The Statues of Masters Hall

by Wolverine

Part 1: The New Recruits

Demetria Lindsay had taken off her shoe and sock. This was not especially strange, as she was indoors, in the police station, away from public view and visible only to one other officer, but it did indicate that she felt at ease with that colleague, especially as her purpose was to scratch an awkward itchy spot.

“What are you doing, Demmy?” asked Chrissie Somerton, pulling up her own long legs and thrusting her slim body forward for a better look.

“Scratching my foot,” said Demetria.

“Isn’t that a bit rude?” asked Chrissie jokingly.

“Well, ah am still learning about de strange cultural ways of dese white folks. For dem, de revelation of a naked foot is a deadly insult and to scratch it is more deadlier still!” Demetria hammed. Then she burst out laughing. While she was still shaking with laughter, the athletic, light-footed Chrissie leapt at her, seized the unprotected brown foot and began rapidly tickling the underside. Demetria giggled, writhed, kicked, squealed and popped a button on her crisp white uniform blouse that was, in truth, barely big enough for her great magnificent breasts.

“What will you give me if I let you free?” Chrissie demanded.

“A load of my big black ass on your face!” Demetria replied. Chrissie let go and they both dissolved in giggles. The giggles died out like a withering plant. Chief Inspector Henry Hector had walked in.

He let them stew, staring at his impassive face.

“Is that appropriate language for an officer in Dorset Police?” he finally asked Demetria, “let me see, ‘big black ass’ I think?”

“Sir, it’s appropriate from me because I’m black, but it wouldn’t be appropriate from a white officer,” Demetria replied.

“Except one that knew you very well, I suppose,” Hector commented. “Perhaps you hadn’t heard that you were both wanted to join in the raid on Masters Hall?”

“We heard something big was on, Sir, but we weren’t included. You mean we’re in on it now?” Chrissie asked eagerly.

“Yes,” he confirmed dryly. “Pierce has a migraine and Widdecombe’s sprained her ankle getting the spare toaster down from the top of a cupboard. So you’re both included. Into the vans in just twenty-five minutes.”

As Demetria fumbled to get her sock and shoe back on, and wondered what to do about the popped button, the Chief Inspector filled them in on the briefing the other officers would already have received.

“As you know, four female Japanese students aged eighteen disappeared yesterday from a party of twenty-two visiting this area as a day off from a summer language school. First thought was that they’d sloped off to find local boys. Second thought, local girls. After all, if one teenage girl disappears, or even two, you have to wonder about kidnap, rape, murder even. But four fit, intelligent young women – commonsense said they had to have gone willingly. Even when it turned out they’d been visiting Masters Hall just before the teachers did a count and found they were four down, and of course Masters Hall has a big lake and a fishpond, we didn’t think of dredging them. Four fit girls can’t all get drowned in a lake without anyone even hearing a shout, and to overpower them, you’d need half an army. Frankly, that’s still the way I think. But the Japanese consulate has been pushing buttons, the ambassador too, there’s no sign of the girls – that report at the folk music event turned out to be a Chinese family on holiday from Liverpool – and Masters Hall and the Mason family have a bit of a strange reputation among the local worthies.” He said “worthies” as if it meant “idiots”. “So as Masters Hall is the last place they were seen, we’ve got to search it. Orders are not to alert Mr Mason, but I can’t imagine he’ll be too surprised – if he’s at home. Apparently he was yesterday.”

“Wow!” said Chrissie. “I mean – thank you, Sir.”

“I’m sure you can handle any ticklish problems, PC Somerton,” said Hector as he marched out.

There was a little time for Demetria to tell her friend about Masters Hall – for Chrissie was still in her probationary period and had been at the station just four months, enough to make friends with the amiable Demetria but not to become an expert on the locality.

