Madeleine (12 page)

She put everything she had into it, and the punters put everything they had into her.
Aching and exhausted, she drove on right to the bell, uncertain how many Bertha might rule out, and determined to get free tonight.
The bucket had collected thirty-nine souvenirs when ten o’clock struck, and she lay back, done in more ways than one.
Five minutes later Bertha entered, smirking all over her fat raddled face.

“Oh, hard luck, Madelaine. Just didn’t make it.
Never mind, there’s always tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, didn’t make it,” she squeaked in her fatigue and dismay, “I fucked thirty-nine of the bastards today.
Even with your eight, and three for the girls, that leaves twenty-eight, and I only needed twenty-two.”

“It’s a pity your fucking isn’t as good as your arithmetic,” Bertha said, sweetly, “but as it is your performance was so poor, seven of my valued clients demanded their money back, so you’re just one short.”

“You bitch, you’re lying through your rotten teeth.
There were never seven complaints.”

“I’ve warned you before about speaking to me like that,” Bertha hissed, “do you want me to send Pete to go over the figures with you, and teach you some manners at the same time?”

Totally defeated, Madeleine turned over in the bed she thought she’d escaped from at last, and sobbed herself to sleep.

Friday morning.
Bertha smiled sweetly at her over her breakfast coffee.

“I hope you’re in a better mood than last night, and prepared to give the customers value for money.
Just one more for yourself but, of course, the girls and I will expect to be paid first, and if you don’t perform better than yesterday, you’ll be putting out your cunt for little reward.”

Madeleine kept her thoughts to herself, and went to prepare for a final barrage of pricks.

She wrapped herself round client after client, trying to give them complete satisfaction, and yet get through the door to the next eager prick as soon as possible.
She got through the eight for the rent before Bertha put her head round the door, and made a thumbs down.
The bitch, she was playing games again.
Four more later, and she’d made up the refund, and the three for the ‘girls’ before Bertha’s grinning face and drooping thumb signalled another failure.
She let the next pass, wiping out the sweetener for ‘loss of trade’, but failed the youth who should have been her passport out of here.
Panic began to rise as the clock ticked on towards two.
She couldn’t bear to have to go into the evening session too.
The door opened, and the filthiest man she’d ever seen shuffled in.
There was no difficulty placing him, a ‘methy’ from under the arches, his smell proclaimed him a mile off.
One of Bertha’s sick jokes, obviously, there was no way he could have afforded her fifty pound price tag.
Bertha must have lured him in on the promise of a drink and free sex, and she’d have to make damn sure he was fucked to satisfaction, or she’d have to come again tonight, and that she couldn’t face.
Better these rotten teeth and stinking breath, as he forced his mouth on hers, the urine reeking underwear he lowered to force a dirty, but surprisingly large and active, penis into her shattered vagina.
She kissed him back, she raised her hips to accept him, she squeezed with her muscles, and gasped in pretended ecstasy, though her senses reeled from his overpowering breath and her stomach heaved at his stench.
She brought him to noisy, battering discharge just as two struck, and Bertha looked round the door one last time, and called, “Bullseye, one hundred up.”

She staggered into the next room, and fell on the sordid bed, her shoulders and stomach heaving, but her rest was short lived.
Bertha again, would the woman never let her go?

“There’s a little ceremony all new whores have to go through, so if you want to leave today, you’d better get cracking, the girls have to be back on the job by six.”

Wearily she followed her tormentor back to the lounge.
The three girls sat around the table. In the middle stood the plastic pail she had near filled with used condoms, each knotted to retain the semen in the swollen tip, two hundred and one little rubber teats she’d had to endure the filling of, to raise the hundred needed for her ransom.
With it another pail with even more of the disgusting little objects, presumably the ones that Bertha had told the girls to start saving on the day she arrived.

“Welcome to the club,” said Carol, who seemed to have been elected mistress of ceremonies, “every new girl has to be ‘passed out’ at the end of her apprenticeship, and it’s your turn today.” She pointed to the table and the buckets of knotted rubbers.
“Those are the ‘johnnies’ from everybody here, your first week.
First you have to take a pin and prick the end.
Not the first prick that’s been in them,” she laughed at her own weak joke.

“You have to squeeze the spunk out through the hole into the glasses,” she indicated three tumblers at the side.” There’s well over five hundred all told, so you’d better get cracking, or you’ll be here all night.”

