This is the third book in the series started by ‘Debt Slaves’ and continued in
‘Shared Torment (Debt Slaves Part 2)’. Indeed, the name ‘Heartbreak Oy’ may be familiar to
readers of that latter work. What follows is a brief summary of the events which have
brought us to the present volume:
John Griffin, a successful, ruthless but still ambitious businessman was being
tormented by revelations about his nefarious past dealings by a young newspaper reporter,
Jill Bentley. The information she was writing was extremely and unsettlingly accurate,
indicating that she was obtaining inside information from someone in Griffin’s employ. If
the stories were allowed to continue, he faced the possibility of even more embarrassing
information coming to light, something which could lead to financial ruin and possibly
criminal prosecution. Jill Bentley had to be stopped.
Griffin’s salvation came in his fortuitous choice of friends and in a piece of
newly enacted legislation: the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, whose effect was to
place debtors in the service of their creditors until such time as the debt was repaid.
‘Debt slavery!’ howled the liberals
‘Not at all,’ replied the government blandly. ‘There are good and sufficient
safeguards against abuse of the system.’
So there were, in the form of supervision by the police and frequent inspections by
a nominated medical officer of all indentured persons. It just happened that two of
Griffin’s friends happened to be George Chambers and Colin Atkinson, Chief Superintendent
of Police and Chief Area Medical Officer respectively. Add to that the fact that a third,
Peter Robinson, was a bank manager and financial wizard and it wasn’t long before Jill
Bentley was straddling Griffin’s own variation on the theme of torture horse, which turned
out to be a remarkably efficacious instrument of persuasion. Not only did Jill provide the
name he needed, she became, as time and torture told, an unwilling though enthusiastic sex
slave for him and his friends. In due course she was joined in that unhappy state by her
informant, Carol Wilson. Then the four men had two young women to play with, two objects
to share the agonies and the vile and degrading sexual demands made of them.
It was at about the time of Carol’s contrived conviction for theft that Paula
Parsons also came on the scene. Paula, a strikingly attractive (then) forty-year-old, is
KP Mitchell’s personal assistant and, by coincidence, an experienced slave-mistress. Not
un-naturally, since she shared her master’s tastes: KP Mitchell was a slave-owner and
trainer, with an appetite for sex that belied his seventy years. It was he, in fact, who
had been the driving force behind the Debt Recovery and Rehabilitation Act, with an aim to
doing precisely what, in an act of coincidence, Griffin and his friends had.
Griffin’s accommodation for Jill and Carol had always been somewhat improvised; in
fact, a secret dungeon in his headquarters, which meant that the group was restricted to
evenings and week-ends for their sessions. Having sampled the delights of sadism and the
sexual gratification that came with it, Griffin had planned to create his own slave
training establishment, an eminently satisfactory idea, but one fraught with potential
problems. Paula’s arrival changed all that. A word from her to KP and the idea of an
executive rest home on Heartbreak Oy was born. Griffin and Paula would be joint owners,
with the three others as share-holders and paid consultants. KP Mitchell would become
non-executive chairman of the board and full-time permanent senior resident. It solved
what could have been a massive problem, but there remained a huge amount of work.
Which brings us to the present, or very nearly. Unfortunately, four of the cast
have disappeared into a literary heaven (or the other place; suit yourself): Jill and
Carol served with increasing docility for almost nine months before the group, which now
included Paula and occasionally KP, tired of them. They were sold at a slave auction in
Amsterdam, eventually falling to bids from an American dealer who needed stock for a
brothel in Texas. The profits went on the purchase of a Greek and a Turk whose initial
hatred of each other almost matched that they felt for their new owners. That mutual
animosity didn’t last, of course, but it provided our principals with a good deal of
amusement in the early days. Now, after six months’ service they, too have gone. As yet,
they haven’t been replaced.
