Continues from chapter 11
Amber was bored. Gwyneth was preoccupied with getting to know Zoltan; Leslie was on the ‘phone to some auction sale or other bidding for some silly piece of artwork. Charles had once again drawn the short straw and was doing the domestic chores.
‘I suppose I could go and help him,’ she thought. As she idly flipped through one of the erotic magazines that seemed to be the staple of the library. ‘But why should I. It was to her that he owed the contract with Barry and everything else, so why should she get involved. Perhaps later when it was dinner time she might go and set the table. She was on holiday and wanted fun and excitement not doing the ironing and things.’
She flipped through some more pages, stopped at one of the pictures, turning the magazine from side to side to get a better look. “Is it really possible to do that?”
She got up; then sat down again. Then she got up once more.
‘What was the use of coming all this way to an exciting place like Adlerstein and then doing nothing? She wanted excitement, erotic if possible, but plain if not. She didn’t care what the others wanted to do, she wanted to go and explore some more! If the others didn’t want to come that was their look out, she would just go on her own.’
The day was warm and, for the most part, she had been walking about in bare feet and little else, a stretch cropped top and pelmet skirt, just long enough to hide the fact that she had no panties, just. Amber returned to her room and slipped on a pair of trainers as protection against the stone floors of the older part of the castle. She tiptoed out on to the gallery carefully closing the door behind her so as not to alert Leslie in the next room, though the padding should have done its job of insulating sounds. She made her way down the stairs leading to the dungeon complex. Just in time she remembered that the heavy oak door creaked on its hinges. Gingerly she opened it, pausing at each sound it made in case anyone should hear. Assured that all was clear she stepped through and pressed the switch to light the descending stone stairs in the harsh glow of a single bare light bulb.
Picking up a walkie-talkie and an electric torch from a shelf by the door she started down, still walking on tiptoe though, had she stopped to think, who was there to hear her here? But it was excitingly spooky.
She reached the first room where they had all been the day before and went over to the rack. Though quite new it had a patina of age about it as though it had seen long service in extracting a confession from many a hapless victim. She ran a finger along the edge of the wooden bed, then pulled on one of the capstans, and heard the ratchet click.
‘I wonder what it was like to be stretched like Gwyneth had let herself be? I ought to have volunteered really. Maybe I can have a try another day, or on a cross? Can’t do that on my own though.’
She looked at the pillories from which there was a choice of several varieties. Since yesterday she had been particularly fascinated by one in the form of a low box that lay on the floor. Its top was in three parts, a fixed central section with sliding end pieces that would close round wrists and ankles. She had fantasised about being bent double like that with her bear bottom taught and vulnerable. But, like the others, it required someone to pad-lock the parts together.
‘What a pity, another day, maybe.’
She tried a conventional pillory. Having fitted her head and one wrist in to the depressions in the fixed part she gingerly lowered the heavy crosspiece popping the free hand in at the last moment. She stood there for a few minutes trying to savour the effect, first pretending that her legs were tied together, then spreading them apart as far as she could. But she could still lift the top when she wanted. Boring!
She crossed the room to where there was a pair of crosses. She reached up and grabbed the ends of the T and hung there for a moment. She didn’t much like that either. Oh, what could she do?
Yesterday’s expedition had explored none of the several unmarked doors that led off the dungeon. She decided to rectify that situation forthwith. Crossing the stone floor, she chose a door at random. Her torch showed that beyond it stretched another corridor on a slight down grade. Lining it was a set of cages and cramp cells, things with which she was very familiar. At the end was another door. Closing the door from the first chamber behind her she walked past the cells examining them with a connoisseur’s eye as she did so. Certainly, they looked the part. She tapped the steel bars of one with the barrel of her torch. Very solid. And some very impressive accessories too. Should be fun to spend some time here later. Maybe with Gwyneth like she had done at Leslie’s. Or, wicked thought, with Charlotte. The idea made her giggle. But what’s through the door at the end? There was no obvious handle. She pressed gently and it opened at her touch and she peeped inside.
What she had expected she was not sure, another dungeon, like the first one, perhaps more severe, whatever that might be? More cells? She had no idea; certainly, she would not have guessed in a hundred years what she did find. As far as her torch showed it apparently was an almost empty room. A moment’s fumbling around the doorjamb located a light switch. She pressed it and the room was filled with light not of the single bulb variety of the earlier rooms but softly diffused from designer uplighters fixed round the walls.
Amber jumped with a start at the sight of someone opposite her. Then burst out laughing as she realised it was her own reflection in a mirror covering the whole of the wall facing the door. The only thing in the room was a curious contraption in the exact centre.
