raised.
She obviously wants me to set my own punishment. If I go too low, she will delight in increasing it. If I go too high, she will delight in giving me more cane strokes than she intended and telling me all about the extra pain I have awarded myself and all for not trusting her and the Kustenskys. It’s another domination game. I asked one question. She gave me five answers. Russia is a "metric state" and things go in fives and tens so I swallow hard and say. "Twenty five, Gaspazha?"
She glances quickly towards me – and laughs. "Yes: twenty five. That will do nicely! Oh and the five you were to get anyway makes thirty. Tell you what. I will carefully record it and have it set up on your computer so you will have to watch your punishment each and every time you switch on. A suitable reminder of what happens to slaves who do not trust their owners as much as they ought? What do you think?"
"Da, Gaspazha. Spaseeba."
"Pazh’ alsta, rabinya!"
We pass the rest of the journey in silence until we reach the Dacha. Neena who has been driving, parks the people carrier, switches off the engine and says to me, "Now, I have your final task for today – well probably I should say tonight. There are three rapacious young women who have been waiting all day to play with you! Go to your cell, take off all our clothes, leave them on your mattress neatly folded and report for duty. You know where to go!"
I can feel my heart rate beginning to climb, my mouth waters and I start to look forward to my "next duty". The Academic has been left 100 km away in Moscow. The slut has reappeared.
"You really are beginning to enjoy this aspect of your service, aren’t you?" Neena has seen through me immediately, of course.
"Yes Gaspazha, I am ashamed to say."
"Ashamed? Don’t be ashamed. That’s an instruction. Do you understand? I said you were becoming wonderfully slutty and sluts are made, not born. I expect you to apply yourself enthusiastically to your sexual service just as you do to any other aspect of your service, but this time, the measure of your achievement will be how much you can wholeheartedly enjoy it.
"Da, Gaspazha."
"Now off you go ……"
I climb the stairs and follow the corridor until once more I am standing outside the door of the suite used by the ‘Koreans’ but as I now know them to be, the Mongols. Another visit to Outer Mongolia. I knock and then kneel. Neena’s words still occupy my thoughts. To be made into a slut. To enjoy being a slut. To be fulfilled by being a slut. Is that really how it must be for me?
The door opens and I look up into the smiling face of Batachikan.
She beckons me inside. Her two friends are waiting for me. This time they are Arban and Damdinsuryn. She is dressed in a silk dressing gown. They are already naked. A large, realistic dildo and a knobbly butt plug stand on a table, side by side, ready.
With no more hesitation, Damdinsuryn lays down on her back, lifts her legs into the air and glances towards me. No words are needed. I am to lick her. Labia, clit, breasts, thighs. I begin to perform my duties. She has evidently been using a skin cream. It makes it easier for my tongue to glide over her body and she tastes nice, in a creamy way. By the time I reach her clit, her cunt is drooling and I have to keep lapping it up, so to speak. The more I perform, the more abjectly I want to serve sexually.
My own sexual desires are almost always unsatisfied (unless Andrei has taken me) and I am constantly smouldering, even burning with desire.
The girl orgasms. In a parody of polite behaviour, she smiles, gives me a short bow and Arban takes her place. I begin again. Kiss. Rub. Tease. Lick. Suck. Kiss. Rub. Lick. Suck. Lick. Suck. Stroke. Stretch. Suck. Lick. Finally she reaches orgasm. She smiles broadly. She bows.
Arms reach around me. The third girl. Batachikan herself. She is holding the dildo.
She finds two recesses in the front plate of my belt and connects the dildo. It’s held firmly by corresponding latches in its base. It juts from me. It’s obscene. Thank goodness I am not a man like … what was his name? The man I used to be with, so long ago? How lucky I am not to be like him, having to waddle round with an erect prick sticking out from your body whenever you are aroused. How much more attractive we girls are! But then sometimes our tits can get a bit hangy. But of course, I no longer really have tits. With all my exercise and diet I look quite androgynous. I suppose I must look a bit like a man? A eunuch with no prick? Except I have prick now.
‘Tiger Lily’ is on the bed in front of me, legs apart. Hips on a pillow. I bend and begin by nuzzling at her labia; careful rub after careful rub. Then I start licking; slow, careful, deliberate licking. She juices. I lap. My tongue travels up from base to clit. Up. Up. Up. Then I swirl across her clit itself. Now she squeals out loud She begins to buck. It’s time I penetrated her. I have never done this before. Better be careful! I slide slowly past her outer ring. I nudge the dildo deeper. She is very wet! There is no resistance. I suppose a man must feel the muscles of the vaginal walls but all I feel is the pressure of the base of the dildo on my chastity belt and receive - as always happens – no sexual gratification from my own vagina or clit – and of course, I feel nothing of Batachikan herself. Slowly, firmly I let my dildo travel on inwards. I have no proper feedback, as a man must have. I wonder what it used to feel like for … that man … when he took me? Suddenly my mons and hers touch. She gasps. Someone swipes me on my bum. I start to pump her. In. Out. In Out. One of the others begins to paddle me. In. Smack! Out. Smack! In. Smack! Out. Slowly, then faster, then faster we three beat out this strange sexual tattoo. Batachikan mews, gasps, bucks, mews, writhes – and comes. And now it’s my turn to give out a little torture. I continue to ream her cunt! She is squealing in ecstasy and I just continue. She is desperate for me to stop. Serve her right if she lets go of her bladder and wets her bed! The other two look on and laugh, obviously enjoying their friend’s sexual discomfort. It’s not long – perhaps a dozen strokes? – before I slowly subside and let her recover.