“Masters Hall was built in the early seventeenth century by the Masters family and completed in 1614. They bought the estate from the Earl of Worcester. They were merchants trading abroad – the Baltic, Russia, India, Arabia, Africa, and of course that meant they were involved in the slave trade – and they became very rich towards the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. They laid out the park, but it was landscaped again in the next century by Capability Brown. In the Civil War they were royalists – hardly surprising as they had valuable royal monopolies – and in 1649 they were driven off the estate. Sir John Masters took refuge in Flanders. He returned at the Restoration in 1661 and was active in suppressing local protestant sects. There are some nasty stories about the way he persecuted them. After 1689 they lost most of their political power, but they still owned the estate and were rich. That lasted till the 1820s when Sir Danvers Masters gambled and drank their money away. He had to sell up to a family called Robinson who lived there until 1925. The last Robinson lost his only son in the war and his daughter Charlotte married a man called Mason who was related to the Masters through a Masters daughter who’d married an English merchant living in Portugal. The Masons were in the wine trade. Charlotte died young (there’s a statue of her in one of the rooms, makes her look really beautiful and sort of sad). Eduardo Mason married again, and the present owner Charles is his descendant. The Masons still have business affairs in Portugal as well as Britain, in wine, leisure centres and monumental masonry, I believe. There are funny stories about them, even some about disappearances, but I guess it’s just because they’re a bit different, they’re cultured - and because they’ve got some Portuguese and French blood, they’re a bit dark-skinned for the locals.”

Chrissie thought this last comment was ironic. Demetria was too competent and self-confident to suffer from much racism, but strangers in very white Dorset, in the mainly sedate and white South-West of England, did look at her oddly on occasion, and a few police officers made comments they really shouldn’t. For Demetria, it was water off a duck’s back.

Her friend was really clever and educated, Chrissie thought. Not many PCs had a university degree. O.K., it was just from some London college that used to be a polytechnic, and it was in Fine Arts, which didn’t lead to many jobs, but still, she was clever, and she’d really researched her local history. It might seem strange that she’d chosen to join the Dorset force, covering such a quiet rural area, but Demmy had explained that for black officers it was sometimes easier to serve away from relatives and away from a lot of black people. Chrissie almost worshipped her friend – so self-confident, so clever and educated, so artistic, so brave, so black, and the more experienced police officer by almost two years.

She also admired Demmy’s self-assured and matter-of-fact way with boys and even older men. They talked about men a good deal, as most girls do, but Chrissie was not entirely honest about her own difficulties in finding a nice boy who didn’t want to go straight for her secret thing. Chrissie herself had enjoyed a privileged and sheltered upbringing among the faded comforts of Bournemouth, had proved an excellent athlete in running, high jump, long jump, hockey and tennis, and had joined the police as much because they had good sporting facilities and a helpful attitude to athletes in their ranks, as because she wanted to help people, though of course she did really want to help. She was the only officer in the local force who actually enjoyed dealing with lost children.

There was an atmosphere of excitement in the van. It was a big operation, even if it was very unlikely to turn anything up. It was a change from routine, and a good trip out.

“Oh, I forgot to mention the statues,” Demetria said.


“Yes, some of them are a bit weird. Of course with my art interests I’ve been to see them.

Some are indoors but most of them are dotted around the lawns sloping down to the lake. All white marble, all of women, and all very realistic and detailed, body proportions just right, no impossible angles of limbs and so on, but while some are quite artistic and in the sort of poses statues seem to be fond of…” – Chrissie tittered at her friend’s humour – “a lot are in some very strange postures, often quite rude.” She giggled. “You’ll see, anyway.

Seems the Mason family must have their own style in sculpture. They are a bit of a tourist draw, of course. There are old legends about the statues moving when there’s a full moon and suchlike, but my guess is the Masons promoted the stories as soon as they started taking money from visitors. Dark legends are good business.”

The park was surrounded by a high fence, but the tall gilded main gates opened as they approached. The gatekeeper had either decided on his own initiative to co-operate with the police, or he had been so instructed. In a carefully co-ordinated operation, another van was approaching the smaller, private West gate.

As their wheels crunched on the gravel of the inner car-park right in front of the fine brick building, they could see a reception committee on the stone steps.

“Charles Mason himself,” Demetria whispered to her friend, pointing out a tall, neat-bearded, olive-skinned, hook-nosed man in a light summer suit, “and the other two must be his wife and younger daughter.” These were a tall, bony, high-cheekboned, grim-faced, brown-haired woman with just a suggestion of former beauty and current command, and a petite, shyly smiling brunette with soulful brown eyes and girlish curves.

“You HAVE done your research!” said Chrissie admiringly.

“Welcome to Masters Hall!” said Charles Mason.

“Good morning, Mr Mason,” said Chief Inspector Hector politely. “Do you understand why we’re here?”

