43.
Inside there was a small ante-room, at the far side of which double doors with glass windows led into the main hall. As the girls pulled Mitch forwards, he could see tables inside, populated by mainly middle-aged women, and he could hear the murmur of voices – a murmur which ceased abruptly as he was pushed into the hall. At the far end was a long trestle table with plates and glasses and covered trays with food and bottles and jugs, being supervised by two young women in white aprons. Along each side were four smaller tables, at each of which sat four or five of the older women. At his entrance there were smiles and exclamations, and one of the women at a table to his left jumped up to greet him.
“Mitch! How lovely. And what an amazing costume! Thank you for bringing him, girls.”
Rachel – for it was she - took Mitch by the arm – his hands were still linked behind his back – and led him up and down the rows, like a horse up for auction. He kept looking straight ahead, though out of the corner of his eye he could see the amused and delighted stares of his audience. Clearly his appearance was all that they could have hoped for, and more. The only faces he looked at directly were the two young women at the trestle tables. They were smiling, whispering to each other, and giggling – but at least they looked friendly. As Rachel reached the far corner and prepared to bring him back along the other side, he noticed, in the corner, a giant white playpen with a barred top. Seeing him looking at it, Rachel whispered, “that’s for you, darling, courtesy of Shirley - for when you have your nap – or when you’ve been naughty,” she added with a wink.
The parade over, he was put to work in his role as entertainer straight away. It seemed as if the programme had been planned in advance. First, it was “he”. Rachel left him standing in the middle of the hall. He had no idea what was going on. Then Dorothea approached, slapped his arm, and ran. “You’re it!” shouted Lottie, and the girls started running around him, making faces and sticking their tongues out. “Come get us, baby pants!” cried Dorothea, taunting him from a safe distance.
“Go on, boy,” said Rachel from the sidelines, “do what you’re told. That’s why you’re here.” It was said in a tone that brooked no objections, and he knew he’d better play along or punishment of some sort would definitely ensue. Clumsily, hampered by his tether and his padded nappy, he lurched at them. Of course, he had no chance of ever catching either. They simply danced around him, giggling and poking fun, while the company shouted encouragement. As the ‘game’ went on, he grew more and more annoyed and resentful, and his cheeks were burning with the effort and with embarrassment. And when he final tripped and sat down on the floor, he could have cried with frustration. Then Lottie generously allowed him to catch her, which simply led to her chasing him around the room, skipping behind him while he lumbered along, much to everyone’s amusement.
After twenty minutes of this, he had had enough. He stopped dead.
“Shit! I’m not doing this any more!”
There was a shocked silence. Rachel strode onto the floor.
“Mitch! Babies do not swear!”
“That wasn’t a swear…” he began.
“Silence. We don’t put up with that sort of language here. In front of all these ladies, too! Bethesda?” She addressed a tall lady with a grey perm. “Bethesda? You know what is needed.”
“No!”
Bethesda knew exactly what was needed. As did Mitch. She went to a cupboard at the end of the room, and came back carrying a blue sissifier gag.
“Show everyone first ,” said Rachel. “Most of them haven’t seen this yet.”
The gag was passed around, eliciting gasps of surprise from the women of the W.I. Mitch’s pleas were swept aside. To the undisguised delight of Lottie and Dorothea, Bethesda held Mitch’s head still while Rachel threaded the straps through the loops on the side of his bonnet and closed and locked the buckle. The swollen teat filled his mouth, making all but the most muffled grunt impossible. Rachel stood back, holding his shoulders and looking at him with obvious satisfaction. “There. That’s better. Don’t look so sad, Mitch. It’s better than a spanking, don’t you think?” And added, in an undertone, “something nice to suc-k on…”
The girls were soon tired of “he”. Lottie suggested races, but in view of Mitch’s handicap Rachel doubted that would be very entertaining. Then Dorothea said, “what about Blind Man’s Buff?”
“Perfect!” said Rachel. “we have just the thing!”
The eye mask was produced, and attached to the press-studs. Each eye was covered with a blue rubber cup. Now Mitch was blind as well as dumb. All that could be seen of his face was his nose and part of his red cheeks. But you could still tell he was very angry. The girls danced around him, taunting him and calling him names to provoke him.
“Come on, panty-boy, come and get us!”
