{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"aa17ec6a-a6c1-4d78-a17a-25740affc9af","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2019-04-29T05:15:13.269Z","title":"Such A Nice Kind Woman","slug":"such-a-nice-kind-woman","shortId":"BBatMpMh","authorNote":null,"disclaimer":null,"type":"Short","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"Just an ordinary woman with an extra-ordinary business!","partCount":1,"parts":[{"partId":"160675f1-936c-41b7-b114-733c184e1506","title":null,"summary":"Warning to readers: Posted several stories on another site\nso thought I’d try here. Still early days","wordCount":9696,"readTime":49,"number":1,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"Chapter 1","content":"

Warning to readers: Posted several stories on another site\nso thought I’d try here. Still early days for my writing but as with most of my stories this one is pretty darn slow and\nwordy so be warned. If you have read any of my other tales, then you\nwill probably know what I mean. I don’t write quickie wham, bam thank you mam stuff. I aim to write with a certain element of realism about situations of a\nnon-consensual nature. This time the idea was to sort of play around with\ncontrasts in a one-off story. Maybe it worked and maybe not.

\n\n

Such a nice kind woman

\n\n

Porridge she decided. She’d looked out of the bedroom window,\nand the weather was decidedly blustery.\nCold probably at this time of the year with that wind shaking the trees and\nbushes but fortunately not wet. Chilly indeed\nbut wet, no. Grey but the forecast last night had not mentioned any rain.

\n\n

Porridge she reaffirmed looking out of the kitchen window.\nYes, definitely a porridge day, something\ntraditional, warming and wholesome for the insides. None of that modern bran or\nyoghurt muck or worse ‘breakfast biscuits.

\n\n

Porridge plus some bacon and eggs and she could finish off\nthose mushrooms that had been in the refrigerator a day or so longer than was\ngood for them and few nice thick slices\nof wholemeal brown toast. Decent sized slices cut from the loaf with a proper\nbreadknife, no convenient pre-sliced loaves for her. Convenience. How lazy\npeople were these days.

\n\n

Rush, rush rush, in and out of the supermarkets with their laden\ntrolleys, their cellophane and plastic wrapped ‘bargains’ foisted upon them\nregardless of whether that wanted them or not, half of which would end in the\nbin probably and then they’d be off again, rush, rush, rush.

\n\n

Mrs Mason was a woman\nwho preferred to take her time. She detested rush and haste. ‘Mush and waste’\nwas the result of that. When she went shopping it was always to proper shops,\ngreengrocers, butchers and bakers. Yes, the supermarket was useful but strictly\non her terms. Impulse buying wasn’t even a term she understood.

\n\n

Ten minutes later she waived Mr\nMason to his seat at the table who was immediately joined by their twelve-year-old\ndaughter and eight-year-old son.

\n\n

“Hands?” she said flatly.

\n\n

Both children held out their hands for her inspection palm\nup, so did Mr Mason. “Don’t be silly\ndear” she chided

\n\n

Mr Mason winked at his\nkids; it was the same routine before\nevery meal. Mrs Mason was very fastidious\nabout personal hygiene, and he considered\nthat his occasional joining in added a touch of light relief to the ritual.

\n\n

They all sat silently\nwith their hands clasped together for a solemn moment while Mrs Mason thanked the\nLord for what was before them and reminded them all of how lucky they were to\nhave such bounties while poor children were starving in Africa. A plea to that same deity to protect them all through\nthe perils of the day preceded the obligatory chorus of “Amen’s”.

\n\n

Mrs Mason was an excellent\ncook and spurned almost in their entirety the vast range of ‘ready or convenience products available these days. Her\nporridge was entirely homemade, hot, tasty with the traditional pinch of salt\nand lashings of warm milk. No sugar. Mrs\nMason did not approve of excess amounts of sugar.

\n\n

Porridge was followed\nby plates of bacon, egg (poached not fried) and grilled mushrooms. Very tasty.\nToast and thick cut marmalade from the local farm shop that had supplied the\neggs and mushrooms.

\n\n

“Excellent” pronounced Mr\nMason as he placed his knife and fork in the obligatory ‘finished’ position on\nhis empty plate. He always did say that or some other similar word or phrase of\ncommendation. He was very proud of his wife’s skills within the kitchen.

\n\n

He was very proud of his wife altogether. He smiled across\nthe table at her as he neatly folded his starched linen napkin and she smiled\nfondly back. Mrs Mason was not by any\nmeans the sort of woman who would have stimulated those ‘erotic’ fantasies he’d\nhad when he was a teenager and young man. The sort of glossy female who\nfeatured in those ‘dirty’ magazines at the newsagents that he had occasionally\npurchased.

\n\n

Those full-bosomed lithesome creatures that had tempted him so alluringly from their lofty top\nshelf positions but meant that he had to cycle over to the next neighbourhood\nbut one. A shop where nobody would know him, make his purchase and then sneak his\ntreasure back home where it would ultimately find a resting place in the space\nbeneath his bedroom wardrobe with the rest of his small collection.

\n\n

Of course, making such a purchase was very dependent on just\nwho happened to be serving in the shop. Once he\nrecalled having to wait nearly an hour before the gentleman who owned the\nestablishment appeared, and he could\navoid the female assistants and make his purchase with less embarrassment. That\nhad been a special case because he’d\nbecome so enamoured of the model on the cover and didn’t want to risk finding\nthe issue unavailable at a later date. Usually,\nwhen circumstances thwarted his desired purchase, he’d buy a packet of wine\ngums and try his luck another day.

\n\n

Mrs Mason was very\ndefinitely not of the ‘top shelf’ variety. As far as he knew, her face had\nnever been touched by the slightest hint\nof ‘gloss’. Mrs Mason disapproved of\nmakeup and ‘painted harlots’. Any woman wearing even a modicum of lipstick was liable to be designated a painted harlot by\nMrs Mason.

\n\n

In the very early days of their marriage, Mr Mason had wished\nmore than once that perhaps Mrs Mason\nmight…might sort of glam up a bit. Perhaps just a smidgen of powder and paint, a\ntouch of frilly lace, maybe even a sexy pair of heels. No, not every day of course…but\nmaybe just maybe, on the odd occasion.

\n\n

That had been wishful thinking. Mrs Mason remained ever faithful to her simple skirts and cardigans, woolly\nvests, sensible flats and her plain round face remained a ‘gloss’ free zone.

\n\n

Mr Mason had once,\nlong ago now, contemplated the traditional ‘frilly negligee’ set as a Christmas\npresent. He’d even selected the very one in the lingerie section of a large, well-known High-street department store.\nThat outing had tried both his patience and his courage. No chance of getting a\ngentleman counter hand there, maybe if an older woman had been available rather\nthan those young ones, he might even have succeeded.

\n\n

Then again perhaps not. Secretly, deep down even if he had purchased that frilly transparent item, it would never have joined all the other\npresents under the Christmas nativity scene. They never had a tree – (pagan Mrs Mason called them). His courage would have\nfailed him and so the inevitable book, sensible cardigan and scarf had taken\nits place.

