I have a double life, and the knowledge of it is such a tantalizing secret that I have decided to write my memoirs in order to retain and perpetuate the many unforgettable moments of this darker and more secret side of my existence. By day, I work for the MacCambridge Business Machine Company in a new twelve-story building in the heart of downtown Oakland. But at night-and mainly on weekends, for obvious reasons-I pursue a career that is perhaps dearer to me than any other I could espouse. For, you see, I am Whipmaster of an elite and most unusual club of carefully screened members who come from the upper strata of society and who, like myself, lead exemplary and purposeful lives by day.
For obvious reasons again, the names I shall write down in these memoirs will not be the true names of my associates and my victims, any more than I shall reveal the actual name of the firm by which I am employed as a vice-president with the imposing title of "Administrator of Personnel." (The one above is, of course, not the real name.) There is not only the possibility of disgrace and scandal, to be sure, if these memoirs of mine should ever reach indiscreet eyes, but what is more to the immediate point is that if my identity were known, I should not have opportunity to inculcate some of the lovely young women who come to work for our company with the ideals and the submissive virtues which make them so acceptable to our bizarre group.
My name is Harry Stokes, and I am thirty-eight years old, as yet unmarried. And yet, as I sit here in my office this mid-July evening and stare out at the vacant desks beyond on this large floor, I think of this or that man who sits at this or that desk and how, in comparison, not one of them can possibly match the carnal joys I have tasted well before reaching the milestone of my fortieth birthday. Undoubtedly, few if any of them know the exquisite, lascivious delights which the female can provide when she is under the lash. The mundane passions of fornication itself, usually so desultory and haphazard, do not interest me in the slightest. For me, the rich overtones of agony, the tears and pleas and heartfelt supplications which rise from an attractive woman's throat when her naked bottom is striped by the whip and when she pleads for remission of the remaining strokes yet destined her, constitutes the most thrilling symphony in all the world to me. I would rather hear those cries than go to a world-renowned orchestral concert with the greatest conductor alive holding the baton. For I, Whipmaster, hold a baton that cun produce the entire gamut of joy, sorrow, agony, unspeakable suffering and orgiastic delight, and I can improvise on my theme, whereas the conductor must rely on the printed score before him, however well he may interpret what is there for him to do. For I have known many a lovely and desirable female who, at first haughty and contemptuous of me, has come with only a few strokes from my expert arm, to grovel before me, to lick my feet,..to swear the most abject fealty to me and to beg me for the privilege of giving me her body and all of its secrets in whatever way I wish.
Destiny plays odd tricks upon us, and it is a kind of paradox that I should be the one who selects and supervises employees for so staid and dull-if enormously successful-an establishment, and then, when I leave it, enter my other and unknown world in which I forget totally all the day's efforts and schemings. Where I go, beautiful women are surrendered to me, sometimes by their husbands, again by their lovers, sometimes of their own volition, to be strapped down upon a whipping bench or fixed into a pillory or tied over a whipping stool or kneeling over a whipping block, their outer veneer and superficial sophistry stripped away as assuredly as are their clothes, to be flogged. They call me "Whipmaster" with almost trembling reverence and awe, into which dreadful fear and yet subconscious, passionate longing are mixed in almost equal proportions. I appear to them most often as a man clothed in black, my face masked, wearing the old-fashioned, antique codpiece which was prevalent in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in England, the phallic symbol which the whip itself is in turn.
For there can be no doubt that the whip has a fetishistic attraction for the female, possibly born out of her masochism, possibly again born out of her eternal struggle with the forces of morality and convention as against her own innately lustful longings. I was never one of those who believed that the male is the satyr and the woman is the chaste and frigid virgin goddess. Far from it! Give me your wife, call her the most frigid woman in the world, yet I will guarantee you that after a full week of my attentions, she will crawl to you and beg you humbly to bugger her or to let her suck your prick and drain you of your manly juices. I know, for I have done just that for some of the less skillful, bumbling male members of our little secret society.
So my fame grows apace with each new year, with each ntw exploit which is told to others and to others again in turn until the mere title, "Whipmaster," becomes synonymous with all the dark and devious lusts that man can conjure up as a kind of escape from the smug hypocrisy of our times.
In olden days, I should doubtless have been an executioner, where my work would have received public acclaim. I have read avidly of the history of punishment, torture and execution, and there have been times when I have seen myself as the Parisian executioner to whom Countess Jeanne de la Motte was handed over after her vicious plot to ruin Marie Antoinette by finding an innocent girl who was the double of that unfortunate Queen of France to pose as her and to commission the royal jewelers to purchase in the Queen's name the most expensive necklace in the world at the time when there was abject poverty among the people of France.
I can almost see myself clad in black, approaching upon that public platform in the Place de la Greve when my two assistants dragged out the naked brunette woman, almost overcome with shame to think that she, a noblewoman, should be exhibited to the masses naked and to receive the most humiliating of all punishments. First, beaten with birchrods "all over her body" and then branded, as the sentence decreed.
I might have been that Abelard and his gentle pupil Heloise of yore, who taught that shy virgin with the scourge upon her naked flesh to renounce her sterile chastity and embrace not Holy Writ but instead her father confessor. I might even have been in a more ancient age the executioner to a royal Pharaoh whose duty it was to give the lash to that haughty princess of Syria who, when she stood before the great Ptolemy and was asked to pay tribute to mighty Egypt, insolently retorted, "I bring no gold from my overburdened subjects, only my own body which is inviolate." And on the tomb of that same Ptolemy, in the cuneiform which was the early writing of mankind, there ensued the sequel to that story, of how the mighty Pharaoh ordained that the lovely princess be taken to the chamber of punishment where his own slaves atoned for their sins, and there given the lash till, as he said, "Her flesh itself shall speak as to whether it still is inviolate." And after she had at last succumbed to the shame and pain of the whip curling round her shoulders and back and buttocks and thighs, she had been dragged before him and embraced his feet and anointed them with oil and piteously begged him to be satisfied with the tax which a strong man took of a yielding and submissive woman, and so it was recorded.
And yet, when all is said and done, I envy none of those ancient torturers, those masters of the lash, for they did not have my science nor were they born in an age when physical passion attained its greatest complexity and variance. For them, the female body was so much flesh to be beaten as the law prescribed, and they themselves did not profit from the anguish and the shame or secret ecstasy which their whipstrokes evoked. Whereas I, Whipmaster, have had as my reward at the conclusion of my demonstration of artistry and mastery, the most orgiastic and debauched delights which even the Pharaohs of Egypt never tasted!
But how did I come to this exalted, mystic and still secret state? I wish to inscribe this, in the annals of these my memoirs so that I can see the writing of fate and understand the design by which my life became so rewardingly dual.
CHAPTER TWO
There was nothing in my background to indicate that I should one day become Whipmaster by the time I was thirty-seven years old. My parents were sober, industrious people, deeply in love with each other, and I was an only child who, however, was never pampered or made to feel that I was superior to others. Indeed, my parents were most sensible in my upbringing, and both my mother and father involved me in work about the house and hobbies and recreation which would keep me from concentrating on myself and becoming precociously introspective.
My father was a bluff, hearty man with a zest for living, and his profession was that of a commercial designer. He had been born in New York, met my mother there while she was working as a receptionist for an engraving plant where his work was produced, and about a year after my birth he was offered an extremely lucrative position with a large advertising agency in San Francisco. Thus my earliest recollections are of the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge, of Chinatown and Fisherman's Wharf, of sourdough French bread and baked crabs and the fog and, sometimes, the ominous rumbling of a minor earthquake.
I was sent to public school so that, as my parents justly believed, I should have the advantages of learning how to become gregarious and social-minded with my fellows. Public school also, they believed, would take me through the normal adolescence, pose the usual temptations and questions, which they proposed to solve and answer. From the psychiatric point of view, therefore, one would never have expected the slightest deviation from the norm in my predictable behavior to maturity. Alas for calculations or science, no one could have foreseen, least of all myself, what was to happen to me in my third year of college. To be sure, I had already learned the erotic pleasures of masturbation and dream-fantasy in my early teens, and by the time I had finished high school, I was staring greedily at the bottoms, titties and firm, quivering, lithe thighs of the many Lolitas who moved about like young nymphs on the campus, ascending stairs, turning suddenly to call out after a friend without the slightest concern that their short skirts whirled high enough to show me the forbidden delights and all those vistas about which I could imagine and conjecture and dream alone in my bed at night.
But though this was harmless enough, what really turned me towards what was to become my dominant role as Whipmaster was the rather boisterous hazing which my fraternity decided to give the helpless freshmen during my junior year. I was treasurer of the group, and I was then twenty, still a virgin, it was true, but "talking a good fuck," as is the vernacular of our younger generation. Especially when one is a virgin, one details clinically one's mythical adventures so as to appear perfectly conventional and "normal." And especially in San Francisco, where the Mattachine Society had its origin, one had best pronounce in favor of the opposite sex at once or else be suspect of favoring one's own kind. Indeed, in my sophomore year, one of my fraternity brothers had tentatively tried to initiate me into mutual jacking off, and I had told him he was an idiot and that I was not an exhibitionist. I was right in the former, but I was wrong, quite wrong, about the latter! But I go ahead of myself.
At any rate, we had about seven freshman pledges lined up for the usual paddling, branding with ice and other stunts which really bored me because of their juvenility. However, as an officer and a junior, I was expected to set a good example. I had really no interest in applying the paddle to male bottoms, but I did so. And then, after we had dispensed with the whimpering pledges and sent them off to their rooms under various penances which would continue for the rest of "Hell Week," the president of our fraternity, a cynical black-haired and rather dissolute young man who had far too much spending money for his own good and whose parents were always in Europe, proposed that we kidnap some coed and haze her.
I was against it because of the danger to the entire group. Let such news come to the dean of men, and we might all be expelled, and the very least we could expect would be the closure of the fraternity. But our president had his way, and half an hour later, blindfolded and gagged, a young sophomore girl was carried in, tied hand and foot, in the arms of four of our most extroverted members.
Our president, whom I shall call Jerry Crowe, at once proposed that the girl, who was a rather petite but quite voluptuous honey-haired blonde, be forced to "go through the mill" until she agreed to take on one of us by choice and perform the act of copulation then and there in front of all of us.
He had warned us before the girl was brought in that we should not use one another's names, so that even if the girl decided to bring a formal complaint to the school authorities, it would be very difficult to determine who was really responsible for her discomfiture and violation.
I liked it less and less, because I saw that the girl was becoming hysterical. And finally, when they had taken the gag out of her mouth and untied her ankles but left her wrists bound behind her back, I spoke up angrily in her defense.
"Don't be a spoilsport," Jerry Crowe sneered at me. "Hell, man, this is choice pussy, table stuff! You don't have to do anything if you don't want to, but we sure as hell are going to. Now look here, you cute little bitch, you're going to crawl on your knees through the mill, see? We're going to paddle your bare ass until you tell us you're ready to trot. Get what I mean?"
"Oh no-let me go-please, I haven't done anything to you-you wait-I'll report you all-"
"You don't even know who we are, and you're not going to find out. Now if you don't go through with it, baby, we'll just paddle the hell out of you until you do, and then we'll all take you on. This way, you've got a choice of just one guy. Only you have to fuck with him right in front of all of us. Now, hurry up about it-do we gangshag you or do you take your chances?"
The girl burst into tears and finally tentatively agreed to submit herself to just one "lover" whom she would select after her paddling. There were about a dozen of the fellows who had stayed over for this extracurricular activity, as you might call it, and there wasn't a one of them there whom I particularly admired or could call a friend. It was true that the idea of watching this pretty girl forced to yield her pussy under the swats of a pinewood paddle on her bare ass excited me. But I thought it was decidedly in poor taste and also extremely dangerous for all of us.
My father had made me the present of a pair of dueling pistols, from the nineteenth century. They were flintlocks, in a handsome velvet-lined case with a key, and the outside of the case was exquisitely enameled. I had taken them off with me to college and, since I lived at the fraternity house, had the case in my room. I slipped out of the basement recreation room where this hazing was about to take place and went up to my room, got one of the pistols, loaded it and went back downstairs. Just as I walked in, I saw them get ready to haze the petite blonde. They had furled her skirt and slip up to her waist and tied a cord round the garments to keep them up, then yanked down her panties, leaving her in garterbelt and stockings. She had a magnificently plump bottom, and she also had pale white skin, rather unusual for a blonde of her species. Kneeling there, her wrists tied behind her back, blindfolded and whimpering as the fellows lined up in a single line, each of them about five or six feet away from his neighbor, I could see the idea was to make her crawl back and forth until each of them had had a chance to blister her bare ass to his heart's content before allowing her to "choose a lover." It was sadism of the most vulgar kind, and I have since learned the joys of subtlety, suspense and prolongation in my role as Whipmaster. Perhaps basically that was why it offended my sensibilities, and maybe there was another reason also.
At any rate, just as they were about to force her to crawl forward towards the first fellow in line, who was none other than Jerry Crowe himself, I lifted my dueling pistol and aimed it at them and I said in a clear loud voice, "I think you'd better let her go, Jerry, or I'll put a bullet through you."
The fellows were horrified. They argued with me, they appealed to my loyalty as a fraternity brother, but I remained unmoved. I also told Jerry that if he didn't let her go, I'd see to it that she found out the names of her abductors. I told them this was hardly the sort of code in which a fraternity could pride itself. Seeing that I meant business, Jerry Crowe disgustedly flung down his paddle and sneered, "All right, you can take the little bitch home, you're such a Sir Galahad. Only make sure she doesn't know who we are."
Disgustedly, they left the recreation room and went back to their own rooms. I swiftly untied the girl's wrists, untied the cord that had held up her garments and pulled them back down. She was hysterical with gratitude. Her name, she told me, was Sylvia Blanton, she was eighteen and from Eureka. Also, she was a virgin. I told her I'd get her back to her dormitory and all I asked was that she forget the episode. She promised she would, but she insisted on knowing my name, and blushingly said she wanted to see me again and thank me properly. Unthinkingly, I gave it to her. After I had taken her back and made certain she got in safely, I came to the conclusion that I had been a horse's ass because, knowing my name, she might very likely be vindictive.
But it turned out that she wasn't. About a week later, I got a phone call and it was Sylvia. She wondered if I were free for the evenings which was Friday night. I told her I was. I called for her, drove her out in the Thunderbird my father had given me for top grades in my sophomore year, and we went on Sausalito and to Ondine's, a beautiful and extremely expensive gourmet restaurant. It was really a magnificent dinner, and the dining room looked out onto the ocean. The moon was full, the weather balmy, and all the elements were there for romance. After dinner, she shyly asked if we might go for a drive, so I headed for Muir Woods.
It was a long winding narrow drive, which ultimately reached the top of a scenic hill from which we could see the Golden Gate Bridge looming far beyond us and, straight ahead, the unbroken sweep of the Pacific. We smoked a cigarette, and then blushingly she put her head on my shoulder and whispered, "I'm so glad you didn't let them do it to me. I-I don't know what you'll think of me for saying this, Harry, but I-I came to school hoping that I could have an experience-you know what I mean. Back in Eureka, everybody thought I was just a goody-goody girl, and my folks had my husband all picked out. He's an utter drip, and I talked them into letting me come to college. Only I didn't want it to be that way-not in front of all those awful fellows. Do you like me?"
She rather took my breath away. I had expected perhaps a little necking, but I hadn't expected to be presented with her maidenhead. Yet that's exactly what she was offering me. And then, to my utter amazement, she whispered, "I'm sort of scared a little, but maybe if you sort of forced me-like maybe spank me a little until I gave in, then it would be easier for me. Would you, Harry darling?"
We were in a completely deserted area, and there wasn't a sign of any human habitation or life around for miles. My own virginity was oppressive, and Sylvia's nearness was absolutely enticing. I remembered what I had seen of her delectable body when they'd got her ready for swats. She had plump, tightly spaced ass cheeks, upstandingly rounded and meaty. Though she was perhaps four feet eleven, she was beautifully proportioned, and her thighs and calves were just as nice as her behind. Her boobies were big and high-set and closely spaced, too, and altogether she was an ideal morsel for a man's first time.
"Trouble is," I said, rather flustered, "I didn't expect-that is-I-"
"Don't worry, Harry honey, I've been keeping tabs on my periods just in case. I promised myself this term I'd really lose my cherry. Please, honey-because once that nonsense is over with, then I can really enjoy loving it up. Don't you want me?"
I did indeed. I hauled her over my lap, pulled up her skirt and slip and took down her panties. She wriggled and squealed, and I put my left arm around her waist and I began to smack her opulent bare bottom with the flat of my right hand till it was nice and red. She kicked and wriggled furiously, and she was crying when I finished. Then we got into the back seat of the car, and she practically devoured me. She was pulling down my zipper before I could get myself ready, and in another minute I was on top of her and, uncomfortable as the back seat of a car usually is, it nevertheless was devastatingly exciting. When I pierced her maidenhead, she bit me on the shoulder, and she dug her fingernails into my back so hard that I carried the marks for a couple of weeks. She was like an unleashed fury, and naturally, it being my own first experience, I could hardly control myself. In fact, I ejaculated after three or four thrusts into that tight cunt of hers once I had broken through the hymen.
But that didn't satisfy her. After she had repaired the damage with a handkerchief, she went back to fondling my prick until I was hard again and then she urged me atop her for a repeat performance. This time, I was able to enjoy it longer, and she too had climax at the very end.
We tidied ourselves up, had another cigarette, and then drove back to the college. At this particular point, I wasn't living at home because my father and mother were themselves in Europe on a sort of second honeymoon from which, alas, they were fated never to return.
But it was Sylvia Blanton who undoubtedly evoked within me the delirious joys of sadism and taught me how the masochist can further the glories of the sadist, and thus put me on the path which was to lead me to my double life.
CHAPTER THREE
Sylvia Blanton wasn't satisfied with just one initiation. A week after I had taken her cherry, she phoned me at the fraternity house. I got a lot of razzing from the fraternity brothers, and obnoxious Jerry Crowe guessed the truth when he sneered at me as I was going upstairs to my room, "I suppose that was the little bitch you saved from a fate worse than death. And I suppose you're pumping her regularly now. Some jerks have all the luck."
"Don't they, though, Jerry," I sneered right back at him. "Just remember that if I'd let you guys go ahead with your plans, this fraternity would have been closed out of existence and all of you might be at home explaining why you got kicked out of school. And personally I don't think one little virgin is worth all that annoyance."
He gave me a dirty look and went back to the living room to chew the fat with some of his cronies. It was Friday night, a perfect night for dating, my grades were good, and I didn't have any overdue assignments. So I could look forward to a wild weekend with luscious little Sylvia.
This time, I had taken the precaution of buying some safes at the campus drugstore, because the oral pill wasn't known yet. Ft, had a cable from my father and mother that they were in Berlin and heading for the Swiss Alps where they would spend about three weeks. Then they would go on to Italy and the Aegean Isles, and then probably take a leisurely steamer back from Barcelona to New York and so on by train back to San Francisco. They probably wouldn't be back, according to that itinerary, until about the middle of November. It was around the first week of October, it was nice and cool in the Bay area, and the weather was ideal for gourmet dining and copulation, though not necessarily in that order.
Actually, my parents had a very luxurious apartment in the Marina, but I had valiantly held out against the temptation of using it. To be sure, as a virgin male I had thought about the possibility of bringing girls up there while they were in Europe, and on this particular evening, for a moment I thought about taking Sylvia there. Yet I still had a certain amount of integrity and felt that I would be playing them false by using the apartment as a den for lechery. At any rate, I picked up Sylvia Blanton at the sorority house, we got into my Thunderbird, and then she dazzled me by whispering, "My folks are in Los Angeles this whole weekend, Harry darling. If you like, we can go back to my house after dinner and have fun."
The prospect was certainly enchanting. Then as she nestled up close to me, she asked the eternal question, "Do you love me, darling?" I suppose that all women who have lost their maidenheads look upon those lucky initiators as the Prince Charming who has been selected to brighten their lives forever more. I didn't have any love for Sylvia Blanton, I had felt sorry for her as I would for any girl who had been so brazenly kidnapped right here on campus and had been about to endure a rather cruel and possibly traumatic experience; and of course I was grateful to her for having taken my own virginity. But there were no recriminations, because she had enjoyed it, and the only uneasiness I had about the entire affair was that her unshakable belief in the effectiveness of the rhythm theory might just be miscalculated. I had no desire to impregnate Sylvia Blanton because then I would have had to marry her, and I certainly wasn't thinking about marriage at the age of twenty. But those were thoughts for the future, and with a weekend ahead of me, plenty of money in my wallet, my fine car and a perfectly delicious morsel of pulchritude sitting beside me and avowing that she was willing and eager to renew our carnal knowledge of each other, everything added up to Utopia.
This time I took Sylvia to dinner at Grison's Steak House, for the very best beef in San Francisco. As a matter-of-fact, the Chamber of Commerce had got after the owner because he had advertised Midwestern beef admonishing him to the effect that since he was doing business in San Francisco, he should be more civic minded. The steaks were magnificent. We shared a bottle of excellent Richebourg, and by the end of the dinner, I was very much in the mood for making love.
So was Sylvia, judging from the limpid glances she sent me and from the constant pressure of her thigh as we sat together in the booth.
Without haste we had a second cup of coffee and a cigarette, then finally I paid the tab and we got back into my Thunderbird. I looked at her questioningly, "Where do you live, Sylvia darling?" I asked.
"In the Twin Peaks district, Harry. The view is just wonderful from there. Let's go!" She giggled, and promptly put her hand on the inside of my thigh very near my cock. She was being very daring and quite sophisticated, now that she had accomplished her purpose of getting rid of her onerous virginity. But that was fine with me.
We drove up the winding road into the Twin Peaks residential section of San Francisco. As she had said, the view was breathtaking, of the entire Bay and Oakland beyond, with the towering Golden Gate Bridge off to the northwest. She had a two-story house with a lovely garden, a very large garage, and it was evident that her parents had money. I asked her why she lived at the sorority house, and she merely tossed her lovely head and replied, "Silly, I suppose for the same reason you do. I just want my freedom. Mom and Dan are so possessive, they'd have supervised all my dates and and Dad are so possessive, they'd have supervised all my dates and met you."
"Well, that's probably true enough, dear. It's quite a house," I said admiringly. She had shoved home the bolt of the front door, and turned to me expectantly to be kissed. I obliged her with such gusto that she moaned and rubbed her crotch against mine. "Oh my goodness, Harry darling," she breathed, "you just turn me on, lover! Let's go to my room right away."
Sylvia Blanton walked up the winding stairway, which was richly and thickly carpeted. It gave me an excellent opportunity to stare at her bottom and thighs, and they were well worth staring at. Her bottom comprised upstandingly rounded, tightly spaced cheeks. The crease began to widen at about the base, giving access to both her orifices. I had already remarked what pale white skin she had and how unusual it was for a blonde of her species. Her thighs were delightfully rounded, and her calves were saucily turned, rippling with nervous muscles, promising all manner of erotic delights when they should clasp around me to lock me into the embrace of coitus.
