Mistress Hunter Discipline Or Die

“Quick march!” bawled Mistress Hunter.
And half a dozen males in ragged, baggy sackcloth suits moved forwards in perfect file. I had been invited by Mistress Hunter to come and watch her at work at her famous training establishment.
“Basically,” she informed me, “it’s a training and rehabilitation camp where girlfriends, wives, mothers, aunties or whoever can send their men. We normally do them six at a time.”
On the day I visited, the selection of males seemed quite diverse. Three of them looked like laddish youngsters, two were middle-aged and the last one was quite aged. I can only surmise that the latter was not a fast learner! The men marched up and down the parade ground, turning to order and standing to attention as Mistress Hunter commanded. It was, by now, evening time, and Mistress Hunter told me that this was the most difficult time, especially as it was summer. Having been up since half past four in the morning, the men were tired and becoming very lax in their duties. For about half and hour I sat sunning myself and watched them marching up and down, up and down, up and down. The boredom was almost killing me, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for Mistress Hunter’s invite and smiled politely whenever she caught my eye. Then, just as I was dozing off, thinking that perhaps I should have gone down to the pub for the evening, I was startled by Mistress Hunter’s booming voice, calling out the men’s numbers.
“Punishment detail to the left. Quick march!” she barked. This seemed a bit more encouraging. Punishment detail? As I stood up to watch the them march off the parade ground, Mistress Hunter looked across at me and gave me a playful wink – most out of character I thought.
I followed along, sometimes finding myself skipping to keep up, and presently we arrived in a large desolate square, surrounded by derelict buildings.
Mistress Hunter casually popped a cigarette in a long holder between her pretty lips and lit it.
“Drop and give me a hundred,” she ordered.
The men all dropped onto their bellies and began doing press-ups.
After some minutes, perhaps after they had reached forty, Mistress Hunter called out, “I can’t hear you counting, boys. Start again.”
The men had obviously learnt their lesson and began counting loudly, “One, two, three, four…”
By now the strain was showing and I could see the sweat pouring off them.
They were all groaning and panting like constipated pigs.
I could see that the older man was struggling to keep up.
It was quite interesting and amusing to see him pushing with all his might, his face red with exertion as he fought to keep up. Mistress Hunter went up behind him, flicked away the torn sackcloth across his arse with the toe of her boot and pushed her spiked heel firmly into his anus.
He let out a shriek. I could see Mistress Hunter’s heel grinding around inside him as he rose and fell.
I suppose it must be fairly painful to do press-ups with a spike stuck up your bottom!
As I stood and watched, I thought about all the stiff, juicy cocks I’d had in my bottom.
Oooo! What a delicious thought.
When the younger men had finished their press-ups, they leapt to their feet and stood smartly to attention. The older man, alas, was still only on his sixty-third press-up.
“I can’t do it,” he moaned, and fell flat on his face at Mistress Hunter’s feet. Mistress Hunter flexed her whip and said, “Oh yes you can. But if you would prefer not to, then that is your prerogative.”
With that, the man collapsed in a heap. “Right, get your tools and we’ll have an hour or two of rock-breaking,” Mistress Hunter instructed.
The men ran off to a shed, returned instantly, and began furiously smashing up a pile of rocks which must have been as tall as a couple of houses. Mistress Hunter stood over the old man and sighed. She prodded his wrinkly arse with her heel. He was breathing heavily and let out the occasional groan. I was beckoned over and invited to stub my cigarette out on his back. The man flinched but made no attempt to move. Mistress Hunter even gave him a couple of swipes with her whip. But still his only reaction was to moan.
“Sheer and utter disobedience,” she told me. Then looking down at him, “Are you going to cooperate?”
The man tried to say something and push himself up. For some reason he seemed unable. Mistress Hunter then gave him a hefty kick and told him to turn over.
As the pathetic specimen rolled over and lay on his back, his small, shrivelled penis and testicles flopped out of the ragged sackcloth. I looked away in horror. It was the most revolting collection of objects which I had ever seen. They looked like a pair of slugs and a worm. Unfortunately I was wearing a little summer mini-dress and I was suddenly aware of him staring up my legs. I was wearing no knickers! What a dirty old man he was! Filthy, lazy and disobedient! I glanced at Mistress Hunter and she gave me a little nod of approval. I lifted my leg up high. The old man’s face was filled with terror as he enjoyed his final glimpse of my exquisite pussy. Thrusting my foot down as hard as I possibly could, I rammed my shoe into his disgusting, wrinkly organs, crushing them like rotten eggs. But, as I commented to Mistress Hunter, it seemed to galvanize some life into the old codger. He started writhing around and crying like a whelp.
Suddenly there was an almighty scream from the rock-breaking crew. “He’s been hit!” “Mistress! Mistress!” “Quick!” “Get a bandage!”
It seemed typical of the male to panic and yell at the slightest little problem.
“Get back to work,” Mistress Hunter demanded sternly. “I’ll deal with you later,” she said, bending down to shout into the old man’s ear.
Mistress Hunter matter-of-factly pushed her whip under her arm and marched across to where the rock-breakers had restarted their chores. I followed. One of the young lads was lying on the ground, his hands gripped tightly around his leg.
“Get your hands away,” instructed Mistress Hunter.
As the lad’s hands reluctantly pulled back, blood began to spurt forth from a gash just below his knee.
“Hmmm,” sighed Mistress Hunter thoughtfully.
She stood for about a minute, periodically tapping the man’s hands away from the wound with her whip and warning him to lie still.
“Bring me the axe,” she said finally to one of the work detail.
The men glanced at each other, their poor little faces looking so sad.