“Mer-mer-mi-mer-mer,” chanted Lottie, “can’t get us, wee-wee pants!”
“Do you like your new dummy, sissy Mitch?”
It was probably fortunate the tight rubber bonnet muffled their words. Indeed, he was virtually deprived of all his senses. But he could still feel, and Lottie soon had the idea of running in, slapping his bare leg, and running away. He tried vainly to lurch towards the direction from which these attacks were being launched, but after falling onto his bottom twice more, it was soon clear the girls had more than an unfair advantage. His thighs were soon red with slap-marks, and he had given up trying to chase them. So Rachel decided to even things up a bit. First of all she released his hands, but as he still couldn’t grab anyone with those rubber mitts on, and as his legs continued to suffer from the attacks of the squealing girls, she removed his ankle tether as well.
After that, things began to get more interesting. And certainly more entertaining. Mitch’s strategy was to stand still and wait for an attack, then hurl himself in the apparent direction of the attacker, who would flee, screaming with laughter. It was clear that sooner or later he was going to catch one of the girls, which would have spoiled the fun, so Rachel gave them an old riding whip, (which she brought with her with some idea that it might be useful), so that they could launch their assaults from a safe distance.
Really, it was a rather cruel thing to do, and soon the poor boy’s legs were marked with little red patches from the leather flap at the tip. But the audience didn’t seem to mind. The women were really getting into the spirit of the game.
“Behind, you, Mitch!”
“Now, Lottie! No, the other leg! It’s hardly marked…”
“It’s Dorothea’s turn. Dotty, higher up! Try to get the inside of his thigh!”
Mitch ran this way and that, straining to hear the girls’ voices, but by now they were being drowned out by the shouts of the spectators. Once or twice he careered into one of the tables, and was quickly repulsed back into the middle of the floor. Then at last he got lucky. He had fallen over, but as he sprawled, he came into contact with one of Dorothea’s legs. Before she could retreat he had grabbed it, and pulled her down. As he struggled to hold her, she fought to escape, and in the melee he caught her nose with his fist. She screamed, but several women were already dragging him off. He was so frustrated and angry by this time that he completely forgot himself, and began to pummel Dorothea’s rescuers. It took six of them to subdue him, holding down his arms and legs. He lay there, helpless and fuming. He knew he was in big trouble. He could here some murmured conversation, then Rachel’s voice, raised so he could hear.
“Do you know you’ve made Dorothea’s nose bleed? And do you know that Betty got your fist in her tummy? Do you even care? That’s the trouble with you boys, isn’t it? Isn’t it? We buy you nice clothes, lovely pretty little outfits, and how do you thank us? Well? (As Mitch was firmly gagged, posing all these questions was clearly a fruitless exercise. But mothers in particular specialise in this sort of interrogation when they know their subject either cannot or is too afraid to answer.) “We dress you in lovely soft baby clothes, and play nice quiet games with you, and what do you do? Beat us all up. Yes, beat us up. The one thing you seem to be good at!”
“And be horrible!” added Dorothea, holding a tissue to her nose.
“Yes. And be generally horrible and aggressive. It’s a waste of time treating you nicely, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” (Nodding of heads all round.) The only think you understand is a smacked bottom. Right? Am I right?”
“Mmmfff…” responded Mitch – which probably meant, “no, please don’t do that,” but was interpreted as an mmmfff of defiance.
“Oh, right, you don’t think we dare, don’t you? Well we’ll show you, young man. Arabella?”
Arabella was a woman in her sixties. She had recently retired as headmistress of a private girls’ school, and was fond of reminiscing about her early days as a teacher, when she was regarded as something of an expert in the application of corporal punishment. She was unable to say whether in those days she preferred using her hand or a paddle or the cane. “Each aid has it’s peculiar uses,” she would say, enigmatically.
So it was that, five minutes later, Mitch found himself across Arabella’s knee, held in position by two women on his right wrist, two more on his left, two more on his right leg, and Dorothea and Lottie attached to the remaining limb. The rest of the gathering, including the two attendants, were gathered round, two or three deep.
He felt someone take hold of his pants. He struggled, but he was firmly pinioned. He heard Rachel’s distant voice. “Now we’ll see…”
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Topic: Mitch (Read 68448 times)
