Damsels in Distress (20 page)

‘Take off your dress now, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell’s voice ordered from the glaring lamps, and the tears did begin to flow. With fumbling fingers Sophie somehow undid the buttons that secured the back of the frock, and to the accompaniment of the odd encouraging comment she slipped it off and dropped it to the floor. To her utter mortification there was a general murmuring of impressed approbation, and even a smattering of clapping.

‘Keep dancing, girl,’ Mrs Powell ordered, and Sophie continued to sway with the music, tears meandering down her blushing cheeks and glistening under the glare of the lamps.

‘All right, my dear, we want to see your titties, now,’ Mrs Powell said crisply. ‘No need to take the basque off, just pull the cups down.’

Sophie took a deep breath. She was still swaying to the music in a desultory sort of way, but she could not really concentrate on dancing. Somehow she forced herself to ease the cups down, until her breasts swelled free of the rounded containers.

‘Very nice…’ someone growled.

‘Gertrude, they look good enough to eat. You really have brought us a real treasure. Well done.’

Sophie danced on, miserably aware that her unconstrained breasts were swaying and quivering as she moved in time to the gentle rhythm.

‘Time for your knickers now, dear Sophie,’ Mrs Powell said after a short while, and Sophie hesitated, all too awfully aware that if she took of the frilly panties she would be exposing her freshly shaven sex to the whole company, but with a sob of reluctance, knowing she had little choice, she bent to pull her panties down. Tears dripped from her chin onto her stockinged knees, and as the pink panties shimmered down there was a collective murmur of appreciation from the audience.

‘No, you silly girl,’ Mrs Powell admonished as Sophie straightened up. ‘Don’t cover yourself. Lift your hands above your head and keep dancing. Turn around from time to time; we also want to see your delicious bottom.’

How she obeyed Sophie did not know. Her knees felt weak and she hoped she might actually faint, as that would free her from such unbearable humiliation. But she dared not disobey, and somehow made herself lift her hands high and occasionally turn her back to the lecherous onlookers, and have to listen to lewd comments about her bottom rather than her breasts and shaven pussy.

For how long she danced she could not say, but the music stopped at last and the lights were switched off. Quickly she bent down to retrieve her dress and knickers.

‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Powell demanded as Sophie instinctively reached down for her dress and knickers. ‘Leave those alone. Just stand still and put your hands behind your head. You must wait while the gentlemen and ladies score your performance.’

Sophie watched meekly as the woman handed out cards and pens to the assembled guests. Then she moved to Sophie’s side and fixed the trembling girl with her gimlet gaze. ‘I don’t know why you’re blubbing like that,’ she said tersely. ‘If I were you I would save some tears for later. For now you are to be scored out of ten – five marks for your dancing and five for the rest of your performance, and as there are eight guests you have a maximum of eighty. Do you understand me?’

Sophie swallowed hard and nodded briefly.

‘You are required to achieve a score of ninety-five percent overall. Any less and I am afraid that we will require a forfeit.’

Mrs Powell looked from Sophie to the table, and with mounting alarm the girl followed her gaze, her stomach tightening as she eyed the ominous implements.

‘What we do is subtract your total score from the required figure. What is left is how many strokes you are awarded, in order to buck your ideas up for next time.’

Sophie felt herself swoon a little, the woman’s menacing words chasing around her bewildered head, but Mrs Powell slipped an arm around her waist and held her steady. All she understood for sure was that her ordeal was far from being at an end.

‘Superintendent Rutherford?’

Sophie did not want to look; she wanted to keep looking at the floor and try to blot out what was happening to her, but a dreadful curiosity seized her and she simply had to lift her gaze.

The superintendent held up two pre-printed cards, and Sophie nearly fell of the chair she now stood on.

‘Artistic impression,’ Mrs Powell announced, ‘three.’ She jotted down the figure in a notebook. ‘Striptease expertise… two.’

