Hard Corps (16 page)

The only requirement for our particular show was that we use ‘The Web’. The Web was a cleverly designed sort of restraining device that someone had built. It consisted of a black frame of aluminium metal pipes, built in the shape of something like a soccer goal net. The netting consisted of soft nylon ropes crisscrossed in every direction and attached up and down the frame so that it really did resemble a spider’s web. At various intervals along the rope were little leather cuffs with velcro closures that could quickly but securely bind someone in place. It was kept in the bell tower and used in the various torture chambers. I had seen it, but had never seen it ‘in action’.

Bill and Mark met with me one afternoon to choreograph our performance. We had already talked over the basic premise for our show. Even though Bill was dominant, he didn’t try to control things, which I appreciated. He encouraged us to participate as equals, with the basic goal to create a sexy and exciting show.

We decided to do a kind of dance, with a theme of Bill as a kind of spider who would capture each of us and use us for his pleasure. Mark was a gymnast and very flexible, while Bill was athletic and very strong. The performance was to be twenty minutes long. That may not sound like very long, but when you are trying to make it interesting and sexy, it can seem like forever.

The night came all too soon when we were scheduled to perform. How odd to peek from backstage and see the little tables filled in the dim, little room. I saw Dr Wellington, of course, and Sergeant Sinclair. Even Ellen Roster was there, sitting with several men at a table to the side of the stage. I saw Sam Brady, looking attentively from his place on the wall where he waited with other slaves to respond to a beckon or nod from anyone at the tables who needed a fresh drink or anything else. I remembered how, only a few months before, I had had the honour of sitting at one of those tables, watching Sam on this very stage.

Now it was my turn. My stomach clenched and it felt like I was in an elevator whose bottom had just dropped out. Even though I was barely dressed, I felt hot: my palms and underarms were wet with nervousness, my mouth was dry. My outfit was a red satin G-string and large, red satin ribbons that crisscrossed over my body, only barely covering my breasts. I looked like a present for someone to unwrap. Mark was similarly clad, his cock and balls secured in a bright-red pouch. Bill and the slave assigned to help us backstage secured Mark and me into the web.

We had decided to show off Mark’s gymnastic abilities, as well as his capacity to suffer. He was positioned with his hands and feet on the ground, his body arched up so that his cock and balls were raised appealingly in their red covering. He was secured against the web by one wrist and one ankle, his head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing. I was completely suspended against the web, secured by my wrists, waist, thighs, and ankles. My arms were raised high around my head and my legs were spread far apart. My feet were resting lightly against Mark’s upraised torso. Because of the angle of the web, which tilted back slightly, I was actually rather comfortable, with my back leaning into the give of the mesh created by the rope. As a final touch, we were both blindfolded in the same crimson satin.

Bill was dressed in a black shirt and pants, to represent the spider who would capture his prey. Bill was African-American, and his dark skin gleamed attractively against his black collarless shirt which was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing his hard-muscled chest. At a signal from him, the music started, a slow, instrumental piece of African origin with drums and pipes. I could hear the slow, ratcheting sound of the curtain rising, my sense of hearing heightened by the blindness. Actually, I was grateful that I couldn’t see the faces out there, watching, waiting expectantly to see our little show. I only hope the nervousness I felt didn’t show in my face or body. I could actually feel Mark’s heart pounding against the soles of my feet.

The first part was easy, for me at least. Though I couldn’t see it, I knew what was happening, as Bill approached Mark, a single lash in his hand. He moved slowly, edging toward Mark like a spider languidly secure that he had captured his prey in his sticky webbing. He lay the lash vertically along Mark’s taut body so that the handle end touched his cock. Mark had to stay very still to balance the whip. Bill slid his hands over Mark’s body, and under it, sensually cupping his ass cheeks, his balls, tweaking his nipples, placing his large hand around Mark’s bared throat. I didn’t hear a clatter, so I had to assume the whip had stayed in place, thank God, during this mood-setting scene.