The other absentees are Peter Robinson and Colin Atkinson. On their way to London
to enjoy the hospitality of Underhill, a slave-training establishment in South London,
they ran into a patch of fog and several dozen other cars and lorries on the M1. Both
died. So now our group is three which, with the imminent appearance of KP Mitchell, will
soon become four once more.
As the story opens, the new establishment is within six weeks or so of
completion and our group is hard at work making plans for its administration, operation
and security. The doesn’t mean, though, that there isn’t time to indulge in their
favourite pastime…
Chapter 1
Chambers leaned forward and flicked at a speck of mud on the trouser leg that was
crossed over his knee. Satisfied that he’d got it, he leaned back in the deep leather
armchair and sipped at his drink, his eyes going to Griffin, who sat on the other side
other the fireplace in an identical chair.
“I can’t see them finishing the place,” he said. “It’s like a large hole surrounded
by mud.”
Griffin smiled, the expression of one both confident and experienced. “It’s always
like that at this stage; you’ll be surprised how soon it comes together.” A slight frown
crossed his brow, “The only problem I’ve got is convincing the site manager that all those
special little rooms are necessary for wine and food storage. I have the distinct feeling
that he thinks I’m barmy.”
Chambers’ face echoed his friend’s mild concern in a somewhat amplified form.
“He’s not going to make waves, is he?”
“Not if he wants that bonus he’s been promised. And somehow I think that that will
overcome any problems.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be here soon.”
Chambers said nothing. He simply went still, his eyes on those of Griffin. The
silence drew out. “No hint on the phone?”
Griffin shook his head. “You know what she’s like about phones, especially
mobiles.”
“I don’t blame her. Still, we’ll know soon enough. When’s she due?”
“Two minutes ago. Oh, she says that she has a surprise for us.”
“Snap.”
Griffin’s eyebrows arched. “You holding out on me?”
“Yes. I wanted Paula to be here so I don’t have to go through it twice.”
“I’m surrounded by conspirators,” said Griffin, smiling. “I just hope it’s worth
the suspense.”
Chambers looked smug. “Wait and see.” He peered into his empty glass. “Bugger
having no slaves! I suppose I have to refill this myself?”
“It’s the main reason God gave you legs, my boy.”
Chambers levered himself up, but stopped half-way, still crouched. His head tilted
to the side. “She’s here,” he said, continuing the movement.
Griffin looked round. “You sure? I didn’t hear anything.”
“Policeman’s ears, old lad. I heard the tyres on the gravel.”
Griffin stood. “Then we’d better go and greet her.”
***
Chambers had been right. There was a gleaming black Bentley Continental on the
gravel drive in front of the door, its windows dark to obscure any view of the interior.
As they moved down the stone steps to it, the back door swung open and she looked out.
“Hello, perverts.”
“Hello yourself, trollop,” replied Griffin, smiling.
She looked anything but a trollop, more a thirty-something lady who looked after
her figure with care. A professional and rather forbidding thirty-something lady, with her
dark blonde hair pulled back severely, her rather broad but attractive face strong. In
fact she was close to forty-two now and that severe expression could either melt into the
ecstasy of passion or become something one could sharpen razor blades on if she had a cane
in her hand and a slave kneeling in front of her. That hair could stay as it was or
cascade into an abandoned fan, depending on her mood.
Chambers made to go to the boot. “Any bags?” he asked.
Paula climbed out unheeding of the expanse of thigh she was showing. She had showed
and shared much more than that with both men. “No, don’t,” she said. She rapped on the
driver’s window. “Get out of there and get the baggage,” she snapped in tones that both
men had heard often enough. It left them in no doubt about the status of the driver.
The door opened quickly enough, but the black-clad figure within seemed to take an
age to get out. Much to the surprise of the two men, Paula didn’t follow up her initial
order with further impatient commands to hurry things up, as she normally would. Instead,
with an amused glance at the two men she stepped up to join them, folded her arms and
watched.
