Slaves of Irontown Page 9

  When the whole school had welcomed them, Bradawl said: ‘Very good. Put them in their places, please Mr Hawk…’

  Mel, Bolt and Cam were freed from the chains and taken to the spare mats at the front where they gingerly lowered themselves onto the dildos. Mel saw the mats were also stamped with their part names. At least they were not the focus of attention any more.

  ‘We also have a confession to witness this morning,’ Bradawl continued.

  There was an excited stir in the hall. Mel saw the girls looking round them, all the while jigging a little faster on their dildos.

  ‘Mr Stapler, please bring Spool 113 forward. ’

  A master standing at the back of the hall detached the Asian girl Mel had seen in the washroom from her chain-sisters and led her forward. Meanwhile Hawk had run back the chains that had secured Mel and was now wheeling out a new device that had been folded up against the wall.

  It was a rectangular wooden platform with two side posts a little over head-high mounted on each end. Each post had chains trailing from its inner face and a large glass tube running up its front, at the top of which was a domed bell. Sets of graduation marks were painted on posts beside the tubes. Resting inside the bottom of each tube was a short thick round-ended bar of metal fitted with ring washers. In the middle of the platform was the jacket of an upright iron pump with a short section of greased piston showing capped by a rubber dildo handle. Rubber pipes with brass fittings ran from the base of the pump to the bases of the glass tubes. There was an odd detail of the device Mel could not make sense of. Hanging in rows on the posts beside a second set of lighter chains were half a dozen metal latticework domes of assorted sizes.

  Spool was positioned on the platform straddling the pump, so that the dildo handle slid up her vagina. Short rubber cords bolted to the upper rim of the pump jacket were clipped to her labial rings, holding her impaled. Her arms were pulled out sideways and her cuffs were hooked to the upper set of chains connected to the posts, leaving some slack on them. Her feet were spread and the lowest set of post chains were secured to her ankle cuffs.

  Mel found it impossible not to stare at Spool as she was secured. Her skin was olive with the upstanding ringed nipples on her rounded breasts a few shades darker. She had a mane of jet-black fluffy hair tied back in a big ponytail. Her hips were slim and her thighs girlishly rounded. Her eyes were dark and bright and her oriental nose was neatly snubbed. Her shaven and ringed cleft was round-lipped and pouting. She looked nervous, excited and proud at the same time, almost glowing with a sense of inner resolve.

  Now the masters selected a pair of the mesh domes that had puzzled Mel and fitted them over Spool’s breasts, kneading and squeezing her pliant flesh until it were confined within cages of mesh like bizarre bra cups. Spool whimpered as her breasts were imprisoned and Mel winced as she saw that each junction of the lattice held a stubby metal spike pointing inwards. There were holes at the top of each dome through which her nipples were pulled by their rings. Slender integral curved bolts were slid across the tops of the domes and through the rings, securing them in place and preventing the cages from slipping off, even if the studs would have permitted it. Constrained and moulded by their cages, Spool’s breasts now stood out with impossible pertness from her chest. The ends of the post chains were then clipped to her protruding nipple rings and her breasts were totally imprisoned, looking as though they were leashed to the frame. Flesh and iron merged, Mel thought darkly.

  When she was secured, Hawk and Stapler took up positions in front and behind Spool with their canes ready.

  ‘What do you have to confess, Spool 113? ’ Bradawl asked.

  ‘That… I’ve been a bad girl, Headmaster,’ she said, in a small but clear voice. ‘I was lost, I gave up on myself, but now I’m found. I was a disappointment to my parents. I was disrespectful. I did not try hard enough at school or work. I did not listen to good advice. I got into bad company. I drank and used drugs. I was wasting my life. I’ve been a bad girl… please, Masters, punish me! ’

  ‘Do so,’ Bradawl commanded.

