Such A Nice Kind Woman
  • Author - NickHC
  • Rating -   
  • Site Rank - 67 of 2955
  • Story Codes - F-m, non-consensual, bondage, extreme, kidnapping
  • Post Date - 4/7/2019

Author's Note: Warning to readers: As with most of my stories this one is pretty darn slow and wordy so be warned. If you have read any of my other tales, then you will probably know what I mean. I don't write quickie wham, bam thank you mam stuff. I aim to write with a certain element of realism about unrealistic situations of a non-consensual nature. This time the idea was to sort of play around with contrasts in a one-off story. Maybe it worked and maybe not.

Porridge she decided. She'd looked out of the bedroom window, and the weather was decidedly blustery. Cold probably at this time of the year with that wind shaking the trees and bushes but fortunately not wet. Chilly indeed but wet, no. Grey but the forecast last night had not mentioned any rain.

Porridge she reaffirmed looking out of the kitchen window. Yes, definitely a porridge day, something traditional, warming and wholesome for the insides. None of that modern bran or yoghurt muck or worse 'breakfast biscuits.

Porridge plus some bacon and eggs and she could finish off those mushrooms that had been in the refrigerator a day or so longer than was good for them and few nice thick slices of wholemeal brown toast. Decent sized slices cut from the loaf with a proper breadknife, no convenient pre-sliced loaves for her. Convenience. How lazy people were these days.

Rush, rush rush, in and out of the supermarkets with their laden trolleys, their cellophane and plastic wrapped 'bargains' foisted upon them regardless of whether that wanted them or not, half of which would end in the bin probably and then they'd be off again, rush, rush, rush.

Mrs Mason was a woman who preferred to take her time. She detested rush and haste. 'Mush and waste' was the result of that. When she went shopping it was to proper shops, greengrocers, butchers and bakers. Yes, the supermarket was useful but strictly on her terms. Impulse buying wasn't even a term she understood.

Ten minutes later she waived Mr Mason to his seat at the table who was immediately joined by their twelve-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son.

"Hands?" she said flatly.

Both children held out their hands for her inspection palm up, so did Mr Mason. "Don't be silly dear" she chided

Mr Mason winked at his kids; it was the same routine before every meal. Mrs Mason was very fastidious about personal hygiene, and he considered that his occasional joining in added a touch of light relief to the ritual.

They all sat silently with their hands clasped together for a solemn moment while Mrs Mason thanked the Lord for what was before them and reminded them all of how lucky they were to have such bounties while poor children were starving in Africa. A plea to that same deity to protect them all through the perils of the day preceded the obligatory chorus of "Amen's".

Mrs Mason was an excellent cook and spurned almost in their entirety the vast range of 'ready or convenience products available these days. Her porridge was entirely homemade, hot, tasty with the traditional pinch of salt and lashings of warm milk. No sugar. Mrs Mason did not approve of excess amounts of sugar.

Porridge was followed by plates of bacon, egg (poached not fried) and grilled mushrooms. Very tasty. Toast and thick cut marmalade from the local farm shop that had supplied the eggs and mushrooms.

"Excellent" pronounced Mr Mason as he placed his knife and fork in the obligatory 'finished' position on his empty plate. He always did say that or some other similar word or phrase of commendation. He was very proud of his wife's skills within the kitchen.

He was very proud of his wife altogether. He smiled across the table at her as he neatly folded his starched linen napkin and she smiled fondly back. Mrs Mason was not by any means the sort of woman who would have stimulated those 'erotic' fantasies he'd had when he was a teenager and young man. The sort of glossy female who featured in those 'dirty' magazines at the newsagents that he had occasionally purchased.

Those full-bosomed lithesome creatures that had tempted him so alluringly from their lofty top shelf positions but meant that he had to cycle over to the next neighbourhood but one. A shop where nobody would know him, make his purchase and then sneak his treasure back home where it would ultimately find a resting place in the space beneath his bedroom wardrobe with the rest of his small collection.

Of course, making such a purchase was very dependent on just who happened to be serving in the shop. Once he recalled having to wait nearly an hour before the gentleman who owned the establishment appeared, and he could avoid the female assistants and make his purchase with less embarrassment. That had been a special case because he'd become so enamoured of the model on the cover and didn't want to risk finding the issue unavailable at a later date. Usually, when circumstances thwarted his desired purchase, he'd buy a packet of wine gums and try his luck another day.

Mrs Mason was very definitely not of the 'top shelf' variety. As far as he knew, her face had never been touched by the slightest hint of 'gloss'. Mrs Mason disapproved of makeup and 'painted harlots'. Any woman wearing even a modicum of lipstick was liable to be designated a painted harlot by Mrs Mason.

In the very early days of their marriage, Mr Mason had wished more than once that perhaps Mrs Mason might...might sort of glam up a bit. Perhaps just a smidgen of powder and paint, a touch of frilly lace, maybe even a sexy pair of heels. No, not every day of course...but maybe just maybe, on the odd occasion.

That had been wishful thinking. Mrs Mason remained ever faithful to her simple skirts and cardigans, woolly vests, sensible flats and her pudgy plain round face remained a 'gloss' free zone.

Mr Mason had once, long ago now, contemplated the traditional 'frilly negligee' set as a Christmas present. He'd even selected the very one in the lingerie section of a large, well-known High-street department store. That outing had tried both his patience and his courage. No chance of getting a gentleman counter hand there, maybe if an older woman had been available rather than those young ones, he might even have succeeded.

Then again perhaps not. Secretly, deep down even if he had purchased that frilly transparent item, it would never have joined all the other presents under the Christmas nativity scene. They never had a tree - (pagan Mrs Mason called them). His courage would have failed him and so the inevitable book, sensible cardigan and scarf had taken its place.

