Puppet On A String (10 page)

      
“Up!” Darcy’s order was terse. He was a busy man and he had no time for her hesitation. Being so well-trained, any uncertainty she exhibited was only brief; responding instantaneously had become second nature.

      
Shelby
fitted herself into the seat and leaned back against the supports, her feet in the stirrups and her crotch positioned with a click of a lever until both her nether holes were exposed and vulnerable to penetration. Likewise, her head was situated so that her mouth would be available for oral sex.

      
Her owner paused briefly to stroke her cheek before he left, noting the trepidation in her soft eyes. “What am I supposed to do?” she looked up at him in earnest.

      
“I’ve made it easy for you all strapped down. Being a fuck toy can be rough on a slave, but situations like this one, tense negotiations, that sort of thing, my friends will appreciate the opportunity to let off steam. You’ll be useful to the cause. You can come as many times as you like; it’s not like much will actually be demanded of you. I don’t expect them to be hard on you, most aren’t sadists like myself. Use you and leave is the usual style, they won’t have time for more. No complications, an easy ride for you this time.”

      
Shelby
would have liked to believed him, but first times are always rough – at least in her experience with Mr. Darcy. She’d had plenty of first times in the last few months – first time in a swing…as an exotic dancer…dancing nude on top of a bar…taking her owner’s cock inside her ass…and now this first time being given to a party of horny men.

      
He’d said they’d just be letting off steam, venting a little frustration, but it was more than just venting. The rarity of her bound position on the rack turned serious men with serious matters to handle into nasty brutes and sleazy party animals, depending on their mood. Sadists? Most no. But one man tore a cane from the wall and whacked her vulnerable pussy a good dozen times, right across the most sensitive places along her exposed crotch. She bore up well, knowing that to scream would infuriate her owner. But the beating inspired other men to test their skill at paddling and whipping a defenseless female. Some men marveled at her continued self control and put a good deal of strength behind the blows, trying to see how much pain she could withstand before she finally screamed.

      
Despite her earlier attempts to remain silent, her fierce concentration finally broke. Damned if she’d take all this torment without telling her side of the story – the painful one.

      
“Stop, please! Noooooooooooooo,” she roared, unable to take another stinging smack.

      
“Damn, girl! You know better than that!” Darcy was at her side in a heartbeat, slapping her face to draw her attention.

      
“Please, sir!” she cried. “I can’t take anymore. I can’t!”

      
“
Please, sir,
bullshit!” he snapped in a terse whisper as if it were a private conversation. His lips were so close that she could smell his breath. “You’re here to give my friends what they want, and if whipping you is what gets them back to sane then it’s your job to take it.”

      
“I’m sorry, sir.”

      
“And you’ll be sorrier still if you scream again.”

      
Darcy always found it easy to put her in her place, “Just a little attitude adjustment,” he told his friends when he looked up smiling. “She won’t give you any further trouble. That I promise.” This was as much a warning to her as it was an explanation to his guests.

      
Though they’d now been given the green light to abuse her at will, the men seemed reluctant to do so, almost as if the sadistic spell had been broken. From then on, she was the plaything she was originally intended to be, not a whipping girl. For most it didn’t matter which hole they used – vagina, ass or mouth – although it seemed to take a more daring man to screw her tight ass.

      
The night wore on until she was worn out – and so were the nonstop stream of horny men. In the end, she’d been more of a novelty item than a real means of sexual release.

      
Shelby
had her suspicions that her stint on the fuck rack was more for her than Mr. Darcy’s friends, but she would never suggest that to her owner. How she felt about her turn on the rack was not discussed.

Chapter Six

Shelby
retained a vivid memory of the white van that whisked her away from the detention facility. Although they’d bound her hands behind her, roped off her ankles and gagged her mouth, preventing her from making much of a fuss while in transport, they didn’t bother to blindfold her, which made the events of that morning crystal clear in her mind. And yet, with no windows in the vehicle from which she could look outside, she had no idea where they were headed, or from where she came. The only clue to her whereabouts was a subtle shift in the air coming through the driver’s window. While she sat bound and uncomfortable on the hard metal floor, the air rushed in and surrounded her in the smoky smells of the city, then later in the more fragrant aroma of the countryside. For some reason the distinct change gave her reason to be hopeful.

      
Time dragged on, then the van came to a sudden stop, the door jerked open, and
Shelby
was pulled out and dragged to the ground. Staring at the pebbled surface of the driveway, she took a moment to catch her breath, get her bearings, and assume the attitude of surrender she was sure to need to get her through the next ordeal. Knowing nothing of the circumstances into which she’d been thrown, she needed to consider the situation carefully to know exactly what was expected of her. The thought of freedom still lurked around the edges of her consciousness, though hope for her release seemed to diminish with every hour of her captivity.

      
“What kind of marks does she have?” Those lingering around her changed places and finally
Shelby
had the courage to peer up at the faces peering down at her.

      
An imperious female dressed in an elegant, high-necked black dress and black leather boots critically observed the quaking captive. In the woman’s presence she was no more than a disdainful beast.
Shelby
still wore the slip of a dress she’d worn for Col. Jessup, although by then, it was in tatters and certainly soiled from sex. Even she could detect the pungent scent wafting up from her crotch.

      
“Marks, Ma’am? Just the tattoo on her tit,” the guard answered.

      
“Let me see,” she said.

      
A guard’s large hand reached down and tore back the neck of the print dress. Pulling out
Shelby
’s left breast, he squeezed it firmly while turning the flesh so the woman could see the simple tattoo.

      
But she saw more than that tattoo. “Are those bruises?”

