chastity device

Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator’s gradual acceptance of submission.

Previously: The narrator has given Dex blanket consent and is prepared to explore what submission to her might mean.


Beyond the chastity device I now wear most of the time, beyond even the fading welts from the cane that has recently assaulted the flesh of my back, buttocks and legs, there’s perhaps no greater evidence of my willing submission to this woman than the fact that I am sitting on the sofa with her, a bowl of popcorn between us, watching a dancing competition on the tube. Dex, the goth princess who has claimed dominance over a large swath of my life, stares at the television in rapt attention. My friends would look at me askance for sitting here like this. Good thing they don’t know the rest of it.

Dex now divides her time almost equally between my house and wherever it is that she lives. The place feels empty when she’s not here and almost overwhelming when she is. We’ve settled into the easy rhythm of quasi-domesticity, though one punctuated by the occasional use of a crop or flogger against my recalcitrant flesh for infractions real or imagined.

A few weeks ago I bought Dex a toothbrush and placed it in the holder next to mine. She would never be so presumptuous to bring her own and I could tell that the symbolism of the two toothbrushes was not lost on her.

“Yikes,” says Dex about some dance move I’m not quick enough to catch.

For the most part, I have become comfortable with submission and somewhat addicted to the intensity and creativity that Dex brings to our relationship. I remember that Dex had me figured out from the very first—the jaded yuppie who’d grown tired of the parade of easy but unimaginative bedmates whose notion of daring was fucking with the lights on and for whom an exuberant smack on the ass might have been cause for charges. No less insightful on Dex’s part was the intuition that I might be willing to relinquish control. She’d recognized a possibility I would never have imagined.

It’s the kind of bright Saturday in early May when the world seems to take a deep breath and stretch after a long, cold winter. Dex has an appointment at the piercing studio where she works. A frenum ladder, she tells me. I grimace.

I’m planning to do some yardwork outside while she’s away. Things like raking the lawn awake now that the blanket of snow has vanished into the earth. Cleaning up the branches that litter my lawn. But Dex has other plans for me. She locks me up in my chastity device and instructs me not to get dressed. “I want to think of you like this,” she says as she snaps the lock shut, securing the cage to the ring. “I have plans for you tonight.”

Yardwork, it seems, will have to wait. I’m a little resentful that my plans have been delayed, but equally intrigued by the promise of Dex’s return.

When she leaves, I close the blinds throughout the house, not wanting to frighten anyone who might be enjoying a hike along the trail behind my house.

I try to work but am distracted by my nudity, the device that secures my privates and the prospect of the evening with Dex now that I have given her my consent to test the boundaries of our relationship. It’s spring, after all, and while a young man’s fancy might lightly turn to thoughts of love, mine turn to thoughts of the crops and paddles and leather I might face tonight. Of pain and pleasure and sweat and come. Of submission and domination. After rereading the same paragraph for the umpteenth time and realizing that I’ve managed to retain nothing, I close the document.

Even though Dex and I have been together for over half a year and the strange momentum of our relationship has led us to this place, I am still relatively new to submission and from time to time its yoke rests uneasily on my shoulders. I trust Dex but it’s difficult to reconcile my professional life and persona with the one that now exists behind closed doors. At work I’m the one with whom the buck stops. I decide things. I’m the boss. I possess the business relationships and the savvy that is somehow parlayed into revenue. There are times when I feel like the master of my little universe. Within the walls of my home though, I submit to the will of a dark, gothic twenty-something and am the master of very little. It’s completely at odds with the guy who wears suits and attends power lunches and schmoozes with the best of them. I don’t know why it works; I only know that it does. Dex has tapped something in me that has become as vital to me as oxygen.

Although submission has become a large part of my life, I’ve resisted the notion that I might belong to a community of others who share the same tastes. I know such a community exists, but I’ve chosen to ignore it for the simple reason that I find it difficult to respect others who submit as I do. It’s clear that my arrogance is hypocritical and untenable. Perhaps my hypocrisy is coming to a head. Perhaps that’s why I find work so difficult today.

So I sit, my privates encased and locked in a thick layer of steel, considering my ignorance of the world to which I seem to belong. If I am truly to commit to this lifestyle, to be a good submissive to the woman I’ve chosen to be my dom, then I owe it to myself to do my research.

