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Harem School Ch. 01

By: Falcinator



Author's Note:

I recommend reading this while the only noise is the ticking of a clock.

I also recommend that you don't read it if you can't stand sex, nudity, tattooing, lesbian sex, anal sex, old men, sick people, or anything that may be construed as torture or abuse of women. 

If you're physically, emotionally, mentally or chronologically too immature to read this legally, safely or happily, may I suggest that you don't read it. You are hereby warned that you do so AT YOUR OWN RISK. Any complaints about the content or its affect upon you will fall on deaf ears and blind eyes.

Any other comments, criticisms included (constructive, by preference), are welcome.

The game of backgammon is a homage to Fritz Leiber, and the ending of this story really is meant to be like that.

* * * * *

"Harem School"

Or: "The Chancellor's Evening"

The room was large but appeared larger, the corners and furthest walls hidden and exaggerated by shadows.

Most of the light in the room appeared to come from a fire which, though burning low and red, still managed to wash its warm light over half the room. The fire's light, sensual and caressing to naked flesh and a body's curves, played over a young woman kneeling, naked and totally hairless on head, underarms and sex, back ramrod straight, breasts lifted by her arms stretched high above her head, joined by sheep-skin cuffs and held by a slender chain depending taut from the ceiling lost in the shadows above. Her eyes were shut, her face tranquil, no movement of breathing or impatience disturbed the perfect poise of her large but firm breasts, no sign betrayed discomfort in her knees. Between her thighs, attached by a brass fitting to the oak floor, a thick leather dildo spread her shaven lips and penetrated deep within her. It did not move and she made no sound or sign that she recognised this indifferent use of her sex, but the dimness of the firelight concealed flashes of colour spreading and fading from her breasts and from the halos of her nipples, the warmth from the fire making the erection of those small nubs clearly due to well-concealed arousal.

She was kneeling on the edge of a luxuriant Persian rug placed just off-centre of the room. Upon the rug a small desktop lamp with a green shade had been placed, throwing a hard, bright cone of light onto the chest of a young woman lying spread-eagled on her back, each ankle and wrist cuffed and each cuff linked to a chain that held her, taut, by rings set into the polished wooden floor at each corner of the rug.

Her bald scalp was tattooed as though with a cap, Polynesian designs flowing down from the crown of her head around her forehead and temples and around her ears. Her eyes too were shut, occasional movement disturbing the serenity of her face, a thick gag in her mouth preventing all but the occasional whimper from escaping, her body held rigid while a man, stocky but short, carefully tattooed a flame-like design upon her right breast from the edge of her pink aureole down almost to where the swelling flesh gave way to rib cage, the mirror image of the design already worked reaching from the nipple upwards. The whine of his needle as he infused her pliant flesh with black ink was a constant, little varying background noise somehow lost in the immensity of the room as the muted crackle of the fire was not.

Her back to this scene, the elegance of her poise not betraying her knowledge of its details, a young woman sat sheathed in a dress of purest silk, shimmering with skin-hugging caresses from the halter tied about her long graceful neck down her nubile flanks to her slender hourglass waist, then falling in fluttering waves to the barely revealed delicate ankles and naked feet. Her bare back was curved elegantly and moved barely more than a hair's breadth as her naked arms flowed like water above the table in front of her.

Opposite her, an elderly but still regal and statesman-like man dressed in a navy-blue shirt of satin, a worsted waistcoat of deepest brown and a smoking jacket of crimson velour paid no heed to the breasts uplifted, supported and boldly revealed by the dress that, skirting her nipples coquettishly, covered but did not conceal a single detail of her satiny skin. A spirit lamp placed against the wall shone dimly across the expanse of table in front of them, illuminating the ivory backgammon board between them, seeming to mute with its dimness the clatter of the ivory dice and the clink of the soapstone stones, stilling too the quick and rare sound of his dry baritone and her soft soprano as they played out the game at hand.

"Double." 

"Redouble." 

"Accepted." 

"Four it is then."

The woman kneeling did not know how long she had been there; those things are best left unknown. The woman lying spread-eagled did not know either; she had, indeed, no interest even in the progress of the tattooing. The woman sitting had some idea, but only because the pad sitting by the man's bony but graceful long-fingered hand kept a marching tally of their progress steadily towards the 64 points that would end the battle in which they were engaged.

Suddenly there came a stilling of the incessant buzzing of the needle, a stilling that highlighted the sound before it. The tattooist rocked back on his heels, placing the needle point-upwards on the belly of his living canvas, standing slowly and with care as his ankles popped and his knees cracked, loudly, once. Neither of the two players gave the slightest sign of reaction to this, although both were aware, nor did the kneeling woman, who knew that this was a punctuation, but not a marker, of time.  

The tattooist stepped around the woman on the floor, displaying the care one would for any work of art in the making, careful not to come close enough to her spread thighs to touch, before kneeling on the other side of her, moving his lamp to where he had been kneeling and then, taking up his needle, bend once more to his task, tracing the first line from memory onto the left breast in front of him, the right now adorned with four spokes in the style of a compass rose, a delicate tracery connecting the base of each spike around the aureole. 

"You win gammon." The man's dry voice elicited a mere bowing of the head from his opponent, whose shimmering black hair, falling halfway down her back, did not even shift at the motion.

"That gives you sixty points." The man's statement, simply said, was heard by the kneeling woman, who, in the stillness of her mind, desperately shoved it from thought. It was heard by the woman lying, who recognised it for what it meant but did not feel affected by this knowledge. It was recognised by the tattooist who, knowing his master's habits, set himself to finish the spike he had just started. To the woman in the chair, whose rushing end-game had given her the victory, the man's bald recognition of her achievements was merely a mark upon the war between them, and she set herself for another battle as his long fingers deftly reset the stones.

At that instant a log in the fireplace broke, with a crack that sounded as a pistol shot in the stillness, a shower of sparks flickering redly on the poised torso of the woman kneeling, whose composure prevented even her pulse from racing. The tattooist registered it, but it did not penetrate his concentration or the desperate stillness of the woman beneath his fingers. To the players, it may well have been a trumpet upon the battlefield.

The dice rattled and the stones once more began their advance, until the tattooist's needle ceased for the last time that night and he exhaled slowly the breath that he always held as the last line was inked. Almost on the same moment the man's rearmost stone, played in a forced risk, was swooped upon and returned to the bar, his defeat almost certainly ensured in the face of crushing victory. Bowing his head in recognition, he extended his hand upwards towards his elegant opponent.

"I resign gammon." 

"I accept."

The tattooist put away his needle, the needle itself to be replaced on the next night, returning his tools carefully to a cupboard against the wall, closing and locking it with a key that he slipped into a pocket on his leather waistcoat, drawing from a different pocket a larger and coarser key with which he unlocked the four cuffs of his canvas, helping her to her unsteady feet and escorting her out the door to the room, outside of which a tall, elderly man in the uniform of a butler was waiting with imperturbable patience and hands crossed in front of himself. After the two had passed him he stepped inside, drawing a like coarse key from his jacket pocket and undoing the cuffs of the kneeling woman, helping her courteously but firmly to her feet as she slipped easily off the wetly glistening dildo and escorting her as she walked, at first unsteadily, after her tattooed sister. 

At the table the stones had been left as they lay, so that the next night could be started on the memory of the night before. Bowing her head slightly, the woman in the silken dress rose to her feet smoothly, no change to the line of her back or crease in the dress, turning and stepping, foot in front of foot and head still, from the table to the door, closing it softly behind her, leaving the man on his own in a room that seemed even larger than before, now emptier of people.

For a moment he sat, the darkness settling comfortably around his shoulders, then he bestirred himself, pushing back his chair with precise but flowing movements, taking up from where it hung by its top from the table an ivory-headed, brass-tipped wooden cane and, using it more as a punctuation to his walk than as an aid, walked slowly into the shadows of the room, leaving the lamp and the fire both still burning. 

He came, in the middle of the farthest wall of the room, to a door leather-covered and set so thoroughly with studs that the handle, though a steel lever of not inconsiderable size, was almost lost to view. He placed one hand carefully on the handle and with a slight grunt of effort pushed it down. As the handle dropped, the door was pushed open. It opened slowly, emitting the rubber-rushing-air sounds of a seal broken.

As he stepped through the door it sealed itself behind him, well-oiled mechanisms snicking into place.

The corridor on the either side was hospital-broad and hospital-clean, white on walls, ceiling and floor, doors opening off, evenly spaced along, alternating from side to side.

The doors were all closed and sealed, as was the last. But these were plain steel, with rubber around the edges, and one plain button where the handle might be. Reaching out one steady hand, the finger crooked, he pressed the button on the first door.

It swung smoothly open with the protesting hiss of escaping air and the near-silent swish of hidden hydraulics but sound washed through it, the puffing of pneumatic machinery, the steady beeping of an electronic timer and the muffled sounds of a woman on the brink of orgasm.