A pair of metal plates, each about fifty centimetres square, were fixed side-by-side flush with the floor. Above the plates, suspended at head height by rods disappearing into the ceiling, were three glossy black spheres, a large central one flanked by smaller balls to either side. But the strangest, and at the same time most exciting feature was what was attached to the centre of the plates by hinges at their toes was a pair of knee-length front laced heel-less black patent ballet boots.
What on earth was it?
Stepping over the boots Amber examined the balls. They had openings in their undersides. In addition, the central one split open, the half facing the mirror being fixed, the rear, as she decided it must be, being hinged to it. Though the outside of the ball was hard plastic the inside was softly rubbery, the fixed half being moulded like a face with holes for the nostrils where the nose would go and small transparent areas for the eyes.
It was clear that you were intended to put your head inside. She pressed her face into the shape. It sort of fit, though not as perfectly as the chrysalis. Amber reached behind her head and was about to try the effect of closing the rear of the shell when she thought better of it, remembering Fräulein Peitsche’s warning.
She stepped back and looked for a label. There didn’t seem to be one. What a pity. It all seemed to be so fascinating. It must be quite new so presumably it worked properly, whatever it was supposed to do. Perhaps the head ball would lock shut and trap her. She tried opening and closing it several times. No, that seemed all right. She looked at the boots. They must have something to do with it.
‘I know,’ she thought, ‘perhaps there has to be weight on them.’
She tried to press down on the boots with one hand and work the half-balls with the other. But couldn’t reach, especially as she was still holding the torch and walkie-talkie. She put them down, stepped into the boots and, with difficulty because they were so wobbly on the hinges, laced them up. Again, she tried opening and closing the ball. Nothing. Okay, then. She placed her face in the shape and gingerly closed the shell behind her head. Nothing untoward happened so she held the two halves pressed together with her hands. She peered through the eyeholes. She could see herself reflected in the mirror but nothing else. This was all a bit boring. And what were the other two balls for? She let go holding the halves of the head shell and gingerly felt up inside them, one at a time. There were handgrips inside. She grabbed one squeezed the grip and pulled down, bracing herself for something to happen as she did so. Nothing! She tried the other with the same effect. On an impulse she reached up into both balls and squeezed simultaneously.
She heard a faint click behind her and a pressure about her wrists. She tried to withdraw her hands from the balls but couldn’t. Something had closed round her wrists. She pressed back with her head trying to open the shell. That too was now locked. Then the rubber lining began to press against her face. Something warm was being pumped to the space between the shell and the lining. She wanted to scream, but already the pressure of the fluid had pressed her mouth firmly shut. Later it would be even more rigidly held as the wax, because that was what the fluid was, solidified.
There was a slight vibration at her feet. Now Amber watched her reflection in silent horror as the boots began to move apart, wider and wider. “No!” she would have shouted if she had been able too. “You’ll spit me in two. No! Stop!”
Eventually it did, though by the time the movement had stopped her legs were spread at more than one hundred and twenty degrees to each other, the hinges allowing the boots to lean over to compensate. The strain on her thighs was intense, to the point of just being bearable. It seemed that her neck was being stretched too; though that had a lot to do with her body sinking down as her feet were pulled apart. Amber felt wet between her legs. She ought to be scared, and she certainly was, but what was happening was also strangely erotic she had wanted excitement and now she was getting it.
What happened next was altogether scarier. With mounting horror, she watched in the mirror as, from the gap created by the plates moving apart, a rod began to telescope up towards her waiting crotch. She struggled in a vain attempt to escape, but by now she could hardly move at all, being held taut between the shells and the boots hinged to the floor plates. She stared through the eyeholes, mesmerised and afraid, as length after length of something moved out of the gap and rose towards her waiting sex.
With a slight bump, the something suddenly came in contact with her crotch. Whatever it was pressed slowly against her, surrounding her from pubic bone at the front to tailbone at the back, like the crotch-piece of a chastity belt or some kind of obscene bicycle seat with an upright dildo at its centre. The thing moved gently around. It was going to find a home for the dildo, and find it, it did. Even after, it continued to push against her, lifting her slightly and putting her legs under exquisite tension within her boots. At the same time, the head shell exerted a gentle pull upward. Then everything stopped. However firmly held Amber had been a few minutes before she was now under an altogether greater tension so that, apart from her arms, her body was essentially held rigid by it. In a way her earlier wish had been granted, she might just as well have been on the rack for all the difference it would have made.
Her rest from new sensations was short lived. The seat began to throb. Then the activity transferred to the dildo. That seemed to have a life all of its own, swelling and contracting, moving up and down, pressing forwards and backwards against the resistance of the seat, even twisting and rotating. Then there was the vibration, continually rising and falling in complex rhythms that reminded her, while a vestige of her mind still remained functional, of the fiendish TENS device that Charles had modified to respond to music. Such thoughts did not long survive the onslaught. She was transported, her body giving in to the incessant stimulation, and she prepared herself for what she certain was going to be the most tremendous climax. The only things she could move now were her eyes. The amazing sight in the mirror in front of her filled her whole field of view.