Sylvia Blanton's eyes were dark-brown, and very large and limpid. She had an exquisite little snub nose, and a full ripe mouth just made for kissing and for frenching, too. Her cheeks were somewhat slantingly set, and she had a firm dimpled little chin. She wore her honey colored hair in a fluffy bob which left her ears bare. And this evening she had been wearing a black faille dress which was certainly sensational so far as sheerness was concerned, and under it, as I almost at once found out, a black nylon slip. No sooner had she got into her bedroom than she drew off this dress and hung it up in the closet and then returned to me. The sight of black against her pale white skin was certainly arousing to my prick, and she could see at once by the condition of my crotch that I was already prepared to satisfy her needs as well as my own.
I discovered the peculiar psychological phenomenon that when a man is with a girl, she becomes radiantly new as if it was the very first time. The smart girl changed her costume so as to further this illusion. Undoubtedly the faille dress and the nylon slip contributed towards making me stare at her as if this was to be our first night together. At any rate, she blushed as she came towards me and then she glanced at my stiff prick which was trying to burst through my fly, and she whispered huskily, "You mustn't think I'm cheap or anything like that, Harry. But you sort of-well, you set me off last week. You know something else? I wonder if I can trust you and tell you about myself, really?"
"Try me, Sylvia," I urged her.
"Well," slowly she came forward and put her arms around my waist and pressed her blushing face against my chest, "the fact is, my folks always told me that sex was wicked and wrong and even if a girl was married, she had to allow a man to have his rights because that was just the way it was, but she didn't have to like it. And she shouldn't if she was a really nice, decent girl. I mean it, that's what they said. And I got so fed up with it that I was getting to be neurotic. That's why I didn't really mind when the fellows at your frat house kidnaped me and were going to, well-you know what they were going to do."
"Go on," I said hoarsely.
My hands went down to her plump bottom, and I began to squeeze the cheeks lingeringly through the slip. Under the slip, I could feel that she had on a pantygirdle, and I got hornier and hornier.
"Well, the thing of it is, I sort of felt that if they went ahead and paddled me until I couldn't stand it any more, then I would have to do what they wanted. Can you try and understand, Harry?"
"Of course I can. What you are trying to say, Sylvia honey, is that if you had been forced to take on one of those fellows, you wouldn't have felt you were committing a sin because they had made you do it by sheer brute force."
"That's exactly it!" She looked up at me with wide, humored eyes. "But how did you know?"
"I guess we're all amateur psychiatrists, honey," I told her. "That happens to be the reason why a lot of girls report rape to the police. Secretly or maybe even subconsciously, they really want it. You see, a lot of them have to wrestle with religious problems or ethics, and each of us has a personal moral code by which we live. Then something dramatic like having your first man-or for me, of course, my first girl-comes along and you find yourself up against the old stern code. So you have to do something to get rid of it so that you can have your fun and not feel guilty afterwards. That's the long and the short of it, baby."
"You're so smart, Harry. But you aren't angry with me? I mean, it wasn't very flattering-you know, saying that maybe I would have given in to those other fellows when you went ahead and saved me and made them all mad at you. Do they still-are they still mad at you?"
"If they are, I really don't give a damn. As a matter-of-fact, I'm thinking of pulling out of the fiat house my senior year," I told her. She gave a little sigh and nestled even closer against me, locking her hands together against my back and just shoving that sweet cunt of hers up against my bulging fly till I was half-crazy with wanting her. My fingers were kneading that lovely ass of hers, and I could smell her special perfume. It was a very expensive French scent, and it was extremely feminine. I took stock of my situation right now to look around her bedroom. It too spoke of plenty of money. There was a four-postered bed, much larger than the ordinary double one. There was a boudoir table in one corner near the big bay window, with a gold-framed oval mirror. The closet door was open and I could see some of her wardrobe, and most of it, I was ready to bet, had I. Magnin and Saks Fifth Avenue labels on it. And the Oriental rug on the floor was a huge affair and probably cost a king's ransom. No doubt about it, if I had been a fortune-hunter, I couldn't have done any better my first try than luscious Sylvia Blanton.
"Now don't start analyzing your motives, baby," I consoled her as I kept patting and squeezing that juicy bottom of hers while she purred like a kitten and kept rubbing herself up against me. "The plain fact about it is you're something of a masochist, Sylvia. I'll keep your secret. Besides, don't forget I have reason to be very grateful to you. I never had sex until you and I met last week, so I would say that the debt is more on my side than yours."
"You-you're awfully sweet, Harry," she whispered huskily. "Well then, if you know that much about me, maybe you'll do what I want. I'll be awfully nice to you, I'll do just anything you want-if you make me."
Even though I was just twenty, I naturally had read all the books on sex and knew most of the theoretical answers. I already had figured Sylvia Blanton out. She wanted to be forced, she had a kind of slave-urge deep down inside of her, and perhaps it had come from her stringent upbringing by people who were extremely puritanical and who probably even looked down upon her as an innocent little child who would never be very bright and whom they would pamper along the way until she was finally married and safe. In the process, they had stifled her personality, and here she was bravely trying to find herself for the first time. The only trouble was that with the wrong sort of guy, she might get into a lot of trouble by confiding in him as frankly as she had done with me. Because here she was practically telling me to go ahead and beat and torture her so that she could give. Not only was there real danger of her getting hurt, there was also the greater pathological danger that one day she would find out she couldn't have a normal climax or even fuck until her body was throbbing with p?;n and her sweet white bottom nicely marked from a good sound thrashing. Then she wouldn't enjoy sex at all; she would be warped irretrievably.
"What do you want me to do to you, then?" I asked her.
"Anything you want-force me, make me your slave girl, spank me or tie me up or anything, Harry. Surprise me, force me, pretend you're a burglar, maybe, and that you got me here all alone-and you really have, honey-and go ahead and make me do just everything you want even if I don't want to!" She said it all in one quick gasp, and her face was very red, but her eyes were shining and those gorgeous boobies of hers had started to rise and fall agitatedly.
"You mean it?" I asked, looking steadily into her eyes and giving her bottom an extra-hard squeeze. "Because if I start, Sylvia, it'll be too late to call me off. You're a very sexy, stimulating girl, you know."
"But I do want you to. I can trust you, Harry. You're not as cruel as they would have been, and you're the first man I've ever been with. I want to be everything to you. But I don't want to feel that I'm-well, you know, wicked, I guess you'd say. That's why I have to be forced."
"I understand," I did, too. She was spelling it out for me very clearly. "I'll surprise you, all right," I promised.
I went over to her dresser, opened the top drawer and found a scarf. This I bound around her eyes, and she shivered and exclaimed, "Oh that's nice, make it a surprise, scare me, darling!"
I took another scarf and ordered her to put her hands behind her back, and then I bound her wrists very tightly. Next I lifted her up in my arms and carried her over to a deep armchair, and made her kneel down on it, and rest her dimpled chin against the top of the back of the chair. Then I began to roll up her slip and I found a safety pin or two so that I could pin it up well above her waist. Sure enough, there was the pantygirdle. It was of white satin-elastic, and it shaped out the cheeks of that gorgeous ass of hers in the most prick-hardening way you can imagine. I began to unfasten the tabs, and she moaned a little and turned her blinded face back over her shoulder to look at me or to at least sense that I was there. "What are you going to do to me?" she whispered.
"Keep still," I brusquely ordered. "I'm a burglar, and I'll use my gun if I have to, so don't you dare yell for any help!"
"Oh I won't, but oh please won't you tell me what you're going to do, though?" she petitioned.
I didn't answer. Instead, I rolled her stockings down to her knees, and then I pulled the pantygirdle down to them too. At once the cheeks of her beautiful white-skinned ass tightened up, and she began to twist her fingers nervously about. She really made a captivating picture there, kneeling on that big brown upholstered leather armchair, with her white butt sticking out and her wrist tied behind her back and her soft little fingers twisting around nervously. And the sight of her blindfolded face, all flushed and quivering, added fuel to my fire.
Then I undressed down to my socks, and my prick bobbed in the air as I walked around the room trying to find something to whip her with. Just a hand-spanking wouldn't be enough for Sylvia Blanton, I was sure. At last I found what I needed. It was a cloth belt to one of her dresses, and it was sufficiently flexible and thick to do justice to that soft round tail of hers.
I placed myself behind her, and I began to whip her with it. She gasped, wriggled, moaned, squirmed this way and that on her knees, and after about the twelfth stroke, she lowered her striped behind to her calves. "Get that behind of yours up at once, or I'll make you sorry you didn't," I growled. I gave her two more cuts across the tops of her naked hips, and she sobbed and gasped that she would do it. Then once again she took the humble pose, offering herself, because I could see how her behind stuck out as if inviting more strokes.
Decidedly Sylvia Blanton was a masochist. Now I put the belt down over one arm of the chair, came up close to her, put my palm on the small of her back and began to slap her naked ass with my right hand. It was a delightful experience. The cheeks were resilient, and the soft satiny flesh felt marvelous under my palm. So did the way her behind started to get red, and also the sounds of her cries and pleas; and to watch her cry, blindfolded as she was, enormously roused me.
Then I stopped and I demanded, "I want you to get down on your knees and take my prick in your mouth, or else I'll make you. Well, are you going to obey me?"
"Oh no-oh, that's a horrible thing-I won't, I won't ever do that!" she gasped.
"Suit yourself, baby. Now you're really going to get it," I warned her. I heard her suck in her breath, and at the same time I could see her sticking out her red rump and just begging for more. But this time I had another little surprise in store for Sylvia Blanton. I put my left hand round in front of her, and my thumb and forefinger grabbed hold of one of her nipples. I pinched it hard and she squealed. Then I pinched the other one, and she squealed even louder. "I'm going to keep doing this until you blow me, girl," I said roughly, playing the role of burglar-rapist to the hilt.
"Ob stop-oh I can't stand the pain-oh you cruel monster, I guess I have to-oh please, not again-" as I kept pinching her nipples back and forth all the time she was wriggling and sobbing.
So I helped her down from the chair and made her kneel down before me, and then with my hands on my hips I arched myself out so that the tip of my prick brushed her panting mouth. "Take it inside your mouth and suck at it, girl," was my command.
Sylvia Blanton whimpered, and then slowly opened her mouth. I pressed myself, and she closed her lips over it and began to suck with a feverish abandonment that dazzled me. Yet, all this little play-acting of hers had led up to the fact that she really was a randy little bitch at heart and just needed a little coaxing.
It was heaven. I put my palms to her cheeks, and I began to press myself in and out in a gentle movement like fucking. She kept with me, and soon her tongue was nibbling at the tip of my cock. When I finally gushed into her mouth, she gasped and choked, but swallowed most of it. Then, picking her up, I sat down the chair, flung her across my lap and began to spank her bare ass with my hand until she was really crying. And then, laying her down on the floor, I mounted over her-because by this time I was horny again-and I fucked her vigorously. She tried frantically to break free of the bonds on her wrists so that she could hug me, but her legs made up for it. They were wriggling all over my bottom and thighs, while I was fucking her. And she had a tremendous climax about the same time my second burst of lust-lava deluged her voracious cunt.
And thus it was that I was furthered in my career which was to culminate in the post of Whipmaster.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sylvia Blanton telephoned me at the frat house the very next Thursday evening. She was all excited about the prospect of another passionate weekend. As a matter-of-fact, she had induced me to stay Saturday and Sunday of the previous week at her Twin Peaks house, and aside from a few trips which I made in my Thunderbird for food and wine, we saw very little of the outdoors. Moreover, since it was an extremely foggy weekend, for which San Francisco is famous, neither of us minded a bit. And by the time I had got back to the fraternity house that Sunday night, I was literally honked out.
I had a semi-final exam in English Literature which had wound up about an hour before she had called me, and I knew I had done particularly well in it, so the idea of celebrating wasn't too way-out. Naturally I said yes. Jerry Crowe happened to see me again at the phone booth, and gave me another dirty look and made some snide remark about me being the savior of womanhood on campus. I just ignored him. He would probably have been jealous as hell if I had been ungentlemanly enough to have told him of the delicious pleasures the petite blonde had accorded me.
And so, with a light heart and a prick that was somewhat the worse for wear but still willing, I drove off to Sylvia's house late Friday afternoon. There wasn't any sense in our meeting on campus and giving the gossips any ammunition for their delicious fact-finding, but I was beginning to wonder just how this affair was going to go on. Sylvia might get possessive, and she was already showing signs of wanting orgiastic treatment. I had been a little amazed at my own cruelty last weekend, as a matter-of-fact. I was finding that I enjoyed it, and in that regard I certainly couldn't look at myself as being any better than Jerry and the rest of my frat brothers.
There was just something perverse about that petite blonde which roused all the atavistic lust in my guts and made me want to forget time and space and even my own name and what ethical code I had. It wouldn't be very healthy if it went on much longer, I knew. I could get carried away and especially when she was so willing to be degraded and brutalized, I might actually hurt her. I didn't want to do that to anyone. And yet the wild, crazy, way-out sex the two of us had enjoyed last weekend was something I just couldn't describe even if I took a whole book to do it in. It made me feel like a god, and the only world was the four walls of our room and the bed on which we twisted and struggled, and the only subject and vassal alive was naked, eager, whimpering Sylvia Blanton.
On this Friday evening, she met me wearing only a black nylon slip and high-heeled red leather, or suede pumps. She had a blue ribbon bow in her hair, and she had combed it out long and into a braid, like a slave girl hair, and she had combed in out long and into a braid, like a slave-girl from ancient Greece. She was both coquettish and lustful, and her first greeting to me was to zip down my fly, take out my prick and squeeze it while she arched up on tiptoe to kiss me on the lips and put her other arm around my neck to draw me down to her. I liked her petite size, it was very comfortable. She had a marvelously supple figure, and she could take all sorts of positions. What I had liked best so far was making her get on all fours on the bed and then sock it into her from behind. I had been tempted to put it in the other entrance, but I wasn't sure that she might favor it. Looking back now, I know she would have. A masochist yearns for degradation, and the more pain which evolves out of it, the happier the masochist is. Sylvia Blanton would have thrived on that kind of treatment.
But it was quite enough for me to go through our usual play-acting. This time, I was a repairman who had come to fix the telephone or the plumbing-I now forget which-and discovered a lovely housewife clad so scantily that she was available for a good raping.
I played my part superbly, if I say so myself. After the greeting, I thrust my prick back into my pants, coldly asked her where the out-of-order phone was and then went about the business of putting it back into working order. She got the drift at once, and lit a cigarette and moved around me rather anxiously, almost impatient for me to start the fun.
"Miss Blanton," I said arrogantly as I finally put the receiver back on the hook after having pretended to dial, "I think you have called me out here on a fool's errand. There's nothing wrong with this telephone at all. You probably had it off the hook too long while you looked at yourself in the mirror."
"How dare you talk to me like that, just an ordinary repairman!" she flared up. She too was playing her part magnificently. "I'm going to report you to the company, see if I don't!"
"Do that. I'm going to quit anyway, as it happens. I've come into a little money, so I don't need this stupid job. And I just about had my belly full of complaining, impatient, spoiled women like you in this town, Miss Blanton," I went on in my most arrogant manner. "I think you've got a lesson coming."
"What do you mean? How dare you talk to me that way! I don't care who you are or if you're going to quit, I'm going to have you fired, do you understand me? Take your hand away-what are you doing-how dare you-I'll scream for help-oh stop it! You brute, you bully-stop it!" she wailed.
I had seized her by the shoulders and proceeded to shake her. Then, lifting her up in my arms, I carried her over to the wide low couch. I placed her over my knee, I pulled up the hems of the only garment she was wearing, and there was her luscious white ass all ready for me. I clamped my right leg over her calves, I gripped her wrists with my left hand, and I began to spank hard. Out of caprice, I spanked just the right cheek of her plump, juicy bottom, and it was a joy to see that cheek a fiery-red hue while its twin was pure untouched satiny white. She wailed and squealed, tried to kick, tried to jerk her wrists loose, began to insult me, and then she was crying because my hand was landing with a rapidity that took her breath away. I must have given her a good sixty swats on that right cheek, and even though she was turning the other one up just as accessibly, I didn't touch it.
"That's just a start," I announced to her as I tumbled her off my lap and let her bump her bottom on the floor. She was sobbing, and she got up, rubbing her ass and looking very woebegone.
"I hate you, I hate you," she groaned.
"That's fine. I hate you too, Miss Blanton. Let me show you just how much," was my reply. And what did I do but pull her back down over my lap again, pull up and expose the one red cheek and the one white. Then I went to work on the left globe, and in very short order it was just as red as the one I had operated on at the start. She was howling then, and her face was congested, and I could hardly understand what she was saying, between sobs and groans and wails and babbled supplications for mercy. But she had a sore, swollen ass when I finally and ruefully stopped and looked at my own inflamed hand.
"There, that's a Utile better," I told her. "And now if you think you've any notions about calling my boss and getting me fired, maybe we can just continue this. There's a lot left of you that can stand spanking, like your thighs. And maybe the insides if you're a very naughty girl. Are you going to be good now and do what I tell you to?"
"No! I hate you, I hate you!" she repeated.
I wasn't exactly certain what she had in mind. So I improvised. I went to her closet, after shoving her unto the floor unceremoniously, again, and came back with a wooden hanger. When she saw this, she scrambled to her feet and tried to run. But I was too fast for her. I pulled her back by her hair, twisted her 'round, and then quick marched her back to the couch and once again she went down across my lap. This time I ripped off the filmy garment she had come to the door in.
And then I began to lay the hanger on those lovely round white thighs of hers, and even on her saucy calves. She hadn't had that before, and it drew even wilder squeals and tearful pleas for mercy than when I had spanked her butt.
I gave her about twenty-five hard whacks on each bare leg, and she marked beautifully. The sight of her upper back as it contrasted with the violently marked legs and her swollen, dark-reddening seat would have thrilled an esthete as well as a sadist. As for myself, my prick was bursting. It was as if I had never had pussy before in all my life, I felt so horny right about then.
"Have you had enough at last, Miss Blanton?" I hoarsely demanded.
I let her up then, and she sprang to her feet, rubbing her bare legs, heedless of the fact that her boobies were jiggling, that tears were streaming down her face, and that in her red leather high-heeled pumps and nothing else, she was one of the most fuckable girls I'd ever dreamed about. "No!" she breathed, and now her eyes were huge and limpid, and her hands had left off rubbing her legs and were rubbing her belly and pussy instead as she stared avidly at me. This girl was just insatiable!
"Oh Harry, darling," she breathed, "I've been so naughty, I want you to tie me up and thrash me hard. Oh, it's so nice when you whip me, and you do it so well. Please tie me up so I'm helpless and really hurt me!"
"Why do you say you've been bad, Sylvia?"
"Because I have. I-I had another fellow up here last night, and I let him-I let him fuck me, and I even sucked him. Don't you think I've been wicked, cheating on you, lover?"
"Well, not really. You and I aren't exactly engaged, Sylvia, and you're a big girl now. I figured that we just meet because we like each other and it's fun, but I'm certainly not placing any restrictions on you and I assume you're not putting any on me," I told her.
"But don't you even want to know who it was?" she pursued. She came forward now, wincing a little, because her legs and bottom really must have hurt her, and she took out my prick again and cupped it in both hands and then she knelt down and put her lips to the head and gave it a loving kiss. Then she looked up at me, "Don't you really want to know?"
"I suppose you're going to tell me anyway. All right, who was it?"
"Jerry Crowe," she whispered, and then she gave a half laughing, half tearful giggle. "I was awfully bad."
I felt a kind of savage anger at her all of a sudden. Not because she wasn't faithful-that wasn't it at all. As I'd told her myself, she owed me nothing and I owed her nothing. We were just meeting to fuck, to take life pleasantly and not make a big production about it. Certainly marriage was never even thought of from the start-at least not by me. But of all the potential replacements she could have picked, her choice of the frat president was particularly nauseating to me. He was a big bag of wind, a malicious little bastard who had too much money for his own good and thought himself high in the social register because of his family name. He was also the sort of guy who would probably dish out all the dirty details of what he had done to Sylvia Blanton to all the cronies at the frat house. And then, in his own good time, he would probably take me into his confidence and draw me diagrams of how far he had gone with Sylvia Blanton who was supposed to be my one and only. For that, I wasn't about to forgive her easily.
"You mean the guy who wanted to put you through the paddle line and then force you to pick out a guy to give it to you?" I repeated, just to be sure.
She nodded. "Yes. Are you mad at me?"
"A little. All I want to know is how did you two get together, Sylvia?"
"I-I called the other day and you hadn't come back from class yet. It was on a Tuesday. And he answered the phone, and he asked if I was the girl who'd been at the initiation, and I told him I was. Then we got to talking, the next thing I knew, he invited me out to dinner. I couldn't get you, so I thought it might be fun just to compare you with somebody else. Are you really mad, darling?" Now she was hugging my legs, pressing her titties against my knees, looking up at me with those big soulful eyes and her lips were trembling. She was really enjoying wallowing in the mud, making herself out to be the dirtiest, lowest bitch that was ever born, and it was giving her kicks and jollies. There wasn't any doubt about it, she was a confirmed masochist. And how she would wind up was not going to be my concern, I promised myself. I couldn't be responsible for her life or her warped psyche. I was even a little ashamed of myself at having thrashed her so cruelly. No, I wasn't any better than Jerry Crowe.
"Did you like it with him?" I growled. Well, I was torturing myself a little. Or maybe I was just a voyeur or exhibitionist, even though I had told Jerry Crowe at the initiation that I wasn't.
"Yes. But not like with you, darling. It couldn't ever be that good."
"Did you ask him to whip you?" I went on brutally. She was still hugging my legs, looking adoringly up at me, wriggling back and forth on her knees and squashing those big titties of hers against my legs. She was hungry for cock now, after her thrashing.
But I was going to let her wait for it. I could be a sadist too when it came right down to it.
"Yes, Harry," she whispered. "I know I'm shameless. But all he did was spank me. He just put me over his lap and spanked my bottom. And he didn't do it very hard, because he got so excited he wanted to fuck me right away. That's why I say it wasn't as nice as with you. Oh please, tie me up and beat me hard. Torture me, make me beg your pardon, make me lick your feet, I'm so ashamed."
The tone of her voice showed me how greatly she was enjoying playing this role of a faithless little slut and how she wanted me to justify what she had done by punishing her. Then she could tell herself that she had paid the price and that she was forgiven and she could go out and be a whore with all the fraternity brothers if she wanted to. Yes, I recognized the type well enough. I hadn't had a beginner's course in psychology for nothing.
"I think, rather than tie you up and beat you, Sylvia, I've a good notion to go back to the frat house and bone up on my studies this weekend," I said slowly.
"Oh no! Oh you can't leave me like this, it's too cruel! I need you so, darling, you don't know how desperately I need you! Oh please, don't talk like that. I'll be so good to you, I'll do things no other girl would ever do for you. I promise I will. Just tell me what you want, I'll do it. You can whip me and torture me and make me do it, you know you can, dearest."
