Continues from chapter 9
Chapter 10
It was obvious that Leslie had been in cahoots with Fräulein Peitsche for months planning this visit and already had a pretty good working knowledge of the place as well as what she had in store for the other three. Thus, she led the way out of the hall and across the courtyard and made her way unerringly to a stable block on the side opposite the main building.
Leslie engineered Gwyneth to be by her side then opened the door of the first loosebox. There was a gentle whinny from inside and a large chestnut horse lifted his head up from the manger and looked at them with big brown eyes. Instinctively Gwyneth went to the animal and petted it. The mutual affection was clear as it returned the compliment and nuzzled in to her.
“This is Zoltan,” said Leslie suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed, “I know that nothing can compensate for Quicksilver being burned to death last year.” She put an arm round Gwyneth who was on the verge of sobbing. “He’s a present from me. I’m assured that he has the potential to be a champion show jumper, just needs your training.”
The emotion of the memory of the fire got to Amber who broke into tears. She rushed outside, Charles following her, the situation having touched his soft spot too.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have, Leslie. I mean I can’t.”
“Yes, I should and yes you can.”
Gwyneth sniffed back a tear. She had really loved Quicksilver and had missed him terribly. She knew that she should have got a replacement and been in training. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. It had seemed sort of disloyal.
“He’s wonderful, can I stay with him?” was all she could eventually say.
“Of course you can. That’s why I had your bedroom set up here in the stable block. However, if you can bear to be parted from Zoltan for a few minutes, can we go back to the house so the others can see their rooms?”
Gwyneth reluctantly bade a temporary farewell to Zoltan and they retraced their steps across the yard, Leslie telling Gwyneth what she knew of the horse’s pedigree as they went and explaining that she had all the documentation in the house.
They ascended the stairs to the galley that ran round it on three sides. Several doors led off the gallery. On the first was a small plaque with ‘Charlotte’s Room,’ written on it in pink letters.
“Go on, it’s ‘specially for you Charlotte. Open the door,” urged Leslie.
Charles turned the ornate handle and pulled. The heavy door was padded on the inside and opened to a vestibule with a second padded door opposite. Together the pair would effectively soundproof the room from the gallery. Opening the second door they were met by the intense aroma of rubber. Charles fumbled for a light switch, flicked it on, and revealed a room was almost exclusively furnished in the material. Black rubber sheets covered the bed up to the matching pillowcases. Chairs and settee were upholstered in the same. Even the scatter cushions, some smooth, some spiky and the heavily draped curtains, were in the same material. On the wall over the fireplace hung a life-size portrait of a young woman, arms clasped tightly behind her back, dressed only in a severe corset and thigh high boots. There was something odd about her eyes, Charles though, they seemed unnaturally bright, and followed you as you moved about the room.
Leading off was a large opulently fitted bathroom with hand basin, toilet and bidet. All the fittings were gold with onyx handles and knobs. Dominating everything, however, was a sunken spa bath, big enough for at least two persons to bathe and frolic at the same time. The water for the bath entered from the beaks of a pair of gold swans, one to either side, a motif repeated in the wall tiles. The bathroom offered the only concession to the otherwise exclusively rubber theme of the suite; there were masses of sumptuous fluffy cotton towels.
The inspection party returned from marvelling at the bathroom. Laid out on the bed was a set of baby doll pyjamas in pink latex, the top, panties, and bonnet trimmed with white frills, with matching pink pods for hands and feet.
Charles turned to Leslie.
“Oh, I say, I know I have a thing about rubber, but this is ridiculous.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Leslie with a slight pause. “I admit that I did ask for a rubber room for you, and I confess that this is a bit over the top compared with what I expected. However, here we are. Come on girls; let’s help Charlotte into her nice new jim-jams.
Charles’s “No!” had hardly left his lips when the others pounced on him and toppled him, back down, on the bed. With Charles continuing to protest loudly, Amber and Gwyneth sat on one arm each while Leslie got to work stripping off his clothes.
Having removed shoes, tights, skirt and rubber panties, and tying on the foot pods, Leslie having completed what she wanted to do at the lower end, slipped off the bed, and walked round to Charles’s head.
“You should have learned by now, young lady,” she said, that carrying on in that manner is not only futile, but is a guarantee that corrective action will be taken. Now shut up and enjoy the fun.”
Charles gave in; he had prior experience of Leslie’s corrective action and didn’t fancy another dose just then.
“There, that’s much better,” Leslie soothed. “Now we just put these mitts on the baby's hands so she can’t do anything naught with them like untie things, then we can put on your pretty dress and bonnet.”
She slipped the thumbless mitts over his hands that he had to curl up into fists as she did so, and tied them off with a double knot so that even unpicking with his teeth was impossible.
