1 comments/ 16552 views/ 1 favorites Eva's Further Education By: Calandria This story will only make sense if you've read 'The Education of Eva.' Everybody in this story is over eighteen. After the weekend at the mansion, we three girls returned to our routine, 'working' – if work is an adequate description for what we did – from our luxury Costa del Sol pad. I, for one, knew that my attitude was changed for ever, that, for me, there was more to life than parties, and being groped and screwed. My experience during that weekend, with Monique and her husband Jean-Paul, had left me with more questions than answers, it is true, and I still had no idea what I thought about Petra. On the subject of Petra, she was strangely silent after the weekend, and when I showed her the welts Monique had inflicted on me, and described what had happened to me at the mansion, she was reticent about what the Arab, Ben Sayid, and his wives, had demanded of her. I dropped the subject – in any case, I didn't feel as if I wanted to share with anyone what I had felt for Monique during those two days, until time gave me a chance to find out what I really felt for the lovely Frenchwoman who had taken possession of me, and taught me the true relationship between pain and ecstasy. But I was grateful for Petra's presence beside me in my bed, and her feminine softness was a joy whenever we returned after an assignment – which usually involved sex with some minor celebrity, politician or rich businessman. By the time we were due to return to Madrid as the summer season drew to a close, the life of an upper-class whore was, I suppose, starting to pall. Because, dress it up whatever way they could, call us 'escorts' if they liked, that's exactly what we were – it's just that we didn't have to stand on street-corners like the poor kids out there on the Avenida Castellana. Things went quiet after the summer season for a while, and when Tina dropped in from her flat nearby one day, and suggested that Petra and I might be interested in a bit of 'decoration,' we looked at each other, then back at the invariably exhibitionist Tina, who lifted her short skirt to reveal a spectacular tattoo – a brightly-coloured serpent, coiled around one thigh, its head disappearing into her shaven pussy. We both laughed, and I declared there and then that I 'wasn't into tattoos.' But Tina wasn't to be put off that easily, and told us that the establishment she was recommending did all kinds of things, not just tattoos, from piercing to false nails and hair extensions. 'Come with me,' she said, 'you'll be surprised.' We agreed to go along next day, and duly showed up at the smart modern premises in a commercial estate – not at all the sleazy back-street joint I had expected – with the very un-Spanish sign 'Body-Art' over the door. A smiling blonde with a gold ring at the side of her nose welcomed us and seemed to be expecting us – clearly Tina had told her we should be coming. 'I know the way,' said Tina, and led us up a flight of stairs and through a swing door into a big clean tiled room like a clinic, with several reclining chairs and benches to be seen. Two of the chairs were occupied by young women, white towels draped over their abdomens, whilst another client sat on a stool, proferring her tongue to be pierced, and there seemed to be at least half a dozen assorted white-coated staff scurrying about. There was a smell of antiseptic. Tina introduced us to an attractive middle-aged woman, whom she called Bibi, and who enquired as to what it was we wanted done. I had long thought it time to have my navel pierced and said so, but Petra already had had hers done. 'I see you've already had your tongues done,' observed Bibi, 'but what about your labia, as you're here? Would you like me to have a look at them, and see what we can do?' I nodded uncertainly, but Petra seemed more positive and so it was that I found myself in a vacant chair, not unlike the one at the dentist's, while Bibi and a younger girl prodded and probed. In no time at all I had had my navel pierced, and a silver ring threaded in. When Bibi asked me what sort of decoration I wanted, I told her that I loved things that dangled. She fetched me a tray, and I selected a triple silver chain about ten centimetres long which would swish around nicely against my belly. Bibi had inspected my pussy closely and declared me an ideal subject for a pierced clitoris. She told me that few women had a clit big enough to achieve this, as it was normally covered by the hood, but that mine was just asking to be done, and that it would be enhanced beautifully. I was terrified, and asked her if it would hurt. 'Yes,' she said, 'for a moment, but it's terribly exciting as well. Would you like to look at mine?' I nodded dumbly and she needed no further encouragement to lift her starched white housecoat and the silk slip she wore underneath. She pushed aside the gusset of loose silk panties she wore, and there, nestling in the pink crack of her neat pussy, was a silver ring, with a little opalescent stone set into it, projecting from the small protruding bud of her clit. It was all I could do not to reach out and touch it, and I wasn't sure that it wasn't what she wanted, anyway. But the moment passed, and she turned away, a half smile on her face – she knew what had been on my mind. It seemed I had agreed to have it done! Before I could say anything more, Bibi was between my legs – which were in stirrups – and she was teasing out my clit, an altogether pleasant sensation, despite my fears. But then she produced, as if out of thin air, the piercing tool, and told me to keep very still. I was trembling like a leaf, and then there was an awful, blinding pain, and an accompanying sensation the like of which I had never felt in my life, but which was close to that which I knew when I was whipped severely – a ferocious, searing, climactic orgasm that almost caused me to lose consciousness. 'It's done!' said a voice from a million miles away. It was Bibi, by my side, wiping my brow. 'No sex for at least two weeks – and apply this lotion every night,' she said, giving me a bottle. I was soon reunited with Petra, who had been unable to have her clit done, as her hood covered it too completely, so had had a ring inserted in her hood – an altogether simpler process. Then Tina met us in the reception area, where she had been chatting with the blonde, and suggested we go with her and have some lunch, then return to visit another department. 'Fuck,' I said, 'no more pain, please. I've had enough today!' 'No,' said Tina, 'no more pain, trust me.' We had a bite of lunch and returned to the 'Body-Art' headquarters in the afternoon. Tina led us to what she described as the 'nail-room' where we were seated and shown a bewildering variety of false fingernails, and given lots of advice. I had contemplated having a set fitted for a long time – it was just too much trouble maintaining my natural ones all the time, and when the long red porcelain talons were in place, I wondered why I hadn't had them done earlier. Then Tina said, 'You like dangly things, don't you?' 'Yes, why?' I replied. She brought a smiling little assistant to show me a brochure, with a picture of a nail, from which a tiny chain was hanging. I was intrigued. 