She was working herself into a lather of lust, because I could see how her eyes were shining through her tears and how her lips were moist and trembling and her nostrils twitching and flaring. And the way she was squirming on her knees, the way her fingernails were biting into the backs of my thighs, proved to me into what a pitch of passion she had worked herself.
There was one thing I wanted to do to her. I suppose I had dreamed about it, and I suppose every virile male has always wanted to experiment with sodomy. The idea of thrusting one's prick into a girl's asshole while she struggles and cries in pain appeals to the very basest impulse of our natures. It's primitive, it goes back to the ancient Greeks and the Orientals, when the pashas and emirs used to buy pretty pale-skinned slave boys from the auction block and put them in their special harem and then bring them out and whim them and bugger them. In those ancient times, sodomy was looked upon as a perfectly natural and inevitable act and sport. Today, of course, we consider it deviant. Even a man's wife, for all she loves him, may refuse to do it. And in certain states like Illinois, for instance, up until they changed the statutes about fifteen years ago, a husband could get twenty years for doing it to this own wife even with her permission if, theoretically, some neighbor were to peep in on them and report the episode!
But now, after hearing her recital of her infidelity, after hating Jerry Crowe's guts even more than I had already done, I felt that the only way to "avenge" myself on this little slut who wanted pain as her pussy-inspiration was to shove my prick up that little brown hole of hers and really make her squeal. Then I could walk out on her, break it off and say that I have done everything I wanted, and that she just wasn't my type. Then I could leave her to the mercy of Jerry Crowe and all the other fraternity brothers. Because he was just the sort of a guy who would brag about his exploits, and tell all his cronies that she was an easy lay and that you could get anywhere you wanted to just by pushing her around.
Well, that would be her problem from now on. So I stared cruelly down at her, and I cupped her face in my hands and I said, "All right. I'm going to do something to you I want to do. I don't care if you like it or not. And if you refuse, I'm going to whip you within an inch of your life."
"Oh darling! What is it?"
"I'm going to brown you, Sylvia. I'm going to stick my prick in your asshole and shove it all the way up, and work it in and out and fuck you hard and spurt all my juice inside your little bumhole, that's what," I told her.
Her eyes widened, and for the life of me I couldn't make out whether it was fear or joy that lighted them. She shivered now, and she whispered huskily, "I can't stop you. I've been naughty, I deserve to be punished. Please do it to me."
I reached down and grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her up to me. I gave her a slap across her bare swollen ass with my palm that made her howl, and then I lifted her up in my arms and carried her into the bedroom. There I flung her down on the bed, on her belly, and I told her to stay there if she didn't want a real thrashing. Then I rummaged in her drawers until I found a cloth belt. I tied her wrists behind her back as tightly as I could. Then I took a scarf and wound it round her eyes and knotted it at the back of her neck.
Then I looked around for something to use on her bottom and her thighs. I steeled myself not to show her pity. The marks on her ass and legs already showed that she had had sufficient thrashing, but she was too greedy, too boastful; she enjoyed it too much. This time I was going to really whip her till it hurt, and maybe cure her once and for all of her morbid, warped and perverse desire. Maybe the lesson would do her good and make her pick somebody who was so gentle and shy that he'd ask her if he could kiss her. Maybe that was what she needed. Either that or a good headshrinker, I couldn't be sure.
But the demon of lust was now inside of me, and it was never to quit me from then on. I found myself planning what I was going to do to her, as I looked back over the bed and watched her lying on her belly, her wrists tied behind her, her fingers twisting nervously, turning her blindfolded face this way and that to sense where I was and to conjecture what I was going to do.
Then I stripped naked. My prick was gigantic now, and yet I felt I had perfect self-control to hold my gism back. I found a long flexible yard stick, but that wasn't enough. I wanted something that would sting and really hurt. And then on the floor of her closet I found what looked to be a whalebone stay, but was most likely made of plastic. It was about a foot long, not much more than eighth of an inch thick and as wide, and it was murderously flexible.
I came over to the bed and attempted a few cuts over the soles and heels of her feet. She wailed and wriggled, rolling over and over. It was just fine-. I cracked her twice over each knee hollow, and she lifted her head and squealed again: "Oh Harry, oh that stings, it really does sting, oh darling, that hurts!"
"Good. That's exactly what I want it to do. And now, you cheating, tricky little bitch, you're going to get what's coming to you," I told her.
I clambered onto the bed. I gave her a good hard cut across the small of her back right near the chinkbone that really made her howl. She rolled over onto her back, and she got two across each tittie. She was jerking at her wrists to try to put her hands over her sore boobies and soothe them, but I didn't give her any chance. I slashed across her belly once, and then once across each inner thigh. And then, as she was kicking her legs and twisting madly, I let her have it right between the legs. It made a sharp moist "Splatt!" as it stung right into her juicy cunthole. Then she really did shriek. She rolled over and over until I thought she was going to fall off the bed. Her head was twisted back, her mouth was gaping and she was yelling fit to beat the band. That was just the way I wanted her.
I gave her two more flicks across her left tittie, and I ordered her, "Now get on your knees and put your face up against the pillows, bend it way down. I want to see that ass of yours stick up good and hard and tight! Hurry up!"
To emphasize my order, I slashed her twice more across the other tittie, and she obeyed at once. She was panting and sobbing and groaning, and I could hardly understand what she was saying. Her voice choked with sobs and gasps, and her body was shivering as with ague. But she knelt, and she humbly offered up her naked swollen rump, and she bent her head down so as to protrude it at the most lascivious angle imaginable. I could see the lips of her pussy gaping, and I could see the shadowy brown hole groove enticingly offer itself to me.
I was ready. Keeping the stay in my right hand, I parted the cheeks of her ass with my left thumb and forefinger and jabbed my prick head up against the shrinking orifice. She uttered a groan, "Oh Harry-oh don't hurt me so much-take it easy, I-I never have there-oh Harry-be kind to me now, I love you, I do!"
But her petitions fell on deaf ears. All I could think of was how that smirking Jerry Crowe must have had fun with her the other night. I could almost see him on the couch there, licking his lips and his eyes shining as he ran his hand over that white ass of hers. I set my teeth, and thrust myself a little harder. I felt myself sink in between the lips of her asshole. And then she yelled, because I reached under her and flicked up the stay right against her titties. Then my left hand grabbed the back of her neck, and I manipulated her to my will. My prick thrust deeply, almost half the route. She uttered a low sobbing cry, squirming on her knees, "Oh don't-oh it does hurt-it's tearing me-please be kind-oh darling, I'll be your girl, I'll be anything, but take it easy just this once, please, Harry dearest!"
"You'll just take it," I snarled. I crammed myself up to the hilt now in a single devastating lunge. Then I began to switch her all over her back and shoulders, and I began to bottom-fuck her at the same time.
She was almost hysterical now. She was twisting and wriggling, she was crying and shrieking and sobbing, she was jerking at her bound wrists, and her fingers were sweaty as they dug into her palms. I could feel the walls of her asshole grip and clamp around my imbedded prick. I had to exert all my strength to keep from losing all my juice then and there. It was a glorious sensation. And to me she was a degraded lowly slave-bitch, a creature, a puppet and vassal, ordained and created solely for the enjoyment of a master, a man who would know how to slake his lusts in her willing or unwilling flesh and force her to ever new degradations.
Then, out of a refinement of cruelty, I began to press the stay up into her cunthole till I had it lodged along her vaginal sheath. This left my hands free, and I gripped her big titties and I squeezed and pinched them, till she sobbed and groaned aloud. All the time, I was continuing a slow inexorable in and out jabbing inside that tight warm asshole of hers. And soon I couldn't hold myself back any longer, and I felt myself explode.
She let out a wild shriek, and she crumbled forward flat on her belly. I could feel her rectal walls grip and grind against my prick as if to nip it off. I slumped over her, mashing her down, and I felt the warm sweaty trembling flesh of her against my belly and chest. I was her master and I had conquered her. There was nothing else in the world except this. My heart was pounding wildly, and I felt a glowing, radiant delight surge over me.
At last I pulled myself out of her, and she uttered a sobbing cry. I knelt up, my chest heaving, fighting for breath. Finally I regained my composure. I stared down pitilesssly at her swollen, reddened ass, at the marks on the thighs from the hanger, and I could see the end of the plastic stay peeping out of her cunt. She was whimpering now, and her shoulders were shaking. She had reached her own ferocious paroxysm, and now this was the aftermath.
But still I had the sadistic impulse in me to make her complete this act of self-annihilation, to prove to me that she could sink to the very nadir of sluttishness. Looking back now, I know what I must have thought. I probably wanted to justify myself, and remain righteous. Sylvia Blanton was a whore, one who loved suffering and could give herself through it. And by forcing her to perform the most demeaning of acts between a man and a woman, I was proving that I was her master and forever after her superior.
And so I reached down and seized her by the shoulders and forced her to kneel up on the bed again. Then, without removing the blindfold or the belt which tied her wrists, I commanded, "Now I want you to bend your head down and find my prick and suck it clean. Lick it too!"
"Oh no-don't ask me that-that's too much-oh please darling, haven't you had enough of me?"
"You've put it exactly right. Yes, I've had enough of you. But I want this too. I'll hurt you if you don't do it, Sylvia. I'll whip your titties with that thing in your cunt. I mean it," I threatened.
I reached out and I pulled the slick stay out of her twat, and then I lashed her across both titties. She gave a shrill shriek, and she sobbingly capitulated: "Eeyearrhhh! Oh don't, not there, I'll do it, oh you're hateful, I love you and yet you're so hateful to me!"
"Never mind the philosophy, just obey me," I snarled. I put my left hand to the back of her neck and I shoved her head down until her mouth pressed against my prick. "Now get to work," was my order.
And Sylvia Blanton sucked and licked my prick. I shuddered, for it roused me again to savage fury. The thought that my cock had been inside the most intimate part of her body, where all her excrement was, and that she of her accord would cleanse it with her soft mouth made me feel even more a superman, a veritable god.
And when she had finished, I flung her down on her back, mounted her, and began to fuck her ruthlessly. There was no joy intended for her, but only pleasure for me. It was an act of contempt and complete subjugation. It was also, although I didn't know it at that moment, the actual end of my affair with Sylvia Blanton.
After I had finished, I went into her bathroom and showered, then dressed and left her without a word. She lay crumpled on the bed, her face in her hands, weeping softly. She made one last attempt to reach me, calling out my name and begging me to stay with her all the weekend, to love her. I slammed the door on her, and got into my Thunderbird and went back to the frat house.
There was a radiogram there. My parents had been killed in the Swiss Alps. They had gone mountain-climbing, with an experienced guide. There had been an avalanche, and it had killed all three of them. My father of course, in his travels, always let the hotel manager know the name of his lawyer, and the lawyer was right here in San Francisco. The lawyer knew where to reach me. So, while I had been acting the role of merciless sadist with masochistic Sylvia Blanton, punishing her for my own guilt, my parents had been dying without ever once knowing what their son had amounted to or would amount to. Now I was rich, because I would inherit everything, as their only heir. And yet all I could feel for myself when I crumpled that radiogram in my hand, was pity for my loneliness and an abiding contempt for my own heartlessness.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing I did when I got back to the frat house was to call James Buttering, my father's lawyer, and let him know that I had received the tragic news of my parents' death. I felt befouled from the orgy with Sylvia Blanton, and though am not certain that I believe in ESP, I nevertheless had the sensation that perhaps at the very moment I was enjoying her, my father and mother had plunged to their death when the avalanche had tumbled them from the mountain ridge in the Swiss Alps. Of course sanity persuaded me to reason that there had only been a few hours' difference, and that it would have been actually impossible for such a concurrence of events. And yet I could not absolve myself of the guilt I felt, for I had been wallowing in the basest lusts and thinking only of the pleasures of the flesh while my parents had found that snowy grave.
I did a great deal of thinking that night. Of course I would finish my college education, since I had another year to go. From this practical and cynical viewpoint, I was comfortably well-off now, for I was the only heir. I could choose my profession, I could do as I pleased, I could even travel for a year or two without bothering to take a job. That, too, was a deadly temptation, but I resisted it.
And so, after the funeral services for my parents and my arrangement to have High Mass celebrated for them in the little church of St. Mary's near Chinatown which they had always attended and loved so dearly, I went back to my studies. Several times Sylvia Blanton called me, but I told Jerry Crowe that he was welcome to her. I told him to his face that I had learned of his conquest of her and that I had no further interest in the girl, certainly not after he had enjoyed her. He called me a foul name, and we nearly came to blows. That afternoon, I resigned from the fraternity and I went back to live in my parents' apartment.
It was magnificently furnished and far too roomy for me. And yet I felt their aura hovering about, a kind of benevolent concern which strengthened me in the lonely months ahead. I performed my schoolwork diligently-I was graduated with highest honors-and then I began to wonder what I should do. I was twenty-one, with no entanglements or affiliations. I was sufficiently versed in worldly practices-and certainly in sexual ones-to fend for myself the rest of my life. And in the bank there was the substantial amount of some fifty thousand dollars as well as some stocks and bonds and a parcel of land out in San Bruno which one day might be worth a good deal of money. No, they had provided far too well for me, far beyond what I deserved.
But there was always the temptation for a rational man to wish to celebrate, to hold some festivity on some pretext or another, as a kind of forward step in the long processional that ultimately leads to the tomb. While he celebrates, to be sure, he forgets that inexorable ending, and he tries to hold time and space back and tell the astral spheres that he is still the ruler of them. But his laughter is hollow and his triumph hollower still. And so, I treated myself to a sumptuous gourmet dinner at Ernie's, went to see Gwen Verdon in "Sweet Charity," and emerged about midnight on Powell Street, delighted with the wit and whimsy of the show I had just seen. The night was pleasant, with not too much fog and not too chilly, and I contemplated the prospect of walking to the Marina District, where my parents' apartment was situated. I hesitated a moment, and then began to cross the street. As I did so, I jostled someone and I turned to apologize. A dazzlingly beautiful woman smiled at me, with huge gray-green eyes, wearing, of all things, a picture hat and a long black silk dress and black kid gloves. It was almost as if she were out of the era of the Gibson Girl. Her face was oval, her cheekbones high, her forehead equally high-arching, and her nose dainty and small. She had superb white teeth and a small, even thin mouth. But there was something ineffably sensual about her and at once I felt the old familiar longing. I had been continent since my break with Sylvia Blanton, and I hadn't even thought about any nocturnal fantasies, not even once masturbated. But now, with good food and wine in me, and a pleasant evening just concluded, the carnal urge wakened and was the more powerful because of my long abstinence.
"Excuse me for bumping you, Miss," I said, and tipped my hat.
"That's quite all right. A lovely evening, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is. Might I drop you somewhere?" I asked, looking about for a cab.
Her mouth curved in a speculative smile, and she eyed me up and down very quickly. She was carrying an old-fashioned reticule, and her costume intrigued me. There was also something infinitely stirring about her, and perhaps it was the very anachronism of the long black dress and the magnificently sculptured body which it did not so much conceal as enhance. She had, I could see at once, high-perched round though perhaps small titties, a waspwaist, and long lissome legs. The skin of her face was tawny and under the wide frame of the picture hat I could see that her curls were bobbed short and dark-brown in hue. "If you like," she said casually. She had a rather precise voice, as if she were choosing each syllable. It had a certain huskiness with it which has always spelled bed to me. More and more, I was interested.
"Perhaps a drive to Fisherman's Wharf and then maybe some Irish coffee?" I proposed.
"That would be very nice, Mr.-?"
"Harry Stokes," I told her directly. I had no reason to be ashamed of my name or to hide it. Moreover, this was simply a pleasant conversation, and thus far it had led to nothing. What might happen was in the lap of the gods-but to be facetious, I was already thinking of being in her lap as soon as possible. My prick had begun to ache, reminding me that it had had very little exercise in the past year.
Accordingly, I hailed a cab, and we drove over to Fisherman's Wharf, at around Taylor Street. About a block away, we could see the neon lights of a restaurant famous for its Irish coffee. I moved over to the edge of the wharf and stared out at the boats, most of them fishing vessels, little skiffs, and one or two fairly large Chriscrafts. At night, the lapping of the water against the posts of the piers, the occasional cry of a seagull, and the dark distance far beyond symbolizing the vast Pacific and those exotic islands of Hawaii and Tahiti and Bora-Bora and, beyond, the even more distant Orient, evoked a kind of nostalgic longing in me. It would be very easy, I thought, to board a tramp steamer and go around the world and visit places that perhaps I should never see no matter how many years of life I was granted. And yet I was alone, and I knew it very poignantly. Perhaps that was why all the more I longed to satiate my flesh if only for the temporary comfort and reassurance it could give my ego. We are all of us weak and susceptible when it comes to ego, I think men most of all. And perhaps the sadist, whose dark secrets must be hidden from the world in which he passes and mixes as ostensibly as any normal man, must be even more lonely for that very reason.
"You're quite a thinker, aren't you, Mr. Stokes?" the girl beside me suddenly asked. She had had the exquisite tact to remain silent while I was staring out at the ocean and at all the boats. I gave her phis marks in my estimation for going along with my mood. She wasn't brassy or jarring, and that was all to the good.
"Perhaps," I admitted. "Perhaps also it's the time of night, when one's at loose ends."
"But I'm here with you, remember?"
"Indeed I do. And you still haven't told me your name."
"It's May."
I began to understand. She withheld her hut name because very likely she was a girl of the night. Very possibly she was a professional. Well, I was ready. I had never purchased a whore, but it might be an interesting adventure. To make an impression on a whore is always a challenge to the male ego. And at that time I was very young and very stupid.
"May in June," I quipped, for it was the very last week of June. "It's a warm and pleasant season indeed. Well, May, shall we have our Irish coffee?"
"Thank you very much. May I call you Harry?"
"If you will." I took her arm and walked her towards the restaurant, and soon we had our Irish coffee and were smoking cigarettes. She kept on her picture hat, and I noticed that quite a few men were glancing at her admiringly. That also helped warm my ego a little. There was no doubt that when a man chooses a woman who is pleasant to look upon, and that others find her so, it augments his confidence in his own judgment at having selected her in the first place.
We spent a pleasant half hour, and then she eyed me questioningly. "What now, Harry?"
"That's for you to say, May," was my answer.
"Would it disillusion you if I told you that you can take me home with you for a price?"
"No, to be honest with you."
"Am I so obvious as that?"
"You have to admit, May," I chuckled, "that your dress and hat and reticule stamp you as a most out-of-the-ordinary young lady. And the fact that you're wandering the streets alone this time of night together with that outfit of yours led me to anticipate that very likely this might be the case."
"My, you are the deep one. I shall have to be very careful with you. Well, since we're both being frank, would fifty dollars tax your wallet too much?"
She was at least erudite, and that pleased me. I certainly didn't want a bovine bitch who would giggle and simper, take off all her clothes and show me an abundance of flesh and then present her body listlessly upon the mattress to be fucked. I could have done as well with my hand. "No, it's rather modest if you're really as lovely as I think you are," I said venturesomely.
"Then the next question is, my place or yours?"
I debated this a moment. Of course I should be far more comfortable in my own apartment, but I felt it would be dishonorable to bring a prostitute to where my parents had lived and where I still felt I could commune with their spirits. Oh, I don't mean that I believe in spiritualism at all, but I do have the transcendental feeling that somehow where we have been and what we have done hovers after us and imparts a kind of atmosphere to the place thereafter for those who were once related to us and must follow in their own lonely way. That's as deeply as I go into reincarnation, I should say.
Wasn't it Dostoievsky in his "The Brothers Karamoazov" who made one of his characters say, "If there is neither good nor evil, then everything is permissible, assuming there is neither heaven nor hell to reward or punish it"? Perhaps that was the feeling I had, one that was completely amoral and yet restricted to my private and personal code. Beyond that I would never admit. And so, in far less time than it takes to write down all this for my own edification, I told her, "Your place, if you don't mind."
"But I don't at all. And I'm not far from here, actually. It's over on Green Street, and towards Van Ness."
"That's not a bad walk from here, and it'll do us both a great deal of good, if you're not afraid."
"Why should I be afraid? I'm with you."
"Well spoken," I chuckled, smiled at her, got up and paid my check, and then we walked out of the restaurant and slowly on towards Chinatown till we reached Green Street. There were hippies here and there on the streets, but of course this was back in 1955 and we called them "Bohemians" in those days. It wasn't much later that Herb Caen of the San Francisco Chronicle coined the word "hippies" to denote the escapists and the young remittance men and women who came seeking ephemeral pleasures and an answer to their empty, purposeless lives in their angry defiance of the Establishment. That was just a bit before the drug scene in Haight-Ashbury grew really menacing and showed us that we were a nation of juvenile delinquents who would grow up to be empty, parasitical, and even dangerous adults.
Her apartment was on the third floor of an old graystone three-story building, which must have been right after the great earthquake of 1906. San Francisco has many streets in which the buildings are seemingly welded together, and there is a kind of dreariness to them. May walked up the stone steps, let herself in, and then beckoned me up the narrow, dark-carpeted stairway. Three flights of stairs are taxing, especially after one has dined and wined well, but before me was the entrancing long-skirted beauty whose enigmatic allure had whetted my sexual appetites for the first time in many months.
She unlocked the door, flicked on the light switch near it, and then closed and locked the door behind me. I drew out my wallet and handed her a fifty-dollar bill.
"It's nice to get the sordid part over with, Harry," she smiled. "May I offer you a drink?"
"I think not. Perhaps later. I don't want to dull my senses or my appreciation," was my reply.
She patted my cheek and gave me another smile. I began to shiver with anticipation. I wondered exactly what her background was, why she pursued this intriguing course of dressing herself in a fashion that was in vogue before World War I, and what particular forte she could offer when we got to bed.
She took me by the hand and led me down the hallway to her bedroom. The walls were draped with red velvet, and there was only one picture, a lithograph by Gustave Dore, showing the tortures of the damned in hell. The twisted bodies of naked women, the demons scourging them, the clouds of smoke and brimstone-all this gave a kind of eerie atmosphere. The bed itself was low and massive, even larger than a double bed. There was also a black leather couch beside a bay window over which another red velvet drape was drawn. And a chest of drawers, of old and very expensive teakwood, and a straight-backed chair with wicker seat and back, and that was all.
She turned to me now, opened her reticule and took out a package of cigarettes. She lit one for herself, put the reticule down on the straight-backed chair, and then smiled invitingly at me: "What is your special preference, Harry? I have a feeling you'd like something more than the usual." And with that, she made a gesture towards the bed as if to indicate that the usual was just plain fucking. It was true. She was so exotic that I did wish something different from her, but I wasn't quite sure what it should be.
So I h-edged and asked, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to tell me what you won't do?"