Puzzled at what this might be in aid of, but anxious to do nothing to prejudice her escape from this hell hole, she sat at the table in her recently and dearly purchased, but now sweaty soiled and sordid slip, and began the painstaking process of collecting the thick seminal contents of the used rubbers.
It was boring repetitive work, but she kept at it, piercing and squeezing six or seven teats a minute, driving herself to keep up her work rate, and bring nearer the time when she could get out of the brothel where she’d endured so much this last week.
To the accompaniment of jeers and ribald remarks from the resident whores, she persevered, like a housewife shelling peas for a family gathering.

It took her over an hour and a half of back aching work to drain the contents of over five hundred ‘johnnies’ and at the end of her unsavoury task, she had three tumblers, each containing about a third of a pint of thick viscous liquid.

Carol took charge of the proceedings again. “As senior whore in this whorehouse, I declare you to be a whore through and through.
Kneel up on the table.”

Madeleine climbed up and knelt on the hard surface, facing them.

“Now pour the first glass over your head, and spread it well on your face and hair.”

Madeleine looked at them aghast.
“You can’t make me do that,” she protested.

“Can’t we just,” came the uncompromising reply, “you won’t get out of here until you’ve been properly anointed as a first class whore, and if you give any trouble, we can always get Pete to come and help.
I’m sure he’d love to watch the proceedings.”

Defeated again, she raised the brimming glass above her head and poured its revolting contents over her hair and face. It flowed in sticky rivulets onto her neck and shoulders.

“Rub it well in,” Carol ordered,” make sure all your hair gets soaked, and smear your face with it.
Behind your ears too.”

No point in risking further imprisonment in the dreadful place.
She’d poured it, she might as well spread it.

“Done like a good whore should,” commented the whore of ceremonies, “now get on your back, and pour the next glass over your belly, tits and cunt.”

She obeyed without protest now and when ordered, spread the glutinous substance over her body and rubbed it between her thighs.

“Now sit up, and drink the last.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” she wailed.

“You can, and you will if you know what’s good for you,” Carol growled back, “Pete’s still in next door with Bertha.
What’s more, if you spill it, or don’t get it all down, you’ll have to stay here until you’ve filled a replacement glass.”

Heaving and choking, she put the loathsome brew to her lips, and forced it bit by bit down her nauseous throat.
She stopped several times to control her rebellious belly, but, urged on by more threats, sucked and swallowed until the glass was drained, then turned and fled, to spew up the contents of her sickened stomach in the bathroom.
As she leaned, retching, over the basin, Bertha spoke from behind her.

“Stop behaving like a schoolgirl after her first blow job: you’re a time-served whore now, and you’ll stay one if you don’t shift your arse right now.
The car’s waiting for you downstairs, and he’ll be off if you don’t go straight down,”
then, as Madeleine made as if to try and wash off some of the spilt sperm clotting her hair, face and body.
“No, you haven’t time for that.
Go as you are, or you won’t go at all.”

“What about my clothes?”

“Well, if you want to stay another week for a suit and a pair of shoes, that’s up to you, but if you want to catch the car before it leaves, you’ll go as you are, and leave your things for Maggie.”

Soiled, sticky and sick, she tottered to the lift.
Bertha pushed her inside, and reached in to hit the button for the basement car park.
As the ancient machine sank out of sight, the fat Madam watched her go with a malevolent smirk on her face.
Madame R had told her one week, no more, but she’d stretched it to the limit, if not beyond, and she’d squeezed the girl dry.
Five grand she’d made her earn, with her reamed out pussy and battered thighs, and she’d made sure the ‘house’ whores hadn’t missed their quotas. It was all profit, and she’d no more intention of passing any of it on to the others than fly.

In the basement, the chauffeur took one look at her spunk soaked slip and dripping body, and deftly shook a rug over his precious upholstery.
She huddled on the seat until he deposited her at the lift, which took her up to Madame Ruskova’s luxury apartment.
At the door she collected herself together, straightened her shoulders, and determined to carry it off, as if she’d done no more than spend a week-end in the country, brazening out her near nudity, her soiled flesh and her near exhaustion.

“So how did you enjoy slumming it?”
Madame R greeted her.

“Not a lot.”

“Do I gather you’re not keen to take up a career in Bertha’s house of joy?”

