Rachel's story, continued
Five days after the Christmas break we returned to the Commune. Just two of the girls from my hut were missing: Caitlyn and Sarah. I suspected that the latter's health had worsened. Caitlyn, on the other hand, seemed to have problems with Daniel being our hut Master. It didn't surprise me since they had been in a relationship before they joined the Empyreal Society. They were replaced by Katrina and Selena, reassigned from the other huts.
We were promised that our second term would be more play and less work, and I wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. In any case, we got our first taste of the new regime as we exited the bus on the small hill where we had first been introduced to our summer of slavery, five weeks before. This time, everyone, not just the trainees, travelled together. However, the full return took all day because the bus had to make three trips. The last ended just before sunset.
The residents of Huts D and F were the first to arrive. The ritual was basically the same as before. We girls stripped before disembarking, were then bound, gagged and blindfolded. We were also hobbled with ankle chains. But instead of being tethered in a column, we were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. Our Masters moved along the line putting us into pairs. I was partnered with Stephanie. My right elbow, ankle and boob were bound to her left ones. Being tethered breast-to-breast was especially degrading, but it wasn't very tight. If either of us were to fall, it would come away without causing injury. But then came the crotch rope. It actually consisted of three strands, the outside ones nestled snugly on either side of the fleshy folds while the fiendishly braided middle one burrowed into my crease. Even before I began moving, the stimulating effect on my clitoris had me gasping.
I had a good inkling of what was coming next.
"The race is on," yelled one of the males. "First to the compound wins the prize."
I dared not contemplate what the prize might be. For as much as we were motivated to please our Masters, winning always meant comeuppance.
"Go!"
We started down the hillside and onto the meadow. Sightless, hobbled and trussed together, unable to speak except through grunts and gurgles to coordinate our motions, Steph and I shuffled and stumbled through knee-high grass. The stubble under our bare feet made the going tougher. We could only take short steps, and still each caused the crotch rope to work its way in and out of me, methodically fulfilling its diabolical purpose, abetted by the outside ropes which squeezed my labia inwards for enhanced stimulation. The best way to minimise its effect was to keep my knees apart, but they could only spread so far within our restraints, and anyway that just make walking all the more difficult. I tried to stifle my moans by clenching my jaws hard on the silicone rubber ball filling my mouth. I could hear the other girls above the lowing of cows ruminating languidly in the meadow and the raucous calls of crows taunting us from the trees. I didn't want to give the males the enjoyment of our humiliation; but before long I gave up and joined in the chorus.
As we reached level ground, my breast tether slackened. Steph's must have come off. I felt a Master's cane prodding my backside. We stopped just long enough for the rope to be reattached. We had by now fallen into a discordant rhythm. It was impossible to keep together for more than a few dozen paces, so we had to keep reducing our tempo to realign our bodies, but not so much as to earn a whack. The ground was more uneven. As well as the grass stubble, sticks and sharp stones gouged our feet, and spiky blades scratched our legs. On occasion the ankle rope snagged on a protruding root or branch. Fortunately we were moving too slowly, our steps too small, to be in danger of tripping. If either of us had fallen, she would take down the other, and with our arms bound behind our backs we had no way of protecting ourselves. Indeed, further along the line I heard every so often one of the other couples take a tumble.
In urging us to pick up the pace, the Masters were generally positive, using words of encouragement instead of haranguing us; and they applied their canes for just the occasional poke and stroke. There were no fences or similar obstacles to surmount or avoid, which was a blessing, but several times we had to be steered around a tree or a shrub. But it was harder going than that first time, five weeks before. My gag was giving me a raging thirst. It made me salivate heavily, which temporarily moistened my mouth and throat but soon became dehydrating. Meanwhile the crotch rope was starting to drive me crazy. It not only gave me an orgasm; I desperately needed to pee, and eventually I lost control. As the stream ran down the insides of my thighs, I was mortified. (Yet proud that I could endure the indignity as well as the physical torment.)
The land began to rise once more. Steph and I were getting tired but also more confident. And when the ground levelled and the grass gave way to bare dirt, I knew we were back in the compound. Released from our bonds (except for the blindfolds), we collapsed to our knees lathered in perspiration and groaning from the effect of our crotch ropes. After giving us just a minute to catch our breath, one of the Masters ordered us to line up again.
There had been no race. I wasn't shocked.
"Spreads legs and pussies!"
Hoping I was doing the right thing, I used my fingers to part my labia. I heard the swish of a cane somewhere down the row and the Master barked "Do it properly! Wider!"