A few minutes later, Charles was standing in front of a mirror feeling profoundly silly in his pink outfit while Amber tied on the bonnet, knotting it firmly under the chin.
“Doesn’t she look just sweet,” asked Amber of no one in particular.
Charles growled.
“I think we ought to take a look at Amber’s room,” said Leslie, catching Charles’s eye and giving him a wink.
Charles paddled squelchyly after the others. The pods on his feet already seemed to be filling with water from his sweat. As he was about to leave the room, he unconsciously looked for the door key, as though it were a hotel room. There wasn’t one. As he was to soon discover there was only one room door that locked, Leslie’s.
Back on the landing the next room was labelled, ‘Amber.’ Amber rushed in and stopped dead in her tracks. Whereas Charles’s room had been based on rubber, the theme of this one was restraint. All the fittings were much too substantially made to be mere decoration. A body-shaped cage hung by a chain from a central ceiling rose. To one side of the room was a pillory. Even the uncomfortable looking armchair had metal ankle, wrist and neck clasps that could be pad-locked shut. Several mysterious handles at the side and back could obviously do things to the chair, or sitter. Quite what was unclear, except that it was not likely to do anything for comfort.
Numerous eyebolts adorned the otherwise bare walls. Set in at various heights they spanned from skirting board to well above outstretched arm on above tiptoe level. More bolts were fixed in the ceiling itself and in the floor.
In dramatic contrast to this intimidating chamber, the bathroom leading off it was just as grand as Charlotte’s.
The main room’s central feature was a king-size canopied four-poster bed. In contrast to the previous room, the bed had been made up conventionally with satin sheets. Conventionally, except for one feature, attached to each post and neatly spread out on the white sheets was a length of chrome chain terminating in a broad leather strap.
It took Amber only a moment to realise what was intended, but it was a moment too long. With a shout of, “Bedtime for Amber,” Leslie had a strap buckled round one of the young woman’s wrists. Very soon Amber was tightly spread-eagled on the bed.
Leslie stepped back and looked at her immobilised friend.
“I want to see your room,” she pleaded.
“You can watch on the tele,” Leslie flicked a switch by the bedside and a projected image appeared on the ceiling. The display switched from room to room. One was the entrance hall where they had met Fräulein Peitsche; another was Charlotte’s. The rest, for the most part, were black. “You’ll see when we turn the light on. Night-night now.” And she turned off the light.
Leslie had the third room on the landing. Compared to the others it was rather tame. It was essentially in a five plus star hotel style. A large lounge connecting with a similar sized bedroom off which led a bathroom that served to put the other two to shame.
“I couldn’t very well have a fetish theme, even if I wanted one. Not with trying to give the good fräulein the impression that I was a strict Mistress and that I wanted things setting up so that I could take my pleasure of my servants. I even had to pretend that Zoltan was for me, Gwyneth, sorry.
“That’s okay,” Gwyneth murmured.
“Speaking of servants,” Leslie went on, “we have to agree a domestic roster. We can all help out but one of us needs to take it in turn to be duty maid for the day.”
Charles groaned internally, he guessed what was coming.
Charlotte always seems to get the short straw when it comes to maid duties
“I’m sure that tomorrow, Gwyneth, you will want to spend a lot of time with Zoltan and I want to keep Amber pinned down for as long as possible. She seemed to be getting a bit over excited today. So, what I think we should do is this. You, Gwyneth, set your clock for six like you usually do and then pop across the yard to untie Charlotte’s mitts then she can change into uniform and get your breakfast and mine ready. I’ll have mine in my room, tomorrow. Leave Amber where she is. I’ll deal with her myself later. It won’t hurt her to go without breakfast. Anyway, I think she has been putting on weight lately; too many official lunches. That outfit she had on looked decidedly tight.
Charles could not think for an occasion when it was otherwise.
Chapter 11
They dallied over breakfast. They knew that the agreed plan was to explore the dungeon and, presumably, try out some of its attractions, but no one could summon up the courage to make a start. So, for half an hour they talked of this and that and of nothing in particular. Unusually for her, it was Gwyneth who eventually broke the ice.
“Well, are we going to go and look at the dungeons,” She asked, “or should I go out with Zoltan and pick some daisies?”
“Yes, let’s go,” said Amber, and to Charles, who was hovering in the background, “I’ll help you wash up afterwards.”
They crossed the hall together. Amber, who normally could be relied on to be first into anything threw open the door to the dungeon stairs, then held back, over awed by the menacing blackness of the stairwell that dropped down immediately beyond it.
Gwyneth flicked on the lights.
“Oh, for Goodness sake,” she said, “come on!”
However, by the time she had reached the bottom of the flight and was waiting for the others to catch up she was not feeling so brave. The array of equipment that greeted her was impressive in both its quantity and comprehensiveness. It looked as if it would have been more than adequate for the needs of the Inquisition in its most enthusiastic moments.