"I said you were a deep one and I said I should have to be careful of you, didn't I?" She tilted back her head and uttered a gay little laugh. "Well, that all depends on the man. You see, I'm somewhat fastidious. When I take a liking to a person, I try to personalize my service, as you might say. The ordinary seeker after a woman just wants one thing, or maybe two-with the mouth, you understand. He becomes faceless and without identity for me. But I don't think you fall into that group."
"Thank you for the compliment, May," I chuckled.
"I hope you aren't going to ask me how a nice girl like me got into the trade, Harry. But if you did, I'd probably tell you the truth which I might not do for others. I was married to a very wealthy businessman in Los Angeles. Only he cheated on me constantly, and finally brought his sweetheart to the house and then he tried to have me take part in what they call, I believe, a menage a trois. Naturally I didn't care for it, so we divorced. But he dug up a lot of scandal about me because I had a dear friend in whom I confided, and the upshot of it was that I got almost nothing in the settlement. So I came here and, well-" and here she shrugged her lovely shoulders and took a puff at her cigarette and left the sentence unfinished.
"I've always felt it a pity that a girl is forced into prostitution because of necessity," I said.
"Not at all. Most girls will give you a hard-luck story and they dream it up themselves and they add to it as they go along, depending on what the client seems to like to hear. With me it's the truth. I'm twenty-seven, and I hope you won't think I'm unattractive when I finally undress for you. But I had, because of all the competition in this city, to make myself outstanding, you understand. That explains my outfit. You might say it's a working costume. I'm not wearing any panties or brassiere, just a slip. It's sewn in with the dress, you see."
My pulse began to quicken at this news. I had now an overwhelming desire to see her naked, and yet I wanted her clad in something. The picture hat and perhaps her stockings and pumps and maybe a garterbelt. And so I told her this, and she nodded understandingly: "I don't have a garterbelt, Harry, but I do have elastic garters at the stockingtops. That's old-fashioned too, but it goes with the outfit, you see. Shall I undress for you now?"
"Please," I said hoarsely. I went over and sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette of my own, and I studied her. She had exquisite gestures which furthered my interest in her. She began by taking off the picture hat and laying it atop the dresser. Then, stooping, she gathered up the hems of a long black dress and drew it slowly up her body. Her skin was tawny, and when the skirt had reached her belly, I could see the thick fleece of dark-brown pussyhair curls, and then the deep narrow niche of her bellybutton. Her hips were lithe and svelte, her thighs marvelously long and almost slender, though with just enough feminine rondure to them to make them exciting to me. I think I have always preferred a woman's legs and bottom to any other portion of her anatomy. And of course as Whipmaster, this is my true terrain, over which I reign with absolute supremacy and expertise.
The dress fell to the floor and she stood beyond me. She had on her black kid gloves, and she wore tan-colored nylon hose clambering to about mid-thigh. As she had told me, the tops were rolled around elastic garters. Then she moved back to the dresser and put back on the picture hat. And thus in kid gloves and hat, stockings and pumps, she awaited my inspection.
As I had surmised from my first look at her, her titties were not large at all. They resembled oranges, but they were high-perched, firm, spaced well apart. The aureolae were of a brownish-orangeish hue, rather wide and therefore the more pronounced because of a relative smallness of her titties. The nipples were pink buds, quite well developed and quite crinkly. I could see the tufts of dark-brown hair in the soft hollows under her arms. She stood there without expression on her face, clasped her hands behind her back and let me inspect her as impersonally as if she were a side of beef that I, a buyer for a market, was considering.
"Turn around, May," I said hoarsely.
When she obeyed, I caught my breath. She had the most beautiful buttocks I had ever seen. They were spacious broad ovals, wonderfully compact, so that the sinuous shadowy crease between them almost vanished when the muscles flexed and rippled. The skin was satiny-soft, and the tawny sheen made it all the more alluring. Her spinal column was deeply hollowed, and the chinkbone was pronounced. The buttocks seemed to jut out proudly and arrogantly at that point and curved inward towards the base which was suave. It was, in a word, a bottom made for whipping or, if you preferred, for buggering.
"Do you like me at all, Harry?" was her next question.
"Very much. And I should like to stay quite a long time with you tonight," I heard myself saying. "Would another fifty guarantee that? I shouldn't like to think of you going out again tonight and finding someone else."
"I'll be fair with you, Harry. After we've finished the time you've paid for, and it's generous enough and I'm always generous with my customers so that they'll come back to me, it would be rather difficult to go prowling again. There's a danger of being picked up, you know."
"I understand."
"Your offer is very generous. I do charge a hundred dollars to stay the night, or slow nights. And because I like you, even if this were a busy night, I should accept it."
"That's another compliment. Let me give it to you now so that we can forget about it," I said. I took out my wallet again and handed her two twenties and a ten. She went back to the dresser and placed the money in one of the drawers, then turned back to me. "And now I'm all yours. Tell me, and I'll obey. If you like, you can pretend you've bought a slave tonight," she said in a soft husky voice.
It was the way she said it and the words she used which brought back my old obsession which Sylvia Blanton had taught me. I knew now what I wanted to do to May. I wanted to spank and whip her; I wanted to tie her and see her writhing on the bed, to hear that husky voice choked with tears and sobs, until finally she begged me to spare her and to fuck or bugger her instead or take my prick in her mouth and suck off all my venom till I was sated.
And yet I hesitated a moment, not knowing exactly how to frame my sentiments without offending her. Her eyes, those lovely large gray-green eyes, fixed me, and her lips curved in a tantalizing smile as she murmured, "Yes, I knew you were a deep one. I think I know what you really like. You'd like to whip me, wouldn't you?"
"Yes-but how did you know?" I asked hoarsely.
"I can tell. Do you know, I've never let anyone do that to me. But I've wanted to have it done. If Joe, that was my husband, had given me a taste of the belt or the hairbrush once in a while, and not been such an obvious bastard in looking for other girls, we might still have been together. You see, my father used to whip me, and he made quite a ritual of it. He gave me a long sermon, and then he undressed me slowly, and my panties were always the last to come down. And even then when my bottom was naked and I was over his lap and waiting to be spanked, he would stretch it out by patting and feeling me, and continuing his lecture about what a naughty girl I'd been.
"I was only about thirteen or fourteen then, but I began to understand what he really had in mind. He did try to rape me once, just before he had a stroke that killed him. I always felt sort of guilty. Maybe I ought to have let him have me, and then he wouldn't have had the stroke."
She had seated herself at the edge of the bed while I still sat on the edge of the couch staring at her. She leaned forward so that her round small titties jiggled and dangled temptingly, and she put her hands on her knees and slowly caressed her stockinged legs. It was really fantastic, with that picture hat and the kid gloves, whose black shining, mirroring surfaces contrasted so with the smooth naked tawniness of her skin. My prick was monstrous now.
"So you see, I know what being whipped is like. And I'll tell you something else; it made me hot. Do you want to do it to me?" she went on.
"Oh yes! More than anything else, I think. But-but I'm not brutal-and I wouldn't draw blood or bruise or hurt you permanently-"
"I think I know that. I think I can trust you, Harry. Do you want to tie me up and whip me so that I really am your slave?" was her next astonishing question.
And once again, the fatal lure of the whip had entered my psyche and now it was to stamp me indelibly for all time.
CHAPTER SIX
"Yes," I said in a hoarse, trembling voice. And then I began to undress until I was down to my shorts and socks. May nodded. "Let me get some cord or something so that you can tie me up and do it right, dear," she placatingly murmured.
She left the room while I lit a cigarette. My prick was in tremendous erection, and now it was as if it was for the first time I was with a woman, but this time with a difference that I would be her domineering master. My blood was hot in my veins, and I had never felt so alive as I did at that moment.
Her beauty, the singularity of the way we had met and how we had come to converse, her obvious intellect, all made this meeting vastly different from what I had expected from a common prostitute. Undoubtedly, if she had been more crass and vulgar, I should not have had any inclination towards her. It was true that her unusual costume heightened my desire. But most of all, I knew all too well, it was the submissive way she had offered herself to let me be the master with herself as the slave.
She came back now, very picturesque and tempting, with that hat flopping delightfully, and her small firm round titties bobbing and jiggling in their resilient verve. I felt my prick ache with savage longing as she handed me two lengths of soft hemp cord, the kind one uses for packages. Then she turned her back to me and put her wrists behind her back and bowed her head. She was the very picture of a slave, submissive and surrendering.
As I stepped to her and tied one of the lengths of cord around her slim wrists, I felt a shudder of desire come over me, and I very nearly forsook my deliberate intentions towards her to take her then and there. But the mania of the whip was emblazoned into my brain by then, and I could not do otherwise than what I did.
"I shan't bind your legs, May," I told her, my voice thick with anticipation and lust. "I want to see you kick and struggle under the lash. Now what can I use that won't hurt you too much or mark you? I told you I'm not brutal."
"Your hand or your belt or something like that, dear. But I can stand a little pain from someone I like very much," was her answer.
Now she moved forward to the bed and laid herself on it, and then began to wriggle to the middle where she lay abandoned. She tilted up her head and still kept on that picture hat, a strange anachronism in such a setting. I felt my prick almost tear through the material of my shorts in my longing. I glanced wildly around to find some flagellatory instrument, and then my eyes fell upon a thin dark-brown leather strap, the kind one uses to tie around a steamer trunk, with holes punched in the end so that the buckle can be drawn up tightly. It was about three feet long, not more than an inch and a half wide and not quite a quarter of an inch thick. The buckle was black and oblong. I gripped the buckle end in my right hand and swung the improvised lash through the air. Then I brought it down again on the bed, and the smacking sound was music to my ears. May's bottomcheeks tightened convulsively at that sound, and she looked back over one dimpled shoulder to regard me. Her eyes were very wide and humid, and there was almost a look of fear in her lovely face. But there was also a taunting, challenging look blending with it. "Get ready," I announced.
I could see her long slim fingers tighten, as she prepared herself. She drew her wrists up past the small of her back so as to leave me all the terrain of her behind and her legs for the strapping. I had never felt so much the conqueror, and even though, as I later discovered in my experience as Whipmaster, this entire scene was really quite banal, to me at the time it was one of the most exotic and fanciful erotic episodes of my career.
I raised the strap slowly, and I let her wait for the first taste of it. She closed her eyes and trembled, while I admired the lovely sculptured plane of her smooth back, the graceful contours of her thighs, jouncy impudence of her bottom. Then suddenly I brought the strap down hard, right over the middle of her naked back, where she obviously was not expecting it. She uttered a stifled gasp, and kicked up both dainty feet, her toes wriggling in the stockings. The strap had left a faint pink streak where it had kissed her tawny flesh, and I had already begun my incursion into sadistic passion.
Even at that early age and relative inexperience in this art, I must confess with some little pride that I handled myself with remarkable self control. I did not hurry the lashes, I often kept her waiting long moments between them, and I struck here and there with no real pattern which she could anticipate, so as to intensify her anguish, her suspense, and also the pain. I wished to spread that pain in a glowing radius throughout her lovely nakedness, and mark her not cruelly but vividly so that her body would quiver and tremor in her torment, and so that my seething lust could finally culminate in furious passion and conquest.
For the first few minutes, I concentrated on her back and her upper thighs, leaving her bottom till the very last. She sucked in her breath repeatedly, squirmed and twisted when a particular lash bit with a loudly sonorous smack against her naked skin. Her fingers were twisting restlessly now, as were her toes in the stocking sheaths. The muscles of her calves and thighs were in constant play, and it was like a lesson in anatomy to me on the reactions and the physical stresses which a beautiful young woman endured under the lash. It was in a sense a kind of debut into my future role as Whipmaster, and it convinced me that the height of passionate delight could be found only in combining the whip with priapic desire.
After I had given her about twenty strokes, I paused a little, unbuttoned my shorts to let my prick out and to watch how swollen and how agitatedly throbbing it was. The lips were puckering, threatening to disgorge the pentup essence of my sperm at any moment. My eyes were blazing, my lips were tight and my breath came quickly. I lived my role, for now I was the master and she the slave.
Then I began to whip her bottom, in broad, drawing strokes from right to left and then, after about five or six of these, I moved to the other side of the bed so as to slash from left to right. Soon I had imposed a crisscross pattern of bright pink stripes, and her bottom began to buck and weave and twist about in the most lascivious way. Her groans and gasps became more pronounced, and she began to look over her shoulder rather more frequently. Her eyes were now swimming in tears, and some broke and rivuleted down her flushed cheeks. But she did not once cry for mercy. Sometimes, she kept her face turned towards me after one lash until I had slowly lifted my arm to signal the infliction of another. And once or twice she waited all that time until the strap was coming down to greet her heated, colored, naked flesh, and then she would wince visibly and flatten her belly against the bed and then twist her naked behind in jerky movements-as if she were masturbating to console herself for the ferocious heat engendered in her bare behind.
In all, I gave her fifty lashes, and the constant loud "Smack!" of the strap against May's bare flesh roused me to such a pitch of lust that I was almost blind with it. At last I let the strap drop from my nerveless hand, and I panted, "Have you had enough now, you sweet bitch?"
"Yes, Harry, oh yes, my master!" she groaned. And it was this final word which was the consummation of all my joy. I flung myself upon the bed, and my hands gripped the tops of her hips as I ordered, "Get onto your knees at once, slave!"
By dint of visible effort, he straightened herself up to her knees, and I at once thrust my prick into the oft gaping pink crevice of her cunt hole. With a rampant dig, I hilted myself inside of her. At once I could feel the convulsive grippings of her cuntwalls, and I heard her cry out in a sort of husky groan, "Ohh, oh my darling, yes, oh take me now!"
Her forehead was pressed down against the bed, and her fingers twisted on her bare back. Before my eyes, I had the sight of that wonderful, compact bottom, the tawny smooth skin striped all over in the most capricious of patterns. Under my ploughing, she groaned, twisted her bare hips about, and often I could feel her warm bottomcheeks rub against my belly as I thrust back and forth within her.
And then suddenly I could stand it no longer. With a hoarse shout of victory, I thrust home a last time and exploded myself. The world seemed to shatter before my eyes; I was caught up in the vortex of lust, and I could see no more. The swirling blackness engulfed me, and when I finally wakened, it was to find myself stretched out upon her, she flattened beneath me, my prick still throbbing and confined in the warm moist cavern of her lovesheath.
It was an episode I shall always cherish, because I never saw her again after that night. And yet it was a night to remember. Well, after we had had our first sexual encounter after the whipping, she serviced me in the most exquisite of ways. Her mouth restored my vitality, and this time I mounted her as she lay on her back and with her wrists still tied behind her. She worked her body ardently, clasping me with her legs, giving me her mouth, moaning and sighing as she arched up at me to meet all my digging thrusts.
It was dawn when I left her, after untying her and leaving her there asleep. I took out my wallet added another fifty dollars, but what she had given me was priceless. It had been done in a spirit of liumiliu and submission, in a true servile way that quite eliminated any thought of prostitution.
I went back to my apartment and I slept almost till evening. As I say, I never saw May again. I often wonder what must have become of her. I still cherish a kind of nostalgic yearning for her, for if I had seen her again and again, I might well have fallen in love with her, learned more of her story, and found her the perfect vessel for my needs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I had thought it over very carefully. It would be decidedly unwise for me to marry, because I should never be content with the tame, monotonous conjugal love which settles for fucking and nothing else. And I very much doubted that I would ever find a woman who would be my equal intellectually, able to meet me imaginatively on every sexual plane while at the same time submitting herself in the most servile way to all my cruel caprices. If she did, I should certainly tire of her also, because repetition in any kind of lovemaking leads to boredom. And this is a dangerous situation for the man who is ambitious in passion and complex in venturesome spirit. He must either console himself with the banal and compensate by reading or simple thought-fantasy to which ultimately masturbation is the end in view; or finally and most dangerously of all, he may try to change from partner to partner, always seeking-much as Don Juan did centuries ago-the one supreme experience which will make all this passionate endeavor worth its effort and its planning. And in reaching that, be would of course be deemed psychotic by society, most likely condemned if not to incarceration in an insane asylum, then at least to prison for such deviate and criminal behavior.
I certainly had no wish to wind up as either a psychopath or a criminal. Yet sex was vital to me. I could not conceive existing without it, and yet at the same time I knew that simply putting my prick between a woman's legs and fucking her until my sperm was ejected would not satisfy me for the rest of my life.
And so after the episode with May which I have just related, I fell into a period of meditation, while taking stock of myself and planning for the future.
To be sure, I could always go to a house of prostitution, and there were plenty in San Francisco and in the suburbs, where if one paid a sufficiently high price, one could ultimately find a girl who would yield to the whip and bondage. But, just as I had first felt with May, the danger of calculated and mechanical submission which would frustrate all my wildest passions was not at all comforting. There is nothing so boring in the long run as practicing a perversion and knowing in advance that you are going to do it, while even your partner knows precisely what is to be expected of her and tries to satisfy you. No, the ideal situation is where the female is helpless, rebels and is mastered and takes no joy in it. The true sadist cannot dare to think that his victim delights in what he is doing to her. For a wedding between a sadist and a masochist would be far from being Utopia as so many people falsely believe, the absolute hell for the sadist, though perhaps it might content the masochist.
And so I reviewed my prospects, and they appeared to be quite favorable. In the first place, I had money enough so that I could choose my job or, if I wished, even freelance for quite a long time without feeling any economic pinch. I had always had a flair for writing-and this journal of mine is an attempt to prove it to myself if to no one else-and so I thought that I might try for a newspaper.
There were some published things of mine around.
Some, but not much.
Oh the other hand, I had little to offer except my college degree, a good family name and a personality that would convince any interviewer that I was reasonably intelligent. I was fluent and even a little glib; I had read a great deal and I could speak passable French and a little German, and read well enough in Spanish to get along if somebody sent me a letter in that language. And of course, from all the opera I had gone to hear in San Francisco and listened to on records and FM, I knew a little of Italian also. But there were hundreds of young men like me in the Bay area, desperately looking for jobs and not finding anything at all. San Francisco has really only three outstanding job potentials: real-estate, the medical profession and insurance. For a writer or advertising man, it is slow death. Many of my friends have told me this, and from my own first attempts to find a writing job, I can confirm it from actual experience.
Then I thought to myself that it would be a very smart thing to do some travelling. First of all, there is something about foreign lands with their ancient culture and history which has always appealed to me.
Secondly, the sexual experiences there would be novel, because the reactions of the women would certainly be different from those which one could expect from my own kind. Most important of all, a great many employers are impressed with the fact that a candidate for employment has been to Europe and is familiar with its problems and can talk readily about them and make comparisons. I should also perhaps be a year older and a little more mature. And, althought I knew it to be only a faint hope, I might be able to eradicate the demon of the whip who was within my psyche, lurking in the shadows of my soul and ever ready to emerge and demand full satisfaction in the flesh by taking over my body and my will and making me into an executioner or torturer.
So I allowed myself about ten thousand dollars for a year, and about three weeks later, after having got all the passports and visas I needed as well as all the vaccinations against the various diseases one is supposed to protect oneself against when one goes abroad, I boarded a tramp steamer bound for Melbourne, Australia.
It was a nice leisurely journey and took nearly a month, but I was in no hurry. I had the run of the ship, and there were five other passengers besides myself. There was an elderly couple celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary and bound round the world as I was. Another was a rather mysterious middle-aged man, fat and dissipated-looking, who wore florid ties and expensive shirts and jewelry. With my romantic imagination, I put him down as an embezzler who was fleeing prosecution with his ill-gotten gains. And finally, there were two handsome cousins, women in their early thirties, one of whom, I learned from the captain who was a bluff Norwegian, had just been divorced after a bitter settlement. She and her cousin were apparently taking this trip to forget her sorrows.
After about the first week out, I met her on deck one afternoon, at her ease in a deck chair and with one of the seamen bringing her a cup of bouillon and crackers. There was a chair next to hers and I seated myself, signaled to the man to bring me the same, and then politely introduced myself. She smiled sadly, nodded to me, and then said, "I'm Debbie Corway, Mr. Stokes. How do you do?"
"Quite well, thank you. So far, we've had wonderful weather."
"Haven't we, though. Do you have friends in Melbourne, Mr. Stokes?"
"No, I'm just going there to visit some of Australia and then I'll probably go on to the Orient and make my way through the Mediterranean and on through Europe and finally back home," I told her.
"How wonderful! And you're so young to be able to take a trip around the world."
"I was fortunate. I'm out of college, my parents left me a little money, and before settling down in a career, I wanted to have some time to think what I was going to do."
"I wish all of us could have had that earlier life, Mr. Stokes. Perhaps if I had had it, I wouldn't be taking this trip now," she said rather wistfully.
I studied Debbie Corway with a sideways glance. She was really stunningly attractive. I put her down at about thirty-two, of slightly more than medium height, with wavy light-brown hair, very large and quizzical brown eyes, a soft gentle mouth, and her dress could not entirely conceal a Junoesque figure. She had lovely carnation-tinted skin, and her fingers were quite long and slim and graceful, those of an artist. I took my cue from that, and said, "You know, my guess is that you paint or weave or play the piano, Miss Corway."
She gave me a charming smile then. "But you're right. I do play the piano and I also dab a little in watercolors, Mr. Stokes. I see you call me 'Miss.' That's correct because I've taken back my maiden name. Have you met my cousin Barbara yet?"
"I haven't had that pleasure."
"I'm afraid she has a touch of seasickness. But she ought to be back on deck in a day or two. I know she'd like to meet you. She isn't married, however. She's taking a sabbatical for a year, because she's a teacher."
"And you? Are you going on from Melbourne?"
"Quite frankly, I don't think so. I want to start life all over again. My husband did give me a settlement, and Australia has always appealed to me as to being far away and the kind of land where one can pioneer. It's much better than New York in that respect."
"Decidedly so. What are you going to do there, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
"I don't know yet. I was a teacher too, before my husband married me. I might go back to doing that. Or I can just settle down and live a life of leisure for a while. But tell me more about yourself, Mr. Stokes."
Thus began what is commonly known as a shipboard romance, but it was to be quite complex. Barbara Dedmans, whom I did meet two days later, was about thirty-five, I should judge, rather strict-looking, and her thick bun of black hair and glasses fortified that impression. She apparently did not approve of me, because after we had been presented and I had gone off to chat with the captain over something or other, I glanced back and saw her talking earnestly to Debbie and then pointing to me. Fortunately she didn't catch me looking back at her. But I had a feeling she was warning Debbie about me.
And then about a week later, we ran into a violent storm. I had never been on a ship before, and I was very lucky I didn't get seasick. In the evening, around nine o'clock, when the storm seemed to be at its worst, I had the silly idea of going on deck to see what an angry sea was like. As I left my cabin, the door across from mine swung open and there was Debbie Corway. She looked terrified, and when she saw me, she flung herself at me with her arms around my shoulders, sobbing, "Oh, Mr. Stokes, I'm so afraid. Are we going to sink? Are we going to drown? Poor Barbara is almost hysterical."
"Let me see if I can help," I said. The feeling of her arms around me wasn't at all unpleasant. But even more so, the thrust of her round titties against my chest and, as the ship lurched violently from side to side, the constant thrusting of her body to mine, roused feelings which I hadn't had since that night with May.