“Of course!” the master of the house replied with equal courtesy. “The disappearance of those four young Japanese ladies! I understand entirely. You must have come to make a search. I just hope you aren’t proposing to drag the lake and the pond. It would seriously damage the ecology and the populations of dragonfly larvae, newts and grass snakes would take three or four years to recover.”

“No, we’re using divers,” the Chief Inspector replied. The pretty daughter, who had been watching the officers closely, turned to her mother and whispered something, whereupon the mother in turn spoke quietly to Charles Mason.

So under Hector’s instructions, the officers broke up into groups, some to search the house, others various small outbuildings, others the woods, and the frogmen and frogwomen, the lake, the pond and a well. Fewer and fewer were left uninstructed, but Demetria and Chrissie were among them.

“You two – Lindsay and Somerton!” Hector barked. “Lindsay, you’re an art expert apparently. You can look round the area with all those statues. Somerton – you go with her. Cover that small copse too.”

The friends began their search together, Demetria pointing out some of the most remarkable statues to Chrissie, thought they dutifully looked around the statues’ feet for any small signs that might indicate what had happened to the Japanese teenagers. One statue Chrissie thought sweet and, well, quite sexy in a harmless sort of way. A naked young woman with a plump bottom lay on her belly in the grass reading a book, her head covered by a wide straw hat. Her expression was innocent and wondering as she gazed up, perhaps at someone who had unexpectedly interrupted her naughty idyll.

“That’s odd,” said Demetria, “I’d swear those marks on her bottom weren’t there when I saw her last.”

“Aren’t they just veins in the marble?” asked Chrissie; but if they were veins, they were oddly arranged in parallel across her buttocks.

Another statue also held a book, a large one like a bible, but she was standing bolt upright and was dressed in seventeenth-century puritan garb, though her long skirt was hitched up at the back to reveal a pleasantly curvy bare bottom. The sculptor had, strangely, given her an expression of horror.

A whole ring of young women in similar garb stood praying – but the similarity of the clothing was incomplete, for they were all naked below the waist.

A group of three naked young women, teenagers by their pert bodies, were arranged in a most peculiar way: one lay on her back in the grass, legs tensed and apart, her whole body conveying tension and struggle, while the second sat on her head and the third, who closely resembled the trapped one as far as one could see, was thrusting her hand between the unprotected lips. Chrissie shuddered, and had to remind herself it was only a statue by some sculptor with a dirty mind, done to get money from a rich landowner with a similar dirty mind.

Two large-breasted women in the fashions of the 1930s were carrying placards that showed them to be protesters against the dismissal of some estate workers, but one of them was bending over with her bottom bare and the other was apparently preparing to whack her hard with her placard.

After a while Chrissie had had enough. She went and stared at the peaceful lake – not quite so peaceful while the divers were busy there - overlooked by the nasty statues, but felt guilty at shirking and set about searching the small copse and its thickets while Demetria continued to search among the statues. She was startled to see a motionless woman hiding behind a tree – but as she approached, she found it was just another statue of a woman in bra and panties embracing the treetrunk passionately. Odd, thought Chrissie – if the statue had been there a long time, the tree would have grown round the arms or cracked them as it tried to expand, but the fit was precise. So it had to be new – but the hairstyle of the woman suggested the 1940s. “Silly girl!” she told herself – “the sculptor just chose to show a woman of that period for some weird reason.” She tramped out of the copse to rejoin Demetria.

Demetria had continued her lone search around the statues. In truth, despite the front she had put on for Chrissie, she did find them a little scary as well as fascinating, and when she heard footsteps very close, she jumped.

“Sorry if I startled you,” said Charles Mason jovially, “they’ve finished with me and just about finished inside so I came out for a bit of fresh air. I do hope they find these poor young women, but I’m sure they won’t find them here. May I walk with you?” Demetria was by nature sociable and inclined to think well of people until they proved the contrary. She admitted to just a little thing about courteous, experienced older men and she admired Charles Mason for staying so calm and amiable when his house and grounds were turned upside down – so she agreed. After all, he had undoubtedly inherited these statues, for everyone was agreed they had been in the grounds for a long time, though successive Masters and Masons had added to them occasionally.