With agonising slowness, the figure extracted itself from the driver’s seat and
stood by the side of the car. It was a woman, as both Griffin and Chambers had expected,
though neither had anticipated anything quite like this. She was tall: very tall, for
despite the fact that they were standing on the steps looking down at her, it was clear
that she was very nearly six feet in height, just a couple of inches shorter than they and
a good four taller than Paula. She was slim to the point of gauntness, the tight black
chauffeur’s jacket and long, equally tight skirt that was slit to the knee to allow
sufficient movement for driving accentuating that. Although she wore polished boots, the
heels were flat, so none of that height could be attributed to them.
Her hair was a dark reddish-brown, curled and cut high to reveal a fine, delicate
neck that set her rather small head well away from her shoulders. Her face was exquisite,
all its features finely drawn to the point of inherent haughtiness, though at present
contorted with what they knew without asking was pain. A lot of it, borne for a
considerable period, their now-experienced eyes told them. The eyes were huge, but now
showed little but suffering; there were dark patches beneath them and lines were etched
from either side of the nodes to the sides of her mouth. Her tall, wide brow was furrowed,
while her teeth chewed at her lower lip.
“Get the bags,” repeated Paula peremptorily.
Those huge eyes went to her, pleading. “Oh, God! Please…”
“Don’t beg, bitch! Get on with it!”
Despair clouded that beautiful face; the eyes dropped and she turned to the back of
the car. Even a movement that small was made stiffly and gingerly and was accompanied buy
a whimper. The steps that followed were tiny, mincing, as if the boots were full of broken
glass. Griffin looked at Paula, wondering if that’s what it was, but if she recognised the
question in his eyes and that of Chambers, she simply smiled knowingly.
More whimpers and barely-stifled cries accompanied her painful progress to the rear
of the car. She looked to be in her early twenties, Griffin judged, though that strained
expression could have aged her by a year or two. At last the boot lid rose, revealing two
huge suitcases and a small over-night bag.
“Hand me that bag,” ordered Paula. She took it and slung it over her shoulder, her
eyes dancing with amusement as she flashed a look at the two men. “Never let it be said
that I don’t help out,” she said. Then she turned back to the chauffeuse. “What are you
waiting for, you idle bitch?”
“Oh, I… Oh, please!”
The blonde dominatrix took a step towards her. “Listen, you dozy, idle cow: you
were five minutes late getting here. Remember what I promised you? If you don’t get those
bags out of there and inside within five minutes, it’ll be double!”
Terror crossed the face. The mouth opened in an ‘O’ of horror. “Oh, no! I hurt so
much! You can’t!”
“I can and will, as you well know! Now get on with it!”
The suitcases were obviously extremely heavy and the girl just wasn’t built for
that sort of job. But sheer desperation gave her the strength to do it. Within a minute
both were out of the boot. Scant seconds later she was hauling one of them up the steps to
the front door using both hands on the handle as she panted with the effort, every
expelled breath an indication of supreme effort and the pain it was costing her.
“She’s a model,” said Paula, sitting in the arm-chair that was flanked by those of
the two men. The chauffeuse stood before them, looking even taller and thinner now. Her
head was held up because Paula had ordered it, but no orders had been given for the
rapidly-blinking eyes, teeth gnawing at the lower lip or the fingernails that seemed
intent on driving themselves through her palms. All three knew the signs: the woman had
been driven very close to the edge. Now it was a question of watching and enjoying as
Paula pushed her just those few inches more, until she teetered and perhaps fell. “Or she
was until a few weeks ago. Weren’t you, bitch?”
The chin trembled; visible moisture formed at the corner of those huge eyes. “Y…
yes, Mistress.”
“And she’s something else. What are you, cow?”
“A… a thief, Mistress.” She squirmed, her voice hinting at desperation. “Pleeeeese,
I huuuurt! I have… have to pee.”
“Wait.”
“Oh, God! Please!”