In the middle of the room lay a woman bound with leather to a narrow bench, her arms stretched cruelly tight above her head, her thighs spread wide and lashed to her calves, her feet under her buttocks and her hips thrust upwards. Each breast was grotesquely extended by a large glass cylinder, the vacuum inside of which stretched the tissue of the breast cruelly upwards, her nipples huge at their tips. A small, almost dainty cylinder was attached to her clitoris which, subjected to the same unrelenting force, stretched inches long into the tube. 

Attached to the end of the bench, a large hammer drill was itself attached to the end of a thick dildo, running at full speed as the dildo sat deep within her anus, spinning and juddering unceasingly. A woman tall and curvaceous, with arms lean and strong, her abundant breasts stretching her leather corset and her legs bare from leather G-string to high, buckle-covered boots, held a machine the size of a large toolbox. Pneumatic cables attached to the box drove a massive dildo in and out of the prostrate woman's slickly wet cunt.

The slave was arched, her muscles quivering, her face contorted, desperately trying to reach or avoid, it was hard to tell which, the orgasm swelling inside her. 

The man paused inside the door, his strangely remote eyes scanning the slave's stretched and sweat-soaked form, his approval evident in his lack of reaction. His eyes passed to the flushed face of the mistress, her tongue compulsively wetting her lips, her breasts trembling as her own lust was held in barely concealed check.

"How is she progressing?" The man asked, his voice dry but crisp.

The mistress grinned, feral and bright. "She was born to be humiliated, master. I broke her with one orgasm and she's been begging for more ever since. She's going to be a hungry slut when I've finished with her!"

"Good", the man responded, his voice ambivalent. "Don't hurt her and make sure it's all caught on camera. I have buyers already for her. When you've finished, take another one."

The mistress nodded vigorously, her attention riveted on the slave's abused cunt-lips.

The man continued on his way, betraying neither by expression nor posture his emotions in that room. 

He departed at the same deliberate pace as he had entered and the door, after a second's hesitation, swung closed behind him.

For just one second, the man hesitated. For just one second, the advancing leg shook slightly. For just one second, his face drew tight and whitened perceptibly. For just one second, he leaned upon the cane that had appeared but affectation. But a second is a short time, even when crossing a small corridor. The finger that pressed the next button was as firm as the door that opened before him.

The sounds that flowed out were less muffled and more eager, two voices joined in a dialog of desire, one gloating, one begging.

"You want another burst, don't you, slut? Another jolt? Do you really want it, you dyke bitch?"

The dominatrix was dressed like the first, but had a more gloating expression on her painted face.

"OH GOD YES! Oh fuck, give it to me! Pleeeassseee!"

The woman was tied in an X-shape, flat on the bare metal of the table, any discomfort no longer an issue.

"How much, bitch? How much does your slut cunt want it? Beg for me, bitch!"

The dominatrix stood in front of a large, functional, steel-and-chrome bank of machinery from which issued a faint humming that under-laid the desperate pleas and the gloating taunts. Her hand rested on a large dial, caressing it with eager sexuality.

"Please! I need to cum, oh god, please! Give it to me!"

Wires ran from the machine to chromed clamps upon her nipples, to a socket that settled snugly around her clit and to a row of alligator clips that held the edges of her labia cruelly in their teeth.

"I don't believe you're really serious. You can't really need to cum, not without my fist inside you."

The dominatrix's spare hand was rubbing her leather-covered cunt, her hips shivering with pleasure as her other hand writhed over the dial as though fondling a breast.

By now, the woman tied to the table was crying. "Oh god, please! I need to cum! Please! AAARHHGGNNNNGGGGGGG..."

The sharp crackle of discharged electricity, the rising hum of a working generator, perhaps the faint smell of ozone? The dominatrix had twisted the dial hard and the woman on the table had lifted off it, back arched, jerking spastically as the electricity flowed into her nipples and clitoris and the lips of her cunt, just for a second until the dial was twisted back and the woman collapsed, sobbing for more, back to the table.

The man withdrew without speaking, letting the dominatrix know that he was pleased with her progress.

The door shut behind him once more, plunging the corridor once more into silence.

He took a step towards the next door, then paused as if in reflection. He leaned upon the stick, perhaps thinking ahead, perhaps planning? No. The whiteness of his face, the suddenly constricted breath he drew, gave the lie to that impression. He shivered, then snapped back into impassiveness, his still powerful will master of his body once more.

The next door revealed two women both naked, only their positions revealing their status. The slave was lying on her belly on the table, bowed backwards by each wrist strapped to the opposite ankle behind her, long hair tied back out of her face and laid along her back between her elbows.

The dominatrix was sitting on the end of the table, hands clenched around the end behind her, arms quivering with strain, legs spread wide, knees high, feet planted on the sides, hips jerking, mouth gasping with the shuddering onset of orgasm as the slave steady, diligently, skillfully, laved her cunt and clit.

The man withdrew from that room too, silently and impassively, no hint of the smile he felt inside breaking through to his face.

He stopped in the corridor again, this time nearly stumbling, his face ashen white, his free hand clutching compulsively at his chest, his waistcoat crumpled between his skeletal fingers, his walking stick shaking, his...

His composure renewed, he straightened, taking a deep, calm and even breath. Perhaps he should... No. There was still work to be done. Still work calling, taking precedence over all else.

The finger that pushed the next button was straight, and as steady as a rock.

Sound burst through the opening door, washed over him and past him and through into the corridor behind him, the sound of a woman shouting, the sound of a man grunting and the wet slapping sounds of sex.

"OH YES, FUCK ME!"

The woman was standing in front of the table, bent over to grasp the edge, head lower than her ass, legs straight and spread with feet planted wide, back arched up, head dropped, eyes clamped shut, mouth open wide.

"FUCK MY ASS, FUCK MY ASS, FUCK MY ASS!"

The man was tall and muscular, not an ounce of wasted fat, not a gram of un-toned muscle, his legs quivering, his buttocks clenched, his hands gripping the woman's hips, his face and chest flushed red with exertion and wet with sweat, his panting almost audible over the screams of the woman.

"OH GOD YES, HARDER, HARDER! FUCK ME HARDER! OH FUCK YES!"

He was pounding her arse, stretching it with a cock of visibly outstanding girth and clearly impressive length, glistening at the base with unused lubricant, matching the glistening of her cunt with dripping juices.

"OH CHRIST, FUCK ME, FILL ME, CUM INSIDE ME, OH FUCK!"

The veins on the man's neck stood out with the effort of his movements and with the effort of not cumming yet, but there are some fights that can never be won and he was only delaying the inevitable.

Once more the man withdrew, this time a thrill of satisfaction struggling but failing to penetrate his iron mask.

That one was ready, and a good thing too. He had a buyer already for her, who wanted someone loud and vocal and well conditioned. She could be shipped in as little as two days, now.

The satisfaction he allowed himself to feel propelled him towards the next door, his step brisk and his mouth almost twisting into a satisfied...

He stumbled, nearly fell, catching himself on his cane which met with the floor with a sharp, ringing crack, his arm nearly buckling, his wrist sending shooting pains right through his arm. He caught himself with an effort, teetering on legs gone suddenly weak, swallowing convulsively in a throat that would suddenly accept neither air nor water from a mouth too dry for saliva and too sore for breathing.

Too late! He had left it too late!

He lurched on, legs shaking, will now struggling to hold him at all, staggering past a door where a woman was deep- throating a cock, past a door where a woman was learning to love the warm feel of cum on her face and on her breasts and in her eyes, past a door where two cocks would be splitting the one cunt.


Harem School Ch. 01



He reeled against the wall at the end of the corridor, his finger stabbing so inaccurately at the polished brass button on the wall that he missed even the setting, a shooting pain making him think for one brief moment that he had broken his finger against the tiles. But a renewed effort saw him hit it, and push hard enough, and saw him reel inside as the door opened, catching himself against the door-frame, stick stabbing down, finding purchase in the thick carpet under his feet.

He stumbled against his bedside cabinet, both hands clutching the edge, his stick falling forgotten to the floor. He fumbled for a porcelain eggcup holding six bright pills and managed to get them all inside his mouth. He clutched at a crystal glass of water, the fine porcelain falling to break forgotten at his feet. He managed to swallow, his whole frame juddering from the effort, the lead crystal falling somehow unbroken from nerveless fingers.

He fell onto the bed, no time to undress. It would be just another job for the morning. Just another job in his endless day, another waste of his remaining time. He scrabbled weakly at the bedclothes, drawing them up to his chin, an electric blanket warming his back and his front, the blanket on top light enough for his feeble hands.

It was cold, so cold still, yet not so cold that he could not think or hear the feeble beating of his heart. Tomorrow he would still be here, tomorrow he would reign again. Everything would be all right again in the morning, but it was so dreadfully cold at night. 