I accompanied her back to her cabin, and found Barbara Dedmans in a state bordering on hysteria. As it happened I had a box of pills recommended for seasickness, and I made her take one with a little water. I sat down on the edge of the bunk-both of them shared the same cabin, of course, and there was a kind of upper and lower bunk arrangement-and I stayed there for over an hour until at last the storm began to abate.
Finally she dropped off to sleep, and Debbie looked at me and breathed a sigh of relief, "Oh, I'm so grateful to you, Mr. Stokes. I was really worried about her. She's so unhappy too, as I am, and I've been trying to talk her into staying with me in Australia and both of us making a new life. You see, she's been engaged to a man who I think is an utter scoundrel. The engagement has lasted for about four years, and I'm sure he's never going to marry her. And she-well, she and he have been lovers, and now she's feeling guilt and shame and she doesn't know what to do."
"I'm terribly sorry."
"You're very sympathetic and very personable, Mr. Stokes. Oh dear, I'm beginning to feel a little giddy from all this terrible storm and poor Barbara's distress. Could I-might I come to your cabin?"
"I'd be honored, Miss Corway."
"Oh do call me Debbie, please," she said with a wan smile. She took my hand, gave it a squeeze, and then moved into my cabin. I noticed that she had closed the door of her own, but I left my own open so that no one could impute to me any ulterior motives, least of all Debbie Corway.
She was wearing a robe with a slip under it and her slippers, I noticed. The scanty attire against her voluptuous body shaped out the glories of her breast and hips, and her face was flushed. She was really delicious. Her hair was drawn down in a thick sheaf which floated around her shoulders, caressingly. I already began to feel my prick stir and throb with interest. Continence was all very well, but here perhaps might be an unexpected gift from the gods of passion. Yet I didn't want to offend her. It's much too easy to campaign against a divorcee, and nearly every man who meets one begins to think already that he can get her to bed quickly because she already knows what it's like. I will say that I have always regarded each woman as a definite and separate entity, with a personality all her own, who must be cultivated and wooed in a very particular way.
Debbie Corway seemed to be quite despondent. Before I could anticipate her next move, she sat down on the edge of my bunk, put her hands to her face and burst into tears. I glanced out into the corridor, then decided it tactful to close the door, which I did. I went back to her and sat beside her, put my arm around her shoulders and tried to cheer her up. "Don't take it so hard, the worst is over now. We get a tropical storm like this maybe once or twice a month. We'll be in Melbourne before the next one, I'm pretty sure," I said jauntily.
"Oh it's not that, Harry!" For the first time she was really using my name. "It's only-well, I feel so let down, so far from anywhere, my whole life behind me in ruin, having to start over again. And then there's Barbara. I had such a raw deal from the man I married, I couldn't begin to tell you. I tried to forget, that's why I'm starting afresh in Australia. But after all this, it just brings my mind back to what happened to me."
"Do you feel like talking about it?" I urged.
"I might as well. You see, the first thing was, I was pretty well-to-do, and I really think he married me for my money. But I fell in love with him. I hadn't had a man until I met him, and I was twenty-four then. It was wonderful at first.
"Then he started to lose interest, and he even made a pass at Barbara. She was too loyal to tell me, though, because she didn't want to hurt me. She thought it was an accident. But then he started chasing after other girls, and then one evening he brought home some tramp from the street, some pretty little blonde about eighteen. And do you know what he wanted? He wanted me to get into bed with her and make love to her while he watched. I broke off with him right then."
"I don't blame you. But at least you are well off."
"You can say that, financially. But I just don't know about trusting a man ever again. I don't feel my life is over yet, and yet by some comparisons I'm an old woman."
"Not by mine," I said gallantly. I tightened my arm around her shoulders, and cupped her chin with my right hand, then I kissed her on the mouth. She gasped, her eyes went very wide, and then suddenly she was all over me like a tigress. Her arms locked around me, and her mouth was insatiable. In fact, she bore me back onto the bed with her vehement assault. And the next thing I knew, she was wriggling on top of me, fumbling with her bathrobe and tugging up the slip, and then she was naked and ready for me. Well, I already had a hard-on for her, so all I had to do was to liberate my prick and in a moment, I felt myself sucked in by the maw of her moist, hot, tight cunt. She did all the work. She went up and down on me, kissing me, frantically sobbing, begging for reassurance-did I find her desirable? Was she nice enough for me? Was she doing it to please me? And I reassured her by kissing her back as hard as I could, by cupping her naked titties and playing with them while I felt myself drained of every drop in my prick. She sank down on me, as I shot into her, and we groaningly knew climax together.
When it was over, she was blushing and terribly shy, afraid I would think her cheap. I reassured her on that score. As for the danger of impregnation, she was still wearing her diaphragm. I began to suspect that maybe she had planned something romantic like this from the very start, but I was too much of a gentleman to accuse her of it. Besides, it had been terrific.
It continued that way for the rest of the voyage. Almost every night she came to my cabin and we fucked. She did it on all fours with her back to me, she sat on my lap, she bent herself back on the back of the bed with her thighs wide apart (I believe that van de Velde calls this the position of "extreme flexion"), and in a word she showed a fierce and avid hunger for being fucked. I brought her to climax several times a night, and then she would lie in my arms and sob a little and keep asking me if I hadn't lost respect for her, so I would have to prove I hadn't by fucking her again or at least by fondling her and kissing her. One night, I kissed her pussy, and she almost fainted. I brought her to come that way and she was ever so grateful. It seemed her husband had never done that for her.
And on the next to the last night, she brought Barbara to my room, and the stern faced beauty was, for once, blushing and with eyes downcast like a naughty schoolgirl.
She explained to me how she had told Barbara about how wonderful I was as a lover and that what Barbara needed was the same kind of reassurance she herself had so enjoyed. And then Barbara shyly undressed, and that night I had two women in my bunk. It was really the height of madness, and I shall never forget it. Finally, in order to make them both feel they had been "punished," since both of them had been saying all evening long that they were naughty, I obliged them by taking each over my lap in turn and spanking them soundly. Then of course, that led to another fucking bout.
When we landed in Melbourne, I bade them a somewhat sorrowful au revoir. They were definitely going to stay on there, while I intended to stay only a week. And so, actually about ten days later, I took another steamer bound for Singapore.
But I had one final night with Barbara and Debbie. They came to my hotel, very demure and beautifully dressed. Very shortly, they stripped down to their panties and bras, and then they actually performed lesbian love together while I watched. It was ironic; for hadn't Debbie told me that this was one reason she had left her husband when he had tried to make her do that with another girl in his presence? But I realized that for her this act was a kind of symbolic release, and she later explained it to me just before we parted for the last time: "It's because I'm free now, because I know how much pleasure you can give a girl that I wanted to do that. I wanted to show you that I'm not an old puritan and that when it's done in love, it's beautiful. But with my husband, it was just a kind of malicious and sadistic way to show me how superior he was."
They weren't really lesbians. All they did was lie on each other and cuddle and rub together a little until I finally decided to take a hand. I pushed Debbie away from Barbara and then I fell on Barbara and fucked her to a fare-thee-well. After I left her moaning and trembling with climax, I got out of her and knelt up and made Debbie kiss and suck my prick until I was ready for her. Then I obliged her in the same vigorous way. It was in all a period of tremendous sexuality for me, but then I was very young and I had plenty of gism to expend. The good meals on that steamer certainly replenished my supply!
So that was another episode in my life which, while it did not actually contain too much whipping, served to prove to me what mastery I could have over women even more mature than me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There is really no need to chronicle all the adventures I had on this long cruise, but I must mark down some of the highlights, because of course all of them contributed to refining and further directing my sadistic nature towards the imminent and yet, for the most obvious of reasons, obscure role I essay today. My original steamer remained for nearly a week in Melbourne, but I steadfastly did not pursue Debbie or Barbara in all that time. They had given such obvious indications that they wanted me to remain that they might have become possessive, and then there would have been torment for them and nuisance for myself, since I was definitely of no mind to marry.
So instead, I did some sightseeing, some swimming and fishing, and on the third night, encountered a pretty little barmaid with a thick Cockney accent, who had come down to swim in one of the shallow coves near Barton Beach. She wore a red bikini, and I noticed her at once. She had a golden tan from the sun, the most voluptuous contoured bottom I had ever seen-even by comparison with Sylvia and May and Debbie and Barbara-and wonderful melon-like breasts proudly firm and without the slightest sag. Her face was saucy, with a tumbled mass of dark-brown hair falling sometimes over her forehead or cheek, and so full of life and zest that one could not help but be drawn to her.
Her name was Eliza Farmish, she was twenty-two and had come from Liverpool about three years earlier, and both her parents had died within a week of each other of influenza, which had swept the little slicepraising town near Melbourne where they had come to settle down in their declining years. Since they had almost no money after the trip from England and the investment in sheep and other things one needs for such animal husbandry, they had left her nothing except happy memories. Her one brother, five years older, was in the maritime service back in England. So now she worked as a barmaid, and her sunny nature had shaken off the gloom of her parents' death. She stood upon a rock, pulling back her hair and smoothing it down, almost to her waist, and the movement arched out her magnificent boobies. The water glistened on her naked skin and I felt ;i hardening in my crotch. I wanted Eliza violently, but there were proprieties to be observed.
Nonetheless, she had seen me glance at her. and waved to me. I came up and introduced myself, and we moved to a sandy strip of the beach, isolated, yet bathed in moonlight. The weather was balmy, and the smell of her flesh and hair was irresistible. For a moment we stared at each other, and then I was kissing her. What a ripe, rich moist mouth she had, and how joyously she gave herself up to passion! It was almost impossible to think of hurting or degrading or sullying such a gorgeous creature, fey and joyous, almost like a nymph returned from the incarnation of ages past to bring us weary mortals a bright touch of warmth and to tell us that the way to enjoy life was to taste it without qualms! She kissed ardently, opening her lips to let me know that my tongue would be welcome.
Never have I been kissed so warmly, and with lips so soft and inviting, and when my hand and when my hand tentatively touched one of her titties, she sighed happily and pressed closer to me. As I was not an exhibitionist, I had no desire to luck her then and there on the beach, for my trip might well be interrupted if a constable were to come along and observe such unseemly goings-on. My hotel, a very prim and proper place, would probably not welcome my bringing her back to my room. But before I could scramble my thoughts to plan some way by which our flesh might be made one, Liza herself huskily murmured, "Oh, I want you so. I do, Harry! Would you come to my place? It's only a little flat, and it's not much, but there's a good bed there, and I'll make you cozy as toast. Oh, take me there quick, do, or I shall be very naughty right here and now. How you do excite me, luv!"
"And you, me, you delicious little devil," I hoarsely returned. We rose, and my eyes feasted on the lavish expanse of golden-tanned nakedness which the two wispy pieces of cloth abandoned to my roving eyes. I had rented a car, and it was parked off the road, so she gathered her things and we drove back lo Melbourne. She lived in a rather shabby section of the city, but that wasn't important. It was a two-story building on a very narrow street, very much like those one would find in Europe. The stairway creaked, and I felt like an adolescent going to his first assignation.
Once in her room, she insisted on making a pot of tea. She had vanished into the W.C. (that was what she called the bathroom) to exchange the bikini for a pretty little yellow cotton smock and sandals, and from the way the smock clung to her titties and bottom, I knew she had nothing underneath.
She had just two rooms, a sitting room (that we would call a living room), a bedroom, and a tiny kitchen. There were also two closets. There was a picture of her mother and father, a handsome couple indeed, staring down at us both from the wall above the couch.
After our tea, she turned to me and put her cheek against my shoulders and whispered, "I want you to do it to me, Harry luv. But I'm really a little hussy, aren't I, to have picked you up like that? And you, you wicked man, just because you saw me in my bikini, that's why you want me. Any girl who showed herself off that much would do for you, I bet."
"Not at all," I gallantly protested. My left hand was squeezing the side of one of her rich, round bobbies, and my right hand was stroking her knee. I showed admirable restraint in not plunging my hand under that smock and confirming my guess that she was naked under it. "It's that wonderful figure of yours, Eliza. Few girls could look so tempting in a bikini like that. One has to have the figure for it, and you most certainly do."
"You needn't be afraid you'll give me a baby, either," she gave me a teasing smile. "I had a boyfriend last year, only he went back to England and got married, and fair broke my heart doing it, but he had his doctor fit me with something so that it won't be the nine-month trouble to concern us.
I liked her direct, unashamed way of putting things. This time, I put my right hand under her smock and glided up one of those warm, palpitating, smooth thighs, while with a delighted gasp, she opened her legs so I could find pussy. How plump and sweet it was, like a ripe fig, with the silky, curly nest of love hair framing it!
Her tongue drove into my mouth, and her hands gripped my shoulders as she forced herself to me. "Let's go to bed, luv," she whispered as the kiss at last ended, leaving us both flushed and quivering with desire.
I lifted her up in my arms and carried her into her bedroom. My hands could feel that there was nothing under that smock, even if I hadn't found it out a moment before when I'd tickled the sweet, plump nest of her cunt. It was a low bed, very wide, and there was a chest of drawers, a table, some framed pictures on the wall of scenes from Liverpool and several throwrugs. As I laid her down on the bed, I tugged off the smock, and that golden-tanned nakedness made my prick want to spring out of its moorings. Swiftly I began to undress, but then I saw that she was kneeling and staring at me, and staring specifically at the black leather belt around my trousers. I waited a moment, trying to read her mind, then she murmured huskily, "You know what would make me really hot, Harry luv? A good smack bottom, that's what. My Dad used to wallop me when I was starting to flirt with the boys-that must have been when I was thirteen or fourteen. He didn't know, but it fair drove me wild to be wiggling over his lap with my bare bum getting hotter by the minute. Would you do it to me, Harry luv?"
I trembled with lust. The old demon wakened in me. So I had not cast it out of me, even on this cruise. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I pulled the belt out of my trousers, and then with a gasp, she seized the pillow, plumped it down on the middle of the bed and stretched herself out across it. It elevated her luscious, plump round ass cheeks in the most tempting way, drawing the skin tight over those lovely globes, emphasizing the shadowy groove which separated them. My eyes feasted on that wonderful bottom, so opulently and yet nowhere excessively proportioned. And then slowly, I let the belt dangle over her, lowered it until it grazed her naked flesh, until she squealed, "Oooooh, yes, yes, that's it. Do it good, do it proper; I need it for making such a show of myself, Harry dear!"
I laid the belt across the base of her behind, as a start, not too hard, just enough to hear that thrilling impact of leather on naked girl flesh. She moaned with an almost savage delight, pressed her palms down flat against the bed, thrust her belly against the pillow with all her might, so as to elevate and tighten that lovely ass of hers at the same time. Slowly, without haste, I made the belt dance over that luscious ass of hers. She whimpered from time to time, but mainly sucked in her breath. When a particularly hard blow made the belt cling to those juicy cheeks, a sort of stifled gasp would break from her, followed by a voluptuous shiver. Slowly, on the golden-tanned flesh, a horizontal pattern of bright pink streaks appeared, constantly growing, and by now she had begun to squirm her bottom from side to side, as if she were grinding her belly against the pillow to find relief.
I didn't want to hurt her, but the sight was so enthralling that I prolonged it all I could. Only when tears began to run down her cheeks, when she began to glance over her shoulder at me and her eyes began to widen apprehensively as she saw the black leather belt slowly rise in my hand, did I force myself to halt. I was naked save for my shorts, and these I doffed at once and flung myself upon her. She tried to twist herself over on her back, but I forced her to remain there on her knees, crouching in humility, subjugated as a slave.
"Open your legs wide, you sweet bitch!" I gasped, and when she obeyed, I thrust my prick into the soft fig of her cunt, taking her dog fashion. As I felt myself sink deep into that tight, humid cavern, I uttered a cry of joy, which she echoed with a sob of delight: "Ahhh, ohhhh, give it to me now-give it to me proper, luv-oh, give it me! Honk me out good!"
It was a night of ferocious passion. We sated ourselves at least three times that night, and at the end she shyly confessed to me that the heat I had put into her bottom had made her ever so passionate, more than she had ever been before.
About a week later, I boarded the steamer again, en route to Singapore. There, just off the main street with all those fabulous bazaars, I found an exquisite brothel above a teahouse, which boasted a dozen girls, Eurasian, Malaysian, Chinese and Burmese, and even a languid, tall, honey-haired Scandinavian girl named Ina. She had married a seaman who had brought her to Singapore, and then, after a short year of marriage, cruelly abandoned her and left her in debt to his hotel keeper. The latter had forced her to pay off that debt and earn her living by catering to the lusts of men. I chose her and a ripe-tittied brown-skinned Burmese girl, and I made the Burmese girl take Ina across her lap, with the latter wearing only her brassiere, long black stockings and red garters, and spank her white-skinned bottom until it was red and Ina was really crying. Then, I had Ina kneel on the floor and gamahuch the Burmese beauty, who plunged her fingers into Ina's hair and twisted it to force the white girl's face into her mount, while I ferociously fucked her from behind.
Then I went on to Hong Kong, where in yet another elegant bordello I found a White Russian girl named Olga, twenty-eight, tall and stately, with an aristocratic face and coal-black hair wound in a coronet braid around the top of her head, and olive skin with a warmth I had seldom seen. She, like so many other Slavic women, was inherently a masochist. I paid the madam of the bordello an additional fee for the privilege of thrashing Olga, when the former slyly mentioned to me that such a privilege would be available and that Olga would be all the more ardent as the result of such a prelude. She had the guilt-feeling of a prostitute and wanted to be punished for her life of "sin." Her parents, both from Moscow, had fled the Red rule and died in poverty about three years earlier. Her Chinese husband, who had given her a child, decided to divorce her a year after that because he had fallen madly in love with a little French showgirl who found herself stranded when a troupe of entertainers broke up in Hong Kong and their manager made off with all their money. And so, the only way Olga knew to earn money for herself and her child was to sell her body.
And what a body it was! She was almost as tall as I was, with high-perched titties, a spectacular oval shaped bottom with the narrowest of creases between the cheeks, long, sculptured thighs and high-set, sinuous calves. Her voice was meek and soft, belying the aristocratic hauteur of her features.
I began by taking her over my lap for a spanking, but this was too banal for Olga. Even though her bottom was scarlet by the time I had finished and there were tears in her eyes, she gasped, "Oh, please, I need the whip, nothing so easy as this, please-I'll be very good to you, but please give it to me!" So I obliged her, and thus nurtured the grinning demon within me all the more.
I made her sit astride a low chair, tied her wrists together, and she bent forward over the back, dangling her fettered arms in a most abject of attitudes. As she sat on the wicker seat with her legs spread to each side, the lips of her delicious cunt were tantalizingly in view. I was tantalizingly in view. I improvised a whip of about six lengths of cord, the kind one ties around packages. To each of these I added knots, and then took the ends and bound them around a short piece of wood, making a superb scourage. By lowering it and flicking it upwards, I could at times send the tips darting into the crease between Olga's ass cheeks, sometimes catching her sensitive asshole, and sometimes when she wriggled and twisted lasciviously, as she did, the gaping pink inlet of her cunt.
When I had whipped her from her shoulders to the base of her bottom and back up again, not without giving her half a dozen on both of her big firm titties, I made her rise and slid myself under her, straddling the chair. When she seated herself, it was to impale herself on my prick. After a few thrusts into her cunt, I told her that I wished to bugger her. Gripping her titties, I squeezed them painfully until she at last sank down on my ramrod, cautiously, inch by inch, weeping and begging for mercy. But the fires in her dark brown eyes told me that this supplication was only for the sake of form and only to arouse her own growing masochistic passion.
In these and other adventures I had during my sabbatical, and wherever I traveled, I found women only too willing to accommodate my lust to whip and to dominate. But these were professionals, and however consummate actresses they were, I always knew that it would not be enough, except perhaps with a girl like Eliza.
At last I returned home to San Francisco. It was time to pursue a career, to distract myself and to think of sexual pleasure only after I had channeled my life. I was not yet ready to become Whipmaster. There would be some intervening years, but they in turn would fortify me for that exaltation!
CHAPTER NINE
For the next seven or eight years, I was first a contributor to and then editor of a new Bay Area bi-monthly magazine. Its emphasis was on culture; its features were novel and esoteric. An extremely wealthy banking executive had started it as a kind of hobby, having more money than he knew what to do with. I found it exhilarating, and the modest salary did not bother me. I still had my inheritance, and I could live frugally.
So far as pussy was concerned, I had a number of liaisons, none of which is really worth chronicling, except perhaps that of sandy-haired divorcee Ella, just twenty-nine, whom I met sitting beside me in a movie house when she dropped her purse and we bumped heads as I tried to retrieve it for her. She had a kind of guilt complex, believing that her two-timing husband had left her because of her own "frigidity," as she called it.
I had about seven dates with her, all intellectual, usually over fine dinners and vintage wines, until at last she got up courage enough to invite me to go to bed with her so that she could see if what her ex-husband had said about her was really true. It wasn't. He was just a stallion, a jack-in-box who poked and ran, who simply hadn't taken the trouble to awaken her.
I kissed and fondled her all over, even tonguing her pussy. While she was moaning and begging me not to do that because she was so ashamed, I simply turned her over my lap and spanked her naked bottom, until she begged for mercy and said she would do anything. Then I rolled her over and fucked her vigorously. She had two orgasms before I achieved my first. I dallied with Ella for about six months, and finally she went back to New York, where she had been born, to marry an ex-high school flame who still carried the torch for her. It was at least a happy ending.
When my magazine-backer boss died of a stroke in Philadelphia attending a publisher's convention, his widow declined to carry on the venture. I had made money for him by having something of a literary reputation, and also by getting quite a bit of advertising on my own. But I found out that his widow had cordially hated him for all the thirty-two years of their marriage, and was only too happy to quash the venture to have a kind of posthumous and spiteful revenge. So I was jobless, but my bank account was larger than when I had started. And I was still a bachelor and, since I had had a good deal of publicity on the press, radio and TV because of what I had done with the magazine, I was reasonably eligible.
Indeed, I am grateful to that magazine. Indirectly, it brought me to my present role as Whipmaster, and this is exactly how it happened.
Before I decided to find another job, I took a trip to Hawaii for about two months during the winter, when it is loveliest in the Land of Aloha. There, at the little hotel where I stayed, I met an exquisite Japanese maid named Noriko, rather taller than most Japanese women are, with cameo-like features, divine breasts and long, sleek thighs. I had tipped her well at the very beginning of my stay, and about a week later found the housekeeper berating her, and Noriko in tears over some alleged offense. Some drunken bastard complained that she hadn't made up his room, and it turned out that she wasn't the maid involved after all. I pacified the housekeeper, slipped her a five-dollar bill, praised Noriko to her highly, and everything went off beautifully. That night when I came back from dinner, I took a shower, got into my pajamas, and went out onto the lanai. Honolulu by night is breathtakingly beautiful, and the tradewinds are balmy and gentle. All at once I began to think of pussy again, and I knew that I hadn't had any for quite some time. And then there was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, it was Noriko. She was off duty, of course, and she wore a lovely muumuu and sandals, and she had a hibuscus in her black hair, which was fixed into a very neat bun.
