Sir John Ellison sat calmly in his armchair in the living room of his elegant mansion just off Grosvenor Square in one of the most affluent areas of London. To his right stood a small cherry wood tabouret on which was posed a decanter of Oporto port, a glass and a plate of tea biscuits. To his left was a copper ashtray stand on which a fine Havana Panatella reposed, the aromatic blue smoke slowly curling up from its glowing tip. The room was somber and spacious, and the blinds were drawn, though it was a bright August afternoon. But for Sir John Ellison it did not require sunlight to bring warmth and pleasure.
He was reading a novel printed in French, which language he spoke and read as fluently as he did his mother tongue. It concerned itself with medieval tortures, particularly those applied to women accused of being sorceresses and witches. He wore an elegant and costly dressing robe, tightly belted and silk pajamas which were monogrammed even to the detail of his coronet-for he was an English peer in the House of Lords. His bare feet were shod in thick, comfortable slippers, and he was totally at his ease.
With his left hand he reached for the cigar, while his eyes continued to follow the line to which his right forefinger applied. He put the cigar to his sensual, full mouth, drew in luxuriously, and then exhaled a long wreath of blue smoke. He carefully laid the cigar back down in the ashtray, and had recourse to the decanter of port. He lifted up the glass, admiring the rich ruby red color of the vintage wine, and sipped with the air of a connoisseur, then set down the glass.
A faint muffled sound rose to his eagerly listening ears, and he permitted himself a faint, derisive smile. Then he went on reading, absorbed in the account of the martyrdom of a beautiful young woman of twenty who had been taken before the Grand Inquisitor of Rheims in the year 1367, accused of being a witch and of having a stray cat as her familiar. The cat had been tortured and had perished, but the young witch had remained obdurate. They had begun with the whip, stringing her up by her thumbs, with her legs widely spread apart and iron weights bound to her slim ankles so that she could not kick out and escape the curling fury of the leather whip wielded by the executioner.
She had remained silent, so far as confessional was concerned, but she had cried out and wept when, at the urging of the Grand Inquisitor, the masked and hooded torturer had made the long supple thong curl across her pointed, pear-shaped breasts and then across her lower belly. Next they had used the ordeal of the needle to determine which part of her body could endure pain without sensation, for there the Devil himself had set his mark. And when they found none, convinced yet that she was a witch, they had racked her and put live coals on the insides of her thighs and in her navel until at last she shriekingly confessed. She had been burned at the stake a week later. It was said by her jailor that the Grand Inquisitor himself had spent each night with her until her execution, praying with her and trying to wrest her soul from Satan. Yet it was strange that at the execution stake, she could not speak to ask for mercy or to avow that she had recanted; her tongue had been torn out.
Sir John Ellison shuddered delicately as he put the book down beside the decanter. He was a man of forty-three, solid and fleshy, but without fat. His closely cropped black hair was streaked here and there with gray; his broad almost hooked nose had a fine Roman distinction to it. His eyes were cold blue, seemingly without emotion. But in them now was a singular glitter, while his nostrils twitched as if to belie his outer indifference and poise.
Once again the muffled sound came to his ears, and the smile deepened. He took another puff at his cigar, another sip of the port, and then leisurely he rose and walked slowly out of the living room across the narrow little hallway. There was a small room there, which served at times for reception of guests or for the lodging of coats and hats, canes and umbrellas on the occasion of party or festal dinner. This afternoon, it was being put to quite another purpose.
The door was slightly open, and he stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, listening intently, his eyes widening and the glitter in them growing more intense. For the third time the muffled sound was heard. It was that of a stifled sob, for someone was weeping. And that someone was a woman.
He put out his left hand and gently pushed the door open. The room was bare except for a low ottoman and a straight-backed chair. It had no window, and the ceiling was low. It was not much larger, indeed, than a closet, and there was no rug on the floor. The wood was hard and glossy with polish and wax, it was hardly a comfortable room or cheerful one. It was neither comfortable nor cheerful for its occupant, a magnificent blonde woman of about thirty-six years of age. She wore a silk frock, gauzy flesh-tinted nylon stockings of the finest denier, elegant pumps, and she was kneeling over the ottoman with her palms resting on the floor on the other side, so that his first view was of her posterior.
It was naked. The skirt and petticoat-finely trimmed with Alencon lace-had been fucked well above her hips, which had a superlatively voluptuous rondure to them, and fastened high on her back with a safety pin. Her white satin-elastic panty girdle had been tugged down to about mid-thigh, the garter tabs still clenching the tops of the sheer stockings. He flesh was of an adorable pink and white carnation tint, the epidermis exquisitely sensitive and fine-grained. Her buttocks comprised two succulently plump, upstandingly rounded globes set closely together and separated by a gradually widening shadowy groove. But by the way she knelt, with her knees exaggeratedly spread apart, that groove was distended, and Sir John Ellison's glittering eyes fixed on the treasures it allowed to be glimpsed. The plump pink lips of her cunt, framed by the dark golden curls of the pubis, peeped out at him, while above, as he stared intently, it seemed to him that he could almost make out the exquisitely crinkly fissure of the anus.
Her buttocks were extremely red, a red that had been bright scarlet and was now darkening to the color of sun-dried brick. Uniformly, with perhaps more concentration of that somber hue towards the lower curves of that sumptuous posterior than at the tops or the summits.
It had been exactly forty-five minutes ago that Sir John Ellison had obliged his beautiful mistress to prepare herself by hoisting skirt and petticoat and then kneeling down over the ottoman, put her hands behind her and herself unfasten the pantiegirdle and drag it down to expose her naked bottom to a juvenile hand spanking.
But lest one think that this chastisement was by way of love-play and innocuous, one had only to glance at the powerful hands of the English peer. His fingers were thick and solid, his palms calloused, and black hairs grew on the backs of his hands in great profusion. His hands were the hands of a sadist or murderer or a bricklayer, not those of an honored nobleman.
He had ordered her to remain in penitence after the correction and warned her that she must not annoy his meditation until he at last deigned to visit her and conclude the little interview during whose early course he had found fault with her and thus sentenced her to receive this chastisement from his own hand.
Yet the beautiful matron who continued to pose her self on all fours so shamelessly, with legs straddled, and head bowed, was trembling now, not so much from fatigue and terror at his return, as a passionate enervation. She was praying that he had returned to grant her the appeasement of her attenuated nerves ... a good fucking. For Florence Stanley, the mistress of Sir John Ellison, a divorcee with an eighteen-year-old daughter, was a fervid masochist. Yet for her, self-debasement was solely a thrilling means to the end for which she longed so passionately: the consolation after punishment which would come from the driving of his virile, thick, long cock deep into the pink crevice of her cunt, solacing her for all her shame and degradation and suffering. Indeed, that very prelude of humiliation and pain would draw her all the more furiously to blessed orgasm.
Florence Stanley had been his mistress for three months. He had met her quite by chance at a nearby teashop to which he had taken his brunette secretary Arlette Duclos one rainy afternoon. He had entrusted Arlette with a number of letters which she was to deliver personally to his confreres in the House of Lords, and after she had left the booth, he had turned his head and seen Florence Stanley sitting alone at a little table, frowning and very nearly in tears. He had gone over to her and struck up a conversation, discovering that she was in dire financial straits. She had won the divorce and the custody of her daughter because her husband had been found guilty of adultery, and had been sentenced to pay a heavy monthly alimony. This had occurred six months previously; but on that very afternoon when Sir John Ellison had met the woman who was to become his mistress and slave, the errant husband had absolved himself of his obligations by taking a plane to the United States where he intended to lose himself.
Sir John Ellison had been sympathetic and kindly, and he had offered, discovering that Florence Stanley had some little talent as a stenographer, to give her engagement and to pay her so that she might subsist. Within a week he had discovered that she was of a fervently ardent and carnal nature, but plagued with the specious morality of her upbringing, which was to say narrowly conventional. Indeed, her husband had forsaken her bed because of her diffidence in performing the more complex and lascivious techniques of lovemaking.
In short, Sir John Ellison had discovered that Florence Stanley required a master, a role which he could fill to perfection. With the savoring artistry of his profligate nature and his long experience in affairs between the sexes, he had gradually made her his mistress and then begun the bullying and exacting process which was gradually to enslave her ... until she could come of her own accord to this rendezvous at his house to offer herself up to be beaten and shamed, to be made to kneel on all fours over an ottoman with her naked, inflamed bottom in full view, awaiting his good pleasure no matter how long that might take.
He felt his penis stiffen at the sight of that quivering, trembling, inflamed naked bottom. The savage impulse to fling himself down behind her and to impale her, to thrust his agonized cock deep into that salaciously proffered, gaping pink crevice, was maddening indeed. But precisely because he was a connoisseur of women, just as he was of wine, good food and cigars, Sir John Ellison had not the slightest intention of giving way to that impulse. His purpose was more devious, and, he felt certain, certain to be more fruitful in the future.
CHAPTER TWO
Sir John Ellison stood on the threshold of that little antechamber, his hand clasped behind his back, his cigar clamped between his strong though discolored teeth and jauntily sticking out from a corner of his sensual mouth, as he contemplated his magnificently desirable mistress. He was silent and he had given no warning of his coming.
For Florence Stanley, this posture was now becoming an agonizing ordeal. Obliged by his order to remain on all fours posed across the ottoman after having docilely endured in that very same pose a lengthy and severe handspanking, she had at first gloried in her self-sacrifice and naively believed that this new demonstration of her submission would strengthen her hold upon him.
In the short span of three months since she had first met him, Florence Stanley had learned a good many things about herself. At the very beginning of their relationship, her puritanical morality had at first hampered her willingness to show her gratitude to this man who had rescued her and her daughter from what might easily have become a desperate economic predicament. But that first week of his craftily calculated wooing of her, he had shown himself to be so considerate and solicitous, so refined and so very much the gentleman that she had finally stifled the small voice of conscience within her by telling herself that after all, she had been a married woman and that to reward him with her body in return for the security of her beloved Wilma was not really much more than exchanging one husband for another. Moreover, he had so expertly seduced her that first time that her own pent-up, natural and healthy longings had overwhelmed any straitlaced recriminations. He had taken her to Simpson's for a luxurious and lengthy dinner with wine and brandy, then to a musical comedy in Piccadilly Square, and thence by handsom cab to his little house. She had been half fearful of going there with him, but he had not even tried to kiss her or to hold her hand in the cab, thus allaying her prudish suspicions.
And then, as they had sat in the comfortable and luxurious salon and he had smilingly and convincingly told her that he could not bear to think of so well bred and aristocratic a woman as herself being in need, and would give her employment that would conserve her dignity and enable her to meet her obligations, Florence Stanley had burst into tears at the unexpected humanitarian decency shown her. A moment later, seated beside her on the couch, his arm protectively about her, he had kissed her for the first time and soothingly conversed with her. And it had not been much longer thereafter that she had lain swooning in his arms after having shyly returned his kisses until at last, with a chuckle, he had lifted her up in his arms and carried her off to his bedroom. There, it is true, she had blushingly struggled a little although deep inside of her she had known that she could not resist this fascinating, generous man. And then finally when she had been undressed-again with the most expert process-to brassiere and pantiegirdle, and she had blushingly become aware of her scandalous half-nudity, his fingers had gently stroked the nape of her neck while his lips had fixed upon one of her dark coral nipples and begun very gently to suck it through the bra. Wave after wave of voluptuous yearning had gradually taken possession of her delectably ripe body, till at last the bra had been slipped off and she had felt lips and fingers caressing her naked breasts. Again she had stammeringly entreated him to be gentle with her and not to force her. He had turned off the little night table lamp beside the bed and then begun even more expertly to stroke her shivering belly and thighs with those strong fingers of his which could be so gentle and also so harsh-though she did not learn of their latter attributes until much later in their relationship.
Florence Stanley had been married off by her parents at the early age of seventeen to Henry Stanley, then twenty-five and a commission salesman for a large textile firm. Her parents had been of the lower middle class and, with two boys and another daughter besides herself to support, had looked upon young Stanley as a most desirable catch for their older daughter. And indeed their judgment had seemed to be unerringly accurate; two years later, by which time Wilma had been born to the happy young couple, Henry Stanley had been promoted to an assistant managership of the firm.