'Would you like something like this?' she asked, and before I had the chance to reply she had produced a tiny pocket drill, which whined when she flicked it on. I nodded as she put it carefully to the nail on my left pinky, and, in a second, had produced a tiny, neat round hole. Into this she inserted a minute gold ring, which he squeezed up with pliers: from it hung a chain about three centimetres long, with a small stone set in a clasp at its end. I knew it was going to get in my way all the time, but discomfort was a part of sensuality – a reminder, somehow, of the borders of pain and ecstasy, that ven I couldn't have bgun to describe. I watched Petra being fitted with a similar device, and we exchanged knowing looks – she, at least, would understand! When we returned to our apartment block, Olga had pushed a note under my door. It gave me a telephone number to ring, and said it was urgent. It was a Spanish mobile number – I thought, 'somebody doesn't have my mobile number!' Wondering who on earth it could be, curiosity got the better of me. I knew the answering voice instantly. It was a voice I had had dreams about, masturbated while I remembered my weekend with its owner, fantasised about what I wanted her to do to me again, about the kiss of her lash on my naked back, the feel of her tongue as it probed my most secret openings, and about her husband, Jean-Paul, his strong hands on my hips as his erect cock plunged deep into my anus, while she, my lovely Monique, let me kiss her sweet cunt. My legs were weak as I spoke to her, and she heard the tremble in my voice as she arranged to meet me in a city centre coffee bar at ten next morning. I hardly slept that night, troubled by the soreness in my pussy, but still more by the nervousness that my impending meeting with Monique was causing. I got up early, made up carefully, brushed my hair to a silken sheen, dressed in a maroon silk dress with a flared skirt – the best I had – and a pair of good shoes, and took a taxi to our venue. Monique was already there, dressed in a white pleated skirt and brown silk blouse. She looked as lovely as ever, her dark eyes flashing, black hair curling down over her collar. She held my hand as she spoke to me, and I felt all my love for her from a few weeks before surge back into me, take possession of me, and make me want to do anything, absolutely anything, that she wanted of me. She made small-talk and played with the decoration on my pinky: I found myself telling her that I'd had my clit pierced as well. Her voice lowered half an octave as she told me how she wanted to inspect that, and I trembled with the anticipation of it. Then Monique became suddenly businesslike. 'You know I told you we were going to the Seychelles?' 'Yes.' 'Well, you can forget that.' 'Oh?' 'Yes,' she went on, 'things have changed.' She paused. 'Have you read "O"' It took me a moment to adjust to the abrupt change of subject. 'No, but I've seen the film,' I said. 'Good enough,' she relied, 'so you know about Roissy?' 'A fictitious castle where "O" is trained?' 'Correct. What you may not know is that "O" has a tremendous cult status in France. There are whole lots of people who would like to go to a real place like "Roissy" and even a club, the PRAGs' 'PRAG?' 'Pauline Reage Appreciation Group.' 'Oh!' 'Well, as you may not know, Jean-Paul's father left him a lot of money, and we have decided to open an establishment on similar lines to "Roissy" – though nowhere near Paris, as that would probably excite too much attention.' 'Monique,' I said, 'why are you telling me all this?' 'Because, darling, I should like you and your friend to be our first members of staff.' 'Petra as well?' 'Ah, so that's her name; Jean-Paul thought it was Paula. Yes.' 'Oh, Monique, I'd love to come. I'll have to clear it with my boss, of course, and I don't know about Petra, but I think she'll want to, as well.' In truth, I hadn't thought about it – what it would entail, what my duties might be, anything – just the idea of being around Monique and Jean-Paul, and with Petra there as well, that was all I could have wished for, and I just blurted out my acceptance! Monique had to leave in a hurry, so I promised to let her know when I could come to Paris to meet her, and, hopefully, bring Petra, and we parted. Petra was initially sceptical. 'You've gotta be joking,' she said, '"O" is a fantasy, darling. Places like Roissy don't exist. The police would close them down in no time. It's got to be some kind of a scam. You're just cuntstruck over this French tart, and….and, well, anything she says, you're easy meat!' 'And you just wouldn't be a weeny bit jealous, would you?' I rejoined. A slow smile broke out on her lovely face, and she pulled me into her soft embrace, our studded tongues entwining. When we pulled apart, she looked deep into my eyes, and said, 'You're serious about this, are you?' 'What do we have to lose?' I asked her. 'A meal-ticket, for starters,' she said, my ever-practical Petra. 'Look,' I said, 'things are dead quiet at the moment. Let's ask Marta if we can go off for a couple of months, with the option of coming back for the Christmas season. She'll jump at it – it'll be two less to find work for.' She did, and I called Monique the next evening and arranged to meet her in the French capital two days later. Petra and I were, nevertheless, nervous when the Air France flight landed on time at five in the afternoon, at Charles de Gaulle airport, and we collected our scant baggage from the carousel. Monique told us we should travel light, as all the clothing we should need would be provided, and so we just brought one change of clothes and few cosmetics. When we emerged, a broad-shouldered guy in a chauffeur's uniform was holding up a cardboard sheet with our names printed on it, and he took our bags from us without much in the way of conversation. It was soon clear that we had very little language in common, anyway, as I spoke a little French, but Petra had none at all, and our driver, whose name I learned was Didier, had no Spanish, or anything else very much. So we sat in silence as we sped through the busy traffic to a leafy suburb near Versailles, and were deposited outside a well-kept old house with a circular driveway leading to a varnished front door with shining brass furniture. It opened as soon as we approached, and Monique was standing there, dressed in a black silk kimono, her arms open in greeting. Jean-Paul was stood behind her, dressed in a track-suit, and they both looked pleased to see us. After we had freshened up, we sat down to a convivial dinner, and they then outlined their exciting plans for their 'Roissy' facsimile. Monique glanced at her Cartier watch. 'It's almost eleven,' she said, 'you must be exhausted after your journey. I know you'll need some sleep, and I've put you in separate rooms, but we'll try to give you both sweet awakenings in the morning!' She licked her red lips smilingly as she wished us goodnight, and had a pretty young maid show us to our adjoining rooms, on the first floor. I fell asleep just as soon as I had slipped out of my dress and crawled between the smooth satin sheets. I awoke to the usual disorientation that you experience in a strange bedroom, but sun filtered through the shutters, and I was thinking about getting up when the door opened quietly and Monique slipped in, wearing a short white silk slip, which contrasted with her black curls. 