She spoke excellent English, and there were tears in her eyes as she thanked me for my kindness earlier that day. I, in turn, complimented her on her beauty, and then, acting on a very bold impulse, suddenly took her in my arms and kissed her on the mouth, very gently and slowly. She struggled for a moment, then with a happy little sigh, returned my kiss. She let me lake love to her that night. Her old husband had just managed to break her cherry, and not much else. She was almost a virgin. I introduced her to the delights of having her pussy tongued and fingered, and she almost fainted with bliss. Then playfully, a little later, after we had had two fucks and were relaxing and smoking cigarettes on the bed, she said she was going to be a very naughty girl and do something she had always dreamed of doing but never dared to do to a man. With that, she leaned over and put her tongue on my prick. I was so overwhelmed that for a moment my old passion swirled in me. I seized her by the wrist, forced her over my lap, and playfully spanked her bottom. To my amazement, she became a virtual tigress of passion. With her bottom red and smarting, tears running down her cheeks, she flung herself atop me, opened up her pussy, and with her other hand guided my prick into that warm, sweet nest. Then she wriggled over me until she drained me of my very last drop.
I had two other meetings with her before I went back to San Francisco, and each was as passionate. I think, had I stayed much longer, she might have acquiesced to being tied up and whipped. But I wished her no such warping, for she was a gentle, lovely girl.
And then, about two weeks after I had returned, I got a phone call from a man whom I shall call Henry Bascomb. To my amazement, he referred to Noriko. His young nephew had just become engaged to her, and Noriko had told the youth about how kind I had been to her, that she knew I lived in San Francisco and used to write for a magazine. He wondered if he could see me at his earliest convenience.
I found that he was in Oakland, the vice president of a business machinery firm. We talked for about an hour, went out to have lunch in Jack London Square, and he wound up offering me a job as assistant director of personnel. That was the firm with which I am still associated, now as head personnel director. And through this very man, I was to enter that secret club known as "The Whipsters." His nephew did marry Noriko about a month after that, and brought her back to San Francisco. She came to see me at the office, radiant and beautiful. Yes, she had told her husband all about me, and there had been no recriminations. He had fallen as madly in love with her beauty and her sweetness as I had done for that brief time. By the faraway look she gave me, I thought that I might even be her lover if I wished. But I didn't. That part of my life was over now. Now I wanted to forge ahead in this new career and to see how I could find my own variety of passion....
I had a tall red-haired young secretary named Mavis Denbey, and after about six months in my new job, I was really dissatisfied with her. She seemed lackadaisical, bored, and often made stupid, irrational mistakes. A number of times I lectured her, and once, when she made the worst blunder of all, said irritably, "You know, Mavis, if I were your father and you made half the mistakes you make for me as your boss, I'd take you over my lap and spank your bottom until you learned a lesson."
"Hlimph! You just say that because you know it's not possible I can see you if you tried that. I'd go to see the personnel director-he's over you. There's nothing wrong with my work," she said insolently.
I made some secret investigations, and discovered that my immediate boss, Richard Jardine, was actually her lover. He was already married, so of course he didn't want to divorce his wife and marry Mavis, but he wanted pussy. I had to admit she certainly was a tempting bedtime dish, but as a secretary, she was certainly lousy. So he kept her pacified by keeping her on the payroll, wangling it so she didn't get fired by me, who was his subordinate, and meanwhile could knock off a piece whenever he felt the urge. It was quite a setup. But then one day, Mavis overreached herself. I had made a decision to hire a very expert engineer with a European background, gentle and soft spoken. It was true he didn't have the glamorous background some of our American candidates had, but I had the feeling he could do a hell of a better job than anybody on the payroll right now. Richard Jardine hadn't seen eye to eye with me. But at last he agreed to give the man a trial of three months. I told Mavis to call the engineer and tell him to come to work.
When next Monday rolled around, and no enginner, I was puzzled. I asked Mavis, and she shrugged and said, "Well, what do you expect of a European? We've got plenty of Americans around here you can hire, you know, Mr. Stokes."
Again on impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed him, right in front of her. She turned red, started to mumble something and started to walk away. I found my engineer somewhat worried. Did he have a chance with us?
"Ludwig," I said, "I told my secretary to call you to come to work today. You're hired, man. Now get your ass down here fast!"
He came in an hour later, almost tearful in his gratitude. And as a postscript, I might add, he's still with the company and doing a magnificent job.
Before the day was over, I called Mavis in to me and gave her proper hell. I also told her I knew all about her little setup with Jardine, and that I was going right to Henry Bascomb and tell him that I was being sabotaged in my own office, and that we had very nearly lost one of the best prospects who had ever passed through our doors. She began to tremble and looked really scared. She begged me not to do that, said she needed her job, broke down and confessed her secret fucking alliance with my immediate boss.
In a word, she threw herself on my mercy. "All right then, Mavis. I'm going to give you an alternative. I can go to Henry Bascomb right now and get you fired and no reference. And jobs are getting hard to get in Oakland, as I think you know. My first advice to you, young lady, is to break off with Jardine. You'll only get in trouble, and he'll discard you as soon as he thinks it's to his best interest to do so. He'll save his own neck first. Now the second one is, that if you're going to continue to be my secretary, you're going to be punished for this little nonsense you tried to pull on Ludwig. It's that or the axe, so make up your mind fast."
Sniffling, she threw herself on my mercy. She said she'd take any punishment I could dish out, and she hoped I'd forget it and not mark it down against her record. I thought it over, then I told her to come to my apartment after dinner. I half-expected her not to come, but she did. She was about five feet eight, with a really magnificent body. She had light-reddish hair in a sort of mannish do, which made her even more challengingly provocative. I was in my pajamas and robe when the doorbell rang, and I opened it and there she was, looking very downcast and sheepish.
I told her to come in, then I gave her a drink. "Have you made up your mind to stay on and be a good secretary for a change, Mavis?"
"Yes, Mr. S-Stokes," she stammered. She was blushing furiously and averting her face from me.
"And you're ready to take your punishment?"
"Oh yes, but please-do I-do I have your word you won't tell anybody?" You've got it."
"All right."
"Come with me," I said curtly. I led her into my bedroom. I have an old fourpostered bed which I inherited from my parents. It's practically an heirloom, but it's enormously spacious. In anticipation of Mavis' visit, I had taken four lengths of cord and laid them on the pillow. She wasn't quite sure what I had in mind, and she glanced nervously at the pillow and then back at me.
"Start by taking off everything except your stockings and garterbelt," was my order.
She complied readily. Then she had the temerity to give me a wheedling look and murmur, "Mr. Stokes, I-I like you very much-you've been fair with me-if you want-I-I can be your sweetie and make up for it."
"We'll talk about that after you've had your punishment," I said. "Now hurry it up."
She began to undress, and I really gasped when I saw her naked. She had beautiful titties, widely spaced, not too large and like pears, wide dark aurolae, and well-developed nipples, and long, sleek thighs and dimpled knees. Add to it that sullen face of hers and that husky voice she had, and you can understand why my prick was already trying to tear out of my pajama trousers' fly!
"Now lay down over that pillow," I ordered as I picked up the four lengths of cord. When she did, I proceeded to tie each of her wrists and ankles so that she was straddled and spread-eagled. Then I blindfolded her. She started to get apprehensive: "Oh, what are you going to do to me, Mr. Stokes? Please don't hurt me too much-please! I promise to work very hard! You-you can have me right now, if you'd rather-but please-please don't hurt me too much. You said only a sp-spanking, didn't you?"
"Yes, but I didn't say what kind. I found out a few other things about you, young lady. You started a campaign along with your paramour, Mr. Jardine, to blacken my name. You had it hinted around that I'm not a very good personnel man and a lousy dictator when it comes to letters and such."
"Oh no! I-I-"
"Don't bother to lie and deny it. There's that little telephone operator, Mazie Robard, who knows a lot more about you than you might think. She has a habit of listening to phone conversations, which I admit is wrong, but she heard you and Jardine up to a couple of little schemes."
"Oh gosh!" was all that Mavis could say. Then she groaned and began to weep, while I continued to get ready.
I took off my pajamas, and then, shuddering with anticipation, I went to the closet and took out a slim English rattan cane. I had bought it during one of my trips, and I was longing to use it. I swished it in the air, and it made lovely music. Then slowly I laid the cane across the spacious, tightly set oval cheeks of her luscious ass. She had a wonderfully tawny skin, and I knew it would mark beautifully. She tightened her ass cheeks, uttered a cry of fear, and tried to look back, crying, "Oh, what is it? What are you going to spank me with, Mr. Stokes? Oh please, wouldn't you rather f-fuck me than spank me?"
"No!" was my answer. I lifted the cane and brought it down with an expert flick, so that it bounced off both her lovely ass cheeks. Mavis uttered a wail, jerked and twisted, tried to tear at her corded wrists, and then burst into tears. After three more cuts, she was frantically begging me to fuck her or do anything at all in the world except spank her any more.
I didn't listen. I gave her twenty-five cuts, not repeating any, but when I finished, there wasn't an inch from her chinkbone to the tops of her thighs that didn't have darkening red welts. She was practically hysterical, and she was babbling all sorts of promises about how good she was going to be, both in bed and in the office.
"Do you really want me to fuck you now?" I hoarsely asked.
"Oh y-yes, Mr. S-S-Stokes, oh please, please, I hurt so, oh please. I'll do anything you want, only please stop now," she groaned.
I took a pillow and shoved it under her tummy, lifting her up so there would be access. This not only arched up her welted ass and thrust it out, but it showed me the peeping pink lips of her cunt. I could just manage it. Stretching myself out over her, balancing myself on my palms, I edged my stiff prick towards those soft pink portals till I at last engaged myself. She was marvelously tight, and she was also passionate. The whipping had made her red-hot, as she later shyly confessed.
She was my mistress for the next six months, and Jardine was fired exactly one week after I had given Mavis her spanking.
And so now I was personnel director of a rapidly growing company, under the personal and benevolent aegis of a man who liked me and who was extraordinarily wealthy, and, as it was to turn out, as devious in his own still quite active sexual pursuits as I had always been in mine.
CHAPTER TEN
About three months after I had become personnel director, I had a call from Henry Bascomb. He wanted me to have lunch with him at a very fancy restuarant in Jack London Square. Then, about a half hour before I was finishing up some correspondence so that I could clear my desk and spend lunchtime with the big boss, there was a knock at the door of my private office. After I had called, "Come in," it opened to reveal one of the most mouth-watering pieces of pussy I had ever feasted my jaded eyes upon. She was tall, about five foot eight, with wavy black hair in something of a Veronica Lake hairdo. She wore a white blouse and neatly tailored black rayon skirt whose hem ended about two inches above her dimpled knees. She had an alert vivacious face, with sparklingly animated dark-brown eyes, a full sweet mouth, and a creamy complexion, along with very little makeup.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Stokes," she said in a deliciously vibrant contralto voice. "Mr. Bascomb wondered if maybe you would be free now instead of at the time he originally set."
"Why, of course. I can go right now, if he'd like," I smilingly told her. "I don't think I've ever met you before."
"No. I'm Mr. Bascomb's new secretary. My name is Jane Lawrence."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lawrence. Suppose I go right up to his office and we can leave together."
"That would be fine. Thank you so much."
About fifteen minutes later we were seated in a comfortable booth at the back of the restaurant, were giving our order to an extremely pretty, petite brunette waitress, and after she had left, Henry Bascomb smiled at me. He was rather stockily built, with a good deal of a paunch, and his hair was turning white. He had a genial face, with a good deal of humor in his lips and eyes. I respected him for what he had done for the company, and I knew something of his background, because it was part of the company's public relations data given out to the press as a human interest story. His parents had died when he was about twelve, he had been brought up by an uncle who had gone to prison as an embezzler, and he himself had almost died from a virus when he was seventeen. Without much money, he had managed to win a scholarship, worked as a waiter on tables and done janitorial work at night to get through college with an astounding scholastic record.
Then he had gone to work as a kind of private secretary for a wealthy Armenian fruit grower in Fresno, and the man had practically adopted him as a son, for he had no heirs of his own. Thanks to his patron's generosity and guidance, Henry Bascomb had made a killing on the stock market. He had married when he was thirty, and was already a millionaire. His wife had died in childbirth five years later, and he was still a widower. There were, to be sure, certain rumors, however, that his loneliness was assuaged by a number of really beautiful girls, because once or twice I had seen sly references in one of the city's newspaper gossip columns.
"Well, Harry," he said as he offered me a cigarette from a silver case, "I wanted to compliment you on the way you handled that very unfortunate situation with your secretary and your predecessor. You've done very well for us, and I look on you as a good deal more than an employee. You know, of course, what a remarkable coincidence it was that my nephew in love with Noriko."
I nodded. "She's a remarkable girl. If I were more the marrying kind, the fact that she happens to be Japanese wouldn't worry mc in the least. Your nephew is a lucky guy."
"Yes, of course." He glanced quickly around and then leaned over the table. In a confidential tone, he began; "This lunch is off the record, Harry. I want to feel you out a little first. You know, of course, that I haven't married since my wife died. Well, I'm fifty-seven now, but I still have the same desires that you do when it comes to women. That is to say, sexual desires. I want to find out if yours are parallel, you see."
I was somewhat taken aback. Did he know about my passion for the whip, the savage ecstasy which came over me when I held a beautiful girl under the lash and compelled her to do my most capricious bidding? "Go on Mr. Bascomb," I said cautiously.
"So I shall, Harry. You see, I rather guessed about what happened between you and Mavis."
"You guessed, sir?" I was even more taken aback.
"Certainly. If ever a young lady was itching for a thrashing, it was she."
"She must have told you, then. That was rather foolish of her," I said irritatedly.
"You should be glad for your sake that she did, Harry. Otherwise you and I might not be here today discussing what I'm about to do. So much for that. What would you say if I were to tell you that even in this century and with emancipation of the female, it is still possible for a man to be lord and master of a kind of harem, if you wish to call it that. A harem whose members respect and fear you, and who themselves are subject to discipline when in the estimation of their husbands or lovers, they deserve it."
"It sounds like a secret sex club, Mr. Bascomb."
"Call me Henry, for Pete's sake, Harry boy," he made an impatient gesture with his hands. "By the way, Mavis was rewarded in a sense. She's now the sweetheart of one of my good friends, and he may even marry her. He'll keep her in line by using your own very efficient method, Harry."
We paused now as the waitress brought back our appetizer, and two more glasses of sherry. She gave us a flirtatious look and then hurried back to the kitchen. "Now there's a tasty morsel, Harry," my boss said as he looked after her, watching her trim hips undulate in the tight skirt. "How would you like to have her stretched out on a bench with her skirt up and her panties down, a good leather strap in your hand and she blindfolded and helpless?"
I felt the blood rush to my face, and I had to take a sip of sherry before I could regain my composure. "Very much," I admitted as I gave him a searching look.
"If she were the sweetheart or companion or wife of one of The Whipsters, you could do exactly that," was his answer.
I raised my eyebrows questioningly. He chuckled, took a last sip from his sherry glass, and went on: "You saw my new secretary, Harry?"
"I compliment you on her, Mr. Bascomb-I mean Henry. To use the vulgar parlance, she's quite a dish," I replied.
"This is in strict confidence, but I know I can trust your discretion. What would you say if I told you that Jane Lawrence is a member of The Whipsters, under my own sponsorship, of course? And further, that this Friday evening, at our usual meeting place, she will be one of the subjects for special humiliation."
As I stared at him uncomprehendingly, he went on: "If you know anything of my background, Harry, you know that I started with a couple of handicaps. In my adolescence, I was as passionate as any man alive. The girls laughed at me, made fun of me. I went to a prostitute for my first experience, and she wasn't very much better. Fortunately, my wife was a sweet and gentle girl, but to her sex was a submissive duty to be performed in darkness and without discussion. To be sure, she loved me just as much as she could possibly love any man, granted her own limitations and strict upbringing. But after she died, I realized that I was coming towards the end of my life without ever having tasted true passion, that blind and exquisite sensation which glorifies a man and makes him feel, regardless of his age, that he is lord of the universe."
It was uncanny how his words matched my own thoughts. I nodded, "Yes, I know what you mean, Henry."
"I thought you would. You see, I've made a study of your own background. I know more about you than you think, and that's why I'm entrusting you with this secret. But to go on. So, about six years ago, I met an attractive girl who was down on her luck and whom I staked to a new life. She wanted to pay me back, and of course with her body, the only currency she had. So I made her a proposal. I wished to whip her, to subjugate her, to bind her, and to shame her. If she would do this for me once, I would settle five thousand dollars on her and see that she was employed with one of my friends. She did, and it was one of the most thrilling moments of my life. It appears that she was at heart a masochist, which in my case was all the more delightful. Her reactions exceeded anything I had dreamed of."
I listened to him enthralled. We waited now while the waitress served our entree. After she had left, he went on again: "The thought came to me that to buy love in this way would be hazardous and eventually distasteful. A woman who would submit because of money would bore me in the end. But, among my many friends, I found several who shared my views. Some of them were married, some had sweethearts, but all of them had one thing in common: a desire to dominate and to know those pleasures which only the whip can bring. Not excessive cruelty, mind you. I would not maim a girl or leave permanent marks on her flesh. I would whip her to stimulate her to passion as myself. There it ends. Others who are more sadistic would perhaps whip to the very death. Do you understand me thus far?"
"Indeed I do."
"We have our meetings twice a month, Harry. If you would care to join me Friday night, I shall propose you for membership. You need not have a girl, by the way, if I, who am president of The Whipsters, sponsor you as I shall. There will be many women there who will want to be whipped my an imaginative person like yourself. One day, you may even become Whipmaster."
"Whipmaster?" I echoed.
"Yes. It is the most important role of our entire little clique. The man's identity is unknown. He appears masked and garbed in leather. He carries out the assignments voted by the members, from the punishment inflicted on a nagging or faithless wife, to the initiation of a new female member. By the way, no men are ever whipped in our society. We are the dominants. There' are some female members who enjoy applying the lash, and this is done on several occasions, which you will learn. But basically, all the wives and the sweethearts and those single girls or divorcees who are on our roster must submit to the will of the Whipmaster. The man we now have is talking about going back to Europe in about a year. After learning how you chastised Mavis, I should propose you as Whipmaster to replace him if you show skill enough."
He leaned back now, regarding me quizzically. "Does all this interest you?"
"Yes. I'm honored by your confidence, Henry. I should like very much to come along with you this Friday night," I said. And thus began the life that was to bring me to this coveted post of power, to fulfill all my destiny and to give me such passionate pleasures as I had never dreamed of before!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
And so on Friday evening I took a cab to Henry Bascomb's pretentious mansion in Piedmont, as immaculately dressed as I could be in tuxedo and bow tie, and was ushered into his study by one of the loveliest French maids I'd ever seen. She wore the traditional lace cap, white apron, short black satin dress, and black opera-length mesh hose, completed by pencil-thin-heeled black leather pumps. She had a saucy face, dark brown hair in big ringlets, parted neatly in the middle, and a wonderfully creamy skin and dazzlingly white teeth and red lips. I began to appreciate my employer more than I had ever done before, and the sight of this girl as she tripped daintily along ahead of me to lead me to the study gave me a hard-on like none I had ever had before.
Henry Bascomb had on a face mask, and wore white tie and tails. When the pretty maid opened the door and gestured for me to go in, he called out to her: "Marie, ici, s'il vous plait."
"Tout de suite, maitre" the charming brunette murmured. She went ahead of me then, right to where he was sitting at a handsome teakwood desk, and went down before him, kneeling on her palms and bowing her head in utter contrition. My heart began to pound wildly. He had realized the dream-fantasy which had so long haunted me.
"You see this gentleman, Marie?" he said to her. "You will go to him, unfasten his trousers, take out his becque, and then you will kiss it. You will ask him if he wishes you to service him with your mouth. If he does, you will do it as well as you would do to me, or you will have a good sound whipping when I get back home."
My mouth gaped, and I swayed with the tumultuous emotions flooding me. She returned on her knees, she drew down my zipper, deftly disengaged my swollen prick from my shorts, deposited a kiss on the swollen plumheaded tip, and then asked me in the sweetest, most humble voice you could imagine whether I wished this service. I did not, as it turned out. I wished to conserve all my gism for what I was certain I should see tonight, and I should have need of it, I was certain also.
"Another time, perhaps," Henry Bascomb chuckled. "But to show you the utter mastery that we Whipsters possess, let me give you a final demonstration before we leave for the meeting. Marie, be good enough to lift your skirt, let down your panties, bend over and grasp your ankles. And count out six."
And there before my very eyes, the pretty brown-haired maid who was, I should judge, about twenty, swiftly lofted her short skirt, lowered white nylon pantiebriefs, and then bent down to grasp her ankles, while Henry Bascomb, opening the top drawer of his desk, took out a short but very flexible white Malacca cane.
He moved to her, took his post at the left, laid the cane across her naked ass, and then gave her six slowly administered cuts, the noise of which made me shudder. She moaned and gasped, and her voice was unsteady after about the third, but she called out clearly the number of each lash. Now, upon Henry Bascomb's order, she turned herself around so I could see her naked ass. Six blazing red weals lay parallel from chinkbone to the base over that magnificent ass. I could also see the thick, dark-brown pussy curls over her cunt, and I vow I was very close to raping her at that moment.
"Thank you, my dear. You may go to your room and have Jason salve your bottom. I'll see you when I return tonight," Henry Bascomb dismissed her.
"Thank you, master," she murmured huskily. Swiftly she drew up her panties, tugged down and smoothed her skirt, gave me a curtsey, which must have hurt her, for I saw her wince, and then she left the study.
"Will that convince you, my boy?" he chuckled. "It's like a Rabelaisan tale," I said, shaking my head in wonder.
He took me out to the limousine in the driveway. A young black-haired chauffeur who, he told me, was Marie's brother, took us into the hills of the Montclair area of Oakland, perhaps the swankiest residential section of that thriving metropolis across the Bay from its bitter rival, San Francisco.
The house itself reminded me of Thomas Jefferson's home in Monticello, with columns, a portico and a spacious porch, while vast rolling lawns, beautifully tended, made an entrance to it. First, however, we passed through a gate at one side of which was a cubicle in which a uniformed private guard sat. Henry Bascomb showed him something in his wallet, the man telephoned to the house, the gate rolled back and the limousine drove along a beautiful driveway and then turned to the left towards a sumptuous garage. Beyond the garage was a clearing where many automobiles were parked. Some of them were expensive cars like Impalas, Lincoln Continentals, and the like.
