Breasts pain and whip | EVE IN EDEN 5 | bdsm stories

The south side of the island was even more scenic and remote than the wooded hills where Daphne and Gordon lived. Some hours from the Capital, the hills here could legitimately be called mountains, and the woods more wild and extensive.

Mark and Lavinia's home was an old plantation house, from the days when the island depended on sugar and pineapples for a living, before it became the refuge of men with serious money, wanting to create a world of their own, free from outside influences. For the first day or two Eve was content merely to laze by the pool, drinking in the scenery that lay before them and meeting Lavinia's friends, all anxious to greet the rare phenomenon of a visitor from 'outside'.

Moreover a visitor whose reputation had gone before her. Those who had been at the Ladies' night, and seen her cunt whipped, had brought back inspiring descriptions of her ordeal. Actually Eve was constantly surprised at her own reaction to the woman who had so cruelly whipped her pussy. From the moment they had met again she had felt not resentment, but affection, and it was not long before this had become intimacy. On her first evening, settling into bed, bare to take advantage of the mildness of the night, she was joined by her new friend, sent by a generous husband to fulfil the duties of a hostess. At first it was just a matter of apologising for taking advantage of her at the Ladies'

night, and asking to see how her wounds had healed. This led to a kiss of atonement on the afflicted spot, a kiss that prolonged itself into a gentle nibbling, a sensuous licking, a volcanic eruption, that sealed their friendship.

Perhaps it was something in the air, but Eve became aware that all the young women she met around the pool, or taking drinks in the cool of the evening, playing tennis at the club or just chatting in each other's homes, had an air of healthy sexuality about them. She could feel it in her own vulva, which seemed constantly moist and plumper than before she had come to the island, and she could see the same symptoms in the pudenda of the others on the frequent opportunities when those delightful parts were on view, in showers or poolside, since there was no false modesty among these hale and wholesome young women, and their bodies were constantly without benefit of clothing.

The exception, surprisingly, was Lavinia. Not to start with; during the first week she displayed something of the same vibrant animal health as the others, but then came a rapid deterioration. She became withdrawn, nervous, taut in

every fibre. Finally Eve asked if anything was the matter.

"PMT," Lavinia replied tersely.

"Oh you poor dear," Eve commiserated," is it always this bad?"

"Not usually. We don't get too much of it here, but two or three times a year my hormones seem to go haywire," her friend replied.

"Is there anything I can do? Have you seen a doctor about it?"

"Don't worry. Mark knows how to handle it. He'll straighten me out. I'll be all right, you'll see."

At dinner that night Lavinia remained tense and withdrawn. Mark was quick to notice her condition.

"That time of the month again, old girl?" he asked sympathetically.

Lavinia nodded.

"A bad one?"

She agreed that it was.

"Better sort you out then. Tonight, after dinner," he said, kindly. "No point in delaying. Soonest dealt soonest mended. Your quarter century I think this time."

Lavinia seemed to hesitate a second but then nodded her agreement once again.

Quarter century? Eve was puzzled. She was sure Daphne had told her Lavinia was her own age, twenty-seven. Must be something else. She put the thought aside and concentrated on trying to kept up an intelligent conversation with Mark, to cover Lavinia's taciturn mood.

After dinner Mark rose from the table and declared briskly, "time we took care of your little problem, Larry. Are you coming to watch this Eve?"

She still hadn't any exact idea of what was afoot, but that phrase 'straighten me out', had an ominous and familiar ring to it. Out here in Eden things were generally straightened out on a woman's bare bottom. This was a marital matter she didn't think she had any part in.

"Eh. I think I'll pass on this one," she said. "Mustn't come between husband and wife. It sounds like a private affair to me."

"Oh please, Eve," Lavinia pleaded, seeming to rouse herself from her lethargy,

"I'd like you to be there. Besides," she added, with something of her old spirit, "I promised Daphne you'd see how we lived, warts and all, and she'd never forgive me if I let you duck out."

"Put that way, how can I refuse?" Eve replied with what she hoped was an encouraging grin, and not the embarrassed smirk she feared. "Where are we going?"

They went to a room she hadn't entered until then, a closed door next to Mark's study. It was an austere chamber, stone floored, bare walls, adorned by only some ringbolts, a tall narrow closet and a ladder.

The latter, which captured all Eve's attention, sloped at forty-five degrees from the stone flags to the angle where the bare wall met the equally plain ceiling. In the angle a hook fastened it securely in place. The ladder was of the type used by window cleaners and fruit pickers, the rails two or three feet

apart at the base, converging until they met at the apex.

"Perhaps you could get your things off," Mark suggested, and Lavinia stripped slowly and, Eve thought, rather reluctantly. She was not surprised when, although the chamber was not particularly chill, the naked woman seemed to be shivering a little as she waited. Her husband opened the closet and selected a particularly nasty looking yard of thick yellow rattan.

"Up you go," he ordered and Lavinia stepped to the ladder and began to slowly climb up, until she could reach the peak. Fastened to this point, where the tapering rails met, a pair of leather cuffs dangled invitingly. Lavinia buckled them around each wrist and then let herself slide back, until her arms were stretched taut above her head, carrying part of her weight, the other part resting on the harsh timber of the ladder, her voluptuous breasts hanging through a gap. By now Mark had retrieved a narrow strap from the cupboard.

Tucking the wicked length of cane beneath one arm, he advanced on his buck naked wife where she hung in her bonds.

"Legs up, darling," he ordered and Lavinia took her toes off the bottom rung and clasped her thighs around the ladder higher up. She had to lift her thighs high to find a position where she could bend her knees and bring her feet together on the other side of the bars. Mark wrapped the strap around her slim ankles and fastened it to the rung above, pulling up tightly.

It must have been an uncomfortable position Eve thought, watching the straining tendons in the inner thighs pressed tight against the unyielding wood while braced to try and take some of her weight off her arms. The frog pose lifted her full bare buttocks off the ladder a little, and the angle of the support meant that a cane could sweep in from underneath with perfect freedom, the whole lower buttock, from thigh top to nearly the top of the bum's deep divide firmly held for its impact.

"Twenty-five would do it, we agreed, I think." Mark remarked without emotion, and Lavinia said almost inaudibly, "yes Mark."

Twenty-five! Now she understood the mysterious reference to a quarter century.

Twenty-five strokes to Lavinia's bare but tocks! What a cure for PMT she thought, a little hysterically. She only hoped for her new friend's sake that it was efficacious. It would be a pity to endure a flogging like that and still end up with an aching belly.

Mark did not rush things. It was evident he took his obligations to his wife's well being seriously, and did not wish her to miss out on any part of the treatment. He took his stance with care, laying the rod on the raised naked buttocks to assess just where to position himself, then, satisfied he had the flinching posteriors lined up accurately, paused again to roll up his right sleeve. Again he measured his mark and seemed satisfied. He drew back his arm, turned the rod back behind his shoulder and let the coiled up energy fly.

A thrumming of parted air and the rod thucked meatily into the cringing mass of perfectly presented posterior. Lavinia let out a short pained 'Ow', and hissed frantically as she sucked on the fierce fires lancing through her abused hinds.

Mark let her have the full benefit of the stroke, then repeated it, drawing another aching searing line right in the sitting-place set up on the ladder at the optimum height for its correction. Full benefit drawn from this cut also, he went on to drive in a third and a fourth.

Eve marvelled at first at how little Lavinia moved under what were obviously strokes of a severity beyond the norm, but soon realised that, although only fastened at wrists and ankles, a woman in this position could make but little movement. Her own weight held her down, especially as she became exhausted by the trauma of a beating such as this, while the way her knees were wrapped around the rails made it very difficult, as well as painful, for her to try and

lift herself, even if she still had the strength. Actually, she realised, to be left on the ladder in that position for any length of time would be a severe torture in its own right, never mind with a penal weight cane, wielded by an obviously skilled and experienced male, cutting into your buttocks.

At five the suffering woman got the benefit of a slight pause, while Mark changed his position. Not only was he skilled, but truly ambidextrous it appeared, for he moved the rod to his left hand, and himself to Lavinia's right, and delivered the next five measured cuts from that side with as much force and accuracy as he had the first.

Another pause, and he was back on her left. She was beginning to feel the weakening effects of so much pain now, and cried out at each cut. Eve noticed that she tried desperately to twist her body away from the rod each time, and remembered what Daphne had said about trying to keep the tip of the rod from her flank. She remembered too what Dee had said about the beauty of a naked beaten woman and flushed as she realised she was already wet between the legs. Worse, she caught herself craning forward to see each cut's impact into the flushed and welted flesh, and even resenting the time spent changing sides, so eager was she to see another cut, hear another moan of agony, watch the buttocks clench together, as Lavinia tried to fight the pain.