Harem School Ch. 02



Chapter 2: A Sale in The Harem

Author's Note: 

This is the first sequel to "Harem School", called "Harm School" here thanks to my proof-reading skills in submitting it to Literotica. That story was to set the scene. This story is set within that scene.

This story took me a long time to write because it bogged itself down in poor writing, and me failing to keep to my own aesthetic. I stumbled into a total no-man's-land of writers' block halfway through, and it took me a rest, reading other people's stories, and committing to a total hatchet-job of an editing session to beat it into the shape where writing it was fun and easy again. 

So I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't I won't be too surprised, because I'm not sure if I like it. Tell me what you think.

*

The room was large but appeared cramped, bookshelves lining the walls, the walls towering over the occupants and seeming to loom inwards, inducing claustrophobia in the susceptible but a feeling of coziness in the comfortable. The writing desk against one wall and a reading desk against the opposite were imposingly bulky, dark-stained timber cut and carved into noble and beautifully proportioned curves and slabs.

Sunlight, incongruous in such a dark, sombre setting, filtered down through a skylight high overhead, failing to illuminate the furthest corners of the room and leaving the leather-bound books veiled in shadow, the furniture lurking in the gloom.

Against the far wall, hidden from the light, stood an imposing wooden cabinet with two doors each the size of the room's own door, a bulky slab of mahogany, brass-handled and hinged, but somehow lost in the subtly ornate paneling of the walls. 

The cabinet stood open, revealing in its depths, set into the wood as though it were a window, wood-framed and no metal visible, a wide-screen television that stretched almost from side to side of the cabinet. Beneath it was the thin brushed-metal face of a DVD player. 

The screen itself was split into two, one normal-ratio image on the right, one narrow strip on the left.

In that left hand pane there was the picture of a naked woman, young and nubile, toned of flesh and smooth of skin, slender but soft, feet spread three feet and her hands on her hips, flanked by two mirrors, one revealing her flank and one her back, only the faintest of movements from her belly betraying that this was running video not, after all, a still image.

She showed no rippling muscles or hardness, a layer of feminine softness over every inch of her flesh, but she did show the subtly delineated curves of every skeletal muscle, each one carefully built to show the finest proportions of a female body. Her legs were long, her ass high and hard, her hips wide, her fingers long and delicate, her breasts large, firm and round, hinting with their downwards bulge that the tissue was in no way fake. Her hair spilled flaxen yellow down over her shoulders and her back past her breasts, framing a face with high cheekbones, bee-stung lips and innocent-seeming blue eyes.

Those blue eyes looked unseeing out of the screen onto two massy burgundy leather armchairs bracketing a circular, curved-legged table on which stood a silver tray bearing a cut-crystal, stoppered carafe full of the rich warm glow of brandy. Bracketing the carafe was a pair of square cut-crystal glasses.

Seated in the right-hand chair was a regal and statesman-like man with a cap of silver-white hair and the seamed face of a veteran of life, his eyes as hard as sapphires and every muscle disciplined, his dress of worsted trousers and a maroon smoking jacket over satin shirt as deliberate a statement of status as it was his choice. His long, almost spidery, hand reached out to the carafe, unstoppered it with precisely mannered movements and courteously poured for his guest before himself, the splash of amber fluid making the room seem warmer and more comfortable with its sound.

From the speakers of the TV, a different sort of sound flowed. The sounds of slurping, of wet suction being broken, or breath whistling and grunting as, on the right hand pane, the woman from the left hand pane knelt on her hands and knees on a plain bed with iron head and foot frames and a plain white fitted sheet. The man kneeling in front of her had the overly-muscled physique of a porn star. His cock was embedded hilt-deep in her throat, but when she drew back her lips revealed that it too was porn-star thick and long.

She pumped him hard, her breasts swaying like a pendulum, her face flushed red with eagerness as she worked on his already hard cock, body writhing unconsciously in anticipation of her own pleasure to come until he grunted, pushing her off, leaving a shaft so slickly coated with saliva that it began to drip off.

"I believe that you applied for a bed-partner for anal sex, for whipping and for threesomes with your existing slave," the man in the maroon smoking jacket said in a dry baritone as he set the carafe back on the tray with the barest of /chink/ sounds. His other hand smoothed down his jacket, flicking away imaginary lint before settling both arms on the arms of the chair, his hands steepled in front of him. "Let us take these one at a time."

The woman on screen twisted around on the bed, grabbing hold of the iron frame, her back arched up as he shuffled forwards, his massive cock bobbing, and seized her by the hips, meaty hands digging into her flesh as he set the engorged, winged head of his cock at her puckered asshole.

Her panting turned to eager begging, her voice husky in her throat, made more feminine and sensual by it, gasping out "Yes! Stick it in! Fuck my ass, oh yes, fuck me, come on..."

The man needed no encouragement, only the time to aim properly, setting his oversized head into her asshole, stretching her buttocks with his fingers to make access easier, and then smoothly pushing, her saliva letting him slide in and bottom out without any resistance except the tightness of her ass.

The man in the left-hand chair, wearing a worsted wool suit that fit his tall frame immaculately sitting or standing, looking young by his skin, old by his hard face and middle-aged by his eyes and poise of movement, rolling brandy around in his mouth with the startled joy of a connoisseur who discovers the finest platinum when he had expected gold, held in the hard fingers of his left hand a leather folder which lay open on his lap, an A4 still of the woman standing hands on hips clipped to the inside cover on the left, a sheath of papers slid into a pocket on the right.

He had already studied the photograph, and the others in the dossier, and read far more than just the first sheet of pale yellow legal foolscap, but that first sheet had caught his attention the most as he had absorbed from its neatly typed lines not only her standard physical dimensions, height and weight and measurements of shoulders and bust and waist and hips and cup size, but also those dimensions he had not before seen set out so carefully, measurements of the potential girth and depth of cunt and ass and mouth, the strength of her vaginal muscles and how well she could breath with her throat filled.

On screen, the woman shrieked as her ass was filled, screaming "OH FUCK, YES! OH FUCK ME! FUCK ME! HARDER!"

The man, as if desperate to match her lust and prove himself at least her equal, began thrusting as desperately as she was demanding, his face no longer pink with the effort of controlling himself but scarlet with the effort of exerting himself.

Every time he bottomed out inside her, hitting far too hard, his concentration ruined by her preparatory phellations, she was slammed forwards, nearly toppling, her arms on the bed frame folding, her breasts swinging wildly. Every time he drew back, taking a simultaneous, desperate, gulp of air, she thrust back at him, desperate to keep him inside.

"Your dossier is admirably complete," the Master's client said, in a voice at once hard and grudgingly respectful, but a trifle too loud and with a hint of harshness that did not suit the sombre mellowness of the room, after swallowing the brandy and, somewhat regretfully, setting the glass back down on the tray, "But fails to do her justice."

The Master did not betray by either the flicker of an eyelid or the tightening of his jaw his opinion of this statement, he merely raised a single finger towards one corner of the room, where stood a woman in a long, off-the-shoulder, light-grabbing, shimmering red silk dress that caressed her nubile flanks, hourglass waist and elegantly curved back while hinting through a slit in the side at her long legs, firm thighs and slender calves. Her delicate feet were strapped into 4" heels that revealed the line of her arch, her dainty toes and enameled nails for all to see, and her graceful, long-fingered hands were folded in front, one holding and almost concealing a long, slim, remote control.

At the Master's instruction she raised her hands, one finger moving, her eyes not at all, and the screen changed.

The scene had not, but the man's intensity showed even more the straining desperation to avoid cumming, while the woman showed no reduction in her lust or energy.

"You are already aware," the Master said in his measured tones, "That each of our girls is conditioned to respond faultlessly to a selection of key phrases."

"Yeah, bitch," the man on screen panted, desperately trying to be in charge. "Fucking cum. Cum, bitch!"

The woman's eyes flew wide as the hoarse command seemed to go straight to her body without first passing through her brain. Her body convulsed and her mouth flew open in a wail of ecstasy, her hips pumping desperately, not skillfully now, as she bucked backwards, each shock of orgasm clear for all to see, as were the juices spurting from her cunt, as the man, gratefully, let himself go as well.

His shudders, starting second, finished well before hers.

The client had read through her abilities, in silence, astonishment ever warring to break through his professionally unreadable, hard face, but this was something he had needed to see verified. Now, seeing it, his face revealed to the expert reader that he could scarcely believe it.

The Master read him, but contented himself with a wave of his hand to the woman in the silk dress.

The screen froze for a fraction of a second, displaying for just that long a still image of the woman's face contorted in orgasm, eyes squeezed shut and mouth stretched open, before flicking crisply to a new scene.