"We use no names here, Harry," my boss told me as we parked and ascended the steps to the porch. "We're all called by numbers. Also, all of us are masked. There are precautions taken, for the most obvious of reasons. And if you should be accepted as a member-and I intend to propose you at the conclusion of tonight's meeting-you will be required to put up a five-thousand-dollar bond in good faith. This will be refunded to you after two years, less a thousand dollars for the membership fee. Incidental expenses will be dunned at the various meetings."
I felt as if I were walking into an Arabian Nights fantasy. Even before he could touch the bell to announce our arrival, the door was opened by a beautiful Negress. She was dressed in French maid's costume, and she was very tall and yet buxom, with light chocolate-toned skin, sumptuous hips and thighs, and round, jutting titties were all in superb proportion.
"Good evening, Gwen. The word is 'suffering,'" Henry Bascomb said.
"Blessed be the word, master," the Negress solemnly intoned as she inclined her head. "Pray enter."
We followed her through a huge living room which would have been an antique dealer's delight so far as bric-a-brac was concerned. She conducted us to a sitting room from which I heard the sounds of voices. When we entered, we found about twenty people, divided between the sexes, the men in white tie and tails, like my boss, the women in stunning evening gowns with daring exposures of their backs and titties. Henry Bascomb had told me that my host tonight was known as Number 3. He, of course, as president of The Whipsters, was Number I.
A silence fell upon the assemblage as we entered. "The word is 'suffering' tonight," Henry Bascomb said again, and I heard the word repeated. He went on: "Tonight I present to you a novice, Number 51. He has skills and imagination, and I have personally known him for years. I am proposing him, subject to your approval, as a member, at the close of the meeting. Now, may I present him. Number 51, it is my pleasure to introduce to you your host and hostess tonight, Numbers 3 and 4."
The man was robust, gray-haired, and held out his hand to give me a vigorous handshake. His wife was also gray-haired, but her figure was splendid. Her titties were small and round, and they were bared almost to the nipples by the cut of her green satin evening gown. When she finally turned away to speak to someone behind her, I saw that the gown seemed almost to be glued to her; two thin flanges crossed from her sides and under her armpits to the edge of her back, moved together in a broad V almost to the chinkbone. Her bottom was spacious, oval-shaped, wonderfully resilient.
Henry Bascomb smiled now as a black-haired woman with creamy skin and a black satin evening gown came forward to be introduced to me. "Number 27, this is Number 51," Henry said.
"A pleasure indeed, sir," the masked woman said to me. An electifying shock went through me. I had just recognized Jane Lawrence, by her figure, by that marvelously creamy skin, and by that marvelously seductive voice of hers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We went into an even larger sitting room after the introductions had been made. Here we had refreshments of wine, cheese and biscuits served by a delicious, masked young woman who could not yet have been twenty. There were five such maids; a light-brown-haired, slim girl; a black-haired, plump one; an auburn-haired, petite one; a sandy-haired, tall one; and a coppery-haired, arrogantly patrician and ripely curved one. They circulated among us, seeing that we all had the refreshments. They did not speak, but their gestures and the gracefulness of their posture and their walk moved me to lust.
Henry Bascomb murmured to me, "Those five girls happen to be nieces or daughters of the members. All of them have had initiation, all of them share our credo in the joy of suffering and its ultimate fulfillment."
More and more amazed, I could hardly wait until at last Henry Bascomb took a gavel from his pocket, rapped on a tabouret near the chair in which he sat, and announced, "It is the time for suffering."
And then we filed down the hallway nearly to the kitchen, where he opened a narrow door leading to a thickly velvet carpeted stairway. I uttered a gasp. There before me was the most ingenious replica of a movie-house lobby I had ever seen, complete with marquee and the side panels in which there were erotic photographs, where usual movie-houses show their "coming attractions." There was a box-office cubicle with an adorable red-haired girl in black leotards, and black stocking-tights with black slippers, seated on a tall stool. Each of us had been given a ticket marked with our designated number. Mine, of course, was Number 51. The girl checked off each of these on a roster sheet, kept the ticket, inclined her head towards each of us, and signed for us to enter.
We passed to the left, where there was a velvet curtain and a lovely tall golden-haired usherette wearing the kind of lounging pajamas many California movie houses dress their usherettes in. Of course she was masked, as was the girl who took the tickets.
As we went through the curtain which the charming usherette drew aside for us, I could see there were about seventy-five thickly upholstered loge seats. Beyond was a platform and stage, with a giant black velvet curtain hiding its mysteries from us. There were wings to the stage, and a short flight of steps which apparently the audience might ascend when desired. In the orchestra pit, there was a kind of podium with a microphone affixed to one side. I could hear music by Ravel playing through an ingenious public address system; and when that work ended, a piece by Debussy began. It was dream music, impressionistic, calculated to whet our fancies and put us into that ethereal mood in which passion can most keenly be aroused.
Henry Bascomb made his way to the podium, reached under it and the music stopped. Adjusting the microphone, he declared, "This evening, we shall have only two tableaux. I think, however, each will be impressive. I call on Number 6 to describe to you the meaning of the first."
From one of the front rows, a tall, gray-haired man rose and came to the podium to take the microphone. "Fellow Whipsters," he said in a harsh, sibilant voice, "I have a grievance against my wife, Number 7. She has been impertinent, rude to the servants, and two days ago she unjustly chastised our daughter. I demand that she be brought before you in expiation."
Henry Bascomb took the microphone again: "Number 7, do you wish to defend yourself against these charges?"
A woman rose, about five feet seven inches in height, in a purple evening gown which showed her back down almost to the chinkbone. Her flesh was milky, and her hair was in a thick upsweep. It was pale golden hair. Two diamond earring pendants were clipped to her lobes. She spoke in a soft, almost apologetic voice; "I can only beg the indulgence of my betters, Grand Master. I did not mean to be impertinent, but I am afraid I was exasperated over something he did. As for the servants, my maid was combing my hair and snarled it, and I slapped her and was angry with her. My daughter, who is only twelve, was found in a most compromising position with a neighborhood boy from an excellent family. As soon as I had driven the boy away, I took her over my lap and spanked her. It was the first time I had ever punished her so. I submit humbly to you all that I think she is far too young to understand the intricacies and the dangers of sexual liberty as we know it."
After she finished speaking, she remained standing. Henry Bascomb then called for a vote. Since with Henry Bascomb and myself there were only twenty-two members present, I had assumed that the vote might be equally divided. I, of course, did not participate, not being a member. But to my amazement, every hand rose in affirmation of Number 7's guilt.
"You have been found guilty by your betters, Number 7. What have you now to say?" Henry Bascomb demanded in a cold, impersonal voice.
"I-I-" for a moment her voice quavered, then gathered strength: "I make no appeal save my person."
"It is rejected. Come forward, Number 7," Henry Bascomb commanded.
The woman's head bowed and then slowly she made her way to the left wing of the stage. As soon as she ascended it, Henry Bascomb touched something else under the podium and the velvet curtain rose. I leaned forward, my heart pounding wildly.
The stage was comparatively large, but there was only one object on it-a whipping bench. It was a large, rectangular block of heavy wood, equipped with straps and a kind of hump in the middle. But beside it stood a man dressed entirely in black. He was tall, lean, and he wore black stocking-tights. His singlet was also black, but his arms were bare. His entire head was covered with a kind of black mask in which there were only slits for the eyes. His arms, though lean, were extremely muscular. In his right hand he held a slim birch rod of about six switches, freshly peeled, with a black cloth tied around the bulkier end to serve as handle. Number 7 approached, then knelt down and bowed her head before this awe-inspiring figure, who, of course, was the Whipmaster. Henry Bascomb reached his hand towards the other side of the podium and touched a bell which I had not seen till then. Instantly from the back of the stage and from each side of it a charming girl appeared.
These girls were twins, perhaps sixteen years old at most, with red face masks, and wore only silver lame G-strings and knee-length red leather boots with pointed toes and sharp heels. Their pinksheened round titties jiggled entrancingly as they came towards the kneeling matron.
"Submit for preparation!" Henry Bascomb intoned from the podium microphone.
The woman shivered, then slowly raised her head. The Whipmaster had approached her, now extending the sinister birch rod before her lips. She kissed it first before rising, then turned to face the audience. Swiftly the almost naked twins stripped her of gown and fashion-cut underslip, leaving her in a black parity girdle and black nylon bra, hose and pumps. They turned then to the Whipmaster with a a questioning look. He made an abrupt gesture with the rod, and one of the blonde twins deftly unhooked the bra and let it fall to the floor of the stage, while the other unhooked the stocking tabs and then removed the panty girdle itself.
Even from where I sat at the back of the theater, I was struck by her voluptuous beauty, and the contrast between this and her patrician bearing and behavior. I guessed that she was not more than thirty-five (her husband was in his mid-fifties, at least), but the milky pallor of her beautifully proportioned thighs, bottom and back would certainly have let her pass for ten years younger in a beauty pageant. Her thighs were long and rather slender, her calves elegantly trimmed with nervously rippling muscles which at once proclaimed her justifiable apprehension as her fatal moment neared.
The twins took hold of her hands and led her towards the whipping block, before which she knelt. They then drew her arms forward and strapped her wrists tightly. Her ankles were strapped next, parted by at least two and a half feet, which provided ample latitude for the birch to visit her tenderest parts. As one of the twins knelt to draw the strap around her back, her husband shook his head and called out, "It will be more interesting if she has freedom of movement there."
Now one of the twins went to the right wing of the stage and returned with a silver bucket. She sloshed its contents over the naked bottom and thighs of the victim, who uttered a stifled gasp and looked nervously back over her shoulder. The baby spotlight seemed to turn now from its fixed position in the ceiling to intensify its bright glow on that upturned, defenseless behind. Even from where I sat I could see drops of water glistening on the milky flesh, and I could also see the twitching and spasming of her bottom and thigh muscles.
The twins now retreated to the back of the stage, where they knelt facing the audience, cupping their lovely, saucy-tipped, closely spaced round titties as if offering them for admiration and caresses. A deathly silence had fallen upon the audience as the masked, leather-sheathed executioner moved slowly, inexorably forward, birch in hand.
First he bowed to the audience and saluted them with a wide sweep of the rod, much as a Roman gladiator would have bestowed a traditional salute to the divine Caesar in the purple-draped box in the Colosseum. A murmur of approbation arose, a kind of buzz of wakening excitement. If I had not seen what I was about to see, I might have thought the curtain was about to rise on a new play by some promising genius.
Next, the Whipmaster lifted the rod and swept it down, then abruptly jerked his wrist to bring the tips of the switch just inches from the floor. This was done not only to test the flexibility of the instrument, but also as a kind of flamboyant exhibition of his own coercional skills. It, too, brought a new murmur of approval from the audience. But this one was more ardent, tense, almost agonized, for now everyone in that audience-myself included-had entered upon the sweet agony of this secret and yet age-old drama between master and slave, between the phallic symbol of the whip and the passively submissive female flesh to which it was destined.
Now he swiftly turned sideways to his victim, and for a long moment he contemplated the quivering, naked hindquarters offered to his skills. Finally he stooped and, transferring the rod to his left hand, caressed her shrinking flesh, descending from the hip-slope of the right buttock to its base and thence to the base of the other cheek and up along it quivering edge. This was, as I later found, the procedure for determining the resistance and sensitivity of the victim's flesh.
Satisfied at last, he resumed the rod in his right hand, and with his arm stiff and the rod held out horizontally, pressed it over the top of her buttocks. The blonde matron sucked in her breath sharply, and I was amazed how even that faint sound from so far distant was magnified to my ears. As Henry Bascomb later explained to me, one of the members was an electronics wizard and himself the head of an instrumentation firm in Hillsborough, that austere sanctuary of wealthy snobs between San Francisco and Palo Alto. This supersensitive acoustical system thus magnified even the sound of breathing, and thus provided The Whipsters with the ultimate in aural and sonic titillations, as well as the gamut of visual joys.
The Whipmaster kept the rod pressed over both flinching bottomglobes for fully a minute. When at last he drew it back in the air, there was a universal sigh from all the spectators, a chorused release of emotional tension which was at the same time an attunement towards the very ethos: suffering.
The birch made a thin whistle when it struck, and a moist Smackkk upon impact with the moistened, milky flesh. The patrician matron was seen to arch forward under the blow, her head slightly rising. There was the faintest sound of a muffled whimper, and then she bowed her head and stoically waited.
The rod had left multiple thin bright pink striata over the tops of her bottomcheeks. Once again the executioner pressed the rod over her naked rump, perhaps an inch lower. Once again, the same merciless pause, and then the whistling impact and, this time, a gasp of anguish. The blow appeared to be harder, and indeed the marks were brighter.
Within a quarter of an hour, the Whipmaster dealt Number 7 exactly fifteen lashes. All fifteen were applied horizontally after the rod had been pressed against the shuddering bottom to mark the designated area for the next cut. The victim's stoicism was astonishing. When he paused, her bottom was livid and there was not an inch of milky skin to be seen upon it, yet the skin was nowhere broken. Sobbing groans were all that escaped her, but that was not to say that her body had not lunged, jerked and twisted violently against the straps under each progressively harsher cut.
Now he moved to the left of the stage amid a polite handclapping, the sort you might have expected to hear at a dowager's teaparty after her young protegee had sung "The Last Rose of Summer." The spotlight had gone out and I wondered if Number 7's punishment was over.
It was not. The spotlight blazed again, but this time to fix upon the left rear exit of the stage, from which now came a girl with straw colored pigtails, a pouting and sulky face with pug nose, ripe mouth and dimpled chin, pink-skinned and startlingly well developed for her age. She wore highheeled red leather pumps, elbow-length red leather gloves, and a black nylon slip with very thin straps which covered her from mid-bosom just below her almost hairless cunt. Now the applause rose again and, this time, it was far more enthusiastic. The woman strapped kneeling to the block raised her head and then uttered a horrified cry.
"Ohh, no, oh please, no! It's unjust!"
"Silence, Number 7," Henry Bascomb said into the microphone. "It is the decision of Number 6 that your daughter avenge the unjust humiliation to which you subjected her. He has petitioned me as Number I to make this part of your punishment, and I so decree it."
The woman's stoicism had vanished, and she began to sob violently. The girl, her twelve-year-old daughter, obviously, advanced onto the stage while one of the twins at the back brought up a footstool and placed it at the left of the victim. The girl seated herself, leaned towards her mother, posed her left gloved palm on the woman's chinkbone, and then resoundingly began to smack that stripped and swollen naked behind with her gloved hand. At once her mother burst into tears, began to twist like an eel, hysterically imploring pardon, repenting her cruelty towards her daughter. But these entreaties seemed to make the girl all the more vengeful, for she increased the rapidity as well as the severity of the spanks.
I counted at least fifty, until at last the pretty little blonde rose from the stool and disappeared. through one of the rear exits, amid thunderous applause.
Now the other twin came forward with the silver bucket, and once again doused it over the matron's flaming hindquarters. And this time the Whipmaster approached, having substituted a curious little scourge for the birch.
I could not at first make out whether the thongs were of cord or wire, for they were unusually thick. It was, I discovered, waxed cord. There were eight of these, all two feet long.
The Whipmaster again saluted the audience, then abruptly turned back to the victim who was still sobbing. Raising his arm, he brought the scourge straight down, aiming for the narrow crease between the inflamed globes. Now a piercing shriek attested to the perfidious torment of this new mode of fustigation. Number 7's naked body seemed to arch up from the block, then lunge forward. Her tear-stained face turned back, the lips trembling convulsively.
She received twenty strokes of the scourge on each bottomglobe. Her maddened lungings and twistings, the drummings of her pumpshod feet upon the floor of the stage blended into an aural and visual symphony of suffering which left me pale and sweating and with my prick in monstrous erection. And still it was not over.
Ten slowly prolonged times the scourge was lowered and then swept up, so that the tips bit into the soft pink lips of her slightly distended cunthole. Each of these drew frenzied shrieks and even more violent contortions. In her threshings, her nylon stockings had sagged down to her knees. Then at last the spotlight dimmed. The Whipmaster strode from the stage to loud applause.
The two girls came forward, unstrapped the hysterically moaning victim and helped her rise. She tottered between them, and with her head bowed upon the shoulder of one twin, she stumbled off the stage.
Once again the lights went up, and Henry Bascomb took the microphone: "We shall have, with your permission, a slight alteration in the program. You will of course agree or disagree by the usual vote. As you know, Number 27 submits herself for progression in the degrees of. submission to suffering, having already passed the first stage. I think it might be interesting if we were to judge the demeanor and ability of our newest candidate for membership, Number 51."
I was thunderstruck as I saw those massed faces turn back to look at me. What he had just said meant that I was to whip Jane Lawrence, there upon the stage for all to see. It was a dream-fantasy of the most lust-rousing magnitude. I had never before been an exhibitionist in any of my own tributes to the power of the whip over the female. The atavistic, untrammeled rut which I experienced whenever a woman shuddered and writhed under my blows, until this moment, had been my own to encompass, my own to know and to glory in. Moreover, each such application of the lash had culminated in fucking-and I did not think that would be the mode here tonight. Nor, indeed, would I have dreamed of so performing, though I would admit to lusting for Henry Bascomb's creamy-skinned secretary. The more so because I had already conjectured how exciting her initiation must have been.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I made my way down the aisle to the stage in the same death-like silence which had greeted that moment before the Whipmaster began the demonstration of his artistry. I bowed to the audience, and then to Henry Bascomb at the podium. I was alone there upon the stage with those two exquisite young naked twins, and I was also somewhat embarrassed that I was suffering from a violent erection. The costume of the Whipmaster provides against this cause for self-consciousness with that singular codpiece. Now that I have succeeded him, I am eternally grateful for its camouflage.
I noticed something more about the block which I had not at first seen from my vantage point at the back of the theater. At the very base where the victim's knees would press, there were two wide metal rings. Number 7's knees had not been bound to those rings. They had strapped her ankles well enough, but they had made the buckling straps fast in rings in the floor beyond, placed apart sufficiently to straddle her thighs to the upward-biting application of the scourge. By binding the knees, however, one achieved a greater constraint and thus, in turn, imposed a greater ordeal upon the victim. But even as I made this mental calculation, I heard applause, and I looked up to see Jane Lawrence approaching from the left wing. There was a faint smile on her lips as she came slowly towards me, arms at her sides, and then she straightened and seemed to toss her wavy black mane back off one lovely creamy cheek in a gesture of bravado which made me admire her the more.
Next, after inclining her head slightly to acknowledge my presence, she turned to the audience and bowed low, extending her arms out wide to encompass them, much as a performer might do for an actual theater audience in a real theater. But in this gesture there was also a trace of servility, the credo to which each guest or member of The Whipsters must subscribe. Henry Bascomb once more took the microphone.
"Number 51, you are new to our ways, but as I have already assured all your peers, not at all new to our most cherished beliefs. Briefly I will document you on Number 27. When a female is initiated into The Whipsters, she has the privilege of submission by her own volition or by constraint. If she takes the former way, she may choose her initiator or initiatress from the audience as well as the implement of indoctrination. Should it be by constraint, she submits to the will of the majority as to her person. But to rise from the lowliest rank requires great submissive power and courage, for each year we peruse the roster of our female members and relegate them back to the lowliest submissive rank of all or elevate them after they have complied with the rule that at least once a year such a member must seek to improve her status.
"Number 27 accepted initiation of her own free will and chose a female of considerably higher rank than herself to be her initiatress. She now desires to rise one level from chattel to slave-submissive. Again this is of her own free will, and so, though she has left the choice of initiator to me who am Number I, she retains the right and privilege to select the instrument you will use upon her. It is also for her to determine when this test shall terminate. Both of you may continue with this understood."
Jane Lawrence turned to me, once again tossing back that thick mane of wavy black hair which so reminded me of the actress Veronica Lake. Then, with exquisitely deft and swift gestures, she drew off her black satin gown and stood before me in only a black satin-elastic garterbelt and charcoal-brown nylon hose and black leather pumps. The blood rushed to my head at the sight of those proudly jutting, closely spaced titties with their brownish-orange aurolae and the poutingly ripe nipples in their sweet centers. Her navel was wide and shallow, and her pussy was almost entirely covered with thick hair which ran along the length of the perineum. Because of the richness of her creamy skin, that hair seemed even more lewdly alluring to me.
"I wish, Number 51," she said in that appealingly vibrant voice of hers, "to be bound as tightly as the block permits. First your hand, and then the cane, if you please."
Having said as much, Jane Lawrence calmly walked towards the block, knelt down, then bent her lovely body forward along its harsh surface, with the boss pressing against her upper belly to tilt up the magnificently sumptuous, closely spaced cheeks of her wonderful posterior. The groove broadened as it neared the base, thus giving access to her two temples of delight. I knew what I should have done had I been alone there with her, and thus for me, my debut into The Whipsters was perhaps as much torment for me as for her.
I waited a moment for the lovely naked twins to assist in preparations, but when they did not stir and when a kind of expectant silence was communicated to me by the audience, I somewhat angrily took matters into my own hands. I passed a set of straps around her knees and buckled them tightly around those two rings set at the edge of the block. She looked back at me, her eyes wide through her mask. There was no mist of tears or cloud of fear. And still that enigmatic smile curved her lips. Next I strapped her ankles and made them fast to the floor rings, and this time I could see the tufts of pussy hair draw back to expose the soft pink petals of her slit. I was perspiring now, but it was a lust-sweat, and not embarrassment. I moved forward now to make her wrists fast, and I saw also at the very top of the block there were two hollows meant for the elbows and arms. I made these as tight as I could, and smiled back at her, beginning to regain my own inherent poise and self-assurance.
Now she was stretched tightly, her beautiful titties flattening towards the end of the block, her back arched and deeply hollowed, the cheeks of her bottom standing out at the most tempting angle for flagellation.
When I finished with her, I moved back to contemplate that wonderful bottom. I knew that I was on trial as much as she, perhaps even more so. And then a caprice entered my mind whereby I should make my debut at least novel, for a handspanking is certainly banal, and in Jane Lawrence's case, possessed of so sumptuous and temptingly creamy a behind, it was negligible.
I therefore seated myself on the small of her back, facing the audience. This brought a gasp from all of them, including Henry Bascomb himself. I was heartened by that complimentary sound. As for Jane Lawrence, she too had gasped in surprise. My weight must have been a torture for her, considering the boss pressing tightly against her bare belly. I could see the cheeks of her creamy behind tighten instinctively as she tried to press herself forward into the very block itself, as if to ease the constraint of the many straps which bound her. I could, of course, have used the waist strap which I saw dangling from a metal ring at about the middle of the block, and which could have been connected to a similar ring on the other side, but I preferred not. So far as ignominy and degradation were concerned, it added a nuance which standing there and spanking her certainly would not have conveyed. Moreover, it augmented her discomfort. That smile of hers had goaded me into somewhat more sadistic an urge for reprisal than I had intended at the outset.
My right hand now slowly roamed over those resilient warm globes. I could feel the skin twitching under my palms. I prolonged it even more than the Whipmaster had with Number 7. I could see Jane Lawrence's pumps twist about nervously, betraying her overly sensitized anticipation of that moment when I should begin her chastisement.