\n\n

There had been intimate relations, of course; the two children\nproved that. Thrice a year though he\ncould rely on. His birthday, their\nwedding anniversary and New Year's Eve.\nNever any variation. Missionary position and a time limit. If he had not done\nhis ‘duty’ and spent his ‘penny’ as she called it, within ten minutes, he could\nforget about it till next time. Occasionally and for no reason, he could fathom there would be a seductive suggestion that\nthey might retire early, and he would find himself in bed with an entirely different woman. Odd but certainly\nmemorable.

\n\n

When he thought about it, which he rarely did, he\ninvariably decided that in terms of pluses\nand negatives he was definitely in credit. At thirty years of age, trapped in a\ndull, boring job on the lower rungs of\nthe promotion ladder within the financial firm he’d worked for. A low level, low wage accounts clerk\nstruggling to make ends meet and the nightmare of the daily commute, lonely,\ndesperately shy, weedy, unfashionable in all aspects and still struggling\ndespite his age with the ravages of acne and a\nvirgin sex life long since resigned to eternal masturbation!

\n\n

Mrs Mason had changed\nall that. They’d met at his last remaining, or no longer remaining, aunt’s funeral. Ten years older than\nhim, short almost ‘dumpy’, plain of face and dress, she’d been a neighbour of\nhis Aunts in the fashionable rather up-market area where she lived. The aunt\nhad only been a distant relative and despite the apparent affluence of her\nabode hadn’t been all that wealthy. The house had been rented, her assets as such went chiefly to her daughter and a local cat rescue. He’d received a minor bequest, about enough to cover his rail ticket and\nthe cost of his night in a cheap bed and breakfast before the funeral.

\n\n

They’d had a whirlwind romance one in which she seemed to\nmake every decision. She said she wanted children, she wanted a husband, and she seemed\nto have selected him. Two months after that dismal\nfuneral he was established, wedding ring on his finger, in her bed, house and a\nnew job as the finance director of a small building firm owned by a friend of hers,\nwithin walking distance of where they lived.

\n\n

Now more than a dozen years later he realised that he had no\nreal complaints. He lived in a large comfortable house, had two healthy kids,\nhe liked his job and the fact that he was spared\nthe awful hassle of the long daily commute by inadequate, overcrowded public\ntransport. His wife was a good cook, nothing fancy mind you, just good\nwholesome food. The house was kept spotlessly clean by his wife and the daily\nthat came in two mornings a week. He was\neven spared chores in the garden; they\nhad a man who came in three afternoons in summer and once a week during the\nwinter.

\n\n

His modest salary did not cover everything of course. His\nwife had money of her own plus what she earned from her paintings. Her\npaintings sold for quite large sums of money; he\nknew that because he’d seen some of the cheques. That had always baffled him a\nbit. There were a few around the house, mostly still life’s, that was her\nspeciality, and they looked pretty…well ordinary,\nnothing special that he could see. Still, those cheques often had more than few\nnoughts on them so some people must rate her — no\naccounting for taste.

\n\n

She had a small studio down in the basement. Odd, that. He’d always thought artists liked space and\nlight, light especially. However, she seemed quite content with that pokey\nlittle space downstairs. It had been bigger once apparently when the old coke\nboilers and coal store were down there but all that had space had been filled in when the house converted to gas\nand a small modern heating unit installed\nin the kitchen. It had been something to do with subsidence she told him; she couldn’t remember what, something technical\nand to do with the way the foundations had originally\nbeen built. Anyway, that had been before his marriage.

\n\n

“Now then,” Mrs Mason told him as she gestured for the kids\nto clear the dishes so they could wash and wipe them dry. “First you drive to\nTom and Mary’s with the children, they will be there for lunch playing with\nTrudy and Johnathan. Second, you have till late-afternoon at the golf course. Plenty of time for a round with\nBob and lunch” She frowned slightly. “I won’t object to a small beer, but no\nburgers darling, gives you wind and not at all healthy. Stick to a salad or something”.

\n\n

He nodded. He was long used to his wife’s habit of itemising\neverything.

\n\n

“Three, you can collect the children around four thirty. I will be back by then. Four, don’t forget\nto call at the filling station and get some petrol, half a tank should suffice.\nBetter do that on the way to the course I think.”

\n\n

He nodded again. His life was fairly regimented. The golf,\nof course, had been her idea. She’d even been relatively\ninstant. He needed something to get him out of the house on a regular basis and out from under her feet\nwhen he was not working. Something to help him\nkeep fit. Well, he remembered\njoking at the time, at least it was better than jogging!

\n\n

He enjoyed it and looked forward to his time on the course.\nHe’d never been much good with bat or ball at school but with some (well a lot of) help from the club pro he’d got\ndown to what he at least considered a pretty darn respectable handicap, we’ll\nfor him anyway. To hell with her. He’d meet Bob for a coffee and a yarn or two,\nplay the round and then have a late lunch and a pint – not a small beer!

\n\n

***

\n\n

“Well have a nice day, dear.”

\n\n

She’d called out as she stood in the door as always watching\nthem drive away. She gave a final wave of her hand as the car disappeared out\nof the drive and was immediately lost to\nsight behind the high walls and trees that enclosed the property. Her hands\nreached behind her back to unfasten the strings of her pinafore which she\nremoved and carefully hung on a vacant hook on the old Victorian hall stand.

\n\n

Closing the front door, she walked around to the side of the\nbuilding to the gravel patch where the car was usually\nparked. She didn’t like them leaving it out the front. It looks so untidy and so lazy. A small garden shed was built up\nagainst the wall mainly for the storage of garden tools. Picking up a small tin\nof oil from a bench inside she followed the narrowing gravel drive around to\nthe side of the house. Her feet crunched\non the small stones as she walked. That was the beauty of gravel she noted; it was so difficult\nto walk or move on it without\nmaking noise, so good for security.

\n\n

A relic of previous years remained. The ramp-like heavy iron double doors that had originally covered the fuel\nchute for deliveries of coal and coke. A large modern heavy-duty padlock\nwas fitted to secure the two doors together. Mrs\nMason withdrew a bunch of keys from a skirt pocket, selected one and removed\nthe padlock.

\n\n

Although they looked like they hadn’t been used for many\nyears the two doors opened outwards quite easily for her although both made\nsomething of a tortured squeaking noise. Winter rains she surmised with a grimace\nthen treated the hinges with a few drops from her can. She gave the oil a\nmoment to penetrate then worked the doors a few times before adding more oil.\nSatisfied that their metallic squeals had been silenced she closed and locked\nthem again but not before checking the wooden door situated a foot or so below\nthe exterior ones. That one could only be\nopened from the inside and was heavily padded\non the inner surface.

\n\n

She returned the oil can to the shed and re-entered her\nhouse glancing at the hall clock as she did so. Only nine-thirty, she had\nplenty of time. They were not due to pick up till three, and they were always on time. One thing she\ndetested was tardy people. Punctuality was something else she was very meticulous about.\nThey’d never been late though, not once in the twenty-odd\nyears she’d dealt with them

\n\n

The solid front door closed behind her, and she took a moment to slide a heavy bolt\ninto place. There was no reason why anybody should call, but her husband did have a key, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone off\nand forgotten something. Her hand reached up for the apron, and it was carried\ninto the kitchen to its allocated place and hook. She was that sort of woman,\neverything in its proper place at all times. Untidiness she maintained was a\ncombination of laziness and a lack of organisation. Both easy defects to remedy and she prided herself\nin being an expert when it came to correcting\nshortcomings!