“Get back to work!” she snapped at them. Mournfully they continued with their duties. The man with the grazed leg looked terrified as Mistress Hunter raised the axe.
“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s got to go,” she told him. Then to me, “I’d stand back a little Cassandra, I wouldn’t like you to get blood on your pretty dress.”
I stepped back and watched as the axe fell in a swift blow.
“Damn.” Said Mistress Hunter. “It’s a little on the blunt side.”
She struck again and again but the cartilage, flesh and bone seemed rather pbstinate. Finally, after she had done her best, a dozen or so chops later, she tossed away the axe and said to the man, “You’re just simply too stubborn help.”
The leg was pretty manky by now and Mistress Hunter decided that there was little value in keeping him. Meanwhile, the old boy was trying to crawl away, much to my amusement. He moved painfully along like a weary snail. Mistress Hunter said to me, “Might as well leave him to it. He’s going in the right direction.”

Mistress Hunter split the next couple of hours between whipping up the rock-breakers and encouraging peg-leg and the old man to crawl across the square. When, and only when, the two shirkers had wriggled to their destination, did she stand down the exhausted, sweaty work crew. I followed as she marched them along to the other side of the camp. Here, in the darkness, the old man and the lad were lying together in heap. There seemed little sign of life from either of them, so Mistress Hunter gave them a few rejuvenating kicks until they stirred.
“Time for bed,” she told them.
The pair groaned thankfully at the prospect of rest and recuperation. • • She snapped at the solemn work detail, “A nice, neat bed over there,” indicating with her whip.
We smoked a couple of cigarettes before the idle arseholes had finished. We stood over the long, deep hole to examine their handywork. “Right, crawl, you lazy bastards!” she yelled, kicking at the ramshackle pair.
I was getting a bit chilly and wanted to get into the warm, so I joined in and gave them a few kicks to help them on their way.
When they arrived at their final destination they stopped with their heads hanging over the edge of the hole.
“All the way,” said Mistress Hunter.
She gave them each a couple of dozen. cracks with her whip and finally they managed to plop in, one after the other, the old man falling on top of the peg-leg. “Night-night,” I called playfully.
There was a groan.
“Right, bed ’em down,” instructed Mistress Hunter to the other inmates.
Slowly and silently the men began to chuck the earth back into the hole.
There was a bit of movement and coughing and spluttering from down below, but very soon it ceased.
And when the hole was completely full, Mistress Hunter said to the men, “Pat it down, nice and neat and level.”
When the inmates were safely locked away for the night, Mistress Hunter played back the messages on her telephone answering machine.
There were hundreds of women just waiting to get their men booked in to the centre.
The sleepy pair would easily be replaced.
As Mistress Hunter explained to me later, “Nobody is ever released from here. We just keep them working until they fuck up and fall asleep!”
I hoped that my gelding also understood, and keptthinking, you blow it for me now and I’ll skin your hide. But he was very good and stood very still. We remained, looking and listening. I stroked the gelding’s floppy ears and he seemed to know what we were doing. We waited and waited. Then, in a sudden flurry, a bush rattled and a semi-naked body came crashing out in front of us.
“Going somewhere?” Mistress Hunter asked coolly.
The lad shrieked, startled by our presence, and held his heart. Then he smiled and started to walk towards us. I kept thinking, no, no, not like this, this is too easy. But I might have known that Mistress Hunter was not about to let our game end without a thrill.
“Stop!” she shouted, raising her riding whip. Malcolm stopped. “The the the the game…”
