A Gentleman's Property Read online

  The considerable sums bet on Grace Connolly by the unwary had now to be surrendered. That young lady, recovering her breath while snuggled against the comforting shoulder of Tommy Khan, would have looked a good deal less contented if she could have heard the schemes of revenge being plotted by the disgruntled losers.

  Sir Roger marshalled his remaining slaves, and directed the assistants to re-arrange the flags, while leaving the mat in place.

  "An old favourite now," he announced, "the vaginal egg and spoon race."

  "It's no favourite of mine," whispered Madame. "A mere farce. But we may as well see a circuit or two before adjourning to greater delights below."

  As Sir Roger explained for the benefit of newcomers, the spoon played a largely symbolic role in the sport. Each contestant was naked except for high heels, cuffs, and a wide waist belt, to the back of which one wrist was fastened. In her free hand (left or right at her trainer’s choice) each woman held a kitchen spoon, on which was balanced a chicken’s egg. At the starter’s gun each athlete was to insert the egg in her vagina, using only the spoon and natural suction. She then had to raise the spoon above waist level and keep it there while completing ten lengths of the course. The final task was to remove the warm egg with the spoon and present it intact to the judge. If an egg dropped from spoon or cunt the contestant had to return to Sir Roger for another and start again from the beginning. The breaking of an egg inside the cunt, or any attempt to control it with the spoon meant disqualification, and disqualification, as always, entailed punishment.

  The slaves with the numbers fifteen to twenty painted on their bellies and backsides were selected by Sir Roger and looked fairly inexperienced. There was a fair bit of lathering as the fillies were paraded for the benefit of the punters, and a delicate Slavic beauty even attempted to bolt. She was not disciplined immediately out of consideration for those with money on her, but the thunderous look in Sir Roger’s eye, if the young Russian had been able to interpret if correctly, would have disrupted her performance as much as any beating.

  “That young lady is going to be very sore by bedtime,” whispered Madame.

  At the last moment a mare was unexpectedly added to the field. When the master of ceremonies was nearly ready to signal the start Mrs Carmichael, her long auburn curls glinting in the sunlight, came trotting into view with a peculiar high stepping action that must have been producing most interesting compensatory movements in her cunt plug. She was mostly trotting on the spot so as not to outpace Sir George, who hobbled along behind with a walking stick in one hand and her bridle’s reins in the other. So far Mary had only seen the lady stretched flat on the deck or waving her long legs in the air. Now, upright and in energetic motion, she was a glorious sight. Although she was in her mid thirties Mrs Carmichael had an impressively taut and shapely figure, toned by much enforced exercise, and now burnished and glistening with a combination of sun, oil, and sweat.

  “Wait, wait!” shouted Sir George, thumping the deck with his stick to attract attention. “This lady has expressed such an ardent wish to compete in the egg and spoon race that I have been forced to consent. I have even promised to deduct whatever I win betting on her from my grandson’s debt.”

  “And your losses, Sir George?”

  “Will naturally be added to his debt, Madame Colet,” explained Sir George, with a polite bow.

  Mrs Carmichael’s startled expression, and the momentary loss of rhythm in her prancing, suggested that this side of the bargain had not previously been made clear, but her stern bridle prevented her from giving verbal expression to any dissatisfaction.

  Sir Roger looked put out by this late addition to the field, but he was too diplomatic to flout the wishes of the oldest member. A number twenty-one was hastily painted on Mrs Carmichael’s flat belly and on one shapely buttock.

  “Has she a racing name?” asked Madame Colet.

  “Prancing Lady,” answered Sir George, after a moment’s thought, and to clinch the matter he pranced her around the course to the appreciative applause of the spectators. Large sums were wagered on her and she was immediately the favourite.

  These formalities completed Sir George removed Prancing Lady’s bridle, eggs were balanced in spoons and handed to the seven contestants, and all seemed ready for the off when Sir Roger noticed another impediment.