By the time Mark changed sides for the last time there were twenty livid welts competing for space in the hand's span of once white flesh between the faint outline of the stretched succul fold and the anal level. They looked hot and swollen, though only on the flanks, where the tip had raised thick plum coloured bruises, was she showing signs of significant wear and tear. Still, if her skin had not broken, her spirit was near to it. She lay limp now, like butcher's meat, while the last five awful strokes 'wunked' in with as much force as the first. She cried out at each one, thoroughly beaten in both mind and body, and Eve felt each howl stoking the fires in her own belly. Later, in her room, some of the passion cooled by time and lustful finger play on her aching clitoris, she became ashamed at her feelings but, in the heat of the moment, the cries had been music to her ears, and she had mentally urged Mark to strike even harder.

Daphne was right; pure poetry.

Lavinia did not appear for breakfast and Eve, peeking cautiously through her door after Mark had departed, saw she was still sleeping soundly, and sensibly left her to rest. She was on her feet again the next day though, apparently

'cured', though she moved very stiffly, and avoided sitting most of the time. At first Eve was hesitant to raise the matter of her health, not least because of the guilt she still felt, but Lavinia's increasing animation helped to break the ice.

"Much better, thank you," she replied to Eve's nervous enquiries, "I told you Mark knew how to handle me. An ache in the bum, I will admit, but no belly ache now and, if past form's anything to go by, I'll be good for a few months now."

"Seems Daphne was right then, that you Eden females are always at your best after a good flogging," Eve remarked, with a tentative smile.

"Good, you're beginning to become human again," said Lavinia with a relieved smile, "I thought things might become difficult for a while, you seemed so reserved, but now I see it's going to be alright."

"Oh Larry, I'm so glad you're feeling better but I still feel guilty."

"Whatever for? It was Mark's decision and, as usual he was quite right."

"It's not that. While you were there, all splayed out on that ladder, with the cane cutting your behind, I was enjoying it. I actually got wet watching you.

and I wanked myself off afterwards too."

"So why on earth should you feel guilty about that? You couldn't do anything about it, to make it better that is, so why shouldn't you enjoy it? We all do.

Women have such lovely bottoms, and especially when they're being caned."

"Oh I'm so glad you see it that way. That's how Daphne described it, but I didn't believe her at the time."

"Actually, I'm quite flattered. Nice to know someone likes my bum," Lavinia said with a smile.

"It's a lovely bum," Eve replied emphatically, "though a bit battered at the moment, I'm sure."

"Nothing that a few days' rest, and a little TLC won't cure," Lavinia assured her. "Still a bit scabby on the sides, but that'll pass. One thing though. It's lucky the races don't start until next week. It might be a touch uncomfortable sitting in the stands in my present state."

"Oh yes, the races," Eve exclaimed, "Daphne was dropping large hints that they're somewhat out of the ordinary here, but she didn't say what."

"Then neither shall I," said Lavinia, "let it all come as a delightful surprise."

Mark drove them. Eve had expected the kind of scene she was used to elsewhere, open ground, parks filled with cars, horse boxes lined up, the smell of hay and horses, bookies shouting the odds, all stretched out over a mile or two of down land or heath. Instead they wound up a long wooded drive to a large gracious mansion. True there were cars galore parked round the front and sides of the house, and plenty of smartly dressed people moving about, but little else to betray the fact that a race meeting was being held.

They moved through the house and across the yard behind, to enter a long rather blank looking building. It proved to be a grandstand, filled with an animated crowd, and they emerged on a balcony overlooking a track. At first glance it seemed a standard athletics circuit, two broad straights, about 100 metres long connected by two long bends at either end. But it was what was on the circuit that distinguished it from any other Eve had seen. Moving swiftly round the track were a number of very light trotting 'surreys' skeleton tubular structures, with shafts and lightweight seats, and over-sized bicycle wheels to raise the drivers off the ground. It was not the drivers, conventionally dressed for amateur riders, but what was between the shafts that had Eve catching her breath. Each pair of tubular extensions was filled by a naked girl, her hair tied back in a pony tail, a bridle holding a bit in her mouth, with reins to the rider, and a heavy waist belt connecting her to the shafts for traction, for her arms were folded and strapped behind her back, helping to thrust out her naked breasts provocatively. Each girl ran round the track with a high-stepping gait, her poise and pace controlled by the reins and the vicious carriage whip in the driver's hand.

"Well, didn't I tell you it would be a delightful surprise?" Lavinia said, laughing. She was still a little subdued from time to time, and generally exuded a softer presence than before her flogging, but she had recovered well, and today the promised outing had left her animated, and her usual happy self again.

"My god, isn't it just! Who are they, and how does it all work?" Eve wanted to know.

"Well all the girls you see today are amateurs, although some of them take it very seriously, and are almost as full time as the professionals. Oh, they're under starter's orders. Tell you more later."

Mark produced a race card, and began to recite the details.

"Audrey, 20, first time out so no form. She runs in lane 1. Caroline, 27, her third season. Lane two. Started nine times and won three. Bianca, 22. Ran three times last year and won once. I expect the bookies will make Caroline favourite on that form."

"Isn't she a bit long in the tooth," Eve remarked, rather unkindly," she's my age. Surely the youngsters will eat her up."

"Lot to learn young lady," Mark reproved her. "This is as much a test of fortitude as speed. That's why its so popular. No Caroline is just approaching her peak. The youngsters haven't hardened up yet, in body or in mind. Pity we weren't here a little earlier or I'd put some of my hard-earned money on that girl's delightful bare haunches."

The runners had lined up on the far side of the track by now, the starter's flag was up, and then down, and three whips cracked as one on bare female flesh.

"Not really necessary at this stage," Mark remarked, "the girls are ready to go without any urging, and they haven't tired yet, but the punters love it of course, so the drivers make sure they get their money's worth. You wait until these girls are sweating a bit, and their legs like lead. Then you'll see some fancy whip work to sting them into action."

The three surreys had sprung forward as if one and were racing round the track, the long bare legs of the 'ponies' flashing in a high-stepping gait, causing the big loose breasts to dance on their heaving chests, and revealing enticing glimpses of the secret grots between their thighs, plump and healthy as her own, Eve noticed; one shaved completely, the others neatly cropped to trim triangles.

"No one using the whip much," she remarked, as the girls raced by in front of them, heading for the finishing post, "I thought you said it was usual towards the end."

"Towards the end, yes," Mark replied, not taking his eyes for a moment off the delightful sight of naked female limbs flashing in the sun as they pounded round the track, "but this is 1500 metres. They've got two more laps to go."

Eve began to understand what Mark had meant about a test of fortitude, and found herself responding to the challenge being played out before her, with even greater excitement. Those girls would be hurting by the time they'd done three laps, and even more so with the whips cutting them to extract that last extra ounce of effort. She looked more closely as they came round next time. First time past the post, Audrey had been in the lead, her youthful enthusiasm carrying her that extra metre or two ahead of the others, who were neck and neck, but she'd gone too early, and was paying for it now. Her driver had the whip going steadily, but she could not stop the older girls from pulling past, even to escape the cruel lash that was cutting thin red lines into her naked back and shoulders, even curling round to catch her wildly flying breasts. Eve could hear her panting breath from the stand.

Into the last lap now, and Audrey was out of it, though that did not spare her the kiss of the whip, as her driver vainly tried to flog her back into contention. The other two were still neck and neck, several lengths ahead. Their drivers were flogging them unmercifully down the back straight, but neither could gain any advantage. Coming off the last bend, Bianca's driver called on her for an extra effort, and let his thong fly out that little bit more so that it cracked across her nipples.

"Get up," he shouted, "or I'll cut the tits off you!"

She tried her best, throwing herself forward for half a dozen paces, and winning a metre for her considerable pains, but wasting valuable breath in a frantic scream. The more experienced Caroline held her nerve and when her driver called on her in turn for that added burst of energy, reinforcing the message with a

cunning stroke which cracked right between her flashing thighs as they opened, burrowing deep into her furry furrow, she took back the advantage Bianca had won so painfully in three strides, then kept going, as the other girl tired, to cross the line half length ahead. The crowd went wild, and Eve turned a flushed face towards her host and hostess.

"Marvellous," she gasped, panting as if she'd run naked in the shafts herself,

"I've never seen anything so exciting. I could do that you know. Just think of it. Racing on the track like that, with the crowd cheering you on, putting all you've got into it. Those girls make me quite envious."

