Butler for Life -

CHAPTER 7: Punishment

Bod waited in the cool shadows of the stables, worried about what Mistress Pauline had in store for him. He knew that the punishment he was due to receive was only a cover so that she could hurt him. The bed had been made perfectly, he took pride in his duties, and yet it was crumpled and askew when Pauline stood beside it and accused him of a total failure in his chores.

He made sure he was directly under the hoist as Miss Pauline had demanded. Perhaps it would play a part, he hoped not, or maybe it was a convenient waiting point; an act of submission for him to carry out, an exercise in domination over obedience. She had cuffed his hands behind his back and ordered him to go and wait in the stables.

Within just a few days of Lady Katrina departing for her vacation on the Cote D'Azur, Pauline could not restrain herself anymore. Bod and Cock already sported angry wheals on their buttocks, with fresh ones overlaid each morning. In the afternoons she delighted in setting the fuck machine on its most vigorous setting, and had even produced a larger rubber sound that hurt Bod terribly as it flapped his cock around in its restraints while reaming out his urethra until for several hours afterwards he felt like he was continuously peeing.

Then one morning Bod was ordered out to the barn, or rather he was led there on a chain, not knowing what awaited him, hoping it was just some cleaning task she wanted. But the sight of implements of punishment arranged on a barrel filled him with dread. With sadistic deliberation, Pauline led him over to a wooden arch, and carefully roped his arms and legs in a starfish pose until he was held taut between the heavy posts. The whipping she then gave him was directed all around his most sensitive areas; his buttocks, lower belly, and the sensitive tissues of his inner thighs. His cock and balls were gradually changed to swollen, florid, amorphous flaps of skin, bruised and weeping blood. She was using a dragon's tongue whip, a wide strip of soft leather that tapered to a point, which she had modified with the addition of a small ball bearing laced into the leather tip. It acted like ballshot, a focal point of tortured pain that could arrive anywhere, but left him dotted like measles over his belly and buttocks, and had him screaming in agony each time it landed on his cock or balls.

It took him almost a week to stop limping through the day and sleeping restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. During that time, Cock became the unfortunate, and the boy's muscular back was eventually covered in stripes from her repressed anger.

It was only a matter of time that she would want a fresh experience, and the moment had arrived this morning. Bod knew that it would not be good for him. Pauline was not content with just breaking them mentally, she wanted to damage them. And while she amused herself with Cock, it was towards Bod that her enmity was directed. He thought it was only her concern for what Lady Christina would think that stopped her from whipping their faces, for he knew that would appeal to the young sadistrice. Still, there was nothing he could do about it, he had long ago given up that luxury.

After a while, he relaxed his rigid stance, his eyes wandering around the arched space. The hot midday sunshine outside was creating bright shafts of light from the gaps between the plankings onto the barn floor. It all smelt of hay and horses, although when he closed his eyes and concentrated, there were notes of rope and leather soap. He was lost in this reverie of aromas when the main door hinge squeaked, making him jump in nervousness. At least his cock wasn't aroused; that would have been suicide given the circumstances. More than ever, he wished her Ladyship was back home because he truly feared this malicious young woman who had currently total power over him.

Keeping his face turned to the ground, George heard Pauline's riding boots padding towards him, then they stopped.

"Turn around."

A leather helmet landed in front of his feet. She unfastened the wrist cuffs.

"Put that on."

There were no eyeholes, and just two small nostril holes. The back had a gusset that laced, so it was easy to slip over his head until the rich smell of leather enveloped his face. It was pitch black. As he stood there, his head was rudely pulled back and forth as the lacing gradually compressed his skull tightly in a series of sharp tugs.

"Lay down on the ground. On your back."

As he complied, the young horsewoman was lowering a large wooden shackle from the roof truss. There were leather cuffs hooked to it. She took them and deliberately, without any haste, buckled them tightly around his wrists and ankles. Dropping the bottom rope with its solid metal hook, she fastened both ankle cuffs to it and started winching. George felt his torso scrape over the scratchy straw as his haunches, then his shoulders, and finally the helmet, left the ground. He ended up perhaps half a metre from the stable floor, he thought.

Each wrist was clipped onto a metal ring at the top of the helmet, sited in the strong stitching at the top of the expansion gusset, and effectively making any struggles fruitless. Already he was feeling his body giving up to gravity, sagging unwillingly as his muscles fatigued. His elbows were quickest to surrender, dropping until his cuffs pulled dead weight on the leather hood. He wondered what kind of ordeal he was facing, for surely it would bear no relationship to his alleged error.

Suddenly he cried out as a series of stinging lines ranged across his shoulder blades while Pauline grunted with the effort. God, she was truly sadistic!

Whap!! WHAP!! Whap!! WHAP!!

The blows were striking him steadily, with spacing between them as Pauline shook the whip out and assumed her striking position again. Pauline did everything in her life with focused precision. George could imagine her ensuring that her feet and shoulders were effectively positioned to generate the most force, and he dreaded each time things went silent, because that was when she was aiming her next stripe. George thought she was using her dressage whip, a vicious slender rod of carbon-fibre, driving long strands of woven nylon that ended in frayed tips. She had shown it to him once, before handing out a punishment, and had taken some pleasure in describing the various parts and how they would work together to tear his skin each time they dragged across it. It had been custom made for her, she said, and designed to be a blood-letter. So that was what she called it -- Bloodletter.

As the girl warmed to her task, the lashes wandered away from his shoulder blades in ragged pattern, down his ribs and lower back, then across his buttocks and thighs. Soon there was no pattern to the blows, the cadence and aim became haphazard. George was struggling, struggling to not choke. Occasionally the whip tendrils slammed across the leather helmet, deafening him. He had been crying out and simultaneously trying to breath through the small holes, and his drool was getting into his nostrils, provoking paroxysms of frantic snorting and coughing. Suddenly he started to feel very strange - nauseous and dizzy; realised he was going to pass out, then there was blackness.

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His neck hurt; his cheeks were stinging. As George came to his senses he realised, amongst the overwhelming confusion in his head, that he was being battered with some kind of cane carpet-beater. The helmet was gone. Pauline was swatting his face back and forth, using both hands on the handle like a bat, and yelling at the top of her voice.

"WHAP!! Wake Up, Bod! WHAP!! Wake Up, you useless individual! WHAP!! Wake Up, Bod!

WHAP!! Wake Up, Bod! WHAP!! You useless fuck!!

There was a manic tone to her voice, hysterical. George could only vaguely absorb the words she was screaming, because he was reeling from each massive slap, and struggling to stay at all conscious. His nose was bleeding freely now, and thick streamers of snot oozed into his nostrils, making him snort and choke. His lips were split, and whenever the harsh curving canes landed on his ears, the impact was deafening. Gradually George felt himself surrendering to sleep; it was best to leave her to whatever she was intent on doing. He did not want to be there anymore. Unconsciousness descended on him, a fog of darkness.