  “My dear Sir George,” he said, with an impatient shake of the head, “I can’t understand how you expect your protégé to compete successfully in a vaginal egg and spoon race with what appears to be a rather large dildo inserted in her vagina.”

  “She can use her arse instead.”

  “That may or may not be anatomically possible, Sir George, but it is flatly against the rules of the course. This is not a handicap.”

  Thus admonished, Sir George ordered his grandson’s wife to bend over and touch her toes, and after some fiddling with straps and buckles the old man withdrew the glistening prong with a single wrench. The weeping Mrs Carmichael made as if to rise, but was swiftly driven back into position by a fierce “Stay where you are ma’am, until given permission to move.”

  Sir George sniffed the dildo like a connoisseur and then presented its business end firmly to Prancing Lady’s vulnerable anus, and began to force it home.

  “If she can’t carry the egg in her arse she can carry the bloody prong instead,” declared Sir George, whose language continued to smack of the military coarseness of his distant youth. “There can’t be any finicky objection to that.”

  Sir Roger had it in mind to suggest that the dildo might provide unfair internal purchase upon the egg, but catching the veteran’s eye he thought better of it. Sir George fastened the anal plug firmly in place without obstructing access to Mrs Carmichael’s cunt, and all was once more ready for the race to begin.

  It was clear from the off that Prancing Lady’s experience was invaluable. While her young rivals were smashing eggs left, right, and centre in trying to insinuate them into tight slits, Mrs Carmichael straddled her legs, thrust her hips forward, and sucked the egg from spoon to cunt as though this indelicate action had been a daily feature of her toilet. The only other contestant to achieve rapid insertion was a buxom young Dane called Helga. Having successfully pouched the egg she was evidently very nervous of losing it again, and set off down the mat in a curious swaying waddle, with her thighs and knees pressed tightly together. It was a pleasant sight for spectators fond of a wiggling bottom, but not for those who had bet on Helga. Her approach was safe, no doubt, but it had already left her far behind Mrs Carmichael. That lady seemed confident of her ability to grasp an egg or anything else in her well-trained cunt, and had sprung forward with the same high-stepping trot she had used when under Sir George’s immediate direction.

  Practice making perfect, or less clumsy, the other fillies succeeded at their second or third attempt at insertion, and set out in distant pursuit. All, that is, except the unhappy Russian, Anya, who had to be carried from the course after slipping in a great pool of egg yolk and twisting her ankle.

  “When Sir Roger is finished with her,” said Madame, “she will look back on her present pain as a positive luxury.”

  There was much of technical interest for the connoisseur of the sport in the different racing styles adopted, for they were as various as the nationalities. A Dutch girl, trying to be even safer than the Dane, proceeded in a series of two-legged kangaroo bounds that set her large breasts bouncing in the most amusing way. But in concentrating so much on retaining her egg she failed to keep an eye on the difficulties of the course. At the end of the first length she landed on the base of a flag and was sent sprawling. Anxious punters soon had her back on her feet, and all seemed well until a growing yellow stain on the girl’s thighs showed that the egg and the Dutch challenge had both perished in the fall.

  An Australian girl, who had perhaps attended the recent Melbourne Olym
pics, modelled herself on the ludicrous gait of the racing walker, all pumping elbows and swivelling hips. This method proved nearly as secure as the Danish waddle and a good deal faster. The Australian moved easily into second place.

  A tall German blonde strolled down the course as if still on the catwalk, her usual enviroment until her engagement with the club, spoon pointed negligently skywards like a cigarette holder. As she walked she clicked the finger and thumb of her bound hand to some remembered fragment of fashion music. Had she been an intelligent girl the spectators might have supposed she was banking on the faster athletes coming a cropper, but the famous face, familiar from a thousand hoardings, expressed only a vacuous vanity. Even in these extreme circumstances, so humiliating to any normal woman, to be seen and admired was an unmatchable thrill for Greta Stein.

