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Alternate Torment (Mark Andrews)


Alternate Torment by Mark Andrews

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    • Average 3.5 from 2 ratings

Angela is virtually forced by Sir Reginald into accepting a position in his estate office as a typist and then found herself contending with his constant harassment. His threat was always the prospect of his dismissing her father as his game warden. When he finally goes too far, Angela refuses – with devastating consequences.

She ends up in another dimension—a place where girls unwilling to pander to the advances of the superior male, especially those of the aristocracy, are punished and trained to obey and to offer their bodies to the basest and vilest of male passions…

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 8 / 2011

No. words: 38000

Style: Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Chapter 1

How stupid I was …
Of course it’s easy to say that now, but back then I still had this weird notion that my body was mine and that I didn’t have to surrender it to anyone, even my employer, Sir Reginald Fortescue, Baronet, owner of a vast estate in Devon where my father was the head gamekeeper.
Now of course I know differently and I have the marks on my body to prove it. Marks that can never be erased for they are brands. Yes, real brands, inflicted by a red-hot branding iron while Sir Reginald watched, his penis tenting his aristocratic pants as the glowing iron desecrated my flesh — on my chest, right on top of my breasts.
But I am jumping the gun … My name is Angela. Angela Davis and I was brought up on Sir Reginald’s vast estate where my father is the head gamekeeper and is paid a very nice salary for his trouble.
I looked on Sir Reginald as a very kindly man during my childhood but later on, into my teens, when my body started to develop and I assumed a more womanly shape, he began to take a more intimate interest in me. I have to be honest and say I inherited good looks from my parents. I am a blue-eyed blonde, slender and have good skin and excellent muscle tone, brought about by a healthy diet and a great deal of exercise for I loved tennis, riding and gymnastics and spent every moment I could playing sports of one sort or another.
I had hoped to go to university to study physical education but Sir Reginald had other ideas and when he made it very clear to me that my father’s job depended on my acceding to his request to become one of his secretaries in the estate office, I sadly had to put my own ambitions on the back burner and go to work for him.
From that moment on, I was under constant sexual harassment by him. He dictated our uniforms: me and the other two girls who worked there, both of them as pretty and as well-built as I was. He provided, and we were required to wear, body-hugging silk blouses with no bras or slips (or anything at all) under them and an ultra-short, wrap-around pleated skirt below them. Under the skirts we were permitted only an ultra-brief thong-type pair of panties while sandals without socks made up the rest of our clothing. We thus wore three garments over our bodies plus the pair of sandals.
We could of course wear warm covering to get to work in the colder months but once there, we had to shed them and sit and do our work in this almost indecent set of clothes.
Sir Reginald spent a lot of time in his estate office but he didn’t need to. One of us was often in his private office ‘taking dictation’ but in truth he spent more time looking us over, complimenting us on our figures, our skins and our beauty than attending to correspondence.
I hated it. I mourned the fact that I was missing out on my education — being a physical education teacher had been an ambition of mine all my teenage years and now I was relegated to this humdrum bookkeeping and secretarial work which I hated. But the work I could have coped with; it was Sir Reginald’s constant pawing of my body including my breasts that was so untenable.
That and his insistence on knowing everything about my personal life: my boyfriends, what make-up I used. How long I spent in the shower. My sexual dreams … I tried to resist, of course, telling him none of this was his business but then he merely smiled and reminded me how well my father was paid; that his very job was dependent on my cooperation and that at his age, finding another job at all would be difficult, let alone one as well paid as his …
I was being blackmailed but I saw no other alternative. I had to put up with his inspections: standing in the so brief attire before his desk while he sat there, eyeing me up and down for long minutes before rising, coming around the desk to stand in front of me, his hands now reaching out to feel my body — assessing my muscle tone, he called it, his fingers stroking, feeling, squeezing my arms and shoulders, straying down to my breasts which he caressed while staring into my eyes, then moving down to stroke my flat belly and complimenting me on the firmness of my belly muscles — and thighs as his hands moved down to them — and then back up my backside to feel and fondle my bottom.
I complained to my mother all the time, at least at first, until I realised it was pointless, but she just looked uncomfortable and reminded me of my father’s good fortune in being Sir Reginald’s head gamekeeper. I realised eventually that I was not going to get any help from them.
I have to say he was a handsome enough man. At age thirty-eight, he had kept himself in good trim and was tall and lean with a tanned face and matinee idol good looks, although there was a touch of cruelty in his eyes. A cruelty that I was to discover (to my misfortune) was almost legendary. I didn’t recognise it for what it was at that time, though, but still there was something about him that, even as a growing girl, I felt wasn’t quite right.
And when I went to work for him, it became very obvious what it was. He preyed on pretty girls. He was married, of course, but his wife was a mere social adjunct to him. He had two children by her but by mutual consent they virtually ignored each other except when duty bound to appear together.
He liked working class girls, rather than those of his own class. And gradually he undermined our defences, going just a little bit further each ‘inspection’. He started out by merely giving me a little pat on the shoulder for good work but this then developed into a sliding caress down my arm; then a forearm ‘accidentally’ grazed my breast or his fingers touched my bottom.