Florence had always been exceptionally attractive, but her parents had sternly taught her that sex had been created for procreation only and that it was not the right of the female of the species to enjoy her conjugal duties; it was important only for her to submit to them as a dutiful wife should. As a consequence, the ripely endowed young blonde had approached her marriage bed with Henry Stanley with a great deal of timorousness and, indeed, some advance repugnance. Unfortunately for her-and fortunately for Sir John Ellison-Henry Stanley was impatiently virile and had little interest and still less skill in the preamble of lovemaking. He had simply mounted his young wife and consummately fucked her without any concern for her secret needs; his smug male assurance had not indicated that she could possibly share his feelings-if she had, to be sure, he might have regarded her as a trollop. The result was a near-rape, and so Florence Stanley continued to shrink away from the physical side of marriage. Despite her growing beauty-which visibly increased after the birth of Wilma-she closed her eyes and shudderingly submitted whenever her brash, selfish husband approached her. And it became a sterile marriage in other ways, for Henry Stanley had no real love for children, not even his own, and deemed that his wife's one offspring would be quite enough. As the years advanced, and his travels for the firm took him throughout the British Isles, he began to philander, blaming his wife's frigidity on her lack of genuine affection for him. Florence Stanley was quite happy to be relieved of her onerous marital duties and passionately devote herself to the care and upbringing of little Wilma.
It was ironic that Henry Stanley was never to know the latent erotic capabilities of his beautiful wife; still more ironic that his prosaic and selfish usage of her luscious body was destined to drive her into the arms of Sir John Ellison; and finally, that his own far too late obsession with female flesh was to entrap him into an orgiastic sexual bout with a pretty young milliner's apprentice and so undermine his usual common-sense that he was caught in flagrante delicto with his passionate paramour, thus enabling Florence to obtain her freedom ... a freedom that was to be turned into a bizarre and incredible slavery in this modern day and age of ours!
Gradually and cunningly, so ably that Florence Stanley herself had not been able to realize what was taking place in her psyche, Sir John Ellison had forged the invisible shackles of this servitude until she had come to the point of eager and even joyous acceptance. It had delighted him, able pervert that he was, and voluptuary who had traveled the globe and indulged in all the exotic practices by which carnal pleasure is obtained, to bring about her total surrender-not only of her body, but also of her personality until he was able to mold her into the exact gala-tea of his desires. And now as Pygmalion had wrought, creating a live goddess out of mortal clay and stone, so Sir John Ellison had caused this renascence of Florence Stanley from prim matron and mother who used to blush and avert her eyes at the slightest mention of a word that had to do with sex, into a servile and quivering concubine who strove to anticipate his every sensual wish.
First, of course, he had begun by teaching her how to respond to his virile fucking, to cast aside her moral scruples and the narrow tearfulness which passed for chastity in her genre. He had taught her the thousand and one nuances of foreplay, and after play which make coitus one of the inexhaustibly gratifying joys of life. He had taught her to use her fingers and even her lips on his prick to whet his appetite for fucking her. In a sense, therefore, he had taken two of her virginities, if it can be admitted that even in bearing Henry Stanley a child the beautiful blonde Florence had remained a virgin in her mind by simply denying that there was such a thing as carnal intercourse between man and wife. And of course she would have died at the stake rather than have used her mouth on her own husband ... but Sir John Ellison had taught her to glory in her powers of fellatio because thereby she won favor in his eyes. One virginity remained: that of her anus, and this he was reserving for himself with the anticipatory and gloating delight of the true voluptuary who knows how exquisite the pleasure of anticipation can be as against immediate, crass realization.
About two weeks ago, he had initiated Florence Stanley into the masochistic joys of voluptuous flagellation. He had used the simple pretext of being vexed with her because she had pouted one afternoon when he had announced his decision to go to Birmingham for three days on business without taking her with him. To her astonishment, he had grasped her by an elbow, pulled her down across his lap as if she were a child, and despite her tears and frantically embarrassed protests, had fucked up skirt and petticoat, lowered her pantiegirdle, and proceeded to administer a sound handspanking on her ripe, enticingly rounded and satiny bare buttocks. At first outraged by this juvenile treatment, Florence Stanley had struggled violently to escape this demeaning chastisement; but his brute strength had been sufficient to compel her to endure it to the very end ... and then, while she wept and squirmed, her hands plunged back to her naming bottom to attempt to soothe the inflamed globes, he had then and there carried her off in his arms to a nearby sofa, and fallen upon her without more ado. In that fucking, Florence Stanley had become transfigured by the ferocious ecstasy her lover gave her, and the pain of her squirming buttocks had become a potent stimulant to bringing about an orgasm of such shattering force that she lay swooning beneath him when the act was done.
He had realized at once that within her nature, a latent and until then only vague propensity for suffering flourished within her. And thereafter he had undertaken her education by more direct steps, till now she had achieved this perfect degree of training which he had secretly intended all along with her ... acceptance of the most humble and degrading penitence in this little antechamber till it should please him to take notice of her again and either pardon her or add to her punishment.
All these thoughts flashed through Sir John Ellison's mind as he greedily contemplated those twitching, discolored fleshy hemispheres which contracted and yawned voluntarily now because of the irksome fatigue of this prolonged posture to which he had sentenced her. He took another puff at his cigar and then at last he dryly remarked, "Perhaps now you're regretting having disobeyed my request to bring your daughter here to be introduced to me, Florence."
"Ohh! Darling, I-I didn't mean to, truly. It's only that Wilma is such a high-strung and introspective girl, and besides I didn't think-" Florence Stanley had turned her tear-stained, flushed face back over her shoulder to contemplate her lord and master-for such he obviously was, even if she had not yet come to the point of formally declaring him as such in her address to him-and a mocking little smile curved his sensual lips as he observed that she had been careful not to budge out of the all-fours position which he had imposed upon her.
"That's it precisely, my dear. You didn't think. But you will from now on, I trust."
"Oh yes! I'll bring her whenever you wish, my darling! Ohh, please, won't you forgive me now and-and-love me?" This last phrase was uttered in an ingenuous quavering voice which not only amused him but also inflamed him. This mature and beautiful woman who was the mother of a daughter half her age appeared to him now exactly as if she were no older than Wilma; even less than that, since one would hardly expect to see an eighteen-year-old girl take position over an ottoman and expose her well-spanked bottom for nearly an hour to a man's eyes. Florence Stanley had also, during this isolation in penance, been suddenly terrified by the thought that perhaps Sir John Ellison's valet, Louis, might by some chance open the door of the antechamber and see her thus. Then she remembered that it was Louis's day off, and exhaled a sigh of deep relief.
"I shall not pardon you until Wilma is here in my house and you, her mother, do me the courtesy of introducing us," he coldly remarked. "You say she is shy and high-strung ... can it not be because of your reluctance to let her lead a perfectly normal and natural life? A young girl of her age should certainly expand her circle of friends. And you tell me that she goes to school and occupies herself with her books and really has no friends at all, even among her own sex. That is unnatural. Let me see. This is Tuesday. You will bring her to me Thursday afternoon promptly at quarter past two, do you understand, Florence?"
"Oh yes, yes, darling! I shan't forget."
"Have you told her anything about us?"
"Of course not, darling! It-it wouldn't be proper-"
"There goes your Mid-Victorian mind again, Florence. Spare me your specious and outmoded doctrines of motherhood. They bore me to tears, as you well know. But since I am responsible in a financial sense, at any rate, for Wilma's welfare, it is very natural that I should wish to meet my ward. You will admit that I have some right on my side," he sardonically went on.
"Oh yes, darling. You've every right. It's only that this has been so new-so exciting for me-and Wilma is-Wilma is still so innocent-"
"I will decide for myself what Wilma is as soon as I meet her. Now go get dressed. Let me see. She had classes this morning, so she will undoubtedly be home this afternoon. You will tell her about me, Florence. Of course you won't mention the exact nature of our relationship. If necessary, I shall impart that information."
"Oh, my dearest, dear John, surely-surely you don't mean to tell Wilma that you and I are l-lovers?" Florence Stanley gasped, her eyes wide with appeal and entreaty.
"By now you should have learned that I do precisely as I wish, Florence. Perhaps you need another spanking. I haven't introduced you yet to the martinet. I shall the next time you annoy me with your interruptions. Now go dress yourself. I have business in town within the hour."
Slowly Florence Stanley rose, her face scarlet, her eyes downcast. He stood arrogantly, puffing at his cigar and watching her between narrowed eyelids. Awkwardly she rose, with a gasp of pain because the movement not only aggravated the persistent smarting of her naked bottom but also painfully stirred the numbed circulation in her nylon-sheathed knees. She reached behind her to unpin the skirt and petticoat, after first tugging up her pantiegirdle and smoothing it into place. Then she moved towards him, her eyes soft and languorous, her lips quivering. "Darling," she timidly murmured, "darling, won't you love me a little before I go?"
"Haven't I taught you by now not to use that silly word?" he irritably responded. "Say what you mean, woman. What do you want of me?"
Florence Stanley bit her lips, bowed her head, and in a tiny voice hesitantly stammered, "I-I w-want you to f-fuck me, dearest ... please ... I need it so ... you spanked me terribly hard ... and I'm so-so-excited ... won't you please, quickly?"
His smile deepened. He took another puff at his cigar and blew the smoke towards her tear-stained, congested face. "I haven't time, Florence. Besides, you haven't earned your reward yet. This spanking wasn't intended to make your cunt ready for my prick, you know. It was my way of punishment for what you forgot to do. We'll see next Thursday afternoon if you deserve your reward. Now you may leave. And don't forget to be prompt. I shall punish you severely if you're even one minute late."
With this, he turned his back on her and strode back to the salon.
CHAPTER THREE
Wilma Stanley had locked the door of her bedroom and was stretched out on her bed, wearing just her light silk slip, avidly reading a letter, one of a sheaf which she had bundled up and hidden, with three thick rubber bands around them to hold them snugly in place, in a shoebox at the back of her closet and carefully tucked away under two pairs of old galoshes which she seldom wore. She would have put them in her bureau drawer except her mother was wont to bring in her laundered slips and panties and bras and herself put them back in place in the drawers, and thus might well have discovered this incriminating stack of letters.
They were love letters. But they were not written by a young man to Wilma Stanley; instead, they had been penned by a girl whom she had met a few months ago at the secretarial school. Or rather, late one afternoon when she had emerged from her classroom later than usual, and it had been raining, she had taken refuge in a little teashop just outside Soho. An attractive, mature and svelte brunette had been seated at the only vacant table, and as Wilma stood glancing forlornly about, she had beckoned to the hostess and suggested that Wilma sit opposite her.
They had struck up a friendship, and the young brunette had introduced herself as Arlette Villiers. She was, she told Wilma, twenty-six. Her father was French and her mother English, and she had come from Paris to London about ten years ago when both her parents had been drowned when swimming off the Antibes on an idyllic vacation. Her mother had an elderly cousin residing in one of the residential area of London, Arlette explained, and she had gone to live there while she completed her schooling. She was now, it appeared, secretary for a theatrical costume firm, and she worked close to the school.
Wilma had found her marvelously fascinating, with her stories of her life in Paris, the exciting work she did at the firm that employed her, and the two girls had become friends. She had, indeed, asked timidly if she might see Arlette again, and the lovely brunette had smiled and nodded and replied, "But of course, ma cherie. I was hoping you would ask that. I find you quite sympathetic, and you're quite mature for your age, too."
This last flattered Wilma's ego, for already at the age of eighteen, Wilma Stanley fancied herself a mature woman who should no longer have to be under her mother's jurisdiction.
Florence Stanley and Wilma had often quarreled over this outlook, for Florence, realizing how she herself had erred in selecting a mate, was fearful that her daughter would more readily make the same error ... and perhaps without the protection of marriage to mollify the mistake. Consequently she was forever railing at Wilma whenever she suspected the girl was displaying the slightest interest in young men at the secretarial school, and she had even once visited the manageress of that institution to urge the latter to see to it that Wilma was given a chance at a position in the very near future.
Wilma was scheduled to be graduated a month hence, and the manageress, a dour Scotswoman, had promised Florence Stanley that she would do everything in her power to obtain a respectable situation for her lovely pupil.
Wilma Stanley was inclined to be lazy, to daydream a good deal, and to have highflown delusions concerning her importance in the scheme of things. She was also far more sensual than her mother could have guessed. Those letters would have proved it at once, could Florence Stanley ever have read them or even dreamed that such a collection lay hidden in her daughter's closet. For the plain truth was that Wilma Stanley and Arlette Villiers had become Lesbian lovers only six weeks ago and Wilma now lived only for the moment when she could be reunited with her tender friend ("petite amie," as Arlette had so charmingly put it). She chafed under the stipulations of her mother's moral code concerning her goings and comings just as she chafed under the disciplinary regimen she had to follow at the business school. For her, the business of shorthand and typing was utterly mundane and boring, and her only reason for wanting to find a job and be graduated was that she entertained the exciting dream that perhaps she might be able to earn enough money to maintain her own little apartment where she could entertain her darling friend, her adored Arlette.