The slave was once more centre-screen, but this time spread-eagled, tied in a vertical cross on her knees, her knees and wrists cuffed and stretched tight by sturdy cords to an even sturdier frame, the trained physique of this athlete of sex shown off to best effect, her firm breasts lifted by her upraised, spread arms, and by thin lines tied to her nipples and to the top corners of the frame, to an even more enticing position.

The only other figure in the scene was a woman dressed in leather boots and bustier and mini skirt, ash-blond hair tied high on the back of her head, thin face serious and focused behind a cover of pancake white makeup with ruby lips and eyeshadow, breathing deeply and steadily, booted feet spread for balance as her thin right arm worked a whip with nine silken tails across the back and buttocks and thighs of the slave, who convulsed with every strike, every one of which landed fractionally early or late of rhythm to keep her guessing.

The slave's tied nipples betrayed her arousal, carefully positioned lighting betraying her nipples. With each impact of the whip she jerked forwards as much as her awkward, restrained position would allow, and each time she jerked her full breasts jerked too, bouncing heavily on her chest.

Each gasp she made with each impact of the lash had suffering in it, but also pleasure, and her face was flushed even as she winced and bit her lip and struggled to hold back the tears of pain.

"You will find her tough, but not insensitive," the Master said, a touch more dryly than usual, a fact which escaped his stonily unsettled client. "How you take care of her skin is, of course, up to you. You will also find, should you desire it, that all commands also work in such a situation, albeit with a slight delay for her body to catch up. You may of course view this DVD at your leisure before making your decision. Let us move on."

The Master had noted that his customer was too distracted by his particular fetishes to truly pay attention to what he had to say, and the knowledge bought with it a sickening contempt for his role here in this room, humoring someone whose only feasible option was to make it appear as though he had doubts, as though he were engaged in the purchase of a company, or another new car, and wished not to appear too keen.

Without becoming peremptory, the Master waved his hand again. The screen flickered and this time there were three figures upon it. 

The slave was now unbound although not unrestrained, kneeling on a thick carpet with legs spread wide so that the man kneeling behind her could get an unrestricted thrust deep into her cunt, her arms held by the wrists back and up behind her, the man taking the weight of her upper body and holding her at just the right height to devote her full oral attentions to the finger-spread cunt and budding clitoris of the mistress who sat on the edge of the bed and used her free hand to tease her nipples to firmer erection.

With each thrust of the man the slave's breasts jerked forwards and her mouth was thrust up, her wide-open jaw letting her tongue and her lips stroke from asshole to clitoris.

With an ever widening grin, and her hips beginning to twitch as her belly clenched with every lick, the Mistress on the sofa was making her own nipples red with the pinching and rubbing, and her tongue began to lick her lips like an adder sensing a kill.

"We've taught you well, haven't we?" she said huskily and eagerly, over the panting of the man. "You're a good little licker now, slave. Keep it up and I'll let you cum."

The Master's client shifted in his chair, slightly, barely enough for the leather to betray his broken concentration with the faintest of squeals. He licked his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, managing to avoid having to clear his throat.

"So many talents?" He asked, pitching his voice appropriately this time. "So much training? That is far more than I ordered."

On screen, the Mistress gave a signal and the man leaned back, jerking, pulling the slave upright and holding her back against his chest, her breasts heaving with deep breathing, the thrusting now stilled as the Mistress slid down off the bed and knelt knee-to-knee with the slave, groin-to-groin and breast-to-breast, leaning into her, sandwiching her against the man for a deep, tonsil-cleaning kiss, grinding mound against mound, the Mistress pressing deep, the slave, filled deep with massive cock, pressing demandingly back.

The Mistress reached down between them and guided the man's cock out of the slave's cunt and into her own, a pathetic moan wrenched from the slave even as the Mistress sighed in pleasure, still thrusting her mound against the slave's as the man, awkwardly, in an awkward and painful position, did his best to use his hips to thrust into her.

The smooth lines of the Master's face did not betray the contempt he felt at his client's comment, but his voice did become a little dry as he responded. "We do not train girls of limited ability here, sir. Nor do we stint in our training. When we judge a girl to be ready to be offered to a client we judge to be suitable" - there was not even a hint of rebuke or warning in his tone - "You may rest assured, sir, that you are acquiring the very best conditioning and training that your money and your status" - again, not a hint of sharpness or pointed tone - "May acquire for you. She will obey you utterly, will perform any sensual or erotic tasks that you require of her faultlessly, and will take genuine pleasure in doing so."

The Mistress stood, pulling the slave up with her, still kissing her, still squashed breasts against breasts, sliding easily off the man's cock and leaving him to catch his breath as she turned them both, pushing the slave back against the bed and onto it, flat on her back, kneeling above her and dropping her hips to press once more mound to mound as she pinned the slave's arms with her hands and raped her mouth with her tongue.

The Master took up his ivory-headed, brass-tipped wooden cane from where it hung on the edge of his chair and, without appearing to use it, rose to his feet and turned to face his surprised, although hiding it, client.

"We are not some sort of Technical College, sir, teaching the mere mechanical application of mere crude skills. We are a University wherein our students are conditioned as well as trained and from which they graduate ready and able and willing, sir, willing, to satisfy your requirements now and in the future.

"You always get more than you order, sir, always."

The man on screen rose to his feet and climbed onto the bed, above both women, positioning his cock at the slave's cunt and pushing in hard, the lithesome body jerking under the Mistress' weight in response, before pulling out and impaling the Mistress, then the slave, then the Mistress, easily and smoothly, the Mistress enjoying the play, the slave tortured by the teasing.

The Mistress slid up the slave's body, brushing her breasts either side of the sweating, submissive face and then positioning her smooth cunt above it. The man, back contorted to keep the right position, stayed buried in the slave's cunt, fucking her mechanically.

"He's going to fuck you until you cum," the Mistress said evenly, "But you're not going to cum until I say you can, and I won't say you can cum until you make me cum. Twice. So get licking, slut, and lick good."

"I will leave you now," the Master said simply. "Please come and join me in my office next door when you have seen enough."

His client did not respond, knowing that he had been warned and knowing where the power in this room lay. Instead he watched the screen, not hearing the quiet footsteps and almost as quiet cane of the Master crossing the room, oblivious to the opening and closing of the heavy wooden door and even forgetting the existence of the woman in the figure-hugging silk, no matter how attractive that figure might be, as the women on screen became covered in sweat and the man's thrusts became more energetic, taunting the slave with stimulation.

The Master gently closed the door behind himself as the Mistress' breathing deepened and became moans. He stood for a moment in the corridor then, suppressing a deep sigh, made his slow and deliberate way down the silken hall runner to where an identical door marked the entrance to his office.

These affairs, these necessary matters of business, never ceased to tire him, to make him feel contempt for those who accessed his special services, and indeed for those who never would, all humanity damned by association. He had often wondered if perhaps he should have a deputy, an apprentice, a factotum. But time had resolved those wonderings, and he was no longer troubled by them. The answer was, of course, no.

His client watched on, the Mistress riding the squirming slave to her first orgasm, the man purple-faced with the effort of controlling himself, the slave delirious by now, struggling to maintain focus on her mouth. 

"Keep going, slut! That's one! He's not going to cum in you, either, bitch. He's going to wait until I tell him where to put it, so don't think you'll get to stop!"

The woman in the silk stood quiet and still, invisible in her glowing red dress, face neutral and body calm.




Harem School Ch. 02



"Oh yeah! Lick me, bitch! Harder!"

The man grew even more strained, his muscles quivering as he pumped, and the slave grew ever more desperate.

"Pull out and fuck her ass!" The Mistress snapped. "If she can't concentrate, she can't get it in her desperate cunt!"

The Master's client sat and watched, ignoring this jarring note.

The man withdrew, paused for just long enough to regain his own concentration, great gulps of air expanding his muscle-wrapped chest, the slave's slime coating his bobbing shaft, then he thrust back inside her, lower this time, bulldozing his way through her puckered asshole, making her convulse underneath the Mistress, putting a delighted expression on the Mistress' face.

Next door, the Master folded himself down into his chair, his cane carefully placed against the desk, the desk stretching away in front of him, green leather and deep red wood, only the most vital and carefully selected implements needed upon its surface, the inkwell and stand for his personal conceit, a gold quill pen.

His chair swivels but does not move as he positions himself, settling smoothly and without thinking into the leather. He folds his long fingers, parchment-fine skin rustling, on the leather in front of him and calmly, confidently, waits. His client watched on as the Mistress, fulfilled, stood up and ordered the man to withdraw from the slave, unfulfilled, and aim his throbbing, shivering cock at her chest. He came at her command, great gouts of his cum splashing against the twin curves of the slave's firm breasts, sliding down onto her belly and her sternum, or clearing them altogether and landing on her neck or shut-eyed, open-mouthed face, one gob landing directly in her mouth and quickly swallowed, her mouth opening wider in the hope of another one that never came.