At first I thought it was all really accidental and so did the other girls, but then when it arose one day while he was out of the office and we compared notes, I found they, who were both senior to me by six months and a year respectively, were under much more intrusive ‘inspections’ than I was. Mine began to get more and more indecent as the weeks and months passed and eventually he even undid my blouse and slipped his hand inside to cop a good feel of my otherwise naked breasts.
I stood there in utter shame and humiliation, desperately wanting to brush his hand aside and to angrily tell him to keep them to himself but I didn’t dare. He had made it painfully clear what would happen to my father if I did. And it was the same with the other girls. The father of one of them was also in a highly paid position in his household but the other one had been caught stealing and he had intervened in her case, promising the authorities that he would employ her and house her on his estate if they would drop the charges but her freedom was conditional and that condition hung over her like the sword of Damocles.
Thus all three of us were in a similar position. We either accepted his fondling of our flesh or terrible things would happen either to us or to our families.
Of course it just kept on getting worse. He took to ordering me to remove my blouse as soon as I entered his office and to strut around with my shoulders back and my breasts thrust out while he watched — and later felt the pair of them with his big hands. It was awful.
I had to stand there with them openly exposed while he cupped them, felt them, pressed and squeezed them, teased the nipples into erection and then caressed them some more. Then he would walk around me, delighting in my shame and mortification, knowing how much I wanted to fling his job in his face and to hell with the consequences but knowing my loyalty to my father wouldn’t permit it.
This went on for more weeks — he only advanced his disgusting practices little by little but then he took to lifting my skirt — to inspect my upper thighs, he called it. It was a natural progression that he ultimately called on me to remove it entirely.
“Doesn’t serve much purpose, my dear,” he said as his cold blue eyes raked up and down my naked upper body and rested on my still covered middle, at which I blushed even more for I knew now it was only a matter of time before I would be stark naked before him.
I removed the skirt, very, very reluctantly and now his eyes glittered as they moved up and down my whole body but now concentrating on my well-muscled thighs and of course the barely hidden pubic mound between them.
“Such an athletic physique, my dear,” he murmured as he stood there, not three feet from me, looking me up and down appreciatively. Of course I had known this was coming. Mary and Phyllis had already reached this stage, Mary a long time ago, Phyllis only a month or so past. We exchanged notes whenever he was out of the office — not when he was in there for he could listen to us through his intercom any time he liked. I didn't know if I could stand it but they both assured me I could — and would.
Worse was to come of course. Mary now had to strip right off whenever she entered his office and I think he might actually have already been bedding her. She didn’t say so but I think that was because she was just too ashamed of herself to admit she had succumbed this far.
Anyway, I removed my skirt as directed and from then on had to take off my blouse and skirt as soon as I entered, folding both neatly and placing them in the drawer of the little sideboard he kept by the door for this purpose. I had then to advance in only the thong, that tiny silk garment that was a mere three inch triangle at front and rear, held up by an almost invisible skin-coloured elastic that went around my hips and between my legs and disappeared into the crease of my cheeks at the back.
Then, as he sat back in his executive chair, I had to go through a routine he made us learn, displaying my body by moving my torso, arms and legs in the pre-ordained drill until he got up, came around and began his horrible inspection, always pretending it was purely a physical examination and ‘inspecting’ every part of my flesh although at this stage he never touched my mound. Everywhere else, though, came in for a thorough going over before we got down to the dictation or whatever else it was he had summoned me into his private office for.
Once that was over, I was then permitted to don the two garments and leave to get on with my work, for we really did work in that office. We had the accounts to keep, the maintenance of the estate records, the planning of future developments, interviews with his tenants, rent collection, etc, etc, etc. And he demanded we do it all very efficiently, too. We weren’t just his office floozies although you might be forgiven for thinking so from what I have already said.
Then, one day, he told me he had a new nether garment for me to wear. “I don’t like the straps around your hips, Angela. Take off the panties, please …”
I blushed. Even though I had worked for him for the best part of a year now, I still couldn’t come to terms with this so indecent stripping of my body every time I went into his office. I was of course naked except for the thong, even the sandals had to be discarded at the door but now it was to be a total denuding of my flesh.
During his so intimate discussions on my boyfriends and what I did with them, my personal hygiene and all the rest of it, he had asked me how closely I trimmed my vulva. I had blushed of course and said that because I wore fairly brief bikinis, I had kept it well trimmed and even clipped the remaining hair quite short — but then he knew that already for the thong was so small at front it would have been readily apparent if I hadn’t.
Now, though, I had to strip off that last guardian of my modesty and stand stark naked before him. I contemplated refusing, as I did with each of his new demands against my personal morality but then I sighed. I could not be a party to my father’s summary dismissal and so I put my thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down off my hips, stepping out of them to stand up naked at last before him.


Reviews

tortures are too OTT and repetitive which makes this story quite boring 2 out of 5

Author Information

a prolific BDSM writer who lives on the Gold Coast of Australia. His books have been delighting Olympia Press customers for many years.

 

Publisher Information

Publishers of non-adult and adult fiction. Authors, experienced and new are welcome. We have a number of different sites for various genres, including specialist sites for Romance (www.a1romancestories.com, our non-adult and erotica site at www.fiction4all.com and a number of adult sites based around our main site at www.a1adultebooks.com


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