“I said ‘wait’. What did you steal, you treacherous whore?”
“Your designs, Mistress.”
Paula glanced sideways, first to Griffin, then Chambers. “No, I haven’t suddenly
developed artistic talents. I just happen to own the fashion house that this dirty little
sneak-thief worked for. She was caught with most of the designs for the new season on her.
Off to Paris with them weren’t you, worm?”
A tear fell. “Y… yes, Mistress. I’m so sorry, Mistress.”
“You have been. You will be,” she added darkly.
“Aaaaaagh!”
“Personally,” said Chambers bluntly. “I’ve always thought that the only thing worse
that a woman obsessed with fashion is a man obsessed with fashion.”
Paula grinned. “Oh, I’ve no time for the vacuous females – or males – who twitter
and flutter around the game, but don’t let the nature of the business fool you: there’s
some very hard people in it, believe me. Because there’s money in it: real money.”
“Ah!” said Chambers. If Paula talked about real money, then it was not to be
sneezed at.
“And this… stick insect,” went on Paula, putting venom into the words, “was going
to steal it. My money!” She stared at the unfortunate woman who was now sobbing openly her
knees bent as she pressed her thighs together, hands clenching. “You want to pee, bitch?”
“Yes!” It was a plea of sheer desperation. “Oh yes, please. Mistress!”
“Then you can do it here, in front of these gentlemen. If they’re interested in
seeing that worthless body of yours, that is?” She glanced at the two men again,
acknowledging their smiles and nods of both agreement and appreciation.
There was utter humiliation on that face now. “Oh, no! Oh, please!”
“You want to pee or not?”
“Oh, God!” It was a cry of utter despair. “Yes, Mistress!”
“Got a bucket handy, John?”
“I should think so,” he said. He levered himself to his feet, glancing at the
desperation on their victim’s face before looking down at Paula with a wink. “It may take
some time to find, though.”
“Take your time. There’s no great hurry,” she responded.
“Oooooooh, pleeeeeease!”
Griffin took the time to select a few bottles of wine for dinner before making a
rather languid way back to the room where the girl was now practically writhing in an
upright position. Her pallid face went, if possible, even paler when she saw the bucket.
He put it down in front of her before resuming his seat.
“Well, there’s the bucket,” said Paula. “So…. Oh, but there’s just one little thing
first, isn’t there?” she mocked.
The face twisted even more. “Yes, Mistress. Oh, Mistress, please!”
Paula laughed, a sound full of her love of sadism and the enjoyment she was taking
from all of this. “All right, then get that skirt off.”
“But… Oh, no. Please, I…”
“You’ll be doing a lot more than just showing yourself off soon enough, you stupid
bitch. But,” she leaned back with a satisfied smile and then uttered the words that she
must have used a thousand times before in similar circumstances. “It’s up to you.”
The moments of agonised indecision were brief; it was clear that there was more
than just the need to urinate that had been driving her. And when her hands went to the
fastener at the waist and the material dropped to the floor, the men saw just what it
was.
She was naked from the tops of the boots to the hem of the jacket, cut short to
navel height. The legs were enormously long, terminating in a rather bony pelvis
surmounted by a very narrow waist. Circling that was a tight metal belt, its inner surface
padded for protection. From it, also padded on the inner surface ran a broad rubber band
under tension. At its lower end was what looked like a triangular metal bar that
disappeared between the thighs, parting the labia and clearly pressing with unrelenting
cruelty into that tender flesh.
“Turn round, you stupid bitch! Let the gentlemen see!”
Sobbing, the slave turned, every slight motion making that thing dig into her. That
bar was curved so that it conformed to her body’s shape; where it ended, a short leather
belt joined it to the waist-band, a buckle providing the means by which it could be
tightened.
“I got the idea from that lovely bar of yours,” said Paula, referring to Griffin’s
torture horse variation.
