It was a blessed relief to Simon when the telephone rang. Supreme Guard Aphrodite unleashed a final thrash with the bullwhip which ripped into his prostrate form before lifting the receiver and barking
He could not hear the other end of the conversation, and even Aphrodite’s harsh words were blurred by his inability to control the spasmodic sobbing, but he understood from her irritation that his ordeal was to be terminated. Temporarily. At least that was better than having it terminated permanently.
“What?” she snapped into the receiver.
“Now? Does it have to be right now… Someone’s going to pay for this!”
She threw the receiver back onto its cradle and kicked out at Simon’s heaving side, rolling him over onto his back. “I’m going out for a few minutes,” she said, coldly.
“When I get back I’ll be in just the right mood for a gelding, so stay here. Okay?”
His reply was indeterminate but she took it for a yes, striding out from the office and slamming the door shut behind her.
Simon remained supine for a couple of minutes, hardly trying to control the flow of tears.
The thought of his intended fate had drained away what last reserves of strength he possessed.
He somehow managed to pull his body upright and leant against the desk for support. His genitals were too tender to touch – he did not dare to hope that the ice-cold pain emanating from down there might subside – but at least they were intact. For now.
He slumped forward onto the desk and remained there – half standing, half laid – for a couple more minutes, allowing the breath to percolate his agonised body.
He saw the knife ready on the blotter; short and serrated with a carved wooden handle. It took him another moment to understand what the handle was supposed to represent…
Then he suddenly knew what he had to do…
Supreme Guard Aphrodite strolled back to her office, contemplating the minor disturbance that had called her away. She had sorted it out easily enough, the two girls being unwilling to challenge her judgement on the matter. They should not have been fighting, she thought. It’s a waste of energy: energy that would have been better spent on the punishment of males. And all over a stupid breeder… Guard Angela and Guard Katherine had both tried to book the same slave from the prison harem: an enormously well-endowed young male who had taken the fancy of many of the guards over the preceding weeks. Neither of them would relent and a bout of fisticuffs had ensued. Supreme Guard Aphrodite had resolved the situation with resort to the Wisdom of Solomon and a pair of scissors, allowing the girls to share the breeder amongst themselves. “That was a good cock,” she mused, pushing open the office door. “So I suppose Katherine got the best of the deal.”
A few seconds elapsed before she remembered that she was not supposed to be alone in the room… No Prisoner had ever dared to disobey her in the past and so she had to search through her memory for the location of the secret emergency button: she found it at last, next to the light switch, and set off the sirens which deafened the entire prison complex.
Guard Geraldine dashed into the office and saw that Aphrodite was keeping herself occupied. Four men were chained to the wall, all bearing the scars of an ongoing beating. It was clear that the Supreme Guard knew how best to keep her anger in check.
“Supreme Guard,” the young brunette began.”
“Watchtower 8 reports a possible sighting of the escapee; moving through the bushes towards gate C. They want to know if they should strafe.”
“Who is on gate C this afternoon?”
“Voluntary Guard Krista, Supreme Guard.”
Aphrodite brightened up. “No,” she said. “Keep the guns under wraps – I want him alive. Get me Krista on the radio.”
“Yes Supreme Guard.”
Voluntary Guards, as the title suggests, are unpaid. Mostly they are Ladies with time on their hands who wish to do their bit for the Cruellan State. They receive only the bare basics of training and take care of some of the many unskilled tasks around the prison: guarding gates, operating the castration machines, breaking in new whips, that kind of thing. A few of them – like Krista, for instance – are retired Bounty-Hunters.
The life of the bounty hunter is a rough and uncomfortable one, requiring many nights spent out in the Wildlands to which runaway slaves inevitably migrate. A good bounty hunter can capture one slave a week before returning to the nearest city – with suitably appropriate proof of his demise secreted in her knapsack – to claim the fee. Fees are variable but usually amount to a few hundred Cruellan Marks. Thus, almost all Bounty Hunters are able to retire before they are thirty; the very best before they are twenty-five. Krista retired on her twenty-first birthday.
That was five years ago. She quickly became bored with the day-to-day round of household chores – flogging the servants – but enjoyed the luxury of silk sheets on a thick mattress and the ready availability of lesbian lovers: she did not want to return to the harsh world of Bounty Hunting but sought a little more varied entertainment. The Cruellan Prison Service were happy to accommodate her.
Her skills made her unpopular with the professional guards, particularly at the yearly Games when she invariably took the Golden Ball, awarded to the woman with the best performance averaged over the full range of events. She was unbeatable in ‘The Pursuit’ which involved 20 prisoners being released into the grounds and hunted down; and also in the various modes of unarmed combat which pitted a naked guard against a pair of unchained males. She was less adept than the professionals at games like precision whipping and identifying masturbators, but her overall performance placed her well ahead of the pack.