There had been intimate relations, of course; the two children proved that. Thrice a year though he could rely on. His birthday, their wedding anniversary and New Year's Eve. Never any variation. Missionary position and a time limit. If he had not done his 'duty' and spent his 'penny' as she called it, within ten minutes, he could forget about it till next time. Occasionally and for no reason, he could fathom there would be a seductive suggestion that they might retire early, and he would find himself in bed with an entirely different woman. Odd but certainly memorable.

When he thought about it, which he rarely did, he invariably decided that in terms of pluses and negatives he was definitely in credit. At thirty years of age, trapped in a dull, boring job on the lower rungs of the promotion ladder within the financial firm he'd worked for. A low level, low wage accounts clerk struggling to make ends meet and the nightmare of the daily commute, lonely, desperately shy, weedy, unfashionable in all aspects and still struggling despite his age with the ravages of acne and a virgin sex life long since resigned to eternal masturbation!

Mrs Mason had changed all that. They'd met at his last remaining, or no longer remaining, aunt's funeral. Ten years older than him, short almost 'dumpy', plain of face and dress, she'd been a neighbour of his Aunts in the fashionable rather up-market area where she lived. The aunt had only been a distant relative and despite the apparent affluence of her abode hadn't been all that wealthy. The house had been rented, her assets as such went chiefly to her daughter and a local cat rescue. He'd received a minor bequest, about enough to cover his rail ticket and the cost of his night in a cheap bed and breakfast before the funeral.

They'd had a whirlwind romance one in which she seemed to make every decision. She said she wanted children, she wanted a husband, and she seemed to have selected him. Two months after that dismal funeral he was established, wedding ring on his finger, in her bed, house and a new job as the finance director of a small building firm owned by a friend of hers, within walking distance of where they lived.

Now more than a dozen years later he realised that he had no real complaints. He lived in a large comfortable house, had two healthy kids, he liked his job and the fact that he was spared the awful hassle of the long daily commute by inadequate, overcrowded public transport. His wife was a good cook, nothing fancy mind you, just good wholesome food. The house was kept spotlessly clean by his wife and the daily that came in two mornings a week. He was even spared chores in the garden; they had a man who came in three afternoons in summer and once a week during the winter.

His modest salary did not cover everything of course. His wife had money of her own plus what she earned from her paintings. Her paintings sold for quite large sums of money; he knew that because he'd seen some of the cheques. That had always baffled him a bit. There were a few around the house, mostly still life's, that was her speciality, and they looked pretty...well ordinary, nothing special that he could see. Still, those cheques often had more than few noughts on them so some people must rate her - no accounting for taste.

She had a small studio down in the basement. Odd, that. He'd always thought artists liked space and light, light especially. However, she seemed quite content with that pokey little space downstairs. It had been bigger once apparently when the old coke boilers and coal store were down there but all that had space had been filled in when the house converted to gas and a small modern heating unit installed in the kitchen. It had been something to do with subsidence she told him; she couldn't remember what, something technical and to do with the way the foundations had originally been built. Anyway, that had been before his marriage.

"Now then," Mrs Mason told him as she gestured for the kids to clear the dishes so they could wash and wipe them dry. "First you drive to Tom and Mary's with the children, they will be there for lunch playing with Trudy and Johnathan. Second, you have till late-afternoon at the golf course. Plenty of time for a round with Bob and lunch" She frowned slightly. "I won't object to a small beer, but no burgers darling, gives you wind and not at all healthy. Stick to a salad or something".

He nodded. He was long used to his wife's habit of itemising everything.

"Three, you can pick the children up around four thirty. I will be back by then. Four, don't forget to call at the filling station and get some petrol, half a tank should suffice. Better do that on the way to the course I think."

He nodded again. His life was fairly regimented. The golf, of course, had been her idea. She'd even been relatively instant. He needed something to get him out of the house on a regular basis and out from under her feet when he was not working. Something to help him keep fit. Well, he remembered joking at the time, at least it was better than jogging!

He enjoyed it and looked forward to his time on the course. He'd never been much good with bat or ball at school but with some (well a lot of) help from the club pro he'd got down to what he at least considered a pretty darn respectable handicap, we'll for him anyway. To hell with her. He'd meet Bob for a coffee and a yarn or two, play the round and then have a late lunch and a pint - not a small beer!

"Well have a nice day, dear."

She'd called out as she stood in the door as always watching them drive away. She gave a final wave of her hand as the car disappeared out of the drive and was immediately lost to sight behind the high walls and trees that enclosed the property. Her hands reached behind her back to unfasten the strings of her pinafore which she removed and carefully hung on a vacant hook on the old Victorian hall stand.

Closing the front door, she walked around to the side of the building to the gravel patch where the car was usually parked. She didn't like them leaving it out the front. It looks so untidy and so lazy. A small garden shed was built up against the wall mainly for the storage of garden tools. Picking up a small tin of oil from a bench inside she followed the narrowing gravel drive around to the side of the house. Her feet crunched on the small stones as she walked. That was the beauty of gravel she noted; it was so difficult to walk or move on it without making noise, so good for security.

A relic of previous years remained. The ramp-like heavy iron double doors that had originally covered the fuel chute for deliveries of coal and coke. A large modern heavy-duty padlock was fitted to secure the two doors together. Mrs Mason withdrew a bunch of keys from a skirt pocket, selected one and removed the padlock.

Although they looked like they hadn't been used for many years the two doors opened outwards quite easily for her although both made something of a tortured squeaking noise. Winter rains she surmised with a grimace then treated the hinges with a few drops from her can. She gave the oil a moment to penetrate then worked the doors a few times before adding more oil. Satisfied that their metallic squeals had been silenced she closed and locked them again but not before checking the wooden door situated a foot or so below the exterior ones. That one could only be opened from the inside and was heavily padded on the inner surface.