“No. I think I’ll stick to my own line of work, Thank you”

“Very wise.
How many times did you have to put out to earn my five grand, by the way?”

“Two hundred and one, if you must know.
That cow, Bertha, made me pay through the nose, or rather the cunt, every minute I was there.”

Madame whistled, softly.
“So many.
You must have worked night and day to get through that many in a week.”

Madeleine explained how she’d set up the sexual see-saw, and the price Bertha had made her pay.

“The greedy bitch.
Well I’m not surprised, and I hope you have learned your lesson.”

“Yes, Madame,” in a low voice.

“Well, now you know how the other half lives, you’ll understand that your best interest lies in letting me run your career for you. Unless, that is, you’ve lost your nerve, and feel you can’t hack it?”

Madeleine was stung into a reply. “I can hack it.
I didn’t turn away from Maurice Helworthy because I was frightened of what he might do to me, it was just that he knew me, and we might meet in a work situation.
I can take anything the clients want to dish out,” she declared.”

“I’m glad to hear it as you’ll be going back to see Maurice Helworthy soon enough, and no doubt he’ll add a little extra for your letting him down on the previous occasion. I want no trouble from you this time, is that understood?”

Again a submissive, “Yes, Madame.”

“Very well, then.
You’ve had a hard time, but you’ve learned your lesson.
It may take me a little while to set up a meeting with Maurice, and you can have a few days’ rest.
Go home now and remove that disgusting mess from your person.
I presume that they initiated you into the Sisterhood of Whores in the traditional way?” Madame grinned unexpectedly.
“How many doses were there in your baptism?”

“Over five hundred,” Madeleine shuddered anew at the thought, “They made me pour most of it over my hair and belly, and drink the rest.”

“Well, at least Maurice won’t be that copious.
Go home now, clean up, and have a few days off to recuperate.
I’ll let you know when you’re to go to your missed date.”

Glad to escape at last, Madeleine turned in her caked slip and set off for home.

‘Hell Worthy’

“Well, well!
If it isn’t Ms. Fines. What a charming surprise.”

Time to face the music.
Madame had rung the previous evening to say that Maurice Helworthy was expecting her the next day.
He didn’t know who she was yet, only that there was no limit set on what she would accept.
For his five thousand, he was entitled to thrash her as much as his lust desired, and her body was his to use until the morning, if he was still not satiated.
This was going to be a severe trial of her endurance, and she had arrived at his door with her belly churning and her diminutive knickers wet in the crotch.

“This puts a rather different light on things,” he observed, darkly, “I’d bought you as a present for my wife, who’s waiting for you in her sitting room on the next floor, no doubt with her knickers soaking.
I had intended handing you over unmarked but, now that I know who Madame R’s mysterious prize performer is, I’m sure Zena will understand if I warm you up for her first.”

He turned to the cabinet behind the heavy desk and drew out something long, black and gleaming that sent spasms of fear rippling through Madeleine’s belly.

“You caused me great embarrassment when you didn’t turn up when promised. Even more than when you declined my job offer, after I’d stood out against all my male colleagues to give you the post.
This little toy is Black Beauty, the pride of my collection, genuine whalebone and made by an amateur craftsman who has researched all the old techniques to produce what our Victorian forefathers regarded as the ultimate penal rod.
I only have recourse to it on rare occasions.
Zena’s had it once,” he confided, “when she had a little too much champagne at a wedding reception, and tried to have the Best Man in a broom cupboard.
I could forgive her lust, any young woman’s hormones will start jumping between little pink bubbles and a big red prick, but the broom cupboard had no class.
It just wasn’t on, and I took her straight home and cut up her arse, to remind her that there are certain standards to maintain.

Still, enough of such reminiscences,” he said, rapping the rod on the desk to get her attention, an unnecessary gesture as she was listening to every word with the attention of a rabbit hypnotised by a poised cobra, “you’re going to get ten belters for making my present late.
Take down your knickers, and bend over the desk.
I’m going to cut the arse off you.”

There was nothing for it but to obey.
She was bought and paid for, and there was nothing to stop him sharing his wife’s present any way he wished.
With a sinking feeling in her guts she stepped forward to the desk.
That black beast was long and thick.
If it was genuine whalebone, and she had no reason to doubt that, it would be very heavy and very whippy, a combination that would indeed cut her arse and moreover leave her deeply bruised for days to come.
This was going to be bad, and she still had a session with Mrs. Helworthy to look forward to afterwards.