'Good morning, darling,' she said, 'I didn't know if you were awake, but I thought I'd come and see, and I've sent Jean-Paul next door.' So that was what she meant by sweet awakenings! I pulled back the satin covers, and made room for her to slide in beside me. It felt like forever since I had felt her smooth flesh, had her open herself to me. She explored my newly-pierced navel, having already admired my unusual nail decoration the previous evening. Then her hand crept down across my belly and to the folds of my labia, to where I had told her my most intimate decoration lay. When she touched the little ring I flinched – it was still sore, and she kissed me, saying, 'I know, darling, it must hurt, but you have made me envious, and Jean-Paul wants me to have one anyway.' 'It hurts,' I said, 'but I so want you to kiss me, to put your tongue inside me, Monique – please!' I had quite forgotten that the last time we were together I was obliged to address her as 'mistress,' and she didn't seem at all concerned. As she sunk her tongue deep into my cunt, and introduced a long-nailed finger slowly, gently into my hot, eager, waiting anus, and I returned the favour by lapping the wet sweetness of her fragrant crack with my studded tongue, I heard rhythmic little screams through the wall dividing my room from that of Petra, where Jean-Paul was evidently enjoying paying her a visit. But really I had no mind for anything other than Monique's lovely body, and I came, with shuddering force, as did she, then we lay in each others' arms for a long time, savouring the moment. As I sat over breakfast, Monique fussing over coffee in the kitchen, Petra appeared, eyes bright and shining. A knowing look passed between us, as Monique returned, and announced that we should get ready to go straight away. 'Where to?' I wanted to know. 'We're taking you straight down to the Abbeye de Morzac,' she said. So that was what the 'Roissy' copycat was called. We were driven by the same po-faced Didier to Orly airport, where, at a small private terminal, a small but beautifully appointed Gulf Stream jet awaited us. The flight was short – no more than forty five minutes – and very smooth, and we disembarked at a small private airfield near Ste Etienne. A limo with blacked-out rear windows awaited us as we taxied to a halt. An hour later, we passed through a village which bore the sign 'Morzac' and carried on, along minor roads, high into the lonely mountains of the Auvergne. When we turned off the road, down a narrow track, just wide enough for the big car, through dense pinewoods, there was no signpost. But the woods opened out and there, in front of us was a big grey-stone building, of forbidding aspect, with wide stone staircase leading up to a portico. 'Welcome to the Abbeye de Morzac,' said Jean-Paul, leading the way up the steps as the door was opened to us by a serious-looking young uniformed manservant. Jean-Paul nodded to him and said, 'Merci, Henri.' Monique took charge then, led us all into a great refectory, and made sure we all had a good lunch, served by two uniformed maids, then she adopted a businesslike manner and addressed the two of us, 'I know you two girls are accustomed to having a short siesta. I'll have you shown to your rooms, and leave you for a couple of hours, then I'd like to have a sesion with you on what your duties will be, and kit you out with your uniforms.' 'Uniforms?' we practically chorussed, looking at each other, then at Monique, who was smiling. 'Not like any uniform you have ever seen,' she said, mysteriously, and left the two maids to show us to our rooms. My room was nice – nicer than any I had ever had, with a big double bed, en suite bathroom, toiletries and cosmetics in plenty, and a big dressing alcove, but, despite Monique's assurance that all our clothes would be provided, nothing in that line was yet in sight, except a long silk negligee, which lay across the bed, obviously for my use. In need of a shower after the journey, I took a leisurely one, slipped into the luxurious silk garment, lay on the bed and dozed off, without much of a care in the world. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, but was certainly much longer, there was a knock on my door. One of the maids put her head around it and said, in halting Spanish, 'You are to please come with me!' When I started to shrug off the negligee to get dressed, she said, 'No, no, you come…so!' I slipped on the sandals I had come in and followed her obediently along the corridor and through a door similar to mine, into a much bigger room, with a table and easy chairs. Monique was seated in one, wearing a long black kimono, which looked like the one she had worn the night before. Petra had already arrived, and occupied another. She was, like me, wearing a long silk robe. Eva's Further Education Monique stood, and addressed us, in her 'formal' mode. 'As you know, the girls at the fictitious Roissy wore rather strange dresses as uniforms. Their breasts were uncovered, and their skirts could be rolled up to allow access to their intimate parts.' She paused, smiling. 'Fashions, and materials, have moved on a little, I think, since then. So we have decided That this should be the standard uniform.' With a flourish, she slid down the zipper of her kimono and cast it aside, leaving herself quite erotically magnificent in the Abbeye's 'uniform.' It was, in fact, a dark green completely transparent sheath, with long sleeves and a high neck, trimmed with fur at cuffs, collar and hem, which fell to calf-length, where it was very tight around her legs, not permitting very much movement. Her unfettered breasts were completely visible, as was the tiny triangle of hair left unshaven on her mound. Around her waist, under the dress, she wore a heavy silver chain. She wore matching green shoes with immensely high metallic needle heels. 'There, what do you think, ladies?' she asked, twirling around. I saw that a strip of fur extended up the back to the waist, and she demonstrated that it covered a velcro-closed opening, by ripping it apart, after unclipping a hook which held the hem together firmly. It was ingenious, and exposed her whole lower body in an instant. 'Tremendously sexy!' was my verdict. 'Right then,' said Monique, 'this will be your uniform, and you can start wearing it tomorrow, to get used to it before our first client arrives the next day. Additionally, everyone will wear leather cuffs and anklets, with a metal ring set into them.' What will be our duties then?' Petra asked. 