She returned the oil can to the shed and re-entered her house glancing at the hall clock as she did so. Only nine-thirty, she had plenty of time. They were not due to pick up till three, and they were always on time. One thing she detested was tardy people. Punctuality was something else she was very meticulous about. They'd never been late though, not once in the twenty-odd years she'd dealt with them

The solid front door closed behind her, and she took a moment to slide a heavy bolt into place. There was no reason why anybody should call, but her husband did have a key, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd gone off and forgotten something. Her hand reached up for the apron, and it was carried into the kitchen to its allocated place and hook. She was that sort of woman, everything in its proper place at all times. Untidiness she maintained was a combination of laziness and a lack of organisation. Both easy defects to remedy and she prided herself in being an expert when it came to correcting shortcomings!

Her key-bunch emerged once more as she selected the key that opened an old wooden door that led from the kitchen, down a steep flight of stone steps to her cellar studio. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that lock nor the one in the door at the bottom. The third door, however, was a different proposition. An expert would have told you at a glance that it was a unique lock needing a unique key, rarely seen and expensive. The sort of key you might need to access a security box in a Swiss bank vault rather than a residential basement.

The stairs were steep, and after turning to re-lock the entrance door, she was always careful to watch where she was putting her feet and to hold the rail as she descended. It certainly wouldn't do to slip and break a leg or something. Some years ago, when she'd been younger, before her marriage she'd been a bit too eager to get down there one morning and had indeed slipped. Fortunately, that had only resulted in a cracked rib, a sprained ankle and severe bruising. Still, it had limited her mobility for a bit, more than a week till she managed to get back down there. If it had been much longer, she'd have lost a lot of money and more importantly, her reputation!

The second door at the bottom was also of wood but somewhat newer than the one at the top. She unlocked that one and locked it again behind her. There was no real need she thought as she did every time, not with the kitchen door locked but who day she might forget, and her husband or one of the children could get down and she preffered that they did not unless she was with them..

Children, of course, are naturally curious. They had been down on numerous occasions with her but as there was nothing very exciting to see interest had naturally waned. Mummy's secret little place was very dull, just easels, cupboards, spot-lamps, canvass's paints, brushes, more paints, palettes and racks of paintings.

She walked carefully across the cramped space to a dark corner by the far wall, moved a rack of stacked mostly unfinished paintings and flipped up the cleverly concealed cover to another keyhole set into the wooden panelling. Her key clicked, and she swung back the door and entered her real workplace, her secret lair, the very heart of her domain.

The old cellar had not been filled in and remained very much an ample open space where once old solid fuel boilers had stood, coal and coke had been stored and no doubt all the unwanted rubbish of a busy household.

The significant renovations after her mother died had included the additional wall to provide her 'cover' space. Complete soundproofing of walls and ceiling with thick cork and the old half-moon skylights bricking up. The whole room other than the floor painted white, white that had a hint of a sheen to it. A new smooth floor installed of easy to clean pale blue vinyl tiles. A wet area was plumbed into the far corner complete with open tiled shower, toilet and basin.

Separated from the wet area by the steps that had replaced the original coal chute was a small kitchen area with worktop, cupboards, sink and a small refrigerator but no cooker. No hot food was ever served down here. There was an electric kettle for her use if she fancied a hot drink. Coffee usually. Funny, she never drank coffee upstairs. Tea and hot chocolate yes but never coffee.

No doubt a phycologist would have said it was all a part of her 'split personality'. Not that she thought she had one. Upstairs she was Mrs Mason the prim and proper wife and mother. Down in her workplace, she was still the same Mrs Mason wasn't she, just that down here she entertained and amused herself in different ways as she efficiently carried out the work that needed to be done on her 'projects'. Work that was not only highly amusing and entertaining for her but also very lucrative indeed.

She tossed the bunch of keys on to the desk set along 'her' side of the large space. A glance at the flat TV screen showed that all was well in the grounds and by the front door. Her business laptop lived here attached to a large computer monitor. This side of the room was more comfortable. A couple of thick rugs on the floor, a large leather throne-like chair and a king-sized double bed with an iron lattice grill for a headboard. There were a couple of plumped up pillows but no bedding apart from a fitted black rubber bottom sheet. No bedding was needed; the room was maintained at a comfortable temperature unless she particularly wanted to have it significantly hotter or colder. Sometimes she did that.

Just a couple of emails. One basic enquiry and two confirmations. Yes, they would be here today at three o'clock. They would message her cell phone at two forty-five to confirm that they were almost there. Good, that would give her time to get the trap door unlocked and ensure she had time for a final check. They knew where to park their van and how to back it right up to that a quick, discrete transfer could be completed. Old hat anyway, she'd lost count of the number of such transactions that had taken place.

The details on the other email were more or less as she'd anticipated. A bit younger than she'd expected given the original enquiry. Still, if the client was happy then who was she to query them. She was a part of the chain, but her job was developing and refining the products ready for final delivery, not in the acquisition of the raw materials.

She typed out a reply to the single enquiry. Yes, she could take that on that commission alongside the 'double', but it would involve extra work so her fee would be consequently higher. Likewise, it would set the time needed on the double back by a few weeks, she only had one pair of hands after all and only so much time that she could devote to her cellar. They knew that anyway, they weren't unreasonable, and it did promise to be an interesting challenge, so she was not about to reply with a total negative.

Admin chores done she swivelled her executive style computer chair around to survey her domain, her private kingdom, her factory of the flesh as she sometimes thought of it. A little crude perhaps, she was after all an artist, not a boilermaker; nevertheless, this was where she worked on her human canvases, moulding the living material into whatever her clients desired.

She sometimes wondered if white had been the best choice. It was getting a bit shabby and dull she thought, maybe a pale pink would be better if she gave it an overdue refresh. White was a bit antiseptic looking after all. A pale pink would be a touch cosier perhaps. One difficulty, of course, would be getting it done. Her husband was quite adept with an emulsion brush, but she could hardly get him down here to do it could she? It wasn't like painting the lounge or the bathroom!

Perhaps they could organise it for her. She could take the family way for a few days; it shouldn't take longer than that. They must be able to lay their hands on one or two who'd could competently use a paint brush - under rigorous supervision of course. Well, she did have the means to accommodate them, didn't she? She made a mental note to initiate enquiries.