Trying not to look as frightened as she felt, she hoisted her skirt onto her hips, and stuck her thumbs into the waistband of her dainty briefs.
She peeled them down until they rested on the tops of her thighs, then bent herself over the desk, reaching forward to grip the far edge, and cling on in mounting dread. The air on her bare buttocks brought home their vulnerability in this exposed position.

Footsteps behind her, and then the cold touch of the rod on her bare flesh as he selected his aiming point.
God.
He was sizing up her crease, where the slight fullness of her taut round buttocks met the smooth columns of her thighs.
It was inevitable of course that a man of his experience would know that a woman felt the rod most keenly on just that tenderest of places.
She flinched from the touch and a voice, thick with lust, growled at her to stay still, or get extra.

The air ripped behind her, and a band of sheer white flame exploded precisely where he had laid out his mark.
The cut was as hard as ever she’d estimated, when she’d put him down as a squash or racquets player, and his accuracy was perfect.
This was going to be every bit as bad as she’d feared, and she groaned as the after pain surged into the rising welt, gripping the desk edge a little tighter.

Again that bowel loosening sound announcing the next hellish cut was on its way, and a gasp as it bit.
Oh! No!
Precisely on its predecessor.
She braced her legs to hold herself steady and gritted her teeth, awaiting the next in the doleful sequence.
It fell as near as made no difference to the sufferer, on the same anguished line, and bathed in a fresh flood of agony, she renewed her resolve not to give in.
For she was determined to fight him to the end, not just a matter of her usual search for satisfaction, but a personal thing between them.
He knew her.
He knew all there was about her in her previous persona, before the island, and she needed to show him that although she backed away from the job he’d offered, it was not from lack of courage to face the big time operators and stand up to them.

It was not an equal contest, of course.
He was armed with a man’s strength, an athletic wrist, and that appalling length of black whalebone.
All she could put up against it was her soft female flesh, which was no match for that deadly accurate weapon, that was turning her once white flesh into purple pulp, but she was determined to keep it presented fully to the rod, and take her strokes without conceding by rising or crying out.

Through four five and six, she writhed and gasped, hissed through her teeth, as the secondary wave swept her, or groaned in agony.
She was aware that she was developing a single massive bruise, she could feel it swelling and throbbing in the intervals between strokes, for he was drawing out what she saw as punishment, rather than her normal impersonal service, letting her savour the full value of each cut before delivering the next.
She could imagine a solid black bar across the underside of her haunches, overlapping onto her thighs, and raised as thick as a finger.

As the seventh ‘belter’ landed in this tumescent mass she bit her lip to choke off the scream which rose in her throat and fought the rebellious body which wanted only to lift itself from the desk, and cease to offer the unprotected buttocks to the devastation inflicted by the supple rod.

The eighth burrowed deep into the centre of the monstrous bruise: her legs bent, her knees fretting against each other as if this might somehow throw off the claws that seemed to be tearing into her nether flesh.
She jammed her knees into the desk to still them and clung to the solid piece of mahogany, whining through her nose.
There was a pause, and the growl told her to get her arse up where the rod could get at it.
She gathered her forces to brace her legs back, and offer her riven flesh fully to the rod.

She held on through nine and ten, and slowly, and very stiffly, rose and reached down for her knickers.
Although even the touch of the delicate fabric was extra agony, she was determined to carry it off, and drew them, wincing, over her throbbing buttocks, carefully lowering her skirt and smoothing it into some order.
She turned, and walked stiff-legged to the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I understood that Mrs. Helworthy was expecting me, and would be getting ... over anxious.”

“Quite right.
I expect she’ll have creamed in her pants by now,” the lady’s husband agreed, “but you seem to be overlooking something.
I promised you ten for delaying my wife’s present, but we still have to settle the score for the embarrassment you caused me by turning down the job without explanation.”

There was a deathly hush.
Madeleine looked at him for several seconds, without a word, then limped back to the desk.
She bunched her skirt up round her waist again and paused with her thumbs under the elastic of her panties.
“How many?” she asked.