'I'm afraid you will have to do everything at first, until we take in more clients, and then I shall be able to employ a couple of specialists – perhaps a hairdresser and a make-up artist, at least. Until then, you'll have to prepare our clients to my instructions – it shouldn't be too difficult.' She went on to describe what would happen to the girls on arrival at the Abbeye, and I found myself getting excited at the prospect of 'preparing' them for their 'training.' But no sooner had I listened to Monique's description of our duties, than she stood and said, 'Now, girls, I'd like you to follow me, please!' Obediently, we stood, and followed her out of the room, and along a well-lit stone-lined corridor, which sloped downwards, and the air became distinctly colder. It wasn't easy to negotiate the uneven stone floor in my high-heeled mules, and I pulled the thin silk negligee around me as the chill intensified, but Monique, who wore only the Abbeye's 'uniform' appeared not to notice, and walked slowly, her steps restricted by the tightness of her fur hem. We came to a heavy door, which opened easily enough to Monique's touch, and stepped through into a big chamber, for all the world like a medieval dungeon. The sound of our heels on the stone floor set up a resounding echo. Monique sat on an upholstered couch, but left us standing. She had still not said a word since we left the lounge. As if to a summons, the door opened again, and in walked a tall, rather handsome man of perhaps fifty, wearing riding breeches and some sort of tunic. Monique spoke to him in rapid French, and he simply nodded in response, then came right up to me, looked me traight in the eye, and unfastened the tie of my negligee, then pushed it off my shoulders, so that it fell, in a whisper of soft silk, to the floor. He turned his attention to Petra, and repeated the process. She began to speak, and he slapped her hard across the cheek with the flat of his hand. The crack of the slap echoed around all four walls of the dungeon. From the pocket of his tunic he produced a set of handcuffs, which he expertly clicked onto Petra's slim wrists, before coming over to me and favouring me with the same treatment. He next reached up and pulled down a chain I hadn't seen, that hung from the ceiling, and was controlled by some kind of pulley arrangement. A snap-link was at its extremity, and that he clipped onto the chain connecting my handcuffs. Petra got the same attention, then he hauled down on the pulleys, and we both found ourselves stretched uncomfortably upwards, arms at full-stretch above our heads, our feet only just able to touch the ground by dint of our high heels. At last, Monique spoke. 'I want you both to taste the whip our clients will get to feel. I think in that way you will both be better equipped to serve them, and, in any case, it is part of our philosophy here at the Abbeye. We must all be marked from time to time.' Then, to the man, she said, 'Dix pour chaque fille, s'il vous plait, Marcel!' Marcel had availed himself of a terrible-looking bull-whip, and now stood some three metres away behind me. I could scarcely believe that he would reach me from there, but any doubts were dispelled in a moment, as first I heard the whistle of the fine leather lash through the air, then felt the sudden, dreadful, ferocious, stinging pain, as the thong bit into the tender flesh of my lower back, and I saw the little knot which formed its end rest for a split second just under my right breast. I screamed with the shock and pain, and Monique told me to be quiet. 'If you can't take the pain in silence, I'll gag you, and you'll get five more!? She said sternly, 'and you'd better thank Marcel after each stroke, too!' Before I had time even to think, the fearful hiss of the lash was upon me, and I braced myself in anticipation. But no pain came! It was Petra who bore this stroke, and I saw her writhing under her bonds out of the corner of my eye, and heard her stifled gasp, as the whip struck her just below her shoulder blades, raising an instant red stripe across her white back. It was my turn now, and the next swishing sound preceded a sharp, keening sting as Marcel's lash found its target, higher than the last time. 'Oooh!' I moaned, then 'Thank you!' as he turned his attention to Petra, and I watched as he whipped her back unerringly, raising a pretty ladder-pattern of welts on her tender skin. As he alternately lashed me, I imagined mine becoming similar, and the thought, combined with the constant pain, and its close relationship to ecstasy, were, I knew, bringing me inexorably closer to a thundering orgasm. I lost count of the times I said 'thank you' to Marcel, and only felt the upwelling, the inevitable swelling gush of my tremendous climax, which coincided with what felt like his fiercest stroke of the whip, at the top of my buttocks. I hadn't the strength to thank him, this time, and hung limply until Monique let me down, and cradled me in her arms. Marcel meanwhile had taken Petra down, and had her over the arm of the couch, penetrating her from behind, his long, thick cock pounding in and out of her ready arsehole. I was exhausted, more from the sheer force of my orgasm than from the whipping I had endured, and stayed in Monique's arms for as long as she would hold me. When at last she kissed me on the forehead and said, 'Come on, darling, time for dinner.' Petra and Marcel had already gone, as had Jean-Paul. We dined dressed in nothing but our negligees, and went to bed early, after Monique had helped soothe our wounded backs with cooling ointment. As she did so, she said, 'I don't always advocate this sort of thing, you know.' When I looked around questioningly at her she said, 'I have been known to rub salt in – it gives a very special kind of agony!' When I looked into her face, it was impossible to tell if she was joking or not. As I dropped off to sleep, I had an image of 'O' – sleeping chained up on furs, and being raised in the middle of the night to be brutally whipped by Pierre, the valet with whom she fell in love. I got up next morning, taking a little while to get used to the strange surroundings, then I spent several minutes admiring my back in the big mirror in my dressing-room. The red welts were only superficial, but were quite sore when the jets of water from the shower hit them, making me wince slightly, but serving to remind me of Marcel's snaking whip, which again put erotic thoughts in my mind, and caused my hand to stray to my pussy. But there I found the beginnings of new growth of hair, and took my time shaving carefully, not forgetting to remove every vestige of stubble from around my anus. Satisfied, I perfumed myself, brushed out my long blonde hair to a rich sheen, clipped my chain around my waist, and slipped into the green sheath 'uniform' I had to get used to, closing the velcro opening down from waist to hem, and clipping the hem tightly around my calves. Another twirl in the mirror sufficed to show that my stripes could clearly be seen through the transparent material, and my prominent nipples thrust at the bodice enticingly. I stepped into the 'regulation' shoes and found that I should have difficulty in walking very quickly – but the image that looked back at me from my mirror was one of pure eroticism. And it was even more sexy spending the day thus attired, breakfasting, walking about the Abbeye, being shown around by Monique, taking lunch in the great hall. I was in a state of arousal all day, ever aware of my welted back, and that of my dear friend Petra, who stayed close to me, holding my hand, toying from time to time, as if fascinated, with my little nail-decoration. Monique showed us the Reception Suite, where we should soon be receiving our first clients, and gave us our instructions regarding our role in the preparation of clients, then gave us permission to sleep together that night, as a special treat, telling us that once we had clients at the Abbeye it would not be allowed, as we should have to be 'available' to guests at all times, as would the clients. 'I'm so excited about tomorrow, aren't you?' asked Petra, as we sat beside each other at my dressing table, removing make-up before going to bed. 