Even with all the additional fittings and furniture her 'studio' was quite spacious. The house was large, way over large for just the four of them, affluent Victorians always built on a large scale and originally there had been a stable block attached, now long demolished. The old cellar mirrored the floor areas above plus the old stable blocks cellar had survived when that building was torn down; thus the space available was of a generous size.

The back end of the long room contained her equipment racks, wardrobes and cages. She had numerous cages of varying size that could be taken to pieces and re-erected as needed - that saved space. There were also the three 'training' areas down the far right and at the back. The dressing area with table, mirrors, the wardrobes full of heels and frillies and the myriad pots of powder and paint for the little ' harlots' to use. That whole area was already pink, pink and frothy and very over the top feminine.

The stable area, the stall with its double doors, hitching rail, feeding trough and dirt floor and next to that the dog run with its imitation grass and 'dirty' area at the very end for poo poos after walkies. On one occasion she'd had to adapt that into a pigsty complete with a huge boar and two sows, all real plus the human project. Only once, the smell had lingered for ages, and she'd probably undercharged on that one! Still, it had been interesting; she never knew boars could get that randy or that big!

Only one cage was assembled at present, and she looked over to it. The occupant was crouched half laying on his side he'd been looking at her, but once he realised that she was now looking at him, he turned his head away, no doubt hoping to avoid any further attention.

She chuckled. "Idiot, since when had that worked. They could all play ostriches if they wanted but that never stopped her. She wasn't suddenly going to disappear if they couldn't' see her!

She would miss Pluto. How long was it, seven and a bit weeks? Not by any means the most extended stay in her domain but long enough for her to have developed a mild attachment to him. She had her favourites she always had had and some she recalled fondly. Of course, when they left that was an end, she never saw them again and, in most cases, heard nothing more about them. Only once had one of her previous projects re-appeared - role reassignment following the sale to a new owner.

She left her chair and walked over to the cage or pen as she preferred to call it. It could, of course, have been a lot bigger and more comfortable for the unfortunate occupant within. Comfort though was not on the agenda and would have only been an unnecessary inconvenience for the project.

The 'pen' was constructed from steel bars about five inches apart; each panel boarded with a steel frame. Straight and right-angle brackets were welded at numerous points so that additional panels could be bolted together enabling her to construct a wide variety of enclosures easily.

This one was her standard 'dog pen' configuration: five feet long, four wide and three and a half high. The dimensions were in part based on something she'd once read about in the Tower of London. 'Little Ease: One of the most feared devices in the Tower was its tiniest cells.

She'd made a note of the article: The windowless cell measured 4 square feet (1.2 meters) and bore the faintly prim name of Little Ease. Its effect was simple. The prisoner within it could not stand nor sit nor lie down but was forced to crouch over, in increasing agony, until freed from the suffocating, dark space.

The pen before her was her variation. Unlike that one in the Tower, hers was a little larger although of course, that depended on how tall the occupant was. No point in putting a petite four-foot-nine female into a five-foot-long enclosure was there? That's why she'd had such a selection of panels to use depending on the situation. Nor was there any danger of the occupant suffocating. Her training area was quite well aired and brightly illuminated.

Nor were they consigned to the dark, she frequently left the lights on in between visits, not so much for their benefit though as for hers. They could while away the hours until the next time she paid them a call by looking at all the implements of correction she had amassed over the years that lined a nearby wall - very thought provoking for them no doubt.

Looking down at the figure so uncomfortably curled up she did feel a slight twinge. No, not of remorse or guilt or anything like that. Rather more a case of selfish wishful thinking. She rather liked this one, pity she couldn't keep him. She'd had a similar pet once before her marriage, but it would be impossible to give him the run of the large house such as poor old Gopher had enjoyed. Enjoyed perhaps with a big question mark.

Well, that was her choice. She was the one who'd got greedy wanting to carry on her entertaining and lucrative little games downstairs and at the same time enjoy a full vanilla family life upstairs. Upstairs/downstairs. Could there ever have been a greater contrast she wondered?

The caged figure hadn't moved. She frowned, that was no good. It knew better than that. Had not her canes and whips taught it how to greet her? Her expression grew colder. She moved her right foot forward so that the toe of her sensible shoe thrust through the bars and at the same time she snapped her fingers.

The figure stirred slowly, far too slowly and her fingers snapped impatiently again then pointed down at her right foot. "Greet, lick". She commanded with a hint of anger now in her voice

The hint wasn't wasted. Head bowed, a pink tongue began to lick the forepart of her shoe. "Faster, harder, dog".

Cold eyes watched his pathetic efforts and then she withdrew one foot and proffered the other for the same treatment. Her gaze passed from the bobbing head, along his back to his firm young arse cheeks. Her glance past from there to a varied assortment of bamboo canes hanging nearby.

She gave a sort of shiver. A shudder of longing that passed from her twitching right hand up her arm and down to her tingling pussy. Pity she thought, she would have loved to ply the cane again over those firm buttocks. Oh, how she'd like to make him howl for her again as he'd howled during those first few weeks. This one had been a good howler, almost too good; sometimes she'd been a little fearful that those 'upstairs might even hear him. That Cork insulation had been an excellent investment.

The buyer didn't want him marked on delivery so much as she yearned to add yet one more obedience lesson it wouldn't be practical, not at this late stage. She'd probably pushed her luck a day or two back when she'd paddled the hell out of him. The paddle was good but not nearly as good as the cane, but it did not leave marks other than reddened, sore flesh.

She abruptly pulled back her foot and snapped her pudgy fingers again. "Turn, back, back up!" she ordered.

Facing away from her she got a beautiful view of those firm white cheeks that had bounced and quivered so delightfully under the less than loving touch of her favourite toys. Unmarked. Not entirely, there was ample evidence remaining of her corrective treatments, but it was faded, yet to any sadistic observer there remained enough tell-tale marks to cause more than a ripple of sensual delight.