Wilma Stanley had coppery-red hair coiffured in a long pageboy, with the curls turned under. It was combed high away from her arching forehead, and it set off her exquisite oval face, and offset the ivory pallor of her finely grained skin. Her eyes were gray-green, somewhat almond-shaped, with thick though short lashes and very finely penciled brows, which gave her an alluring and sophisticated mien. Her nose was dainty and small, with just a hint of an uptilt to it, and this went very well with her supercilious small, ripe mouth, whose upper lip was accentuated in its haughty curve. The fact was that a first glance at Wilma would give the impression that she was not only aristocratic but also disdainful and completely the mistress of herself. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Emotionally she was entirely immature, owing to the fact that her father had never shown her very much attention; and she as not particularly fond of her own mother either because of the latter's imposition of restrictions upon her own habits. The divorce had certainly not intensified any warm relationship between the two women. Perhaps subconsciously, even, Florence Stanley sensed that her beautiful young daughter, exactly half her age, might be a dangerous rival in the event that Wilma should ever be exposed to the attentions of so worldly and wealthy a man as Sir John Ellison. And indeed, although Florence Stanley had not been candid enough with herself to admit it, this was precisely the reason she had held off against her lover's wish to meet Wilma. She feared that once he cast his voluptuary's gaze upon her daughter, he might well lose interest in her and favor Wilma instead.
Wilma's body would truly have made Sir John Ellison ecstatic. She was perhaps half an inch taller than her mother, and more svelte. Her breasts were two young, hard, perfectly proportioned pears, set closely together and high on her pale ivory chest, circled by narrow dark coral aureola in whose centers there flourished saucy, pert pink buds. Her waist was extremely slim, and no beautician or dietitian would for many years see cause for profit in Wilma's elegant figure, there would never be a problem of avoirdupois. From her waist, her haunches flared into sleek, high-set oval buttocks, with a gradually widening furrow that enticingly mysteriously intimated the secret delights of both her sexual crevices. Her belly was smooth and sleek, with a wide, shallow navel, an adorable place for kisses; indeed, Arlette had thrilled Wilma inexpressibly by flicking the tip of her pert pink tongue into that oasis. Wilma's thighs were long and supple-sculptured with delightfully curving grace as they merged into the ovals of her bottom. Her calves were sinuous, nervously muscled. Her ankles were delicately chiseled, her toes dainty. In all, she would have made a superb commercial model for expensive lingerie. And that, too, was a source of irritation to her. Only a month ago, a gentleman had tipped his bowler hat to her as she was emerging from the secretarial school and offered his card, which indicated that he was a representative for a modeling agency, and had asked her to visit the office at her convenience, because in his opinion she could earn a great deal of money posing for advertisements and posters.
Wild with excitement and enormously flattered, Wilma had reported this to her mother, who promptly slapped her face, tore up the card, and ordered her never to think of such a thing again, for that was the way to perdition.
"You're such a simpleton, Wilma, for all that you're eighteen," her mother had upbraided her. "Why, for all you know, that man could have been a white slaver. No, don't laugh! Such things still happen in these days, my girl, never you fear! Or else they'd have you up there taking off your clothes in front of men, and perhaps taking pictures of you, and the next thing you'd know, I'd have a letter demanding several hundred pounds in return for the negatives. Oh, no, you don't, Miss! You finish your school, and then we'll see to finding you a decent job in a respectable office where you can contribute a little to this household. And maybe if you're fortunate, you'll find a decent young man who'll put a ring on your finger. Now let me have no more of this nonsense!"
And this way why, all the more, Wilma Stanley cherished her secret liaison with Arlette. She was reading Arlette's last letter now, and her heart was pounding rapidly as she held the violet-tinted paper in her left hand and her right hand crept down along her slip, past her belly, and to the apex of her thighs where, under the soft, fragile silks, the furry mound of her virgin cunt nestled. She shivered, closing her eyes to remember with a delirious pleasure the first time Arlette had taught her the forbidden joys of Lesbos...
She had visited Arlette's little apartment off Darby Avenue about a mile from Simpson's world-renowned restaurant. As it happened, Florence Stanley had been summoned to her lover's house and had left a note for Wilma that she might not be back until time for dinner. Arlette had been waiting for her outside the school, and had invited her over to her little flat. Wilma had visited, and then had the happy thought of urging Arlette to come home with her to see if her mother was there, and then discovered the propitious note. It meant that they could have three hours together, and she had happily shared the taxi with Arlette, who promptly put her left arm around the redhead's waist and, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, had whispered, "You don't know how I've waited for this, cherie!"
Arlette's flat had turned out to be exquisitely furnished, with a salon, a charming little dining room, a narrow but most convenient and modern kitchen, tiled bathroom and a wide bedroom in which a huge bed loomed opposite a chic boudoir table with upright oval mirror.
Arlette had made tea for her new friend and served some blueberry tarts she had bought at a bakery shop that morning. She had begun to tell Wilma about her recollections of Paris, of the theater and the opera, of the lovely sidewalk cafes and the boats along the Seine. More and more stirred, fascinated more than she knew by Arlette's piquant beauty and her sensually husky voice, Wilma had moved closer to the brunette on the wide divan of the salon. And the next thing she knew Arlette's mouth had skillfully and amorously engaged hers in a long, passionate kiss which left her breathless. From there it did not take her long to induce Wilma to undress and to join Arlette on that wide bed where, entwined in each other's arms, naked under their slips, both young woman had kissed and fondled each other until at last the knowing and aggressive brunette had furled up Wilma's slip and then her own, merged their loins and begun the sweet rhythmic rubbing of cunt to cunt, meanwhile thrusting her pert tongue between Wilma's panting lips, as her hands squeezed Wilma's oval bottom-cheeks and she taught the young virgin the clandestine joys of tribadism...
Latently passionate as she was, and being denied the natural and heterosexual experiences because of her mother's prudish dread of the male, Wilma had flowered and burgeoned under this perverse tutelage. She had been taught how to gamahuch Arlette, for Arlette had instructed her simply by performing that exciting lingual and labial ritual upon Wilma herself. And at Arlette's loving suggestion, she had begun to correspond with her "petite amie." Arlette had replied in turn, but wisely had not sent the letters to the duplex house which Florence Stanley still rented lest Wilma's mother be alerted to what was going on. Instead, she had posted them to General Delivery, and as the postal station was only a quarter of a mile from Wilma's abode, the young redhead had no trouble in continuing this passionate correspondence.
This was the last letter from Arlette, and Wilma read it again for the twentieth time, her titties rising and falling with excitement, her forefinger creeping nearer and nearer the orifice of her quim which she prodded through the thin silk of her slip. It read as follows:
"Ma belle amoureuse:
"Think of me, my dear one, when you receive this letter. I am sitting before the mirror opposite the bed where you and I have known such rapture-I do hope you have not forgotten the lovely hours we have spent together? I am naked now except for my long opera-length black mesh stockings, to which I have attached with care the tabs of a tight fitting pantiegirdle. My breasts are bare, and I cup them now with one hand as I write to you with this other, and I send you their kisses, and I remember how your sweet mouth felt against their sweet tips. I long for you, my Wilma, and my little con grows moist and hot at the very thought of what you are to me.
"I cannot meet you this week, my dear one, alas, but I will meet you outside the school next Monday at noon, since that is the day when you have only two classes, as I recall. You see how much I force myself to remember about your habits, my beloved? It is a proof of my constant affection for you.
"My con sends you its love too, and can hardly wait until we meet again.
"Your Arlette"
With a sigh, Wilma Stanley impatiently fucked up her slip to her belly, and spreading her long, lissome thighs, began to tickle the twitching pink lips of her cunt, which had already moistened at the reminiscence of passion rekindled by the rereading of that passionate letter. She uttered a groan and closed her eyes as she imagined Arlette atop her now, Arlette's slim fingers fondling her panting titties, whose points would stiffen at the sweet contact of those beloved and knowing fingers. And then a shudder ran through her as her finger touched the nodule of her clitoris, and her body arched as if indeed Arlette were even now beginning that rhythmic and persuasive friction of cunt to cunt which brought about such inexpressible and cataclysmic bliss.
Her body vibrated now in the throes of a furious if self-induced passion, and Wilma Stanley sank back on the bed panting, feeling her finger inundated by the sticky juices of her secret yearnings.
CHAPTER FOUR
Florence Stanley was extremely upset as she unlocked the door of her apartment. She had discerned in Sir John Ellison's cavalier treatment of her this afternoon a subtle change in their relationship. Not that she wasn't ecstatic about being his love-slave, for it thrilled her to know she could hold the passions of this virile and worldly peer. But she was distraught because she had humbled herself like the lowliest of slaves and he hadn't gratified her by giving her what she most desired, a glorious, thrilling fucking after that cruel spanking. Her buttocks still throbbed and burned uncomfortably under her clinging pantie girdle. He had ordered her to put it back on when she dressed, refusing to grant her the reprieve of tucking it into her big purse and alleviating in this way the pangs of the chastisement he had given her.
"By wearing it, Florence," he had told her, "the heat of that good thrashing will remain a little longer, and you can know what to expect when you disobey me. Now, you're not to forget about Wilma."
She could hardly wait to get home to tell Wilma that everything was arranged. She only hoped that her daughter wouldn't sulk. Lately Wilma had been very difficult; moody and introspective, laconic, shutting herself up in her room for hours, curt in her answers and refusing to be drawn into gay, inconsequential conversation. It was all very mystifying. But then, of course. Wilma was a growing young woman, of marriageable age, to be sure, and this must be simply a phase of her development into maturity. Florence Stanley realized that she herself as a young girl had experienced the same sort of irritable indecision ... until unhappily that decision had been made in favor of a man who had left her with a daughter whose care was becoming more and more a concern to her. Now, if John Ellison would only take an interest in Wilma-with his business connections he could readily find a job for her after she finished secretarial school. And then perhaps a husband.
Florence Stanley sighed nostalgically. Everything was going to work out for the best. In a year or two Wilma would be married and off her hands, and then perhaps Sir John would ask her to marry him. And oh, how willingly she would doit!
It was in this spirit of almost self-pitying self-renunciation and dedication to her daughter-an attitude quite in keeping with her growing masochism and also one accentuated by the irksomely lingering sensation of a well-fustigated bottom which in its irritating turn reminded her that she had not been granted the sexual appeasement for which she had longed-that Florence Stanley unlocked the door of her flat and, with a gasp of relief and without waiting till she reached the privacy of her own bedroom, hoisted skirt and petticoat and feverishly unfastened and removed the offending pantie girdle which had cuirassed her opulent buttocks and kept in all the discomforting glow of that sound spanking. Then, with another gasp of well-being, and after a stealthy rub or two at her inflamed and still unpleasantly tingling bare behind, she lowered skirt and petticoat and, patting her hair and glancing at herself in the oval hall mirror, went directly to Wilma's room to communicate to her daughter the imperious wish of Sir John Ellison.
Now Wilma had assumed that her mother would be gone until at least early evening, so the lovely red-haired onanist had inferred from her mother's conduct the past few months that the latter's frequent comings and going were dictated by an unknown lover. As a consequence, she was hardly prepared for the unexpectedly early return of her parent. Similarly, Florence Stanley had no thought on her mind other than that which Sir John Ellison had impinged upon it (together with the more chastening reminder of that sound handspanking) and so she was startled to find that when she turned the knob of Wilma's door, it did not at once open.
This check irritated her, frustrated as she was already by her lover's denial of the one great joy which she could usually take even from a day that provided the painful and humiliating experience of corporal punishment. Frowning, the beautiful mature divorcee rattled the knob and called out, "Wilma! Wilma, are you in there?"
Wilma Stanley sat up with a start, her gray-green eyes widening with frantic alarm. She rolled over onto her side, reached into the little drawer of the night table beside the bed for a pocket tissue, and at once mopped her stickied cunt, for her orgasm had been copious indeed. Then hastily she smoothed down her slip, and, sliding off the bed, thrust her dainty feet into her bedroom slippers and called out, "I'm coming, Mother!"
Hastening to the door, Wilma quickly unlocked and opened it.
"What were you doing, Wilma, that took you so long to answer?" Florence Stanley demanded, still chafing from the frustration which she had experienced with her lover. And again, subconsciously, there was a kind of pique in beholding this girl who was half her age and in many more ways infinitely more desirable. "Why aren't you dressed?"
The petulant annoyance in her mother's tone correspondingly rankled the high-spirited young redhead. "I was just taking a nap, mother, and I didn't think I had to be dressed for that," was her impertinent reply. Coming on the heels of the situation in which Florence Stanley had been made to feel like the lowliest and most disobedient of slaves, it was perhaps the most unfortunate thing Wilma could have said, for it at once made her mother furious: "Just you be careful, young lady, don't take that tone to me!"