\n\n

Her key-bunch emerged once more as she selected the key that\nopened an old wooden door that led from the kitchen,\ndown a steep flight of stone steps to her cellar studio. There was nothing out\nof the ordinary about that lock nor the one in the door at the bottom. The third door, however, was a different\nproposition. An expert would have told\nyou at a glance that it was a unique lock\nneeding a unique key, rarely seen and expensive. The sort of key you might need to access a security box in a Swiss bank\nvault rather than a residential basement.

\n\n

The stairs were steep, and\nafter turning to re-lock the entrance door,\nshe was always careful to watch where she was putting\nher feet and to hold the rail as she descended. It certainly wouldn’t do\nto slip and break a leg or something. Some years ago, when she’d been younger,\nbefore her marriage she’d been a bit too eager to get down there one morning\nand had indeed slipped. Fortunately, that had only resulted in a cracked rib, a\nsprained ankle and severe bruising. Still, it had limited her mobility for a bit,\nmore than a week till she managed to get back down there. If it had been much longer,\nshe’d have lost a lot of money and more importantly, her reputation!

\n\n

The second door at the bottom was also of wood but somewhat\nnewer than the one at the top. She unlocked that one and locked it again behind\nher. There was no real need she thought as she did every time, not with the\nkitchen door locked but who knows…one day\nshe might forget, and her husband or one\nof the kids could get down.

\n\n

Kids, of course, are naturally curious. They had been down\non numerous occasions with her but as there was nothing very exciting to see interest had naturally waned. Mummy’s secret\nlittle place was very dull, just easels,\ncupboards, spot-lamps, canvass’s paints, brushes, more paints, palettes and\nracks of paintings.

\n\n

She walked carefully across the cramped space to a dark\ncorner by the far wall, moved a rack of\nstacked mostly unfinished paintings and flipped up the cleverly concealed cover\nto another keyhole set into the wooden panelling. Her key clicked, and she swung back the door and entered her\nreal workplace, her secret lair, the very\nheart of her domain.

\n\n

The old cellar had not been filled in and remained very much\nan ample open space where once old solid fuel boilers had stood, coal and coke\nhad been stored and no doubt all the\nunwanted rubbish of a busy household.

\n\n

The significant renovations\nafter her mother died had included the additional wall to provide her ‘cover’\nspace. Complete soundproofing of walls\nand ceiling with thick cork and the old half-moon\nskylights bricking up. The whole room other than the floor painted white, white that had a hint of a sheen\nto it. A new smooth floor installed of\neasy to clean pale blue vinyl tiles. A wet area was\nplumbed into the far corner complete with open tiled shower, toilet and\nbasin.

\n\n

Separated from the wet area by the steps that had replaced\nthe original coal chute was a small kitchen area with worktop, cupboards, sink\nand a small refrigerator but no cooker. No hot food was ever served down here. There was an electric kettle for her use if she\nfancied a hot drink. Coffee usually.\nFunny, she never drank coffee upstairs. Tea and hot chocolate yes but never\ncoffee.

\n\n

No doubt a phycologist would have said it was all a part of\nher ‘split personality’. Not that she thought she had one. Upstairs she was Mrs\nMason the prim and proper wife and mother. Down in her workplace, she was still the same Mrs Mason wasn’t she, just that\ndown here she entertained and amused\nherself in different ways as she efficiently carried out the work that needed\nto be done on her ‘projects’. Work that\nwas not only highly amusing and entertaining for her but also very lucrative\nindeed.

\n\n

She tossed the bunch of keys on to the desk set along ‘her’\nside of the large space. A glance at the flat\nTV screen showed that all was well in the\ngrounds and by the front door. Her business laptop lived here attached to a\nlarge computer monitor. This side of the room\nwas more comfortable. A couple of thick\nrugs on the floor, a large leather throne-like chair and a king-sized double\nbed with an iron lattice grill for a headboard. There were a couple of\nplumped up pillows but no bedding apart from a fitted black rubber bottom\nsheet. No bedding was needed; the room\nwas maintained at a comfortable temperature unless she particularly wanted to have it significantly hotter or colder.\nSometimes she did that.

\n\n

Just a couple of emails. One basic\nenquiry and two confirmations. Yes, they would be here today at three o’clock.\nThey would message her cell phone at two\nforty-five to confirm that they were almost there. Good, that would give her time to get the trap door unlocked and\nensure she had time for a final check. They knew where to park their van and\nhow to back it right up to that a quick,\ndiscrete transfer could be completed. Old\nhat anyway, she’d lost count of the number of such transactions that had taken\nplace.

\n\n

The details on the other email were more or less as she’d\nanticipated. A bit younger than she’d expected given the original enquiry. Still, if the client was happy then who was she\nto query them. She was a part of the chain,\nbut her job was developing and refining the products ready for final delivery,\nnot in the acquisition of the raw materials.

\n\n

She typed out a reply to the single enquiry. Yes, she could\ntake that on that commission alongside the ‘double’, but it would involve extra work so her fee would be consequently\nhigher. Likewise, it would set the time needed on the double back by a few\nweeks, she only had one pair of hands after all and only so much time that she\ncould devote to her cellar. They knew that anyway, they weren’t unreasonable,\nand it did promise to be an interesting challenge,\nso she was not about to reply with a total negative.

\n\n

Admin chores done she\nswivelled her executive style computer chair around to survey her domain, her\nprivate kingdom, her factory of the flesh as she sometimes thought of it. A\nlittle crude perhaps, she was after all an artist, not a boilermaker; nevertheless,\nthis was where she worked on her human canvases, moulding the living material into whatever her clients\ndesired.

\n\n

She sometimes wondered if white had been the best choice. It\nwas getting a bit shabby and dull she thought, maybe a pale pink would be\nbetter if she gave it an overdue refresh. White was a bit antiseptic looking\nafter all. A pale pink would be a touch\ncosier perhaps. One difficulty, of\ncourse, would be getting it done. Her husband\nwas quite adept with an emulsion brush, but she could hardly get him down here\nto do it could she? It wasn’t like painting the\nlounge or the bathroom!

\n\n

Perhaps they could organise it for her. She could take the\nfamily way for a few days; it shouldn’t\ntake longer than that. They must be able to lay their hands on one or two who’d\ncould competently use a paint brush – under rigorous supervision of course. Well, she did have the means to accommodate\nthem, didn’t she? She made a mental note to initiate enquiries.

\n\n

Even with all the additional fittings and furniture her\n‘studio’ was quite spacious. The house was large, way over large for just the\nfour of them, affluent Victorians always built on a large scale and originally\nthere had been a stable block attached, now long demolished. The old cellar\nmirrored the floor areas above plus the old stable blocks cellar had survived\nwhen that building was torn down; thus the space\navailable was of a generous size.