Sophie had very nearly baulked again when they made her stand up on the chair, and it did take a few slaps from Mrs Powell to encourage her. Then once the superintendent put the heavy handcuffs on her, chaining her wrists behind her back, any rebellion was completely quashed and she let him help her up onto the chair.

She was then targeted by one of the lights, while the other one was trained on the onlookers, Dr Montgomery moving it as each member gave their verdict, so that Mrs Powell and Sophie could read the cards as they were held up.

Sophie blinked and wondered if she had understood the system. Surely Mrs Powell had said that each card gave a score out of a possible five, which would mean that, counting both cards, Superintendent Rutherford only scored her five out of a possible ten. But that would mean that there were five, minus something small for the allowed five percent. No, she thought, that cannot be right. It was too complicated and she had been in no state to listen carefully to Mrs Powell’s explanation.

Sophie darted an anxious glance at the portly man the others had called George, as he was next in line to pass sentence.

Piggy eyes stared back at her and she saw him lick his lips, and instinctively tried to bring her hands around to shield her naked sex and breasts, which merely made the handcuffs chink as she pulled hopelessly at them.

At that moment she felt even more naked than ever, standing helpless and handcuffed, presented for their delectation on the chair, the bright lamp focussed on her vulnerable form, their collective gaze crawling over her exposed flesh, feeling their arousal and amusement, their desire and contempt.

‘Mr Pettifer, your scores, if you please,’ Mrs Powell said.

‘Artistic impression, two. Striptease expertise, two also.’ From over the cards with their appallingly low scores, George Pettifer gave her a little smile and winked.

‘Let’s see now,’ Mrs Powell said as she totted up the scores and did the necessary calculations. There was a possible eighty points available, but Sophie has scored an extremely disappointing total of thirty-three.’

The feeble score provoked a murmur from the audience, and Sophie felt her knees begin to buckle.

‘As ninety-five percent of eighty is seventy-six, we subtract thirty-three from seventy-six leaving us with…’ The room seemed to hold its collective breath. The sum should have been simple enough but Sophie was so distressed and so distracted by her situation she could not concentrate on it. ‘Thirty-eight.’

‘Thirty-eight strokes,’ George Pettifer echoed excitedly. ‘Well, well, the little baggage is certainly going to know she’s had a belting.’

‘We must encourage these girls to do their best for us,’ one of his female associates said. ‘It was clear that the little trollop was not even trying.’

‘Quite right, Estelle,’ Julian put in. ‘If we skin her arse properly now, next time she is sure to give us a better show altogether.’

Sophie felt sick and could not help but look over at the tawse laid out and waiting, as Mrs Powell moved to the table and the superintendent unlocked the handcuffs. But Sophie’s wrists were only free for a moment, as he secured them again immediately in front of her. Mrs Powell picked up the velvet bag and the tawse and moved back to the chair Sophie stood upon. The poor girl stared at the belt with growing horror, but it was the bag that Mrs Powell held up to her.

‘Reach in and pick out a tile,’ she instructed, and without knowing why, but not daring to disobey, Sophie did and felt a number of small cubes within the warm velvet. She then withdrew one of the tiles.

‘Read the number on it for us all to hear,’ Mrs Powell said, and Sophie weakly announced the number seven.

‘Damn it,’ Julian grumbled.

‘Good grief, George,’ Marjorie said, ‘how do you always do it?’

‘Just lucky, I guess,’ George chortled gleefully.

‘So what is it to be?’ Mrs Powell asked. ‘Are you going to choose to flog her, or be the first for “afters”?’

‘You are joking?’ George said, staring at Sophie with a delighted leer. ‘You sadists can compete for the pleasure of thrashing her, whereas I intend to be the first to fuck the succulent little morsel!’

This time her knees buckled so much that she might have fallen from the chair had the superintendent not supported her by the arm.

‘All right, Sophie, choose another tile, please,’ Mrs Powell continued, and the bewildered girl reached into the bag again. ‘Read it out, nice and clearly now.’

‘It’s n-number three,’ she managed.

‘Ho!’ the delighted superintendent exclaimed beside her. ‘I am
really
going to enjoy this, my dear!’