"But I was just telling you the truth, Mother," Wilma replied, her voice rising in pitch at this denigrating treatment.
"I'm warning you, Wilma, to treat me with proper respect until you are earning your own living or are married and away from my supervision," her mother heatedly retorted. "Now let me ask you again, if you were napping, why did you have to lock the door? Didn't you expect that I would be back, or were you perhaps thinking of doing something behind my back and not wanting me to find out?"
Florence Stanley had no grounds for such an attack except, to be sure, her own torturing feeling of inferiority as the result of the disappointing seance from which she had just come. But to her precocious red-haired daughter, it struck perilously close to home. Wilma paled, blinked her eyes, and stammered, "You-you've no right to say such a thing, Mother! What would I be doing, anyway, except sleeping? You don't let me go out with boys, or did you think that perhaps I sneaked one in here?"
Florence Stanley's beautiful blue eyes narrowed with anger. Her full ripe mouth, whose tremulous lower lip had been one of the telltale characteristics which had at once told Sir John Ellison that here was a woman who innately yearned for a dominant master, compressed with fury. "Be careful, Wilma! Just keep on like that, young lady, and I'll slap your face ! You know perfectly well why I don't allow you to date boys. You're not yet capable of selecting the person who's right for you. Why, if I'd let you have your way, you'd have gone ahead with that ridiculous modeling scheme of yours, just because some stranger spoke to you. You're much too gullible, and I don't intend to have you make the mistakes that I made when I was even younger than you by letting myself be pushed off into marrying someone who wasn't right for me. At least I'll do for you what my parents never did for me-help you find Mr. Right. But you've got to rely on my judgment, Wilma."
The fatal demon of rivalry which always exists between two women, even be they mother and daughter, malevolently prodded the spirited young redhead's tongue with his pitchfork of persiflage: "You don't seem to have made such a good job of it yourself, Mother."
"Why, you little-" fury choked Florence Stanley's throat, and without thinking, she lashed out with her right palm against Wilma's satiny cheek. Taken by surprise, the young redhead stumbled back, hand to her flaming cheek, her eyes enormously wide with stupefaction and disbelief. "You-you hadn't any right to do that," she protested in a choking voice.
"Oh, hadn't I?" her mother sarcastically responded. "You've been asking for that ever since I came into this room, Wilma. Not that it's any of your business, but my parents thought that your father was a nice steady hard working fellow who would make a good husband, and they pushed me into it. And he left me for some flibbertigibbet who happened to be younger and prettier and made up to him and let him think he was a king. Because I'm concerned about you. I have to go on working and supporting you and then worrying about how you behave and wondering if you'll even graduate from secretarial school and find a decent job. Look at this room!" She glanced around, her eyes still flashing with anger. "It's untidy and disgraceful. When I was your age, I was already keeping house and doing a much better job of it. Now listen, because this is very important for you. Sir John Ellison told me that he wants to see you on Thursday afternoon. You know that I am his secretary, and I've told him a good deal about you. He knows that you're finishing secretarial school this next month, and if he-likes you, he's powerful and rich and influential and he could very easily find you a wonderful situation."
Wilma shrugged. Her mind was still rankling under the slap her mother had given her. But once again this gesture was fatal, for it smacked of impertinence and insubordination, qualities which Florence Stanley herself had been accused of and punished for in her secret relationship with the very man whose employee she was. And so, trembling with suppressed anger, she exclaimed, "Are you looking for another slap, Wilma?"
"No thank you, Mother, one's quite enough," Wilma flung back at her, and the eyes of the two women met much as protagonists in the arena try to out-countenance each other before they give battle.
"You ungrateful, wretched girl!" Florence Stanley burst out. "It doesn't matter to you that after nineteen years of marriage I have to go back to work and be at the beck and call of a stranger, that I'm left without the companionship and the help of a man who would properly discipline a lackadaisical creature like you! And yet you have the effrontery to treat me as if I were perhaps your maid. Speaking of that, you're going to tidy up your room at once, do you hear? It's disgraceful. If Sir John Ellison were ever to visit, I should die of mortification. Look at that bed. The sheets are rumpled and the pillow is twisted-here, what's this?"
She approached the girl's bed, and the young redhead put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of terror. The incriminating letter from Arlette, the one which had told her of an assignation for the following Monday, peeped out from under the pillow where Wilma had thrust it just before she had simulated her reunion with her petite amie and enacted onanistically those delicious games which she longed to play with beautiful Arlette. And worse still, the damning wad of tissue with which she had sponged away the effluvium of her sexual climax lay on the rumpled sheets in plain view.
Before Florence Stanley could reach the bed, Wilma ran back and, stepping in front of her mother, stooped over and seized the letter, crumpled it up in her hand and then made a flustered pretense of smoothing out the pillow.
"What did you take from under the pillow?" her mother suspiciously demanded, staring at the now scarlet-faced girl.
"N-nothing, M-mother," Wilma quavered, squeezing the wadded violet sheet into a still more compact mass.
"Don't lie to me, young lady! What's that in your hand? Give it to me at once!" Florence Stanley cried, beside herself with exasperation.
With the backs of her knees tremblingly pressed against the edge of her bed, the young redhead was desperately cornered. Suddenly she opened her hand, seized the incriminating evidence, and tore it into shreds.
"A letter!" her mother cried. "Who wrote you that letter? What kind of nastiness are you up to, young lady?"
"That's not fair! You-you haven't any right to talk to me as if I were a-a-a criminal or something!" Wilma angrily sobbed, great tears welling in her beautiful gray-green eyes. "You treat me as if I were a prisoner! You won't let me have any friends or see anybody. It's school, school, always school and nothing else. Well, I'm sick of it, do you hear? If you want to know, that was a letter from a girl I met, a very nice girl who wants to be my friend. But I don't dare invite her here because you'd nag at me and you'd tell her that I was just a child." As pity for herself mounted, Wilma stamped her foot, while tears glistened on her quivering eyelashes.
Her outburst was so sincere that it very nearly convinced Florence Stanley who, somewhat abashed by her daughter's reaction, had begun to admit to herself that perhaps she had been too harsh on the sensitive young beauty. But once again the perverse imp of misfortune led her to glance sharply at her daughter ... and when her eyes lowered to Wilma's loin, she gasped.
Unhappily for the redhead, her orgasm had been so violent and her passionately ardent young body so teaming with nature's sap, that the wad of tissue which Wilma had used to sponge away the naughty traces of her climax had not been adequate to the task ... and there on the slip, at precisely the area of Wilma's pussy, a visible moist patch could be seen. As Florence Stanley's eyes moved back again to the bed and saw that wad of tissue, she divined precisely what had happened, and her cheeks turned as red as Wilma's-but for a very different reason.
"Ohh! You-you little slut! You-you've been playing with yourself, that's why you had the door locked, isn't it? What was in that letter to make you think of such a filthy thing as that. Oh, to think that my own daughter-it's disgusting!"
And now that her mother had unerringly guessed the shameful truth, Wilma began to tremble so violently that her knees buckled together and her lips quivered and she found herself incapable of uttering a word.
This inability to speak confirmed as well as confounded the issue and in a fatal way for the luckless red-haired beauty. For Florence Stanley remembered with an all too vivid recollection why her bottom still throbbed uncomfortably and that she had incurred that humiliating and juvenile indignity just because of Wilma. Her pride and ego were furiously outraged. And so, seizing her daughter by the elbow, she pantingly exclaimed, "You deserve to be punished like a child for such a filthy thing! like a child, do you understand? I'll teach you to play with yourself and to lock the door so I won't find you out, you shameless little slut!"
With this, she pushed Wilma violently forward, and the redhead uttered a cry as she fell across the bed. It was a matter of only a few moments to twist her around so that she was turned over on her belly, her long lovely bare legs angling to the floor, her buttocks upreared over the edge of the bed, and for her mother, maintaining the culprit in that vulnerable position by pressing her left palm against the small of her daughter's back, to stoop and hoist up Wilma's slip just over her hips with her right hand and to expose the magnificent creamy behind which till this moment had never known the infamy of corporal chastisement.
CHAPTER FIVE
Florence Stanley gasped with surprise at the dazzling vision of her daughter's naked bottom. Perhaps for the first time she realized the desirable maturity of her red-haired offspring, but the sight also intensified her suspicions that Wilma was concealing something from her and had been up to no good, during her absence, a suspicion which the discovery of the locked door and then the incriminating wad of tissue and finally the telltale moist stain on her daughter's slip had cumulatively aggrandized.
Having shifted her left palm so that when it clamped back down against the small of Wilma's naked back it maintained the upfucked slip, the handsome blonde divorcee scolded, "You shameless thing, you! Naked under your slip! Suppose Sir John Ellison had come over here on a surprise visit, what would he have thought of you in the middle of the day like this? I am going to spank you good and hard, Wilma, until I have an answer to some of my questions!"
With this, raising her right hand, she brought it down furiously against the jounciest curve of the red-haired beauty's right buttock, staining the flawless creamy epidermis at once with a bright blotch that outlined her maternal palm. The ignominy of this punishment, rather than the painful sting, drew a strangled cry from the redhead, who twisted her face round to the left and glared at her mother with her eyes blurred with tears as she panted, "I won't forgive you for this, Mother! I won't ever forget it, because you've no right! You've accused me and hounded me and now you're punishing me without cause, that's what you're doing!"
Perhaps the vague voice of conscience stirred in Florence Stanley's psyche. Perhaps if she had not had so frustrating a session with her nobleman employer-lover, she might have had the good sense to realize that she was simply venting on her daughter her own disappointed spleen at having been just so humiliatingly spanked and then forbidden the compensation for which her loins still throbbingly yearned. And perhaps, suspecting now that her daughter had practiced the perverse and secret habit of onanism and thus obtained a relief which she herself had not been granted, made her all the more furious with the girl. Adoritly, leaning her left knee against the edge of the bed, and locking her right leg across Wilma's down-angling bare calves, while at the same time increasing the downward pressure of her left palm to pin the culprit over the edge of the bed, she dealt Wilma three or four noisy stinging slaps all over the upturned, deliciously spacious and marvelously creamy bottom as she harangued the girl: "Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I'm blind? First you tore up a letter which you say belongs to a friend who is sympathetic to you, you had your door locked and you took a long time to let me in. Then I see toilet tissue as if you were trying to clean up something, and there's that stain on the front of your slip. How do you explain all this, I want to know? Answer me that and then I'll tell you whether or not you deserve this spanking! Answer me! Answer me!"
Working herself into a furious sense of righteous indignation while at the same time the sight of the struggling, squirming, contracting velvety bare bottom before her whetted her own vindictive eagerness to punish after having been punished so demeaningly, Florence Stanley applied another fusillade of slaps, about a dozen in all, distributing them at random over the tossing, weaving satiny bare buttocks.
Wilma cried out, twisted, tried to raise herself, pressing her palms down on the sheets and seeking to hoist herself away from her mother's wrathful attack. But she was too awkwardly placed, her belly pressed hard against the edge of the bed, her calves pinioned by her mother's right leg and the strength of that maternal palm which forced against the small of her back and at the same time held up her uptrussed slip to expose her nether hemispheres, she was powerless to avert the shameful and now painful chastisement.
However, Florence Stanley, already initiated into the subtle erotic adventures of sadomasochistic sensations, and her long-dormant sensuality-which her inconsiderate and selfish husband had never really tapped-having been fully brought to the surface by the expert sexual technique of Sir John Ellison, experienced at the sight of her daughter's magnificent naked forms an emotion which was not entirely that of maternal solicitude and attention. Wilma's sleek, high-set oval bottom-cheeks, delectably and salaciously divided by that gradually broadening cleft whose ambery-shadowy allure was enough to madden a sodomite, had a lascivious insolence that fairly called for fustigation. Moreover, the sensual gratification of feeling her hand make stinging impact with that resilient, velvety-smooth naked flesh, to see the oval hillocks flame from the pale soft cream to bright indignant hue and to watch their spasmodic tightening and yawnings, their shiftings and weavings, incited in the divorcee a powerful erotic goad. Wilma's struggles, indeed, fanned the flames of that excitement; and the girl's sobs and cries-for now the hot stinging slaps had begun to hurt as they feel with seemingly endless reiteration-roused Florence Stanley's erotic enervation to pitch.
"You haven't answered!" she panted, as her hand again rose and fell with increasing vigor, this time flattening the inner curve of Wilma's right bottomsummit. "Are you going to answer me?" This time her hand smacked noisily against the base of the girl's left bottomglobe. "If you persist in being stubborn, Wilma, we'll see who can hold out the longest!" Another sonorous smack with all her strength, bridged the shadowy crease just over the upper summits of the struggling redheads now flaming posterior. "What were you doing when I tried to get in? I want the truth, do you hear me?" And another pair of slaps visited the girl's right lower buttock with full force.