  The final starter, a vivacious Spaniard, was clearly having trouble retaining her egg. She walked only a few hesitant paces before internal slippage brought her to an abrupt halt, thighs clenched desperately together. Then there began a fascinating on the spot belly dance, as she attempted to work the egg back up her sheath by means of rhythmic contractions of the pelvis. It was stimulating enough to watch. To execute it calmly was obviously beyond the powers of a hot-blooded and sex-starved young woman. Hers was not a noisy or spectacular orgasm, but it was intense. While it was building she pressed her thighs more and more tightly together, and muscular spasms rippled up and down her belly, but at the climax her limbs abruptly lost all energy. The spoon fell from her nerveless fingers, her shaking knees parted, and the egg was expelled from her cunt like a ping-pong ball from a popgun. A faraway expression in her dark eyes, she crumpled slowly forwards into the sticky puddle.

  Only four remained in the race, Prancing Lady in a comfortable lead, followed by the energetic Australian, the languid German, and the cautious Dane. The result looked a foregone conclusion. Madame, one of the many who had bet on Mrs Carmichael, was now showing more interest in the sport, as Mary could tell from the spasmodic clenching of the bejewelled hand running up and down her thigh.

  All was well until the penultimate length, when the perfect rhythm of the leader’s trot was broken by some irregular steps and near stumbles. She had her back to Madame and Mary at this point, but when she rounded the distant flag and began the final length of the mat it was obvious to both that Prancing Lady was in trouble. Her eyes were nearly closed, and her breath was coming in painful gasps that set her breasts inflating and deflating like those of an opera singer during a testing aria. Sweat was pouring down her flanks, the sodden red curls trailing across her breasts looked almost black, and her lovely legs were quivering. Prancing Lady was not trotting any more, but staggering drunkenly towards the finishing line with legs well spread. This gave Madame and Mary a clear view of her ringed and denuded cunt. The engorged lips were pulsing and dripping.

  “Come on, Prancing Lady!”

  “Concentrate, damn you!”

  “Keep that spoon up!” were some of the encouragements offered by Mrs Carmichael’s many backers.

  Perhaps these shouts penetrated the fog of lust and exhaustion swirling through her head, for her eyes focused again, and the first object she saw was Sir George’s stick waving threateningly above his head. Her mind concentrated by this incentive, Prancing Lady attempted to resume her stately trot. It was a comic parody of the practised step seen earlier, and set her breasts bouncing ludicrously together instead of flicking prettily up and down, but the impetus of this brief effort was enough to send her staggering across the winning line into the waiting arms of Sir Roger.

  There was a collective sigh of relief from Mrs Carmichael’s backers, but were they counting their chickens before they were hatched? The finisher now had to deliver her egg safely into the spoon and present it to Sir Roger. It took some time before that gentleman could make these simple instructions understood by the woman slumped against his shoulder, and staining one of Savile Row’s finest creations with mingled sweat and oil. But as the Australian challenger was only on her seventh length the delay caused no alarm. Eventually Mrs Carmichael was balanced on her own shaky legs and seemed to grasp the tests still before her.

  She carefully positioned the bowl of the spoon to take delivery of the egg, spread her legs, squatted slightly, thrust her belly forward, and waited. Nothing happened. Her broad brows a trifle creased with concern and effort, Mrs Carmichael crouched lower, and began to work her abdominal muscles energetically, simultaneously shaking and clenching her shapely bottom. Any artist present might have made a valuable study for a realistic work to be called ‘Constipation’. But this energetic and revealing display, thoroughly enjoyed by the few backers of the outsiders, again produced no result.

  Sir George thumped the deck impatiently with his stick, and at the sound Mrs Carmichael’s concern turned to something close to panic. Reversing her grip on the spoon she used the handle to prise her slit more widely open. ‘Careful!’ shouted several anxious punters, afraid that the egg might shoot out before the spoon was in position to catch it, but although the lady strained and grunted until she was red in the face, and her supporters chanted ‘Push! Push!’, delivery was still not achieved. And now Patty, the Australian challenger, was on her eighth length, and going strongly.