Demetria stopped and stared. Right by the shore of the lake, but distant from the divers, was a group of statues she had not noticed on her last visit. Unlike all the other statues, these were of yellow sandstone, a material which should not allow great intricacies in the carving, and yet these were as precise and detailed as any of the others. Four young women of Far Eastern appearance stood in a line, dressed in crisp short-sleeved summer blouses and knee-length pleated skirts, similar enough to suggest a uniform; but the second girl in line was lifting the skirt of the first as she bent forward slightly; her skirt was lifted by the third, and hers by the fourth, whose own skirt was crumpled around her ankles.

Except for the first girl, each one had her delicate nose only a few inches from the tight bottom-crack of the one in front. Demetria had to admit it was quite funny and sexy. It was also unsettlingly like the missing four Japanese schoolgirls. She turned to look at Charles Mason.

“Nice, aren’t they?” he said calmly. “My latest acquisition, and one I’m rather pleased with. By the way, have you ever seen something like this?” He pulled out of his pocket something Demetria thought at first was an antique gold watch on a chain. It was on a gold chain, all right, and dangled in his fingers. It was shaped like a watch-case too – but the intricately carved face showed a lion’s head in the centre and there was something strange about the lion’s eyes. They were pulsing and glowing. The face seemed to grow bigger and the lion showed its teeth. Demetria tried to run but found she could not. Her whole body seemed to be getting harder and heavier, her breathing slower, her pulse much slower and heavier. She tried to reach her radio, but her hand froze halfway. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and now her mouth was stuck open. She saw Charles Mason watching her with interest. Too late, she understood the real nature of all the statues and what had happened to the four Japanese girls.

This one seemed to be turning to stone quite slowly, Charles Mason noted with interest. Body mass seemed to have something to do with it – this gross cowlike creature with its gigantic buttocks and breasts had several times the mass of a slim Japanese teenager – but also with a slight and pointless but real resistance in the victim’s mind.

This one, surprisingly, seemed to have quite a strong mind. It was all to the best, as none of her stupid colleagues were looking and it gave him more time to arrange her to his taste.

He ripped open her neat uniform blouse and tugged her frilly bra from her huge breasts. He bent her forward till the tips of her soon to be stony tits just brushed the tops of a clump of stinging nettles. With the aid of a pair of wire clippers, he lowered her trousers and her tarty stiffening thong to her ankles so that her elephantine deep-parted arse stuck out proudly and provocatively.

“Demmy! Ohmigod! LEAVE HER ALONE!” cried an unexpected female voice. Mason spun round to see Chrissie, with all her athletic prowess, charging up to the rescue.

“Thank God you’ve come! This poor girl’s suffered some kind of epileptic fit!” he ad-libbed. “I’ve loosened her clothing. Do you know any first aid?”

Chrissie cared so much for her friend, and was so trusting, that for a moment she believed him; but as she touched her friend’s flank she felt stone. She too realised the secret of the statues. Swiftly, she whipped out her baton and raised it to strike the demon-man who had done this to poor Demmy.

“Have a look at this,” said Charles Mason, waving the golden charm in front of her eyes.

The baton was left sticking up in the air as Chrissie began to stiffen.

This was going to require some skill and good timing, Charles thought. He decided to leave most of the white policewoman’s uniform on, merely pulling her trousers and her virginal white panties down and rearranging the angle of her chequered hat to make it less rakish.

He took Chrissie’s long, slim, musician’s hand in his and forced her fingers into what he delicately thought of as the black pig’s big, thick-lipped manhole. He wrestled the baton from her other hand and shoved it deep into Black Pig’s arsehole. A few seconds later and it would have splintered against her stone sphincter. He stood back and contemplated his work. The last of the divers were trudging out of the lake and he strolled over to chat with them.

Chrissie and her friend were now entirely stone, perfect statues, the one of fine glossy darkest jet, the other of the most classical of white marble.

Chief Inspector Hector, a conscientious man, had planned many aspects of the raid most ably, but in one respect he had left an element of confusion. There were three vans – two had arrived at the front entrance and one at the West gate – but he had issued no orders that each officer should return to the same van.

So it was only when they had returned to the station that the absence of PCs Demetria Lindsay and Christabel Somerton was noticed; and even then, everyone assumed they had simply got lost or distracted somewhere and would now be waiting at Masters Hall.

“No, I haven’t seen any young female officers since you all bid farewell,” said Charles Mason over the phone. Do you want to come back to look for them?”

The second police search was hampered by the fact that many officers from other stations were returning to their own places and were wanted for other tasks. The searchers found a pair of skimpy panties in the woods, but judged that not unusual for such places. They paid little attention to the statues and found no sign of the two officers.