"Ahh! Ohh, Mother! Stop, it hurts! Ouuuu!! Please stop! I told you-ouch, oohh, please!-I told you I was reading the letter, that's all-it's cruel of you so hurt me like this-owww! Let me go, let me go, I won't ever speak to you again for this!"
That last phrase was unfortunate for Wilma. It served to rouse Florence Stanley to a more unbridled anger than ever. "Oh, so now her ladyship won't speak anymore, is that it? That's just because you want to hide the naughtiness that you were doing with a locked door, isn't it? A big grownup young woman like you playing with herself-yes, that's it, that's it! Don't try to deny it! You were playing with yourself and you were reading that letter, that was it! And now you're ashamed and so you're angry at me because I'm shocked at your wickedness, Wilma!" While she spoke, she did not stop spanking, and poor Wilma twisted and arched, her bottom sometimes rising up with a lascivious bound to this side or to that as she desperately strove to escape the pitiless hail of burning slaps which had now turned the creamy epidermis of her naked bottom into an angrily flaming canvas which might well have represented a surrealist's version of a sunset.
But these contortions and gyrations, futile though they were in accomplishing her evasion from that maternal reckoning, exposed in the most salacious manner the dainty pink lips of her virgin slit, framed by the crisp thick dark-red curls of her virgin mount ... and because her mother stood so close to her, Florence Stanley detected the final damning confirmation of her suspicions: the soft pink twitching lips were moist, a moisture which could only have come from that perfidious practice of which she had accused-and rightly, of course-her daughter.
"Oh, you shameless thing! You wicked, sinful girl!" Florence Stanley panted, her magnificent bosom turbulently rising and falling." You think
I wouldn't find out, eh? Playing with yourself like a nasty little child-oh, and then to insult me and to tell me how unjust and cruel I am by punishing you for such indecency! Oh, if I had a good martinet or a whip handy, Wilma, I would thrash your naughty bottom to the blood, I would indeed!" Again as she harangued her sobbing and struggling half-naked daughter, the divorcee continued to apply forceful slaps of her hand all over the violently crimson bottom, and Wilma's convulsive wrigglings and lungings continued to expose the incriminatingly moist and libidinously twitching petals of her virgin cunt in the most licentious way.
Several times Wilma tried to reach back both her hands and either to cover up her besieged burning bottom or to wrest away her mother's left hand which bore down so implacably on the small of her back. But pinned as she was in this awkward position, she scarcely managed to effect any shielding of the condemned and punished area, and these desultory attempts only made Florence Stanley spank the harder. Now the naked ovals of Wilma's bottom fairly danced and shifted and rolled and contracted and yawned and jiggled as that hand rose and fell rapidly, and the crisp "Smack! Smack! Smack!" of the spanking seemed to accelerate both in tempo and in volume, as indeed so did poor Wilma's strident cries and stammered incoherent pleas for mercy.
It might have gone on much longer had not Florence Stanley paused to catch her breath, trembling violently with her rage and the other secret emotion which she still could not admit to herself, bathed in sweat, her hand inflamed; and this momentary respite enabled her to see the blazing result of her handiwork on that once immaculately creamy posterior. Wilma, abandoning herself to the pain which had completely obliterated her initial shame, lay sprawled over the edge of the bed, her tear-stained and contorted face hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Her buttocks continued to perform that fascinating choreography which to the flagellant-and especially to a man like Sir John Ellison-is the very breath of life, even though the slaps had now ceased to fall.
Florence Stanley straightened and moved away, shuddering in the aftermath of this violent scene. Then, in a few moments, when she was more mistress of herself, she said in a hoarse voice, "You will take a shower and you will put on your pajamas, do you understand? Then you'll get into bed. I'll bring you your supper on a tray. And then I'm going to lock you in for the night. Your light will go out at nine oclock, do you understand me? And tomorrow, when school is over, I shall be there to call for you so that you don't have occasion to strike up any more of these secret acquaintances of yours. And one thing more, young lady. When I take you to Sir John on Thursday afternoon, I intend to tell him about this, yes, Miss, how I found you playing with yourself and how I had to spank you for it. And then perhaps you will tell me in his presence all about that letter and who it was from, really from, do you understand me, Wilma?"
Slowly Wilma Stanley raised herself on her palms, groaning as the slightest movement of her darkening and swollen buttocks sent waves of lacerating anguish through her nervous system.
Her face was ravaged, drowned with tears, the lips uncontrollably trembling, the nostrils dilating and shrinking, the eyes glazed and widened in her deplorable suffering. She gasped in a choking weak voice, "Ohh-oh, M-Mother, oh not that-please don't-I'd die-don't shame me so, not in front of a man-oh Mother, punish me all you want, but not that, please say you won't do that!"
"I have nothing more to say to you, Wilma," her mother coldly retorted. "Now get to the bathroom at once and take your shower. Here, I'll lay out your pajamas myself. And I don't want to hear another word from you the rest of this evening, young lady. Not even when I bring you your supper, do you understand me? I've been much too lenient with you, and I see now how wrong I was. I blame myself for not keeping a closer watch over you. But things are going to change. Yes, I'm going to talk to Sir John because I want him, being a wise and mature man who understands business and also people, to realize what difficulties I have bringing you up. Perhaps his advice and his wisdom will find a solution, and if then he deigns to take an interest in you and to find you a situation, my girl, you'll go down on your knees in gratitude to him, mark my words!"
She was hastily rummaging in Wilma's chiffonier to find a pair of pajamas, and now, having procured one, placed it on the straight-backed chair near the door. She turned to see her daughter rise, totteringly, smoothing down the rumpled slip, and then moved towards the bathroom, her head bowed, her face in her hands, her shoulders still heaving with choking sobs.
Yes, Wilma would mark her words. But even Florence Stanley could not dream of the ironic jest that fate would play in making those words come literally true ... but in a sense that would spell the doom of both mother and daughter!
CHAPTER SIX
Wilma Stanley knew that at any cost she must see her dear friend Arlette. Their rendezvous, needless to say, had been made for the following Monday-we know this from the fatal letter which Wilma tore up at the time her mother demanded it from her. However, knowing that she was to be taken by her mother to see Sir John Ellison on Thursday, and since she was escorted to school on Wednesday morning and then brought back after luncheon the same day by her vigilant mother, Wilma had little opportunity to communicate with her beloved friend.
But fortunately for Wilma's project, Sir John Ellison telephoned her mother shortly after she had brought her daughter back to the apartment on Wednesday afternoon, and imperiously demanded her presence. Florence Stanley was in such a dither of anguish and curiosity to know the reason for this sudden summons (since she had not expected to see him again until the following afternoon in the presence of her daughter) that she quite forgot the notion of taking any precaution to make certain that Wilma would not wander away from her environs.
No sooner had she telephoned for a cab and hastily got into it, ordering the driver to take her as quickly as possible to Sir John's address, than Wilma hastened to the phone. Her eyes were still swollen with constant tears, for the annihilating spanking which her mother had given her on Tuesday afternoon still rankled in her ego and indeed it had influenced her work in school. Where formerly she had shown a kind of arrogant enthusiasm to prove that she was intellectually the peer of anyone in class, she had sat listlessly and listened to the lecture, making occasional notes, without volunteering to recite at all, something which her teacher noticed with some concern.
Happily, Wilma had Arlette's telephone number at the theatrical costume firm, which was only a block away from the secretarial school. And by great good fortune, Arlette was there and at the point of leaving early, since she had obtained a vacation from her employer for an entire ten days, and this as a bonus in addition to her semi-annual leave which would occur the end of November.
"I just must see you, dear Arlette," Wilma breathed, putting all her soul into her words over the impersonal black telephone mouth piece. "Can't we manage somehow? You don't know how urgent it is. Mother has gone off to go work for Sir John Ellison, and I don't dare meet you at home, but isn't there someplace nearby we could spend some time together? Oh please, dear Arlette, you mean so much to me, you're my only friend, my only resource!"
Arlette appeared to be touched by this impassioned note of anguish which she heard in the lovely redhead's voice, and gently replied, "But of course, ma mie, if you feel that way, I wouldn't think of leaving London without seeing you again. Let me see now ... I have it! Could you come to my apartment? I shall be there in about ten minutes. It's at number 49, Durban Square. It's really not too far from where you live."
"Oh, thank you, thank you and bless you, my darling Arlette, my true adored one," Wilma almost burst into tears of relief. "I'll be there as soon as I can get a cab. If I'm there ahead of you, I'll wait. Oh it's so good of you to see me, Arlette!"
Hastily Wilma went to the mirror at her bedroom dresser, straightened her hair, and hurried to the bathroom to dab cold water on her eyes to hide the telltale swollen look. She used very little makeup, because the magnificent complexion which nature had bestowed upon her really needed no embellishment. Then she telephoned for a cab, a few minutes later, sitting on the edge of the back seat, her hands clasped, her eyes shining again with their accustomed verve, was driven to the abode of her beloved ... the young woman who had taught her the mysterious and exquisitely perverse joys of Lesbos, the one person who would understand her and sympathize with and console her for the shameful wrong that had been done her in having had to submit to punishment like a naughty little child.
Arlette came about two minutes later, walking briskly around the corner, and held out her arms with a characteristic gesture which at once made Wilma's heart bound with joy. Her lips trembled, her eyes brimmed with tears, but these were tears of happiness and they were no way like those which Florence Stanley's harsh treatment had made her shed.
"My poor darling," Arlette murmured soothingly, "things must be dreadful! The way you look-you've been crying, haven't you? Never mind, I shan't leave for at least another several hours, so we'll have time to have a cup of tea and to chat and perhaps I can kiss away those tears, would that be all right?"
Wilma could not speak for sheer joy and gratitude; if her eyes had been brimming with tears, now her heart was brimming over with joy at the solicitous way in which her petite amie had greeted her.
They went up in the lift to the third floor of the building in which Arlette had her apartment. It was a studio apartment, extremely comfortable and spacious, with perhaps more room than the brunette herself needed. Yet, as Arlette had once explained, occasionally visiting actors and actresses who did business with the theatrical costume firm for which she worked would drop in unexpectedly, and it was always good to have an extra guest room to sleep someone over the night or a weekend. Wilma had been to this apartment four times exactly since the beginning of her friendship with the mature brunette, and each time she had swooned with ecstasy under Arlette's expert Lesbian caresses. In her happy state of euphoria, she had not previously noticed too much about the furnishings or the accommodations of this apartment; but today, brooding as she had been over the injustice done her and particularly the humiliation of that eternal spanking, the red-haired virgin was aware that the apartment was really lavishly furnished in a very expensive way. She wondered idly if it wasn't even beyond her dear friend's means. For instance, there was a very charming little miniature bar just off the kitchen, with a particularly frontful stock of wines and Irish whiskeys and bourbons and Scotches and sherries and port.
"Let me change, my dear, and I'll be with you directly." Arlette looked at her wristwatch. "I can give you at best an hour. But I hope I can send you home more cheerful than the way you look now. Don't make such a long face, little one, it can't be quite so bad as you think. Come, take a glass of port-help yourself there to one of the decanters. It's the red one, of course. And you'll find a plate of biscuits, the very best Huntley and Palmer make, right beside it. Amuse yourself until I return."
Ten minutes later, the mature brunette entered the huge living room with its massive bay window and the attractive velvet drape curtains which, she had told Wilma early in their relationship, she herself had cut out and sewn. Wilma gasped as she looked up to see her friend. For Arlette Villiers was stunningly and perversely beautiful. Five feet seven and a half inches in height, slim and supple like a reed, her black hair was drawn in a coronet braid around the top of her head which added to her regal and domineering appearance. Her face was oval, with superciliously thin, plucked brows, short but very thick black lashes, intense dark brown eyes, an aquiline nose with broadly flaring wings, and a small but insolent mouth whose upper lip was pronounced and further added to the imperiousness of her countenance.
She wore a black nylon negligee, belted with a silver cloth belt. It was shamelessly and breathtakingly revealing, for under it she was stark naked. Wilma's eyes widened and were hypnotically drawn to that lithe beauty, and her lips parted and an inaudible little sigh escaped her: "Ohh-Arlette!"