'Let's enjoy tonight first, shall we?' I suggested, slipping my hand between her thighs and feeling her wetness. 'Oh yes – yes, please!' she murmured, and took my hand, thrusting it hard into her sopping crack. 'Wait, darling!' I told her, 'let's get to bed first, shall we?' I led her over to my big bed, turned down the satin sheets, and slid, naked, between them, pulling her brusquely on top of me. She kissed me fervently, her tongue probing deep into my mouth, the coral stud shee wore clicking against my own silver one, and we kneaded each others' breasts, teasing our nipples to hard, sharp points, but quickly I wanted more, and Petra knew exactly what it was that I needed. She slid lithely around, and we fell easily into our accustomed '69' position. I opened her labia the way I knew she loved and probed deeply with my tongue, holding her inner lips apart as I rammed my studded tongue as deep as it would go into the dark sweet depths of her wet, eager cunt. She cried out as I did this, alternately plunging deep, then coming suddenly out to bite her burgeoning clit. Meaanwhile she more than repaid me by doing what she knew drove me wild, thrusting her forefinger, without preamble deep into my anus, and fucking me with it, then joining it with her slim, long-nailed middle finger to increase the volume, filling my arsehole until I thought I should burst with pleasure. I screamed as she brought me quickly to my climax, and realised to my shame that I hdn't known if Petra had cum or not. She assured me that she had, but we employed my double-ended flexible dildo to bring ourselves off again, much more gently, this time watching each others' faces as our orgasms overtook us. Then we slept, sated, entwined together, and never happier. Next morning we helped each other dress for our big day, then breakfasted nervously, awaiting the call that would announce the arrival of Mlle Lemoine, our first client. After breakfast, Monique had us parade in front of her, effectively an inspection, and pronounced herself satisfied with our appearance, then told us to expect Mlle Lemoine at ten. At precisely that hour, the same limo with the blacked-out rear widows that had conveyed us to the Abbeye drew up outside, an the young man we knew as Henri opened the door to a haughty-looking young dark-haired woman, dressed in a very expensive looking Hermes trouser-suit, and carrying a small Vuitton suitcase. Marcel stood and opened the door for her, then took her case. 'I do not wish to be separated from my case,' she said, in an authoratative voice. 'Your case will be quite safe with me,' said Marcel, and turned on his heel, leaving her starting to protest, as he quickly left the entrance hall, and Petra and I took Mlle Lemoine's wrists, as we had been instructed, leading her firmly through to the Reception Suite. I followed protocol, and immediately asked her her name. 'It isn't the business of servants,' was her arrogant reply. It was going to be fun breaking in this one, I thought. But before I had time to react, a side door opened, and Monique entered, dressed just like us, but carrying a riding crop – an unmistakeable 'badge of office.' 'I know your name is Christine, Mlle Lemoine, she said, brusquely, 'and by that name you will be known while you are at the Abbeye. Your fiancé has sent you here to learn discipline. You are free to leave at any time, but while you elect to remain, you will submit to anything and everything that my staff and I require of you.' Monique now approached the brunette and their faces were inches apart. 'Is that clearly understood?' she rapped. There was no reply. Monique slapped her resoundingly across the cheek, reddening it instantly and causing her to gasp loudly. 'Is that understood?' 'Er, yes,' replied the girl. 'Yes, mistress.' 'Yes, mistress.' 'So we understand each other. Now you can prepare her, ladies, please. Marcel will join you shortly.' With that, Monique turned and walked out, but I felt sure she was watching us from behind one of the huge mirrors that lined the walls. Christine stood, head proudly inclined slightly upwards, as I unbuttoned her silk jersey jacket and slid it from her shoulders, revealing a white chiffon blouse with ruffed sleeves. This too I unbuttoned while Petra unclipped the waistband of her trousers, and pulled down the side zipper. Soon we had her standing in matching peach panties, garter-belt and bra, and saw that she had a nice slim body, but scarcely large enough breasts to warrant a bra at all. I unhooked it in the back, and she covered herself instinctively. I pulled her arms down, revealing almost pre-pubescent tits, virtually flat, but whose nipples were quite prominent. I ran my hands over them, and she shrank away with an expression of distaste. Petra meantime was hooking her fingers over the aistband of her silk panties, and pulled them over nice hips, down over an expanse of bare thigh, past dark-toned stockings, over her classy heels, and off. Her mound, thus revealed, had been trimmed to accommodate, I imagined, a bikini, but she was left with a triangle of short dark hair, and a fuzz around her labia. 'We'll have to take that off!' said Petra, as she started to roll down Christine's stockings. Then, while she finished removing the garter belt, I started to run the big walk-in bath-tub, then we walked her over to it and gently led her into the water. We sat on the edge and soaped her thoroughly, cleansing her whole body with scented soap – she scarcely seemed to mind. When we had finished, and dried her off with a huge fluffy towel, we led her to a chair we had waiting, and she protested for the first time as we quiet firmly made her sit in it. It resembled a dentist's chair, but before she could make much of a fuss we had clipped her arms to the arms of the chair and her legs were firmly secured in the stirrups provided, so that her legs were nicely apart. She calmed down and stopped her initial squirming around when it looked as if all we were doing was drying her fine, naturally curly black hair. Petra proved to be something of an expert at this, while I trimmed her eyebrows, and made up her lashes and lips. But she started to get agitated when I fetched a bowl of hot water and lathered her mound. 'Shut up!' I said sharply, and started to shave her clean. I concentrated on taking off every vestige of hair from her belly, then worked my way around her labia, pulling her nice tight pussy around with my fingers so that I made sure that not a single hair remained. I shoved a little cushion up under her arse and got down on my knees to shave all around her anus – the chair was designed with a cut-out so that this was not too difficult. All the time she complained that she had never been treated like this, and the only thing that shut her up was the sight of Marcel, who came in, stripped to the waist, in riding breeches, and showing impressive musculature, carrying a long case, which he put down silently beside the chair. While he was unfastening it, he spoke quietly to me. 'Have you finished?' he asked. 'We just have to dress her,' I told him. 