There is a hand on my shoulder. I stand. Arban has the key to my belt! She gently takes my wrists and cuffs my hands behind me, so I cannot interfere with what they have planned. Carefully she disconnects the dildo and offers it up to my lips. I am to lick it clean. To chuckles of delight and satisfaction from the three of them, I lick the dildo clean of ‘Tiger Lilly’s’ vaginal juices. It’s like licking an ice cream. Perhaps that is what is causing such amusement? Finally, the dildo is pristine and it is laid down. She unlocks the front plate of my belt. Then she lubricates the dildo again by sliding it up her own cunt – and, bobbing down onto her knees, she pushes it up into my own vagina. The dildo still slick with her juices and it is now snuggled right up inside me. There is nothing I can do to prevent them. What about the risk of infection? Now all our juices, our body fluids are intimately mixed.
She lifts the front plate back over my mons. Re-engages the lock and closes it – click! – trapping the dildo inside me. But it does feel good to have a full cunny again!
Arban turns back to the bed. She kneels, head to the mattress, bum in the air – and points to her anus! She wants me to rim her! With a sigh I kneel behind her and begin, circling her bud, sweeping across the little starfish, exploring the crinkles, teasing the opening. She relaxes. Her anus beckons. I really, really don’t like this – ordinarily. But the prolonged sexual tension and the dildo in my cunny begin to work their spell and on I go: margins, centre, inner area. I blow gently on the anus and I see it relax, to show the mucosa within. I feel my bum being patted. It’s a signal. It’s telling me to lick ever more intimately. I obey, rolling up my tongue to fuck this girl’s anus and on I go until she straightens up and Damdinsuryn takes her place and I reprise my performance. Nuzzle, kiss, lick, blow, kiss, lick and as the flower opens, explore her more deeply. Thank heavens they are all clean!
Eventually, I have rimmed all three of them. At least they seem pleased with my efforts.
"Now you. On bed! On knees!
I obey, of course.
Someone disconnects the rear bar of my chastity belt. It gives them access to my anus. A finger runs across it; cool, slippery. It slips inside me, slowly stretching me this way and that. It’s replaced by something firm, hard, rounded. My anus begins to stretch over the head of the knobbly butt plug. The plug seems very slippery. As soon as I relax, it pops in quickly. They continue to push gently. Another bulbous ridge slips inside me. Then another. Then the last and my sphincter grips the terminal groove firmly.
The rear bar of my chastity belt is replaced, securely trapping the plug inside me, just as the dildo has been and for good measure they tie the ring on the end of the plug to the rear bar, to make absolutely sure that the butt plug stays put. One of the Mongolians pats my bum and I stand. They all stand, smile and bow. Batachikan says, "You go back to cell now. Enjoy!"
She smirks. She knows how odd this is going to feel. I’m plugged at both sides. Each way I bend, however I move, the intruders remind me they are there. But there is more. The butt plug is tingling. Whatever they lubricated it with, is beginning to feel peppery. Not painful but very peppery.
I bow out of politeness (after all, they are Sluzhanka and I am merely rabinya) and return to my cell. I shut the door. It locks automatically.
By the time I have cleaned my teeth, my arse is slowly burning. There is nothing I can do about it. The lubricant is buttery. It will not rinse off easily and someone has taken my soap away.
I spend a restless night, unable to find a position where the fullness of the dildo in my cunt does not remind me that its there, filling, and stretching me and in my bum, there is a constant feeling of fullness mixed with a smouldering, peppery tingling ……..
A deep ravine now separates Sveta Kustensky from her slave, Vyera. Some time ago, they could have stood shoulder to shoulder as equals. Two capable women, happily married to successful husbands (both, coincidently in the engineering business) with careers of their own, except perhaps one difference: that Sveta would be older and financially more secure.
But now? Ah! What a difference there is. Vyera is completely and irrevocably in the power of the other woman and her husband and his other employees.
This change of situation is weighing heavily on Sveta’s mind. She lays in bed unable to sleep. It’s something which often troubles her now. Her mind revisits Vyera’s presentation at the university; the organisation of ideas, the work done to bring the project to fruition, her eloquence, her poise as she answered questions, the glint of the room lights on her slave collar …. The collar. The chain which checks and confines her.
How, Sveta asks herself, can I be complicit in this crime? The girl has been stolen. Her work has been stolen. She thinks of another, another who should have shared a birthday with Vyera, another who should have stood tall and enjoyed the summer sunlight warming their body, another who had life stolen from them, for the convenience of others, another whose remains are now forgotten particles of dust somewhere scattered on the face of the earth and who lives only in Sveta’s imagination.
She slides from bed and goes to the study to drink. She once found the sedative properties of alcohol to be a comfort. She knows it has lost none of its ability to anaesthetise the despairing mind, at least for a time, but now? Somehow its capability seems dulled.
What is the girl doing now, Sveta wonders? She hopes Vyera is sleeping soundly, at peace. The untroubled sleep of the innocent.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Footnotes:
(1) Rupert Bear. Famous British cartoon character features in the Daily Express newspaper who began his adventures at the beginning of the last century. The pictures accompanying the text are always very carefully drawn and the text has three versions to suit children at different reading ages. Curious? You can track down this year’s Rupert Annual at Amazon or for serious nostalgia freaks try the originals on e-Bay! (£90 for a 1953 original last time I looked, Freddie.)
(2) For more about Neena’s ruffled national pride over The Tartar Yoke, see the Wikipedia entry.
(3) Vyera/Jennifer is quoting ‘P values’ which indicate the probability that the effects she has found in her data are due to chance. The smaller the decimal fraction is, the less likely the effect in question is merely due to blind chance.
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© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg, 2011
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