She stood transfixed by an elaborate sex toy, with nothing but her heaving breasts to show that inside the balls there was person rapidly going out of her mind with need and desire. Perhaps because of the aftermath of the previous night’s fun and games she did not come immediately. Instead she became more and more aroused as the tremendous vibrations stimulated her to a point of excruciating sensitivity. Eventually she climaxed. She was exhausted, but the machine was not, continuing its relentless torment till she came a second and third time, then lost count as one wave merged into the next.
It seemed like hours before she finally spent, and when it did, it was a shattering, intolerable release, sweeping her away into unconsciousness.
Leslie was pleased with herself. She and Barry together had succeeded in pushing up a hated rival to a silly price, before both withdrew from the bidding at the last moment. A kind of auction Poker, Barry had suggested, though Leslie felt Russian Roulette was nearer the mark. Wishing to share her triumph she went in search of the others. Charles was in the kitchen.
“Have you seen Gwyneth and Amber?” she asked.
“Gwyneth, yes, I took her over a snack, oh about an hour ago. Amber, I’ve not seen since mid-morning. I went to look for her, but didn’t find her. She’s been in the Library. There were magazines all over the place. I tidied them up, then checked her bedroom. Not there either. So, I don’t know.”
Leslie tried to hide her concern.
“Well she can’t have gone out; the main gate’s not been opened. Goodness knows what she’s got up to. My bet the silly girl’s gone exploring. Go and see if you can tear Gwyneth away from that animal and check in the stable block, though I don’t expect she is over there if Gwyneth hasn’t seen her. I’ll check on the TV monitors. If you draw a blank over there let’s meet back here in, say, twenty minutes.
“I hope nothing has happened to her. She shouldn’t go wandering off on her own without telling someone. If she has when I catch her…”
Charles didn’t wait to hear what Leslie planned to do to an errant Amber. Certainly, Adlerstein offered almost infinite scope for something suitably memorable, though there had to grave doubts as to whether anything would have lasting effect on her.
When Charles and Gwyneth returned to announce failure, Leslie was anxiously waiting for them.
“Oh, good, you’re back. I daren’t come looking for you in case we missed each other, but as soon as you had gone Charlotte, I solved the first part of the mystery. Should have thought of it before. She’s gone exploring in the dungeon area all right. The stair door was ajar and one of the walkie-talkies and a torch has gone from the shelf. She must be down there somewhere. I’ve tried calling her but no reply.”
“Do you think she’s been playing with the kit and got stuck?” asked Charles
“More than likely serve her right!” said Leslie. “No, I didn’t mean that. Sorry, I’m just anxious. A lot of those things are not toys. They were meant to really hurt and maim. Oh, Amber, you’ll be the death of us all. Come on!”
The first dungeon was empty.
“Well, she’s not here,” said Leslie enunciating the obvious.
“Not really likely any way all the stuff here requires help to get in to; even the pillory’s not self-locking. What next?”
“Well, there’s not much hope of doing a Sherlock Holmes job on this stone floor. She might have had the foresight to step in some treacle of something so we could track her. My guess is she’s gone off through one of the other doors. We could take one each, but then we could all get lost. The best thing is for one of us to stay here as a base and the other two explore routes one at a time. For the present only going as far as walkie-talkie range then come back. If we don’t find her that way, we’ll have another think. What do you say?”
It was agreed. There really didn’t seem to be anything else to do.
Which door first, Charlotte,” asked Leslie. “Does mathematics have anything to say about the best way to search?”
“Not really,” he replied, “but Classics does. Hold on a sec. I’m going to get a ball of string. I reckon this is a job for well proven low technology. I’m not sure how effective the walkie-talkies are down here anyway; after all you couldn’t raise Amber. With one end of the string tied to something in here, paying it out behind us it should be safe enough for all of us to go together.”
When Charles returned, he not only had his ball of string but was carrying a length of rope too.
“I know it might seem a bit over the top, but I think we ought to rope up, just in case.”
“Oh, come on,” said Gwyneth who was getting rather fed up and wanting to be back with Zoltan. “Just in case what?”
“I agree, Charlotte’s right,” Leslie confirmed wrapping the line round a still grumbling Gwyneth’s waist and knotting it off.
At Charles’s suggestion they chose the right-hand door, with a plan to systematically try them all one by one.
The first door opened onto a narrow passage. It smelt musty, as if it had not been entered for many years. They were unable to find a light switch and so had to manage as best they could with their torches. Gwyneth was leading the way. Suddenly she let out a scream and Leslie and Charles fell on top of each other as the rope linking them to Gwyneth tightened.