With some trepidation I venture onto the Web to see if I can learn anything of what consent and submission might entail. I have largely avoided it until now, fearing that alternative expressions of submission might become possibilities in my own life. I’ve been happy to go along with Dex without considering the branches that she might take off the path we’ve been on. Now that my skin is in the game, I’m more curious about what might be done to it.

I click through to various sites. I have already felt pleasure and pain at Dex’s hand—the two are not as different as I had expected—but am unprepared for the pictures of degradation and humiliation that I encounter on the Web. I recognize the mechanics of some of the scenes, but the tone of them is much different than what I enjoy under Dex. I see both men and women treated in ways that make me uneasy and uncomfortable. I see them humiliated and debased, insulted and taunted. I see them groveling and crying, and though they may seem fulfilled at the end of the scene, I can’t help but to hold these people with some disdain and pity.

I can’t see Dex elevating herself on my debasement, but I don’t know for sure. Nor can I see myself ever accepting such treatment. I wonder whether my consent necessarily entails my eventual humiliation. Am I being diminished without realizing the extent? How would I react if I were asked to go around on hands and knees in my own house or be forced to watch as she bestowed her favors on another? I’m watching a video on my laptop and I ask myself: how different is the poor slob who is licking his mistress’s boot to the guy sitting naked in his own house, locked in a metal cage, waiting for the object of his desire to return?

Dex and I have only spoken of the limits to her authority over me in general terms. So far, I have trusted her judgment and have not been disappointed.

Now, though, I have to consider that the consent I’ve given her might lead us onto paths I’m not prepared for.


Dex returns a little after seven that evening. I stand as she enters the living room. She is beautiful and intense in her goth finery and heavy makeup. It’s clear by the way her green eyes take me in that she has been as distracted as I.

She presses me against the wall and kisses me hungrily, her body hard against mine. The stud that adorns her tongue raps against my teeth. The fingernails of one hand rake my ass while the other strokes my balls. “I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

My erection strains against the cage. “Me too.”

“I’ve never had a submissive waiting for me like this.”

The word stings, particularly since I’ve been obsessing about submission all day, thinking about the limits and consequences, wondering how it is that I’ve gotten from where I was to where I am and where I might yet go. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the word or have had it applied to me, but having it stated so baldly now causes something inside of me to shrivel. “Do you want me to call you mistress now?”

Dex frowns, catching my less than playful tone. “It depends if we’re just playing or if it’s in the context of something more permanent. It means different things depending on what you want.”

I’m reluctant to share my feelings with her. I guess I’m still a typical guy in that way. Strong and silent. Right.

Dex strokes my cheek. Our eyes lock. There’s a hint of concern in hers. I don’t know what mine reveal. “For what it’s worth,” she says carefully, “I’d love to be your mistress, in play and in life. I’d be honored if you called me that.”

She’s serious.

“Where would you take us?”

“That depends mainly on how far you want me to go and how much you trust me to go there.”

There it is. Trust. Trust that she doesn’t lead me on paths that I’m unwilling to tread. Trust that she can balance the pain and pleasure, the risk and reward. Trust that the slippery slope I’ve been on won’t plunge me into the abyss populated by the kind of beaten and desperate people I’ve seen on the internet.

“I trust you,” I say.

Within limits remains unspoken.


“Stand in the corner,” says Dex. “Face the wall.”

The memory comes back as fresh as the day it happened. I’m a child. Grade one or two. Accused of some transgression or another. I’ve been singled out by the teacher. This was back in the days where humiliation was a justified weapon in the hands of teachers who needed to keep control.

“No peeking,” says Dex.

I listen to the sound of her undressing. I can imagine her naked, her lithe, pale body, the glint of cold metal at her nipples and labia, the swallowtail tattoo on her lower abdomen. I can feel her green eyes scrutinizing me. I hear the sound of leather being stretched and the sharp sound of stilettos on the hardwood floor as they approach me. I feel a crop resting lightly on my ass.

“You can turn around.”

I do so.