      
“It’s Jessup’s job to give the sluts a thorough going over.”

      
“When will those bastards learn that the more they soil the merchandize, the more it compromises the purchase price?” Whatever beauty exuding from the formidable female vanished with her twisted grimace.

      
“She’ll clean up. I’ve seen her when she’s put back together. Jessup figures she’s a high five-figure slut. Plus, she’ll be ready for your sadists. A stunner at the end of a whip. I’ve seen her in action myself.” He was wholly self-satisfied communicating this fact to the woman.

      
“You fuck her cunt, her ass or her mouth?” The woman was all hard edges and haughty posing. Enough that
Shelby
cringed as she cowered at her feet. What Jessup had said about being treated better at this place than she was at his detention facility came tumbling back into her mind. Had that just been another joke?

      
“I fucked her ass, ma’am,” the man replied.

      
“And was it nice and tight?” The woman’s cold eyes dug in like daggers.

      
The guard was blushing by that time. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

      
“Well, you can tell Jessup that I’ll be giving her the usual workout, then let him know the market price.” She stared down at the petrified
Shelby
with haughty indifference. “At least she has a decent face and a pleasing body.”

      
Shelby
’s blood ran cold when the woman’s hard lips formed a cruel smile. Until then, she hadn’t seen the cane the woman held hidden in her hand. But then a biting cut landed across her thigh and
Shelby
shrank back, whimpering in fear.

      
“A masochist, huh? I guess you’ll have to prove that to me.”

The newest whore at Madame Stafania Pavlenco’s brothel moved with a small cortege of regular customers to the whipping post, which was located in the yard outside her large estate house. The air crackled with tension, a forewarning about the circumstances into which
Shelby
had suddenly been propelled. The company around her, about a dozen in all, was an odd assortment of men in various kinds of dress: most dressed in casual slacks and shirts – this was not a fancy affair. However, one man who stuck out from all the rest wore a finely tailored business suit. He had slicked back hair and a pointed nose, and chained smoked cigarettes throughout the ordeal. The females were either dressed in stunning couture fashions and gleaming jewelry, or were like
Shelby
, wearing the skimpy clothes of prostitutes and sluts. No sooner had
Shelby
given her surroundings a good once over than she watched as one of the whores was strong-armed by a hefty man with a bearded face and shaggy hair.

      
“Go on, Tomas,” Madame Pavlenco snapped. “I need to see her suffer.”

      
The girl, Eugenia –
Shelby
would learn her name much later – was dressed in a sexy yellow halter dress that barely covered her breasts in front and her ass in back. Her hair had been dyed a brilliant red and was now a mass of tangles; her make-up was smudged – dark circles under her eyes, and red lipstick smeared in a clownish wedge. It was obvious that she’d been sobbing.

      
At the haughty woman’s command, the bearded fellow shoved the slut forward to a massive whipping post.
Shelby
had never seen anything quite like the forbidding structure. Rising tall and threatening in a circle of stones was a hefty beam that had obviously been sunk deep into the earth. Across the top was a second beam, held in place with two angled supports and sturdy iron brackets. In various places along both beams were eyebolts for securing a victim, just as the redheaded girl was being secured. Each arm was raised above her head, and because she was reasonably short, the metal shackles on her wrists were attached to eyebolts high on the support brackets. Only her fingertips reached as high as the crossbeam. Then as the attendant left her writhing miserably against the post, he swiped at the top of the halter dress and tore the wispy thing from her body. A look of mocking contempt appeared on his face as he stalked off, leaving the dress in a pile at her feet, to be stomped on as she suffered her punishment.

      
As soon as he disappeared into the crowd, another man came out with a braided cat o’ nine tales and looked toward Madame Pavlenco for confirmation.

      
“Don’t question me, Victor. I want her whipped,” the woman brusquely spat.

      
“Yes, ma’am,” he bowed. Then he turned toward the bound female and set his feet firmly on the ground, while carefully judging the distance between he and his victim. A few deep breaths followed as he took aim. Then he reared back with his face hardened to the task.

      
The blows came raining down fast and without mercy. Even when the poor girl screamed, he did not let up. Obviously, there was some preset number of lashes to be administered because once he’d reached a certain number, he abruptly ended the beating.

      
Shelby, who had never seen another woman whipped, felt the blows figuratively scorch her flesh. Before she could rein in her response, her insides were hot and her pussy warm and wet, grinding with a fresh burst of arousal. Coming on so unexpectedly there was no way to squelch the spontaneous response. Although she remained remote and unmoving to the casual observer, giving no indication of the disturbingly painful sensations, the desire to rub herself had never been greater. Certainly she would never do that in a public place or in circumstances like these, but she was also thankful that no one paid any attention to her now. This was not the time to reveal her dark side to a company of strangers.

      
At the moment, all eyes were glued on the suffering girl. Anyone not completely enamored by the spectacle of the beaten female had their eyes on Madame Pavlenco, who was as fascinating to watch as the poor victim. Although her face was rigid, beneath the cold fury of her eyes and taut mouth was a passionately beating heart. If one were able to register the temperature of her crotch, they would have found it burning with heat as she observed the young woman suffer her beating.

      
As soon as the right number of lashings had been laid on, the executioner, Victor, stood back, and following some moments of reflection, Madame Pavlenco moved forward into the ring, her hips swaggering with authority. She reached the girl and whispered something in her ear that made the poor thing shudder. Then she ran her fingernails down the welted back, digging in to further wound her trembling prey. Though the Madame listened to the whimpering cries, all the moaning and the breathy protests were barely heard and completely ignored.