All in all, she thought she'd done a pretty damn good job with this one. Bent, bowed but not entirely broken. That had been the gist of her brief. Someone somewhere was paying an awful lot of money for this poor cur. Taken from the wild, trained but not overtrained nor reduced to a mindless obedient cringing pathetic poodle of a pet!

Seven weeks was both a short and a long time. Short for her, but it had probably seemed like a lifetime for the creature curled so helpless before her feet. Obedient, up to a point but still with plenty of spirit. They would have to watch this one, but then they would know that. Those who'd provided him and commissioned her would never sell such merchandise to anyone who lacked both the experience and the facilities to appreciate and enjoy their expensive acquisition fully.

Seven weeks he had been in her version of 'Little Ease' other than his little outings on the leash when he'd learnt the basics of walking to heel, to cock his leg and void in the dirt patch and play fetch. Seven weeks since he'd last enjoyed the privilege of standing erect on his hind legs. Seven weeks since he'd awoken to find himself in her cruel pen.

Personally, she would have preferred him in a puppy suit, but that wasn't what the buyer wanted. Her daughter wanted a puppy boy for her birthday a big smelly stinky hairy puppy. She so wanted to bathe and groom him and make his puppy bottom go pretty shades of black, blue and purple. A naughty puppy who should know better but would still be a naughty puppy. A puppy that she would have to teach to behave himself and they would have sooo much fun together, wouldn't they?

Well, the brief hadn't said all that, but she'd been in the business now long enough to read between the lines. There were some very indulgent parents out there with some callous children. Unlike her own. They had been brought up along very different lines, and she would ensure that continued. It was a strict rule - spider in the bath, collect in a tumbler and release outside the back door. No nasty cruelty!

That reminded her of something. She would have to consult with Mr Mason about Trudy's handwriting; undecipherable spider tracks her teacher had said. His handwriting was very neat and precise, could he give her some extra coaching, or would they have to look elsewhere?

Her nose wrinkled as she looked down at him again. The smell reminded her a little of the 'pig period', not nearly as bad of course, but he did stink. Stinky they wanted and so stinky they'd get, pity it also contaminated her training room. Seven weeks without a bath, shave or lavatory paper, so he was certainly going to need some 'grooming'. Dark haired and with a substantial growth of beard. Not what floated her boat. She would have shaved and creamed him. Smooth was good, hairy unpleasant, unsightly and not very hygienic.

Never mind. The hatch doors would be open for a short time soon. That should help to freshen things up a little bit. She looked from the closed hatch and back to him. Yes, hairy was terrible, it sort of scratched a bit in a way when he was on pussy duty. It didn't hurt or anything, but she did find it a bit irritating, and that tended to distract her from the pleasures of his tongue a little.

Her musings were interrupted as a cell phone suddenly came to life its ring tone blaring out as it vibrated on her desk. She quickly walked back over to pick it up. "Hello".

She listened and then spoke. "No darling, no, I said half a tank and I meant half a tank. There is absolutely no need to fill it completely. Yes, yes, I realise that, no you haven't interrupted anything, I hadn't started yet. Alright, I'll see you later. Don't come back before we agreed as I told you. Yes, bye bye".

Sweet of him she thought but quite unnecessary. Funny how she'd got him so perfectly trained and with not one single stroke of cane or whip! Well, she was the one who'd decided they'd marry, she was the one who'd proposed...if telling someone that they were going to marry her counted as a proposal and ever since then he'd been so delightfully biddable in all things. Just what she had wanted, she'd been so right in her assessment at that funeral tea.

Yes, sweet of him to think of saving them a few pennies but the fact that the local filling station had a special offer on was not relevant. Typical accountant. She walked back to the pen smiling to herself. Humph, if only Mr Mason knew. She could afford to buy that tiddly little filling station even if all its pump fuel tanks were chock a block full. Come to that she could probably buy a dozen tanker trucks plus a significant part of the nearest refinery as well. Anyway, financial prudence was a fundamental lesson for the children. Moderation in all things!

Unless you happened to have a moist and overly impatient greedy pussy and of course and had the means at hand to assuage such needs, hmmm, the look in its eyes, he must have thought that smile was for him, some new devilry brewing mayhap?

Well, he was right apart from the fact that it was nothing new, nothing that he hadn't been made to do numerous times in the past few weeks - under the menacing threat of a long whippy cane of course. Maybe one last fling on the bed, see how obedient he was, yes. She wouldn't use the cane of course, but by now its very presence should suffice. She licked her lips, untied the end of his leash and flicked open the low door to his pen. "Out, walkies".

She looked at her watch and decided it was time to clean her brushes, stack her easel and put the paints away. The latest large canvass was coming along quite nicely. There was Pluto playing fetch with his ball, his backside showing evidence that recent chastisement had been applied. Severe chastisement, maybe a bit too severe, she'd got a touch too carried away there with the brushwork.

Leave it till tomorrow and take a fresh look at it. Pluto wouldn't be around any more of course, but she had plenty of photos, drawings and sketches, more than enough to fulfil all the commissions she'd received. People did so adore her animal paintings and of course were willing to pay quite handsomely for her unique skills. Nothing like what she earned for her other skills but still entirely satisfactory sums. It was also so much fun getting her less than willing subjects to pose for her at times as well, plus she loved to paint.

The two women in the background with the leashes and whips, that needed more work, more detail, the expression on the first one was wrong for one thing. Yes, she needed to get more cruelty into that face. The second figure with her dog on a leash, she was fine but the bitch on the end of the leash, bigger breasts perhaps?