The two men looked at each other. That thing had been in place as the woman had
driven all the way from London. No wonder she was in agony; it must have been sheer murder
every time she hit the brake or accelerator. If the gears had been manual… well, it just
wouldn’t have been possible.
“Turn round,” snapped Paula.
Again that painful shuffle.
“Did you shave her?” asked Chambers.
“No, that’s her own idea,” replied Paula, looking up at the tortured face. “I think
she likes feeling her girl-friend’s tongue. I’ve let her carry on with it. Not that you’ve
felt much tongue on there for the last few weeks. Have you, cow?”
“N… no, Mistress.”
“Been too busy getting hers up me. And very good at it she is.”
Griffin was examining the skin of the backside and thighs. They were covered with
welts and weals, some of them fresh. He’d seen marks like them before; seen them applied,
too: Paula favoured a plaited crop. Those welts were her trade-mark.
“How many have you given her?” he asked, hearing the sob that the remark provoked
but ignoring it.
“Tell him, bitch.”
“A h… hundred and e… eighty, sir.”
“Master!” cracked Paula.
“M…Master. I’m s… sorry, Master, Mistress.”
“You’d better be,” growled Paula. “How many have you been promised?”
“A… a… a thousand, Mistress.” She swallowed, hard. “Unless… unless I… I behave.”
“A thousand?” asked Griffin, looking at Paula.
She was leaning back on the chair, having unbuttoned the jacket she wore. Those
magnificent breasts of hers, unfettered, pressed against the sheer material of her blouse,
the semi-erect nipples betraying a degree of arousal. When she looked at him, he saw that
her eyes had begun to smoulder, too. It was a look he knew well and one which helped to
suppress his lurking impatience about the news she was carrying but which she’d given no
sign of divulging. Perhaps she was indulging in a little game, but it was also possible
that she’d become engrossed in the game she was playing and had forgotten. For the moment,
he was quite happy to let this go on.
“What I said,” she said, “was a thousand in three months, as long as she behaves.
Less if she’s very good. Do you want to take that little contraption off, slut?”
“Oh, yes, Mistress! Please!”
A thin smile crossed Paula’s lips. “Only four hours or so! No staying power, these
young people. All right, take it off.”
The thin hands went behind with almost indecent haste, long, elegant fingers
tearing at the leather strap. Her fingernails had been cut sort, of course: leaving a
slave with ten weapons just wasn’t smart.
“Ooooooooh! Aaaaaaaaah!” she cried, easing the wicked thing from between her legs.”
Paula laughed as the wicked, curved bar was allowed to dangle in front while both
the slave’s hand went, unashamed, between her legs to sooth the tortured parts. “Never
mind all that,” she snapped. Hold that thing out of the way while you pee.”
The eyes were wide, pleading again. “Mistress, please! It’s…. awful!”
“Put it back.”
“Noooo!”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, bitch! Start peeing or start buckling!”
“Oooooooh!”
It was, of course, no contest. After a few seconds hesitation, those long legs
straddled the bucket and, with eyes tightly closed, face blushing red, she urinated
noisily and at length into the bucket, holding the metal bar up out of the way as she did
it. At long last the flow ceased, though she held the position for a long time, shaking
her hips from side to side as if to shake off the drops. The two men found out why when
Paula held out a tissue.
“Open those eyes at once! Did I give you permission to close them?”
The eyes flew open. “N… no, Mistress!”
“That’s a few more on the list. It’s growing! Now, take this. You know what to
do.”
Hand shaking, she took the tissue. Her legs were still spread wide over the bucket
as she put the scrap to her vagina and wiped. A long hesitation and then it was carried up
to her mouth, inserted. She retched, paused, chewed, retched again, closed her eyes,
opened them when she realised what she’d done, retched and swallowed.
“Filthy animal,” smirked Paula.
The face twisted. The was an inarticulate moan of despair, generating a laugh from
all three onlookers.
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