“What the…” shouted Charles, Gwyneth, where are you, are you all right?”
Gwyneth had fallen into a pit the flimsy covering of which had been disguised to look like the passage floor.
They hauled her out and sat down to recover their breath and composure.
“Sorry I went on about the rope,” apologised Gwyneth when her heart had stopped racing. “You were right, Charlotte,” she leaned over and gave Charles a peck on the cheek. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I suppose it did seem a bit melodramatic. Let’s have a look at the trap. I suspect that you were its first victim for a long time. God, I hope that Amber hasn’t…” his voice trailed off.
Peering over the edge he could just make out the bottom in the torchlight. Sticking up there seemed to be spikes, but, thankfully, no Amber.
“That is a pretty diabolical thing. Can you imagine? You escape from your tormentor, or more likely they let you go and you run down here thinking you might get out and you fall down into the pit, likely as not impaling yourself on one of those spikes and any way slowly dying. You’d almost certainly break something in the fall and never be able to get out. Ugh! Horrible.”
The narrowness of her escape began to sink in on Gwyneth. She gave him a hug.
Charles shone the torch past the trap. In its pale light they could see that the passage continued beyond, descending as far as they could make out ever deeper.
“Mmm,” mused Charles; “it could be that this thing was as much intended to keep people out as to stop them escaping. Anyway, exploration can wait another day. Let’s get back and try another passage, at least Amber isn’t down here.”
They retraced their string back to the first dungeon.
“I think,” said Leslie, unhooking a long whip from the wall. “I’ll take this with us to test the floor for booby traps as we go. And we could perhaps test it on Amber. When we find her.”
The next passage, well-lit and carpeted, was a much more salubrious affair than the first one. It led to a room set out with several comfortable armchairs facing a glass wall. What they saw initially left them dumb founded. There, on the other side of the glass, was Amber. At least it was someone wearing her clothes, head hidden in a black ball, hips moving slowly to-and-fro against the long probe that penetrated her, her abbreviated skirt long ago having given up the fight to serve its nominal purpose, ridden up round her waist.
Leslie was the first to speak.
“Well, she does seem to have found a fun toy, doesn’t she? The state she is in I don’t expect we’ll get much sense out of her for the rest of the day. Suppose we ought to try to undo her though, if only to let someone else have a go?
Gwyneth looked at Charles and raised an eyebrow. Whom did she have in mind?
By the side of the window was a bank of controls. One controlled the intensity, Charles noticed that it was set at fifty per cent; another released the victim from the machines grip, yet another caused part of the window, that in reality was a one-way mirror, to slide aside.
Amber was still moaning, semi-conscious in her ecstatic dream world as they tucked her up in bed.
“No need for chains tonight, I think,” said Leslie as she tiptoed out. “What’s for dinner, Charlotte?”
Leslie was not very happy, far from it. Once the relief of having found Amber intact had subsided she was angry with her for having, despite all the warnings, wandered off as she had done, without telling anyone. More particularly, she was cross with herself for getting them into a situation in which Gwyneth had come so close to a serious accident. And if Amber had chosen the first passage that they had taken… It didn’t bear thinking about.
Eventually Amber presented herself at the breakfast table. It was quite clear that she was in everyone’s bad book, especially Leslie’s. She sat down; deliberately squawking her chair legs on the stone floor and poured out a large bowl of Cornflakes.
“I’m not surprised you need all them,” Leslie observed sarcastically.
“How d’y’u mean,” a truculent Amber retorted as she sloshed on half a litre of milk and spooned sugar on top.
“You know why Kellogg invented Corn Flakes, don’t you?”
“He thought that they suppressed the sexual urge, that’s why. I thought you might feel the need for some suppression after yesterday.”
Amber munched in silence.
“Actually,” Charles, as resident pedant, muttered under his breath, “he also had his resident physician give him an enema every morning, chacun à son goût.”
“What a good idea.” said Leslie, “Hadn’t thought of that. I’ll save it for later.”
“Or you could try Bisacodyl (4,4’-(Pyrid-2-ylmethylene)bis(phenyl)acetate) 5 to 10 mg by mouth. Gwyneth spelt out slowly. “It says here.
“Apparently it acts in 6 to 12 hours, sure fire.” She went on, looking up from the fat volume she had propped on the table.
Charles leant over and looked at it.
“Say, what are you doing with the BPC? Not thinking of becoming a vet, are you?
“No, I just found it in the library. There are loads of medical books there. ‘Spect it’s to help people get into the mood for the medical room. There’s some amazing stuff in this one, if you could get hold of it. But, no I wanted to check up on something for Zoltan. I couldn’t find any vet’s books but there is a bit in here. Do you think Zdenek could get it if I wrote it down?”
