A Tale Of Two Families

Part 3.

Patricia tapped a cheap ballpoint pen on her desk several times, then absently twisted it between her fingers until it turned through one hundred and eighty degrees. Her attention was on the postcard she held, not the pen. It had arrived two days ago from her sister, naturally; who else did she know in this age of instant electronic communications would bother to send a postcard? Who even sells picture postcards these days? She frowned, trying to recall the last time she’d seen any in a shop, then shook her head and returned her attention to the card.

Her older sibling was on the return leg of her global cruise, having disembarked in Australia for a lengthy stay with an old school friend before imposing herself on another unfortunate company for the return journey. Presumably, the card had preceded her cruise ship by air. However, even the great Sherlock Holmes would probably have struggled to deduce exactly where it had entered the international postal system. He’d once told Dr Watson that one could deduce the existence of the Atlantic Ocean from a single drop of water. Easy, compared to deducing where that torn postage stamp had originated.

What remained of the stamp was red, with the rear portion of a portrait still visible, but any other information was either missing or obscured by heavy black ink lines, as it had received numerous franking stamps during its journey. Nothing legible remained. No doubt the famous fictional detective, with his knowledge of chemistry, would have known the precise chemical solution to dissolve such heavy ink, but Patricia lacked that skill and, come to think of it, didn’t even have a magnifying glass to hand for a close examination. Her mind replayed an earlier scene. Her husband had collected the mail from the box at the end of their private drive and handed it to her with a cautionary, disapproving grunt.

“From you know who, I recognise the writing. She’s on her way back, although God knows where she is, or where she was when she posted this, or what her time scale is. A picture of a bloody boat with no visible name and no info on the card. Somebody in that company’s marketing department needs shooting if that’s the best they can do! Nice picture if you’re into big, pretty boats, but it gives us fuck all information. What she’s written doesn’t tell us much because all she’s written about is bloody Voldemort!”

“Voldemort!”

Her husband chuckled and winked. “Kind of. He, or, in this case, she who must not be named! That’s what your sister is going on about. You can’t write much on a postcard anyway, can you? And she’s done better than most, given you only get half a card to write on. All she’s done is rant about ‘an important piece of property that was left in your care that I wish to resume ownership of, in full, upon my return’ and so forth! I mean, she couldn’t be too explicit, could she? But I gather she wants to get her claws back into Mumsie.”

“Does she indeed?” Patricia’s somewhat ice-cold reply promptly wiped the silly grin off his face, and the idiot wisely departed, as the saying goes, double quick. He’d been right about her sister's message, though. Claire's handwriting was neat and compact, and she had written a lot in that small space; her younger sister didn’t need Sherlock Holmes's assistance to decode her meaning. Almost all of it was about her taking ownership of Mumsie again, albeit in a very roundabout way to avoid unwanted attention. Now that could be a problem, having reacquired the bitch; she had no intention of giving her up again. Her sister wouldn’t like that, though, and she could be so tiresome at times! She’d never liked sharing her toys when they were kids, and she hadn’t changed in that respect!

The ballpoint pen spun through several 360-degree circles, twisting in her long fingers before she dropped it on her desk. “Like hell!” she announced after due consideration, flicking the postcard away with one finger, rising to her feet, and heading for the door. Undecided, she paused in the doorway, wondering whether to head for the house and satisfy the sudden urge to check on the woman in question or to stick to her original plan to check on the new livestock in the cow shed. Left, or right?

Patricia remained undecided in the doorway, half in and half out. Airmail was vastly faster than sea travel, so her sister was undoubtedly still on the high seas somewhere. At least it used to be, but in this age of email and instant communications, did they send the stuff straight away or wait until they had several full bags? Besides, the bitch always rang before visiting, just to make sure she’d be home. Claire had always been like that. Spontaneity was an unknown word and concept to her older sister, who’d probably been born an era too late! Even when they were kids, her elder sister had invariably already planned her day down to the last second and done so before they’d sat down to breakfast.

There was no way she’d let Mumsie return to her sister's house, no fucking way! The woman’s tongue was far too talented, a natural clit licker, unlike her diminutive sister. Dolly’s oral skills were less accomplished but acceptable, especially with a little encouragement, which, of course, was equally pleasurable to administer. Then again, it was always a pleasure to administer such encouragement, regardless of the recipient or the situation, wasn't it?

Oh yes, she could always find another older bitch to train, tame, and crawl between her legs, but why bother with all that hassle when she had an attractive, talented one readily to hand? Yes, it was a hassle! It would be fun to break in a new one, but it was always a bit of a bind as well. Besides, time was short these days. With the house to oversee, the stables, the kennels, and now this place, there was so little time. Plus, her latest progress report to her French partners was a week overdue. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the day still only had twenty-four hours. She sighed. She wasn’t getting any younger, but having young Cassie eagerly helping had made a difference, thank goodness. The girl pulled her weight two, no, three times over compared with Eva.