'Just put her chain and cuffs on,' he said, 'while I see to her tongue, then I'll see if I can get her training under way.' He gave me a knowing look. I turned away and fetched the leather cuffs for her wrists and ankles, just like the ones Petra and I were already wearing, while Petra brought over the heavy silver chain for Christine's midriff. When we got back to the chair, she was gibbering with fear as Marcel was sat on the stool beside her with a piercing tool and a can of antiseptic spray. She had apparently refused to offer up her tongue for the operation, which Marcel had told her was obligatory, and he was in the process of fishing it out of her mouth by force, and fitting a tool like a huge clothes pin to it to keep it there. In no time at all, the job was done, and Christine, furious, was the reluctant possessor of a nice silver tongue-stud. Meantime, we had fixed her cuffs and anklets, and her silver chain, and she could now be released from the chair. Suddenly, her timing confirming my impression that she had been watching all the time, Monique appeared, and it was now a very different Christine that stood before her. Naked save for the thick leather cuffs at her wrists and ankles, and the heavy silver chain which hung loosely around her slender waist, she looked downcast, and briefly put an elegantly-manicured hand to her mouth as if she could scarcely believe her tongue had just been pierced. 'You will be marked in many other ways before you leave the Abbeye,' said Monique, quietly, 'but first, I will ask you, just once: do you wish to stay, and submit to whatever we wish to do to you, or would you like to go now?' Christine looked up at Monique, a new look, of pride, coming over her face. 'I will stay!' 'You will stay, what?' demanded Monique. 'I will stay, mistress!' 'That's better. But you must be punished for that omission. Marcel!' She stepped back, and Marcel siezed Christine's wrists in one huge hand and led her over to a curtain, which I had thought to cover a window. When he drew it back,it revealed a stout wooden post, set against the wall, with thick iron ring fixed high above head-height, through which was threaded a snap-link, of the kind climbers use. He clipped Christine's wrists to this, so that she was suspended at full stretch, her back to us, already whimpering, although nothing had been done to her. 'Just the crop, for now, Marcel,' said Monique, and Marcel obeyed, fetching the long leather riding crop from his case. Christine looked around and saw what was in store for her. 'Oh no!' she moaned, 'I can't, I can't take it, you can't beat me, no!' Eva's Further Education Monique stepped up to her, pushed her lovely hair out of her eyes, and kissed her, then said softly, 'You will learn to take it, my dear, you'll see – and I guarantee that you will come to ask for it, even crave it, before your time is through here, that is what we train you for. Whip her, Marcel!' Marcel stepped up and dispassionately lashed Christine hard across her lower back with the cruel crop. She shrieked as the wicked thong bit into her tender white flesh, and Petra, beside me, murmured, 'Mmmm, she'll look pretty with some stripes, won't she?' 'Jealousy will get you nowhere,' I whispered, 'but just look at Marcel's muscles.' He struck her again, lower down, and her moans were lower, more guttural, with each stroke, as she writhed in her bonds under his accurate and expert flogging. Monique deemed six strokes enough for Christine, but didn't want us to soothe her wounds with ointment for the time being. 'She can spend the day remembering her first punishment,' she said, 'she's an arrogant number, and will have to learn a few manners. Dress her and bring her to lunch – on a leash!' While I waited for Marcel to fetch me a collar and a leash, I took brief pity on Christine, and asked her if her back hurt. She gave me a scornful look and said, 'If that's all I have to endure, I doubt I shall have any problem.' I exchanged looks with Petra, who wore a wry smile, and then Marcel was back with a metal collar, which I clipped in place around Christine's swan-like neck. Then we dressed her in her sheath, just like our own, stood her in her needle-heels, clicked the leash in place, and I let Petra lead her down to the dining room. Lunch was being served when we arrived, and, as usual at the Abbeye, was very good. As we finished, Monique said, 'Bring Christine to my room at five, after she has rested in her room, will you, ladies? For now, I will instruct Marcel to take her to her room.' Marcel came, took up Christine's lead, and led her off to her room, leaving us free to rest for a couple of hours. I woke Petra and we went to collect Christine just before five. She had been chained loosely to a ceiling-chain by her wrist-cuffs, as was to be normal for our guests, and I had to take a key down from where it hung, out of her reach, to release her. She wanted to pee, and I thought it would be nice if we watched, humiliating her just a little more, so I told her to go while Petra held her above the toilet, so that she couldn't sit down, then put my hand in the warm stream she produced, and told her to lick it when she was finished. She spat at me, and I laughed. We took her down the corridor to Monique's room, and Monique smiled when she saw us. 'Sit down, ladies, please,' she said, then, 'not you, Christine! You can kneel on the floor in front of the sofa there.' I gave a sharp tug on her leash to help her do so, and once she was on her knees, Monique said, 'Now, Eva, unfasten her hem, please, and let me see her behind.' I crouched down and did a I was told, opening up the velcro and ripping apart the slit in Christune's skirt, right up to her waist. 'Knees apart!' said Monique, who was now on her feet, and helped her obey by kicking her legs apart physically. Then she put an exploratory hand to the young brunette's anus. 'I see,' she said, 'I take it your fiancé has never taken you here?' For emphasis, she poked a long-naailed forefinger just into the portals of Chrstine's tiny puckered arsehole. 'Ugh, that's disgusting!' said Christine, 'of course not – what do you take me for?' Petra and I were giggling by now, and Monique shot us a warning glance. 'Eva,' she said, 'go and get a number one with flange, and a tube of lube, from my drawer, will you?' I understood, and went straight to the very items. 'What are you going to do to me?' asked Christine, in a trembling voice. 'Only something that must be done, and which you will thank me for,' said Monique. I was back in a trice with a small butt-plug, and a tube, from which Monique took a liberal amount of lubricant to smear around the entrance to Christine's arsehole. Then, without ceremony, she simply shoved the slim black plug straight up the prim young lady's rectum, until only the flange protruded. She screamed loudly as the unfamiliar object invaded her rear passage, stretching muscles that had never been trained to accept entry. 'Oh, you fucking bitch!' she yelled, 'you've torn me, you've torn me!' 'No I haven't, and that's no way for a young lady to talk,' said Monique, quietly, 'and I shall have to punish you for speaking to me like that – and in front of your colleagues, too!' But Christine was still incensed. 'Take that fucking thing out of me. I can't bear it!' 'You can and you will. You will keep it in place until this time tomorrow, when it will be replaced by a larger one. You may only remove it when you need to shit. Is that clear?' There was no reply. 'IS THAT CLEAR?' repeated Monique, and slapped Christine very hard across her bare buttocks. 