‘Twenty-two!’ the audience chorused as the twin tails bit yet again into Sophie’s bottom and she howled forlornly. The superintendent was as uncompromising as he was skilful. Every stroke of the tawse that cracked across her bottom was fearsomely harsh as well as accurate. Sophie twisted and moaned in pain, her buttocks and upper thighs boiling with pain. Surely the skin must have blistered, she thought as she writhed on Estelle’s back.

The blonde had won the right to ‘horse’ the girl, so she was made to put her arms around the woman’s neck, who bent a little, holding her wrists just above the handcuffs, and pulled the alarmed girl’s feet clear of the floor. It was a strange and insecure feeling. Her hands were pinioned, her naked breasts pressed into the back of the blonde’s angora sweater, while her stockinged toes dangled helplessly just above the carpeted floor

Until the first wicked stroke of the belt, that is. Once the twin tails cracked across her naked bottom with a pistol shot retort, Sophie’s feet danced rather than dangled. She writhed, she bucked, she twisted and she kicked as the police officer belted her with measured ferocity, but Estelle had no difficulty holding her in position.

‘She’s getting a little noisy, now,’ Mrs Powell said. ‘Shall we use the gag, do you think?’

‘Might be an idea,’ the superintendent conceded.

Sophie was barely capable of standing unsupported by now, but this was not a problem as many willing hands held her steady while her feet were lowered to the carpet. Hands also took the chance to feel her burning bottom and squeeze her breasts. One even rummaged between her legs.

‘Oh…’ Sophie began, startled by the rude fondling, but the rubber ball-gag was quickly fed between her teeth.

‘Open wider.’

Sophie hesitated again, alarmed by the gag, but a vicious pinch to her nipple made her open her mouth to shriek and the ball was pushed further in. After that it was the work of a moment to buckle the straps that held it in place, and then again she was hoisted onto Estelle’s back and her bottom clenched fearfully.

She heard the whistle of the tawse a second before the crack of the impact, and she heard the crack a second before the searing pain engulfed her. This time she could only emit a muffled squeal in response to the fire that blazed across her already tender bottom.

‘Twenty-three!’ the audience chorused enthusiastically.

‘Well, I don’t really see why not? Don’t be a spoilsport George.’

‘Look, Julian, who won the lottery? I want to fuck her first.’

‘Of course, old chap, no one is saying you shouldn’t, only I don’t see why I shouldn’t make use of the other end while you do your thing.’

‘Because I want the gorgeous little bitch to focus on me while I’m fucking her, that’s why. You can wait to get sucked off, surely?’

Sophie was weary and distracted by the throbbing in her punished rear, so the conversation only made vague sense to her.

Then her torso was pulled across the tabletop, the superintendent holding the chain of the handcuffs, making her stretch over the lustrous surface. Estelle lit a cigarette and watched with amused eyes, and Julian muttered about George’s selfishness.

Sophie gave a muffled moan. The gag was still in place and prevented any more coherent sound. George was feeling the soft folds between her legs and producing sensations strange and overwhelming, quite different and yet somehow connected to the soreness in her poor bottom.

‘She’s very wet already,’ he drooled.

‘Must be your immense charm, George,’ Estelle said sarcastically, then something firm and rounded pressed at Sophie’s sex lips, George gave a couple of grunts, and she felt him sink deep inside her with one lunging penetration, and after all the pain and humiliation suffered, rather to her surprise she was engulfed by waves of overwhelming pleasure.

George began to swear and snort, and Sophie’s orgasm came quickly. As she writhed on the table and panted around the gag, so George erupted inside her and she slumped, spent and exhausted on the polished mahogany.

George muttered an appreciative curse and withdrew, and Sophie felt the gag being unbuckled and the rubber ball eased from her aching mouth. She was still in a state of dreamy fatigue, her mind overwhelmed by extremes of sensation; pain, desire and humiliation, when her hair was clutched and her head pulled up. A glass of water was put to her lips, which she drank thankfully.