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 ........ THE RAVINE
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:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mongol_invasion_of_Russia
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.
Interested? Then check out:-
- Statistics Without Tears. A Primer For Non Mathematicians Dereck Rowntree.
- Distribution-free Tests. HR Neave and PL Worthington.
THE AWAKENING
Sveta Kustenskaya has spent another disturbed night, sleeping fitfully and only moving deeper into sleep by the time she has to get up. Something has to happen today, but what is it? At last the memory presents itself to her conscious mind.
"Anatoly, do we really have to go through this charade this evening?"
Anatoly has also spent a poor night, constantly disturbed by his wife's tossing and turning. He (almost) welcomes the opportunity to get up and start the day at last, but Sveta's question ... surely?
He puts his puzzlement into words. "But surely this was what you wanted? We talked about his months ago and even Mendeleyev thought it would be a good idea?"
"Mendeleyev? Did he? Well that's almost a reason in itself not to put any trust in the idea and I am sure it was entirely your idea, Anatoly Sergeyevitch!"
Anatoly sighs and climbs out of bed. "Sveta, can I make you some tea or coffee? What time do you have to be at the Media Centre? "
"What's the time? -- is that the time? I'm sorry Anatoly but I have no time to waste drinking tea with you. I shall have to get ready. I suppose we are actually going to have to go through with this?"
"Well, no we don't have to do anything if you don't feel its right anymore ..."
"Oh, all right lets get it over and done with it if that's what you are so determined to do. When do we have to be there?"
"Er, I thought six for seven pm. Would that ...?"
"I will have finished work by two. Let's meet back here ... can you please just get out of my way and let me into the bathroom please? I have to get ready."
Anatoly leaves Sveta to get ready and goes into the kitchen to make himself coffee. What should he do? Make Sveta some tea would be the safest course of action. It will be there if she wants it and she does not have to drink it if she doesn't. As the kettle sighs and the coffee percolator spits and fizzes, Anatoly's mind revisits the conversation he had about Sveta with Igor Mendeleyev. Day by day, it seems that Sveta is becoming less rational. Is this the crisis breaking at last? The first lashings of rain blown ahead of the fierce storm to come? THE CANING.
Isn't that the way it always happens? You have had a dreadful night and then, by the time you are supposed to get up, you finally get to sleep? Even in my extraordinary world, some things don't change.
I have been on my bed all night, kept awake by the peppery butt plug and the feeling of it inside me. Finally, perhaps about 6am, my body surrenders to sleep. It is only moments later when Neena comes to wake me.
One minute I am - at last - dead to the world. The next thing I know, someone has poured cold water over me.
It's a shock! I open my eyes to find Gaspazha Neena looking down at me and smiling. "Time to get up, sleepy head. You have a busy day today."
It takes me a few moments to realise where I am. It obviously amuses Neena but she doesn't give me any time to recover my wits. "Here," she says, "the keys to your belt. Please remove it and the .. ah .. accessories. They will all need washing. Then get washed yourself ....."
The water is hot and refreshing; thank goodness. I am fully awake at last. I turn to face Neena who throws me my towel. By staying with me, she has made sure I have no opportunity to masturbate myself and have some little satisfaction. "Get dried, dry your belt, bring it with you and follow me. I think you know where."
Yes, I know where. The thought of my appointment with Neena's cane was one of the things that kept me awake until sleep had finally driven it to the back of my mind. Now it elbows its way to the centre of my attention. Apprehension grips me once more. Meekly I follow her to the punishment room.
I lay myself across the spanking horse obediently. There is no point in protesting or resisting. I am going to be caned and that's that. I am a slave and slaves are regularly disciplined, sometimes for infractions they have committed and sometimes just because their trainers think it will be good for them. Now it's my turn. At least Pavea is not here to gloat at me.
I wonder what -- what were their names? My memory seems to be fading. There was a man and this girl I knew called something like Karen or Cath or what was it? And the man, he was important to me but what was his name? What will they be doing now? They will still be sound asleep, probably. I wonder if they remember me? I ought to remember them better than I do now. Here am I, though, separated from them only by distance, being strapped down to be disciplined. It's partly because my trainer thinks it will be good for me and partly because I asked if I could be killed by accident.
Whilst Neena gets ready, I think of them both. I imagine a message from me, flying across the earth, through the dawn sky, reminding them that I still exist, that I am still here breathing the same air as they do.
"Rabinya!," says Neena brightly, "We are ready to begin!" She stands quite close to me, stroking the back of my neck as I lay stretched out across the punishment horse. "First, tell me why you should be caned?"
"Because slaves have to be reminded of their place and because I asked a question."
"Yes and no, rabinya. You are right, yes, slaves need to be reminded of their place but no, you are not being punished because you asked a question. You are being caned because you did not trust your Owner to take proper care of you." She pauses for a moment to let her remarks sink in. I nod my head in acceptance. "How many strokes should you have?"
Surely this question was settled between us yesterday in the car on the way back from Moscow? I think for a moment. It is the same problem as always. Too few and she will give me more; too many and I will suffer more than I need. Is Gaspazha Neena testing me again? Tempting me to try to trick her into giving me fewer strokes that I proposed yesterday?
"Thirty, Gaspazha"
Neena seems satisfied and it is a punishment I think I can bear. "Good girl. Thirty. Confirmed! You shall enjoy one stroke each minute for thirty minutes. Now count!"