'Yes, mistress,' she said meekly. 'Petra,' she said, 'go get me a set of clamps, please.' Petra went over to the drawer and was soon back with a set of silver nipple clamps. 'Right,' said Monique, 'this will be your punishment, Christine. You will wear them for an hour. Unzip her please, Eva.' I drew down the zipper under her armpit which secured the top of her sheath, and Moniqueran her hand over the brunette's almost flat chest, teasing her prominent nipples to erection. Then, taking the clamps from Petra, she deftly fitted them in place, and screwed them both down until Christine yelped with pain. She hung a solid silver globe from the connecting chain, so that Christine wouldn't be free of the pain from the clamps as she moved around, then told me to zip her up. I did so, completing the job by closing the slit in her skirt, and clipping together her hem. 'Now, let me have a look at you,' said Monique, and it was a very different, tear-stained, subdued Christine that stood before her. Nonetheless, she shook still further when Monique told her, 'Today has merely been the start of your training. Starting tomorrow you will come to know much more. Go now!' Christine was sullen during dinner, not speaking to anyone, despite sevral attempts by Petra, who sat beside her, to engage her in conversation. Monique, tiring of the newcomer's presence, dismissed her early to her room, telling Marcel to go and make sure she was chained up. Later, I had wriggled out of my sheath, taken off my make-up, and slipped into a long silk nightgown, when a knock sounded at my door. 'Who is it?' I demanded. 'Marcel,' came the unexpected reply, and the door opened. In walked the servant, in a short robe, muscular, hairy legs projecting below, a horse-whip stuck in his belt. He stood, legs slightly apart, regarding me as I sat at my dressing table. 'I've been watching you,' he said, a trifle thickly, 'and I thought I may be able to give you ……something you want?' I looked up at him, the memory of his whip on my back still fresh, and combining with images of him laying into Christine with the riding crop, and of him fucking Petra, his big, thick cock pounding into her arsehole until she screamed. 'What could you possibly have that I want?' I asked, trying to keep cool. He stepped towards me and, in one swift movement, grasped the long, thick mane of my hair, turning my face up towards his. With his other hand, he slapped my face, a hard, stinging slap. 'Don't play hard to get with me!' he growled, and pulled me by my hair, up from the chair and over to the bathroom. Taking a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his robe, he quickly secured my wrists to the shower-head, so that I was helplessly suspnded, clad in my long silk nightgown, below the shower. He flicked on the control, and an icy jet of water soaked me instantly, sticking the thin silk grment to my body like a second skin. He took the small dressage hip from his belt, took aim, and immediately started to lay about me with it. It hurt most terribly, the sting of the thin leather lash somehow amplified by the wet silk that was between it and my skin. He whipped my stomach, my breasts, my thighs, my flanks, my back, virtually my whole body, and paused when he had given me ten strokes, turning off the water. 'Can you take more?' he demanded, 'or do I stop?' I desparately wanted the punishment to stop, but I wanted, somewhere within me, more, and said so. After only a few more strokes, I came, convulsively, with a long, shuddering, ecstatic moan, and he knew to stop. He took me down from the shower-head, stripped off my nightdress, which seemed to be ruined, and dried me tenderly with a big, soft towel. Then he caarried me into my bedroom and laid me down on my bed, stripped off his robe, and sat beside me, his massive cock inviting attention. I cradled it in both hands, then took it gently between my lips, allowing my tongue-stud to graze the crown and give him maximum pleasure. Oblivious to my wounds, which were superficial anyway, and overcome by lust now, I pushed a cushion under my buttocks, and lay back, spreading my legs. I looked at Marcel from under hooded eyelids, showed him just the very tip of my tongue, and, then looking downwards, opened my labia as wide as I could, with thumb and middle finger of one hand, showing him my hot wet, glistening cunt. I knew my gestures were irresistible, and he fell upon me, driving his shaft into me up to the hilt. I thought he would surely split me – I had never taken a cock so huge, and it was almost a relief that he wasn't going to last long, after the excitement of the whipping he had given me. Just a few great pounding strokes, and he shouted his triumph as he thrust one mighty heave, and his hot gushing spunk filled me in a way that satisfied me beyond belief, even though I didn't climax again – that would have been too much to ask! That night, I slept like a baby. Next morning, I dressed and had a look at myelf in the mirror. The wounds Marcel had left around my body could be seen, but only faintly, so I was a little surprised when Petra, holding my hand as we walked down to breakfast, out heels echoing as they clicked on the tiled floor, glanced sideways at me, and said, 'So you had a visit last night, then?' 'Oh shit, is it so obvious?' 'I know you too well, darling. Big, isn't he?' 'Enormous!' We giggled together as we entered the refectory, where Christine was already sat, drinking coffee, and eating a croissant. She didn't acknowledge us. 'Cat got your tongue?' taunted Petra, but just then Monique came in, dressed as we were, and we greeted her respectfully, but Christine still remained silent. Monique ignored her as we had our breakfaast, then said, 'Christine, go and sit on that couch!' She indicated a small, leather-upholstered ottoman, with two small footstools in front of it, and Christine did as she was told. 'Petra,' said Monique, 'go and release her hem, an open her skirt, will you, my dear?' Petra scurried around and did her bidding, then Monique told Christine to put her feet on the footstools, which were wide apart. Once he had done that, her clean-shaven pussy was now on full view, under the room's bright lights. Monique pressed a buzzer, and, while we sat there, and Christine, spread wide and completely vulnerable, awaited her fate, we heard footsteps out in the corridor. Very soon Marcel, Henri, and the two young maids came in, and Monique bade them take seats to watch. 'Now,' she said to Christine, 'you will masturbate for us. We should all like to see you have an orgasm.' 'I can't – I never, I mean, I…I, with people watching, oh, oh, no, no, please, mistress!' 'Come now, don't be shy, of course you can – we're all waiting!' Monique's voice grew harsher. Christine's hand wandered to her pussy, but she started to cry, 'I can't, I really can't, please, mistress.' 'Perhaps what you need is some sort of image – a stimulus – is that it? What if Marcel shows you his cock, or you watch him fucking one of the girls – he does that rather well!' That was a nasty dig, I thought, and could have sworn she was looking right through me as she said it. But Christine was still sobbing, and Petra went and whispered in Monique's ear. 