The stairs opened into a large chamber, the floor stone flagged, the walls a mixture of stone and peeling plaster. In all probability the decor was deliberately calculated to be oppressive and intimidating. If that were that case its designer had been entirely successful. Several large pieces of apparatus filled the centre of this theatre of pain. Pushed to the side were a number of smaller pieces, pillories of various kinds, some on wheels, a cage of metal strips bent into the general shape of a body and sundry boxes and hutches. The walls and ceiling were copiously provided with eyebolts to which victims could be fastened or hung. Off to the side on the end wall were doors bearing small plaques; one read, “Medical,” the other “Hi-Tech.” Three more doors pierced the long wall opposite them, though these bore no indication of what might be lurking behind.
They looked about themselves in amazement then suddenly realised that Leslie was not with them.
“Where’s Leslie?” asked Amber.
Before anyone could answer they heard a metallic scraping sound that seemed to emanate from an unlit far corner of the dungeon. It sounded like someone walking a little uncertainly on an unfamiliar surface. A light came on and there, slowly descending a cast-iron spiral staircase was Leslie. That she was there at all was a surprise. What she wore added to it. Leslie was in the garb of a nun. Though one of a very special Rule in that her habit was in heavy latex, black apart from a white wimple, the hesitant walk being occasioned by the distinctly unecclesiastical thigh-length boots with 20-centimetre heels and five-centimetre platforms that she wore with it. Leslie was laughing, as far as her out of breath state would allow, as she reached the bottom step.
“What are you lot gapping at?” she asked, “Haven’t you seen a nun before. Crikey, those stairs are hard work,” she went on looking back from whence she had come. I much prefer my lift back home and this is twice as far. How do you like the dress? Goes with the place don’t you think.”
They had to agree that it did.
Charles contemplated a pun about it being habit forming, but decided better of it. Leslie was already showing the signs of being in one of her, ‘moods’ and he had no desire to provoke her wrath, especially as he already seemed to be doomed to act as maid for the duration.
“And what do you think of the dungeon? I’ve only seen pictures of it before, but it looks great. There are supposed to be several other more specialist rooms. I expect that they’re through the doors over there. Shall we be mediaeval first though?”
Leslie let go of the stair’s handrail. She would never have admitted that she had been clinging on for support, though it was so because of the exertion of her descent and the boots with which she had chosen torture herself. She made for one of the devices in the middle of the room and surreptitiously leaning against it read the label.
CAUTION - Authentic Rack
Use with care, it is easy joints to dislocate or worse
It said.
“There’s another rack over here,” called Gwyneth. “Please can I try one? Ever since the ducking stool I’ve sort of had a thing for mediaeval stuff.”
“This is a bit novel,” said Leslie, reluctantly letting go of the first device and moving gingerly across the rough stone flagged floor.
‘Why ever did I choose these boots?’ she wondered as she went. ‘You know what happened to Naomi Campbell.’
Whereas Leslie’s rack was of the classic kind, a wooden structure carefully carpentered to look rough with a winch at each end, Gwyneth's device was rather different. Made largely of metal it had not nearly such a mediaeval appearance. At one end was a hoop that was clearly intended to go round the victims neck, a pair of smaller hoops one to either side being to keep their hand out of mischief, but otherwise not under tension. At the other end their ankles could be secured in fittings on a screw rod, threaded left and right for its two halves. Turning the rod with a handle would wind the legs out in a V eventually dislocating hips and, by pulling the head down against the hoop, breaking the jaw. Put like that by the descriptive label it sounded awful, but in reality, was no different from the classical pattern, which could be used to completely tear off limbs.
“Okay, G,” said Leslie after she had studied the detail. “If you’re sure. Your choice, do you want to be split or stretched?”
“I think I’ll go for stretching,” she said after a pause, her enthusiasm for the instruments having considerably waned now that she had had time to see them close up.
Leslie led Gwyneth to the rack where she stripped off to her panties, climbed up on the table and lay face up and extended her arms over her head. Amber secured each wrist in a waiting leather cuff while, at the other end of the table, Charles fixed leather cuffs round Gwyneth’s ankles. The rack was so constructed that either the wrists or ankles could be made immovable, or both could be used to stretch the victim. Ropes attached both sets of cuffs to drums that could be turned like winches, thereby tensioning Gwyneth. The severest application would be separation of the legs from the body. A less severe application might result in dislocation of hips or shoulders. Even a moderate application would be very painful.
Leslie explained all this to Gwyneth then again asked if she wanted to go ahead.
“It’s a lot more than just a ducking, you know,” she added.