So it was a test after all. She said 'confirmed' which obviously refers back to yesterday. I must be learning to play the game at last. Then my mind looks for something else to think about. The year has turned. The snows of winter have come and have now been driven back by the rapid advance of spring. Gaspazha is wearing some white Birkenstock sandals. They look so comfortable. A thong passes to the inside of her big toe to meet a strap which passes over her instep. Her feet and legs are bare. It's an odd contrast; comfort for her and pain for me.
Looking ahead into a large mirror on the wall, placed so slaves can 'enjoy' the sight of themselves being punished, I can see her toes grip and then I hear the first stroke hiss towards my bum.
A bright firey line is painted across my bum.
"Adeen," I say. She has taken me slightly by surprise with the prompt arrival of the first stroke.
"Adeen" she echos -- and then continues "Adeen, spaseeba Gaspazha! That's right isn't it?"
"Da, Gaspazha." I know what is coming next. There is no escape from a lack of obedience to the correct form of address to my mistress.
"What should I do?"
"You must begin again, Gaspazha."
"Pazh' alsta, rabinya. I shall."
I wait for the second stroke, but it will be merely the first "official" stroke. Neena's sports watch chimes: she aims and lets another cane stroke fly.
"Ah! Adeen, spaseeba Gaspazha!"
"Pazh'alsta, rabinya," she replies.
Over the next twenty nine minutes I painfully climb towards thirty cane strokes. When she told me that it would be one stroke each minute, it seemed as though it would be easier to take. One stroke each minute draws out the ordeal psychologically. In fact, it's much worse than blows delivered in rapid succession.
With each stroke, Neena slowly makes her way down my buttocks, then diagonally, right to left, then diagonally, left to right. There is not an inch of my bum which can shelter from her cane. As my bum becomes more and more painful I become more and more conscious of how slowly time is passing, of how many more strokes I must endure, of how long it will be until the beating is over and of how full my bladder seems. Can I hold on until Neena has completed my punishment? Could I ask to go to the toilet? And risk starting from "one" all over again? No thank you! After twenty I start to cry and moan with each new stroke.
"Ah," she says, "That sounds so nice. Music to my ears!"
At last we reach thirty. I sob and sob. She comes to me and wipes my tears. "Now Vyera, I am going to leave you now for a little while to burn quietly. It there anything you need?"
"Please Gaspazha, may I pee?"
"Of course. Let me put something under you and then you can let go let go."
She releases the straps which hold me sufficiently for me to shuffle back so she can place a bowl between my legs
I let go. I pee and pee and pee. The pale golden urine streams away from me. I feel drips, at first warm and then cold, spatter from the bowl against the inside of my legs. I hear the gentle singing of the impact of the liquid on the metal bowl. I am aware the Neena is watching, following my every reaction. It's no easier now than it was the first time that I was made to pee while someone was watching, back at Inward Bound. When I have done, Neena gently wipes me clean.
I watch horrified as she picks up a long straw. She places the bowl on a stand in front of me. It's so close that I can feel the warmth of the urine on my face, its pungent smell fills my nose. Neena pops the straw into the bowl of urine, pushes the other end between my lips and says, "Now little Vyerochka here is another challenge for you. I expect to see all of this gone. Look upon it as conserving your -- our -- electrolytes! Begin!"
So, with Neena standing by and watching, I have to drink my own urine as a full and final humiliation. THE PREPARATIONS.
I look up at Gaspazha with pleading eyes. The last drop of urine has gone from the bowl, the sharp tang of its taste fills my mouth. I can feel the acidity rasping at the back of my throat. I don't know how my stomach is keeping it down. I don't even want to think about that.
"How do you feel now, Vyerochka?"
"Just very tender, spaseeba Gasapazha and thank you for spending your time with me." I used to loathe speaking like this but it's about survival and survival is a game I have to play as effectively and cleverly as I can. However, as the days have passed into months, this sort of response has come to seem more and more natural and appropriate for me. I say nothing of my urine drink, not wanting Neena to think it was easy or that it was difficult. She seems to ignore it too. Perhaps it was just another test of obedience.
"You are welcome, rabinya!" With a single finger tip, she traces one of the cane marks across my buttocks. "Well, today there is much to do. Presently I will come back to release you. Then, you will lock your belt around yourself and after you are to go and get breakfast -- there is some thing for you in the kitchen." Mainly what I want is to clean my teeth -- anything to get the taste of urine from my mouth. "Afterwards you are to help the Domestics to prepare the Dacha. Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensky are coming for the weekend and they will be arrive late this afternoon."
After breakfast (which I eat standing up, to the amusement of the giggling Mongolians and without a chance to clean my teeth) I join them in getting the house ready.
This gives me another opportunity to see the house from end to end, without restrictions from my collar. The Dacha is, of course, magnificent. In fact the house is so large that vacuuming the carpets is almost aerobic exercise in itself!
Imagine you are touring an English Country House; an inlayed polished wooden floor in the entrance hall, oil paintings, wonderful carpets, fine furniture and enough space to show everything off properly. That's very much the feeling at the Dacha. The house never seems cold, even in winter. Even though it must be well over one hundred years old, the architect ingeniously created a building which would be comfortable all year round. For example, the marble columns in the entrance and made of wood and painted to look like stone. The floor is wooden, but made of pale and dark woods and gives the impression of an Italian black and white chequer-board marble floor. Had the floor and columns been of real stone, the building would have been impossible to keep warm during the Russian winter!
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