Henry Hector called off the search. He was already developing an uneasy suspicion about what might have caused the two to disappear.

Charles Mason stood by his new acquisitions with his wife and daughter, who had been examining them very closely. Young Fiona rushed up to her father and hugged him, kissing him demonstratively on the forehead.

“Oh daddy, oh daddy, you are MARVELLOUS!” she cooed. “I SO wanted the black one and you got her for me. You’re so cool you’re evil!”

“I’m glad you’re pleased with her, Fie,” he replied. “I was really curious what the black one would turn into, especially when I saw the Japs turned into yellow sandstone and not white marble. But jet! How delightful! The favourite stone of mid-Victorian widows!

Strange that my Masters ancestors must have had hundreds if not thousands of creatures like this one in chains, yet they made none into statues – unless the statues stand somewhere else or they plopped them into the sea for fun. Maybe they sold them on arrival and they’re all over street corners in places like Charleston.” His left hand rested on Demetria’s massive stone buttock and his right clutched Chrissie’s delicate marble ear. The two women fell silent as he began to address the statues.

“Well, my dears, so you’re with us now. I do know, from previous experiences, that while your thought processes will have slowed down, you can still see what’s around you, still hear what I’m saying and understand it. You should be profoundly grateful. If I had not intervened, you would have wandered round pointlessly doing inconsequential things, eating, pissing, snoring, travelling on buses, arresting dirty old men for exposing themselves when you know it gives them a thrill, getting fucked by inferior men, making meaningless sounds called conversation. You would have grown bit by bit old and ugly and then you would have died and rotted, unless of course you went the quick cook and instant piggy in a tin route.

But instead you’re immortal! Well, not quite, of course – when the whole planet burns up, you’ll liquefy and get mixed up with the other rocks. A direct nuclear strike might finish you off, or a major volcanic eruption right here on this spot. For that matter, a man with a sledgehammer could break you up into bits and then you’d be finished – though I think it’s just possible bits of you would still be conscious, but presumably in a lot of pain. But all these things are highly unlikely. Just in case you aren’t properly grateful, and would like to return to your former state, and may be thinking of being rescued – forget it. There is no way back to your former state. I can revive you into an intermediate state by using the other side of the Lion. In that state your bodies become soft again and your perceptions speed up, but you cannot move except to breathe and to respond to promptings by a living human like myself. In that state I can change your posture. If I fuck you, your c*nt – or arsehole or throat – will respond; but that is as far as you can return to the human state.

In fact, such periods will be brief, and as time goes on, no doubt I will become a little tired of you and turn my attention more to other girls. When I die, one of my successors may find you totally not to his or her tastes. In the meantime, you exist for our pleasure.”

“It’s quite nice being a statue,” his daughter added, “but there are downsides. One of the puritan maids with a big deep crack in her bum has a wasps’ nest in the crack this year. She does feel it, and when we revived her for a few minutes it was HILARIOUS! Birds shit on you. Dogs raise their legs and piss on you. Tourists lean on you and get photographed pretending to fuck you. Ants can be quite a problem, and you still feel cold, so a hard winter can be a bit of a bummer, especially if you get snow on your tits.”

“You’ve forgotten the girl in the pool,” her mother reminded her. Fiona laughed.

“Oh, yes, that one’s a classic. She’s stuck in the fishpond head down, legs wide apart, lips well open, and nearly every year for YONKS she’s had some small birds nesting up her hole. Of course, if daddy wanted he could have you done just the same.” She giggled and squeezed Demetria’s long, queenly stone nipple with her long blue fingernails. “I’m SO going to enjoy it when he revives you for me, Black Beauty!”

“I can’t say I share your taste, darling,” her mother commented, “though I might give myself a little bit of pleasure with the leggy white one when I’ve done with the little Japs.”

“We must of course enjoy the traditional celebration,” Charles stated, leading the other two back inside.

Demetria and Christabel were dully aware of their plight, aware of helplessness and despair, aware that however weird people might think the appearance of two statues so like two vanished police officers, no-one could possibly take seriously the idea of flesh and blood humans being turned into statues of stone. Chrissie hated having her hand up poor Demmy, and hated the fact that a little bit of her enjoyed it. She had sometimes wondered just what dear Demmy had there. She could not even tell whether Demmy knew it was her and understood that she was not deliberately assaulting her. She wanted to cry but no tears came. She began to think about her loving parents who would never know what had happened to her.