Gwyneth, now stretched out, though not yet under tension save for that in her mind, bit her lip and nodded. She couldn’t chicken out now. Charles would be very polite and say nothing, but the ribbing by Amber would be unbearable.
Leslie began to turn the drum at her head. The tension followed the settling of the cuffs. Grunting, Leslie said that racking Gwyneth was not so easy and that turning the drum was hard work. Gwyneth managed a reply that sounded like, “tough shit.”
Leslie laughed, and tugged harder.
“Charlotte, don’t just stand there like a silly maid,” she called. “Take up some slack at your end.”
Charles obliged.
Gwyneth managed to blurt out that, from what she had read, intermittent tension was the preferred method over steady, constant tension; and Leslie and Charles obliged. The tensioned Gwyneth grunted whenever they applied their weight.
They kept her in traction for nearly an hour, Gwyneth turning her head from side to side; grunting and moaning as they heaved on the winches that stretched her. Finally, Gwyneth could bear it no longer.
“Leslie, let up.” she blurted out. “This is getting a bit too much.”
Instantly, Leslie released the drum and the tension was gone. She then turned her attention to the straps on Gwyneth’s wrists
“No, leave them,” she said. “I might be able to take a little more after a rest.” While writhing under the tension she had determined to set some kind of record or challenge for the others to beat. And she had determined to be unbeatable.
“Can I have a drink?”
“Sure,” replied Charles, astonished how much Gwyneth had already taken and that she was proposing to take some more, and he rushed up the stairs to the kitchen, the full circle latex skirt of his dress swishing loudly on the stiff net petticoats that held it out. A few minutes later he returned with a tray supporting a cup of steaming coffee and a highball glass containing sparkling colourless liquid.
“Didn’t know what you would like so I made a coffee and a glass of Her Late Victorian Majesty’s elixir and tonic.”
“Both,” said Gwyneth eagerly. “Did you bring a straw?”
Charles admitted he hadn’t.
“In that case please will you hold the glass to my lips and pour gently; it’s a little tricky on your own when your hands are tied above your head.”
She gave the ropes a shake while Charles administered the potion following it with the coffee.
“My that was good,” Gwyneth observed at last. “Is there a world shortage of tonic? That first glass tasted like neat gin.”
“Well, yes, it was a little on the generous side,” Charles admitted.
“A little! Okay, you can carry on with the fun now you have anaesthetised me. The rack is real pain. The initial tension is okay, but then when you pull on the drum and then let up the increasing tension leads to pain in the wrists and ankles, where you’re tied. That’s not too bad, but further tension leads to pain in the shoulder joints and the hip joints. Just now, when I asked you to stop, the pain was also in the knees and the elbows.”
“And you want more?” asked Charles shaking his head.
Somewhat uncertain he set the tray aside then, with a nod from Leslie, they took their positions at the winches and began to turn again. Gwyneth had turned her head so she was looking straight up. Leslie watched Gwyneth’s eyes for the first tell-tale wince and was surprised when the drums went beyond where they had turned them earlier and still no wince. They continued to turn slowly, trying not to jerk.
“Gwyneth, isn’t that enough?” asked a concerned Leslie when she had turned the drum a full quarter turn further than she had earlier.
“Yes, you can stop there,” Gwyneth replied in a low, strained voice. “But put the brake blocks on. I want to stay like this for a little.”
Leslie and Charles slipped the blocks under the wheels. Inevitably, the tension lessened a little, but it was still a lot. Leslie looked at her friend. She knew that she must be in intense pain, though no way was she going to give in. Gwyneth’s tits were flat on her chest. Her stomach was caved in. The sinews in her legs and upper arms stood out. And Gwyneth’s breathing was in short gasps.
Amber had been watching the proceedings in rapt attention, simultaneously astonished at Gwyneth’s endurance and just a wee bit jealous, if only because she seemed to have been temporarily written out of the script. On an impulse she inserted her fingers deep into Gwyneth’s sex. Gwyneth let out a scream, shuddered with a massive orgasm then went limp.
Leslie whipped out her locking block to release the tension, and then unbuckled the straps from an un-protesting Gwyneth. Leslie checked Gwyneth’s breathing and heart.
“What the hell did you do that for?” she angrily demanded of Amber. “You might have killed her.”
Later they sat sipping wine. Leslie, still in her nun’s habit was feeling very hot, but was determined not to lose face by being the first to suggest that they should change for dinner. Amber was trying to be angelic and sat as if butter would not melt in her mouth while Charles fussed around serving the drinks. Gwyneth, despite her ordeal was the most composed of them all. There were angry red marks on Gwyneth's wrists and ankles.
Looking at the marks, she said, “I probably ought to wear wrist bands and boots when you rack me next time. And a chastity belt,” she added as an after-thought, smiling at Amber.
Continues in chapter 12