Being a very tidy woman, she carefully washed and cleaned all her brushes and then put everything back in its appointed place. She paused for a moment by a rack of paintings to look at a one. Yes, there was the one of 'Dolly' in her frilly pink dress, panties around her white ankle socks as she showed her bottom after a heavy spanking. She must finish that one soon, again it was a case of getting the face right, she just hadn't yet managed to capture the appropriate expression of anguish and humiliation on her face. Well, it wasn't easy to amalgamate that sort of pained adolescent innocence with the subjects forty-year-old face, was it? Poor Dolly how was she getting on with the two old biddies that had been so thrilled with their newest 'little girl'.

She carefully added her latest unfinished work to the others. Yes, she'd get a nice big cheque for this painting, a naughty cheque. She smiled at her private little joke. Her husband was always impressed with what he called the 'naughty' cheques, all those zero's. Poor dear, he was right, they were naughty cheques for very very naughty paintings purchased by even naughtier or perhaps, more appropriate, nasty people!

Mr Mason eyed his ball and the distance to the hole. He took his time. Squatted down and squinted at the hole and the lay of the green from a lower level then shuffled around to look from a different angle. If he made the putt, it would be his first birdie in months. He was getting used to pars, we'll maybe not used to them, but he was achieving them a little more consistently than in previous years.

This hole was important. A birdie here and he could afford to be a couple over at the last and still tie maybe with Bob. He ignored his playing partners growing impatience and took another long look. He was no more aware of the dirty white van that drove past the golf course than the people in the front of the vehicle were of him. The two people in the back of the van certainly weren't aware and wouldn't be aware of anything till they awoke and met his wife!

They were right on time to the minute. Mrs Mason standing at the corner of the house beckoned them on then turned to open the two metal doors covering the old coal chute. The van came slowly around the corner, drove a little way past her and then carefully reversed turning as it did so until the rear was just a couple of feet from the opening.

"Hi", it was Sonia who was driving, it almost always was she thought. Sonia was that sort of person. Always the driver never a passenger. Tall, muscular, blond crop headed and not noticeably very feminine. Dressed as usual in scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and a lumberjack style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She gave the casual greeting without removing the gum that she chewed incessantly. Mrs Mason had never seen her when she was not chewing. Not a nice habit and one she certainly would not let her children indulge in.

Sonia jumped down from the van and walked around to the rear. Her partner in crime, Tracey exited the other door and joined her. Tracy was the exact opposite of her driver. A head shorter, long dark wavy hair, pretty face and a ready smile, fashionable ultra-tight ripped jeans and a short-sleeved crop top that revealed she must work out a lot judging by her arm muscles.

The butch dyke and her fem Mrs Mason had long since decided. They'd been the regular pair that they'd used for deliveries and collections for the last few years. Two obvious in their sin for her liking. She didn't approve of that sort of thing. Public relationships should be between a man and a woman and a man and a woman only like the good book said.

Mrs Mason was a great believer in the good book and kept a copy on her bedside table. Her moral standards were exceedingly high as were her expectations of the way others should behave. That was in public of course. The fact that she indulged in all manner of vices in her training room was an entirely different matter. She dealt with animals and slaves down there, and both were frequently mentioned in the good book as mere chattels; thus her actions were above reproach.

A slave was merely an object to be used for the fulfilment of allocated tasks by his or her betters. If that task meant spending time with their head between the legs of the one who owned them albeit temporarily, so be it. Male, female, sissy bitch or human animal, it mattered not. There was no moral confusion over the issue in her mind.

"He's all ready for you," Mrs Mason told them.

Sonia nodded and gave a thin-lipped smile. "Yeah, well we have a couple of hours drive to drop him off. Crates at the back so we'd better unload this pair first" She jerked her thumb back towards the van.

The garden and the side of the house were not overlooked by any other building, and even if it had been, Sonia and Tracy were very efficient. One at a time they'd quickly hauled the two black 'body bags' out of the van and carried them straight down the stairs into the old cellar. Tracy was way stronger than she looked, Mrs Mason noticed.

She also noted that neither of them seemed very gentle with the first 'package' they took down whereas they seemed a bit more careful with the second. Her suspicions were confirmed almost immediately.

"This one's quite cute," Tracy said part pulling the bags heavy zipped open and reaching inside with one hand. "Nice tits".

"You get to handle the merchandise I suppose."

"Perk of the job" Sonia laughed. "even get to play a bit sometimes".

Tracy had pulled the zip down a bit more and folded the sides back so she could see the face of the sleeping woman inside. "Reminds me a bit of Cutiepie this one, cept a whole lot younger. Nice, gonna be a total waste of good pussy where she's going"

"Well they're buying, they're paying top wack, so they gets to play how they want, themes the rules," said Sonia absently removing the chewing gum and looking around for somewhere to stick it. She caught sight of Mrs Mason disapproving eye and decided to wrap it in tissue from her pocket and place it back there.

Mrs Mason shuddered and felt like retching. She hated the horrible stuff and certainly disapproved of the thoughtless way people disposed of it. Sonia probably wasn't even all that aware of what she'd just done.

"Who's Cutiepie? She asked curiously to focus on something different.

Tracy shrugged her shoulder. "The Bitch we keep back at our place. Customer rejected her even though he'd seen pictures and paid top dollar, said she was too old. He said she didn't look in the flesh like the photos; they hadn't shown her as she really was. True, she looked about thirty in the pictures, not the forty odd she actually is"

"Long trip" Sonia put in laconically. "Bitch came round when we made a night stopover. We had a bit of fun with her afore we went on the next day, so I suppose she was a bit shop-soiled anyway."

Tracy laughed. "We've had a lot more fun with her since then though. We told the boss we'd have her when we brought her back, cost the both of us virtually a year's wages...worth it though".

"Staff discount but still cost a bomb" Sonia agreed "but yep, worth every penny especially once we'd got the slut trained."

"I did a good job," said Tracey modestly "She sooo loves to keep us both happy and looks so cute in her sexy maids uniform as she keeps our little pad nice for the three of us."

Sonia looked at her chunky wristwatch. "Can't stand here yakking, let's get the dog crated up and hit the road. We can stop for a Big M and a few fries at that place we passed on the way in then get a proper meal later."