Arlette's breasts were sumptuously rounded, considering her supple build; they were closely set, high-perched on her milky chest, with wide aureoles of a brownish-coral hue, with stiff and almost virile nipplebuds thrusting vigorously against the thin stuff of the negligee. Her waist was supple and wonderfully narrow, and would have delighted a fashion stylist, but her hips flared into saucily rounded hips, with upstanding, round, tightly compact bottomglobes, these giving way in turn to long slim thighs and high-set sleek calves. She wore high-heeled pumps, which further accentuated her towering stature and made Wilma at once sense the aura of haughty and commanding resolve which she had always associated with Arlette. And yet with this, in the past, their relationship had been singularly tender; the older woman had been affectionate and witty and charming, relaxing her vigilant assurance in their intimate moments. Nothing, Wilma told herself happily now, would ever obliterate the glorious memory of when Arlette had taught her how to perform the ritual of soixante-neuf. It had been on their third meeting, when, after almost fainting away with joy during Arlette's expert gamahuching of her own tender virgin cunt, Wilma had babbled, "Oh, my darling Arlette, I'm so grateful, it was so thrilling-I want to do something for you, I want to make you very happy-oh tell me, I've so much to learn how to please you, my darling one!" And so the wily brunette had instructed the lovely young redhead, making her crouch on her knees while Arlette lay on her back on the bed, and
Wilma had instinctively bowed her head and begun to kiss that thick black curly fleece between Arlette's shapely long thighs, and then she had felt Arlette's shapely long thighs, and then she had felt Arlette's slim fingers grasping her naked twitching hips, drawing her own loins down to be saluted and gratified by the brunette's avid lips and expert tongue until she had nearly fainted dead away with the crux of carnal pleasure.
"Now, little one, what's this all about?" Arlette said tenderly as she seated herself on the wide low couch and circled Wilma's waist with her left arm, cupping the redhead's chin with her right palm and just brushing Wilma's trembling lips with hers. Wilma shivered, because her nostrils drank in an exotic scent which made already a voluptuous impression upon her stirred and yearning senses. "Ah," Arlette continued with an enigmatic little smile, "you smell my new perfume. Do you like it? I hadn't worn it before, but I did it in your honor this afternoon, and because I'm leaving. It's called At Twilight. And you do like it?"
"Oh yes, Arlette," Wilma breathed, closing her eyes and opening her mouth. Arlette's velvety pink tongue at once burrowed between the young girl's quivering lips, and Wilma moaned at the sweet torment generated by that perfidious sexual kiss. Her thighs began to twitch along the insides, and she felt her pussy grow moist with a yearning anticipation of carnal gratification, for Arlette's tongue had been the instrument of her undoing and her joy. She could not even contemplate the rude and odious contact with a male, not after the sweet and lingering pleasures to which Arlette had so cunningly introduced her. If she could, she would have run away from home and come to live with Arlette, but she had no money of her own and was dependent upon her mother, and she had been dominated so long through Florence Stanley's own domestic frustrations, that she did not have the courage to carry out her long-retained desire.
"I love you so, Arlette," she confessed with a naive tenderness that would have disarmed a brigand. Arlette smiled softly, drew back her tongue, then began to flick the rims of the young girl's lips, while her right hand moved down to caress one of Wilma's swelling titties, to close the fingers delicately and lingeringly over the cusp of the loveglobe, until Arlette groaned and squirmed voluptuously. Now slyly, the wily brunette lowered her right hand and placed it on the stockinged knee of the young virgin, beginning to caress that rounded and suavely dimpled joint so amorously that Wilma discovered a new erogenous zone in her own person. And from the knee it was child's play to move along the lower thigh and presently under the pretty pleated cotton skirt towards the tops of Wilma's flesh-colored stockings and to touch at last the warm and quiveringly palpitating bare skin.
Unconsciously, the young girl parted her thighs to give her partner complete access, in the most trusting of all gestures. Now Arlette's mouth fused on Wilma's, and Wilma hooked her arms around the brunette's neck and pressed herself avidly close, wanting to give herself in a very fervor of abandon and joy of sacrifice.
"Now then, you must tell me what has happened to make you so sad, dear little one," Arlette suddenly murmured, as she broke off the caress and drew her hand away. Wilma was trembling from that subtle palpation of her leg, and her pussy was tingling now with an anguish that demanded appeasement. Pathetically, she stared at Arlette and murmured, "I'm so unhappy, you can't know how much I am! My mother-my mother whipped me!"
"Impossible! A grown up young woman like you? It can't be," Arlette cried with commendable histrionic fervor.
Wilma Stanley burst into tears, and, craving her tearstained face against Arlette's swelling titties, panted, "But she did, I swear she did! And it was all because of your letter, my darling! That last letter, where we were to meet next Monday. I was reading it, and I was all alone because Mama was over at Sir John's, and as you know she works for him-"
"Yes I do. Well then?"
"Well, I was so unhappy and I wanted to be with you, and I couldn't be until next Monday, so I had just my slip on and I was reading the letter and was-and I was-"
"Tickling yourself, ma pigeonne?" Arlette hinted with a soft cajoling little wink.
Wilma blushed, lowered her eyes and shyly nodded.
"My poor little one. If only I'd been there to satisfy you. And then what happened?"
"I'I'd locked the door, of course, but Mama insisted that I open it at once. I hid the letter, but I didn't do it too well, and Mama saw it, and so I had to tear it up. And I was furious with her for breaking in and invading my privacy when I was dreaming of you, my darling Arlette. And that's when she-she whipped me."
"You say whipped," Arlette interposed in a singularly calm and inquisitorial manner. "Do you mean that she used a whip or a strap?"
"Oh no, it was just with her hand. But it was so shameful, and it hurt so dreadfully! And now she won't let me out of her sight. It's only because she had suddenly to go to Sir John's this afternoon that I was able to come see you at all. And now you say you're going away. Oh, how shall I ever live without you, Arlette? I wish I could die-I wish I could go with you forever!"
"Patience, little one," Arlette consoled as she drew the trembling young girl towards her and kissed her on the eyelids and then the nostrils, "you must be patient. Perhaps one day we shall be together and then I can direct your life in a much more different manner. But for now, let me console you. Let me see that lovely bottom which your cruel mother dared to chastise. It's unheard of, at your age."
"That's what I tried to tell her, but it didn't do any good-it only made her terribly angry. Oh, Arlette, what if she finds the rest of the letters and makes me swear never to see you again? I should kill myself!"
"Don't anticipate trouble that may never exist, little one," Arlette murmured. "Come, let me undress you. Right here on the couch, because we haven't time, you know. And yet I can't let you go away like this without being happy and without thinking of me ... something better than a letter, eh, my little dove?"
As she spoke, she seductively began to unbutton Wilma's blouse, and Wilma eagerly helped her off with it, and then herself unfastened the waistband of her pleated skirt, which Arlette drew off, remarking with delight the lovely contours of the quivering thighs under the thin slip.
When this too was doffed, Wilma shyly and blushingly put her arms around Arlette's waist and kissed her hotly on the mouth, while Arlette reached behind her to unhook the bandeau of the bra. Then her slim fingers caressed and stroked the heaving lovepears of the lovely virginal redhead, and finally she drew off Wilma's panties, leaving the young woman clad in only her garter-belt and hose and pumps of modest heels.
"Lie back, and close your eyes, my darling," Arlette crooned. Wilma made no protest as the brunette's slim hands grasped her by the naked shoulders, forced her gently down on the couch. Instinctively she opened her legs and arched up her knees, as if she were about to yield her maidenhead to a knight in shining armor. Arlette rose, swiftly furled off her negligee and stood naked in her pumps. Then, scuffing these off, she mounted the couch and loomed over the trembling body of the naked creamy-skinned red-haired virgin who uttered a stifled cry of joy and held up her arms to enfold her beloved Arlette.
Their bodies merged now, and for a long moment there was only the sound of moist kisses, slithering hands and the little gasps and groans which came of frictioning loins over loins, pussy to pussy, belly to belly, as Arlette once again taught her young charge the sweet bliss of tribadism.
Wilma announced her coming excitement in frantic squeals and groans and sobs, hugging Arlette frantically and arching her body up to grind her pussy even more frenziedly against the brunette's. When at last the spasm seized the young redhead, she fell back panting, her face twisted to one side, her naked titties rising and falling violently, while Arlette slowly rose off the couch and stood looking a long moment at that magnificent statuesque young creamy nakedness sprawled and abandoned on the couch with love.
"You must take a shower and dress and go back quickly, ma petite," she at last advised in a gentle voice. "It would never do to have your mother learn that you came to see me. It would be the end of us together, you know that. Come, my darling, I'll help you get up and I'll even help shower you. You're such an adorable creature, There's a kiss for that naughty breast, and for the other. And now hurry, won't you."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sir John Ellison, immaculately dressed, seated imperiously in the armchair in the salon, pursed his lips and remarked, "So at last we meet, my dear Wilma. I have looked forward to this meeting for quite some time, as your mother may have told you. Yes, on the whole, she hasn't exaggerated at all in telling me what an attractive young woman you are."
Wilma Stanley stood nervously beside her mother, who actually was a few paces behind her, in an attitude of deference which she hoped that her daughter would not detect. They had arrived punctually to keep the appointment Sir John had set; indeed, Wilma had been irritated at her mother's almost frantic and frequent visits to her bedroom to ascertain how her dressing was coming along, and finally her mother's insistence that they take a cab to be certain of arriving before quarter past two. "For heaven's sake, Mother," she had finally expostulated. "What possible difference can it make if we're a few minutes late? After all, he's invited you as a guest, not as his employee."
"It makes all the difference in the world, Wilma," her mother had angrily retorted. "I told you already, and it isn't the first time, that if Sir John takes a imagine to you, he can very easily put you in the way of a wonderful situation. And it's more than you deserve, after the way you behaved the other day."
Wilma, realizing that to add to this would only lead to hostile argument, raised her eyes to the ceiling as if to ask Providence itself to give her patience and self-control. Then she said patiently, "Yes, Mother. I'll be there on time, don't worry."
But Florence Stanley was worrying, and for a very excellent reason. She knew all too well that her lover's ultimatum meant precisely what it stipulated: to be even so much as half a minute late past the time which he had set for this interview with her daughter would cost her bottom very dearly. And worst of all, and what she dreaded the most, was that he was authoritative enough to carry out that punishment before Wilma herself, a possibility which absolutely consternated her at the very thought.
Happily for them both, therefore, this contingency did not arise because the cab was there in ample time. Sir John's valet, Louis, an elderly, dignified man in his late fifties, answered the bell and promptly ushered them into the salon where his master was waiting. Then, at a sign, he retired to the back of the apartment, changed the costume of his service for that of his day off, and promptly let himself out the back door and locked it. He worked for Sir John Ellison only several days a week, and it was his master's wish to be alone with Florence and her daughter this particular afternoon.
"Yes," Sir John pursued, "you're most attractive, my dear. Your mother tells me that you are going to secretarial school."
"Yes, sir."
Wilma flushed. She had observed that his eyes coldly and critically examined her, lingering on her and descending along her svelte young body in a way that she personally found offensive. However, she did not dare speak, knowing that this man was actually their benefactor, having given employment to her mother. Besides, the chastisement which Florence Stanley had given her so unexpectedly had caused her to lose a certain amount of her nominal cockiness and self-assurance. Before this worldly, mature and elegantly groomed man, in this luxuriously furnished salon, she felt somewhat awed, for the plain truth of the matter was that like her mother before her, Wilma Stanley was something of a snob and was easily impressed with the material aspect of things rather than by the spiritual.
For a moment there was silence. Then, again considering her, he asked, "How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
He raised his eyebrows in a quizzical expression. "Your daughter," he at last reflected aloud, "has a rather brusque manner. I am accustomed to being saluted by my title, especially from someone whom I am only just meeting."
"I-I'm sorry, Sir John," Florence Stanley quavered. Her cheeks turning scarlet with mortification. She moved a step forward and hissed into her daughter's ear, "You little fool, are you going to throw away all your chances by putting on your airs? If you do, you just wait until I get you home! Call him Sir John and be very obliging and humble to him, you understand me?"
Wilma shivered. This threat recalled to her the infamous spanking for which she had not yet forgiven her mother. And the truth was that she was also a little taken aback by this cold, poised and worldly man who looked her up and down as if she were a piece of merchandise and not a human being. A certain indignation rose inside of her, although momentarily it was quelled by her awe and also her envious respect for Sir John's establishment and the fact that he must be very rich indeed to afford it.
Therefore she stammeringly added, as an almost afterthought, "I meant to say, eighteen, Sir John."
"That's better," he said, appearing to be mollified. "Your mother tells me that you expect to find some sort of post in an office, and I daresay that with your secretarial course, you should have no difficulty. As you know, I employ your mother as my own amanuensis. And it's conceivable that I might have work for you to do, since I expect to have a great deal of correspondence this summer."