Simon laid flat on the ground beneath the thickly-leafed shrub. He was thinking particularly clearly: perhaps more so than at any previous moment in his life. The tears were gone, replaced by a determined glint.
He had heard of the Wildlands and had decided to go there. As simple as that. The thought had formed in the first few moments after Supreme Guard Aphrodite’s departure, and was now a carefully formulated plan.
The sounds of the sirens had confirmed that his escape was recorded and he expected the guards to start combing the area around him at any moment. He hoped that no-one would stumble across him but if they did… He had the knife, stolen from the Supreme Guard’s drawer, and he doubted if any of the guards had ever come across an ARMED man before.
He edged forward so that he could peer out through the foliage towards the gate in the distance. About two hundred yards of open ground separated him from the kiosk which presumably contained a solitary woman guard.
He could not see the guard but he knew that she must be there: the barrier was up, as if inviting him to make a dash, but he was suddenly too sensible to fall for such a simplistic trick. “Yesterday, perhaps,” he muttered, “but I’ve seen the truth now. Clever bitches – that’s all you are. And I’m a clever man.”
His confidence was rattled when Krista stepped out of the kiosk. She was a long way away but her shape was quite clearly discernible.
“A giantess?” He hissed, ducking down in case he was visible under the bush. The woman seemed at a loss. She looked along the perimeter fence to left and right of her kiosk then put a finger to her mouth and began to suck, as if worried or frightened.
She began to scan the expanse of land in front of her, causing Simon to close his grip on the knife when her gaze passed over him.
She saw something off to her right and began to move towards it, stooping down and stalking catlike along the fence.
When she was about 100 yards from the gate – with her attention off at a tangent to him, something in Simon’s brain said “NOW!”
Guard Virginia and Voluntary Guard Elsbeth watched through binoculars from their perch in Watchtower 8.
“He’s going to make it!” Elsbeth cursed.
“You want to bet?” She offered.
“Loser goes down three nights in a row.”
Virginia motioned with her tongue.
“Oh. Okay then… COME ON KRISTA. He’s made 50 yards and you haven’t even seen him yet.”
“She has,” said Virginia.
“No she hasn’t… Look – they’re both 100 yards from the gate in different directions… She’ll never catch him now!”
“She won’t. He’s just about Oh… I see.”
Simon was eighty yards from the gate before Krista moved.
Even then he knew he was going to make it: he was ahead of her, in full flow, and she hadn’t even trotted into top gear. He was twenty yards from the gate when her shoulder hammered into the small of his back, sending him sprawling into a heap with her on top.
The mighty blonde could have finished him off there and then but instead she leapt clear and backed off a few feet. Simon, helplessly winded, stared up at her, waiting for the final blow. After a few seconds he gasped: “What… What are you waiting for?”
“You’ve got a knife,” She said, blankly, impassive.
Simon knew that the knife had been knocked from his hand in the scuffle and looked around for it, desperately.
“There,” she said, pointing. “Just by your left foot.”
He suddenly realised: she WANTED him to get the weapon.
Bleak truths entered his mind: the beautiful giantess held him in such contempt that she wanted to give him a chance to make the contest interesting; if she won he would either be destroyed, there and then, or face a life of uttermost hell for daring to arm himself in the struggle; if he won he would probably escape to freedom; or, possibly, he could remain on his back, awaiting the arrival of more guards who would drag him away to face the wrath of Aphrodite…
He lunged for the knife and leapt to his feet.
“Let me past,” he demanded. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t you? Well I want to hurt YOU.”
He studied her properly for the first time, looking beyond the sheer power of her physique. Her impassive face betrayed no emotion as she waited for his decision: she was neither concerned nor excited by the prospect of a fight with a man. Her anatomy was in perfect proportion to her size: her breasts were the largest he had ever seen but were firm and strong, pouting through the mesh of her leather-and-steel, Wildlands outfit. Her flat stomach, broad shoulders and solid thighs indicated her outstanding fitness: a fact evidenced by the speed with which she had chased and captured him… Simon could not prevent her physical perfection from arousing him: his penis erected – ignoring the beating it had received at Aphrodite’s hands less than thirty minutes earlier – pushing aside the thin membrane of his crotch-cover to stand up against his belly.
Krista noticed it and a flicker of a smile passed over her otherwise impassive face. She unhitched the whip from its clasp on her belt and prepared to take aim.
Simon knew that he had to make his move now, before the whip lashed out to strip the knife from his hand – or worse. He lunged forwards and thrust out towards her midriff.
As an inmate of the Cruellan Prison Service, Simon had grown used to frequent abuse of his testicles. They were battered almost daily; frequently whipped, stamped and crushed by innumerable guards; but they had never been kicked with such irresistible force as mustered by the fearsome, blonde giantess. The tip of her laced calf-boot rose inexorably towards the apex of his crotch with deadly accuracy blow lifted him clear of the ground and propelled him seven or eight yards towards the perimeter fence. Before his physical arousal could subside, Krista had rolled him onto his back, grabbed hold of the rigid organ and snapped it downwards so that the tip dibbed a hole in the hard earth between his thighs.