"It's not all glory," Lavinia warned her." Think of the pain of those whips. The drivers weren't sparing them you know."

"I could see that," Eve retorted," but what's a whipping when you're really living out there?"

Three more races only served to stoke up the excitement she felt. While Mark was off looking up some of his business friends, Eve could only talk of one thing.

"Do you think there's any chance of someone giving me a race in one of those?"

she asked.

"What makes you think you could do it?" Lavinia challenged

"Well, I'm the right age, according to Mark, and I've always looked after myself. At coll. I was the women's mile champion and I've always worked out regularly since. Even here I've been going to Daphne's health club with her, and I've played a lot of tennis, so I've not got badly out of shape. No I could do it, if I could find someone to take me in hand and train me properly."

Lavinia looked doubtful.

"There's more to it, than just running round a track," she observed, "If I were to introduce you to a proper trainer, you might find some of their ideas a bit much."

"What sort of ideas?

"Oh, I don't know. It's a bit technical," Lavinia said evasively.

"Anyway, what do you mean 'if' you introduced me? Does that mean you know one of the trainers?"

"Well, yes I do, as a matter of fact, but I'm still a bit doubtful about you meeting him."

"Oh come on Larry," Eve coaxed, almost wheedling, "you owe me one remember. You nearly cut the cunt out of me that time."

"Ouch! That was a little below the belt," Lavinia complained.

"So was the flogging you gave my pussy," Eve retorted, "Come one. Where is he?"

"Outside the tack room when I last saw him," Lavinia admitted, "OK, on your head be it, and your bum and tits as well I warn you. Let's go look."

The tack-room was behind the stands, in an area where owners and trainers mingled to discuss the day's events, trade girls and equipment and generally do what owners and trainers do. Lavinia walked up to a small knot and greeted one of the group.

"Can I introduce you to my friend Eve," she said. "She's caught the bug, and won't let me rest until I ask you if you'll give her a trial between the

shafts."

"We've already met," Angus said, smiling across at Eve where she stood dumbstruck.

For a moment it looked as if she might turn and run, then pride and ambition took hold of her and she squared her shoulders and stepped closer.

"Good afternoon, Mr McKensie," she said. "Would you give me a trial? I've been watching the races and I'm sure I could do it."

Angus swept an appraising glance up and down her figure, then concealed his admiration behind a strictly professional manner.

"And what makes you think you can run in a surrey, Missy?" he observed doubtfully, "It's a tough game and I don't mess with any girl I accept for training. No kid gloves. Plenty of stick, and not a lot of carrot, except the need to win. They all have to show they can take it. Could you?"

Eve looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes I could," she declared firmly.

Angus seemed to consider a moment, then called out to his chief groom.

"Come over here, will you, Ian. I want your opinion of this filly," he yelled, and Eve blushed as every eye in the neighbourhood turned to see who he meant, but she stood her ground, and waited quietly while the wiry stable man excused himself to the burly woman in tweeds to whom he had been talking and made his way over to where they stood.

"Think this one could learn to work a cart?" Angus asked.

The groom stood back and looked her up and down.

"Could be," he admitted after a long scrutiny. "Hard to tell with all those clothes on."

"Get your things off," Angus ordered without ceremony.

"What! Here, in front of all these people?"

"If you can't stand to strip in front of a crowd you'd be no use as a ponygirl,"

he advised her, "besides, I hear you've shown half the island everything you've got at one time or another. One more little show is not going to faze them."

Blushing even deeper she gripped the hem of her cotton frock and pulled it up over her head, standing docily in her bra and pants, with it hanging from one hand. Ian walked all round her then ordered her to bend. She set her feet a little apart, let the dress drop to the ground beside her, and bent in a pliant bow from her hips, to place her hands on the ground in front of her. She was determined to persuade Angus she had what it took, but he was still testing her.

"Pants down, girl," he ordered.

She started to protest, half rising from her bent position.

"I don't see that that's really necessary," she began, but Angus checked her.

"A filly's cunt is the best guide to her health," he assured her, "Get your knickers off and let Ian assess the state you're in."

This was not exactly reassuring; she was well aware of the state she was in and not keen to have this arrogant Scotsman and his dour assistant feel the hot

wetness of her vulva or the thick engorgement of her clit, but she was not going to fail now. She reached behind, drew down the flimsy covering of her panties to her knees, letting the air strike cool on the mounting wetness of her labia and upper thighs, then bent back into position.

Ian was not long in discovering her state of health.

"A fine ripe one, this," he commented, his hand probing between her shaking thighs, his fingers exploring the delicate folds of her vulva, coming to rest on the pulsing bud of her clitoris. "Wet as a hound's nose and just as healthy.

Nice muscle tone, too," he continued, transferring his touch to the naked, bending girl's great relief, from her genitals to the flesh of her buttocks and thighs and the muscles of her calves. She quivered again as he reached under her to weigh her dangling breasts in his large calloused hands, before pronouncing them, too, to be healthy.

"A well configured filly," he remarked, his inspection done," though her bud's a bit above average. May need some pruning there."

"Thank you Ian," Angus said, "you can straighten up now, lassie, and get those rags back on, since you're so shy."

"So what do you think?" she persisted, once she had recovered her clothes. "Will you take me?"

"I don't know. Lassie. I'm tempted, but I don't often handle amateurs. My girls are professionals. I wouldn't treat you any less severely. And then there's your build."

"Your man seemed to think I'd do."

"He also said your clit was full, fat and sensitive. He recommended gelding."

"What's that?" she asked, pretty sure she wasn't going to like the answer.

"Your clit is surgically removed, so that its sensuality doesn't interfere with training, sapping energy and diverting thoughts."

"Oh!"

There was a prolonged silence as he let the news sink in and she struggled with her thoughts. She wanted to race, but that!!

"You seem to be having some difficulty with that."

"Yes. You must give me time to absorb the idea. It's a big step for a girl. You know, to have her womanhood cut out like that."

"I understand," Angus spoke less sternly. "There may be a compromise. I'm not really in favour myself, but I'll be honest; I'd like to have you race for me.

You're one of the best prospects I've seen in a long while."

"What sort of compromise?" She was grasping at straws.

"Some owners believe that it's enough to put the clit out of action for a few weeks during training," Angus replied

"Out of action?"

"Actually crushed so that it is too painful to touch, and there's no longer any temptation to masturbate. Actually there used to be a school of thought that it was a superior method, since it left the filly frustrated and raring to run, rather than just remove the desire altogether."

"And it would grow back? You guarantee it?"

"Oh yes," Angus assured her," with a fleshy organ like that, just a mass of blood vessels and nerve endings, you'd heal in a month or so. Probably be more sensitive than ever for a while. If you stayed with me though, you could look forward to it being burst again each season."

"How's it done?" The idea terrified her, but she had to know

"Special pliers. They are designed to fit round the bulb and close on it until the flesh gives way. Wouldn't work for someone less well endowed, but you have a beauty. Should burst like a ripe grape."

Eve shuddered, and stood looking down at her feet for a long pause then lifted her head and looked him directly in the eye.

"I'll do it," she said.

The Rubicon crossed, it didn't take long to arrange the few remaining details.

The next races were in a fortnight. Angus conceded that, since it was close season for the professionals, and he and Ian could give her their whole attention, he might just have her ready to race by then, if she started her training at once. She could move into his stables that day, since she wouldn't need even the clothes she stood up in. Everything else she needed would be supplied by the stable. She said goodbye to a still doubtful Lavinia and got into the McKensie stable's box.

At the stable she was made to strip again, and her clothes taken away. After a thorough inspection by a man in a vet's white coat she was pronounced sound in wind and limb and installed in a straw lined loose box which, she was told, would be her home for the next two weeks. Ian informed her that it was usual for women to be given twenty-four hours' rest after the crushing out of their sexual organ and, with the short time available to them, the operation would be performed that night. After a light supper of wholemeal bread and apples, she received another visit from the vet, and was made to kneel on all fours in the corner of her box that contained the drain for her natural motions.

She nearly rebelled when she realised what came next, then steadied and reminded herself that this was nothing thing compared with what came later.

The vet's fingers ran up and down the deep crack of her buttocks and pried them apart, another finger probed for the shrinking anus and, finding it in its hot moist trench, slapped in a chilly dollop of lubricant, followed by a cold metal nozzle that seemed to fill her whole belly, forcing it in deeper and deeper, until she thought it would choke her. Half a gallon of hot glycerine enema followed, until her belly hung swelling below her, and she found difficulty breathing from the pressure on her diaphragm. It was five full minutes, five minutes filled with stomach cramps and humiliating leakage from her sphincter before she was allowed the even greater humiliation of letting it all go in explosive eruption, watched dispassionately by Angus and his head groom. Then they did it all over again!