\n\n

The back end of the long room contained her equipment racks,\nwardrobes and cages. She had numerous cages\nof varying size that could be taken to\npieces and re-erected as needed — that\nsaved space. There were also the three ‘training’ areas down the far right and\nat the back. The dressing area with table,\nmirrors, the wardrobes full of heels and frillies and the myriad pots of powder\nand paint for the little ‘ harlots’ to use. That whole area was already pink, pink and frothy and\nvery over the top feminine.

\n\n

The stable area, the stall with its double doors, hitching\nrail, feeding trough and dirt floor and next to that the dog run with its\nimitation grass and ‘dirty’ area at the very end for poo poos after walkies. On\none occasion she’d had to adapt that into\na pigsty complete with a huge boar and two sows, all real plus the human\nproject. Only once, the smell had lingered for ages, and she’d probably undercharged on that one! Still, it had been interesting; she never knew boars could get that randy or\nthat big!

\n\n

Only one cage was assembled\nat present, and she looked over to it.\nThe occupant was crouched half laying on his\nside he’d been looking at her, but\nonce he realised that she was now looking at him,\nhe turned his head away, no doubt hoping to avoid any further attention.

\n\n

She chuckled. “Idiot, since when had that worked. They could\nall play ostriches if they wanted but that never stopped her. She wasn’t\nsuddenly going to disappear if they couldn’t’ see her!

\n\n

She would miss Pluto. How long was it, seven and a bit weeks?\nNot by any means the most extended stay\nin her domain but long enough for her to have developed a mild attachment to\nhim. She had her favourites she always\nhad had and some she recalled fondly. Of course,\nwhen they left that was an end, she never saw them again and, in most cases,\nheard nothing more about them. Only once had one of her previous projects\nre-appeared — role reassignment following\nthe sale to a new owner.

\n\n

She left her chair and walked over to the cage or pen as she\npreferred to call it. It could, of course, have been a lot bigger and more\ncomfortable for the unfortunate occupant within. Comfort though was not on the\nagenda and would have only been an\nunnecessary inconvenience for the project.

\n\n

The ‘pen’ was constructed from steel bars about five inches\napart; each panel boarded with a steel\nframe. Straight and right-angle brackets were welded at numerous points so that\nadditional panels could be bolted together enabling her to construct a wide variety of\nenclosures easily.

\n\n

This one was her standard ‘dog pen’ configuration: five feet long, four wide and three and a\nhalf high. The dimensions were in part based on something she’d once read about\nin the Tower of London. ‘Little Ease: One\nof the most feared devices in the Tower was its tiniest cells.

\n\n

She’d made a note of the article: The windowless cell\nmeasured 4 square feet (1.2 meters) and bore the faintly prim name of Little Ease. Its effect was simple. The prisoner within it could\nnot stand nor sit nor lie down but was forced to crouch over, in increasing\nagony, until freed from the suffocating, dark space.

\n\n

The pen before her was her variation. Unlike that one in the\nTower, hers was a little larger although\nof course, that depended on how tall the\noccupant was. No point in putting a petite\nfour-foot-nine female into a five-foot-long\nenclosure was there? That’s why she’d had such a selection of panels to use\ndepending on the situation. Nor was there any danger of the occupant suffocating.\nHer training area was quite well aired and brightly illuminated. Nor were they\nconsigned to the dark, she frequently left the lights on in between visits, not\nso much for their benefit though as for hers. They could while away the hours until\nthe next time she paid them a call by looking at all the implements of\ncorrection she had amassed over the years that lined a nearby wall — very thought provoking\nfor them no doubt.

\n\n

Looking down at the figure so uncomfortably curled up she\ndid feel a slight twinge. No, not of remorse or guilt or anything like that.\nRather more a case of selfish wishful thinking. She rather liked this one, pity\nshe couldn’t keep him. She’d had a\nsimilar pet once before her marriage, but it would be impossible to give him\nthe run of the large house such as poor old Gopher had enjoyed. Enjoyed perhaps with a big question mark.

\n\n

Well, that was her choice. She was the one who’d got greedy\nwanting to carry on her entertaining and lucrative little games downstairs and\nat the same time enjoy a full vanilla family life\nupstairs. Upstairs/downstairs. Could there ever have been a greater contrast\nshe wondered?

\n\n

The caged figure hadn’t moved. She frowned, that was no good. It\nknew better than that. Had not her\ncanes and whips taught it how to greet her? Her\nexpression grew colder. She moved her right foot forward so that the toe\nof her sensible shoe thrust through the bars and at the same time she\nsnapped her fingers.

\n\n

The figure stirred slowly, far too slowly and her fingers\nsnapped impatiently again then pointed down at her right foot. “Greet, lick”.\nShe commanded with a hint of anger now in her voice

\n\n

The hint wasn’t wasted.\nHead bowed, a pink tongue began to lick the forepart of her shoe. “Faster,\nharder, dog”.

\n\n

Cold eyes watched his pathetic efforts and then she withdrew\none foot and proffered the other for the same treatment. Her gaze passed from\nthe bobbing head, along his back to his\nfirm young arse cheeks. Her glance past\nfrom there to a varied assortment of bamboo canes hanging nearby.

\n\n

She gave a sort of shiver. A\nshudder of longing that passed from her twitching right hand up her arm and\ndown to her tingling pussy. Pity she thought, she would have loved to\nply the cane again over those firm buttocks. Oh, how she’d like to make him howl for her again as he’d howled\nduring those first few weeks. This one had been a good howler, almost too good; sometimes she’d been a little fearful that\nthose ‘upstairs might even hear him. That Cork insulation had been an excellent investment.

\n\n

The buyer didn’t want him marked on delivery so much as she\nyearned to add yet one more obedience lesson it wouldn’t be practical, not at\nthis late stage. She’d probably pushed her luck a day or two back when she’d paddled the hell out of\nhim. The paddle was good but not nearly as\ngood as the cane, but it did not leave marks other than reddened, sore flesh.

\n\n

She abruptly pulled back her foot and snapped her pudgy\nfingers again. “Turn, back, back up!” she ordered.

\n\n

Facing away from her she got a beautiful view of those firm white cheeks that had bounced and\nquivered so delightfully under the less than loving touch of her favourite\ntoys. Unmarked. Not entirely, there was\nample evidence remaining of her corrective treatments, but it was faded, yet to\nany sadistic observer there remained enough tell-tale marks to cause more than\na ripple of sensual delight.

\n\n

All in all, she thought she’d done a pretty damn good job\nwith this one. Bent, bowed but not entirely\nbroken. That had been the gist of her brief. \nSomeone somewhere was paying an awful lot of money for this poor cur.\nTaken from the wild, trained but not overtrained\nnor reduced to a mindless obedient cringing pathetic poodle of a pet!

\n\n

Seven weeks was both a short and a long time. Short for her, but it had probably seemed like a\nlifetime for the creature curled so helpless before her feet. Obedient,\nup to a point but still with plenty of spirit.\nThey would have to watch this one, but then they would know that. Those who’d\nprovided him and commissioned her would never sell such merchandise to anyone\nwho lacked both the experience and the facilities to appreciate and enjoy their expensive acquisition fully.