Besides, Patricia stared down the corridor towards the cow pens; all work and no play made Jack, or Jill in this case, a dull girl! No point in keeping all this livestock if you removed that exquisite element of sadistic fun. As a child, she’d had an uncle who’d been keen on fish, tropical and freshwater, and had dozens of tanks everywhere. They hadn’t visited him very often, but every time they did, he was cleaning some of them out, moaning bitterly about it, and had no time to sit, watch, and enjoy them. Patricia had never found sitting and watching them very entertaining anyway; she thought of them as boring, and although not keen on the task, helping the elderly man scoop them out and then clean their glass tanks at least passed a couple of hours more quickly than sitting, staring at things that didn’t do much but open and shut their mouths!

That thought amused her; her own livestock, although considerably bigger, didn’t exactly lead very entertaining lives either, did they? In fact, her uncle's fish had enjoyed far more freedom, even within their glass prisons. Compared with how her livestock lived, confined to a kennel, stall, or cattle pen, those silly fish had acres of space to swim about in and were free to do so without any bodily restraints. Hell, most of hers gagged or bitted; couldn’t even open and close their mouths without her say-so!

Compared to her uncle's fish… another thought struck her, a silly, impulsive one, but it made her smile. Now, what would Alice and her husband say to that? An old, disused swimming pool sat at the back of the house, by the overgrown patio, and desperately needed tidying up. Now, how about getting that sorted out and putting some sort of glass enclosure around it? Imagine sitting out there under a sun umbrella on a hot day, once it was all cleared up, and watching her own mermaid, or mermaids, at play! She frowned. How the hell would you fix their tails, though?

Patricia shook her head as though to clear it. Nice thought, but silly and rather impractical. She had enough to do without adding her own exotic aquatic collection. Yes, she took pleasure in owning them all, enjoyed torturing the sad creatures, and relished their absolute misery. Still, nothing quite rounded it all off like a couple of long, intense orgasms in the comfortable surroundings of her own bedroom. Mumsie was one of the best she’d ever had in that respect. Besides……

Her mind drifted back to the previous evening. It was the family connection that added an infinite amount to her erotic enjoyment. Her pleasure in owning the pair of them, exerting her dominance over them, and enjoying their capitulation and absolute submission to her. Sisters, no less. Yes, she could easily afford to obtain one, two, or three, or more, but sisters… no bloody way! Now that would cost an arm and a leg and more! Decent ones, especially mature ones in terms of figure and looks, and she had no complaints about Mumsie and Dolly in that respect.

Three in a bed wasn’t one too many, so far as she was concerned, especially if it was a king-sized bed; besides, Dolly didn’t take up much room anyway. That was another bonus of her as the owner of such a delicious pair, such a delightful contrast. Mumsie was no Amazon, of course, but the size difference between the siblings was unique. Mumsie was a great oralist whereas her smaller sister was a delightful fuck. The feeling of omnipotence she gained when vigorously shafting the squirming, dolly-sized bitch with her strap-on was heavenly as the far smaller woman writhed and squealed under the assault.

Patricia made her decision, two decisions. She turned right to head down to visit the cow shed's occupants and decided her sister could go fu… well, she’d be a shade more polite when she phoned. Money talked, so far as Claire was concerned, being the miserly bitch that she was. A little financial incentive, plus a joint visit to a suitable livestock auction, and her sister could choose… well, as long as the price was reasonable. Hell, she could have two if she wanted, if they were cheap. Besides, Claire had never been particularly choosy, had she! That time their mother had bought them fat Sophie as a joint Christmas present, she recalled, fat, ugly and the wrong side of forty, and Claire hadn’t been the least bit disappointed with the old slag!

*****

Patricia wasn’t the only one disconcerted by the news of her older sister's imminent return to the country. Although maybe the word disconcerted was a little mild, given the postcard's subject matter and, more importantly, what it might imply for her! Mumsie had been hovering near the breakfast table, coffee pot in one hand, when Miss Alice broached the subject. The girl held out her cup for a refill, then mentioned the postcard and asked her mother whether she intended to return Mumsie to her sister now that she was back in the country. The coffee pot had shaken violently.

“Clumsy bitch!” Miss Alice screamed, half rising from her chair and delivering a pair of stinging slaps to the older woman's cheeks after the older woman spilt hot coffee on her hand. In truth, Mumsie had hardly felt them, nor had she heard the girl's muttered curses as she resumed her seat, holding her cup out with one hand and steadying Mumsie's shaking arm with the other.