'Yes,' she said, then, 'Christine, Petra says she'll sit in front of you and masturbate as well. Perhaps that will help?' Christine looked slowly from Monique to Petra and back again, and gave what could have been mistaken for a nod. Petra carried a chair over and placed it at an angle in front of the brunette, then unclipped her own hem, and ripped open her velcro fastening, exposing her long, slender legs as she sat down, legs apart, facing Christine. Petra smiled at Christine, who deliberately looked away, but Monique came up behind the brunette, and siezed a handful of her dark locks, and pulled her head around so that she was forced to look in Petra's direction. Petra had both hands between her legs, and used one to spread her labia with fingers and thumb, while, with th other, she began to massage her clit, slowly and rhythmically, keeping her eyes on Christine, her studded tongue making tiny darts just out betwween her luscious red lips. Christine's right hand moved reluctantly, hesitantly, towards her pussy, and she squirmed percebtibly on her seat, showing the obscene butt-plug to all and sundry, its flange protruding from her anus. Her eyes had dropped noticeably from Petra's face to her pussy, and her mouth was now slightly open, as if she couldn't get sufficient air in through her nasal paassages. The fingers of her right hand slowly crept to her outer labia, tentatively exploring, as if she had never done this before. My eyes moved to Petra, who was now masturbating enthusiastically, her fingers alternately massaging her erect little clit, and plunging deep into her vagina, two of them, always two, as I remembered she liked to do. A pang of jealousy came as I watched my lovely Petra showing herself to another, but I suppressed it, and my gaze switched to Christine, who was now moving her fingers rhythmically too, as if in time with Petra's, her clitoris a larger-than-normal bud, (ripe for piercing, I thought) now standing proud of its hood for all to see. Christine's breath was now coming in panting gasps, as she started to introduce first a fingr into her cunt, then to fuck herself vigorously with two long, beautifully manicured fingers, as her eyes never for one moment left Petra. As I knew she would. Petra lifted her buttocks slightly from her chair, and thrust a forefinger deep, deep into her arsehole. That was too much for Christine, who shouted, 'Oh, oui, oui, mon Dieu!' She arched her back and came, in a shuddering climax, which brought with it an astonishing squirt, spraying out her juices in a great stream, which hit Petra, soaking the front of her gown. 'Well, well,' said Monique, helping Petra up from the chair and handing her a wholly inadequate napkin, 'we do live and learn, don't we?' For my part, I was too excited to contemplate moving, for the moment. But Monique continued, 'Marcel, pass me a leash!' She clipped the leash onto Christine's collar, and, giving her a sharp tug, said, 'Now then, you squirting little slut, we know enough to continue your training, perhaps. I'll take her with me for the rest of the morning, ladies, and I'm sure you'll appreciate a while together, so I'll see you at lunch.' So saying, she led Christine off, and Petra looked at me with ill-concealed anticipation. The episode with Christine had left us both, and especially Petra, with 'unfinished business' and we both yearned for closeness. As soon as we got to my room, we stripped each other, leaving our waist-chains in place – 'I think they're really quite sexy,' said Petra – and fell together onto my big bed, assuming the '69' position that seemed to come so naturally to us. Petra's cunt was sopping wet already, her musky scent and wonderful sweetness pervading my senses, my whole being. Her clit was as rigid as a bullet, and it took no more than a couple of flicks at it, a tug on her hood-ring, and a deep plunge of my studded tongue into the steaming heat of her cunt to drive her to paroxysms of delight, and a shuddering, heaving, writhing climax. 'Oh, I love you so much, Petra,' I told her, 'now it's my turn!' And it took very little for me to join her in her ecstasy. Petra always had the power to bring me rapidly to orgasm, and knew just what I needed, working on my moist vagina and prominent clit until I was almost there, then, hen she sensed my moment was nigh, plunging two long fingers deep into my anus and pumping just a very few times, fucking my arse like no man could, until I came – blessed relief. We lay on my bed and talked, played with each other for an hour, then entertained one another with my 'toys' – two vibrators of varying thickness, a set of balls on a string, an expanding anal dildo, and finally a double-ended dildo, with which we fucked each other until we were exhausted, and had to sleep until lunchtime. We dressed in our 'uniforms' and went hand-in-hand down to lunch, a bit early, to find Monique leading in Christine, on a leash, now clad in quite the tightest black corset I had ever seen, which gave her the appearance of an hourgñass figure, her waist constricted to tiny proportions by the tightly-laced, whale-boned garment, which also had the effect of thrusting out her naked buttocks. She was wearing black seamed stockings, cinched to the long garter straps, and a much larger plug protruded obscenely from her anus, bright orange in colour. Her tiny breasts were uncovered above the cruel corset, and Monique had attached clamps to her prominent nipples. 'Hello, ladies,' she said, 'I'm glad you've come down early. I've spent some time with our friend here this morning, and we now know a little more about her, don't we, my dear?' She had turned to Christine, and was idly running a finger through the brunette's naked slit. 'Yes, mistress,' answered Christine, more perkily than I'd ever heard her speak before. 'And what have we learnt?' asked Monique. Christine's old, sullen demeanour looked like returning, as she looked down at the ground. 'Do I have to repeat myself? What is it we now know about you? Christine spoke sheepishly, still not looking at us directly, 'That…..I like women.' 'And what else?' Looking still more embarrassed, her voice was scarcely audible, but she muttered, 'That I like pain – it excites me!' 'There,' said Monique, 'that wasn't too hard, was it? A nice combination, I think, and we can cater for you beautifully here. Now we should all go and have some lunch, then you two can draw lots as to who will punish Christine.' I looked at Petra, who glanced back at me, but it was impossible to read her expression. We filed into the refectory for lunch – I was suddenly very hungry. During lunch Monique organised a straw-poll, which I 'won' – I suspected her of rigging it. She had compelled Christine to sit and eat in just her corset and stockings – she must have been very uncomfortable, but maintained a proud expression as she sat and toyed with her salad. After lunch, Monique led us, with Christine tottering along behind her on the end of her leash, down the uneven-floored corridor to the grim dungeon. Once there, she led the brunette to a heaavy, shaped wooden block, designed for her punishment. Christine, wide-eyed, was pulled towards it, and placed over it, so that her buttocks were nicely presented, her head over the edge, and her arms dangling down almost to the floor. Monique secured her wrist-cuffs to rings set in for the purpose, then fastened her ankles down too. Christine was effectively doubled over, her naked, white buttocks an invitation for a whipping.