  Hawk and Stapler swung at Spool from front and rear, laying their canes across her smooth, rounded buttocks, caged breasts and stomach. Her delicate olive skin shivered as the canes cut into it, leaving long thin stripes behind. Spool writhed, jerked and gasped, making little yipping sounds as her eyes filled with tears. Some strokes caught the undersides of her breasts where her flesh bulged through the cage lattice, leaving stripes across their heavy swells even as they drove the internal spikes into her flesh. The blows caused her imprisoned globes to tremble and bounce unnaturally, rattling their chains. Spool was twisting and bucking within the frame, sobbing in pain but making no attempt to evade the strokes. The motion was churning the handle of the pump inside her and Mel could see the wetness on her thighs. As the cracks of cane on flesh rang out through the hall the rest of the girls rode their phalluses with increasing vigour. Their eyes were sparkling and Mel could hear a murmur of:‘Go on… do it, do it! ’

  How could they encourage the punishment of one of their own? Yet she found she was also jerking her own hips up and down as she squeezed on her dildo. It was impossible to remain still in the circumstances and she could not ignore the thing inside her. Now it began to feel as though she was sucking on a comforter, like a baby’s dummy, and in turn it was growing warm and slick with her juices.

  After a dozen strokes each the masters rested their arms. Spool’s cane-striped body swayed in its chains, her chest rising and falling unsteadily. Tear splashes showed on her glossy bound breasts. Then she lifted her chin.

  ‘But now I’m Spool 113,’ she said clearly. ‘I’m named after a useful thing: a reel for winding yarn, cord, wire or filmstrips. I’ve got a purpose… a function in life. I can give pleasure. My body has power. I’m strong…’

  With that she squatted down hard on the pump, driving the handle deep inside herself. Air hissed through the pipes into the cylinders and the metal bars rose a little. Now Mel understood their function. They were the hammers needed to ring the bells. Spool was going to drive them up the tubes by air pressure, but it was not going to be easy. As she raised her hips air bled past the hammer bars and they began to sink once more. Spool squatted down again, pumping them back up again and a little higher.

  Not only was it going to be hard work, each stroke caused her pain. Pulling up as high as she could yanked on the rubber cords that bound her labial rings to the pump jacket rim, stretching her love lips. Fluid from her vagina was trickling down the rubber phallus and helping to grease the piston shaft as it plunged up and down. Spool’s breasts suffered even worse agony. With each down-thrust of her hips onto the pump the cages were jerked up and outwards by their chains, unnaturally twisting and stretching the globes of flesh imprisoned within them and gouging her flesh with their spikes.

  Yet even though Spool gasped and whimpered she kept on pumping, forcing the air into the tubes faster than it escaped, driving the pistons higher in fits and starts. Hoe could she stand that much pain and humiliation and yet keep going?

  All the girls in the hall were willing her on, chanting:‘Higher, higher! ’ even as they were bouncing on their own dildos. Mel found she was pumping along in sympathy with Spool, getting wetter and more excited, even though she hated what seemed to be self-inflicted torture. Cam and Bolt were also jerking and grinding their hips, their eyes wide with incredulity and disgust yet unable to look away, as if they were watching some great feat of endurance.

  Closer and closer the cylinders came to the top of the tubes and the bells. The rest of the girls were jerking up and down on their dildos wildly, making their breasts jiggle, crying out: ‘Yes, yes…’

  Mel could not take her eyes off Spool who was sweating now with trickles running down between her swaying, jerking caged breastsIt was desperately fascinating to watch her suffering and she could not deny to her
self that there was a terrible beauty about seeing a pretty girl in pain. No, what was the matter with her? This was sick and evil. If ringing the bells would end it then that was what she wanted. She called out:‘Yes, so it, do it…’ with the rest.

  ‘Ding, ding! ’ the pumping cylinders jerked up out of the ends of the tubes and struck the bells.

  Spool convulsed and collapsed over the pump with her hips jerking while the whole school cheered. Amongst the cries were moans and groans as several girls flopped about in the unashamed throws of their own orgasms. On the platform the masters applauded while Mel felt a shiver as a small thrill of delight coursed through her. The moment it had passed guilt flooded in to take its place and she hung her head in shame. How could she react like this? She was so bad!