“It would seem, my dear, you're not the only one who’s not overly enthusiastic about the proposed reunion!” her Mistress’s horrible husband had chuckled. “I can’t say I’m surprised either. Out of the fire and into, well… a frying pan might be putting it a shade too mildly, eh, Mumsie? A stinking pot of a fire too, unless darling Claire has learned some new practices while in Aussie land, although I doubt that very much. Our Antipodean cousins are noted for being somewhat casual at least in matters of dress and attitude!” The guy had smirked at her.

It was a good thing the coffee pot was half empty; otherwise, her hand was shaking so much she would have been in serious trouble. She’d been lucky to get away with a couple of slaps from Miss Alice for her misdemeanour, so heaven knows what would happen if she spilt coffee all over the tablecloth or the carpet. That’s why she’d taken a couple of paces back, partly to compose herself and partly to avoid scalding someone else. Not that the girl had really been hurt; she’d quickly pulled her hand and cup away after just a couple of drops.

“I’d have caned her fat arse for that,” Eva muttered through a mouthful of toast and marmalade, earning a reproachful glance from her mother for talking with her mouth full. Eva, of course, responded with an indifferent shrug and took another big bite of the slice of toast she held. Dainty, graceful and ladylike were alien concepts to the youngster.

Seated next to her, the latest addition to the evil household, the other young bitch, Cassie, giggled and gave the trembling older woman a conspiratorial wink. Mumsie knew why and, despite her long captivity, blushed at the recent memory. Then again, if she were ever given the choice, which was highly unlikely, between Claire and Cassie, or even Patricia herself, there could only be one, or in this case two, choices, and it wouldn’t be Claire, no way!

“I don’t think I’m a lesbian,” the girl announced so casually as she divested herself of jeans, a scanty white top, and then panties. The girl didn’t bother with a bra; she was young, firm, and not overly large in that department. “Not bad, even though I say it myself,” the girl regarded herself in the full-length mirror, twisting this way and that. “What say you?”

Mumsie did not answer, partly because she did not know what to say, but primarily because she’d learned that saying nothing at all was usually the best course of action in this evil household. Speak only when you are spoken to was the golden rule, and if you broke it, you’d better have a damn good reason. Informing one of the bastards that the house was on fire might count, but you never knew with these…these so-called people. They could be so damn volatile!

“Well?” the brat had turned, hands on hips, flaunting her youthful nakedness at the older woman in a manner that was almost as threatening as a levelled weapon. “Cat got your tongue, bitch? Now that would be a pity, wouldn’t it, just when you need to use it!”

Mumsie squirmed at the girl's tone and at being so sneeringly addressed by a teenage brat less than half her age, and she hadn't missed the unspoken threat that accompanied the simple question. She had no choice but to answer or suffer the consequences…and such consequences would invariably be both humiliating and painful!

Her presence in the girls' bedroom that evening stemmed from an incident earlier in the day when the brat had walked in on her and her Mistress at a very inappropriate moment. At least it seemed inappropriate to her, but the bitch who claimed ownership of her and the rest of her family seemed completely unfazed. Then again, that sort of thing was hardly unexpected in this perverted household.

She and her sister had been on their hands and knees, waxing and polishing a gleaming hall floor that needed neither further polish nor buffing. However, that was irrelevant; they were polishing the floor because they’d been ordered to do it, and, more importantly, it gave them something ‘useful’ to do. Unless commanded to do so, standing around with nothing to do was another major no-no!

At other times, they spent hours, immaculately made up and dressed in heels and sexy lingerie, purely as ‘eye candy’ for their Mistress and owner’s visual delight. Living mannequins who could not only be looked at but also touched, fondled, squeezed, and, far worse, as the evil woman's mood took her!

Patricia had strolled through the front door, naturally not giving a damn about the damp, sticky mud and stable muck on her boots, or the effect it had on the pristine, glowing tiles. She’d strolled past the two women, who, of course, kept their eyes down, faces lowered as befitted their status, or lack of it. Their attractive Mistress also had a short dog whip doubled up in one hand, and that was reason enough not to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Their demure attitude, though, availed them nought on this occasion.

Patricia was a couple of paces past them when she spun on her heel and pointed the doubled-up whip at them and snapped, “You two, lazy Bitches, leave that and follow me, now! Stay down, on your fucking knees, crawl and be quick about it!”

They obeyed instantly, abandoning their task, both aware they would probably be punished later for leaving their assigned work and for leaving polish, cloths, and buffing pads in the middle of the floor. Such, though, was life, or what passed for it, for them, and there was nothing fair or just about it. Their Mistress had given them an order, and neither woman would dare disobey. They didn’t dare disobey any command given to them, certainly not one from Patricia, whom they feared most of all! Especially when it was issued in that demanding tone; even young Eva would have obeyed her mother. Perhaps not quite so promptly, and with a certain degree of surliness, but she would have obeyed nonetheless! The girl was lazy, wilful, and frequently argumentative, but definitely not stupid!