\n\n

Seven weeks he had been in her version of ‘Little Ease’\nother than his little outings on the leash when he’d learnt the basics of\nwalking to heel, to cock his leg and void in the dirt patch and play fetch. Seven weeks since he’d last enjoyed\nthe privilege of standing erect on his hind legs. Seven weeks since he’d awoken\nto find himself in her cruel pen.

\n\n

Personally, she would\nhave preferred him in a puppy suit, but\nthat wasn’t what the buyer wanted. Her\ndaughter wanted a puppy boy for her birthday a big smelly stinky hairy puppy.\nShe so wanted to bathe and groom him and make his puppy bottom go pretty shades\nof black, blue and purple. A naughty puppy who\nshould know better but would still be a naughty puppy. A puppy that she\nwould have to teach to behave himself and they would have sooo much fun together, wouldn’t they?

\n\n

Well, the brief hadn’t\nsaid all that, but she’d been in the business now long enough to read between\nthe lines. There were some very indulgent parents out there with some callous children. Unlike her own. They had been brought up along very different lines, and\nshe would ensure that continued. It was a strict rule - spider in the bath,\ncollect in a tumbler and release outside the back door. No nasty cruelty!

\n\n

That reminded her of something. She would have to consult\nwith Mr Mason about her daughter's handwriting; undecipherable\nspider tracks her teacher had said. His handwriting\nwas very neat and precise, could he give\nher some extra coaching, or would they have to look elsewhere?

\n\n

Her nose wrinkled as she looked down at him again. The smell\nreminded her a little of the ‘pig period’,\nnot nearly as bad of course, but he did\nstink. Stinky they wanted and so stinky they’d get, pity it also contaminated her\ntraining room. Seven weeks without a bath, shave or lavatory paper, so he was certainly going to need some\n‘grooming’. Dark haired and with a substantial\ngrowth of beard. Not what floated her boat. She would have shaved and creamed\nhim. Smooth was good, hairy unpleasant,\nunsightly and not very hygienic.

\n\n

Never mind. The hatch doors would be open for a short time\nsoon. That should help to freshen things up a little bit. She looked from the closed hatch and back to him. Yes, hairy was terrible, it sort of\nscratched a bit in a way when he was on pussy duty. It didn’t hurt or anything,\nbut she did find it a bit irritating, and\nthat tended to distract her from the pleasures of his tongue a little.

\n\n

Her musings were interrupted as a cell phone suddenly came\nto life its ring tone blaring out as it vibrated on her desk. She quickly\nwalked back over to pick it up. “Hello”.

\n\n

She listened and then spoke. “No darling, no, I said half a\ntank and I meant half a tank. There is absolutely\nno need to fill it completely. Yes, yes,\nI realise that, no you haven’t interrupted anything, I hadn’t started yet.\nAlright, I’ll see you later. Don’t come back before we agreed as I told you.\nYes, bye bye”.

\n\n

Sweet of him she thought but quite\nunnecessary. Funny how she’d got him so perfectly trained and with not one\nsingle stroke of cane or whip! Well, she was the one who’d decided they’d marry,\nshe was the one who’d proposed…if telling\nsomeone that they were going to marry her counted as a proposal and ever since\nthen he’d been so delightfully biddable in all things. Just what she had wanted,\nshe’d been so right in her assessment at that funeral tea.

\n\n

Yes, sweet of him to think of saving them a few pennies but the\nfact that the local filling station had a special offer on was not relevant. Typical accountant. She walked back to the pen\nsmiling to herself. Humph, if only Mr\nMason knew. She could afford to buy that tiddly little filling station even if\nall its pump fuel tanks were chock a block full. Come to that she could\nprobably buy a dozen tanker trucks plus a significant part of the nearest\nrefinery as well. Anyway, financial prudence was a fundamental lesson for the children. Moderation in all things!

\n\n

Unless you happened to have a\nmoist and overly impatient greedy pussy and of course and had the means\nat hand to assuage such needs, hmmm, the\nlook in its eyes, he must have thought that smile was for him, some new devilry brewing mayhap?

\n\n

Well, he was right\napart from the fact that it was nothing new, nothing that he hadn’t been made to\ndo numerous times in the past few weeks - under\nthe menacing threat of a long whippy cane of course. Maybe one last fling on\nthe bed, see how obedient he was, yes. She wouldn’t use the cane of course, but\nby now its very presence should suffice. She licked her lips, untied the end of\nhis leash and flicked open the low door to his pen. “Out dog, walkies”.

\n\n

***

\n\n

She looked at her watch and decided it was time to clean her\nbrushes, stack her easel and put the paints away. The latest large canvass was\ncoming along quite nicely. There was Pluto playing fetch with his ball, his\nbackside showing evidence that recent chastisement had been applied. Severe chastisement,\nmaybe a bit too severe, she’d got a touch\ntoo carried away there with the brushwork.

\n\n

Leave it till tomorrow and take a fresh look at it. Pluto\nwouldn’t be around anymore of course, but\nshe had plenty of photos, drawings and sketches, more than enough to fulfil all\nthe commissions she’d received. People did so adore her animal paintings and of\ncourse were willing to pay quite\nhandsomely for her unique skills. Nothing like what she earned for her other\nskills but still entirely satisfactory\nsums. It was also so much fun getting her less than willing subjects to pose\nfor her at times as well, plus she loved to paint.

\n\n

The two women in the\nbackground with the leashes and whips, that needed more work, more detail, the expression on the first one was wrong for\none thing. Yes, she needed to get more cruelty into that face. The second\nfigure with her dog on a leash, she was fine but the bitch on the end of the leash, bigger breasts perhaps?

\n\n

Being a very tidy woman,\nshe carefully washed and cleaned all her brushes and then put everything back\nin its appointed place. She paused for a moment by a rack of paintings to look\nat a one. Yes, there was the one of ‘Dolly’ in her frilly pink dress, panties\naround her white ankle socks as she showed her bottom after a heavy spanking.\nShe must finish that one soon, again it was a case of getting the face right,\nshe just hadn’t yet managed to capture the appropriate expression of anguish\nand humiliation on her face. Well, it\nwasn’t easy to amalgamate that sort of pained adolescent innocence with the\nsubjects forty-year-old face, was it? Poor Dolly how was she getting on with\nthe two old biddies that had been so thrilled with their newest ‘little girl’.

\n\n

She carefully added\nher latest unfinished work to the others. Yes, she’d get a nice big cheque for\nthis painting, a naughty cheque. She smiled\nat her private little joke. Her husband was always impressed with what he\ncalled the ‘naughty’ cheques, all those zero’s. Poor dear, he was right, they\nwere naughty cheques for very naughty paintings purchased by even naughtier\nor perhaps, more appropriate, nasty people!