“Doubt it. He’d probably have to send to Bucharest. I suppose that there must be a vet locally, but how up-to-date he is who knows? Is it urgent?
“No, it can wait.”
“Well dealing with Amber can’t.” Leslie butted in.
“How do you mean?”
“Going off like you did you could have got yourself killed. You’ve not seen the trap Gwyneth fell in to. If we hadn’t been roped up she could have been killed looking for you and you could have killed yourself as well. Goodness only knows what’s down some of the other passages. Fräulein Peitsche warned us about exploring. But you chose to ignore her. I’m very, very angry.”
Amber hung her head.
“Sorry,” she sniffed and stirred the remnants of her breakfast with her spoon. “Just, I was fed up. We are supposed to be having a fun holiday together and you were all doing your own things and I was bored. I didn’t mean to get lost like that. I just wanted to go and have a look and, sort of imagine. Like playing with things.
“You’re not really angry with me, are you?” Amber asked. “You do like me still, don’t you?”
Leslie gave the girl a hug.
“Oh Amber, you’re impossible. It’s because I love you so, we all do, that I was so worried.”
“Yes, silly. But I’m still going to have to punish you. Go and look in the cupboards in Charlotte’s room for an all-over catsuit and put it on. Choose one in really heavy rubber with a hood and built in facemask. Then meet us in the main hall,” Leslie ordered.
Amber ran upstairs. That was more like it. Leslie’s punishments could be uncomfortable and hurt a bit, but they were always fun.
The others were waiting for her when she returned ten minutes later. She had found a suit that was indeed massively thick. More like the weight of a skin-diving or surfing suit that the playsuits to which she was accustomed. It had integrated feet, gloves and hood. Getting in to it was a struggle that had become even more so once she had worked her hands inside the gloves - they were so stiff as to make her fingers next to useless. Twice she thought of calling for help, but decided better of it. Some talc from the bathroom helped a lot though. When she had finished, it looked as if as much of the content of the box had wound up on the bedroom floor as inside the suit.
‘I hope Charlotte likes cleaning up,’ she thought.
The hardest part was the mask and hood. Putting the mask to her face there seemed to be a complicated extra bit ‘til she realised that it was supposed to go in her mouth, not so much as a gag but as a lining with a shape for her tongue to fit. She poked it in. The mask also had short tubes to go into her nostrils. By the time she had finally pulled the zipper up behind her bald scalp, pulling the mask tightly to her face, she was perspiring heavily
Amber walked gingerly down the grand staircase, holding on to the rail as best she could because the combination of the stiffness of the suit and the smallness of its eye holes made it impossible for her to clearly see where she was putting her feet.
While Amber had been getting dressed upstairs the others had disassembled one of the suits of plate armour that decorated the hall and were waiting at the foot of the stairs with the pieces,
“My idea,” said Leslie as she started to buckle the pieces on to Amber, “is to stop you wandering very far and to know where you are if you do.”
As more and more pieces were attached, Amber thought that she would, indeed, never be able to move again.
‘How did they go to war in this lot?’ she wondered as the final piece, the helmet, was place on her shoulders and its visor dropped shut.
“Try walking,” Leslie shouted close to where Amber’s ear should have been underneath the layers of steel and rubber.
Amber took one clanking step in the suit of armour and stopped, trying to shake her head and wave an arm to indicate the impossibility of the request.
“Perfect!” was Leslie’s comment. “I’m certain she won’t be going very far today and with all that clanking we’d be bound to hear. Help me attach the armour to its stand.”
Again, she shouted close to Amber.
“Right, I’m leaving you here ‘til tea time so you can guard the stairs to the dungeon in case anyone should get ideas about exploring. Come on everybody there are things to do.”
Amber was beginning to get stiff under all the weight. She tried to move. Her arms and legs were free and she could move them with an effort. Even through the rubber and steel she could hear the noise it made. She would have giggled at the sound if only her mouth had not been blocked.
Her trunk seemed to be attached to something. What was it? Then she remembered. Being hooked to a sort of stand held up the suits of armour on display. And so now, was she! What was more, the rotters had left her standing where a shaft of sunlight came in through one of the hall’s high windows. Soon she was cooking nicely inside her tin can. It was not a bit like her statue. That fit nice and snugly and gave her a yummy, overall gentle squeeze. This was just plain uncomfortable.
They were exploring the side dungeons together. When, the evening before, they had finally released Amber from her suit of armour she had been exhausted with the heat and the weight of it all. Next morning, she was as full of beans as ever. Leslie decided that to stop her getting lost by fitting her with a ball and chain that Amber was now lugging along after her.