After she had finished humiliating herself in a second disgusting session, squatting and squelching over the drain in the corner, she was wiped clean and helped up onto a portable examination table, fitted with the kind of stirrups found in gynie departments, to hold the thighs well apart and give total access to a woman's genitals. Secured firmly in place, and her whole pubic area stinging from the spirit used to clean and sterilise it, she braced herself for the jab of the hypodermic that would numb her doomed clitoris.

It never came. Instead, she saw through the wide vee of her parted thighs, Ian, the head groom, lifting a curiously shaped set of stainless steel pliers from a covered sterile dish. As he began to manipulate her bud with his fingers, encased in surgical gloves, an awful realisation began to dawn. Here in this

strict training stable, women did not get the benefit of anaesthetics. They had to face their ordeals fully conscious, and un-numbed!

Despite the rush of adrenalin the horror of her position induced, she could feel her secret pearl swelling under his touch. It had always been well formed, to her great satisfaction on untold occasions, but in the heady atmosphere of Eden it had seemed to flower, like the pudenda of all the young women she had observed, and this evening seemed to fill her fork.

Even the dour groom seemed impressed.

"That's a fine fruit you have there, lassie," he observed, "I'm almost sorry to damage it. Still, ye canna race with a thing like that between your legs, drawing off your strength. It'll have to go."

She flinched as far as her restraints would allow as she felt the metal close around the tender bulb. At first it was not too painful, and the sexual surge it sent through her made her buck with lust, not anguish, as the jaws squeezed firmly on the base of the clitoral 'flute', ensuring it would not slip out, and forcing it to swell even more opulently, the blood throbbing in it, the pulse echoing in her ears.

"I'll not rush it," the grim-faced groom informed her, "I wouldn't want to tear the root. You'll have it back in a month or two, I promise you, as good as new."

She was grateful for the latter, but could have done without the former. The jaws had closed over the trapped bud now, and she was in serious pain. She would have liked it over in one swift burst, but Ian only tightened the grip in creeping increments.

The cruel iron took its awesome grip of tenderest woman flesh that would have shrunk from its bite but could not escape. As the pressure mounted and blood and nerves shrieked for release her lips went back in a rictus of pain. through clenched teeth a thin "yeeee eeee eeee" of absolute suffering forced its way. As the steel jaws slowly crushed her delicate bud her mouth opened without her volition, a shriek of absolute agony was torn from her throat, repeated and repeated as the unrelenting pressure forced the bulb of her clit into bulging prominence. The pain of the rupture when it came was no greater than the crushing that had brought it about but the sensation revolted her stomach. Her belly heaved and roiled, her head swam, a red mist closed over her eyes and for a moment she was lost to sense. When she was aware again, it was of the awful pain continuing in her groin, the nausea in her belly, and the stony faces of her groom and her trainer looking down on her.

"You'll do, Lassie," Angus said without emotion, "Ian will put a dressing on, and you'll have the night to rest. Tomorrow we'll start your training proper."

She thought she could never sleep with that terrible ache in her groin, and the awful sense of having lost a part of herself, but Ian dropped a couple of tablets in a glass and handed them to her saying, "drink these. They'll help you to sleep."

She was surprised at the softness of his tone, the same kind of gentleness she had heard other grooms using to four-legged mares, and took the glass gratefully.

In the morning she still hurt, but it was a bearable pain, though she could only walk with her legs well splayed. She entered her training as she was to continue it, quite naked. Her 'wound' was protected by a dressing in the form of a tiny tanga, thin tapes keeping a minute triangle of lint pressed over her vulva, preventing infection from getting in. After three days she lost even this minimum covering, as the crushed remains of her clitoris had scabbed over and would provide their own protection. She had thought that her mind could never concentrate on anything other than that lost, or rather, mislaid bud, but the

intensity of her training, for up to twelve hours each day, kept her occupied for most of the time. She worked out in the gym, submitted to the rugged attentions of Angus's female physiotherapist, above all she ran on the track.

At first distance training. On her first morning, while she was still too sore to stand almost, she was put between the shafts of one of the lightweight surreys and driven at little more than walking pace, to accustom her to the sensation, though the high-stepping gait she was obliged to adopt at all times in harness, did nothing for the comfort of her groin. That was the only concession to her 'treatment'. From then on she was driven relentlessly,; long distance hauls through the local woods to improve her stamina, short sprints to get up her speed, tactical changes of pace up and down to make her race-ready, all enforced and encouraged by the relentless application of the thin stinging whip across her bare buttocks and shoulders, or curling round her sides to sear her freely bouncing breasts.

At first her feet troubled her, running barefoot on the fine cinder track. Ian rubbed them with spirit after every outing and they hardened rapidly. At the end of the first week she was beginning to feel at home on the track, and her body was crisscrossed with thin red welts.

Angus had come to see her progress every day, and seemed pleased with how she was shaping.

"The master thinks you're doing well for an amateur," Ian confided, as he sponged her down after one of these visits, "I can't say you've done badly," he added, grudgingly," but we've a gae deal of work to do, if you're not going to disgrace us at the races next week."

She'd become well used to being harnessed in the surrey after two weeks of intensive training, even having her arms fastened behind her back had ceased to trouble her balance, though she was still a little sore from the way her heavy unsupported breasts danced up and down on her chest as she pranced along. She'd mentioned it to Ian, saying she thought he might have got more out of a girl if she was given some minimal uplift to check the painful bouncing.

"Maybe so," he conceded, but the regulations forbid it. Girls have to run naked.

Besides, I think the fancy like to see you girls with your tits dancing. I'm not altogether displeased by the effect myself. Besides, this sport is all about female fortitude, so why remove a little test of character like enduring aching breasts?"

It was out of season for the professionals, so there had been few visitors, just Angus himself, the vet, physio and, of course the groom Ian. It was one thing to race naked, breasts flying, thighs flashing, her bare vulva open to the air with every stride, with only these to see, quite another to display like that before a crowd of strangers. Now it was race day though, and she found herself doing a warm up lap of the track, bare arsed, teats flapping on her chest, exposed to the gaze of a thousand spectators. Worse than that, she could spot immediately a dozen women she had met at various times, and was quite sure there would be many more she couldn't spare the attention to pick out from the crowd. She was pretty sure that Lavinia had spread the word of her foolhardy ambition to race in harness, and they had turned out in force to watch her. As she cantered past the stands she saw Lavinia herself waving from the front row.

Now they came up to the starter's stand, and lined up with the other two in her race. Just before he'd pushed the unpalatable discomfort of the iron bit into her mouth, and reduced her to the dumb beast she represented on the track, she'd asked Ian how he rated the opposition.

"You've drawn the short straw, lassie," he said, "both the others in your race have been here before, and one of them won handsomely the last race of last season, so the bookies won't rate you. Still, this is your first time out.

Nobody will blame you if you can't win. Just try and put up a respectable

performance, and not let Mr Angus down. He thinks a great deal of you, you ken."

Now she tried to size up the opposition. Outside her was a strong looking blonde with long lean legs, topped with a neat golden triangle, and very large loose breasts. Maybe that might help she thought. Her own boobs were a nuisance in the closing stages of a race, but they were firm and high. This girl seemed to be much lower slung and her tits had bounced up to shoulder height, even on the warm up lap. Perhaps they might slow her when the going got tough in lap three.

The other girl was dark where the first was fair, with a tight, tanned arse and neat compact breasts. There would be nothing to gain there she thought. Before she could gather more, Ian tightened her reins momentarily to warn her that the starter's flag was up. It flashed down and Ian laid the whip across her back to start her, though not with all the force he could sometimes put into it. He knew he had a willing runner, and didn't need to push her at this stage. Later, when she reached her pain barrier, when every breath burnt like fire, her feet were sore to every touch of the track and all her muscles were protesting, then he would flog her unmercifully, to help her find that last effort of will, but not now.

She was pleased to see that the other drivers, unlike Ian, were not professionals. They seemed to like wielding the whip for its own sake, delighting in the crack of leather on bare woman flesh, and the livid lines they left on straining flank, breast or buttock. Their arms were moving relentlessly from the first, flaying their charges, spurring them into action, but also draining their strength. She was grateful for Ian's superior driving ability and his restraint in the cuts he delivered judiciously to her straining haunches and sides.

There was nothing in it for the first lap, then the brunette on her inside began to tire under her driver's constant barrage of lashes. Whipped from the first stride, it no longer served to spur her on, only to sap her strength. She began to fall behind. Her driver lashed her even more furiously, a steady rain of cuts all over her sweating body, but she could not respond, and it was a two horse race when they entered the last lap.