\n\n

***

\n\n

Mr Mason eyed his ball and the distance to the hole. He took\nhis time. Squatted down and squinted at the hole and the lay of the green from\na lower level then shuffled around to look from a different angle. If he made\nthe putt, it would be his first birdie in\nmonths. He was getting used to pars, we’ll maybe not used to them, but he was achieving\nthem a little more consistently than in previous years.

\n\n

This hole was important. A birdie here and he could afford to be a couple over at the last and still tie maybe with Bob. He\nignored his playing partners growing impatience and took another long look. He\nwas no more aware of the dirty white van that drove past the golf course than\nthe people in the front of the vehicle\nwere of him. The two people in the back\nof the van certainly weren’t aware and wouldn’t be aware of anything till they awoke and met his wife!

\n\n

They were right on time to the minute. Mrs Mason standing at\nthe corner of the house beckoned them on then turned to open the two metal doors\ncovering the old coal chute. The van\ncame slowly around the corner, drove a little way past her and then carefully\nreversed turning as it did so until the rear was just a couple of feet from the\nopening.

\n\n

“Hi”, it was Sonia who was driving, it almost always was she\nthought. Sonia was that sort of person. Always\nthe driver never a passenger. Tall, muscular, blond crop headed and not\nnoticeably very feminine. Dressed as usual in scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans\nand a lumberjack style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She gave the casual\ngreeting without removing the gum that\nshe chewed incessantly. Mrs Mason had\nnever seen her when she was not chewing.\nNot a nice habit and one she certainly would not let her children indulge in. Sonia jumped down from the van and walked\naround to the rear. Her partner in crime, Tracey exited the other door and\njoined her. Tracy was the exact opposite of her driver. A head shorter, long dark\nwavy hair, pretty face and a ready smile, fashionable ultra-tight ripped jeans\nand a short-sleeved crop top that revealed she must work out a lot judging by\nher arm muscles.

\n\n

The butch dyke and her\nfem Mrs Mason had long since decided. They’d been the regular pair that they’d\nused for deliveries and collections for the last few years. Two obvious in their sin for her liking. She\ndidn’t approve of that sort of thing. Public relationships should be between a\nman and a woman and a man and a woman only like the good book said.

\n\n

Mrs Mason was a great believer in the good book and kept a\ncopy on her bedside table. Her moral standards were exceedingly high as were\nher expectations of the way others should behave. That was in public of course.\nThe fact that she indulged in all manner of vices in her training room was an entirely different matter. She dealt with\nanimals and slaves down there, and both were frequently mentioned in the good book as mere chattels; thus, her actions were above reproach.

\n\n

A slave was merely an\nobject to be used for the fulfilment of allocated tasks by his or her betters.\nIf that task meant spending time with\ntheir head between the legs of the one who owned them albeit temporarily, so be it. Male, female, sissy\nbitch or human animal, it mattered not. There was no moral confusion over the\nissue in her mind.

\n\n

“He’s all ready for you,” Mrs Mason told them.

\n\n

Sonia nodded and gave a thin-lipped smile. “Yeah, well we have a couple of hours drive to drop him\noff. Crates at the back so we’d better unload this pair first” She jerked her\nthumb back towards the van.

\n\n

The garden and the side of\nthe house were not overlooked by any other building, and even if it had been, Sonia and Tracy were\nvery efficient. One at a time they’d quickly hauled the two black ‘body bags’ out of the van and carried them\nstraight down the stairs into the old cellar. Tracy was way stronger than she\nlooked, Mrs Mason noticed.

\n\n

She also noted that neither of them seemed very gentle with the first ‘package’ they took down whereas\nthey seemed a bit more careful with the second. Her suspicions were confirmed\nalmost immediately.

\n\n

“This one's quite cute,” Tracy said part pulling the bags heavy\nzipped open and reaching inside with one hand. “Nice tits”.

\n\n

“You get to handle the merchandise I suppose.”

\n\n

“Perk of the job” Sonia laughed. “even get to play a bit sometimes”.

\n\n

Tracy had pulled the zip down a bit more and folded the\nsides back so she could see the face of the sleeping woman inside. “Reminds me\na bit of Cutiepie this one, cept a whole lot\nyounger. Nice, gonna be a total waste of good pussy where she’s going”

\n\n

“Well they’re buying, they’re paying top wack, so they gets\nto play how they want, themes the rules,”\nsaid Sonia absently removing the chewing gum and looking around for somewhere\nto stick it. She caught sight of Mrs Mason disapproving eye and decided to wrap\nit in tissue from her pocket and place it\nback there.

\n\n

Mrs Mason shuddered and felt like retching. She hated the horrible\nstuff and certainly disapproved of the thoughtless\nway people disposed of it. Sonia probably wasn’t even all that aware of what\nshe’d just done.

\n\n

“Who’s Cutiepie? She\nasked curiously to focus on something different.

\n\n

Tracy shrugged her shoulder. “The Bitch we keep back at our\nplace. Customer rejected her even though he’d seen pictures and paid top dollar,\nsaid she was too old. He said she didn’t look in the flesh like the photos; they hadn’t shown her as she really was. True, she looked about thirty in\nthe pictures, not the forty odd she actually was”

\n\n

“Long trip” Sonia put in laconically. “Bitch came round when\nwe made a night stopover. We had a bit of fun with her afore we went on the next day, so I suppose she was a bit shop-soiled anyway.”

\n\n

Tracy laughed. “We’ve had a lot more fun with her since then\nthough. We told the boss we’d have her when we brought her back, cost the both\nof us virtually a year’s wages…worth it\nthough”.

\n\n

“Staff discount but still cost a bomb” Sonia agreed “but\nyep, worth every penny especially once we’d got the slut trained.”

\n\n

“I did a good job,”\nsaid Tracey modestly “She sooo loves to\nkeep us both happy and looks so cute in her sexy maids’ uniform as she keeps our\nlittle pad nice for the three of us.”

\n\n

Sonia looked at her chunky wristwatch. “Can’t stand here yakking,\nlet’s get the dog crated up and hit the road. We can stop for a Big M and a few\nfries at that place we passed on the way in then get a proper meal later.”

\n\n

They gathered around\nthe pen looking at the unfortunate creature within who stared back at the three\nof them as they approached with an expression of growing terror.

\n\n

Tracy laughed and clicked her tongue at him. “Maybe one day\nsomeone will reject one of these, I’d so love to have a nice big puppy dog” she\ngrabbed the leash and hauled Pluto toward her so she could pat his head. “A well-whipped cur. Christmas mummy please” She\nlisped looking at her partner.

\n\n

“In your dreams” Sonia replied. “Mind you” she mused\nthoughtfully “suppose we were to happen across a wild one and give it a nice\nnew kennel, how much to train it up a bit, for old friends like?” she looked at\nMrs Mason and winked.

\n\n

“Oh, I’m sure I could be amenable - for a suitable price.”

\n\n

“Nice touch with the rubber bone gag” Sonia noted with\nprofessional approval pulling a packet of chewing gum from her pocket and\nputting a piece in her mouth.

\n\n

“No puppy suit, just the ankle to thigh, and wrist to arm\nrestraints” Tracy noted. “but the face, the tattoos he’s perfect, I do so want.”

