Madeleine (8 page)

The fourth caught her totally off guard.
Instead of coming to her head, as expected, to demand service of her cunt, or, like her predecessor, the brown dimple of her anus, the last of the quartet, came to her rear, and proceeded to work her vulva, and especially her engorged clitoris, until she writhed on the table, desperate for release.
But release was not granted.
Her tormentress seemed able to judge with uncanny accuracy just when the dam was about to burst, and let her passions flood, and, on the very brink of detonation, would drive her scarlet talon of a thumb-nail so cruelly into the tender spear that the rising lava was driven down by the pain, and her cry was one of anguish, not ecstasy.
Three times she nearly came, only to be driven back from the crest by the tearing agony of the talon thrust into the, now bleeding, bud, before the hand withdrew and dismissed her, still unsatisfied, with a contemptuous slap on the buttock.

She stood it to the end, but her face was streaked with tears, and her chest heaved with sobs as she helped them on with their coats, and held the door for their departure, while they thanked their host, and recommended that he take the ‘maid’ in hand.

‘She couldn’t help being clumsy but, at least, get her to shape up, and not look quite so common a slut’.

It had been mortifying and painful.
Her hands had hurt so that she could har
dly dress herself, and the free
lance work went into suspension, she couldn’t hold a pen, or work a keyboard for days.
They were so stiff and sore that masturbation would have been unsatisfactory, even if the wounds inflicted by the razor sharp talons had allowed it.
As it was she could not bear to touch herself there for days.

A week passed, her hands and clitoris healed, her bottom was pronounced pristine, and the call to duty came again.
As so often, she was given no more than a time to expect a car to call for her, though she knew that she was available again and, with rich men queuing for the privilege of transforming her smooth white buttocks into a ridged and bleeding, purple mass, she was on her way to another severe whipping.
Her throat tightened, her knees trembled, as the car rolled smoothly across town, but there was a matching warmth in her belly and moisture
wetted the glossy hairs along the folds of her labia.

She cringed at the thought of the cane cutting into her bottom, yet again.
These men, who could afford the five grand that secured the use of her body for the night as easily as the average kerb-crawler parted with fifty pounds for a quick blow job, were men who habitually expected the best for their money, and extracted the last drop of value from their purchase, and for most of them that meant the cane on her soft white flesh.
And not any light weight swishers, but solid lengths of yellow rattan, heavy and bruising, that could break her tender skin in one blow if there was wrist and weight behind it, or black Malaccas, with a joint like a skeletal knuckle every two inches that left a trail of connected blisters across her hinds, each oozing stickily where the blood was forced through the over stressed skin.
God, how she hated the cane.

So why did she submit to it?
The money?
She certainly was making a great deal, but her lifestyle was, in fact, little different from before she had taken to the life, and she would have been comfortable enough if she’d taken the offer from ‘Hells Bells’.
And she quite definitely did not enjoy the pain and degradation heaped upon her, and especially the yellow and black rods that seemed to cut right to the heart of her.
No, it was an amalgam of pride in achievement and sexual satisfaction, that brought her back, time and again, to face, or rather, expose her buttocks to, the withering cuts her temporary masters inflicted on her shrinking flesh.

Pride, in that she was unique.
There was no other woman operating in the exalted circle of her monied clients who would, or could, accept the punishment she endured, several times a month.

Achievement, when she had held out against a prolonged cruel thrashing, or some other taxing ordeal, which had driven her to the limit of her physical resources, without breaking her resolve to go on taking it.

Finally, sexual satisfaction. Whether she had come to orgasm while her battered body was penetrated by the master, climaxes of seismic proportions that left her spent and shattered, or had been dismissed without such physical release, she was always filled with a sense of fulfilment and satisfaction after each adventure, one which carried through for days at a time.

The limousine entered an area of fashionable squares, tall Georgian town houses, with pillared doorways lining the sides, each much like the others.
There did seem something familiar, though, about the house at which the chauffeur set her down.
She went up the half dozen steps into the portico, and stopped dead.
A neat label by the entry phone spelt out HELWORTHY.
No wonder it seemed familiar, she had been here to meet Maurice Helworthy, of Helworthy Bellman, ‘Hells Bells’, when he had offered her the job, which she had turned down without explanation.
How could she face him now?
She turned and fled.

Madame was not pleased.
She did not raise her voice, but Madeleine, standing on the rug before the ornate table that served Madame as a desk, felt like a delinquent school girl, up before the Head.

“You have failed me badly,” Madame Ruskova informed her, “and broken our agreement.
You understood perfectly well, when you accepted my conditions, that I would decide when and where you worked, and who for.
I was perfectly aware of your previous connection with Maurice Helworthy, and considered that there was no reason why you should not be sent to him, just like any other client who is on our approved list.
His discretion is guaranteed.
As I told you before, we have powerful friends, and our clients know it, and none would step out of line.
As to any personal embarrassment you might suffer, that is of no importance, and, if Maurice should take the opportunity to settle a personal score, once he realised who his slave for the night was, that would probably result in a very satisfied client, even if it did result in an extra sore bottom.
Do you understand?”

Madeleine shuffled her feet.
This was getting more like the Headmistress’s study every minute.
Was she going to order her ‘six of the best’ next?
She looked at the floor and said, “Yes, Madame.”

The steely eyes regarded her coldly.