And then suddenly, without warning, I raised my right hand and descended it with all my force upon her left buttock at the very summit. At almost the very same moment, my left hand rose and fell on the other cheek. Jane Lawrence gasped aloud, and that was reward enough. I set about capriciously to decorate her creamy bottom with the hue of chastisement. For about twenty smacks my right hand visited her backside with vigor and precision. Then for about ten more strokes, my left hand visited the other globe. Then, I raised both hands and commenced a double spanking. This time, both vividly reddened cheeks quaked and contracted and squirmed under the reiterative assault, and I was rewarded by hearing low groans emerge from her panting lips.
When I finally rose from that beautiful living seat of mine, her posterior was swollen and an angry, darkening red. I walked slowly around to stare down at her face. Though it was masked, I could see the glistening tears on her cheeks and the piteous trembling of her lips.
"Bring me a cane!" I called aloud to the naked twins. Once again I heard Jane Lawrence groan aloud. I could not resist taunting her: "Of course, Number 27, if you wish me to stop, I should certainly be gallant enough to do so."
"N-no. Do it!" her voice was slightly hoarse now, but her defiance was apparent.
One of the blonde twins had left the stage, and now returned. She knelt before me and handed up a yellow rattan, quite thin and long and viciously flexible, with a cord grip for the wielder's hand. I took it from her, swished it about a few times in the air, and then, once again acting entirely upon impulse, I said to the girl who had offered it to me, "I wish to make a test of this instrument before applying it to Number 27. Both of you, bend over and grasp your ankles while I test its efficacy."
I could hear murmurs in the audience, but I didn't know whether they were complimentary or derisive, or whether I had affronted the members by my originality. However, the blonde twins did not question either the command or my right to give it. Submissively, they turned, standing side by side, then bent over and grasped their ankles, so that I had before me two enchantingly pinksheened bottoms, almost identical in proportions, exquisite terrain for the rattan.
I tapped each girl's bottom lightly, and remarked, "Remain bent over until I give you permission to rise, both of you." Then, drawing back the can, I applied a deft cut across the base of the bottom farthest from me, and, moving back a step or two, almost as swiftly cut across the base of her sister's bottom. Faint squeals attested, indeed, to the efficacy of this whipping instrument. So too did the bright streaks springing up on the carnation-tinted skin. The base and lower summits of a girl's behind are far more sensitive than the apex of the summits. I had already learned this for myself. So in this vein, before I let them stand up, I gave each two swift cuts, the first at the lower summits and the last across the very tops of their thighs; each of them cried out tearfully under that last stroke.
"That will do," I said curtly. "Go kneel at the back of the stage, with your bottoms on display. Kneel on your palms and bow your heads. I shall not have further need of you." And then, for the first time in my life, I heard applause, and it was a heady sensation to stand there on that stage before those men and women, each of whom was undoubtedly in his or her own right far wealthier and more renowned than I.
I lifted my left hand to command silence, and I was fascinated and delighted in my own ego to see how quickly it was granted. Then I turned back to the block.
During this respite, Jane Lawrence's jutting round bottom seemed to have lost a trifle of the angry red hue which my hands had bestowed. Yet I was certain the flesh must be terribly sensitive and that the cane would be a martyrdom. I did not, of course, know to what degree of severity her initiation had gone. I later found that she had requested that the woman who was to be her initiatress use hand and hairbrush until she could bear no more, and that she had won applause for taking a handspanking of nearly a hundred slaps and a hairbrushing of half again that many.
But the cane is far more torturing than the hairbrush, because it draws and stings as it burns. Its shock upon the subtle feminine nerves of the gluteal region and the loins builds cumulatively, piling Pelion upon Ossa of seemingly unendurable crises of indescribable throbbing pain. In a word, suffering at its most encompassing and ramified.
As I laid the cane across the very middle of her behind to warn her that I was about to begin, I could see her muscles tighten and her head rise. Her pumps twisted this way and that as she strove for purchase on her knees. Her thighs were forced tightly up against the heavy wooden block, while the boss forced up her behind in the most lascivious of poses. I kept her waiting a full moment before I drew the cane back and then cut at her to swipe it across both cheeks and to hear the delicious Thwackkkk!" which it pronounced upon impact with her bare ass.
"Afihhh!" she called out, her voice thick and choked. Her head again rose, but no further sound escaped. If it said that the matador must face his own moment of truth before the black bull of Pamplona, if it is true that the world does not exist for him except his short sword of death against the eviscerating horns and the courageous charge of that thundering beast, then it is equally true that a woman like Jane Lawrence must be undergoing her own singular battle against the boundaries of endurance and pride and self-esteem and shame. And yet I was not deep enough into her mind to know the perverse demon which urged so stately and poised a beauty to offer herself up thus for the sadistic and voyeuristic pleasures of all these men and women who drank in every iota of this scene, and would simultaneously have ordered time to stand still forever could they but have possessed such power.
After the fourth cut, Jane Lawrence called out in a flurried voice, "Ohh, dear God in heaven!" The second and third strokes had bitten across the lower summits of both globes; but the fourth cut I had placed slantingly towards the outer end of her right buttock, from about the middle down to the base. Her hips had begun that delicious, uncontrollable weaving which is evidence of suffering in itself, and has no need of words.
"Am I to stop?" I demanded, in so loud a voice that I surprised myself. I throbbed with lust, and I would have given a year's salary at that moment to have been able to descend the curtain and solace both myself and my creamy-skinned victim.
"Of course not!" she almost cried out, and this time she did look back at me. Her eyes were moist and her cheeks were suspiciously flushed under the face mask. The audience applauded her wildly. I gathered that she had already passed to the next level, the one Henry Bascomb had called slave-submissive.
I found myself in somewhat of a quandary. I did not have it in my heart to demean her. Her magnificent poise, coupled with the courage she had shown, was deserving of a better fate than the begging-off, cravenly, to which a continued whipping would surely have reduce'. her. And yet, on trial before these peers myself, I could not end their program without her having exercised her own right to end it for them.
So once again I laid the cane over her bottom, choosing the very top where it was least marked. She shuddered, and the intake of her breath was magnified by the extraordinary electronic pickup. I gave her the cut quickly, and then the second atop it, and this time she screamed.
"AMihrrr-oh my God, it hurts, it hurts me!"
She wrenched at her straps, her face turned around to me, and she waited as I slowly raised the cane again. She seemed to huddle herself, to try to shrink herself into the very block, so her magnificent titties mashed themselves cruelly and her thigh muscles in their stress stood out against her moist, creamy skin. Now lowering the cane to the floor, I whisked it upwards towards the left buttock near the interstice, and almost immediately thereafter flicked it in the same direction to the other globe. The nearness to her cunt drew cries of alarm as well as pain from Jane Lawrence. She had twisted her feet about so violently that the pumps were scuffed off now, and all the muscles of her calves and thighs were in fierce interplay. Her bottom, now vividly marked over the background which the handspanking had infused, quaked and tremored uncontrollably. And she was crying like a little girl, as once again I laid the cane across the very middle of her ass. She took that last cut, and she could take no more. As it made its hissing, smacking impact, her head tilted back and she screamed, "Oh my God, stop-that's enough-I can't-I just can't any more!"
I was glad to stop. So tightly drawn was she over the block and so thoroughly had I covered her bottom with my hand and then the cane that there was risk of breaking the skin with any succeeding strokes. I flung the cane towards the twins, and I myself unstrapped Jane Lawrence from the whipping block and lifted her to her feet. Her head bowed against my chest, her arms around my waist, she began to sob, great tearing sobs, her body heaving with them. The smell of her hair and her skin and of the sweat had the power of an aphrodisiac on my senses, already so violently aroused. Once again, it took all my self-control to keep from picking her up in my arms, flinging her back down on the block and fucking her. And now the applause rose again, loud and noisy. Henry Bascomb was waiting for me at the left wing of the stage. It was he who took Jane Lawrence from me and, surprisingly strong for a man of his age, lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the theater. The lights went up to signify that the performance was over.
As I made my way down from the stage and back along the aisle, I was stopped on every hand by well-wishers, both male and female. I was thanked for the pleasure I had given them and the-ingenuity of my demonstration. And I was assured that there would be no dissenting vote against my admission to The Whipsters.
Henry Bascomb and I left the house at about a quarter of midnight. He took me back to his house in the limousine, and then, as I was about to get out of the car, shook his head. "No, Harry, I'll have you driven back to your place. By the way, you've been unanimously elected to The Whipsters. Our Whipmaster paid you a high compliment. In his opinion, by the time he leaves for Europe at the beginning of next year, he thinks you may well be of the caliber to replace him. And there is something more I think I should tell you now. You recall the publication Excalibur, don't you?"
"Of course. I edited it for several years."
"I know you did. And the man who published and whose widow so vengefully put you out of a job, were friends of mine-or rather, I should say, he was. He and I were first to think of The Whipsters, for he found that he had married a Tartar who would give him little joy in bed and who would never be his chattel."
So this was how he had first heard of me. "It's really too much to have you drive me home, Henry. I can call a cab just as easily as not. Well now, I wish I'd known about my old boss then," I said unassumingly. "It wouldn't have done you much good in those days, Harry. And maybe you weren't ready for it. I'm not going to drive you. I'm for bed and Marie, if I can keep these old bones of mine from creaking too much. But then, as Number I, you see, I've a delightful out. If she doesn't give me pleasure, it will be her fault, of course, and then I'll have to punish her severely. No matter how old I am, the sight of a lovely naked body wriggling under the whip is as good as Ponce de Leon's legendary Fountain of Youth."
He chuckled, patted me on the shoulder. "Your driver will be out directly," he said. Then he turned back to go up the steps of his own elegant mansion. I lit a cigarette and leaned back and closed my eyes. At that moment I wished I could have found May again, to take the ferocious edge off my unrelieved sexual yearnings. Then, even as I was musing of those distant days and of that night when that stately beauty had worn only picture hat and gloves, hose and pumps, I heard the front door of the limousine open and close and then a vibrant voice say, "May I drive you home, Number 51?"
The cigarette dropped from my hand as I sat upright and stared forward. In chauffeur's livery, with cap and visor, Jane Lawrence was at the wheel.
"My God-how-but it's impossible!" I blurted.
"Oh no, not at all. By the way, you'd best take off that mask in case a policeman should look in, though I'm a very good driver as a rule. Number 3 was kind enough to drive me here ahead of you and Number I."
"But you-you-don't you feel uncomfortable-I mean-"
This time her smile was faint but not at all mocking. "You should know, of course, that I do, but it only adds to the pleasure. Now tell me where you live. Number I thought he had the address right." She repeated it, and it was correct.
I leaned back and studied her all the way to San Francisco. That black costume and the black cap and visor had added a very troubling note to her beauty. I could see her black hair down one cheek as before, and then I could see all the images of her that I myself had evoked this night.
I refrained from speaking throughout the drive back home. I noticed also that she had not used my name, and it was probably a wise precaution. But when we stopped before the door of the apartment building in the Marina, she got out of the car and came to open the door for me. I got out, haltingly thanked her, still embarrassed and at a loss for words, I had had this beautiful young woman naked and strapped to a whipping block. I had sat upon her back, spanked her ignominiously like a child, and I had caned her until every inch of her bottom was streaked and she had cried for mercy. But here she was before me, more alluring than ever before. There was a kind of sadness to this parting, for I assumed that she belonged to Henry Bascomb.
I took out the key to the front door (I had kept my parents' apartment and refurnished it to suit my own tastes now), turned back and said rather haltingly, "Well, good night then, Number 27."
"Excuse me, but I have orders from Number I. Can I park the limousine here without any problems from the police?"
"Oh yes. It's fine. Why do you ask?"
"Because I've orders to spend the night with you, Number 51," was her surprising answer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
For a moment I remained speechless, trembling in nervous reaction to all the lustful excitement which I had endured this night, and I could not believe my ears. She mistook this hesitation for lack of desire; in almost a reproachful tone, she asked, "Don't you find my body pleasing. Number 51? I know it's blemished, but that's from the test of suffering, and I'm not to be blamed for it."
"No, no, that-that wasn't what I was going to say at all. Damn it all, mayn't I call you Jane now?" I said in a thick, unsteady voice.
"Yes, if you wish. Since we arc working together, you will have to use my Christian name. But at any meeting, you must never do so," she explained.
"I know, I know," I said impatiently. "Look, come upstairs with me and let's not stand out here arguing in the street."
"I am yours to command, you know, Number 51," she said with that exquisitely provocative little smile which so haunted me.
We walked up the stairs to my apartment, and I unlocked the door, and turned on the light. From the bay window in my huge living room, there was a breathtaking view of the hills beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, and the moon was full. She waited respectfully in the center of the room, till I turned and swore under my breath, then said almost angrily: "For God's sake, sit down and take off that silly cap. I'll get us both a stiff drink."
"Thanks. I could use it, to be honest with you," she smiled wanly. "But I'd rather stand for a bit, if you don't mind. The drive here was somewhat uncomfortable."
"Of course-damn it, I'm sorry. Jane, I swear I had nothing to do with that business tonight," I told her as I went to the sideboard and poured from a decanter. Two potent bourbons with water should ease the natural constraint between us, I felt.
I handed her her glass, then stood facing her and clinked mine to hers. "To your guts, Jane, and to your beauty. I admire them both in equal amounts," I told her.
"Thanks." She took a long swig of her drink, and color began to come back into those creamy cheeks. "I know you didn't. But I knew it would have to be a man, because I'd chosen a woman to initiate me as a chattel-that's the very lowest level in The Whipsters. And I'm rather glad Number I picked you. Shall I undress now, please? These trousers are murderously tight, I'm afraid." Her voice had become apologetic, and she actually blushed.
"Of course. How old are you, Jane?"
"Twenty-four. Why do you ask?"
I lit a cigarette after offering her one which she declined. "Oh, no real reason. Except I was curious that a perfectly stunning beauty like you should wind up in such a club, where all the odds are in favor of the male."
"Maybe I want it that way," she smiled as she began to unbutton the chauffeur's uniform coat. When it fell to the floor, I gaped, because she wore nothing under it. And as she slowly and very carefully began to unbuckle the trousers belt and then tug that confining garment down, I saw that she was naked. Then she halted, wincing as she saw she would have to stoop to take off the heavy man's shoes which completed that deceptive costume. And I knelt down and did it for her, then, as she lifted each gloriously rounded, creamy leg, I dragged off the trousers.
I couldn't control my lust any longer. I seized her by the hips, crushed my mouth to the black thatch of her cunt, and kissed it passionately. She uttered a low groan, "Ohh, Harry, oh my G-God, yes, yes, oh I'm so glad it was you tonight! I want you, please, to do everything to me ... everything you want. I'm still a slave, you know, until Number l's orders are carried out and the night is over. A slave-submissive."
"What difference is there between what you were and what you will be, Jane?"
"As a slave-submissive, I may be called on to inflict suffering on a chattel. And I have the right if deemed guilty of an infraction of the rules, to select my executioner. I may decline without penalty the request or order of any man or woman to offer my body for sexual service, since I have the choice of lover as I do of the one who punishes me."
"But how did you come to join The Whipsters?" I demanded, my fingers stroking and rubbing the glossy satiny skin of her inner thighs, as my mouth again brushed the soft nest of her cunt.
She shrugged, smiling down at me. "You're like all men, wanting to know the last secret of a woman. But if I didn't tell you, I'm sure Number I would. I'm the daughter of the Whipmaster."
I started in surprise. "And when he leaves for Europe, you'll join him, then?"
She shook her head, put out a hand to caress my cheek. "No, Harry. He dreams of the olden days, when the very wealthy and the nobility could form secret cults and administer the power of life and death over their slaves. I don't go that far in my own desires, though I take pleasure in shame and pain and the glory of submission. He taught me that much, after my mother died. I was eleven years old then, and I'd never been so much as slapped. But then he told me I must learn to prepare myself for my place as a woman subservient to her master. First, slaps and insults. Then more humiliating spankings, for which I had to prepare myself, quite naked, assuming many different poses, sometimes being tied and having to wait hours for the punishment. Then, when I became sixteen, he gave me my first whipping-a dozen lashes with a thin carriage whip, and I had to count each out and remain untied to prove my courage. And finally, two years ago, when he was made Whipmaster, I was obliged to join. The woman who spanked me at my initiation asked that her husband be allowed to take my virginity-and Number ; agreed to it, after I had consented."
"Incredible!" I muttered. My hands had found those lush round buttocks, gently caressing them, finding the skin still very warm, the flesh swollen from
'.he kisses of that flexible rattan cane.
"Not so incredible when you know who my father really is, Harry. You must promise me you will never tell anyone I have told you, though."
"Of course, my beautiful darling," I kissed the soft wide niche of her belly button, my fingers straying over the black thatch of her delicious cunt. She shivered and both her hands cupped my flushed cheeks.
"He traced his lineage back to the fifteenth century, Harry, and discovered that his many times great-grandfather was royal executioner to the King of England." She sighed now, leaning over me so that her beautiful round titties dangled temptingly like ripe fruits awaiting plucking. I rose now, and cupped them, then kissed her hard on the mouth. Her arms went round me, and with a little moan of assent, she pressed against me.
"What will he do in Europe, Jane dearest?" I asked. My palms smoothed the still inflamed cheeks of her magnificent naked ass, and she squirmed lasciviously and kissed me hard on the mouth. Her tongue delved between my lips, and a furious swirling rut took possession of me. I was nearly blind with it.
"He wants to find a secret club, perhaps something like our own, dear, where there is more violence and torture. I-I can't persuade him to be content with what is here. Slowly, I think, he's going mad. But it would kill him to be put away, to vegetate in an institution. You see, he was a prisoner of war of the Nazis, and they tortured him and kept him locked for weeks in a narrow cell."
"Poor man!"
"It wasn't only that, Harry. He'd always been so virile, so dominant. The Nazis loved degrading him. They had a handsome bitch, one of the wardresses in the women's section, whip him and torture him. Never a man. That's how he got his passion for avenging himself by giving the whip to women in his turn, as he does now. He was one of the first to join The Whipsters. My stepmother-though she's since divorced himmet him there."
"What a life it must have been for you, Jane," I muttered as my hands stroked her quivering sides, my crotch pressed to her furry cunt, all my being intoxicated by her nearness and by the blazing knowledge that I had dominated and whipped her.
"It hasn't been so bad, dear. As Number I must have told you, we don't go beyond real severity. Brutality is forbidden, and not even a chattel can be whipped beyond her endurance to bear it. It is a preparation for the female to bring her to the male in the purest, most exalted state of passion-as it has done with you, Harry."
And now one soft hand crept to my trousers, drew the zipper, opened my shorts and drew out my bulging, maddened prick. I can't describe the ecstasy and torture of that white slim hand, caressing and attuning me till I groaned aloud in intolerable anguish.
"If you wish, Harry," she whispered, "if it pleases you, you can whip me some more. Only please, dear, let it be on the thighs and the back. I've had the cane before, of course, but never after such an awful spanking. And then-and then, too," here she blushed and lowered her eyes, "I-I knew I wanted you, and so when I was suffering under your hand, I was more sensitive and felt the suffering more."
"I want you now, without the whip, Jane," I gasped. I moved away from the cajoling blandishments of her hand, and swiftly stripped naked. Then, lifting her in my arms, I carried her to my bed. I mounted her, and instantly entered her. She uttered a wild cry of rapture, hugging me with arms and legs, crushing her mouth on mine, and then in pagan fury, I fucked her. How she responded! For days thereafter, I bore on my back and chest and arms and shoulders the marks of her fingernails and teeth. Yet I knew I had left mine on her for as memorably long.
* * *
Yes, Jane Lawrence was the mistress of Henry Bascomb, as I had suspected she was. But in the months that followed, we were lovers too. Yet never once did that black-haired beauty yield her tight, hot cunt to my eager prick till after I had spanked her, or given her the strap, the cane or the hairbrush or a taste of my belt.
Meanwhile, I went on with my work, and attended the meetings of The Whipsters, each time in the company of my employer. The second time I saw a handsome gray-haired woman who, I had guessed from what I could see of her masked face and having heard some of her remarks to a companion earlier in the evening while we partook of our refreshments, belonged to one of San Francisco's oldest families-stripped naked by her two nieces, forced to don a punishment helmet and thigh-length tight red leather boots, then bound to a metal triangle on the center of the stage. The Whipmaster gave her the birch on her bottom and titties nearly to the blood for the sin of having tried to force one of her nieces into lesbian union with her. That same night, an elderly male member complained that his eighteen-year-old wife had not shown proper cooperative fervor in their marital embraces. Summoned before the masked tribunal, this willowly, honey-haired young beauty was condemned to receive five handspanks from each of the members present-some thirty in all-and then, released from the whipping bench along which she had been strapped, was hoisted into the air by cords tied to her thumbs, a metal yardstick between her naked legs, and given twenty flicks with a knotted scourge up into her cunt by the Whipmaster. Released, she knelt and hysterically pl-edged the utmost servile obedience to her husband, who promptly took her into an adjoining private chamber and obliged her to french him before offering herself dog-fashion for a lengthy fucking-to which she furiously responded. There was no gainsaying the erotic power of the whip!
At the seventh meeting, I was again summoned to the stage to substitute for the Whipmaster, who had come down ill. My duties as his replacement were to chastise no fewer than three beauties that night. The first, a forty-year-old autocratic auburn-haired woman who had embarrassed her husband in public by being particularly arrogant to a cab driver.
The second victim was a petite, overbearing twenty-one-year-old coppery-haired girl, the mistress of one of the oldest members of the Whipsters, who had been caught in flagrante delicto with a lover of her own age.
The final victim that night was also petite, and honey-haired. She had been presented as the new wife of Number 38, a sophisticated gray-haired man in his mid-fifties. He charged her with extravagance as well as having smashed their brand-new Cadillac in a thoughtless accident. When asked by Henry Bascomb how she pleaded, she replied in a quivering, little-girl voice, "I-I'm awfully sorry. I do deserve to be punished good and hard, and I hope to be pardoned after I've had it."
There was something about her voice and her looks that made me stare at her. And when, at my order, the blonde twins had come forward and stripped her naked-for I preferred the female to be thus most often when she was to be whipped-I stifled a gasp of disbelief. That pale white skin, that opulent bottom-that exquisite little oval-shaped brown birthmark on her upper left thigh ... no, it couldn't be! Plumper perhaps than almost eighteen years ago, and yet that birthmark was still the same. And finally, when I had the girls make her kneel before the whipping block and then bind her wrists and ankles and knees, I moved forward to run my palm over her jutting naked ass. As she felt that lingering, appraising touch, she gasped out, "Ooooh!" and wriggled her bare seat in the most lascivious way.
There was no doubt about it. The years had dealt kindly with her lush body. Fate had reunited us with an irony that she would be sure to appreciate: for this woman, nearly forty and who did not look it, was none other than Sylvia Blanton, the girl I had saved from my frat brothers and who had taken my male virginity!