What I have heard has titillated me; what I see takes my breath way. Dex is every inch the dom. She wears a leather underbust corset that highlights the pale fullness of her breasts and the narrowness of her waist. Leather boots that descend from just below the knees make her legs look impossibly long and slender. The crop rests lightly against her calf.

“Wow,” I say. If I am to be dominated by her, I have to count myself lucky.

“You like?” she asks.

I nod.

Dex smiles. “Good.” She turns and saunters slowly and deliberately to a steamer trunk that contains our growing arsenal of erotic appurtenances. She opens the lid and bends over, revealing the shapely curve of her hips and ass that frames the shadowed folds of her pussy.

She returns holding an assortment of leather cuffs and clips. My mouth is dry.

Dex places one of my hands on her breast and fastens the cuff to my wrist. Her skin is warm and soft under my palm. She repeats the process with the other wrist and then cuffs my ankles. Another band of leather encircles my neck. She then slips a leather blindfold over my head. “Lights out, lover,” she purrs.

I hear Dex rummaging around the trunk again.

“Open your mouth,” she says a moment later.

I comply and a large object is inserted between my teeth. Straps are quickly cinched over and behind my head and under my chin.

“You’re quite the vision,” she says.

I’m glad I can’t see myself. I have no doubt that I look like any number of slaves on the internet. I push the thought away. How can I judge them? Certainly not when my own situation and the anticipation of play has me aching with excitement.

Although I’m intimately aware of everything in my home, I’m strangely off-balance as Dex leads me to the support column that stands between the living room and dining room. She binds my wrists behind the column. Without a word she walks away and soon returns, depositing a bunch of stuff at my feet.

I strain to hear what she might be doing. I don’t have to wait long until I feel lube spread over and within my anus.

“On your toes,” she says.

I comply. The crop pressed against my balls encourages me higher still. I feel something thick and hard at my ass and I struggle to relax, knowing that tension will only make the inevitable penetration more uncomfortable.

“Good,” says Dex as she patiently works the length within me. I gasp when the widest part breaches the ring of muscle.

Dex hums her satisfaction with the arrangement. “Feeling okay?” She asks.

I nod.

“Snap your fingers if you’ve had enough.”

I’ve forgotten that I can’t exactly blurt out my safe word.

She taps the insides of my legs with the crop and I spread them, lowering myself on the dildo in the process. I move in the smallest of increments, like a geriatric attempting the splits, knowing that the farther apart I spread my legs, the more of the dildo I have to take. She attaches a spreader bar to my ankles and pauses to stroke the insides of my thighs.

She withdraws but I’m sure that she’s not far, observing me. I’m still standing on my toes and within minutes my calves grow tired and I lower myself a fraction to relieve the pain and feel a corresponding penetration. Whatever it is, it is braced against the floor.

“Still okay?”

I nod.

Nothing happens for a while. Only Dex’s gentle breathing betrays her presence.

My calves are now aching and it’s a struggle to remain on my toes. The dildo seems to widen along its length.

“Are you ready to please me?”

I’ve been so busy trying to find a balance between easing the ache in my legs and that of my stretched anus that her words startle me. I grunt. Anything if it means an end to my discomfort.

Dex fumbles with the front of my gag and in a moment it feels heavier. I move my head. She has attached something to the part of the ball that emerges from my mouth.

I hear the scraping of a chair across the floor and hear it creak as she climbs onto it. She is elevated in front of me and I feel the twin globes of her ass pressed against my chest.

“You need to lower yourself.”

I attempt to do so. Her proximity makes it impossible to make up the distance by bending forward. The only way I can reach where she wants me to go is to lower myself as she has commanded. The inch that I can manage feels like a foot and I feel myself stretched mercilessly.

“You can do better than that.”

Her ass is at my chin and my legs begin to quiver as I lower myself yet another painful fraction of an inch.

Almost there.

I’ll never make it, I think.

Just then Dex changes the angle of her hips and I can feel her heat and smell her arousal, which painfully prompts my own within the tight confines of the cage. I feel her hand on the dildo that extends from my mouth. I feel her guide it to her entrance. “You know what to do.”

I marvel at the mind of the woman who came up with this scene.