“You’ve broken our agreement, and you’ve caused me to let a valued client down.
Of course, I shall send you to Maurice another time soon, but first you must be punished.” Madeleine shivered.
What sort of beating could she expect from this implacable mistress?
Instead of the expected command to bare herself for the whip, Madame handed down a quite different sentence.

“To compensate me for loss of your earnings, you will do a week’s duty as a common whore, at fifty pounds a throw.
I’m sending you to a brothel we’ve connections with.
Bertha runs it, and she’ll see you work.
You’ll put your back into it, because I shall tell her to give any customer his money back if he’s not entirely satisfied, and you’ll stay just as long as it takes to make up the five thousand.
One hundred satisfied customers, it’s up to you how soon you get out.”

Madelaine’s heart sank as she heard this dire sentence.
There was no way she was going to be able to mitigate the effect by obtaining any sexual gratification from it.
She was embarked on her current career precisely because straight sex, even with a considerate and skilled lover, left her with something missing, and a procession of uncaring anonymous males would do nothing for her, as Madame had astutely calculated, when she devised this daunting punishment.

If she was to get out in a week, she’d have to service fifteen men a day, not counting any who were dissatisfied with her performance, and did the brothel get enough customers every day of the week to sustain that?
There’d be other girls who’d demand their share of the trade, and she’d have to make up the shortfall by taking two dozen or more on nights when trade was brisk, or stay in the brothel for days more.
Miserably, she nodded her acceptance of Madame’s judgement on her.

“Very good, I’ll send you over with my driver at once, but there’s one more matter to attend to first.
Follow me.” And she left the room, leaving Madeleine to trail after.

She led her to a bathroom, where she bent to adjust the taps of the bidet, calling over her shoulder, “Take off your knickers and lift your skirt.”

At a loss as to what special hygiene requirements were called for prior to her unwelcome stint in the brothel, but not anxious to provoke the still angry Madame further, she meekly obeyed, slipping her knickers down to her ankles, and stepping out of them before hoisting her skirt up to her waist, feeling the air cool on her unmarked buttocks, a condition that had, indirectly, led to this disciplinary hearing.
Her vulva and belly crawled with apprehension at the bruising fate that stretched before them, this next week or more.

Satisfied with her settings, Madame Ruskova indicated that she should stand over the bidet. “Legs wide apart, please, as wide as they will go.
Now sit.”

As she bent her knees to obey, her balance somewhat impaired by the wide-legged stance imposed upon her and the need to hold onto her raised skirt, Madame bent quickly and seized her ankles, pulling them forward, trapping Madeleine’s legs between her own calves, taking her completely by surprise, as her buttocks dropped with a smack onto the porcelain. She leaned her weight on the younger woman’s shoulders, pinning her in place.

Madeleine screamed.
Madame’s adjustments had been to ensure that the water from the jet, now playing with full force on her exposed vulva, was at maximum temperature.
Not boiling, to be sure, but quite hot enough to scald the delicate genitals.
She grabbed at the hands holding her down and tried to rise, but her feet, straight out in front of her, could get no proper purchase, and Madame’s strong hands kept her inexorably glued to the seat, while the hot jet licked at her par boiled vulva like the tongue of some hellish demon lover.

Madame kept her pinned, screaming, to the bidet for a long count of ten, before releasing her and stepping back while the tortured woman leapt from her scalding seat, clutching her excoriated vulva, and emitting broken moans and sobs.

When she had quieted a little, Madame resumed as if she had done nothing more than help her wash her face.

“I do not intend that you should get any sensual benefit from your sexual exertions, nor do I believe they will be to your taste, but just to make sure, you should now have a sore enough cunt to ensure there’ll be no selfish pleasure to divert you from giving your customers full satisfaction.
Now, stop snivelling and sort yourself out.
The car will be here at any time to take you off to do penance.
Remember, I expect to be paid in full.
You’ve been let off very lightly this time, just don’t even think of crossing me again, or you’ll really regret it.”

Still sobbing with pain and shock, she dabbed herself dry, rubbing was out of the question with her blanched labia and inner membranes, and eased her knickers carefully back in place.
Walking awkwardly, trying not to let her inner thighs rub together, or fret her genitals, she made to pick up her bag.

“Leave that where it is,” she was commanded, “you won’t need that where you’re going, and you can pick it up when you’ve earned enough to pay your debt.”

Bertha’s establishment was in a large, rather tasteless apartment which took up almost an entire floor of a small block just off the Edgeware Road.
Bertha herself was a very large blonde, showing the traces of handsomeness in her youth that now, in her late forties, had gone somewhat to fat. She was immensely powerful, and with a look in her eye that commanded obedience from clients and ‘girls’ alike.
She had either been in conversation with Madame, or recognised at once from Madeleine’s ansty waddle, that her new resident had received a fiery baptism into the congregation of whores, for she had her bare herself at once from the waist down, and gave her antiseptic cream to apply to the now red and peeling inner and outer lips.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking I give a damn about your comfort,” she growled.
Madeleine hadn’t entertained the notion for a minute, but deemed it wise to keep that thought to herself. “I don’t want you getting infected.
You’re here to work, and the punters could be put off if you’re all messy down there.
On the subject of work,” she continued, “you’ll take all the customers I send you, and you’ll do well to work hard to see that they’re happy.
I believe Madame R has told you they get their money back if they complain you didn’t put your back into it.
Actually she was not quite right there.
They get half their money back, I keep the rest, and I decide if they made a complaint, so I’m always going to side with the punter.
You get the picture?”