Surliness, or a lack of visible enthusiasm, was not an option for the two sisters, who scurried into the big lounge on hands and knees, their eyes fixed on the mud-splattered black riding boots of their owner, striding imperiously before them. Their mistress stopped before the huge four-seater leather sofa, spun to face them, and clicked her fingers as she stared down at the two crawling women, who both immediately halted at that unspoken command, her finger wavering from one to the other as though indecisive.

The finger finally settled on Mumsie. “You, stay,” came the command, followed by an immediate finger click, then the digit straightened to point at Dolly. “You, Bitch, get back to work, and I’d better be able to see my face reflected in that floor; otherwise, someone is not going to be happy later. MOVE!”

Dolly spun around and bolted for the door, still on her hands and knees, as the distinct sound of a zip being yanked down reached her ears. She didn’t pause to close the door; there was no need, and a lack of privacy had never seemed to bother those who claimed overlordship of her. She was relieved not to have been the one chosen, though it made little difference in this horrible house. Her turn to be punished, abused, or required to perform some debasing and humiliating task would come soon enough, and there would be no escaping it.

Mumsie did not doubt why her Mistress had yanked down the fly of her tight jeans as she crouched before her. It was partly symbolic, partly preparatory for what was to come. The horrible woman waited a moment or two, then seated herself on the sofa. Presumably the woman had been ‘entertaining’ herself in the stable, judging by the accumulated crud and filth on her expensive riding boots. Boots that would normally have required an obedient tongue to lick clean, but not this time. Her Mistress needed a clean, unsullied, untainted tongue for what she had in mind, which was why she was unzipping and pulling those boots off rather than paying the customary oral homage to them.

Cassie had entered the room some twenty minutes later, as Patricia was recovering contentedly from her second orgasm and absently stroking the now stationary head, still poised between her widely spread thighs, as its owner knelt on the recently discarded jeans, awaiting further instructions.

 “Oops, sorry!” the youngster had immediately apologised. “The door was open and I…

“That’s alright, dear,” Patricia interrupted, her hand still absently stroking Mumsie's head. “No, don’t go. There’s no need; we don’t stand on ceremony here! What did you want?”

“I finished stacking those sawdust sacks and cleaned out Gypsy again. I think you were right to isolate her while she’s got the runs so badly and stinking everything up. I also made up the evening feed and tomorrow’s breakfast for them. I was coming to ask if you wanted me to do anything with Spider after his punishment? Do you want him left on the whipping frame or put back in his stall?”

“Oh,” Patricia considered. “I've finished with him for now. I think he’s learned his lesson, again! Anyway, he was overdue for a little obedience reminder! They all come to that. My fault. Alice and I have been a shade preoccupied elsewhere recently, and a touch of the whip won’t do them any harm… well, not in terms of reminding them of their status, or lack of it!”

Cassie giggled. “Yes, I heard you reminding him; quite an extended one!”

“No point in half measures with these creatures, young lady. Besides, I always find such sessions stimulating. Good for him and very enjoyable, not to say… highly stimulating for me, hence… well, as I said. No need to feel embarrassed. I’m sure you’ve seen my husband and his ‘girls’ in action by now. Any time, any place, he feels randy!”

Cassise giggled again. “Yes, he’s not worried about privacy, is he? That big one, Princess, I mean, he or rather I should say she, is so entertaining to watch, so…so stimulating, as you put it.”

Patricia laughed. “Well, don’t go harbouring any ambitions in that direction if you feel stimulated. My other half is jealously protective of his ‘girls’, so a slap or two by all means when merited, but no tickle if you get my meaning!”

Cassie emitted yet another girlish giggle.

“However,” Patricia continued. “Perhaps it's something I should have mentioned earlier, and my apologies for not doing so. My husband might be the jealous type, but I’m far more generous, and I know how… well, let's not beat about the proverbial bush. There are times when I expect you’ll get very randy working here, so feel free to de-stimulate yourself as needed. I can recommend this one's mouth,” she tapped Mumsie on the head. “Consider it a perk of the job.”

“Really, oh cool!”

*****

Snorter writhed, twisting and turning, but it made no difference; there was no escape from the stinging, ice-cold flow, and it was freezing. Initially, he’d thought they did it on purpose, another facet of their relentless cruelty, deliberately adding to his misery, but apparently not. He’d heard that young bitch Cassie ask the older woman, the one who owned him, if you could believe that. Owned him! The nasty little bitch had asked her boss why the water was always so cold over here compared to the stables and kennels.  

Stables and kennels. His ears pricked up at that information, though he didn’t like the sound of it at all, because of what it implied. He’d still been relatively new to this hellhole then, and he'd since learned that what he’d suspected was true. He and those two poor girls were not the only ones being held captive in this madhouse at the whim of a crazy woman who thought they were nothing but animals. She kept others too, presumably in the same state and the same type of primitive accommodation.

