The Last Submissive-Mistress Elisabeth Hunter (23)

The Subs Begin Their Day

We exited the barn just as we came in, single file, our wrists shackled and clipped to the collar of the man in front of us. The air had a chill to it, countered by weak rays of sunshine slanting through tall pines on the eastern side of the barnyard. Above us, on a gently sloping hillside, I saw the main house: mustard yellow with dusky-red trim, shake-sided, copper-roofed; a modest-sized Cape Cod with a deep front porch, flanked by birch trees in their fall glory.

We were led to a trench on the other side of the barn, out of view of the house. “Any of you gotta take a shit, here’s your chance, boys,” said Mr. Thompson. A few of the men attempted to squat down and take advantage of the opportunity, but to do so, the man in front and behind him had to cooperate. It was an awkward, embarrassing proposition, and I was glad I didn’t need to go.

Light Water Torture

After a few minutes, we were led back to a stone wall adjacent the barn. I stole another look up at the house, catching a glimpse of Mistresses Hunter and Melony sipping their morning coffee.

Just then, I heard the creaking sound of a valve turning, followed by the hiss of pressurized water fighting its way through kinks in a hose. I looked to my left just in time to see what was coming next.

Mr. Thompson, with a gleeful expression on his face, held the nozzle of a fire hose, which ejected a powerful stream of water. A second later, the biting cold spray lashed our bodies, all of us flinching and yelping as we each in turn became the target. Our water torture lasted about a minute, after which we all hopped about and shivered, naked and barefoot in the fresh mud.

The Subs Begin The Race

There would be no breakfast this morning. Still dripping from our inglorious hosing, Mr. Thompson led us to a fenced-in round horse pen. A large pole stood in the center; I guessed it was eight inches in diameter and twelve feet tall, with four cross-arms sticking out at ninety-degree angles from each other, each arm about ten feet long, a braced pole sloping at an angle that put the tip six feet off the ground. A lead rope with a brass snap at the end dangled from each arm.

Mr. Thompson separated us into two groups of four. To my enormous relief, he didn’t put me in the same group as our Hercules, Gill Peck. My group was led into a small waiting pen off to the side of the main pen to watch as the other four subs were clipped into the lead ropes.

Now each sub stood with a lead rope threaded through the wrist shackles and then up to their collar. For some reason, I assumed the device was motor-driven, like a merry-go-round, and Mr. Thompson would flip a switch to start it revolving. But no, this device was self-propelled, with Mr. Thompson’s horse whip providing the motivation to run. He stood at the center and snapped his whip at the naked men arrayed around him, and just like horses, off they went, Gill setting the pace.

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Gill Leads The Pack

It didn’t take long to figure out who would drop out first: Erik, the red-headed, bearded guy. He began to struggle after only five minutes, so early in the run that I gathered that more than the pace, it was the equestrian scenario that psyched him out. Whatever the reasons, he soon began to falter, and it wasn’t long before he went down, bringing the sub-go-round to an abrupt halt. Mr. Thompson led him to the fence, sat him down in the dirt and clipped his collar to a chain.

Back to the center of the pen went Mr. Thompson. He snapped his whip at Gill’s muscular behind. Gill didn’t need any further encouragement to start up, this time at a faster pace, an easy stride for him, but the other two subs struggled to keep up. Gill ran with an upright posture, tugging the lead rope down, keeping slack between his wrists and collar, so he ran head high. I made a note to do the same.

The Subs Are Put In Rank Order

It was another ten minutes before the second sub went down. That left an Asian guy with a ripped physique, obviously fit but breathing hard. When they resumed, he put up a valiant effort, but he was no match for the human race horse who strode around the pen like it was a Sunday stroll. Asian guy went to his knees at around the twenty-minute mark, his arms outstretched above him. Gill came to a relaxed halt. He had hardly broken a sweat, only a sheen of perspiration on his face.

Mr. Thompson chained this third sub with the other two, then came back to collect Gill. He held up Gil’s arms. “Looks like we got ourselves a winner.”

This pronouncement was unexpectedly accompanied by the sound of polite clapping. We turned our heads to see Mistresses Hunter and Melony standing at the fence. Mr. Thompson doffed his hat in their direction and then led Gill to the fence with the others. I noticed he chained the men in order of placing, left-to-right, Gill on the left, Asian guy, then the second guy down, with Erik on the right.

Mr. Green’s Turn To Race

Now it was our turn. Adrenalin coursed through my veins; my stomach did flips and my legs felt like rubber. I knew the feeling well, having run cross country and track in high school. This was my normal pre-race jitters. Mr. Thompson led us out of the holding pen and clipped us each to an arm. I tugged my lead line down so that my wrists were at waist level. I eyed my competition. One guy was short, stocky and muscular, a fireplug. The other two guys had to be male models: both had shoulder-length hair, handsome features, lean, well-toned bodies and skin tanned to perfection. No telling if they could run.