  When they had recovered and the cruel mesh domes had been remove from Spool’s breasts, the whole school filed up by coffles to congratulate her with more intimate kisses as she hung spreadeagled between her posts. Mel, Bolt and Cam could not avoid joining them.

  Spool was red-eyed, tear-streaked, sweating but for some reason supremely happy. There were scratches and pinpricks of blood on her breasts from where the spikes had gouged her. Mel saw the girls ahead of her lovingly kissing these injuries before dipping their heads to her still-impaled pussy.

  When it came her turn all Mel could think to say was: ‘Congratulations,’ which seemed both unbelievably inadequate and wildly inappropriate.

  Spool seemed oblivious to her doubts. ‘Thank you, thank you…’ she said, beaming tearfully back at her like a newlywed bride.

  Mel kissed Spool’s sore hot breasts, tasting sweat and blood, then bent and gave the girl’s pussy a token peck. It was wet with a heady spicy scent. With all that pain and effort she really had come.

  But why had she put herself through such a physically and emotionally draining ordeal? To graduate from school so she could become a full-time slave? Just how strange was Shackleswell?

  Chapter Seven

  As she left the hall in the tide of perfumed female flesh, Mel felt a sudden absurd frisson of schoolgirl fear that she did not know what her next lesson was. However, as Bradawl had said, there was a timetable for each coffle pinned up in the anteroom together with a map of the school. The layout was simple enough and there were only seven classrooms. Other chains of girls were hurrying off to their respective classes and Mel and the other joined them. Mel had expected them to be led by masters but apparently they were trusted to find their own way to class. Cuffed and chained as they were there was really nowhere else they could go. Even then Bolt dragged her feet and Mel and Cam had to virtually haul her along.

  ‘I always hated fu… flaming school,’ Mel heard her mutter.

  At least they had no books or kit to worry about. All they had to bring were their bodies. Still, she suspected it was going to be a long hard day…

  Their first class was Deportment and Self-knowledge, taken by Master Puncheon.

  There were only two coffles in it, Mel’s and another containing three girls who looked only slightly less nervous than they did. Presumably they were also recent arrivals. One master to six girls, Mel thought sardonically: what an amazing pupil-teacher ratio. Apparently only slave girls deserved such a degree of attention.

  Like Classroom 1, the room was largely open except for his desk. Various items of equipment were folded back against the walls, which were otherwise covered by charts showing slave girls in various formal poses and several full-length mirrors. It was floored by polished boards and scattered sheets of rubber matting.

  Mel took in the basic facts that Puncheon was of stout build and had receding hair, but to her, seen from where she knelt in a row with the others on a mat before him, his most notable feature was his genitals. His pubic hair was slightly ginger, his balls were heavy and his penis thick, even at rest. His robes and black trousers acted as frames for them and it was impossible not to be constantly aware of them and look for any sign of arousal and what that might mean. It was the symbol of their mastery constantly displayed before their eyes.

  ‘In this class I will teach you about your identity as gynatons and how to present yourself correctly, both to each other and your masters,’ Puncheon said, standing before them with his cock bared while stroking his cane. ‘These basic lessons will be repeated and reinforced until they become second nature. Only when you have passed all of them to my satisfaction will you be fit to graduate and take your place as fully functional girlcogs in Shackleswell. ’He smiled in a not unkind manner. ‘I know at the moment you are all feeling nervous and fearful. This must seem very strange to you, but that will pass when you gain confidence. Knowing how to present yourselves properly will help. All societies have rules about polite behaviour and Shackleswell is no exception.

  ‘Kneeling as you are now is your default starting position, unless instructed or restrained otherwise. Sit at all times with your knees spread wide, straight backs, breasts pushed out and chins up. Display yourself proudly and never attempt to conceal any of your orifices. You are fine, well-made parts so you should show yourselves off to the best advantage. ’Shyly they shuffled their legs a little wider and straightened up. Puncheon tickled their nipple rings with the tip of his cane to encourage them to lift them higher.