Information! Yes, that was a precious commodity. It was what won wars more than bombs and bullets, put criminals behind bars where they belonged, and made other bastards, who probably didn’t deserve it, mega fucking rich! Information, and he hoarded every titbit, every piece, every damn morsel he could get, with one goal in mind: escape! Escape and more, for he’d vowed that these limey bastards would suffer for what they’d done to him and his brother, were doing to them, and there was no way he or they, assuming both got away, would leave justice to the local law. Hell, for all he knew, they might be corrupt, might be in it, and know all about this crazy place and the fucking mad, sadistic bitches who ran it. 

Cassie stared intently at her mobile screen, half-oblivious to Snorter’s captive form, jumping and writhing, gasping and swearing under the fierce jet of ice-cold water she absently directed at him. She’d seen it all before, heard it all before, and was thus immune to his antics. Every fourth day was washday for the cowshed livestock, so they were washed, hosed down, soaped, scrubbed, and then hosed down again. That was her job, what she was paid to do, and… well, being paid was, in a sense, a bonus. She glanced up, deciding to give the filthy animal another minute or so because she wanted to answer a message on her phone, not for any other reason. Yes, she could have done it later, but why wait? Snorter the bull wasn’t going anywhere, was he!

Fucking hell! How much longer before the evil brat squirted him with liquid soap and then gave him the stiff-brush treatment? He was going numb under that stream of freezing water, and she, Cassie, wasn’t even watching him. The girl had the hose tucked under her left arm, holding her mobile in her left hand while she tapped it with her right. No one seemed to know why the water was so damn cold, but he’d heard that crazy bitch Patricia tell the young girl, when she’d asked, that it had something to do with an underground spring. When the crew built the cowshed, they found the remains of an old farm pump that had been capped off, and they tapped into it to give the new building its own water source. “Our very own water, so no meter and no utility bills, so no need to worry how much we use,” the woman had laughed.

Oh yes, very funny unless you happened to be the one tethered to a brick wall at the end of an ice-cold pressure wash! No doubt they used the same stuff for his drinking water and to mix up the foul shit they fed him. God knows what it contained if it came out of the ground unfiltered and unpurified. If that water were anything to go by, he’d have thought he was being held captive in Iceland or halfway up a mountain somewhere, but no, his information, such as he’d gleaned, was that he was in England somewhere. He had no recollection of how the hell he’d got there. One moment he and his brother had been in the US, driving home from football practice. They’d been waved down by a guy whose van seemed to have broken down, so they’d obligingly stopped to help, and… and then everything was a confused memory, masked faces, struggling against restraints, needles going into him and vomiting, constantly feeling sick, and… and then waking to full conscious awareness in this hell hole!

Christ knew how long he’d been here. It felt like a lifetime already, but he had no watch, no clock, no calendar, no point of reference, no nothing. He’d awoken in this building and had never been outside. All he knew was the spartan pen they kept him in, the wet room where he was now, and the ‘mounting room’, as they called it, where they forced him to…to behave like the Bull, they considered him to be. To perform as required upon his fellow captives or suffer the painful consequences, and by God they were painful. Bloody painful and not without blood either!

It was incredible. The whole thing was incredible, and it shouldn't have existed, but it did, and he was right slap bang in the middle of it. The prize stud, the breeding bull, Snorter they called him, as if what they’d already done to him wasn’t dehumanising enough. This wasn’t how his life was supposed to be for him and his brother. This… this perversion… this wickedness, this sinfulness! They’d forced him to… to do it, to perform the sex act on those poor women, and he had no choice, none whatsoever.

He’d be forever damned for such acts, which were prohibited outside certified marriage by one of their preachers. What would his church elders think of him now for what he’d done, and would doubtlessly be doing again and again? Fornication without… without the….

“Oh, do stop jumping about, Snorter, you silly animal! Tch, that’s very distracting and irritating, you know. How can I clean all your accumulated byre muck and shit off you if you’re like a cat on hot bricks, eh?” Cassie giggled as she said that, for she was well aware of just how icy-cold the powerful jet of water she was directing at her charge was. Heat was one thing he wasn’t feeling, not yet, but if he gave her the slightest excuse, he would feel heat, some red-hot heat, so he’d better behave himself. That thought brought on another giggle and an accompanying shrug. Not that she needed an excuse to apply such heat to the big beastie boy. That was what she loved about her unusual job. Her boss gave her full carte blanche when it came to disciplining the assorted livestock. There wasn’t even a limit, so far as she knew, other than basic common sense.