First, they visited the medical themed room. Starkly decorated in white tiles and brightly, even harshly, lit it was impressively kitted out with an examination tables, an operation theatre table and a dentist’s chair. Wall cupboards and racks gave homes to an intimidating range of instruments. Charles picked up a gadget that had the appearance of a smoothly rounded dildo. Turning a knob at one end six chrome fingers opened out at the opposite end to span a circle some eight or nine centimetres in diameter.
“I don’t fancy an internal examination with this anal speculum,” he said, showing it to Leslie.
“Me neither,” she agreed. “Actually, I don’t much go for this medical stuff. It gives me the willies, just a bit too near home for my liking. Give me a good old-fashioned rack or whipping post any time. Let’s look next door.”
Next door was the Hi-Tech room. They wandered around looking at things, glancing at the instructions for some of the more obscure items as it was not immediately obvious what many of the were supposed to do.
“Why don’t you try this, Gwyneth? You always say that you think your boobs are too small.”
Leslie held up a bra that looked as if Brünnhilde might have left it behind after a performance of Die Walküre. Leslie said as much, adding that it would be hard to find a better setting than the Castle for a Wagner opera. The body was made of black rubber, but each bullet-shaped cup had been moulded in clear rigid plastic. As she passed it around, they could see that each cup also had a thin latex gasket glued to its rim, and that the exaggerated nipples moulded into the cups were actually smaller cups in themselves, maybe one centimetre by two, with little chromed valves at the tips.
“Okay,” Gwyneth gamely agreed starting to remove her blouse and bra, “but the cups look far too big for me.”
“We’ll see. It says to apply plenty of lubricant round the latex rims and over the entire inside surface of each cup, then settle the breasts firmly into the cups, wrap the straps around and fastening them at the back.
“Now attach the pump and evacuate.”
Leslie attached the pump and started to work it, slowly at first then with greater vigour. As she did so, Gwyneth’s right breast swelled visibly as the skin was sucked into the partial vacuum. Gwyneth moaned very softly, but stopped at a sharp glance from Leslie. It was obvious from Gwyneth’s expression of barely concealed smugness that she was enjoying the sensation. Leslie repeated the procedure with her other breast. Eventually, both were sucked out to fill their cups completely, pressing them up tightly against the clear plastic, and forcing them into the same bullet shape as the cups. Her nipples could be seen trying to swell out into the smaller cups at the tips of the cups. Charles glanced at Gwyneth’s face. Her faint smile was gone, replaced with an expression of concern. Her mouth was open and, as he watched, the pink tip of her tongue showed enough to lick her lips once, twice. Then bit her lip, trying to concentrate.
“This is where it’s supposed to get interesting according to the notes,” Leslie observed.
Despite being fully aware of Gwyneth’s developing apprehension she continued to pump.
“Look at her nipples,” Shouted Amber, much impressed by the whole process.
Gwyneth’s nipple had swollen even further, the areola having stretch until it had attained the size of a finger and completely filled the nipple cup. A minute later Leslie had the other teat pumped out as well. Gwyneth was breathing quite deeply now and was obviously in some discomfort, although, if truth be known, had she been asked whether she wanted it to stop, she would have said no.
“There!” exclaimed Leslie, “How about that Gwyneth, big enough for you?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “How long can I keep it on for?”
“It says that if you leave it on too long, you’ll get some slight haemorrhaging around the nipples, although a little is not serious. And if you pump ‘em up this much very often, you can actually increase the size of your nipples over time. Why not try it for an hour or so till we finish exploring?”
Gwyneth cushioned her swollen breasts in her hands.
“I suppose so,” she agreed.
They continued their tour of the exhibits leaving the largest and most obviously impressive looking one until last; a drum, one and a half metres tall and the same in diameter. The drum split vertically in two, one half fixed to the floor, the other hinged on its vertical edge to the fixed part. For all the world it looked like an oversize metallic steam cabinet.
“This one’s for you Charlotte,” said Leslie when she had read the first paragraph of the thick book of instructions attached to it.
“What does it do Lesso?” from Amber who, despite her ball and chain was already across and opening it to see what was inside. “Is it like the thing I found the other day?”
“No, not really. It’s called a body moulding machine. What you seem to do is get inside the drum wearing a special sort of swimsuit thing. Then Perspex-headed plungers press and shape your body and, finally, when you have the shape you want you can fix it by making the suit rigid like a corset. Might be a bit erotic but it’s not really like the unadulterated fun toy you found.”
Charles was pretty certain he did not want to try it, ‘fun toy,’ or not, and said so.
“Oh come on Charlie, sorry I mean Charlotte,” Amber, in her excitement, correcting herself only the nick of time. "You’ve been trying so hard with your figure, now’s your chance.”
After much cajoling Charles reluctantly agreed.
“Okay, what do I have to do?” he asked in resignation.