  ‘Good, now, proper deportment also means you must show you know your place and recognise the power your masters have over you. In Shackleswell the symbol of that power is the male member. When you are sent out into the town you will bow or kneel and kiss the penis of any master you are introduced to, as long as it is exposed for the purpose. In school you will do the same whenever you enter a classroom or are taken into a coffle. ’He pushed out his hips. ‘Do that now…’

  They got up and filed past him, dipping their heads to kiss his cock tip. And they expected her to do this every lesson, she thought queasily. She kissed the soft foreskin and felt the shaft twitch at the touch of her lips.

  When they were done Puncheon said: ‘Good, we shall practise that until it becomes automatic. Now you must also learn how to greet each other properly. When you graduate to the status of a serviceable gynatron you will be required to intermesh with sister units you have not met before. When permitted you will greet them all alike in this manner. ’He freed their linking collar chains then said: ‘Keeping in your trygyns, stand facing each other…’

  The two sets of girls arranged themselves. Mel was opposite a slim brunette called Bobbin 195. She gave her a quick nervous smile even as her neat upturned crimson-tipped breasts trembled.

  ‘Now tilt you heads to the right, open your mouths and kiss deeply, touching your tongues together. Do not hold back…’

  Hesitantly they stepped against each other, their breasts flattening, and kissed. Bobbin’s lips were full and wide and she tasted fresh and sweet.

  ‘As you do press your nipples into hers,’ Puncheon said. ‘Feel her rings touch yours. They are the symbols of your mutual binding to the ideals of Shackleswell: iron and flesh joined. Share them. ’

  Bobbin’s nipples were hard cones. Their rings clinked together. It felt odd but exciting. Mel’s own nipples pulsed and stood up a little more.

  Puncheon reached between the three pairs of bodies to judge the hardness of their nipples. ‘Good, that’s as it should be. You are healthy young females responding naturally to your situation. Arousal will make you more eager to serve…’ There was a swish of his cane. ‘But you can kiss better than that, Bolt 184. Use your tongue…’ Out of the corner of her eye Mel saw Bolt reluctantly press closer to the girl she was kissing.

  ‘Now move round to kiss a different girl,’ Puncheon commanded.

  Mel shuffled sideways to face a short busty blonde called Pin 048. She flashed Mel a quick bright “let’s go for it” smile and kissed with playful passion. Her pale pneumatic globes pressed fluidly into Mel’s, enveloping their rings in their soft fold
s.

  The last of the other trigyn was a black girl called Axle 076. She had darker skin than Bolt’s, long jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail and prominent flat-tipped nipples of glossy chocolate through which her rings showed up starkly. Her part numbers had been highlighted in silver ink for contrast against her skin, giving her the illusion of having silver pubic hair. Unlike Bolt she looked nervous and kissed clumsily but with an effort to please.

  ‘Good,’ said Puncheon. ‘You will also practice that greeting until it becomes second nature. Now you’ll learn that what you were no longer matters; only what you are now. That includes your old names…’

  He had the six of them kneel in a row on mats in front of the mirrors with their hands still cuffed behind them. They straddled vibrators on flat heavy mounts that were controlled by Puncheon via a remote handset. Taped to the mirrors were cards with brief phrases printed on them in bold type that they had to repeat as they stared at their reflections that showed them in open-legged postures of submission.

  ‘My name is Spring 157,’ Mel chanted aloud. ‘A spring is an elastic substance that can return to its normal shape after being bent, compressed or stretched. It can be used to reduce vibration or concussion, as a power source or actuator. It is a useful thing therefore I am useful. My name is Spring 157…’

  The pulsing of the vibrator rose a little with each repetition. A wet patch was forming on the mat under her. It was shameful but apparently natural and she could not help it. From the smell in the room the other girls were reacting in the same way. A new definition came to her:A girlcog: the only machine that lubricates itself.