Snorter heard the girl's words and instinctively took a step towards her, his anger momentarily overriding everything else, but he was immediately brought up short by his tether. An instant reminder that he was powerless, helpless, his considerably greater size and bulk counting for nought against this slip of a girl who was tormenting him. What the hell was a girl like her doing here anyway? She looked as though she ought to still be in school, 9th or maybe 10th grade at most. She and the other one who came in from time to time to watch him being abused, or worse, to participate. They were probably older than that, but not by very much, he reckoned.

Evil, they said, came in many forms, and the devil had many guises. He’d had countless warnings over the years to stay on his guard, but in his wildest imagination, he never could have conceived of this evil that had enveloped him. Cute, attractive teenage girls hadn’t been the type of demons he’d ever envisaged. Those in all the religious pictures he’d seen had either been horned monsters or semi-human figures, clothed to a far greater degree than these evil brats! He and his brother were by no means puritans in the strictest sense, despite their quasi-religious upbringing, and, having been college-educated and aspiring pro footballers, they’d seen plenty of scantily clad cheerleading flesh.

They’d even dated a few such girls, but it had never gone beyond a few chaste kisses and a little light petting. It was well known that the girls who aspired to be serious pom-pom pushers were generally more virginal and protected than the Pope at the top pro level, and junior levels weren’t much different. One hint of impropriety and they’d be off the team in a flash, their pom-poms and white cowboy boots tarnished forever!

None of that, of course, was known to Cassie, nor would she have cared one iota; indeed, she would have found the subject laughable. One of the American girls at her Swiss finishing school had been big on cheerleaders, her bedroom plastered with pictures of the toothy beauties with their fixed, gleaming white smiles. The girl had adamantly maintained that she was not, repeat, not, a lesbian! Guys could plaster their walls with pictures of football, basketball, and baseball players, couldn’t they, and it didn’t mean they were gay! She had ambitions to gyrate and prance about for some major US sports team. The something-or-other somethings! Cassie had sarcastically likened her cherished ambition to little more than ‘Team pole dancing’ minus the poles, wearing only marginally more attire for more or less the same male audience. That hadn’t been well received, but they’d never been friends, so what did it matter!

Indeed, Cassie knew nothing whatsoever about US sports, and she wasn’t gay either, not in the conventional, or should that be unconventional, sense. There had been hugs and kisses with her bestie while in Switzerland, and several times when the two of them had ganged up with big Susan and dragged that cute little shy mouse, Katie, into their room for a long session of licky, sucky spanking fun. Katie received the spanking and did all the licking and sucking. But that was mostly the fun of being dominant, just as it was last night with Mumsie. Now that had been a great licky, sucky, spank session!

Bi, yes, definitely a tad bi in a dominant form perhaps, but despite that, or then again, maybe on account of her youth, she had an appreciative eye for the male physique, and Snorter was a prime specimen for her to enjoy. Maybe that’s why Nancy had footballers in all their muscled glory plastered over her bedroom walls back at the Swiss school! Broad shoulders, sexy trim waists and muscular legs. Nice! Just like this big helpless bastard, the girl thought, running her small pink tongue speculatively around her lips without even realising she was doing it.

Snorter had seen what she was doing and wondered what it portended for him. What evil was being brewed in the young girl’s mind? All of them practised the most perverse of perversions upon them, didn’t they, and did so for their own wicked pleasure! That made it even worse for him. Did the fact that he was by no means a willing participant in their perversions equally damn him to the eternal fires of Hades? Now that would be truly cruel, wouldn’t it!

Never in his wildest, most crazy, bizarre and horrible nightmares could he have envisaged the situation he now found himself in. It was beyond his comprehension that people could behave as they did and, worse, keep doing so to him and others like him. He was standing naked, stark naked in terms of clothing for what he… well, wore, and that would hardly be the right term, and it wasn’t through choice on his part. An inch-high, thick leather collar circled his neck, but not tightly. It fit loosely, like a collar on a large dog. At the moment, a short length of nylon rope led from its fixing point on the tiled wall of the wet area and was clipped to his collar as though he was a dog on a short leash!

A six-inch belt, as much corset as belt, encircled his waist and was drawn so tight it might well have been, or intended as, a mini corset. He’d awoken to this living hell with the garment, if such it could be called, about his waist and the heavy collar likewise. The waist belt had another and more sinister purpose beyond crushing his midriff in its cruel grip. His wrists were imprisoned, presumably in similar restraint that was either part of or separately cuffed and secured to the damn belt. He didn’t know and couldn’t see for his arms were secured, one on either side and slightly behind him.  He had no way of knowing how any of the ‘kit’ was fastened; he couldn’t see or, with no hands, feel. Nor was there anything remotely resembling a mirror in the primitive quarters that housed him.