The Mistress looked over her shoulder at the camera, grinning with bared teeth. "Now the bitch can cum," she said. 

Convulsing, screaming, tortured with pleasure as though it were pain, the slave came. 

Watching, the client almost did too.



Harem School Ch. 03



Author's Note:

The identity of the car is left purposefully hidden as an exercise for the reader, although it shouldn't be too hard for the right devotee. Indeed, vague devotees will guess in the first paragraph, while only true devotees will get the full answer.

It is probably best to read at least the original "Harm School", and probably also "Harem School 2: The Sale", to understand this world. But I hope that this will stand as a good story in its own right.

In fact, I hope it will work in its own right. This bloody story took me about two years to write. I can't even blame the full-time job I got just after starting it, or wanting to spend time with my girlfriend. It just plain didn't work. I had the opening, it worked, and then I ground to a halt just as they got to the library. It was stale. Incredibly, boringly, mind-numbingly, oh-my-god-what-do-I-do-now stale. I had been there and done it already, and once is enough. Twice is getting a bit tedious if I change the details. Three? God help me. So it took me months of shying away from the thought of thinking about it to actually get anything happening, and in the end it turned out to be a clumsy scene-ender. And then in came Angela.

God bless Angela. She wrote herself, she really did. I have been saved by characters before, but rarely one so sexy. And not only that, but she suggested a /fourth/ story. Four? No, dear god, no, but I may have no choice.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering: Isis is not named for a certain adult star of the same name, but for one of my cats, and she was named after the Egyptian Goddess of the Dead. Angela is not named after anyone in particular.

========================

Chapter 3: "Combat" or "The Meeting Of Old Friends"

The car speared along the road fast and purposeful, long shapely bonnet leading the way, gaping chrome-toothed mouth snarling at the horizon and sucking in air to feed and flame the fires of all twelve cylinders. So low to the ground, even travelling this fast felt faster, chrome-spoke wheels blurring into mirror disks or transparent silver haze with the blink of an eye, wide wood-rimmed steering wheel feeding delicately precise commands from string-backed leather-sheathed long fingers to the front wheels as each endlessly successive corner was dispatched with the effortless smooth speed of a talented, passionate driver.

On the way up over the mountains each corner had been met with a check in the velvety engine roar as gears were taken or given back, the thin round fluorescent needle of the tachometer dancing up and down as the speed climbed or dropped with the vagaries of the road.

But here, coming down, descending once more from the cool, bracing air of the crest to the flatlands where the open top of the roadster might have made more sense to those who would never appreciate this car enough to own one and would huddle away from the blast of wind that whipped through the short silver-white hair of the driver and set the long white silken scarf about her neck dancing, the gear-lever stayed where it was, torque swelling to push the car out of a bend, higher revs turning the thrust into a heady rush that hurtled car and driver towards the next, before once again four wheels bit the tarmac to lose that speed, another corner, another squatting of suspension across the apex and another heady rush of acceleration beckoning.

Grass-covered hills or rock-faced cuttings flashed by close on the left, only white railings blurring across another lane on the right. twice a car slogging up had received an impression of menacing but somehow laughing speed in a black blur of sound that made the pulse quicken, and once on the way down the weary driver of a family-laden van had been startled out of his fatigue and his complacency by the explosive, tearing crackle from close-set twin exhausts and a confused impression of a great beast that charged around outside his door and dived in front across the corner, disappearing into the distance and bewildered, frightened memory before the van had negotiated that bend itself.

At last the bends grew fewer and further apart, the wooden-topped gear lever called once more into play, the engine note stretched from frustrated, caged growling to full-throated ecstatic roaring even before the final corner was passed, the tarmac stretched into the sun-blurred distance and the car, without needing to gather itself, joyously leaped forwards as the trees by the roadside blurred unrecognisably.

At last the car's brakelights glowed red once more, in a spot like any other on a stretch of road distinguished only by the tall, old trees lining its verges and blanketing it in cool shade. Another driver might have missed the narrow little stretch of asphalt into which the car's long black snout was swung, now sniffing ahead at barely more than walking pace, this velocity making it seem pendulous as the earlier speed had seemed to compact it. 

The stretch of tarmac curved, the wrought-iron and ivy-covered gates hidden from the road, but even so they were swinging open as that long nose was swung between them, the asphalt under its warm black tyres changing to immaculate paving stones that added their own rumble to the now lazy, contented growl of the engine.

The trees overhead thinned, then dropped in height and then pulled away from the road, so that sunlight one more caressed the black metal and the view opened up onto open parkland and a magnificent old mansion more imposingly grand than the mountains that gave it a backdrop.

The paving stones gave way in their turn to gravel that crunched in friendly fashion beneath the wheels, and the gravel parted, the car sniffing its way to the left of the fork, around an enclosed circle of garden that boasted at its centre a statue of the goddess Diana.

At the head of the circle of gravel stood a short but wide flight of steps in front of which the car stopped, the engine dying with a final cough and the car, at last, at rest, at peace save for the ticking of hot metal.

One long leather-covered hand peeled the glove off the other. Fingertips capped with burgundy-painted nails touched briefly to muted red lips and then transferred the kiss lovingly to an engraved plaque on the dashboard. 

The long door opened and a tan riding boot was placed upon the gravel. The boots covered the bottoms of camel-brown riding pants, the pants below a dark brown leather jacket that covered a lace-trimmed white blouse. The woman inside these clothes carried herself with unthinking, easy confidence in her own sense of style and her face with pride, each crease and wrinkle upon it a hard-won trophy of a life lived to the full, spent doing whatever occurred to her at whatever expense was necessary. Her skin betrayed a touch of leatheriness beneath the deceptively minimal makeup, but her eyes, betraying energy and authority, so dominated her face that such matters were simply irrelevant.

Her lips, however, aristocrat-narrow, were curved in a smile so broad that her eyes crinkled with humour as she went up the steps two at a time, pulling off her other glove.

The man at the top of the stairs, elderly but regal and statesman-like, dressed in a scarlet satin dressing-gown tied at the waist, over charcoal pants and black shoes, over a burgundy smoking jacket and a white silk shirt with its own ruffs at collar and cuffs, leaning on an ivory-headed, brass-tipped wooden cane, wore a smile just as large.

Even the woman standing a little to the right and two steps behind him, young and nubile and slender, in a simple long dress of maroon satin and the faultlessly elegant poise of a statue, had an abashed smile upon her dark red lips that threatened to impair the smoothness of her alabaster skin.

"Darling! I told you I'd be on time!" Her voice was warm, but by emotion not habit, the tones round through breeding not affectation, the timbre rich through confidence not arrogance.

"I never respect your promises where driving is concerned," the man replied, his voice dry but warm, sardonic but not sarcastic, soft but not weak. "For I know how you plan to keep them."

The woman laughed, genuine and self-mocking, as she cleared the last steps and reached out to hug the gentleman of the house, bending at the waist so that he didn't have to.

"But I've never let you down yet, have I, darling? Admit that!"

She turned to the young woman in the satin dress, who blushed and then dipped her head apologetically, bowing smoothly at the waist and murmuring "Mistress," without keeping the happiness out of her tone.

The older woman raised the young woman's chin with her hand and kissed both cheeks, smiling. "You don't have to treat me like that, child. Now give me a kiss in return."

The three passed through the large wooden double doors and into the house, passing from warm sunlight but air with a lingering chill into electric light warm by tone only, and air cool and still. The corridor down which they walked was panelled with pale woods and carpeted with fibres more yellow and green then red or brown, but in its short length enfolded the three in a blanket of hushed reverence and respectful humility.

At the end of the corridor, double doors stood waiting wide open, all other doors, to the left or right, closed. The three passed through those open doors to find themselves in a foyer of sorts, another set of doors at the other end, a staircase leading up in a long, graceful arc, and a richly exuberant Persian carpet underfoot.

They continued at their stately pace across the chamber and through the gaping portal, into a richly furnished room with sunlight streaming through French doors on the opposite wall, an expansive garden visible through them. The sunlight betrayed otherwise hidden depths of colour in the carpet, the leather of the well-padded furniture and the oiled wooden panelling. It played also over a black and white photograph upon one wall, a small framed head, shoulders and bust portrait of a naked young woman with long, straight hair, firm and heavy breasts, proud posture and confident gaze. 

A smile flickered briefly, unnoticed by the others, across the lips of the woman in the leather driving coat as her gaze passed just as briefly across the portrait, before she turned her attention to a folio, bound in dark green leather, resting upon a round wooden table underneath it. Her long fingers opened the cover to reveal a series of black and white studies of young women, each naked, one photograph to a page, no labels or writing of any sort to identify them. As she flicked one by one through the pages, turning each with precise care, each photographed pose was different, and some taken not in a studio but outdoors, in a garden, an ancient tree or old stone wall highlighting the beauty of the photograph's subject.