Then I heard it, just a fraction of a second before Mark must have felt it: the whoosh and whistle of the lash as it flew through the air to land on his naked flesh. Again and again I heard the whistle, and then the slapping sound as the lash met with skin. Mark moaned softly with each strike, but stayed in position under my feet. Luckily for me, Bill was quite talented with the whip, and he managed not to strike me by accident while whipping the poor slave below me.

The audience was silent as the whipping continued. I felt Mark’s body grow wet with sweat from the exertion of maintaining his position while being so cruelly treated. When it was over, Bill released the simple bonds that held his charge and helped Mark to stand. We had chosen the single lash because of the lovely, long lines of fire it leaves on the skin, especially fair skin like Mark and I have. I knew that Mark was now displaying his marked and sweat-glistened body to the audience, for their review and approval.

Then the sound of Bill leading Mark, still blindfolded, to a spot behind the web, where he stood, head bowed, symbolically ‘claimed’ by the spider, who now moved on to new prey: me. I could smell Bill as he moved in close to me — his sweat mingled with a spicy cologne as he leaned in to touch me — to prepare me, as he liked to say, for my whipping. Though I knew it was coming, I shuddered slightly when his hands began to touch my body. I only hoped no one had noticed from the audience, as that could be interpreted as non-compliance, and punished.

His strong fingers caressed my cheek, the movement soft and sensual. They trailed down my throat. Then I felt the sudden tug as he gripped the flimsy bands of satin that barely concealed my breasts and belly and pulled until they ripped away, leaving me naked save for the small piece of fabric covering my mons.

I felt his hand on my right breast, which he cupped and then let fall. Then I felt the lovely sensation of his fingers tugging and twisting at my nipple, first gently, then less so, until I was breathing hard, pressing my lips together to keep a cry from escaping. The second breast was similarly teased, the nipple twisted and flicked until it stood as hard and eager as the first.

Bill then did something which wasn’t choreographed into the scene. It took me a moment to register what was happening, and, as he clamped first one and then the second clip on to my poor nipples, I cried out softly. The little teeth were covered with a soft rubber, but still the press of nipples gripped tightly in the little vices took some getting used to. This was not part of the programme and, even as I became accustomed to the sharp pull against my tender flesh, I felt a rush of anger that he had dared to change the scene without clueing me in. But I was hardly in a position to protest at that point. I had never had clamps applied to my nipples before but, of course, I knew that was what it had to be.

Ironically, I was so intent on my own resentment at the clamps that I forgot to mentally prepare for the single lash, the little stinger that was about to mark my body from head to toe. When the first stroke came, I cried out in earnest in a voice certainly audible all over the little theatre. Now my heart was pounding, and I was terrified because of my indiscretion. These shows were silent, a test of the slaves’ endurance and grace, to be borne without an undue display of emotion. What would happen to me?

The lash continued to fall, striking randomly, leaving little burning trails of fire across my naked body. I struggled to regain control, to remain silent, to breathe deeply and flow with the pain. As Bill’s skilful lash continued to rain against my flesh, I fell into the rhythm of the whipping, my skin adjusting to the heat, becoming numb.

I could feel the sway of the metal chain that held the clamps together. I became aware of my wet pussy as the whipping continued. Had my sopping vagina stained the red satin, revealing my obvious lust to the audience? I squirmed slightly, aware that they had an excellent view of my spread and barely concealed pussy. I was now so aroused by the situation, the whipping, my bonds, Bill’s sensual, heady scent in my nostrils, the awareness that all eyes in the room were on me, that I could have come from a touch to my aching pussy.

I became aware after a moment or two that the whipping had stopped. Every part of the front of my body was burning from the lash. Then Bill did another thing that was not choreographed into our show. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek, while slipping a hand into the satin of my wet G-string. As his fingers brushed roughly past my clit and pressed into my wet and open entrance, I again sighed aloud, my body arching toward that lovely, hard hand. I shuddered, one stroke away from coming right there on the stage. The audience seemed to sigh with me. I had disobeyed protocol, but what could I do? As usual with me, lust had won out over discipline.

His lovely hand was withdrawn, leaving me aching and frustrated. I felt the bonds being released, and then the blindfold was also removed from my face. Mark had joined us centre stage, and we bowed, heads low, until the lights dimmed and, mercifully, the curtain fell.