Eve was sweating herself by now, and her back and sides were sore from the whip, her breasts aching from their furious oscillation on her heaving chest, but she felt intact inside, with just a little something left to give, when Ian's whip demanded it. The big blonde was still running well, but Eve could see her heavy breasts were taking their toll. They hung on her chest like plastic bags, each loaded with an Edam cheese. As she ran they leapt almost to her chin, then dropped with a sickening lurch, stretching the skin until they nearly reached her waist. Sometimes they merely lifted and fell vertically, at others, as the pace varied, one or other would swing sideways and then back in again, like a boxer trying to plant a hook on the girls jaw. She must have been suffering badly after over two laps of this punishment but her driver, a middle-aged woman in tweeds, was relentless at holding her to her work, and continued to ply the whip freely.

Into the home straight, still neck and neck and the pace telling. Eve ached all over, her feet were sore, her breasts hurt, her legs were on fire, but still she threw herself into it. Now Ian was helping her with the whip, lashing her in earnest now, each cut nearly drawing blood. As they came past the stands for the last time, she distinctly heard Lavinia shout, "Come on Eve. You can do it," and somehow forced herself to respond, but the tweedy woman was lashing her blonde steed unmercifully now, the whip snaking round the bound arms to slice into the dancing breasts. She just couldn't make any impression on the girl, and there was only a dozen strides left.

"Move your fucking arse," Ian shouted, with totally uncharacteristic brutality and cut her on the cunt.

It was the kind of stroke only a professional could bring off successfully, the long fine whip cord snaking out, then guided by a flick of the wrist to double back on itself and, with perfect timing, breach the flashing thighs as they parted in mid stride and seek out the feminine secrets between. It bit into Eve's still tender vulva, sending a lancing agony into her genitals.

She shrieked behind her bit at the suddenness and intensity of the pain, and leapt forward. Left, right, left, thrice more Ian found his target, on alternate strides, and then the finish line flashed past. The blonde's tortured breasts crossed it just a metre behind.

Lavinia had cheered herself hoarse as Eve had snatched that desperately narrow lead, stealing victory on the very line itself, paying a terrible price with her wounded pussy. She waited until Ian had driven into the winner's enclosure and then hurried off to meet her in the saddling ring behind the stands.

She arrived to find Ian pouring a bucket of cold water over her sweating and whip streaked body.

"Darling," she cried, "you were wonderful. I just knew you'd do it. Mark fancied the blonde, well men do, don't they, but you've just won me a couple of hundred.

When you're decent again, I'll treat you from my winnings."

While Ian towelled his winner down vigorously, ignoring the sore streaks he'd just painted on her hide, Lavinia ran an eye over her body to assess her shape.

"My God! What's that?" she cried, catching sight of the black scab protruding from between the inflamed lips, swollen and bruised from those final

'incentives'.

Eve followed her glance down.

"Oh that," she said, with studied nonchalance, "a girl can't race with a tennis ball between her legs. I had mine crushed to put it out of action for a while."

Ian permitted himself one of his rare fleeting grins, as Lavinia handed over the fresh clothes she had brought to cover Eve's nakedness.

Chapter 9: Of Pegs, Pens And Pendants.

The visit to Lavinia's had been a great success, but she was happy to be back with Daphne again after over a month tasting the delights of Southside. Her first breakfast back, she demanded news of the district, which she had begun to feel was almost 'home'.

"What's been going on, while I've been away?" she demanded, "and what have you been up to? No good I'll be bound. Good thing I'm back to see you don't get into trouble," she joked.

"Too late," Daphne replied with a rueful grimace, "the damage is already done."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, as you know, Friday afternoon's my weekly work-out at the health club. I was feeling so good driving myself back the other night, I let it go to my head.

Now it'll go to my seat. Collected a ticket for speeding; sixty in a fifty zone."

"Oh, Dee! How beastly for you," suddenly Eve was all concern for her friend, thoughts of feminist outrage lost. "And I suppose, being Eden, it means another dose of stick."

"You suppose right. Under the Discipline of Females Act, 1898, and in accordance with the Road Traffic (Female Offenders) Act 1970, I am required and obliged to redeem the said ticket in person, which means ON my person of course, within seventy-two hours, on pain of a doubling of the penalty prescribed, and that is something I do NOT intend to incur."

Tact fought a losing battle with curiosity in Eve's brain. As usual with this kind of female struggle, tact didn't stand a chance .

"What do you think you'll get?"

Daphne pulled a sour face.

"Not less than six, that's for sure, but the officer of the day is entitled to use his own judgement; what the conditions were like, any previous offences, whether his mistress was less than fully cooperative in bed that lunchtime; all that sort of thing. I've known women get a dozen for ten miles over the limit before now. God I hope it doesn't come to that. Besides, Gordon's almost sure to add his own punishment on top."

"Oh, Darling, you have been in the wars since I came to stay. I'm beginning to feel I'm a bit of a jinx."

"Of course you're not. It's none of it your fault and you're such a comfort afterwards. It's so helpful to have a woman friend when one finally gets back."

"Oh you won't have to wait till you get back," Eve said firmly, "I'm coming with you all the way."

"They won't let you do that. You get beaten in private. You'd have to stay in the waiting room for hours."

"What does that matter. I don't mind waiting all day, if I can help you when you come out."

Daphne looked a little uncomfortable.

"Well the seating in the waiting room is a little, shall we say uncomfortable,"

Daphne started, but Eve cut her short.

"Look, we may disagree on some of the finer points of female discipline but we're still best friends and I'm coming with you so I won't hear another word about it."

Daphne shook her head doubtfully but let her have her way.

There was nothing to distinguish the Traffic Department's Corrective wing from any other office building occupied by officialdom. A rather bleak little outer office, with a female clerk at a paper littered desk. There were two or three other women there already, none of them looking particularly cheerful. One by one, as their papers were checked, they disappeared through the door on the left, marked WAITING ROOM. The bored clerk looked at Daphne's ticket with no visible interest, compared it with some documents in her file, date- and time-stamped it and handed it back. She looked up at Eve and said," Ticket please."

"Oh, I'm just here to keep Mrs Borenson company," she said, hastily.

The clerk looked doubtful.

"Well I don't know..."

"It's not against regulations is it?" Eve demanded.

"Oh no," the girl replied, "it's just that.... Well the seats you know. Not many people care for them."

"Oh bother the seats," Eve exclaimed. "A sore arse is nothing to help a friend who's going to be a lot sorer soon."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure," Eve declared firmly, cutting off any further protest, and turned into the waiting room door.

It was a bare forbidding chamber. Though the high windows let in a minimum of light, and the single bare bulb did little to improve things, she was still sufficiently aware of what she was looking at to stop short in the doorway, causing Daphne to bump into her back.

"My God!" she exclaimed, "I see what you meant when you said the seating was likely to be a little uncomfortable. Next time I'll listen to you."

What had caused her astonishment was not the lines of solid polished wood benches that filled three walls of the chamber, but the neatly spaced wooden pegs that jutted from them, spaced about twenty inches apart, just the right distance for a row of women sitting waiting their turn to be processed. Each peg was the size and shape of a fair size male penis, dark polished wood with that rich glossy patina that only comes from much use in contact with human tissue.

If she had had any doubts as to their mode of employment, they were put out of her mind at once by the sight of three or four other women, who had entered the room before them, seated bolt upright on their pegs, their skirts spread around them on the bench, a glimpse of lowered knickers visible on their thighs. Their screwed up faces only served to confirm their condition. If any further explanation was needed it came in the form of the woman who had preceded them at the desk.

She had been only a few paces ahead on them entering the room, and Eve was just in time to see her lift her skirt in back, hook her fingers into her panties and draw them down to her knees, then turn her back on the bench and, very gingerly, lower her rump towards it. As the phallus nosed its way between her plump arse-cheeks, she sucked in her breath and used both hands to drag the fat cheeks apart, feeling for the knob with her anus. She paused, as if trying to gather her courage, when she had it lodged, then let out her breath in a smothered whoop and let all her weight fall on the rod, which immediately penetrated her to the hilt, and her slabby buttocks met the bench with an audible slap.

"There's someone who's been here before," Daphne remarked grimly. "Best thing to do, under the circumstances. Make sure you aim right and then let it all drop.

Get it over with. It's damned uncomfortable either way you do it but that way at least it's over quick."

"OK then," Eve agreed, "we drop our pants and then wham! Straight up and no messing."