“The suits are in the cupboard wrapped in black plastic to keep the light out.” Leslie read from the manual as she walked across.
“Choose one of the preferred styles. The sizes are marked on the bags. When taken out the suit will appear too small, that is intentional.”
“What do they mean by ‘preferred style’?” Charles asked, opening the cupboard door.
“Oh, that’s nifty,” said Leslie to herself as she read the next line. Then to Charles, “They are all essentially the same shape, a sort of short-legged leotard, rather like old fashioned swimsuits except for the crotch arrangements; there are ones for men, ones for women and ones for, well sort of in between, if you see what I mean.”
“You’re sort of in between, aren’t you Charlotte?,” said Amber, who had now reached the rest.
She grabbed down a bag and thrust it at him.
“This one should be right. Shall I help you put it on? Come on, strip off. Isn’t it exciting?”
The suit was made of a semi-transparent plastic, slightly pink in colour. Quite thick, but flexible and rather stretchy, though not nearly as much as rubber would have been for the same thickness. It had thigh-length legs and continued in one piece to moulded shoulder straps. Charles could not help thinking that if it had broad horizontal stripes, he would look just like Captain Webb swimming the English Channel. The differences in the types, they decided, were entirely confined to the crotch.
All three had wide butt bungs in the form of a tube of more rigid material with a removable insert. The main distinction was at the front. The men’s model had an external penis sheath while the women’s had a dildo. The ‘in between’ model, as it was so delicately put, a problem of transition from the German, Charles wondered, had an internal tube that opened between the legs in a position where a vagina might be. The clear intention was that the wearer's penis was to be held down and back by being threaded into the tube. No particular provision was made for the testicles save a small bulge that was pre-moulded in the shape of a vulva and mons veneris.
Charles held the garment up in front of him.
“I’ll never get into this,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“It says you have to warm it and stretch it on the stand then put it on quickly before it cools.”
Ten minutes later Charles had struggled into the suit. When warmed the material had become reasonably stretchy. Stepping into the legs and pulling up the pants had been easy. Manipulating the bung into his anus and sliding his penis into the tube had been quite a different matter. A combination of large quantities of lubricant and Gwyneth, who exasperated by the lack of progress, had eventually grabbed hold of Charles’s private parts with one hand and with a decided lack of ceremony, rammed them into the tube while grabbing his foreskin and pulling with two fingers that she had inserted up the tube from the outside.
“Don’t suppose any of you have ever delivered a foal, have you?” she asked rhetorically.
The suit was cooling and becoming both stiffer and tighter when Charles finally stepped in to the moulding machine proper. He did not much like the look of all the machinery inside, but it was too late now. Amber fixed his feet into the straps on the floor so as to keep his legs apart at a mild angle and passed his arms into tubes holding them out at right angles to his body and closed the moveable section.
Leslie settled herself at the control desk on which sat a computer.
“Really you ought to be doing this computery stuff, Charlotte. Do you trust me?”
“As if I didn’t,” he replied, hoping that too much sarcasm had not crept into his voice.
“Step one, ‘boot the program.’” Leslie read.
There was the usual delay while the computer lit up and read its files.
“Step two, ‘calibrate.’” She clicked on an icon and a whirring noise came from inside the drum. Charles let out a shout that was close to panic.
“What’s the matter? Shall I try to stop it?” she asked.
“No, it’s all right,” said Charles, calming down. “It was just that I didn’t expect what happened. Some of the plungers pushed at me from all directions and the floor moved so my chin is just touching the lid.”
“Yes,” said Leslie, “and now I’ve got a picture of you on the screen, sort of front and side elevations. Presumably it was measuring you to find out how big you are.”
“That must be it,” agreed Charles. “Now what?”
“It says, ‘choose fix - absolute or relative.’ I think we had better have ‘relative.’ You’re a good bit taller than average girls are, so I should think it ought to scale sizes to keep in proportion.
“Now it’s giving a list of shapes, ‘36-24-36.’ ‘Venus de Milo.’ ‘Marilyn.’ ‘Twiggie.’ ‘Victorian.’ ‘Gibson Girl.’ ‘Barbie.’ ‘Gaultier’ and several more. There are some men shapes, but were not interested in them. Which shall I try?”
“Better try 36-24-36, if they are inches, I’m not so far off that allowing a bit for height.”
Leslie clicked on the entry. There was more noise from the cylinder. Charles gave a grunt or two.
“Yes. It feels very strange. The plungers have pushed me about a bit. Mostly they’ve just squeezed my balls and pushed my bum up. It’s okay though.”
“Well, your bum does sag a bit.”
“Thank you very much, Amber, I thought you were my friend. Anyway, they don’t any more. Try another one Leslie, please?”