“Wrong,” said Mistress Hunter. “Not a game.”
“Bbbbut…” he tried to speak.
“Get running,” she ordered as she ran the delicate leather braids of the whip through her fingers.
Malcolm’s smile waned. He looked all around. My gelding was blocking his path towards the field. I thought, I wonder what he’ll do? I thought, what would I do? Then I realised that I would never get myself into such a predicament. And so, after a moment’s thought, he did the only thing he could, turned back and started running.
Mistress Hunter looked at me, smiled and said gleefully, “There’s no way out that way.”
She strode purposefully along the track, with me following. Then, as we turned a corner, we could see some distance ahead, a flailing body. It looked like a fish, flapping about on the deck of a boat.
A useless, worthless eel, wriggling in a net. From that distance we couldn’t see exactly how he was caught, and so he made an extremely amusing spectacle. As we closed in, Mistress Hunter flexed her trusty riding crop between her fingers.
Malcolm looked round and pleaded, “I’m I’m I’m stuck. Ccccan you hhhelp me out?”
It was a very stupid question, of course. His eyes filled with fear as he realised that Mistress Hunter was swishing her whip through the air, ready for use. For a moment, I actually felt a little bit sorry for him – until I remembered what a sanctimonious little shit he was! He would get his just desserts!
As we got closer we could see that the cretin had got himself entangled in a barbed wire fence.

“Idiot must’ve run straight into it,” Mistress Hunter surmised.
“Are you stuck,” I grinned.
“Yyyes,” he snivelled. Hhhhelp mmme.”
“Help you?” Mistress Hunter inquired. “Would you like us to pull you off? We could hitch you up to the horse and have him pull you out if you like.”
“Nnno. Ppplease, hhhhelp me out,” he whimpered, and extended his hand towards Mistress Hunter.
“What? Like this?” she asked in an innocent tone of voice.
And with that, she grabbed his arm and yanked hard. Oooo! It sounded painful. I heard the skin tearing, followed by the most piercing scream.
“Shut up!” boomed Mistress Hunter. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Each of her yells was punctuated with an almighty lash of her crop.

As his squeals ceased, he started to cry. It was a pathetic, whingeing type of sobbing which I find particularly annoying. Then he started wriggling amongst the barbed wire, desperately trying to free himself. He looked so funny, I thought.
I was going to wet myself. Every time he moved, he let out at a squeak as the spikes gouged his flesh.
“The old fox has really got himself in a tangle. I don’t know who this field belongs to, but they won’t be too pleased that you’ve damaged their fence,” I quipped.
Martin was groaning and fidgeting. I could see that Mistress Hunter’s patience was running out with him. She leant over and whispered something in his ear, then maneuvered herself around to the side of him.
Holding out her riding whip and tapping it on his arse, she measured him up for punishment.
“Nnno. Nnno Ppplea – “
He didn’t have the chance to finish his stutter. Mistress Hunter’s whip lashed across his buttocks with a beautiful, resounding crack! I wriggled in my saddle, as if I’d felt it myself. Rather stupidly, he screamed out again.
She grabbed his hair and snarled, “Shut up!”
We then had to put up with more simpering. But fortunately Mistress Hunter’s crop swished through the air and struck him again, which meant that we didn’t have to listen to the pathetic noise for a moment or two. The next stroke caught him slap bang across the middle of his back. It was a fantastic shot.
“Bravo!” I called from my position high in the saddle.
The gelding fidgeted beneath me and I gave him a taste of the stick across his behind. Mistress Hunter swung the crop back high behind her head and once again brought it crashing down, this time across the side of his rump.
As Mistress Hunter’s magnificent breasts swung from side-to-side with every well aimed stroke of the whip.