"You're forgetting something," Daphne cautioned. "You'll be dry as a bone down there. If you could get it in your cunt you'd probably make it but you can't use your twat. The angle's all wrong for one thing, and it's against regulations for another and you'd earn yourself extras or, in the case of visitors like you, a quick dose of cane you didn't come prepared for. As it is, your arse is different, and you could tear it. No, first thing it's down on your knees and suck that pole as if it was your favourite prick. Once you've slobbered enough to get it good and slippery, you can lower your knicks and sit down hard on it.

Just make sure it's centred properly first," she warned."

They'd chosen pegs side by side, and, once the initial shock was over, could feel their thighs touching in companionable intimacy. Eve didn't care for the hard spike up her rectum, it was neither comfortable nor dignified, but she was

glad to take it, for the opportunity it gave to support her friend.

While they waited, a door next to the one by which they had entered swung open, and a woman stood there, her face grim and twisted, her hands holding her buttocks, She seemed to be having a seizure of some kind, for her body was arched rigid, and her mouth gaped in a soundless scream. Then she relaxed and stumbled to the exit, moaning to herself, apparently blind to everything else around her. As she disappeared Eve leant closer to Daphne's ear and whispered,

"do you think she's alright?"

"She'll live," Daphne replied laconically. "Gets you like that afterwards. You think it's all over, and it hits you when you're not looking."

Eve could sense the rising fear for her own fate, and dropped the subject.

As the stricken woman disappeared, a man's head appeared in the doorway through which she had just emerged.

"Next!" he called, brusquely. The woman at the end of the line gulped and drew herself up off her peg, which left her stretched anus with an audible plop. As she hauled up her knickers, and walked towards the door, her abused sphincter let out a distinct and humiliating squelch of fetid air.

There were two more women in front of Daphne. When they had all been called, each summons heralded by a stricken female exiting, her dues paid, and still feeling them intensely, Daphne fell silent, lost in her own thoughts. With her own call, she pushed herself up from the unfeeling wood deep in her belly and, emitting a shaming fart of her own, walked stiffly and reluctantly to the fateful door. Eve mouthed, "good luck", as she crossed the floor.

Afterwards Eve was lost in thought, scarcely noticing as new recruits entered the chamber to impale themselves on their spikes, and wait for their own turn.

Daphne seemed to have been away a long time, when she looked up and saw her friend standing speechless in the doorway, her face twisted with pain, her hands clasping her rump. Without thinking she sprang to her feet to go to her. Too late she remembered. She shrieked in surprise and pain as the rod ripped from her anus, almost turning it inside out. With the passing of time the sparse lubricant she had spat onto it had been squeezed out by the relentless pressure of her sphincter and the delicate lining of her rectal tube was all but welded to it. Her precipitous rise almost tore the tissue and she found herself facing her friend, their expressions matching each other in their almost comical distortions, their hands clasped to their hinds in identical poses, the one to squeeze the agony out of a mass of livid welts, the other to contain the burn of abraded flesh in her anus.

"Oh darling I should have warned you to be more careful," Daphne said ruefully, her mouth still twisted in her own distress.

"Never mind me. You must be in agony this close to a beating."

"God. They gave me a dozen. Said there were aggravating circumstances, whatever they were. I think he was just off women today. Probably his wife is on the rag this week," Daphne informed her, "they strap you down to take them, which is a kindness really as a woman would find it difficult otherwise, and who wants extras on top of a dozen? But you have to stand in a corner for five minutes after they release you with your pants down and your hands on your head while the full burn takes place. More difficult than taking the cuts themselves, and you daren't let your hands drop or you could go back for a repeat performance.

One poor girl did last year. She couldn't sit for a week and she didn't lift her eyes above waist level for months. I don't think she's dared drive herself since. Come to that, I'm not too keen on the idea myself, just now. Would you do the honours, darling? I'll just kneel on the back seat. That is, if you haven't pulled your guts through your arse too badly."

"I feel as if someone reached in there with a farrier's rasp, and reamed out my hole," Eve conceded," and I'm not looking forward to using the john for the next week or two, but I'm still in better shape than you. Now let's get cracking, before we get done for talking in the waiting room. Once is quite enough for both of us."

She proved a true prophetess. Daphne's welts kept her quiet and withdrawn for a week, but then she seemed to spring back quickly to her old bright self. As for her own fundament, though, she was nearly in tears when the call of nature became too urgent to ignore, and she tried shitting through her torn anus. The exercise in itself only served to put back the healing, and it was a week before she could relieve herself in any comfort.

But they were healthy, feisty young women fuelled by the sensual and life-enhancing atmosphere of Eden, and were soon back to their old selves, and throwing themselves into the social world of their peers.

"What's the matter with Penny, do you think?"

Penny and Douglas were old friends of Gordon, an hour's drive away. Gordon had driven them over one evening for cocktails.

The three of them were sitting exchanging gossip, Eve, Daphne, and Tina, a voluptuous redhead who, according to Daphne's surreptitious briefing, was the present subject of Gordon's roving eye. Her husband Nick seemed happy to let him, and Eve had seen him looking fairly interested in Daphne, himself. Perhaps there was trade in the offing.

Penny was one of those sleek, smoothly sculptured women, with raven hair to her shoulders, a type best suited to modelling swim wear than high fashion, Eve thought. No skeletal clothes horse, she; a truly female person with large firm breasts, and buttocks a man could rest on in comfort, with out fear of having his belly pierced by razor sharp hip bones.

Like a good hostess, she came over to where they were sitting, and Tina pulled no punches.

"What's the matter, Penny?" she asked without preamble." You look as if you're going to be hung in the morning. What happened to all that spirit? You used to be a ball of fun. I remember when you nearly killed us with your impressions of our husbands."

"Oh don't you start," their hostess protested mournfully. "Doug thinks it's all got a little out of hand, and that I need straightening out. It's not that I've done anything particularly dreadful, just a few drinks too many here, a bit lippy there, a touch extravagant at times."

"Well, aren't we all?" Daphne declared. "It's just called being female."

"Well Doug calls it, and I quote, 'a progressive failure of duty'. I'm really not sure if he means my duty, or his, but he's promised to straighten me out after the party."

Tina didn't seem impressed by the explanation.

"Well cheer up, Penny," she advised. "A good thrashing never killed a woman, and I'm sure you'll feel all the better for it afterwards."

"It's not a thrashing. I'm to have an all-nighter."

"Oh!"

Eve looked at Daphne questioningly, as all three women fell suddenly glum.

Daphne didn't answer directly, instead she ad dressed the potential penitent.

"What does Doug use then? Wooden Pony is it?"

"Would that it was, although that's bad enough," Penny replied mournfully, and the other women nodded in agreement. "No he likes the cage. He says I always come out completely docile and don't lift my eyes from his toecaps. He's right too."

There was a moment of gloomy silence as the women all digested this dismal prospect.

"What's more, "she added in sombre tones," he thinks it might be good for you lot if you came to see it, so he's probably fixing that with the men right now."

The cage was constructed from sections of ordinary steel pipe, fastened at the corners and sides by standard fittings. It was no more than three feet long and less than two foot square in section. Eve wondered that even a fashion waif would be able to crawl in, let alone Penny's full-fledged femininity, posed nakedly beside it. Penny herself looked at the contraption with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Doug frowned slightly at this apparent reluctance to accept her 'treatment' in the proper spirit.

"I won't have you uptight about a needful correction," he informed her, "I think a little loosener is called for. Six should do it. Bend down and touch your toes."

With even less enthusiasm Penny did as she was told, stretching the pale white satin of her buttocks drum tight to receive the searing kiss of Doug's well practised rod, hissing as loudly through the air as Penny's breath between her teeth as she rode out each flaming burst of anguish as it flooded through her.

The six dealt out strictly, Penny was allowed to rise, where she treated them all to an agonised dance, clutching her beaten buttocks, where the half dozen hard ridged welts were already rising.

"Come on Pen. You're keeping our guests waiting," Doug admonished, "time to curl up in your comfy cage."

Penny looked as if she might disagree with this description but took one quick look at the rod still quivering in Doug's fist and thought better of it. Better enter the cage silently, with six searing stripes across her aching bottom, than argue and carry a dozen in with her.

"Don't hang about," her loving consort commanded. "Get in position. You know what to do."

Obediently she dropped to her knees, her back to the cage door, and gingerly put one foot back to feel for the front edge. With great reluctance, inch-by-inch, she backed into the metal-framed crate. As her buttocks with their flaming stripes, passed into the enclosure, she put her arms behind her, feeling for the openings between the bars of the roof. It was slow and uncomfortable work wriggling herself into the restricted space, but finally she was in, her buttocks pressed against the rear wall, her arms hooked over the bar that ran across the roof, her lush breasts crushed against her bent knees, her head projecting between the upper bars of the door, which Doug lifted into place and latched.