The whip cracked the air and we were off to the races, round and round the pen. Each time we went around, I glimpsed Mistresses Hunter and Melony at the fence. The ladies had dressed for the Kentucky Derby—flowing pastel dresses, shoulders bare, bodice cut to reveal cleavage, fancy hats, and Elton John sunglasses. Talk about playing the part. No telling which horse they were rooting for; I hoped it was me.

Slow And Steady Wins The Race

Fireplug set the pace, and it was damn near a sprint. After a dozen quick laps, I started to worry; no way I could hold that pace, but he couldn’t either, and he eventually slowed down. But he had done us both a favor, because from their labored breathing, I could tell the male models had gone anaerobic to keep up; their muscles had to be saturated with lactic acid. They wouldn’t last long.

I was right, they both went down quickly. That left me and Fireplug. Fortunately, he was on the arm directly in front of me, with the disadvantage of not being able to see me, and the psychological burden of me breathing down his neck. I decided to wear him down slowly, pushing the pace every so often, then backing off, watching for strain in his posture and stride. I had to give him credit, he was a tough bugger; the run went on and on with no sign of him faltering.

Then, on one lap, as I came around, I saw Mistress Hunter remove her sunglasses. She looked at me as if to say, ‘Do it now.’

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Mistress Hunter And Mistress Melony Cheering For Me

That was all the motivation I needed. I kicked it into high gear and held that pace as long as I dared, then accelerated to my final quarter-mile sprint, gambling that Fireplug wouldn’t know how long I could sustain the pace and that he would give up.

Now, as we circled the pen, Mistresses Hunter and Melony were openly cheering for me. That helped, along with the thought that I was running for Lillian. Fireplug finally went down, stumbling so violently that I thought his lead line would snap. I almost trampled him before I got stopped. I stood over him, my chest heaving, wishing I could bend over and put my hands on my knees, feeling like I had to throw up. Fireplug had face-planted into the dirt and made no effort to get up.

Mistress Hunter Marks Us

I heard Gill whooping from the fence and the ladies clapping behind me. Standing there, I felt more like a gladiator than a race horse, relieved it was over and troubled by the niggling thought in the back of my head—now what? Would I have to run against Gill? Or wrestle him? Either way, I knew I would lose. I was totally spent, while he was rested, not to mention he had forty pounds of muscle on me. However, as we were about to learn, that’s not how this game worked.

Mr. Thompson lined us up against the fence with our chins over the top rail so that our asses stuck out toward the center of the ring. Mistress Hunter came up from behind and marked our rears with a magic marker, announcing the number as she wrote. Gill was one, I was two, Fireplug was three, the Asian guy four, and so on, no surprises until she ranked Erik sixth and the male models seventh and eighth. We were lined up in that order, clipped together, and led single-file back to the barn, only this time it was Mistress Hunter leading Gill on a leash, and Mr. Thompson taking up the rear with his whip.

Taking A Good Look At Lillian

Inside the barn, we were led into a room across from the horse stalls. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The room was long and narrow, as if it had once been open, divided by stalls. A row of stocks lined the back wall, built low to the ground so that you were forced to kneel doggy style, head and hands immobilized. The stock on the end was already occupied—my heart skipped a beat when I realized it was Lillian. I counted seven empty stocks to her left.

Mistress Hunter led us through the room so that we did a U-turn at the far wall and passed Lillian, getting a good look at her luscious bottom, slender waist, and elegantly flared torso. When we stopped, each sub stood adjacent a stock, except Gill, who stood in front of me. Mr. Thompson unclipped my wrist shackles from Gill’s collar and Mistress Hunter led him out of view.

All But One Of You Are About To Get Fucked

Mr. Thompson shoved me down to the ground, pushing my neck into the center cutout of the first stock. He set my wrists into their slots, then rotated the top beam down and locked it place. My body flooded with fear . . . what in hell was going on? Then, to my right, Mr. Thompson repeated the process with Fireplug, locking him into his stock. And so on, until we were all immobilized, our heads down and butts up, asses exposed for the taking, seven subs and Lillian.

“Gentlemen—and lady—let me explain how we will proceed,” Mistress Hunter’s commanding voice rang out behind us.

“There are nine of you . . . eight studs plus Miss Lilly, our broodmare. Now, perhaps you thought you would each have a turn with her, but that’s not how it will go this morning. Only one stud will have that privilege, and that’s Mr. Peck here, since he earned first choice. The rest of you . . . well, gentleman, let me put it this way . . . all but one of you are about to be fucked.”

Next: Stud Service

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Freelance author living near the Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia.

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