I push my face to her, sensing the passage of the dildo into her with my mouth. My thighs are burning now and my ass is filled with the lube-slick device that I’m riding upon. My attention is divided between the thick length that impales me and the action that Dex is expecting. When the latter falters, the crop reminds me of my primary duty.

I moan into the gag that is stuffed in my mouth. It’s difficult to determine whether it is from pleasure or pain or the uneasy marriage of the two. I redouble my efforts on Dex, not knowing how much more I can stand and praying that she will attain whatever pleasure she is after before I collapse completely.

I hear the hum of a vibrator and feel its buzzing extending to my face. Judging by her breathing and the way she is moving against me, she is clearly close to something.

She lowers her hips which forces me lower still. My own strangled moan of aroused pain entwines with hers. I feel her spasm through the dildo.

Dex slows the movement of her hips and rises slightly. Gratefully I rise with her almost to the point where I can enjoy the feeling of my continued penetration. My legs stop quivering as they straighten and Dex disengages from the dildo at my mouth.

Dex removes the gag and the blindfold and I am greeted by a vision of flushed beauty and hunger and incredible vitality and confidence.

“That was good, lover.” She kisses me lingeringly and I want nothing more than to be able to wrap my arms around her. “Ready for your reward?”

I nod.

“Do you want me to remove this?” She taps at the dildo that still penetrates me.

I surprise her by shaking my head. In truth, it doesn’t feel too bad now.

“How about this?” She taps at the cage. The sharp impact there causes my breath to hitch in my throat. I nod.

“I think we can do that,” says Dex as she kneels before me. One hand explores the flesh that is exposed in the open areas of the cage while the other traces patterns on the distended surface of my testicles.

“Please,” I moan.

“Did I say you could speak?” asks Dex lightly. She’s more amused that annoyed.

“Shall I release you?”

I nod.

Dex inserts her tongue into the opening at the very tip of the cage.

My knees grow weak and I’m reminded that I’m still perched upon a thick shaft of silicon.

“You’re not going to blow up at me when I do, are you?”

I shake my head emphatically. I can make no such assurance, but the prospect of freedom would make me promise anything.

“Because…” Here she takes my steel encased length into her mouth for a moment and then releases it. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

With her saliva cooling my overheated sex, she reaches between her breasts and grasps the key. I dare not breath when she inserts it into the lock. She can easily change her mind and deny me the release I’ve been craving. She has done it before. The lock opens with a snick and she removes it from the hasp of the device. She holds the halves of the device together, grinning at me mischievously.

“Will you please me?”

I’m almost delirious with hunger. “Yes, mistress.”

Dex frowns. “Didn’t I ask you not to speak?”

My heart sinks. I’ve blown it. She’ll no doubt lock me up again.

“Ah well. I’ll forgive you this time. By the way, I like the sound of it. Say it again.”

“Mistress.” It’s easy to say in play.

She stands. Still holding the device, she presses against me, her body hot and yielding against mine.

“Mistress,” I say again. I want to say more at this moment but don’t trust myself.

The ring of the device opens and clatters to the floor. The cage is still painfully welded to my cock.

“I hope I don’t have to tell you to be quiet again.”

I shake my head.

Dex peels the cage from me and my cock swells. I sigh loudly; it’s a relief to be free.

She kisses the tip and looks up at me. “You’re not going to come in my mouth, are you?”

Not if I can help it. I shake my head.

Her hands wrap around the base. “My plans don’t include that,” she says.

She lowers her mouth onto me. After the tight, implacable confines of the cage, the touch of soft warmth around me is almost overwhelming. I feel like I can swell to fill her mouth. Dex works on me slowly, maintaining me at the threshold without ever nudging me too far. I watch the play of her lips and tongue over me, watch as my glistening length vanishes into her. I close my eyes to focus on the sensations of this wonderfully languorous treatment and momentarily forget my promise.

A crack of the crop against my thigh arrests by slide to release.

“If I even think you’re going to come before I do, you get one of these,” says Dex, brandishing the cane.

I nod.

Dex stands and replenishes the lube on the dildo. She then turns and leans her back against me. At the moment I miss the freedom to reach around and grab her breasts and brush her nipples. I want desperately to feel their yielding softness. She slowly bends at the waist and plays my cock against the surface of her pussy.