He told her, and she groaned inwardly, but drew the panties off as instructed, kicked off her shoes and parted her legs as far as they would go, unencumbered now by rolled knicker material around the thighs, and rose up on tip toe.
He was not only cruel, but knowing.
She was going to have to endure it all through again, the full ten strokes, but this time with her legs apart and staying on her toes.
If she didn’t get her bottom right up to meet the rod, he wouldn’t allow the stroke, and she’d have to take another.
He’d recognised her defiance, seen through her attempt to disguise how deeply she’d been hurt, and now he was calling her bluff.
Well, she’d show him she wasn’t bluffing.
She see him out, and take it, though her body cringed already, without a fresh blow struck.
To peel the panties off that throbbing wound in her hinds, to strip them of their only protection, however illusory, and leave them vulnerable to those terrible searing cuts, had her belly squirming, and her nates clenching. She took up the prescribed position, and tried desperately to gather her resources to meet the renewed attack on her flesh, which she had thought safe, only to have her relief so cruelly destroyed.

Maurice Helworthy surveyed the tempting target spread for his delight.
Bent as she was, she might just as well have been naked, since all that part of the woman’s anatomy that was presented for his inspection was bare, save the dark stockings that accentuated the shapely columns of her long, tapering legs, contrasting with the pale ivory of her spread buttocks and thighs. The paleness threw into sharp and violent relief the violet bruise, two inches wide, dragging its throbbing length from one side of the underhang to the other.
Between the spread cheeks pouted the plump purse of her sex and, above, the wrinkled brown dimple of her anus.

He’d intended only to confirm that Madame Ruskova’s protege was as appetising as she’d promised before passing her on to his wife, not that he’d doubted for a minute that the old procuress would let him down but, when he realised that this was the woman who’d turned down his offer, he determined to have his revenge for what he considered a serious slight.
Who did she think she was, refusing a chance to join his prestigious organisation?
He’d spotted her worth at once; over-ruled his partners to secure her the appointment, and felt she had left him looking foolish.
Well, she’d suffered for that.
Those ten strokes were as ‘tight’ as he’d ever laid in his long experience of the rod, close, with plenty of wrist behind as wicked a stick as he’d ever met.
They must have hurt atrociously, and he’d hoped, expected, that when he awarded her a repeat, she’d either rebel, or beg for mercy but instead she’d accepted his challenge, and bared her ridged and throbbing under buttock without protest.

He intended that her challenge should fail.
He’d put her into as difficult a situation as he could devise, the strained separation of her thighs together with the requirement to stay on her toes, would tax her physically and divert her concentration, besides leaving her feeling the exposure of her vulva and anus and the ever present threat that the tip of the rod might worry its way between her cheeks to lash those so vulnerable, and tender, spots.

The black length felt good in his hand, he could feel its weight and suppleness, and a sense of it being a live creature, eager to feast on the tender flesh offered before it. All things being equal, he would simply use his dexterity and athletic wrist to unleash it into the tumescent bruise he had already raised.
That would give her something to digest, but he was conscious that this was a gift to his wife.
If he let the rod loose on that blueberry band, it must surely burst.
The skin over the pulsating swelling on the right looked ripe to part, and he felt that he should stop short of giving a present with the blood already flowing.
Zena would no doubt take care of that herself.
Well, there were more ways than one of skinning a cat, or a pussy come to that.
He had no doubt that Zena would extend that little attention to her guest as well.
He stepped forward to measure his mark on the bending female, and laid the rod, gently, on the very top of the thighs, just below the crease, and the swelling purple rope.

The braced legs twitched involuntarily, and the knuckles of the small hands, gripping the edge of the desk, whitened.
He drew back his arm, only to bring it flashing down again, to thrash the rod precisely into his invisible mark.
He was rewarded with a gasp of pain, followed by a long drawn out oo ... oo ...oo… ooh, as the matching welts on each thigh top filled and darkened, and her hips swayed from side to side, as she rose and fell on her toes. But she held her position, and was firmly back on her toes, her buttocks raised to expose her thigh tops, by the time the next stroke was due.

Inevitably it fell onto the spoor of its predecessor, and the gyrations and smothered cries were repeated. with interest.
With great deliberation, he laid on three, four and five.
Half way now and she was displaying extraordinary courage.
Her gasps were a little more urgent, her cries showing somewhat more distress, the gyrations of her clenched haunches more frenzied, but she was holding on.
He watched her as she fought for control, watched her steady her tortured body, rising on her toes to present again, despite nervous ripples down her thighs and a slight inward turning of the widely parted knees. These were mute testimony to the extremity she was in.