"Th-thank you, Sir John," Wilma stammered. She felt her cheeks grow warmer with an embarrassed flush as his eyes once again detailed her. Her mother had made her wear her prettiest dress, a blue rayon, with pleated skirt that did full justice by plaguing against her lissome thighs and buttocks. Sir John Ellison had already observed this, as he had the elegance of her calves in charcoal-brown nylon hose, most flattering as they hugged the supple and sinuous contours of those lovely limbs. But what intrigued him most of all was the sensitive and provocative face of the young girl who was being presented to him. From the way her color came and went in those lovely cheeks, he told himself that she must have a mercurial temperament, and probably a good deal of spirit and imagination which were still lacking in her mother, who was twice her age. This being so, and Sir John being the connoisseur of femininity that he was, his interest was all the greater-though as we shall see, he already had his own project devised for the conquest of his mistress's only offspring.
"However," he opened the jar of the humidor and took out a fresh Havana panatela, "it's one thing to study a business course and quite another to practice it, you understand. Now I am interested in knowing just how well you can take shorthand, for example, or, at my dictation, construct a letter to an acquaintance. For surely if I intercede in your behalf, as your mother as requested me to do, I should not feel conscientious in recommending you to a situation for which you were not fitted. I trust you can understand the line of reasoning, Wilma?"
"Yes, Sir John. I-my teachers say I'm quite good."
"We shall see, we shall see. Now, there is something which I noticed from the very outset of this interview of ours, Florence."
"Yes, Sir John?" the blonde divorcee trembled in advance as those cold, probing eyes fixed on her.
"It appeared to me that the two of you were not the most eager companions in the world. Or am I wrong in sensing that your daughter and you have had just recently a mild little altercation of some kind, a disagreement, shall we say?"
Florence Stanley trembled, her cheeks reddened, and her eyes widened with the sudden icy anguish that slashed through her nervous system. As his eyes fixed on her, his sensual lips curled in a mocking little smile, she had an anguished presentiment that this interview was not going to be so fortuitous as she had prayed it would be for the sake of Wilma's future. And that anxiety made her, now orientated to fearful servility as she was in the presence of her dominating lover, all the more frantically eager to placate him.
And so, with a pathetic little smile, wanting desperately to head off this impending detour of his possible interest in her daughter which could assure Wilma's future, the beautiful blonde divorcee stammered, "It wasn't really very much of anything, Sir John. You know how young girls are. They're so sure they've grownup, and once in a while a mother has to straighten them out. I just wanted Wilma to be on time because I knew how important it is for her to meet you this afternoon. And she's inclined to dawdle a little when she has to dress to go out. That was all, Sir John."
He studied her silently, relishing her anxiety, seeing the apprehensive shadow of her dilated blue eyes, the rosy hue of her soft rounded cheeks, the uncontrollable quivering of her lips. He knew these signs better than she dreamed he could; she was not the first woman he had carefully and expertly conquered and had mastered-and she would not be the last. So, in a level tone, he calmly went on. "But in general you would say that Wilma is obedient?"
Florence Stanley's agitation perceptibly increased: immediately she was on the defensive, because the cold fixed stare of those hard blue eyes recalled to her only too well the numerous occasions on which he had subjected her to the most humiliating and painful chastisement. To be sure, such experiences had generally been followed by the most rapturous physical ecstasy when he had taken her-except for this past Tuesday afternoon. And so just as he had expected, she floundered, hurriedly wanting to reassure him that all was peace and harmony in her household: "Why of course, Sir John. A mother couldn't ask for a more obedient daughter. She is high-spirited and quite imaginative, but I think that those traits are to her credit, don't you?"
"That would depend, to be sure, on her responsibilities," was his blunt answer. "If I should place her with one of my friends in a post that would require attention to detail, long hours and at the outset not too much in the way of wages but of course an ideal opportunity, could she adapt herself to it? You see, my dear, individuals whose temperament is not placidly conventional are not always suited to conventional situation."
"I'm sure," her mother eagerly proffered, "that all an employer would have to do would be to tell her what he wanted of her, and she would do it quickly and intelligently. Of course it's true that she has never worked before, and I don't expect, nor does she, that she'll be offered a very important position from the start. But I assure you-"
He held up his hand to cut her short," I prefer to find out for myself. Wilma, I would like to give you a little test in shorthand, just to see how competent you are. Will you gratify my request?"
The lovely svelte redhead glanced nervously at her mother and then stammered, "If you like, yes, Sir John."
"Very good. Let me see, I think that I have some paper and a pencil in the drawer of this writing desk. Ah yes. Draw up that little chair and seat yourself while I dictate."
Wilma nervously seated herself in a narrow straight-backed chair before a magnificent walnut writing desk in one corner of the salon, while Sir John, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of concentration, deliberated his words. Florence Stanley stood in the center of the salon, her anxiety constantly increasing.
"I'm ready, Sir John," Wilma timidly vouchsafed.
"Yes, I know you are. Very well, then, take this." Whereupon he proceeded to dictate a business letter of about four paragraphs to one of his colleagues. When he had concluded, he directed, "Now read it back to me."
Wilma had not been accustomed to taking shorthand at quite such a speed, for class tests were by no means the same as actual performance on the job. Moreover, the dry and dictatorial manner of this man made her somewhat uneasy. Hence, while in the main her transcription was accurate, she had blundered over a few expressions and mistaken several of the punctuation marks, so that she delivered a halting and imperfect reading.
"You would hardly do in the office of my good friend Davis Kaston, the financier," he remarked. "We shall have to lower our sights. Now let me ask you a more personal question, Wilma. Do you have any young friends, by which I mean to say, of the male species?"
Wilma turned scarlet at this unexpected query and stammered, "Oh, no, no I don't!" She looked nervously back at her mother as if seeking some kind of clue as to how she should deal with this very uncomfortable man, but her mother had her own perturbations and could only give her a helpless, solicitous look which did not reassure Wilma in the least.
"I see," Sir John mused aloud. "And what about friends of your own sex?"
"Yes, sir. There are some girls at the secretarial school I know rather well."
"And that is all?" he eyed her intently.
Wilma bit her lower lip, again glancing frantically at her mother for some kind of succor. Then, aware that such avowal might betray her clandestine liaison with her beloved Arlette, she blurted. "Oh no! My mother doesn't let me go out very much, and with my studies and the rest, I really don't have any friends."
Now Sir John turned his cold blue eyes on the blonde divorcee, who quailed before that merciless glance. "Let me ask you, Florence," he baldly employed her first name to remind her of her secret status to him, "whether you have your daughter's full confidence in all matters. Seeing that you are her only parent, I assume that you are familiar with every activity to which Wilma devotes herself. Now, is it true that she has no companions other than yourself?"
Thus the Damoclean sword was transferred over Florence Stanley's golden head and it was her turn to tremble and to flush and to falter, remembering what she did about the episode which had followed her rendezvous with Sir John the previous Tuesday afternoon. "She's a good girl," the divorcee blurted, "and it's true that I haven't let her date any young men yet because it's important that she better herself with her studies."
"I didn't ask you that, Florence. I want to know simply whether you know anything about Wilma's character which I should know before I set about trying to place her in a situation. I should take it rather unkindly, I can assure you, if I interceded in her behalf only to discover that I had misplaced my confidence. Now, has she done anything recently to irk you so far as her conduct is concerned?"
Seated before the writing desk, Wilma turned to look at her mother with an agonized and tense expression on her lovely face. And her mother was thus also reminded of the distressing embroilment which had occurred between them but two afternoons ago. She bit her lips in turn, lowered her eyes, cleared her throat and tried hurriedly to reassemble her thoughts, but Sir John once again dryly continued the inquisition: "You don't seem certain. This leads me to believe that Wilma may have given you some distress. I wish to know about it, Florence. And that is an order."
There came a suppressed gasp from the lovely young redhead who heard this tyrannical command, which roused her own youthful indignation. What startled her most was her mother's timidity before Sir John Ellison, and still more the confusion had almost tearful anxiety which her mother now displayed in his presence.
"There-I really-oh, Sir John, it was nothing. Really it was nothing. A mother and daughter sometimes argue over the slightest trifles."
Wilma exhaled an almost audible sigh of relief, and for the first time in a long time felt a surge of gratitude towards her mother ... but yet it was not enough to obliterate the shameful memory of that humiliating and juvenile spanking.
"You are evasive, Florence, That is something I don't like in one of my employees. And I can also detect a lie when I hear it. Evidently there was something between you two and it occurred this week, am I not right?" he mercilessly continued the interrogation as a prosecuting attorney might harass a witness suspected of perjury.
Florence Stanley dug her nails into her palms. Beads of sweat began to glisten on her temples, as she again sent a frantic look at her daughter, whose own eyes returned it as imploringly. "I-I did reprimand her the other day, it's true," she said in a trembling low voice.
"Ah, now we are getting to the heart of the matter! And what, pray tell, was the cause of this little altercation?" Sir John continued.
"It-it was a private matter, not really very consequential, Sir John," Florence Stanley gasped. She felt as if she were on the torture rack, and the executioners were approaching.
"If you wish to keep your employment with me, Florence, I suggest that you collect your thoughts and give me a proper answer. You have asked me to interpose on Wilma's behalf and to use my influence. Very well, I shall. But this places me in the position of a guardian, so to speak, and every guardian of any moral consequence is necessarily concerned about the integrity and the obedience of his ward. Now, and be careful how you answer me, tell me what occurred between you two to bring about this embarrassing confrontation? For I perceive that both of you find it difficult to recall it, so it must have been a more serious moment than you axe willing to admit. I am waiting, Florence."
Florence Stanley shuddered at the cold and inexorable purpose in his voice. The flesh of her thighs was twitching, as it did whenever he sentenced her to physical chastisement. Yet she strove to the very last to hide from him the knowledge of what she suspected of her daughter for it was too shameful, too intimate, to reveal before a man who, after all, was in no way related to either of them. "I-I-" she hoarsely began, "I came home and found that she hadn't been doing her lessons, And she was very untidy with her room, and I'd been after her for that. So-so it led to words, and-I'm afraid I slapped her, Sir John."
"And that was all?" his eyes sternly probed her.
She nodded, her heart pounding rapidly in her secret fear.
"I do not think that is the whole story, Florence. Now, Wilma," he turned to the quivering and apprehensive redhead, "since I am apparently encountering difficulty in getting the truth from your mother, I should be obliged to you if you would clarify this irksome situation. It is true that you hadn't been doing your studies and that your room was untidy?"
Wilma's face turned scarlet, as, lowering her eyes, she nodded. She hoped by that admission to accept kudos for a far lesser sin than she knew she had really committed. Thus far his manner had entirely unnerved her.
"And she did slap you?" he pursued.
"Y'yes, Sir John. But I guess I had it coming," Wilma avowed. At this, her mother sent her a look of intense gratitude, but the wily English lord detected this communication of eyes and smiled inwardly.
"To use your word, you say you had it coming, eh, Wilma? Well, you'll admit, Florence, that to strike a girl of Wilma's age is rather unusual. Had you ever done it before?"
Florence Stanley's throat was utterly dry and her lips almost refused to move, as she finally shook her head, staring at him piteously.
"Then I think it may have been more serious than either of you care to admit to me. I should, if I had a daughter of Wilma's age, rebuke her if her room were untidy or if she were negligent in her studies, but I do not think I should strike her. Is it perhaps because you discovered something about her which is much too personal and intimate to reveal to a man that makes you improvise and invent this ridiculous story, Florence?" His words had suddenly become menacing and sibilantly intoned and the harsh look on his face terrified the beautiful divorcee.
"Oh no, believe me, Sir John," she gasped, twisting her fingers nervously about, feeling a wave of trembling move along her limbs. He had never before seemed as cruel and merciless as he did now, and she was frankly terrified by him.
"You are much too quick to deny. Perhaps, Florence, I have misjudged you. Perhaps I was wrong in taking an interest in you, because if the truth be known, you are really not a very good secretary yourself. Perhaps I may as well dispense with your services."
Now in her own selfish and frantic terror of being case aside by her lover, Florence Stanley fell into the diabolical trap which Sir John Ellison had so cunningly set for her. She took a step forward, her hands clasped as in prayer and she exclaimed tremulously, "Oh, be merciful, Sir John! Have pity on my mother's love for my own flesh and blood! You-you are right-"
"Oh, Mother!" Wilma cried half-rising from her chair, her eyes supremely dilated.
"Be silent, Wilma. Go ahead, Florence!" He had put out his hand with an imperious gesture to quell the redhead's sign of revolt, and now stared menacingly at his beautiful blonde mistress. "Go on, Florence," he repeated.