It was five o’clock in the morning when Jim’s alarm roused him out of a deep sleep and forty five minutes later he was heading through the lanes to New Farm. He hadn’t got quite the same spring in his step this morning; there was a strong sense of apprehension, a feeling that he’d got into something that he wasn’t going to be able to control. He just knew that Amanda and her playmates were going to make life difficult for him but, much more complex than that, was how he felt about Miss Worthing. There was something about her, something he couldn’t pin down, something that was simultaneously fascinating and frightening. He couldn’t shake the memory of her boot resting in his groin, rubbing against his penis, and how he had responded. But it wasn’t just the physical pressure, it had far more to do with power, a power Miss Worthing seemed to have over him, a power that he found strangely disturbing.

When he got to the farm he went straight to the stables to work on Morning Dew, ensuring that she was saddled up to be ready for Miss Worthing’s seven o’clock ride. Having done that he fetched out the shoe brushes and polished her boots. Working flat out he was ready and waiting when she appeared.

“Good morning, Miss Worthing. If you’d care to take a seat I’ve got your boots all freshly polished for you,” he said as she approached. Taking the proffered chair Miss Worthing sat back as Jim fetched her boots and knelt down before her. Even before he started he could feel his penis stir in his boxers. Maybe, maybe if he just concentrated on the job… but the warm smell of the leather, the inevitable proximity of her foot and the memories of yesterday were too strong and his efforts were self defeating, the more he wished he hadn’t got an erection the stronger it became. He bowed his head to hide his blushes and, with trembling fingers, fastened the buckles around the top of the boots.

Once he had finished he had no option but to carry on as if nothing were amiss so he stood up to go and fetch Morning Dew; however, as soon as he had got to his feet Miss Worthing held out her riding crop at waist level preventing him from leaving.

“Is this going to be a problem?” she enquired, using the tip of the riding crop to trace the outline of his swollen penis through his jeans.

“A problem, Miss Worthing?” Jim replied nervously.

“Yes, a problem,” Miss Worthing returned. “It would seem that you can’t perform even the most basic duties without getting over excited.” Once again the tip of the crop stroked against the bulge in his jeans. “We have girls as young as six or seven stabling their ponies here; do you think it appropriate that they see you in this state.”

“No, no, of course not, Miss Worthing,” Jim stuttered. “I’m sorry, Miss Worthing, I just can’t help myself. It just seems to… whenever I…”

“I just can’t help myself,” Miss Worthing mocked. “You’ve no self control; you’re pathetic, absolutely pathetic. However, if you don’t know what to do about this,” she flicked the crop across his groin causing him to flinch, “it looks like I’ll have to sort it out for you. I know just the thing to keep you controlled. I can’t do anything now, not until it’s subsided a bit but when I get back from my ride we’ll see what we can do. Now, go and fetch Morning Dew.”

Jim hurried off to the stalls and fetched the horse glad that he had got her all prepared in plenty of time. He led her outside to where Miss Worthing was waiting and handed over the reins. Miss Worthing didn’t say a word but just mounted and rode off into the paddock. Jim watched for a minute before going back inside to get on with sweeping out the stalls.

When Miss Worthing returned she led Morning Dew back into the stables and handed the reins to Jim. She glanced down at his groin.

“It seems that you have calmed down. Put Morning Dew back in her stall and then come to the tack room. We’d better get you under control before you get all excited again.”

Jim did as he was told and, when he got to the tack room, he found that Miss Worthing had opened the locked cupboard and was looking inside for something. However the door obscured his view of the contents and, before he could get a better look, Miss Worthing had found what she was after and closed the door, locking it again.

“Right then, this will do nicely,” she said turning to Jim, “OK, drop your pants.”

“But… But… But…” Jim started to protest.

“I said drop them!” Miss Worthing snapped back. “This is for your benefit, to sort out your embarrassing little problem so I suggest you stop snivelling and get on with it.”

For a moment their eyes locked but Jim was never going to be a match for Miss Worthing and, a moment later, he dropped his head and started to undo his belt.

“Come on, come on,” Miss Worthing urged. “Don’t be pathetic; it’s not as if you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before.”