Now that she was safely in, and there was no way that she could escape, Doug attached the chain of an overhead hoist to the ringbolt welded to the roof of

the cage, and hauled it up to chest level.

"No point in risking back pain," he explained to the watching guests, "I leave that sort of thing to Penny. This is the ergonomically correct working height as laid down by the Chamber of Trade."

He moved behind his concertina-ed consort, and she gasped as he forced her hands back through the bars, until her elbows were bent around the crossbar, and fastened a leather cuff about each wrist, linked by a chain beneath her belly, restricting her movements even more.

The true nature of this feared punishment was becoming clear to Eve now. Every part of Penny's body was under strain, and she could do nothing to relieve it.

With every passing hour in the long dark night, the ache in her limbs and joints would get more unbearable until she was weeping with pain that could only go on getting worse, until the long-distant morning. To add to her discomfort Doug prised open her jaws and set a thick rubber bar across her mouth, fastening like a horse's bit with straps behind her head, that stretched her lips back at the corners, and had her dribbling spittle from the first. With this constraint she could make little intelligible sound, and her breath snorted through her nostrils.

But there was worse to come she discovered. Penny's mouth wasn't the only orifice to be brutally forced. Doug produced a hard ribbed rubber dildo, a fair facsimile of a man's prick, and a well-endowed man at that, Eve considered. To groans of protest from behind the bitted lips, Doug presented the bulbous tip to the shrinking whorl of Penny's sphincter, obscenely and openly displayed against the rear bars, which pressed on the welt laddered cheeks until they parted widely. Penny recoiled from the assault as much as her constraints would allow, her groans now sharp staccato grunts, indicative of serious distress, mixed with panic. Doug paused in his efforts and considered.

"Perhaps she is a little dry," he conceded and his captive wife nodded her head vigorously in agreement, "Eve you're our principle guess of the evening. Would you do the honours?"

He held out the monster prick to her and she took it doubtfully. What was expected she wondered. Anything might go in this strange but exciting world. She put it to her mouth and began to lick it carefully.

"Oh come on, Eve," Tina cried, "you can do better than that. I bet you're a boiling lake underneath."

Eve looked at the other women for help, but none came. Blushing furiously she lifted her skirt and dropped her pants. Tina was right of course. She was soaking, and the sticky dew glistened copiously on her lips. Quickly she rubbed the tip of the phallus between the wetted lips, gasping as she went further than intended and touched the fevered button of her clit, sending a spasm through her belly.

"More, more," Tina urged. She threw all restraint aside and thrust the ribbed mammoth deep into her sodden sheath. Wrenching it out unceremoniously, she dropped her skirt again, leaving the knickers round her knees in her haste, and handed the dripping dong to the master of these dolorous ceremonies.

This time the added lubrication enabled him to gain a purchase more easily, but Penny still heaved and writhed, howling behind her bit, as the massive length was driven home without further finesse. Doug clamped the butt of the plug to the rear bars of the cage, adding yet another degree of restraint to the kneeling woman's predicament. Eve tried not to think of how that hard and unfeeling intruder in the woman's rectum would feel after a night of unrelenting pressure against tender entrails. As she speculated on the effect of rigid rubber on feminine bowels, Doug was completing the rearward arrangements. This involved placing a hideously strong clamp across the pouting labia, effectively

sealing the vulva for the night, after attaching an elastic cord to the clit ring. Stretched tight, and fastened to the floor of the cage, this drew an even more vehement grunt of protest from the crouching victim. Doug went to the front for the final touches.

Bent as she was within the cage, her arms hooked round the top bar, Penny's heavy breasts hung pendulously below her, her kneecaps pressed uncomfortably into their under-sides. Doug hooked a light chain onto one of the gold rings she wore in her long thick nipples and passed it under the lower bars, bringing it back up to meet the other tautly stretched nipple, on which he was pulling heavily with his other hand.

Finally it was done. As they left the 'playroom', and Doug switched off the lights behind them, consigning Penny to the long dark night ahead, she could be heard whimpering in the darkness. Eve for one could not blame her.

Upstairs, there was a last drink all round, the men animated over the inspiring scene, the women a little subdued, as they contemplated Penny's fate, condemned to spend the long lonely hours of the night, cramped painfully in her cage, the bars pressed relentlessly into her knees, with no chance to alter or ease her position, the strong steel jaws gripping the fleshy lips of her cunt, the elastic cord pulling cruelly on her clit, the chain tugging against her tender nipples if she made any move at all to flex her aching limbs. Above all that monstrosity in her rectum, abusing her bowel. At least she would be spared the humiliation of soiling herself from that orifice, but she would almost certainly have to endure the shame of pissing herself as she hung there in the dark.

At one point, Eve found herself alone with her host. She'd last seen Gordon escorting Tina to his car, and Daphne seemed to have been appropriated by Nick at the same time. To try and lighten her mood she twitted Doug on how Penny's discipline would be his loss too.

"You've only yourself to blame if you've an empty bed tonight," she teased him.

"You shouldn't have left her strung up like that if you didn't want to spend a lonely night."

"Oh, didn't Gordon tell you? He's offered me your services for the night to fill the gap, so to speak."

"Has he indeed!" Eve was taken aback by the news. "He never consulted me on the subject."

"Why should he?" Doug replied in tones of sweet reason, "after all he is your sponsor, and entirely within his rights to dispose of you however he pleases.

It's the custom of the country, after all."

Eve couldn't decide whether to explode in anger or accept with the best grace she could. She had an uneasy feeling this might well be a put up job to test her real commitment to the Eden life. Playing safe, she nodded silently and followed docily where Doug led.

He led her to Penny's now deserted bedroom

She stripped without being told, and climbed onto the matrimonial bed, lying on her back, with her thighs open to expose the hot sodden gash of her vulva. Doug looked up from freeing a solid length of penis from his shorts.

"Oh, not that way. Hands and knees please," he ordered.

"What do you mean?"

"Gordon specified anal only. He thought vaginal might be a little bit too personal at your stage in Eden so, as I've no objection to a touch of sodomy, we

agreed back door only."

Eve looked at the great cock bobbing in front of his muscular belly.

"No way," she said. "Fucking not buggery if you please."

"'Fraid I can't do that," Doug was adamant, "Gordon and I have an agreement. I thought you understood. Here these things are decided by the sponsor. If Gordon says buggery, then buggery it has to be."

Eve turned over without a word, but let out a yelp of outrage at the sharp pain as Doug tried to force her dry anus.

"You might at least put something on that monster." she complained

"Actually Penny rather likes it that way," Doug replied to her protest. "Says the pain adds spice to the spearing, but if you can't take it, I'll put some cream on it."

"Oh, if that's how she likes it, I suppose it will have to do," Eve replied bitterly, "seeing that I'm meant to be filling in for her."

A moment later she was wincing in protest as he renewed the pressure of the great organ against her tight tender vent. She buried her head in the pillow, lifting her buttocks high, trying to make it as easy on herself as possible, but there was no way that shaft was going to go in without hurting atrociously.

Biting hard on the pillowcase, to cover her howls, she endured its remorseless advance. Suddenly she shrieked as the tortured sphincter gave way and the rod sank instantly to the hilt in her bowel. She continued to howl all though the long painful buggery that followed.

A month after Penny's night in the cage, and Doug had entered her rectum, the island atmosphere continued to work its magic on Eve's body, which radiated health and vital juice.

"Problem is," she told herself, "a girl needs regular servicing under these conditions, and I'm not getting it."

She was standing in her stockings and heels, absently cradling her breasts in her hands, her thumbs stroking idly over nipples that stuck out like the proverbial organ stops. Between her legs, her fully restored clit throbbed and pulsed. She looked over one shoulder to see her tight pink buttocks jutting arrogantly behind her.

"And don't think I've forgotten you." she muttered, "What you need is a damn good hiding, and a thorough fucking."

Restlessly, she wandered, still naked, into Daphne's room, where she was seated at her dressing table, getting ready for that night's party.

"Anything special going on tonight?" Eve enquired, "Do I need to look out anything in particular?"

"Just the usual glad rags," Daphne replied.

"My God!" she exclaimed suddenly, as she began to frantically search in her jewellery drawer, "No, it's a pendant night tonight. I almost forgot. Gordon has put me in Green. Don't know whether to be glad or sad."

"What's a pendant night when it's at home?" Eve wanted to know.