“Yes, it’s a pity you can’t see this. The computer has drawn your new shape on top of the old one. You can see that the differences are quite small. Okay, here goes, this is probably more extreme, ‘Victorian.’”
This time the whirring went on for much longer. Charles gritted his teeth as the plungers remorselessly pressed into his waist and lower rib cage. It was much tighter than his tightest corset. It hurt and breathing was becoming difficult. The machine stopped and an amber message flashed on the computer screen. 'Warning!' it said, 'Safe limit reached before desired shape achieved! Proceed or Cancel'.
“Better cancel,” said Leslie. Are you game to try another, Charlotte?”
“In a minute, just put me back to the first one for a mo so I can get my breath back.”
Leslie reset the controls as Charles requested.
"Phew, that’s better. That one had an impossible waist. Does it say what size it was trying to get?
“Yes, forty-five centimetres.”
“That’s ridiculous on me. I’m not Twiggy you know!” Charles exclaimed. "What did it stop at?”
“God, no wonder I felt it was trying to cut me in half. I’ve never managed better than fifty-two or three.”
“Got a new target now, love. How about Gautier? I assume that is the shape of those perfume bottles.”
“’Spect so, okay, give it a whirl.
“That’s different,” Charles commented when the pummelling had stopped. “Not nearly so tight round the waist, but it’s pushed my hips and shoulders back and spent a long time trying to do something at chest level.”
Leslie peered at the screen.
“Yes, there’s a message saying, ‘Incomplete bust filling.’”
“Well, what do you expect,” Charles retorted.
“You can see on the diagram it has very pointy boobs. I can see what you said about your bum. It’s not really Gibson Girl, but it is set well back.”
“Try that one,” Amber pointed at the screen.
Amber leaned over to show Leslie. Standing on tiptoe so as better to see the screen over Leslie’s shoulder she overbalanced, put out a hand to steady herself and caught the control computer’s Enter key. There was a dull thump from somewhere behind them and a bright flash in the cabinet. Charles let out a shout and then was silent.
The Gals froze for what seemed like an eternity.
“You’ve set the mould,” Leslie eventually shouted, rushing over to where Charles hung limply, panting for breath inside the cabinet.
“Are you alright, Charlotte?” She asked anxiously. “Amber accidentally knocked the key to polymerise that plastic and set the shape.”
“I think so,” said Charles, as she opened the cabinet and let him out.
“How do I get this thing off?”
“With a plaster-cast cutter, I think. I found this one in the cupboard with the rest of the bits.”
“But it gives you a smashing figure,” said Amber, hauling herself and her ball up to where Charles stood.
“Amber’s right really,” said Leslie stepping back and eyeing him.
“Think of it as a training corset, it will be all right in a bit - once your body’s adapted,” Gwyneth offered by way of comfort.
“And what if I don’t want to be trained?”
“Then you’d better start thinking of it as a punishment corset for grumbling about training.” Leslie warned. “You can keep it on for the rest of the holiday. The manual says that is okay, in fact the idea of the fat butt tube and bung is your back passage doesn’t get closed up so you can go to the loo.”
Charles tried to grab the casting saw from Leslie, but, hampered as he was, he couldn’t get it off her as she held it out of reach, then tossed it over his head to Amber.
“Now behave, Charlotte, or me and Leslie might never let you out and then what would you do?” Amber teased; prancing around with the cutter held just out of his reach. Charles had to stop for breath; the body form having reduced his lung capacity, seemingly by half.
‘Commit murder,’ he thought, panting.
“Come on; put your things on again. I want to see what you look like properly.” It was Amber, for once, trying to be the diplomat.
Charles tried walking over to the chair where his clothes had been dumped. The top of the legs had not been polymerised so they could still bend for walking. What didn’t bend was anything from hips upward. There was no give at the waist, so when he sat down to get dressed, he found himself having to be bolt upright. From that position he could not reach his feet to get them into his tights. Amber knelt down beside him to help, feeling rather guilty, well just a teeny-weeny bit guilty, at what she had done to him. He stood up and let her continue dressing him.
With his upper torso thrust forward and shoulders forced back, the sharply pointed boobs strained threateningly underneath the body top. His hips had been widened by having the buttocks pushed up so his leather skirt, pencil slim to begin with, was now extra tight round his bottom, but far too big around the waist.
Taking up the handful of slack at each side of his waist, he preened in the mirror.
“Pity to waste it, I suppose,” said Charles, straining to look at himself in the mirror that Amber held up for him, “but don’t anyone expect me to do any more house work again, ever.”
The following day they relented and let Charles out of his training corset. Not so much out of sympathy because wearing it had become unbearable, but rather, as Amber coldly observed, “They needed someone to be on hand to serve drinks, prepare breakfast and generally look after domestic chores, or the holiday world be spoilt.”
Continues in chapter 14