Resigned to his fate, and feeling like some sort of naughty schoolboy, Jim pushed down his jeans and boxers until they were just above his knees. Miss Worthing opened her hand to reveal what she had fetched from the cupboard, a curious tubing affair made of two parts of clear plastic which, when fitted together would fit around his penis holding it downward. A further part, which fitted around the base of his scrotum, ensured that it held the penis at a downward angle and could not be removed. It took Miss Worthing only moments to fit it.

“Seeing as how self control doesn’t seem to be your forte I think it best if I control exactly when you can and can’t take this off.” She produced a small padlock and Jim heard the click as it closed, locking the device on him. The padlock key was already on a fine chain and Miss Worthing slipped it around her neck so that the key disappeared beneath the cleavage of her blouse. “There, that’s better. I believe you’ll find it quite comfortable, unless you get excited of course, and you should have no problems going to the toilet. Now, what do you say?”

Jim was speechless. The whole thing had happened too fast, and, as if in some sort of bad dream, he now found himself with his trousers around his knees and his penis clamped in this infernal device. As to what he was supposed to say, he hadn’t a clue. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times but nothing came out.

“What do you say?” Miss Worthing asked again. “Aren’t you glad that I’ve sorted out your problem? Aren’t you glad that I’ve helped you? Haven’t you got the grace to see that some sort of gratitude is in order?”

“Thank you, Miss Worthing, thank you,” Jim replied as the penny dropped and he finally realised what was expected.

“That’s better. Now, let’s see how well it works. You had best take off my boots; that seems to have got you overexcited in the past. No, leave your trousers down; I won’t be able to see otherwise.” Miss Worthing sat down and stretched out her legs in front of her. Jim, still dazed, knelt before her and started on the buckles. This time there was far less subtlety, Miss Worthing’s boots were right between Jim’s knees right from the start and Miss Worthing made a point of rubbing them against his caged penis. Jim blushed furiously at the indignity of what was being forced on him, but, despite his burning embarrassment, he couldn’t stop his reaction.

Immediately he found out just how effective the contraption was. As soon as his penis began to swell the constraint, both in terms of size and in terms of angle, became increasingly uncomfortable. He struggled to undo the buckles but, with Miss Worthing’s boots still rubbing against his constrained penis concentration was nigh on impossible and his fingers kept slipping. At last he had it done and he slipped off the boots and replaced them with her shoes. With this done Miss Worthing stood up and ordered him to his feet. She reached down and grasped the cage, tugging at the plastic, ensuring it couldn’t be removed.

“Yes, that’s quite satisfactory. Now, let’s see what it’s like when you pull your jeans up.” She let go of him and stood back a bit. Jim pulled up his boxers and jeans, easing them over the plastic mound.

“Hmm, yes, that will do quite nicely.” Miss Worthing continued. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time sorting out your pathetic personal problems, it’s time you got back to your tasks; I want the stables spotless by lunchtime, this afternoon you can work on the yard. Off you go.”

Thus dismissed Jim went back to Mountain Dew’s stall to remove her saddle and bridle. As the intensity of his arousal slowly dropped so did the discomfort from his groin but, one thing was for certain, he was never going to forget it was there. Even when flaccid he could feel it restraining him and he was wishing his jeans weren’t so tight. In the quiet of one of the stalls he opened his fly and slipped his hand inside to see if he could rearrange things but, however he tried, it wasn’t any better. Maybe he’d wear cargo pants tomorrow.

Thinking back, what he couldn’t fully understand was how easily Miss Worthing had got him to wear it. It was as if he were powerless in front of her, that the sheer force of her personality had let no room for negotiation; once she had decided that he was going to wear the contraption that was what was going to happen. There was something about her, something about her manner, that made him feel juvenile, an errant schoolboy, for whom disobedience was not an option.

This feeling of being belittled, of worthlessness was underpinned by her constant air of cool detachment. Through both the fitting and the testing of the penis cage she had acted as if it had been a tedious chore, something that needed to be done to ensure the smooth running of the stables, as if the sexual tumult that had wracked his body were somehow beneath her. This feeling of being outclassed, of being unworthy reinforced his obedience, who was he to disobey?