He could only assume that whatever held his wrists captive was similar to the heavy leather cuffs at his ankles. Their main purpose was to provide attachment points for the short length of hobble chain between them, which limited him to a shuffling, slow pace lest he overbalance. That had happened a few times, only to be dragged back to his feet, encouraged by a flurry of savage blows from Alice’s whip! He wasn’t being held in one of those supermax prisons he’d read about, which apparently made Alcatraz look like summer camp, but the simple restraints that bound him twenty-four-seven kept him just as secure as the deadliest incarcerated terrorist, gang boss or drug lord!

Simple stuff, but highly effective, it had permanently denied him the use of his hands. He couldn’t even see them, let alone use them for anything! At least those criminals had done something to put them into their Spartan cells with their poured-concrete furnishings. He hadn’t, and those miscreants were also presumably free from restriction in their cells, whereas he couldn’t even scratch his nose when it itched in his primitive accommodation! For the first time in his life, he’d begun to question his pious upbringing and blind faith in an almighty deity. One that he’d either somehow seriously offended or one that plainly just didn’t give a damn about him!

He’d certainly burnt his boats now, though hadn’t he, or rather, they’d made him burn them by their wickedness in forcing him to do what they’d made him do, and because he was helpless, he’d have to carry on doing. Betrayed by his own body and a primitive lust that defied his futile attempts to control it, and worse, far worse, he’d actually enjoyed those brief moments of pleasurable sin he’d indulged in. Worse, he was ashamed that deep within him lurked a desire that was both natural and unnatural to want to repeat those all too brief encounters when sheer lust overcame all else. He’d even heard Alice laugh about it that last time the girl had led him to the mounting frame where she would expertly massage his penis and ball sac with hand and vibrator until he could stand it no more and plunged forward, guided by that same controlling hand into the helpless opening of the captive cow, captive girl they wanted him to impregnate.  

Spurred on by the she devil herself mercilessly flogging his buttocks and back until he’d spent himself inside that poor girl whom he was being forced to rape. He could not help himself, for there came that point when the devil within him took over, heedless of the agonising whip upon his flesh and his penis; his cock did what the lord had designed it to do. He’d no more choice about it than had the poor girl he was aggressively violating!

Alice had laughed and said, “It looks like someone can’t wait to get his rocks off now he’s got used to it. Maybe in future we can spare the whip a little!”

“Well, your big beastie boy has got fuck all else to do all day long, so what do you expect!”

That was the guy who sometimes came to watch the show, as they called it. The show! Not only was he to suffer such unbelievable humiliation and immorality, but he was expected to do so in public, with an audience! Unbelievable, but true! Not only did he live like an animal and was treated no better, but they also expected him to perform in public for their entertainment, like some unfortunate creature in a circus. An appropriate comparison, as he usually had to perform under the whip, as directed by the ringmaster or, in this case, the ringmistress. Sometimes it was that bitch, Patricia, the head of this witches' coven; if not her, then it was her daughter, Alice.

‘The agony and the ecstasy,’ he’d heard the older bitch laugh, describing it as she flogged him. ‘No pain, no gain, and deeper, big boy, deeper, hard and deep, make the little cow squeal as you impregnate her!’ Filth, sheer filth. They screamed and shouted as they forced him to perform for their perverted entertainment and for some weird experiment the older bitch was running, though God knows what it was for. He didn’t! There had been a time when he’d have been ashamed of himself for such blasphemous use of the Lord’s name, but he was far beyond that point now, and the profanities he’d used before seemed weak and inadequate by comparison!

It wasn’t only the whip that his buttocks had felt for it had gotten worse, way worse. Physical pain he could, to a point, stand, but the last three times he’d been led to the mounting frame to perform for them. Not only had he been stimulated and required to perform the customary act of rape, but the bitch Alice had raped him while he was doing it! That had truly blown his mind, for he’d heard of lesbians doing such and knew about the perversions of so-called gay sex, which was a strictly taboo subject to him and those he’d grown up with. The revelation, when he and his brother had gone away to college, that such…such known abominations, male and female, were tolerated and could walk around the campus so blatantly, even hold hands and, worse, demonstrate their forbidden affection for each other by kissing in public, had been… mind-blowing to them.

Thus, having a false penis up his rectum had been a major shock, so much so that it had caused him to wilt at precisely the wrong moment that first time, so that the extra encouragement Alice was keen to apply achieved the exact opposite of what it was supposed to do. ‘Giving him a bit of fun, stimulating his prostate,’ the wicked girl had laughingly told her mother as she penetrated him, and worse, began to ….

“Hey, what’s up? Are you trying to drown the poor thing, or merely shrink him in the wash? He’s looking a little blue, you know!” Patricia entered the washroom, having put her sister's return out of her mind and ended her recollections. “I paid a small fortune for that big bull, and I don’t want the damn thing expiring on me from double pneumonia or whatever.”