Demetria could not see who had a hand up her, but had felt the hand harden, its fingers trapping and squeezing her clit till she wanted to scream but could not, and realised the other person had been turned to stone. She hoped it wasn’t Chrissie, for she felt protective about the younger officer.

What was more, if Chrissie was still free, she would certainly not rest until she had found out what had happened to her friend.

Perhaps, though, thought Demetria, it would be better if Chrissie didn’t try too hard to find out, as she might get petrified like herself. If only she could speak to the other victim and find out if it was Chrissie or not! She too began to think about her poor family.

They were aware of the light fading, but could not see that evening’s spectacular sunset because they were not facing west. Though it was summer, the night felt cold. An owl landed on Demetria’s head, dropped to the grass to capture a vole, and flapped back up on to her head to eat it. Later, rain ran off them.

In the morning the three Masons returned.

The search for the two missing officers, meanwhile, had gone far higher up the chain of command than Chief Inspector Hector. Photos of their smiling faces looked out from newspapers and adorned walls and notice-boards, though children added moustaches and rude words to the outdoor ones. But Henry Hector had done his own research and was coming to a disturbing conclusion, though one which did suggest the worst had not happened. He was now explaining this to his Chief Superintendent and the Assistant Chief Constable herself.

“Several of my officers, especially the female ones, have told me they believe PC Lindsay and PC Somerton were having, well, a lesbian relationship,” he said. “I saw things myself but just thought they were youthful high spirits. I think they’ve decided to go off together.”

“So you let this disgraceful activity go on under your own nose, Hector?” the Chief Superintendent growled.

“Being lesbians and having sex isn’t illegal,” the ACC interrupted, “though having sex on duty would be a summary dismissal matter. Unless you were under cover in a brothel, I suppose. No-one actually saw them screwing, did they?” Both men were taken aback by her directness – but Henry Hector confirmed this had not happened.

“Then thank you for your help. We’ll scale down the search,” she concluded.

“How do lezzies screw?” the Chief Superintendent asked his underling on the way out.

“Anti-clockwise,” Hector replied. The Chief Superintendent was still working that out half an hour later.

On a clear early morning, the start of a beautiful day, Charles Mason waved the other face of the lion in front of PC Demetria Lindsay’s stone eyes. As jet black began to lighten to dark brown and her uniform and other clothes to regain their former colours, he carried out the same operation on PC Christabel Somerton. The two women watched intently. They had seen this transformation many times before, but it was always fascinating the first time to see one of their statues brought back to helpless flesh.

For Fiona, this experience was particularly sweet as she had set her heart on Demetria from first setting eyes on her. Some girls had little black dolls. She had a big black slave. Of all the statues, the ones daddy had made and the much more numerous others, there were now just two that were special to her and under her personal control. Black Miss Piggy was now her favourite. The other was her elder sister Emma.

“I whipped naughty Emma last night after you brought her back for me, daddy,” she said conversationally. “She was thinking bad thoughts – I could tell.” Charles looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Fiona, darling, she was your sister even if she did try to betray us and had to be petrified.” His wife looked disapproving.

“Darling, she was my daughter; but she let us down and could have brought absolute disaster and the end of a fine tradition. You shouldn’t make Fiona feel guilty.”

“I suppose so, Di,” Charles replied. “I just couldn’t believe what Fiona told me about her at first. I couldn’t believe a child of mine – and yours – could behave so badly. But after Fiona showed me what was on her computer, I knew what we had to do.”

“And very fairly, having been saved by your younger daughter’s vigilance, you agreed to give her the traitor to keep as her slave in her bedroom,” his wife Diana concluded.

“Darling, are we going to play with these two or not?”

They separated the now soft bodies, smiled into the now liquid eyes and positioned each policewoman with her legs braced well apart and her fingers touching her toes.

“Did you bring the canes, Fie?” Charles asked.

“Of course, daddy. Really! What do you think I am?” she replied indignantly, and took five waxed yellow canes out of her arty fringed hemp shoulder bag. “I think you should do it to the spindly white one first, dad, so my one can hear her rescuer squeal,” Fiona said.

“I think your mother wants to do the honours on the white one, darling,” he replied. “I’ll just add a cut or two to each at the end.”