He couldn’t help but contrast this with Amanda and her cohorts. Their pleasure in his discomfort was plain to see; they enjoyed making him dance to their tune. Furthermore, for him, whereas with Miss Worthing he obeyed out of respect, with Amanda the motivator was fear, fear that she would, from pure spite, get him onto trouble; fear that the photo on her phone would, if he didn’t comply, end up on the phone of every girl in the school, or worse still, his mother.

At three thirty Jim was busy sweeping the yard when he heard a car pulling in. He turned to see a BMW X5 reversing into the parking area and, as soon as it had stopped it disgorged its cargo of ten year old girls. From the driver’s door appeared a tall elegant woman, evidently the mother of one of the girls, who, ignoring her progeny as they raced towards their horses, set off towards the house. Jim leant his broom against the wall and went into the stables.

It took a moment of two to get the girls sorted out on their various ponies. Unlike their older sisters they wanted to be fully involved and Jim had to use all his tact and patience as they tried, with mixed success to fit the saddles. After that they rode off into the paddock where some rudimentary jumps had been set up and they took it in turns practising circuits.

They had barely left and Jim was still tidying up the chaos they had left behind when Miss Worthing and the mother came into the stable complex. For a while they chatted and Jim couldn’t help but notice them looking in his direction from time to time. Then Miss Worthing headed for the paddock to supervise the girls and the mother came over to Jim.

“So, you’re Celia’s new stable boy,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jim replied.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the woman echoed. “Very respectful. Celia said that you knew your place. Do you know you place?”

“My place, Ma’am?” Jim queried. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Let’s make it simple then. I think a lad who ‘knows his place’ would be on his knees kissing the toes of my shoes. Is that your place, on your knees in front of me?” the woman said without a trace of humour.

Jim felt confused, embarrassed and completely taken aback at the outrageous suggestion; did this woman really expect him to get on his knees and kiss the toes of her shoes? He looked at her, trying to discern some glimmer of hope that she had not been serious but there was none. First Miss Worthing, then Amanda and now…. Moreover, he just knew that any reluctance on his part would go straight back to Miss Worthing and he’d be in even more trouble. Feeling that he was the victim of some monstrous female conspiracy against him he got down before her and pressed his lips to the pointed toes of her stilettos.

“Good boy; you do know your place after all. Do you like it down there? Is that where you belong?” the woman’s tone was light, mocking.

“I… I don’t know, Ma’am,” Jim replied.

“Oh, I think you do know. I think it’s just that you’re ashamed to admit it. Now, let’s try again. Is that where you belong? I that your rightful place?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jim reluctantly replied, once again knowing that disagreeing would only make things worse.

“That’s better. It’s so much easier when you admit what you are, a grovelling worm who gets his kicks from kissing the feet of his betters. I think I might ask Celia if I can borrow you, have you come round for an afternoon, There are so many interesting games we could play. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jim knew that agreement was his only option.

“What a good little boy you are. I’m off now. No don’t get up. I’m sure I’ll see more of you later, much, much more. Bye.” The woman turned and walked out of the stables. Jim ventured a peek as she went, watching her lithe form sashay out of the door.

As he got to his feet the woman’s words ran through his mind. ‘It’s so much easier when you admit what you are, a grovelling worm who gets his kicks from kissing the feet of his betters.’ Was that him? Was that what he was? He’d only knelt before the woman because he had to but his emotions as he had done so had been mixed. Shame and confusion, surely, as he’d been forced to debase himself like that but it hadn’t all been bad; there was part of him that hadn’t objected and he couldn’t escape the fact that his penis had swollen inside its cage. Whether he liked it or not he couldn’t escape the hard fact that it had turned him on.

He had barely picked up his broom again when he heard the unmistakable sound of Amanda’s Elise entering the farmyard. He went to the stables so as to anticipate her requirement to get Dark Pleasure saddled and, knowing that where Amanda was, her friends were surely bound to follow, to get ready the other horses as well. He fetched the saddle and was entering the main body of the stables just as Amanda came in from parking her car. She walked up to Jim whilst all the time looking about her.