The old man, walking across the room to a small mahogany bar on the other side, paused in his deliberate stride to turn his head half over his shoulder towards his guest. "Dry sherry?" He asked.

"As always," she replied, adding: "It never ceases to amaze me how you find such consistently exquisite girls."

"They find me. How do you find your men?"

"Oh, they also cum when they are called."

The man's face, turned once more towards the bar and hidden from view, creased in a half smile at the nearly forty-year-old ritual just enacted.

She was still standing when he turned around, a glass in hand, another waiting for him on the bar. Knowing his routine, she didn't offer to help, accepting the glass graciously and waiting for him to pick up his before sitting down in an armchair to one side of another small, round, wooden table, with another leather-covered folio on it, this one bound in rich red with gold trim.

His fine-boned hand rested lightly on the folio, just his fingertips touching, his parchment-like skin almost rustling as he caressed the leather.

"How easily do they learn," he asked, continuing where their little ritual had left off, "To cum on command?"

She smiled ruefully. "Not as easily as your women, of course, darling. That would be too much to expect. But they learn, eventually, they learn. The researches of psychologists have been good to our professions, yours and mine."

He merely nodded his assent, taking a sip of his sherry as punctuation.

"Of course, I find my greatest asset to be your dedicated, professional and highly skilled girls."

That, too, was part of the ritual, the Master now free by unspoken habit between them to continue on to business.

"You need new trainers?" He asked, curious. "Your letter invoked in me some surprise, I must admit. When I visited you last I found only signs of a positive future."

His visitor smiled ruefully. "Lynette fell in love with a student, and used her Favour to buy him from me and retire. I gave them the standard assistance, and they have moved to where their talents can be best utilised. After we sent them away, of course." She finished this last sentence gleefully, and her host's lips twitched in a smile and his eyes grew faintly unfocused as he remembered other such celebrations. His attention returned, however, as she continued speaking.

"My beloved Mary retired, of course, deciding that she had nothing more left to give, and everything still to live for.

"Then Jeanne - Jeanne developed breast cancer. Quickly found, of course, but she didn't respond well to treatment, and she spends most of her days in hospital."

A shadow passed over the Master's brow at this news. Jeanne was well and fondly remembered by him, one of his favourite instructors, a girl trained from the first bloom of youth by her mother, one of his old alumni, to the life of a courtesan but far, far better suited to the instruction of others, a girl possessed of all the graces and style that her French mother could give her, but also the dominant, incisive mind of the true Mistress.

The Master closed his eyes briefly in remembering, then half-unconsciously brushed a speck of dust off his jacket, symbolically brushing the sands of time into the past. He made a mental note to send flowers to her hospital - he rarely left his house himself, these days.

"So I need three more instructors," his guest finished. "My order books are, you understand, full."

The Master well understood, and made no comment about his own order books, each by long agreement able to call upon the other and take immediate priority. He was, indeed, grateful that some more of his girls were going to such a home, where, if nothing else, he could follow their careers closely.

"Have you anyone in mind?"

"Three names did command instant attention." 

This, too, was ritual, the cold hard facts of business, of performance and of assets bought and sold, an open book between them, far more so than the personal lives of their old friends and students.

The Master rested his hand on the book on the table between them, letting his old palm touch the new leather as if to absorb the contents.

Then he straightened in his chair, adjusting his jacket with fingers suddenly purposeful. "Well," he said, draining the contents of his glass which, a casual observer might suppose, had drunk themselves, so unpretentious was his appreciation of the amber liquor, "You may like to meet them."

#

Angela was sweating hard, the liquid running into her eyes and dripping off her nose and chin and adrenaline-erect nipples, making her skin slick to the touch. The stark lights around and above her reflected off her like brass. Her raven hair, long and normally worn plaited, had been wound into a bun on top of her head. Her chest was heaving as she breathed hard and deep, sucking air right down into the bottom of her lungs, swelling her belly as well as her breasts.

The lights were hot, but the room was vast and the air cool. She had sweated from exertion. She always had sweat copiously, even now that she was far fitter than the average, and it had always made her more attractive during the more involved varieties of sex.

Now it had stood her in better stead, giving her a key edge, making her slippery and difficult to hold on to. She had also thought to tie her plait into a bun, something her opponent had not, and now Angela was reaping the benefits, her opponent submitting to the consequences.

Angela was fit, strong and had a good sense of her own body, but she had been nervous before this trial.

"You will be tested," the Domme had told her, stony-faced, as she sat nervously awaiting what she had been told would be outside her experience so far.

"We need to know if you are just another little fuck-toy sub bitch, or if you're worth more than that."

She had needed to concentrate then, concentrate to stop herself get warm and submissive when he used those command phrases. So much effort had been put into making her respond without thinking, and it took all the self-control she had not to bend at the knees and beg for him.

But she had held on, stayed standing, and the glint in his eye might have told her that she had passed the first test already.

"We need to find out if you have the concentration, the focus, and the self-discipline to be a Mistress. And we need to know if you want it hard enough not to fold as soon as someone sticks their fingers in your wet cunt, you pathetic little bitch."

Somehow, from somewhere, she had found the strength to stay standing, and to look him in the eye. Deep inside her, a spark of dominance had flared up, hidden since she enrolled in this school for slaves, and plastered over by the united efforts of a teaching staff determined to make her will utterly subservient to everyone else. Somehow, her knees didn't even shake.

The Domme looked at her with a sneer.

"We might have to go through with this after all. Move! Through that door! And get those clothes off, slut. You won't be needing those in there."

So she had halted before the door, peeled her bra and panties off, deposited them in the usual expectantly waiting clothes hamper, and walked on through to... A gymnasium?

What was this? For a moment, Angela was bewildered. There was a large square area of mat in the middle of the floor, and a clear space around it. What could this be for? Everything else she had done so far had involved some sort of equipment.

Then another slave entered through a door on the other side, also naked, her hair tied back but not plaited. Isis. Angela knew her well, in all senses of the word.

Angela felt a pang of natural apprehension along with the conditioned twinge of arousal. What was this to be?

A Domme walked out of the shadows, burly and dressed in black, cotton pants and T-shirt and canvas shoes that made little noise on the mat. "Stand at your places," he ordered without looking at them, pointing at two straight black lines marked as place holder on the pale brown surface. Angela could see that he held a stopwatch in each hand.

Hesitantly, Angela stepped forwards and put her toes just in front of it, remembering the decorum training that had been such an integral part of her early life here.

Neatly lined up in front of each line was a pair of minimalist canvas shoes.

"Put the shoes on," the Domme said, still without looking at them. "We don't want you to break a toe."

What? Angela's mind screamed at her as, feeling slightly numb, she complied. The shoes fit her snugly and perfectly (of course) and slipped on quickly, securing firmly. Were they serious? Some sort of fight?

"Kneel," the Domme said, impassionately. Angela's knees reflexively buckled, and she was pleased to see that Isis was no slower; may, in fact, have been faster.

They knelt at each line, facing each other, in the standard position, hands on knees, back upright, head dropped slightly.

"This is a personality test," the Domme said. "We need to know how tough your minds are. We need to know if you'll only ever be sluts, fuck-toys, cum-buckets and playthings for your superiors,"




Harem School Ch. 03



Oh god, focus! Angela prayed, as her pussy got damp and her head started to swim with deep-ingrained pleasure.

"Or if there's some spine left in you. If there's spine left in you, you might be a bit more than submissive little cunts. You might be trained as a toy dominatrix. You might even be a dominatrix yourself one day."

Angela almost broke her posture in shock at that. What? A dominatrix! Fuck, is he serious?! She looked up through her eyelashes at Isis, who was staring at her with some of the shock she felt, and whose expression then... Hardened. Isis licked her lips, and her expression turned from fellow fuck-toy, another body, female flesh to play with when ordered, to make her cum with wet tongue and long fingers, or soft bosom to bite, and became suddenly challenging. Her face looked a little bit desperate, but it was determined.

Angela felt numb, and the next words barely penetrated, only her training seizing and retaining them, processing them to the point of automatic obedience while her mind reeled.

"This is a wrestling match. There will be three rounds of five minutes each. Your time dominant will be recorded and you will get one point every time you achieve dominance, two extra points for every fifteen seconds after that. You get five points for every time your opponent cums. You can do anything to your opponent except cause injury. There will be no biting, scratching, or deliberate bruising or you will be disqualified. If you cannot win with discipline, you cannot win at all, and will need to revisit your training and be punished, heavily and as your fellow whores' plaything."

It gave Angela a brief spark of hope, then, that Isis' eyelids fluttered, just for a second, and her belly tightened in spasm.