In watchtower eight, Voluntary Guard Elsbeth lowered her binoculars. “Wow,” she said, impressed. “She nearly ripped it off with her bare hands.”
Guard Virginia nodded. “Wouldn’t have been the first time… We’d better let Aphrodite know that her little rat has been trapped, otherwise there won’t be anything left for her to punish by the time she gets down there.”
“She’s stamping on him, now. Forcing the point of her heel into his privates. Gosh, I wish I could be doing that.”
“Me too. I’d even settle for being a little closer to the action so that we could hear his screams more clearly.”
Elsbeth laughed. “Do you suppose he’s pleading with her. Begging for mercy?”
“Yes. I’ll bet he’s shrieking ‘Spare my balls, Spare my balls’.”
“I love it when they do that… When their voices go all high and they start pleading for their manhood – even though what’s left between their legs is useless by then.”
It was Virginia’s turn to laugh: “Isn’t it useless anyway?”
Elsbeth did not need to consider her reply: “Of course it is – to us. It’s useful to them, though. You know – for wanking and going to the bathroom.
“Well that’s one man who won’t be wanking again… And I think he’ll probably end up having to sit down when he goes to the bathroom, knowing Krista.”
“What’s she doing now?” “Sitting on his face… Reaching forward… This could be it…” There are no bathrooms or bidets in the Wildlands so Bounty Hunters have to learn the tricks quickly. Krista – a stickler for hygiene – had always shaved the hairs from her sex and had never gotten out of the habit, not even after five years of more luxurious life in the city. Of course she no longer had to do it herself – not with the ready availability of suitably qualified eunuchs – but it was something she enjoyed. She also enjoyed every opportunity to sit down on a man’s face, for very similar reasons: the wet tongue of a captured runaway being just about the only method of maintaining feminine cleanliness beyond the civilised world.
Thus, the view and aroma she presented to Simon when she settled over him, the leather tassels of her loincloth coming to rest about his scalp and throat, was without question the most arousing experience of his life: his tongue instinctively sought to part her labia, despite the burning pain that had completely paralysed the lower, tender parts of his body.
Whilst her captive lapped away at her sex, Krista reached down and pulled his battered genitals free of the flimsy crotch-cover. Stripping a chain from her costume, she formed it into a loop then leant forward and pulled it tight around the base of his penis and scrotum. Standing, she used the short length of chain to lift him from the ground…
Simon screamed and somehow found his feet, only to realise that she was not propelling him back towards the main Prison Complex, nor towards her kiosk by the gate, but directly towards the high, wire-mesh, perimeter fence; which he knew was electrified.
He roared with pain as the front of his body hit the mesh.
Krista listened for a moment then pulled him clear, allowing him to fall into a quivering heap at her feet.
“Men,” she said. “So pathetic. It’s only fifty volts, you know.” To prove her point she reached out and clasped hold of the mesh, demonstrating her capacity to resist the puny current.
She clasped hold of the genital chain and dragged him back to the fence, slipping the steel through a couple of links in the mesh and knotting it in place. Simon, on his knees, reached out and tried to push himself away from the burning agony but to no avail. Krista lit a cigarette and watched him for a few moments before taking up her whip. Supreme Guard Aphrodite ambled up, accompanied by a couple of assistants. “Well done, Krista,” she said. “I’ll see you get a commendation for this.”
“Thank you,” said Voluntary Guard Krista, unfastening the insensate prisoner’s genitals from the humming fence. “But It’s unnecessary. The pleasure was reward enough.” “I insist. You showed tremendous initiative in the mistreatment of the prisoner and I want your endeavours to be recorded as an example to the others.”
“Okay then, Thank you.”
“I’ll even make you an Honorary Guard: that way you can be paid for the privilege, and share in the duties of my professional staff.”
“No,” said Krista, shaking her head. She indicated the trembling, curled up form at her feet and continued: “That thing is not worth it. Men in the Wildlands are much stronger – they have to be to get that far – and it is a much, much greater pleasure to eradicate them than it is to destroy rodents like this. I think I will go back to Bounty Hunting…” Supreme Guard Aphrodite strolled rather sadly back towards her office, shaking her head at the loss of so great a talent. Her assistants followed along behind, giggling, dragging Simon between them. He was writhing and squawking as the jerking chain stretched his genitals but every attempt he made to rise to his feet was thwarted by a well planted stiletto heel.
The foursome passed beneath Watchtower 8 but Elsbeth and Virginia barely noticed them, having their ears trapped by the soft, fleshy insides of each other’s thighs.
Krista watched them go, permitting herself a brief smile. They were nice people, she knew, and she would be sorry to say ‘good-bye’ to them all, but there were males to catch: males who had enjoyed a brief taste of freedom, and that – as all Cruella knew – could not be allowed.