It was as if yesterday had never happened. Amanda was all sweetness and, whilst she obviously insisted on being waited upon, she treated Jim as if he were a normal stable employee and not something she’d found stuck to the bottom of her shoe. The others, when they arrived took their cue from Amanda and were similarly polite. Somehow this did nothing to calm Jim’s nerves and he was all fingers and thumbs as he fastened the tack. He was taking Highlife out of her stall when he tripped and, falling backwards, collided with Miss Brennan, knocking her to the ground. Jim was all apologies but she rejected his out held hand and stood up unaided.

“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you moron,” she snarled.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Brennan,” Jim stuttered. “Let me brush your jacket off.”

“Don’t you dare touch me!” Sandra snapped back at him. “We’ll discuss this later.” And, without another word, she mounted and rode off.

“Oh, dear, doormat,” Amanda laughed. “It looks like you’ve upset Sandra. Clumsy doormats will have to be punished; you do understand that, don’t you?”

Still laughing she mounted up and rode off into the paddock.

For the next couple of hours Jim was kept busy. Whilst the horses were out he was expected to clear out their stalls and freshen their bedding and he had hardly finished that when the younger girls had completed their lessons and were bringing their ponies back to the stables. Once again all Jim’s tact and diplomacy was required as each of the youngsters demanded his attention simultaneously. The mother had returned and stood with Miss Worthing whilst watching the chaos around her with an amused smile on her face. At last they were done and packed in the car. As they drove off Miss Worthing gave them a friendly wave before turning back into the stables and going over to where Jim was still putting the tack away.

“It would seem that Mrs Johnson wants to borrow you tomorrow afternoon. You’re to go over to her house from midday until three in the afternoon. Understood?”

“Mrs Johnson?” Jim enquired. “Was that her with the BMW?”

“Yes, Mrs Johnson, the mother of Kirsty who, along with her little friends, pays a small fortune for show jumping lessons. One of my more influential clients who is not to be upset in any way,” Miss Worthing continued. “Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Of course, Miss Worthing. I won’t let you down, Miss Worthing,” Jim replied, wondering just what was going to be involved.

It wasn’t long after that before Amanda and her friends returned from their ride. Whilst Jim was taking the saddles from the horses and returning them to the tack room Kathy was sent to check that the stables were, indeed, empty and that all the others had left. The others stood in the centre of the main block chatting. Once Jim put all the tack away he retuned to start brushing down the horses when…

“doormat! Come here, we have some unfinished business to attend to.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Fforbes.” Jim said as he hurried over, “unfinished business?”

“Have you forgotten how you brutally pushed Miss Brennan to the ground? Did you think you were going to get away with that?” Amanda flicked her riding crop against her thigh. “First of all I think you ought to apologise.”

“I’m sorry I was…,” Jim started.

“Do it properly, on your knees,” Amanda snarled.

There was something about the tone of Amanda’s voice that left Jim no room for protest. He knelt down and bowed his head in front of Sandra.

“I’m sorry, Miss Brennan, I’m sorry I was so clumsy.”

“That’s more like it. Now, you can show how sorry you are by kissing her boots.” Amanda continued before turning to Sandra. “What do you think, Miss Brennan, what would be appropriate? Do you think the crop might teach him some manners?”

“Yeah, that’ll do, let’s string the bastard up,” Sandra replied. “Kathy, fetch the cuffs.”

Whilst Kathy went off to the tack room the others took Jim, still on his hands and knees, to one end of the stables where a block and tackle hung ready to lift heavy objects up to the hayloft. When Kathy returned she was carrying two leather cuffs held together by a short length of chain. Jim, scared at how far this was going, started to protest.

“Shut it, doormat!” Amanda snapped. “If you don’t start to do as you’re told without question I’m going to enjoy making your life hell, far, far more hell than this could ever be. The photo on my phone, that would be just the start. What do you think my father would do to the boy who tried to rape his daughter?”

“Rape…,” Jim gasped.

“Oh, help! Rape! Rape!” Amanda said in a mocking tone. “And who do you think they’ll believe; a sweet and innocent schoolgirl like me or a known pervert like you?

Jim was beginning to realise just how stitched up he was. He had no illusions as to whether Amanda would carry out her threats and what this would mean for him. He couldn’t remember exactly what Amanda’s father did but he knew that he was powerful and influential and, above all, doted on his daughter. Reluctantly he held out his arms.

September 2018
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