We rushed backstage to clean up and dress. Dr Wellington liked to see her performers when they were done. I was scared to see her. I had been so overtly aroused and sexual on the stage. In the few shows I had seen, the slaves were very controlled and rarely let any emotion escape, even during a strenuous whipping.

I pulled on the pale-yellow silk dress I had chosen for the occasion. Dr Wellington had asked me to dress because after the show she wanted me to sit at her table. She asked that I please wear something other than khaki, something feminine for a change.

Her head was thrown back, her throaty laugh filling the air as I came out on to the floor to sit at her table. The talking stopped as I arrived at the table and I felt all their eyes boring into me as I kneeled next to her, waiting for that cool touch on my shoulder that would indicate that I could rise. It came after a moment.

‘Remy, love. You did splendidly!’ I was speechless with surprise. She went on. ‘Sometimes these shows can be so dull. I mean, they are beautifully executed, minutely choreographed little whipping scenes or whatever, but they lack heart! No emotion, no real indication that the slaves are even alive, much less moved by what is happening to them. But you, Remy — when Bill clamped your nipples, and at the end when he finger-fucked you — God, I could feel it with you! You became sex, raw sex, raw desire, raw need. It was terrific.’

I felt myself blushing hotly at her praise. I was at once intensely relieved and delighted at her effusive comments, as well as embarrassed by the attention. A man at the table, who I recognised as one of the two that had been at my ‘audition’ said, ‘If she were mine, I’d whip her to shreds for that blatant display. She’s nothing more than a slut.’

‘Well, she isn’t yours, Maynard, so you’ll have to content yourself with your own fantasies. She’s mine, and I like my slaves full of lust and life. She’s real, for God’s sake, not some automaton. Who wants a blow-up doll that can take a beating, for God’s sake?’

Maynard was quiet, looking malevolently at me. I looked down quickly, not wanting to be accused of being forward by looking directly at a master. But inside I was glorying in her defence of me and my behaviour.

‘I thought it was a most impressive show,’ said a woman who I hadn’t met. She smiled at me and said, ‘I liked the colours — the red little insects trapped by the black spider, or the blood red of the welts and the black of the evil master having his way — very theatrical, very poetic. I liked it.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I whispered. Inside I was thinking, thank God it’s over!

O
nce I had been admitted into the Corps on a permanent basis, things became almost routine. If you can call being regularly whipped, bound, and forced to sexually serve a variety of masters and mistresses ‘routine’.

As Amelia had promised, I was subjected to hours of training classes, sometimes with other slaves, sometimes alone, where I learned how to kneel gracefully, how to maintain uncomfortable positions for long periods of time, how to take a whipping without so much as a whimper. We also did aerobic and isometric exercises to slim and hone our bodies. All of this was done in the nude.

Even when not in slave classes or on assignment, we were reminded of our positions. One day Sergeant Sinclair split the group that was scheduled for that day’s physical training into two sections. One section he sent off to run several courses with his assistant drill sergeant. I recognised several members of the Slave Corps around me, but of course gave no indication of this. Nor, appropriately, did any of them. The sergeant opened a large duffel-bag full of small packages. He called us up to take one each.

We were dressed in shorts and T-shirts that day. Unwrapping our packages, we each found a mediumsized butt plug. It seems everyone in our little section was a slave! And Sergeant Sinclair, of course, knew who we were. Laughing at our embarrassed confusion, he instructed, ‘Slick it up as best you can and stick it up your collective butts. Keep it in till lights-out. Then you can dispose of it as best you can. Don’t let anyone find it though. You’ll all be severely punished if any of these plugs turn up anywhere.’

He watched with amusement as we licked and spit on our anal plugs. Sam Brady was next to me, and his blush, as usual, was vivid on his pale, freckled skin. But we all did it; by this time we were well trained, I suppose, both to follow orders by a sergeant and by a master. Going through the day, the erotically uncomfortable anal plug making me squirm in my seat during classes made me so horny that my panties were soaked by the end of it. I would look around my class, seeing a person here and there who I knew was in the same situation as I. The kindredness and connection I felt toward them is hard to describe.