And so it was Diana Mason who raised the thinnest, whippiest of the canes high above Christabel’s unprotected, unmarked white rump; Diana whose eyes shone with a cruel, triumphant glint; Diana who brought the cane down with a whoosh and a crack to cut into white buttocks as if trying to create a second, transverse bottom crack. There was a moment’s delay – and then Chrissie wailed, a long animal wail.

“I’m so glad they get their voices back!” said Diana.

“And I’m so glad they can’t speak words!” her husband added. “Ideal women!”

“Daddy! Really!” Fiona protested.


Diana Mason was undoubtedly an expert, an artist of the thin cane. She decorated Chrissie’s arse with a tracery of red weals, neatly spaced but crossing one another here and there, and nowhere closer than on her tender undercheeks. Then, bowing slightly, she handed the cane to her husband who with greater brute strength and less concern with subtlety, striped her thighs and added four more on her burning bottom.

PC Christabel Somerton was now in constant voice, her convulsive sobs fighting with her high animal wail. Fiona stuck her face close in Demetria’s and smirked.

“Hear what your friend’s getting? That’s all because of you. You were the target, not her, but she had to interfere to try to save you. Any moment now it’ll be your turn, but I’m doing you, not Mummy. And I’m a LOT less kind than her.”

So when Chrissie’s punishment was over, Charles handed the cane to his daughter, who flexed it in the black girl’s face and then gave her a totally unexpected cut across her face cheek.

“Didn’t expect that one, did you, Miss Piggy?” Fiona gloated. “Now on your arse!”

PC Demetria Lindsay’s hindquarters were a target so distinctive and so large, they could be compared to a barn door, if a barn door were rounded and quivered and smelt of fish going off. Fiona was not going to miss. She raised the cane high, paused to savour the moment, and brought it down, slicing viciously into a fat black left buttock. The scream must have been heard for miles. The next cut sizzled into the right buttock, sinking deep so Charles was reminded of the phrase “like a knife through butter.” The third one cut across the very top of the rump just where the arsecrack began and where there was little padding. The fifth and sixth were precisely zeroed in on her plump and wobbling undercheeks.

Now Demmy too was in full voice, a kind of musical moan interrupted by screams.

“Have I a limit, Daddy?” Fiona asked some time later.

“No limit, dearest,” her father replied.

“Good!” she said, and cut one right between the great, distorting, pulsating cheeks. Many slices later she paused and asked,

“Hey! Black slave! Tell me if you’ve had enough!” Demetria moaned but could not make words. Fiona sliced another one in before repeating the question. Again the cane cut in.

After three more questions and three more slices, Fiona struck a pose with finger pointed at her forehead and announced that she’d just remembered the slaves could not talk. She gave the huge black arse one more cut and handed over to her father.

“Hold her head back, Fie, please,” he requested. “I want a go at her great big tits.” The dutiful girl grabbed Demetria by her curly head hair and yanked her head roughly back.

Charles gave himself the pleasure of four cuts each at the enslaved policewoman’s ridiculously large and wobbling tits, making sure one slice each hit her exceptionally long nipples, before pronouncing that the game was over for the day except for “the usual benediction”. His assistants watched respectfully, admiringly, as he freed his stiff and still growing cock and pressed roughly between Chrissie’s sweet pink lips.

“Good God, this one’s actually a virgin!” he exclaimed. “Correction. Was.” He vigorously pumped first Chrissie’s secret tunnel and then Demetria’s, choosing then to shove his conquering weapon down the black girl’s arsehole before forcing it into the white girl’s mouth. Then, reverently, he took the Lion out of his pocket and waved it before the enslaved eyes of first Chrissie and then Demetria.

“Same pose, do you think?” he asked his wife and daughter as their captives began to stiffen. Fiona gestured to her mother to take precedence.

“Get the black whore on hands and knees!” she instructed urgently. “The white one sitting on her, back to front. Excellent! Now – QUICK – raise her arm and make her grasp the cane! Oh, wonderful!” They had done it just in time. Charles’s surplus cum had petrified into little bulges and blisters around the captives’ arsecracks and both sets of lips.

Chrissie now sat on her friend as if on a horse, and her arm was raised to get the horse moving by whacking its rump. It was a most artistic arrangement, Charles conceded, and would certainly attract a lot of attention from that big party of Chinese tourists due the next day.


To be continued...

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