They gathered around the pen looking at the unfortunate creature within who stared back at the three of them as they approached with an expression of growing terror.

Tracy laughed and clicked her tongue at him. "Maybe one day someone will reject one of these, I'd so love to have a nice big puppy dog" she grabbed the leash and hauled Pluto toward her so she could pat his head. "A well-whipped cur. Christmas mummy please" She lisped looking at her partner.

"In your dreams" Sonia replied. "Mind you" she mused thoughtfully "suppose we were to happen across a wild one and give it a nice new kennel, how much to train it up a bit, for old friends like?" she looked at Mrs Mason and winked.

"Oh, I'm sure I could be amenable - for a suitable price."

"Nice touch with the rubber bone gag" Sonia noted with professional approval pulling a packet of chewing gum from her pocket and putting a piece in her mouth.

"No puppy suit, just the ankle to thigh, and wrist to arm restraints" Tracy noted. "but the face, the tattoos he's perfect, I do so want."

They all looked down at the abject youth Mrs Mason had transformed from happy, carefree Australian foreign exchange student to the fearful, naked stinking, crawling creature with the grotesquely tattooed face.

"Ah" Sonia noted. "Pluto, I get it now, Nice job with the tats. You do it or one of Big Ethel's jobs?".

"Not me dear. I can paint but wouldn't have a clue when it comes to her art. Ethel came over a few times; she did all the inking and had a bit of fun with him as well."

Tracy giggled "I just adore that glossy black nose; it's so cute."

"She's done a damn decent job "Sonia agreed. "Mickeys dog, eh? Must have taken her a while to get his face that yellow shade, lotta needlework there and the way she's used the white to make his eyes so big, pure cartoon size. Real pro job."

"Love it, just so cute" Tracy repeated.

"Mind you" Sonia added. "He's not going to be good for anything else now is he looking like that". She paused thoughtfully. "Not that I suppose it matters, we've done a few deliveries to where he's going, I think things get broken there pretty quick!"

This time Mrs Mason looked at her watch.

Tracy left the cellar and climbed into the van to let down one side of the large crate at the back. A moment later Mrs Mason and Sonia appeared, Sonia hauling the reluctant Pluto along on his lead and lashing out with a booted foot every few paces. "C'mon stupid mutt, we gonna be late if we don't get a move on, shift it".

Tracy helped lift the trembling animal into the van, and the pair of them propelled him towards the crate. Mrs Mason caught a glimpse of a pair of terrified eyes in that cartoon face that looked to be pleading with her and then Tracy slammed the side of the crate shut and finger tightened a couple of large wing nuts. She slapped the top with her palm. "Done".

Mrs Mason frowned then picked up the stitch she'd dropped added another complete row and then decided it was time to put her knitting away for the night. The pattern was about to get a little more complicated, and she wanted to be a tad fresher to face this new challenge. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and tapped in her four-digit login. Then the numbers on the app that allowed her access to the other secure hidden apps and email on the device.

A moment later she was able to monitor what was happening in her training area via several different cameras. The new arrivals were beginning to stir. They were rolling around vainly trying to free arms and legs from the manacles she'd placed upon them. Heads turning this way and that but unable to communicate with each other due to the ball gags securely strapped between their Jaws.

She wondered what they might say to each other. Perhaps next time she had a pair she'd leave the gags off, they weren't necessary anyway given the excellent soundproofing. It might be interesting to hear their conversation as they lay there so helpless and undoubtedly quite terrified. She could leave them for tonight and a part of tomorrow morning, not too long though. They were after all very valuable, and she hadn't lost one yet. Damaged a lot, yes, but then that's what they paid her to do, but despite some rather extreme briefs so far she'd never lost one.

She glanced at Mr Mason and wondered if he really was all that interested in the movie they'd been watching. She'd abandoned any interest a while back, and she was feeling...feeling sort of frisky which was quite rare for her. Usually, those feelings belonged downstairs, and she kept a firm lid on them when upstairs.

The little interlude with Pluto earlier in the day had been enjoyable but she now had a yen for a little more. No good going downstairs, it usually would need a week, and more of training before any of her projects reached a point whereby, they might start 'indulging' her. Not relevant in this case anyway, they were both destined for a stable somewhere in the South of France. A two-wheeled gig awaited their arrival along with the middle-aged couple who wanted a pair of ponies, not something to use in the bedroom. Sex was not on the menu either for her or for them. She wouldn't go short though. She never did. Her toys ensured a high degree of arousal as she 'trained' her projects and her vibrator did the rest.

Mmmm that reminded her. After church tomorrow they were all going to the zoo, she'd booked one of the special educational guided lecture tours they did every so often. She would have to develop a headache or something. Mr Mason could take the children after the service was over while she returned home to spend time feeding, watering and acquainting the pair downstairs with a few early obedience lessons in equine compliance.

She yawned. Stretched, then rose to her feet and put her knitting bag away in the cupboard under the television. "I think I will go to bed," She told her husband. "I'm feeling a little...a little. Well I know it's not your birthday yet darling" She said coyly but maybe its time for an early birthday present" She smiled seductively at him and enjoyed the rather surprised look on his face. "You're, not enjoying the movie anyway, are you. No, I thought not. Why not give it another ten minutes and then come up to bed as well."

Mr Mason was watching his watch, not the television. The seconds hand ticked around. Eight minutes were gone. Time to move. He got up and switched the television off then bent down to remove the plug from the wall socket - House rule. Mrs Mason had a thing about fire and so all electrical appliances when not in use must be unplugged. He didn't think there was ever any real risk by leaving things plugged in, but...his was not to reason why...only to do and always comply!

He flicked off the light switch and closed the lounge door. Crossed the hall after checking that the front door was locked. Double checking really because he that Mrs Mason would already have done that on her way upstairs but she'd probably ask him if he had done so.