\n\n

They all looked down at the abject youth Mrs Mason had transformed from happy, carefree Australian foreign exchange\nstudent to the fearful, naked stinking, crawling creature with the grotesquely tattooed\nface.

\n\n

“Ah” Sonia noted. “Pluto, I get it now, Nice job with the\ntats. You do it or one of Big Ethel's\njobs?”.

\n\n

“Not me dear. I can paint but wouldn’t have a clue when it\ncomes to her art. Ethel came over a few\ntimes; she did all the inking and had a\nbit of fun with him as well.”

\n\n

Tracy giggled “I just adore that glossy black nose; it’s so cute.”

\n\n

“She’s done a damn decent job “Sonia agreed. “Mickeys dog, eh?\n Must have taken her a while to get his\nface that yellow shade, lotta needlework there and the way she’s used the\nwhite to make his eyes so big, pure cartoon size. Real pro job.”

\n\n

“Love it, just so cute” Tracy repeated.

\n\n

“Mind you” Sonia added. “He’s not going to be good for\nanything else now is he looking like that”. She paused thoughtfully. “Not that\nI suppose it matters, we’ve done a fair few deliveries to where he’s going, I\nthink things get broken there pretty quick!”

\n\n

This time Mrs Mason looked at her watch.

\n\n

Tracy left the cellar and climbed into the van to let down\none side of the large crate at the back. A moment later Mrs Mason and Sonia appeared,\nSonia hauling the reluctant Pluto along on his lead and lashing out with a\nbooted foot every few paces. “C’mon stupid mutt, we gonna be late if we don’t\nget a move on, shift it”.

\n\n

Tracy helped lift the trembling animal into the van, and the pair of them propelled him towards the\ncrate. Mrs Mason caught a glimpse of a pair of terrified eyes in that cartoon\nface that looked to be pleading with her and then Tracy slammed the side of the\ncrate shut and finger tightened a couple\nof large wing nuts. She slapped the top with her palm. “Done”.

\n\n

***

\n\n

Mrs Mason frowned then picked up the stitch she’d dropped\nadded another complete row and then decided it was time to put her knitting\naway for the night. The pattern was about to get a little more complicated, and she wanted to be a tad fresher to face this\nnew challenge. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and tapped in her\nfour-digit login. Then the numbers on the app that allowed her access to the other\nsecure hidden apps and email on the device.

\n\n

A moment later she was able to monitor what was happening in\nher training area via several different cameras. The new arrivals were\nbeginning to stir. They were rolling around vainly trying to free arms and legs\nfrom the manacles she’d placed upon them. Heads turning this way and that but\nunable to communicate with each other due to the ball gags securely strapped\nbetween their Jaws.

\n\n

She wondered what they might say to each other. Perhaps next\ntime she had a pair she’d leave the gags off, they weren’t necessary anyway\ngiven the excellent soundproofing. It might be interesting to hear their conversation\nas they lay there so helpless and undoubtedly quite terrified. She could leave\nthem for tonight and a part of tomorrow morning, not too long though. They were\nafter all very valuable, and she hadn’t\nlost one yet. Damaged a lot, yes, but\nthen that’s what they paid her to do, but despite some rather extreme briefs so far, she’d never lost one.

\n\n

She glanced at Mr Mason and wondered if he really was all that interested in the movie\nthey’d been watching. She’d abandoned any interest a while back, and she was feeling…feeling sort of frisky which\nwas quite rare for her. Usually, those\nfeelings belonged downstairs, and she\nkept a firm lid on them when upstairs.

\n\n

The little interlude with Pluto earlier in the day had been enjoyable but\nshe now had a yen for a little more. No good going downstairs, it usually would need a week, and more of training before any of her projects\nreached a point whereby, they might start ‘indulging’ her. Not relevant in this\ncase anyway, they were both destined for a stable somewhere in the South of\nFrance. A two-wheeled gig awaited their\narrival along with the middle-aged couple who wanted a pair of ponies, not something to use in the bedroom. Sex was\nnot on the menu either for her or for them. She wouldn’t go short though. She\nnever did. Her toys ensured a high degree of arousal as she ‘trained’ her\nprojects and her vibrator did the rest.

\n\n

Mmmm that reminded her.\nAfter church tomorrow they were all going to the zoo, she’d booked one of the special educational guided lecture tours they\ndid every so often. She would have to develop a headache or something. Mr Mason\ncould take the children after the service was over while she returned home to\nspend time feeding, watering and acquainting the pair downstairs with a few\nearly obedience lessons in equine compliance.

\n\n

She yawned. Stretched, then rose to her feet and put her\nknitting bag away in the cupboard under the television. “I think I will go to bed,” She told her husband. “I’m feeling a\nlittle…a little. Well I know it’s not your birthday yet darling” She said coyly\nbut maybe its time for an early birthday present” She smiled seductively at him\nand enjoyed the rather surprised look on his face. “You're, not enjoying the movie anyway, are you. No, I thought not. Why not give it another ten minutes and\nthen come up to bed as well.”

\n\n

Mr Mason was watching his watch, not the television. The second hand ticked around. Eight minutes were gone.\nTime to move. He got up and switched the television off then bent down to remove the plug\nfrom the wall socket — House rule. Mrs\nMason had a thing about fire and so all electrical appliances when not in use\nmust be unplugged. He didn’t think there was ever any real risk by leaving\nthings plugged in, but…his was not to\nreason why…only to do and always comply!

\n\n

He flicked off the light switch and quietly closed the\nlounge door. Crossed the hall after checking that the front door was locked.\nDouble checking really because he knew that Mrs Mason would already have done\nthat on her way upstairs, but she’d probably ask him if he had done so.

\n\n

He was in a very buoyant mood as he headed upwards. Down below\nhis feet, two people were certainly not in a buoyant mood. They were both now wide awake, fully conscious, yet\nin a state of shock. Lingering memories of that\nempty and remote mountain backpackers’ hostel, a meal and a couple of drinks\nwith the cheerful bearded guy who ran it and then waking to this-this nightmare.\nWaking with a savage throbbing pain in the head and aching jaws clamped around\nsome large object inserted into their mouths.

\n\n

Pain, aching jaw and cramped\nlimbs plus the horrific discovery that they were naked, absolutely stark naked\nwith hands and feet chained. Laying in two long low iron cages in a room, a vast\nlong rectangular room that was part kitchen part bedroom, part office, part\nbathroom and worst of all, part torture chamber.

\n\n

They rolled around and struggled but to no avail. They made eye contact with each other and shook\ntheir heads back and forth but apart from wiggling an eyebrow or blinking,\ncould not communicate in any meaningful way. The bright lights remained on, and as time slowly past, first the occupant of\none cage and then the other was forced to release the contents of their\nbladders where they lay. Neither could sleep amid the discomfort, the wet, the\nstench, the fear. Their eyes looked to the door at the end of the room and from\nthere to the racks of whips, strops, canes\nand other awful looking devices they could see, then back again to the door.\nWhen would it open and who would they see and what horrors might be unleashed upon them? Might or would they\nboth wondered?