"Didn't I explain? Sorry, there's been so much going on it slipped my mind.

Pendant nights all the women wear pendants in various colours to show whether

they're available or not. Like this."

She finally found what she was looking for, and held up a simple gold pendant on a thin gold chain. At first Eve took it to be a leaf design, then realised with a start it was a stylised representation of a vulva, and a very open and engorged one at that. It came complete with a small pearl where the point of the clitoris would come. Below that the mouth of the vagina was indicated by an oval green stone. It was a quality jewel and she was almost certain it was a real Emerald that closed the simulated sexual seam.

"Er, very pretty," she managed to say finally. "Does it have some significance?"

"Everything in Eden has some significance, as you must have noticed," Daphne assured her. "Pendant nights we all wear these. A ruby if your man puts you off limits, or has reserved you for one man in particular by prior arrangement.

Green like this, and you're fair game for anyone who asks."

"You mean you can't refuse? You have to go with anyone who asks you?" Eve asked doubtfully.

"Just that. What's more, if he doesn't require your services for the whole night, you may have your pendant returned and have to wear it until someone else claims you."

"And you have to have sex with them, of course," Eve said indignantly.

"Any way they choose. Back, front or in your mouth," Daphne assured her.

"How degrading! Can't you refuse?"

"No way. Not if you're wearing Green. Amber's different."

"What's that then?" Eve asked, although she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Amber means any man can ask you, but you can choose whether to accept."

"Oh, that's better," Eve answered more cheerfully. "After all it should be a woman's choice."

"You think so?" Daphne said thoughtfully, "I think you have a little way to go in your education yet. Besides, it's a privilege that has to be paid for."

"Paid for?"

"Mmm. Yes indeed. Can't have us trampling all over the poor dears' delicate feelings," Daphne explained. "If you refuse a man he can, if he likes, and they always do seem to, claim some compensation. That means you have to assuage his hurt feelings by hurts of your own. To wit, a sixer with a penal on your bare bum."

"My God! It always comes down to that, doesn't it," Eve exclaimed. "A thrashing on the bare. Win lose or draw, we lose our drawers, and gain some fancy decorations too."

"Well a sixer never killed a girl," Daphne said calmly, "and men are such sensitive creatures underneath all that tough exterior. Anyway, as a visitor, you won't have to worry about that sort of thing."

Indignation at such patronage swept reason out the door.

"There it is again," Eve burst out, "treating me like an outsider again. Please, please, Daphne, let me be like one of you, even though I haven't applied to immigrate yet. It's horrible to be left on the outside of these events."

"So what do you want to do then? Wear one of my pendants?"

Eve drew in a deep breath. She let it out in an emphatic "Yes"

Daphne allowed herself a crooked smile.

"Atta Girl," she said. "Let's show 'em. Only thing is, what colour are you going in?"

"Er, well... actually, I hadn't really thought about that," came the lame admission.

"Then you'd better. Actually you haven't much choice if you're going to wear a proper pendant, and not some codged up thing around your neck. I've got the green, so you're left with Red or Amber. Better be safe and put yourself out of bounds. Be just as good a protection as claiming visitor status actually."

Afterwards, Eve could never decide if Daphne had said it to trap her into going to the party 'available' or not. Daphne was her friend, but, on Eden, friendships between women could take some strange turns. At the time she didn't even stop to consider if she was being conned into her selection.

"Nonsense!" she burst out. "It's got to be the Amber. I want to be one of you."

Daphne handed it over without a word. In the car Gordon regarded the winking amber lozenge with a quizzical eye, but held his peace. He knew his wife well enough to know she wouldn't have allowed her friend to take this step unless she thought it would be for her own good. He might be sponsoring this young woman and, as such, be authorised to dispose of her sexually as he chose, but he would not insist on his prerogative tonight. He did however make a mental note to reinforce his rights by printing some reminders on his wife's beautiful backside when they got home.

At first it was just a party like any other of the dozens she had attended, though there was the added piquancy of checking on the colours of the women's pendants, and speculating on how they would all fare. Later, couples started disappearing from time to time, returning later with that flushed and dishevelled look, the women especially, that spoke of hurried undressing and resumption of clothing, and vigorous sexual exercises. Several women too, she noticed, had lost their jewels temporarily, and she assumed some man had claimed his right to her, but would not enforce the claim until later. Meanwhile other men would recognise that she was spoken for.

She was looking round for Daphne, who had made a temporary exit with a muscular military man when a familiar voice at her elbow had her turn and confront Angus McKensie. He had been asking how she'd enjoyed the evening so far, and remarking how attractive she was looking, when he spotted the amber signal at her throat.

"Are you wearing that for show?" he asked, "or has Gordon really set you loose?"

"Gordon has nothing to do with it," she replied stiffly, "it is my own choice."

"Then I shall get great pleasure out of having you," he said. "Come with me."

If it had been anyone else or, indeed, if he had actually asked, instead of merely taking her for granted, she might well have agreed, but she still harboured resentment at his patronising attitude at their first meeting, and his arrogant assumption that she would meekly submit put her back up like a cornered cat.

"You obviously haven't been looking," she said haughtily, "my pendant is amber not green. I do not choose to accept you."

"Do you not, lassie," he said thoughtfully, "well, you will, you will.

Meanwhile, since you choose to play by the rules, so shall I. Let us adjourn to somewhere where they keep a rod for your impertinent backside."

She said nothing but, putting her chin firmly in the air, stalked off towards the bedrooms, leaving him to follow in her wake. Her outward calmness concealing an inner consciousness of his eyes watching the elastic roll of her buttocks under their thin covering, flesh he would in a moment be carving with a whippy stick.

The vacant room she led him to, like all the others in the house, held all that was needed.

She handed him the cane that lay on the bedcover, and, still not speaking, went and knelt on the bed.

"You won't be needing your knickers, lassie," he informed her, and she dragged them down to her knees, before resuming her position on all fours.

The rod's tip flicked contemptuously at the pelmet of a skirt that covered her bared and stretched hinds.

"It's no a guid idea to wear amber, if ye canna deliver," he remarked, "I doubt you'll be becoming a trifle sore before the night's out, if you continue this way."

She had no doubt at all that he was expert in the whipping of women, nor that he would take out on her flinching flesh, every last drop he was owed by the rules she had so lightly accepted. He did not disappoint her. When it was over, he threw the rod on the bed beside her and left the room without a word.

She had hoped she could carry off the episode without drawing attention to herself, but she was caught in the doorway as she re-entered the room, by a sudden rekindling of the fire in her behind. As she gasped and gripped her buttocks, Daphne came up to commiserate.

"I take it you had to pay off an unsuitable suitor," she remarked, "anyone I know?"

"Angus McKensie," Eve ground out through gritted teeth, as she kneaded her throbbing cheeks. "The patronising pig. I wouldn't have had him, if he was the last man in the world. I'll take another sixer from him, if he asks again tonight, and cheap at the price."

Daphne looked at her with a thoughtful expression.

"Is that so," she said, as if she had serious doubts, "well, you'll be relieved to know that that's not allowed. The rules of the game say a man, once refused, can't ask again if he's already been given satisfaction, so you're quite safe.

Though I do think," she added, "that you might be wrong about Angus. Never mind.

Let me find you a nice acceptable young man to kiss those burning buns better."

In the event Daphne was spared the trouble.

"Evening ladies," a strong male voice came from behind them.

"Is the whole Southside here tonight?" Daphne enquired, turning to face a smiling Nick. "And what have you done with Tina?"

"Turned her loose in green, just like you. I'm not expecting to see her again before breakfast."

"Have you seen anything of Penny since she was caged?"

"We were there just the other night. Totally malleable. Didn't lift her eyes once. Doug certainly has a way with women."

"A very backward way, I'd call it," Eve was remembering her painful buggering.

"Oh, hello, Eve. You're looking lovely. And that amber suits you. May I look a little closer?" he asked with a meaningful smile.

What the hell, Eve thought to herself, I've had the beating I promised myself, so let's get fucked, and complete the job. Aloud she said, "perhaps somewhere less crowded, if Daphne will excuse us."

"Don't worry about me, children," Daphne said, one carefully pencilled eyebrow raised in wonder, "I'm sure I won't be lonely."

"I'm sure you won't" Eve laughed, and led the way to the bedrooms.

Nick was everything she needed in a lover, she thought, careful, considerate and unselfish, holding back while she convulsed briefly in a rapid orgasm almost as soon as he penetrated her hungry gash, then coming with her in a less rushed climax, that left them both gasping. Why was it then that it was Angus's craggy face, and peremptory manner, that slid into her sleepy post-coital musings?

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