"There is one final thing which I should not have to mention. You are being tested as dominatrices. So act like one. And the winner of this match gets the loser to play with until she tires. We have equipment waiting. Do you understand?"

Angela's lips formed the deeply ingrained "Yes, master."

Isis, damn her, managed to bite off that second syllable, and the one following, and the Domme's tongue lashed at Angela alone. 

"You're not learning, girl! You don't have much time for that."

Angela recoiled, inwardly, her training keeping her back straight and her face blank as the Domme stepped back and held up both stopwatches.

Angela's mind was in a panic. Wrestling? What did she know about wrestling? 

Then the Domme said, loud and clear, "Wrestle!" and she found out that Isis didn't really know about wrestling either. But it didn't stop the girl from launching herself hard at Angela, arms outstretched. 

All Angela could do in response was to respond, and from that moment she was fighting off the back foot. 

Isis crashed into her and they sprawled onto the mat, Angela's more generous breasts sending her sharp pain signals as the lighter but still adult Isis landed on top of them. The breath was driven from Angela's body, but she still managed to fend off Isis' clutching hands and avoid getting pinned absolutely. Isis' legs were on either side of hers, and - oh god - their pussies were brushing as they struggled. Angela nearly collapsed. She failed to strangle a desperate moan and Isis, who spotted both the sound and the reason why, grinned wickedly and ground her hips down, hissing "Down and dirty, bitch!"

Angela's body collapsed backwards, arms and legs and head flopping as submission overwhelmed her. She dimly heard the Domme say "Isis has dominance," but it was lost by Isis continuing to grind their pussy lips together as she grabbed Angela's legs between hers and squeezed, bracing herself as she reached down to Angela's breasts, squeezing them /hard/, her fingers turning the flesh white.

Angela screamed in pain, but it was the sound of a cumslut, fuckbot slave and Isis, shorter and not up to her face, laughed at her exposed neck and said "Cum for me, slut!"

Angela, conditioned for years to respond, still confused and uncertain in this competition, thrown into turmoil by the circumstances and by Isis' desperate but effective assault upon her, responded. Not powerfully, not hard or long, but she did jerk and gasp out as her pussy spasmed, and the Domme said "Five points against Angela for cumming."

Isis laughed again, hissing "That's a good little bitch! You fucking dirty slut," and kept up a running litany of degrading abuse as she twisted, slipping her hand between them and plunging two fingers into Angela's cunt.

Angela convulsed again, jerking up into Isis' hand, moaning helplessly. Somehow a tiny voice in the back of her mind was shouting at her, trying to tell her that this was wrong, but her mind was too fogged and cowed to comprehend. They weren't going to get in trouble for this, were they? Surely Mistress knew what she was doing?

The she heard the Domme say "Fifteen seconds, two points to Isis." The right memory came back to her, and she panicked, bucking, catching Isis by surprise and throwing her off, sprawling ungainly and screaming in surprise and rage as her fingers were torn from the pussy she thought was going to be her toy. But she recovered fast and Angela was too weak, at first, to put up a more than token resistance, still confused and still not in the right frame of mind, trying harder to avoid Isis than to fight back.

Neither of them grappled with any degree of skill or effectiveness, but the desperate and assertive attacks of Isis wore away at Angela's training once more as all she could offer was squirming defence, manging to stop Isis get one leg between hers - she knew instinctively that once her opponent's thigh was hard against her pussy she may as well give in and cum again - and holding her wrists, avoiding all but random slaps and grabs, twisting her head to avoid Isis trying to claim her through kissing her, and for a few seconds they were locked immobile, both breathing hard now, one angry and frustrated, the other almost whimpering with fear, when the Domme said calmly "Isis has the advantage but no dominance, you'll have to do better than that."

This almost didn't register with Angela but it did with the girl on top, who gave another shriek and a violent effort that saw Angela, in trying to avoid her, twist away. For one second even Isis was surprised, but then she managed to gain the advantage, wrapping one leg around Angela beneath her breasts, throwing her leg over and holding her in an unexpected scissor grip around her middle, driving the breath from her body.

All Angela could do was flail wildly, pawing at Isis' thighs around her belly as Isis worked another arm around her neck, grabbing around the throat and bowing her backwards, the arm beneath her breasts rising up to grab one, nipple captured between index and middle finger, squeezing it hard as she squashed the ripe mound into Angela's chest.

Again Angela screamed with pain, and tried to break free, but Isis was holding on too hard, too well, and hissing too many control phrases into her ear. Her breasts were too sensitive, her cunt too wet. "Isis has dominance," the Domme said calmly.

This time Angela managed to fight back as Isis tried to use her legs to scissor Angela's apart, and wrapped her thighs together to keep her desperately throbbing cunt safe from Isis' scrabbling fingers. With another compulsive heave she got her legs free and began scrambling around the mat, unable to shake Isis' arm around her throat but once more managing to retain some measure of control by trying to run away. "Dominance broken," the imperturbable voice of the Domme said, which boosted Angela and made Isis even more desperate.

But no matter how hard Angela tried to run, her mental state was too confused, too shattered to fight back. By the time the five minute bell rang she had been pinned down twice more, and fingered to cumming once more. She crawled to the edge of the mat feeling shattered, weak and humiliated - Isis' slave in all but formality. 

But good slaves do as they're told, and so when they were told to assume the sitting position, rest and focus themselves for the next round, she did so. When she sat, knees together and back dead straight, shoulders pulled back and eyes straight ahead and unfocused but steady, she managed to pull the shreds of her will back together and focus. And that allowed her to think. 

Isis was winning not because she was a better wrestler but because she was trying to win. She was thinking like a mistress. Even through the discipline of her posture, that was obvious - her eyes still had a hint of the glare, and her jaw was set, her hands trying to relax but still with a touch of rigidity that suggested claws and aggression.

Angela was going to have to start thinking like a Mistress, and that meant /knowing/ that you were dominant, not that slut over there! Angela finally felt a surge of the anger that she desperately needed. That slut was no better than her, they were both whores together! Why should she have an advantage here? 

If Isis saw the new set to Angela's jaw, the way her hands involuntarily twitched before being stilled and brought under control, the coldness in her eyes, she didn't show it. And she particularly didn't show it when the Domme walked back onto the mat and said "Time! Stand your places!" She scurried forward, eager to be on.

Angela moved more deliberately, a flash of native cunning making her seem weak still, and she knelt correctly rather than assertively, her eyes dropping a little, which would have earned her a whipping in any other forum.

When the Domme said "Wrestle!" Isis launched herself across the mat, eyes and mouth revealing her hunger for victory, for power, but Angela threw herself sideways and upwards, grabbing the startled Isis around her torso and throwing them both sideways, twisting around in the air, getting behind her opponent and holding her tight, landing on her back with Isis impotent on top.

Isis screamed "You fucking bitch, how dare you!" but she was too late to prevent the taller, longer Angela getting her legs around Isis' and spreading them open, holding her exposed by main strength. Isis was wiry but Angela was not just larger but athletic as well, always able to take physical abuse, tortures and postures, and retain endurance for other things. No matter how hard she struggled she couldn't shake off Angela, who held Isis tight while catching her breath and planning her next move.

"Angela has dominance," the Domme calmly said. Isis tried to heave herself free but found Angela's legs and arms iron-hard about her. She tried to use her arms to lever them over and Angela, with a flash of inspiration, twisted with her, torso only, legs bracing them in place but catching Isis' arm and twisting it back, trapping it beneath them but slipping hers free. Isis cried out in surprise and what might have been pain. Angela paused, automatically, but the Domme calmly said "Continue."

While their free arms grappled, Angela was free to snake her hand down Isis' belly and clutch at her mons. "I hope you're wet already, slut," she whispered into one flushed ear. "Because otherwise you're going to hurt, and it'll be your fault, won't it, bitch?" 

Isis tried to deny this, tried to writhe away, tried to escape but the phrases and the helplessness of her position made her body react, so when Angela plunged two fingers hard inside her, they met with no resistance. She arched into them, and couldn't stifle her own moan of submissive lust. "There's a good slut!" Angela said with a carefully delighted tone in her voice. "You're doing well! Now spread those thighs wider so I can frig you properly, bitch!"

Isis, now helpless in the fact of her training and her arousal, spread her legs and went limp in Angela's grasp.

Angela had thought about this, quickly, and decided that although making Isis cum was valuable, it was more valuable to make her weak and unable to resist, and to stay on top as long as possible. So she went slowly, trying to trap Isis inside her own mind and leave her unable to fight when she did come back to her senses. So she waited until the Domme said "Fifteen seconds, two points to Angela," and felt Isis begin to jerk in realisation and only then said "Cum, whore!" 

Isis' orgasm was hard and Angela drew it out with one hand still vigorously pumping her pussy and clit, the other grabbing one nipple and distending it, using Isis' weakness for pain against her. "Five points against Isis for cumming." Angela managed to draw it out almost until she heard "Fifteen seconds, two points to Angela."