\n\n

Mr Mason turned the bend at the top of the stairs. He had\nalmost caught himself whistling. Not good\nhe told himself. Mrs Mason didn’t approve of people whistling. Common and\nvulgar she thought it. Yes, she might be a bit fussy and silly about a lot of things,\nbut she was a good woman at heart a very good\nwomen and such a kind heart.

\n\n

In a motorway motel,\nabout eighty miles or so away Tracey was busy very busy eating out Sonia’s\nhairy pussy her tongue deeply probing and teasing at her lover's demanding clit. One of her hands was\ndeep between her own leg’s fingering her damp\nclean shaven honey pot. Sonia was top dog, and\nonly top dogs kept their hair intact down there, Tracy and Cutiepie had to keep\nthemselves pristine in that area at all\ntimes.

\n\n

They had made their important\ndelivery a few hours earlier and enjoyed a pleasant little visit. They’d\nassisted the buyer in prepping him, had a nice chat, enjoyed a glass of\nexcellent chilled champagne plus some absolutely\ngorgeous chocolate cake, then a quick tour of the ‘private area to see how a\nfew old acquaintances had ‘settled’ in.

\n\n

Now they were having a little private interlude of their\nown. A halfway decent meal plus a bottle of wine and now it was time to relax a\nlittle. Deliveries and pickups always made them both extremely randy,\nespecially those that included a visit to\nsee some old friends! Thus, primed they invariably\nstopped at the first suitable place so that they could enjoy themselves. Sonia\nmoaned softly, writhed and pulled Tracy’s head tighter into her greedy crotch. Yes, she thought, yes more, yes,\nshe was enjoying herself.

\n\n

Ten miles distant down a little used and secluded long narrow\nwinding private road there was another big house that possessed a cellar with\nmany secrets. Pluto, however, was not down in the cellar nor was he enjoying himself. He’d once read that Hades was\nsupposed to have nine circles, if so, then in just a few hours, he’d made the grade from outer to the\ncentre. One thing the last two months had taught him was that the demons were\nall female and the latest was both crueller and younger than any bearded bible\nbasher could have predicted!

\n\n

He lay there with a stupid big pink birthday ribbon tied\naround his neck. He was weak and exhausted from his desperate attempts to move,\nhis strength enfeebled from the months of captivity in crippling bondage. His\ntwisted deadened limbs within their cruel bindings limited any seriously swift\nmovement nor assisted him as he’d\nfrantically and in vain sought some immediate exit from this new and infinitely\nmore agonising version of hell.

\n\n

Mr Mason paused to look at his watch again. Eleven and a\nhalf minutes. That should be fine. His heart was beating a shade faster he\nthought or was it merely his imagination. He looked at the dial again to make\nsure and then rapped gently on the bedroom door with his knuckles.

\n\n

Exhausted, weak, helpless and hoarse, hoarse with begging\nand screaming, he looked over from his lowly position to the enormous leather sofa where that woman sat\ncalmly eating cake — the woman they’d delivered\nhim to so casually as if he’d been a mere\npostal package. The woman who’d tied the\npink ribbon around his neck with a big bow and with their aid transferred him\nto the over-sized candy stripped gift box that now lay discarded in the corner.

\n\n

“It's me dear” Mr\nMason replied as the voice from within responded to his respectful tap. Who\nelse could it be he wondered? Another\none of his dear wife’s little foibles. He\nwas always required to knock before entering the huge bedroom they shared. As with everything else it was a one-way\ncustom, Mrs Mason never did the same when he was first to bed.

\n\n

They weren’t even looking at him. Total indifference for the moment. They just sat eating their cake,\nheads bent over some book or maybe an iPad or something like that.

\n\n

“No darling, two big slices is more than enough. Save some\nfor tomorrow. You don’t want to become a porky piggy\npiggy, do you?”

\n\n

“Can doggie have some?”

\n\n

“No darling, it wouldn’t be good for him. I will open a tin\nof chunks, and you can fill his bowl and\nfeed him in the kitchen before you go to bed. Make sure he eats them all up and\nlicks his bowl clean for you. Then I’ll put him down below with the other\nthree.”

\n\n

“He will lick it clean; I\nwill, I will so teach him to be a good doggie, just like yours! Can I give him\nthe stick again?”

\n\n

“Yes of course dear, make him howl for his supper, he is\nyours so of course, you can, he must\nlearn who owns him but don’t use the pink fibreglass one this time, use the\nbamboo one.”

\n\n

“Will you paddle him again, make him all hot and soft ready\nfor my stick?”

\n\n

“No need dear, I think his bot\nbot will be more than hot enough with what you gave him before. Go on\nthen, ten minutes only and then feeding time and remember no silly talking this\ntime, only yowling or we will have to put his rubber bone back in his naughty mouth.”

\n\n

Pluto watched in horror as his new owner approached ‘stick’\nin hand. Ten minutes was not long, but he\nknew it would seem like an eternity in this living hell he was consigned to.\nHow could any human beings be so cruel, so cruel and unkind? That evil woman who’d done this too him and now these two,\nthat awful squat evil woman who’d……

\n\n

Mr Mason squared his shoulders then turned the handle and\nwent in. It had been such a nice day. He’d had a whole pint and a half, made his birdie and beaten Bob by two\nstrokes. Now, this. Yes, such a very nice\nday and now his wife, yes such a nice kind woman, everyone who’d ever met her thought,\nso didn’t they?

\n\n

","authorName":"NickHC","authorUserId":"30a36844-629c-4185-8bb2-0ff6535020aa","rating":5,"ratingCount":1,"reviewCount":1,"quoteCount":0,"storyCodes":["Extreme","Real Life","Bondage","Domination","Modification","Sadism","Non-Consensual"],"language":"English","readTime":49,"recommendations":[{"id":"e7969190-9604-4a41-93fd-2af37c74467a","title":"Trapped, Trained And Twisted Pt. 09 - Final","slug":"trapped-trained-and-twisted-pt-09-final","shortId":"LFQjZku3","synopsis":"End of the series. Slave Cunt finds a friend and gets rescued.","rating":5},{"id":"0d9d5923-a17b-40c5-a67c-317f97409fd3","title":"Extreme Toyland VIII: Polishing Daphne","slug":"extreme-toyland-viii-polishing-daphne","shortId":"lkF6hG4b","synopsis":"Lisa, headmistress at Extreme Toyland is on her way back home from a visit to her friend Lady Victoria (see the previous story \"The Party at House Victoria\"). She's bringing a new girl to work for her. But when she gets back home, she is in for a couple of surprises. Rick, her partner and co-owner of Extreme Toyland, is having some unauthorized fun with Lisa's protege. On top of that, she gets a surprise visit from someone she has admired for a long time. In the midst of all this, she's preparing to perform a sadistic Pay-Per-View session with masochist Daphne for her website.","rating":5},{"id":"cb4abb68-0709-493c-bef5-fb4c39216049","title":"The Ponygirl County","slug":"the-ponygirl-county","shortId":"nHXLrh3e","synopsis":"This Story will be about an isolated County in the USA, where the mayor workforce is carried out by women.","rating":5}]}}},"actionData":null,"errors":null}