“Sorry,” Cassie hastily apologised. “Momentarily elsewhere. Isn’t that from a virus or something, though?”

“No idea,” Patricia shrugged. “Let’s towel him down, and then you can put him back in his byre. I’m behind in my experiments, and I’ll need him tomo… no, let’s make it later today, otherwise I’ll have Camille chasing me for data again.”

“I’ve not soaped or brushed him yet”, Cassie said quietly, apologetic. “I kind of got a little bit distracted, sorry, Ma’am”, she apologised, slipping her phone into the rear pocket of her abbreviated denim shorts. She looked so worried that Patricia laughed and waved a reassuring hand towards her young employee.

“Oh fiddlesticks, don’t worry about it, and for heaven’s sake, don’t start calling me Ma’am again! I told you before, it makes me feel like Queen Victoria! Cell phones are distractions, a fact of life these days. We can try to shut the world out, but we are all tethered to those wretched things. I tried one of those detox, or whatever they call them, sessions a year or so ago. I set myself a target of going a week without my phone. Alice said I was being stupid and to use the off button if I didn’t want to be disturbed!”

Cassie smiled.  She wasn’t surprised, for Alice was perhaps the most practical person she’d ever met. “And did you manage the week?”

“What, oh no!” Patricia opened a wall cupboard and took out a couple of rough, slightly threadbare white towels. Ex-hotel stock she’d bought in bulk for a charity shop, which sufficed for her particular ‘guests’ needs. “Set off at the gallop and managed the first two fences but fell at the third. Started fresh with the best of intentions on Monday morning.” She tossed one towel to Cassie. “Here, we won’t worry about soaping and brushing. Besides, it looks like you’ve hosed all the muck off him! Unfortunately, by Wednesday lunchtime there were a couple of things I needed to do by phone, and once I’d opened the gate, the email flood poured in, speaking figuratively. Front or back, front, I suppose. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your fascination with his ‘boy bits’, young Missy!”

Cassie giggled and blushed as she began patting down the shivering figure in front of her, who, she noted, offered no objection to what they were doing despite the simmering anger she sensed in him. That amused her. The poor thing could simmer all he wanted, but he was unlikely to come to the boil, not with Patricia there also rubbing him down. Besides, what could he do? He’d learned the painful way that ‘bad behaviour’ was not tolerated! The big bull was terrified of her employer; likewise, her eldest daughter, just as he would be of her in time. True, she had the authority, but she had not yet had the chance to impress it fully upon the errant creature. She dropped to her haunches, the better to dry off those all-important bits that earned him his keep. Her time would come, though!

“Oh, and Alice is away and won’t be back till late, so do you feel up to playing first reserve for me this evening and filling in? That’s if you have nothing else on, of course. I’ll deal with the cows. I’ve just injected them, and I want both of them impregnated this time. Twice, if possible, so it’ll be a lengthy session, but I’m sure our boy will be up to it with the right sort of encouragement. If you don’t find it distasteful, that is?”

“First reser….oh!” Cassie’s eyes went wide, and then she giggled. “Oh yes, ma’am, sorry!  I mean Patricia! I was only planning to take Fido for a long walk, but I’d be more than happy to lead this big boy to the mounting frame instead and” She paused to look questioningly at her boss. “And apply all the usual encouragement he needs”. Cassie lifted the towel and flipped Snorters large flaccid cock upwards with one small finger.  “I’m not the least bit bothered, and I’m sure I can apply all the other encouragement he needs!”

“Naturally,” Patricia smiled at the eager look in the young girl's eyes. “By all means, dear. Whip away to your heart's content, but I think we’ll do away with the audience element tonight. I mean, this is supposed to be a scientific experiment… well, partly, anyway,” she justified herself, then added. “Of course, there’s no need to… to stimulate the beast in the way Alice has started doing after she’s whipped him. That’s not obligatory… not unless you want to, of course?”

“Oh!” Cassie dropped to her haunches and carefully dried those ‘boy bits’ her boss had mentioned. Her small right hand abandoned the towel and took a firm hold of the large cock that so fascinated her and squeezed it hard enough to make its owner wince. “I don’t know, I’ve never done anything like that before; it might be fun! I’d have to stand on a box or something, though”

Patricia laughed. “Well, suit yourself. They’ll only be you and me. There's a sturdy step stool in the storeroom. I don’t think it will wobble too much”

Cassie giggled and stood up, stretching on tiptoes, her still holding that sizeable limp cock between thumb and forefinger, deliberately digging her nails into the pink bulbous fleshy head and eliciting another pained wince. In contrast, her small left hand reached up to pat Snorter's cheek almost tenderly. “Oh, we won’t mind a little wobble or two, will we, boy!”

The captive bull stared down at the giggling girl in horror!