Isis struggled hard, then, and though she was weak Angela had been forced to hold her position and was also beginning to tire. Isis broke free and tried to roll away, too shattered from cumming so long to properly fight back. Angela gave chase, trying to pin one arm to the mat. Isis jerked the arm away, rolling onto her back as she did so, and Angela, striking as fast as she could, landed on top of Isis, pulled her knees up to clamp the smaller girl's torso, pinned both arms above her head to the mat, and then moved up her body to sit on her chest, looking down as Isis ineffectually tried to buck her off, head still spinning, and said "Don't try to run away, bitch! You're my whore! I may have to punish you for that." She slapped Isis gently across the face, but the extra humiliation worked against her.

As the Domme said "Angela has dominance," once more, Isis, still desperately in the mindset of a dominatrix fighting back, convulsed violently and managed to lift her legs far enough to hook her ankles around Angela's neck. With a shriek, Angela was pulled backwards, releasing Isis' arms.

The smaller girl jammed one hand against where Angela's pussy rested on her chest, and snatched at a nipple with the other. Angela gasped and shook, and gave Isis enough leeway to throw her off. Suddenly they were back on an almost even footing, but with Isis' fingers jammed in Angela's pussy.

Angela landed with her legs still spread and knees folded and as Isis tried to jam her whole fist inside her she clamped her thighs together, trapping Isis' arm. She grabbed Isis' other arm by the wrist with both of hers, and ripped it away from her breasts. She screamed "You fucking bitch!" But the sound merged into Isis saying the same thing.

For a moment they were almost at stalemate as as they lay on their sides, Isis trying to free either arm, Angela desperately trying to work out what to do next to regain control.

It was Isis who got the first breakthrough, lifting one leg over Angela's and bracing against her uppermost breast, breaking them apart with a cruel shove. Angela cried out in pain but this time didn't let it distract her, and grabbed Isis' leg in retaliation, managing to brace her own foot against Isis' cunt and press hard, using her height and position to keep the smaller girl out of reach.

The rest of that round was scrappy, neither girl gaining the upper hand for more than a few seconds, fatigue telling on both of them. Isis was more agile and could jump to her knees, moving faster across the mat and with the advantage of height as Angela struggled to scramble off her back, but Angela was still stronger, and neither one could gain the element of surprise that would give them enough dominance to turn the other into a sub once more. They were both far too angry, too committed, for that.

The round ended with frustration for both of them, and the cold determination on each side that the other bitch would pay, and would submit, and would beg to be forgiven.

As they knelt and rested, the air between them nearly crackled. They started not into space or at the mat but into each other's eyes, with cold determination nearly as strong as hate.

When the next round began there was no mad rush, no screams and no overconfidence. They both raised up, arms held loosely wide, and started knee-walking towards each other, wary and seething.

Neither of them had any background in wrestling, but they knew about restraints, and they were learning fast.

Isis, more agile, tried to get around Angela. Angela, slightly more focused on the process and not the goal, second-guessed her and got the first meaningful hold.

But it wasn't a hold she could do anything with. For the first minute all they managed was to writhe around on the mat scrambling for a better purchase, even silent except for gasps, grunts, the occasional oath or curse the only sound beyond the slap of flesh against flesh or flesh against mat.

With no definite advantage, and neither one able to find one, their wrestling was more animated, and certainly more strenuous, than it had been in the first round. Isis, fast but slender, found herself constantly frustrated and Angela, stronger and tougher, felt herself to be always on the back foot but not in any real danger. 

By the second minute they were both flushed and breathing hard, and starting to sweat in earnest. 

That was when Angela began to get the advantage. Isis began to struggle to get any sort of grip and Angela, who was used to this, who had suffered through punishment after punishment until she learned to cope with this, began to get a glimmer of hope but, disciplined, didn't let it change her behaviour. Then Isis began to get sweat in her eyes, stinging and distracting her. Angela, who had already closed her eyes and was wrestling by feel, all either of them was doing anyway, began to put in a little bit more effort.

It was Isis who saw the pivotal moment first, and desperately tried to clutch Angela, who was manoeuvring for another hold with no real expectation of being any more successful than she had been up to then. There was almost a popping sound as her grip failed to gain purchase, and suddenly she was flailing desperately as Angela managed to catch both of Isis' legs between her own as she pinned one arm beneath body and, with a heave that she almost had no strength for, flipped on top of the smaller girl, holding the arm she had pinned against her and landing with her free hand on Isis' free elbow. She held her opponent down by greater weight as she took a second to rest, breathing in great lungfuls of air as her weight prevented Isis getting the same reprieve, her breasts nearly suffocating the shorter slave.

She still had Isis' legs clamped between hers, twisting the girl's hips uncomfortably, and was managing to hold them together. Then, when Isis tried another convulsive heave, considerably weaker now for lack of breath, Angela threw herself forward, releasing Isis' legs and lurching up, landing for an instant on her knees above Isis' belly and then forward again, sitting firmly on her tits and upper chest.

Isis screamed in rage and tried to throw Angela off, but in that posture she had no leverage and no strength, and only succeeded in convulsing herself. She tried to push the bigger girl off, but had no more success and had to avoid Angela seizing her arms as she was trying it. When, in frustration, she tried to slap Angela's tits and try to gain some amount of upper hand that way, Angela simply ignored the pain and easily managed to capture both her wrists, slamming them down onto the ground over Isis' head without lifting her weight and giving Isis any leeway to move.

Then, after a moment's thought, she wrestled Isis' arms down and pinned them under her knees, moved forwards to lower her cunt over the prostrate girl's face, and said "Good slaves lick pussy, bitch." With no hope of conning herself into thinking that she was dominant, Isis was a good slave. She started to lick.

The sexual stimulation which had destroyed Angela whenever Isis was dominating her gave her new strength as a Mistress and, eyes wide and mouth open in a hungry grin, she leaned backwards and unerringly seized Isis' cunt again, plunging in three fingers this time. Isis arched her hips off the mat, moaning desperately even as her tongue penetrated Angela's lips. 




Harem School Ch. 03



Once again Angela played with her, whispering enforcing obscenities at the girl pinned beneath her as she played with her pussy, not letting herself cum, waiting until the Domme added another fifteen seconds and two points to her score before letting Isis cum, and once more playing on her, the overpowering scent of her in Isis' nostrils making it even easier this time to drag the orgasm out beyond the fifteen seconds.

Then she let herself cum as well, her juices soaking Isis' face as she continued to gently finger her, not letting her relax.

Isis began to struggle weakly, a vestige of will returning. Angela, grinning, repositioned her hand and drive it all within isis' cunt, fingers together instead of fisted, entering up to her wrist. 

Isis scream of rapture echoed around the room, bursting out of the cunt smothering her mouth, her back arching higher and her legs shaking to keep it there.

"Repeat after me," Angela whispered, as Isis begged for more, her lips and voice sending delicious vibrations into Angela's cunt. "I am a filthy whore."

Muffled by flesh and sobbing but still understandable came Isis' reply: "I am a filthy whore!"

"I deserve to be punished."

"I deserve to be punished!"

"I will do as I'm told."

"I will do as I'm told!"

"I'm just a slut with a cunt who can't think for herself."

"I'm just a slut with a cunt who can't think for herself!"

Angela's voice dropped low, hissing. "Angela is my mistress and I will obey her."

As Isis replied, her voice held the crystalline sound of her mind cracking as she responded to the strongest conditioning that they received. "Angela is my mistress and I will obey her!"

"Excellent!" Angela withdrew her hand with a wet sucking sound, letting Isis collapse back on the mat with a dull thump. She moved back to sit on Isis' breasts and leaned forwards to hiss into her slut's scarlet-flushed, sweaty and cum-soaked face. "We still have some time left. I want you to prove that to me, bitch."

Isis' reply was a whisper: "Yes, mistress."

Angela climbed off her, and Isis lay prone, submissive, waiting to be ordered. 

A voice from the darkness, by one wall where there had been no movement for the whole of the match, said "By George, she's got it! Domme, this match is over. Provide her with toys and when she has finished, deliver her to me. The other one can be put in straps and carried back to training."

Angela's heart had stilled when she heard the honeyed, amused woman's voice speak, and she hardly dared believe the implications, but as she heard the decisive, unthinkingly authoritative snap of booted footsteps leaving the room she was filled with a fierce joy that curved her smile into a toothy grin that made Isis, still unmoving on her back, cower inside.

Angela leaned down to put her mouth next to her slave's ear, and whispered "You like weights clamped to your nipples, don't you, slut? I do hope so. Otherwise you might not enjoy this very much."

Before long screams could be heard through the heavy doors of the dungeon, but whether of pain or of pleasure was difficult to tell.