  Had moisture stuck the egg to the lining of Mrs Carmichael’s vagina? Had heat fused it? Now thoroughly frightened, Mrs Carmichael reversed the spoon again and thrust the bowl into her cunt in a desperate effort to flush out the fugitive. It was a fatal mistake. All her clenching and shaking had set the egg and her anal prod rubbing against each other through a thin membrane. The bowl of the spoon was now added to the stimulating mix.

  At first she tried to resist the rising tide of arousal, but in withdrawing the bowl of the spoon from interaction with the prod she brought it abruptly into contact with her spot. She didn’t have a name for it, except possibly ‘God’, but she knew that on the rare occasions when she found the spot all other considerations must give way to the demands of worship. Holding the spoon still so as not to lose contact with this elusive seat of bliss she sank slowly to her knees, and began to work the handle gently back and forth in an almost inperceptible rocking motion. These tiny movements, only visible to the nearest spectators, were like a series of sledgehammer blows to Mrs Carmichael’s self-control.

  It was evident that she had been working up to this orgasm through weeks of arousal and denial. Her indiscretion on the sun deck was nothing in comparison with this wild and uninhibited display. She screamed and wailed and babbled, she rolled and thrashed and twitched, forcing Sir Roger and the nearby spectators to scramble away from her wildly kicking feet. When it was finally over Mrs Carmichael lay in an ungainly heap, breathing heavily, but apparently unconscious. From her cunt seeped the juices of arousal, mixed with egg yolk and fragments of broken shell.

  “Take the bitch away!” screeched an irate Sir George, “douche her and deliver her to the punishment cabin.”

  “Excuse me, Sir,” said a humble Australian voice from the background, “can I give you this?”

  Unnoticed in the excitement Patty had quietly completed her ten lengths, and now stood on the outskirts of the crowd around the fallen Prancing Lady holding out her pristine egg. When Sir Roger took it from the spoon he was astonished to find that it was not even warm.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” said Madame angrily.

  As she made some bustle in rising, all eyes were fixed on Mary when it was her turn to stand. The huge black phallus, as she eased herself free, was seen to be even greasier than when she first engulfed it. The monster immediately sprang back to its original position, but continued to quiver for what seemed an age, while Mary looked down in embarrassment.

  The Glove

  Below decks, Mary found that the breakfast table had been removed, leaving a large open space in the centre of the cabin. The Japanese twins were not visible, but when
Madame clapped her hands Luki appeared at a run which made her ruby nose pendant bounce against her upper lip.

  "Well?" said the mistress impatiently. "Can't you see that Mary is burning with desire? Where is your sister?"

  "One minute only, Madame," lisped Luki, hurrying out of the door. "A last tug and she is ready."

  Madame seated herself in an armchair, and indicated that Mary should stand facing her in the middle of the cabin. She thus had her back to the door through which the Japanese twins presently appeared, but she did see the mistress's nod of approval, and concluded that the tug had done the trick.

  She did not have to speculate for long, because Madame ordered Suki to display herself. As she stood in front of Mary with her hands behind her back there seemed no difference from her breakfast time costume, when the sapphire hanging from her nose had been her only adornment. But then Suki whipped her right hand into view, and Mary saw that she was wearing a skin tight glove which stretched to above her elbow. The glove was covered in what looked like a very prickly fur. There was immediate confirmation of this when Madame ordered Suki to run it across Mary's cheek. It rasped.

  "I am about to introduce you, my puss," said Madame in her most caressing manner, "to one of the world's exclusive pleasures. The majority of women could afford the glove, I suppose, but hands small enough to wear it are of the utmost rarity and consequently very expensive to possess. Suki not only has the right dimensions, her sensual nature enables her to wield the glove with unparalleled skill. To your posts, Red and Blue!"

  Luki, who had lingered by the door, now seized Mary's wrist cuffs and fastened them to the back of her collar. She then came into sight and lay down on her back with her head between Mary's legs and her feet almost touching Madame's.