I leaned forwards and began to rub my crotch slowly up and down the saddle.
Hmm, I could feel my juices starting to ooze inside my knickers.
And the wetter and hotter I got, the faster I began to rub myself. The gelding shook his head and tugged at the reins.
Could he smell my warm, dribbling pussy? Could he remember, perhaps, some distant time in the past when he had enjoyed the exhilaration of unbridled sexual intercourse? By now I was panting.
I could hear the whip fall again and again, and the gasps and exclamations of the hapless fox. “O0000, yes! Yes!” I was coming! I was coming! I was coming! I fell forwards onto the gelding’s neck, my tits squashed hard against his hairy mane.
I kissed him and sucked on a mouthful of his straggly coat. He pushed his head up and his neck rubbed the sensitive skin of my heaving nipples. Hmmm, the stimulation of his touch was perfection.

I looked up with a start as Martin’s screams filled the countryside.
Mistress Hunter was in the process of disbarbing him – in other words, wrenching him from the fence. As she yanked on his arm, I could see that his leg was well and truly caught.
His skin was snagged on a barb and was pulled out like an outstretched condom. But Mistress Hunter was, indeed, a strong lady, and the skin ripped clean away.
However, his other arm, his belly, his leg and his rump all got caught and torn in the rescue operation. When finally Mistress Hunter had freed him, he fell flat fat on his face in the dirt and began to blub.
“How about a jump start?” I suggested.
Within a second, Mistress Hunter was high in the air with her knees bent, directly above the moaning moron.
The force on landing must have been quite great as one of her heels actually got stuck in the flesh of Martin’s arse!

I peered down and I could see the hole which had been punctured in his fat. It was certainly neat. Mistress Hunter stood on his back, jumping up and down, jabbing him as hard as she could with her wonderful stiletto heels. Then she stepped off his back and began kicking him, rolling him over with her toe, much as she had done with the real fox. With martin now lying flat on his back, she stabbed her heel into his mouth.
“Lick it! Suck it! Suck the shit from it!” Mistress Hunter bawled as the length of her heel totally disappeared inside Martin’s mouth.
I lit up a cigarette and watched the worthless vermin writhing and squirming at Mistress Hunter’s feet.
“Hey!” I called out excitedly. “You like animals, don’t you, Martin? How about you crawl under my horse’s feet?”
“Get over there! Now!” demanded Mistress Hunter as she gave him a few encouraging kicks and forced him to slither on his belly in my direction.
What a hilarious sight! A whipped-up, ripped-up, puny little bloke, wriggling about like a worm under my horse’s hooves.
“Which hand do you wank with?” I asked. He raised his left hand. “Which hand do you write with?” Again he raised his left hand. “Put your it under there,” I commanded, pointing at the gelding’s hoof.
A moment’s hesitation cost him a thwack from Mistress Hunter’s crop. Then, with tears in his eyes, he placed his hand under the foreleg of my half-ton horse. What a jerk! I thought. Who would be stupid enough to put their hand under the hoof of a horse.
“This animal has got no balls,” I said, tapping my whip under my horse’s belly. I could see Martin looking upwards at the fresh air between the animal’s legs. “But he’s got a fucksight more balls than you!” I gave the gelding a crack on the bum with my crop and said, “Walk on!”
With the impulsion I had achieved with my whip, the gelding instantly shifted its weight forwards as it moved to obey my instruction.
For a moment, the gelding’s entire weight was on one foot. And underneath that foot was Martin’s hand! Ouch! I thought as I heard the cracking of bones, he won’t be wanking for a while! As he lay in the dirt, moaning and mumbling, I heard the welcome sound of barking hounds and thundering hooves. Suddenly the pack of hounds scrambled through the bushes to where we were and instantly attacked Martin’s G-string. There was a lot of snarling and growling, screaming and shouting, ripping and tearing.
Then nothing – except the contented slurping and slobbering of dogs enjoying a tasty meal of offal!