He was in a very buoyant mood as he headed upwards. Down below his feet, two people were certainly not in a buoyant mood. They were both now wide awake, fully conscious, yet in a state of shock. Lingering memories of that empty and remote mountain backpackers' hostel, a meal and a couple of drinks with the cheerful bearded guy who ran it and then waking to this-this nightmare. Waking with a savage throbbing pain in the head and aching jaws clamped around some large object inserted into their mouths.

Pain, aching jaw and cramped limbs plus the horrific discovery that they were naked, absolutely stark naked with hands and feet chained. Laying in two long low iron cages in a room, a vast long rectangular room that was part kitchen part bedroom, part office, part bathroom and worst of all, part torture chamber.

They rolled around and struggled but to no avail. They made eye contact with each other and shook their heads back and forth but apart from wiggling an eyebrow or blinking, could not communicate in any meaningful way. The bright lights remained on, and as time slowly past, first the occupant of one cage and then the other was forced to release the contents of their bladders where they lay. Neither could sleep amid the discomfort, the wet, the stench, the fear. Their eyes looked to the door at the end of the room and from there to the racks of whips, strops, canes and other awful looking devices they could see, then back again to the door. When would it open and who would they see and what horrors might be unleashed upon them? Might or would they both wondered?

Mr Mason turned the bend at the top of the stairs. He had almost caught himself whistling. Not good he told himself. Mrs Mason didn't approve of people whistling. Common and vulgar she thought it. Yes, she might be a bit fussy and silly about a lot of things, but she was a good woman at heart a very good women and such a kind heart.

In a motorway motel, about eighty miles or so away Tracey was busy very busy eating out Sonia's hairy pussy her tongue deeply probing and teasing at her lover's sensitive clit. One of her hands was deep between her own leg's fingering her damp clean shaven honey pot. Sonia was top dog, and only top dogs kept their hair intact down there, Tracy and Cutiepie had to keep themselves pristine in that area at all times.

They had made their important delivery a few hours earlier and enjoyed a pleasant little visit. They'd assisted the buyer in prepping him, had a nice chat, enjoyed a glass of excellent chilled champagne plus some absolutely gorgeous chocolate cake, then a quick tour of the 'private area to see how a few old acquaintances had 'settled' in.

Now they were having a little private interlude of their own. A halfway decent meal plus a bottle of wine and now it was time to relax a little. Deliveries and pickups always made them both extremely randy, especially those that included a visit to see some old friends! Thus, primed they invariably stopped at the first suitable place so that they could enjoy themselves. Sonia moaned softly, writhed and pulled Tracy's head tighter into her greedy crotch. Yes, she thought, yes more, yes, she was enjoying herself.

Ten miles distant down a little used and secluded long narrow winding private road there was another big house that possessed a cellar with many secrets. Pluto, however, was not down in the cellar nor was he enjoying himself. He'd once read that Hades was supposed to have nine circles, if so, then in just a few hours, he'd made the grade from outer to the centre. One thing the last two months had taught him was that the demons were all female and the latest was both crueller and younger than any bearded bible basher could have predicted!

He lay there with a stupid big pink birthday ribbon tied around his neck. He was weak and exhausted from his desperate attempts to move, his strength enfeebled from the months of captivity in crippling bondage. His twisted deadened limbs within their cruel bindings limited any seriously swift movement nor assisted him as he'd frantically and in vain sought some immediate exit from this new and infinitely more agonising version of hell.

Mr Mason paused to look at his watch again. Eleven and a half minutes. That should be fine. His heart was beating a shade faster he thought or was it merely his imagination. He looked at the dial again to make sure and then rapped gently on the bedroom door with his knuckles.

Exhausted, weak, helpless and hoarse, hoarse with begging and screaming, he looked over from his lowly position to the enormous leather sofa where that woman sat calmly eating cake - the woman they'd delivered him to so casually as if he'd been a mere postal package. The woman who'd tied the pink ribbon around his neck with a big bow and with their aid transferred him to the over-sized candy stripped gift box that now lay discarded in the corner.

"It's me dear" Mr Mason replied as the voice from within responded to his respectful tap. Who else could it be he wondered? Another one of his dear wife's little foibles. He was always required to knock before entering the huge bedroom they shared. As with everything else it was a one-way custom, Mrs Mason never did the same when he was first to bed.

They weren't even looking at him. Total indifference for the moment. They just sat eating their cake, heads bent over some book or maybe an iPad or something like that.

"No darling, two big slices is more than enough. Save some for tomorrow. You don't want to become a porky piggy piggy, do you?"

"Can doggie have some?"

"No darling, it wouldn't be good for his teeth. I will open a tin of chunks, and you can fill his bowl and feed him in the kitchen before you go to bed. Make sure he eats them all up and licks his bowl clean for you. Then I'll put him down below with the other three."

"He will lick it clean; I will, I will so teach him to be a good doggie, just like yours! Can I give him the stick again?"

"Yes of course dear, make him howl for his supper, he is yours so of course, you can, he must learn who owns him but don't use the pink fibreglass one this time, use the bamboo one."

"Will you paddle him again, make him all hot and soft ready for my stick?"

"No need dear, I think his bot bot will be more than hot enough with what you gave him before. Go on then, ten minutes only and then feeding time and remember no silly talking this time, only yowling or we will have to put his rubber bone back in his naughty mouth."

Pluto watched in horror as his new owner approached 'stick' in hand. Ten minutes was not long, but he knew it would seem like an eternity in this living hell he was consigned to. How could any human beings be so cruel, so cruel and unkind? That evil woman who'd done this too him and now these two, that awful squat evil woman who'd......

Mr Mason squared his shoulders then turned the handle and went in. It had been such a nice day. He'd had a whole pint and a half, made his birdie and beaten Bob by two strokes. Now, this. Yes, such a very nice day and now his wife, yes such a nice kind woman, everyone who'd ever met her thought, so didn't they?

The End
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