"She-she's young and impressionable, Sir John. You must pardon her. It's that she hasn't had a father, you know. And at her age, one sometimes has emotions that are too adult. I found her-"
"No, Mother, you shan't tell him! Oh my God, Mother, haven't you any regard for me?" Wilma suddenly broke out, and then burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
CHAPTER EIGHT
But it was too late for Florence Stanley to retrieve her unfortunate error, an error into which Sir John Ellison had so ingeniously and diabolically led her. Frantic with despair as she was at once aware of this fatal blunder, she looked over at Wilma with an imploring gesture which the red-haired girl ignored, herself overwhelmed by the terrible presentiment that this strange and cold man would learn of her lascivious affair with Arlette Villiers.
Sir John smiled with triumph as he settled himself back in his armchair, once again lit his cigar which had gone out during his interrogation of the two beautiful female victims-for such they were to be-, and deliberately pumped at it until the tip glowed a fiery red, leaving them both in understandable suspense. At last, calmly flicking off the ash onto the copper tray on the tabouret beside him, he declared, "I thought at last we should come to the heart of the matter, Florence. Now you will be good enough to tell me precisely what you found Wilma doing when you went to her room, and what was so shocking to you as a mother that you found it necessary to chastise her."
"Oh, Sir John, I beg of you," Florence Stanley clasped her hands, twisting her fingers in a very turmoil of emotional agitation, "Don't make me tell it! Have pity on a mother who has done her best without a husband to help her in bringing up a sensitive and intelligent girl like Wilma!"
"I asked you a question, Florence. You had better tell me, or I shall find more persuasive ways of getting at the truth. Perhaps you would prefer to have me use them on Wilma?"
At this, the lovely redhead started, a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with incredulity. And the look she sent her mother was one of utter consternation, for it was plain to the teenaged girl that her mother was in a far more inferior and dependent state than that of employee to this haughty and arrogant English nobleman.
"Be kind, Sir John," Florence Stanley tearfully repeated, "I was wrong to have said anything at all! I retract it, and I throw myself upon your mercy so that you will forget everything that has been said. Wilma is a good girl, I swear she is, by all that is holy, and-"
"So good," he blandly interrupted in a steely voice, "that you found it necessary to punish her. Speak! Or do you wish me to punish you in front of your own daughter?"
At this, Florence Stanley paled, her eyes dilating with horror and shame. She would rather die than have Wilma know how humbly and slavishly she accepted physical chastisement from this man. "Please," she faltered, "Let me speak to you in private. Such matters should not be spoken aloud-oh do have mercy on us both!" And of course, by her very agitation, by her very appeal, she only sealed her doom and that of Wilma as well. For like a bulldog, tenaciously gripping the crux of this argument in his mind, Sir John Ellison went on: "Let me try to guess, since I too know something of the habits of young women.
And especially when they have no sweethearts of the opposite sex to alleviate the understandably ardent desires which impel them. You caught Wilma engaged in a naughty little game with herself, did you not?"
"Ohhh!" Wilma uttered a strident cry of indignation with its overtones of humiliating shame. Unerringly, of course, he had detected her secret crime.
"Oh, Sir John, Sir John," Florence Stanley wrung her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, "have pity on my daughter's pride, at least, if nothing more! She is still a virgin, she has never done anything wrong, but it was only that I hadn't realized how alone she was, or how mature she was, and so-"
"And so, catching her experimenting with herself, you punished her, didn't you?" His eyes gleamed triumphantly. "I have no doubt that you even spanked her-isn't that true?"
"Mother! Oh, Mother!" Wilma brokenly sobbed, burying her face in her hands.
"But that isn't all," Sir John pursued. "Didn't you discover that she had an ally, a girlfriend, perhaps, who had taught her these disgusting little games which one finds sometimes going on late at night in a private boarding school? Isn't that what you discovered, Florence, and didn't Wilma attempt to conceal the truth from you?"
Florence Stanley stared at Sir John Ellison as if he were the devil himself. How could he have known all this, how could he have even guessed it, she demanded of herself. And in her panic-stricken terror, she babbled, "I'm sure that's true, yes,-it must be! Wilma is too decent, too good of her own nature, to have been so corrupted unless someone else taught her such things! God know I never did. Why, I-I haven't ever discussed sex with my daughter, apart from telling her how to take care of herself during her monthlies-oh, Sir John, please-" She got no further. Sir John Ellison rose from his chair and, staring at the trembling and sobbing redhead, commanded in a hard, obdurate evil voice: "Wilma, approach me now, and be ready to tell me the truth. This is a critical moment in your life, my girl. You mother has often asked me to help you, but now I see that I may be dealing with an unprincipled and sensual girl who is badly in need of discipline which an all too feeble mother can hardly give her. Come here to me!"
Wilma Stanley stared at him, speechless, her face flushed and tearstained, her eyes huge with stupefaction. Her magnificent young bosom rose and fell agitatedly, while Sir John, inwardly ecstatic over this turn of events, continued to stare at her with an inflexible gaze. It was her mother who now intervened: "Do as he says, Wilma, for God's sake! Please, my darling!"
Slowly Wilma approached, till she stood facing him about a foot away. Her face took on a sullen, obstinate look as he put out his hand and calmly lifted up her chin with his forefinger. Greatly satisfied at this countenance, he resumed his seat in the armchair, crossed his legs, took a puff at his cigar and began: "Now is this true what your mother has just told me, Wilma? Were you by yourself and believing yourself to be alone, did you not try to give yourself pleasure? You may speak up frankly, my girl. I am quite old enough to be your father, and your mother has already asked me to take the powers of a guardian over you." This was not entirely true, but Florence Stanley knew better than to contradict her employer-lover-master. She could only send him a piteously appealing look as she stood, her ringers still twisted in anguish, praying that her daughter would for once control her fiery outbursts and thus evade a most distressing scene.
"It-it isn't any of anybody's business," Wilma gasped, her face flooding with rich color. Straightening, she defiantly added: "It's between my mother and myself. And I don't think it's very proper of you, no matter what your rank, to ask me such an insulting question."
As she purposely tried, Wilma Stanley could have found no better answer for the voluptuary. He chuckled dryly: "At least you have spirit, which is more than I can say for your mother. But I infer that you did practice this little game which the Bible attributes to Onan. And I infer also that you had a secret little friend, shall we say as the French do, a petite amie, who doubtless inspired you to such little games when you were not with her. Now I trust you will tell me if I am correct in my presumptions."
Wilma did not have to speak; the deepening of her color and the sudden gasp she gave completely betrayed her and delivered her over to the enemy. She too began to ask herself as her mother had just done whether Sir John Ellison was in league with the devil. "I won't say anything," she resolutely declared. "My mother punished me, and that's an end of the matter."
"Oh no, young lady, not quite. If the two of you were strangers to me, it would be one thing. But your mother is in my employ, and your mother has repeatedly entreated my aid in your behalf. I cannot in all conscience interest myself in you at all unless I know everything about you. Wilma Stanley. So it seems that you are lonely, and that you resort to naughty little games, which greatly disturbs your poor mother because she hasn't given you any real sex education. Well, I don't hold that too much against you, my girl. All that can be remedied. But I simply insist that you tell me the truth and never try to lie to me. You mother has done that already and found that I know how to reward obedience and efficiency and punish slothfulness and mendacity."
Then, turning his attention to the quailing blonde divorcee, he pursued, "And you, Florence, so you admit that you spanked her because you caught her playing with herself and also because you believed her to have some secret companion whose existence was unknown to you and whom you suspected might be guilty of teaching her those things which you neglected to teach Wilma. Is that so?"
Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, Florence Stanley uttered a soft groan and then faintly murmured, "Yes, Sir John."
CHAPTER NINE
Wilma stared at her mother, her mouth agape with horrified stupefaction, while the golden-haired divorcee looked helplessly first at her, and then back at the adamant and dominating mature man in the armchair. Sir John Ellison observed this interplay of emotions with growing interest, and his prick had already began to throb with anticipation. "It seems to me, Florence," he remarked in a dry, sarcastic voice, "that you haven't succeeded in all these years in getting your daughter's confidence. And if you can't discipline her, you can't expect a future employer to waste his time doing what you ought to have done when she was a little girl. I want to know exactly what happened. I want you, Florence, to show me how you punished Wilma the other afternoon."
"You-you surely can't mean that, Sir John!" Florence Stanley gasped. Wilma recoiled, a hand to her mouth, her face turning scarlet with mortification. Then in a choking voice she panted. "No! Nobody is going to do that to me in front of a man, nobody, do you understand? I-I'm leaving now, Mother! And I don't want this man to do anything for me. I don't want to be indebted to him. I can find my own job without his interference."
"And now you insult me in my own home, Wilma," Sir John Ellison regarded the young coppery-haired girl with a stern and glowering look. "If your mother doesn't at once chastise you, I myself will undertake that disciplinary action. Well, Florence? Are you going to obey me or are you going to incur my displeasure?"
The look he turned on the quailing divorcee made her tremble with fear. Quickly, and defensively, she turned on her own daughter like a virago, "How dare you be so impertinent to Sir John? I can see that I have neglected your upbringing, young lady! That little spanking I gave you the other day wasn't enough, was it? I'm going to teach you how to behave when I take you in front of an important person like Sir John Ellison!"
With this, she advanced on her horrified daughter, who uttered a cry of mingled rage and fear, and ran towards the door. But out of desperation her mother followed her and caught her by the wrist and swung her around, then slapped her face. Wilma uttered a cry again, and tears began to glisten in her dilated eyes as she tried to drag her wrist away. But by now Sir John Ellison had bounded from his own armchair and come to intervene. Quickly he took hold of Wilma's other wrist, and then ordered, "Into that little room where you had your own punishment the other day, Florence! We'll put her over the punishment stool and then you're going to chastise her until she tells the truth!"
"No! Let go of me! You've got no right-you're hurting my wrists. Mother, don't let him do this to me, if you love me! No, please, no!" Wilma cried hysterically.
Planting her feet, she tried to draw back, but the exerted strength of the mature English nobleman and her own mother's feverishly relentless grip on her other wrist defeated all of her efforts. The two of them pulled her along, stumbling and crying out, vainly trying to break free of their grip, till they entered the little anti-chamber where Florence Stanley herself had knelt two afternoons ago with her bottom upturned over the ottoman after having been soundly manually spanked by her employer-lover-master.
In an adjacent corner opposite the door, stood a heavy wrought-iron foot stool, whose round top was made of thick black padded leather. A buckling strap was fixed to one side of this seat, while a pair of straps was attached to both rear and front legs of the apparatus. Disregarding Wilma's cries and protests and angry denunciations, Sir John Ellison and Florence Stanley forced the struggling red-haired girl to bend over the infamous apparatus, and then Sir John bade his mistress-slave buckle the strap around her waist as tightly as she could to pinion the captive so that he could proceed to attach her wrists and ankles. Wilma kicked frantically, but Sir John Ellison methodically proceeded, being used to exercises of this kind and with even more mature victims than this red-haired virgin. In a trice, her slim wrists were tightly bound with the leather straps which were buckled as snugly as they could be drawn, making her wince with pain. Then he moved back of her, squatted down, and, carefully watching her flailing legs, suddenly seized her left ankle and made it fast with one of the straps at the back, buckling it very tightly. The other leg fell victim a moment later.
Now Wilma Stanley was presented draped over the punishment stool, the strap around her waist fixing her almost immutably, her magnificent bottom upturned and vulnerable.
Sir John seated himself on the very ottoman over which the golden-haired divorcee had humbly knelt for her chastisement and directed, "Now then, Florence, prepare her bottom. I think for this first correction, a good handspanking will suffice, until Wilma agrees to confess what she has been holding back."
"Yes, Sir John!" Florence Stanley panted. She stooped and to her daughter's incredulous shame, pulled up the girl's dress and slip, exposing the provocatively high-perched oval-contoured bottom-cheeks, tightly encased in a pair of white nylon pantie-briefs. A narrow white satin-elastic garter belt sent its narrow tabs tautly down along Wilma's lovely, lissome thighs, hooking to the tops of charcoal-brown nylon hose whose dark tinting made a wonderfully voluptuous contrast with the exquisitely pale ivory, rose-flecked bare skin of her upper thighs.
Dying with mortification at this shameful display of her most intimate person to the eyes of a man, Wilma Stanley contracted her bottom muscles with all her strength, huddling the oval globes to diminish the gradually broadening furrow which led to both her temples of pleasure. Sir John's eyes glowed with lust as they observed the play of rippling muscles along her straining thighs and sinuously shaped elegantly trim calves. The tight filmy sheath of Wilma's panties seemed about to burst, so effulgently and boldly did her bottom-cheeks thrust out in this ignoble pose.
"You may proceed, Florence. Spank the girl until she is ready to tell you everything. Otherwise, if it requires my own intervention, it will be the turn of your bottom after I have finished with your daughter." he calmly declared.
To Wilma, this came as a cataclysmic pronouncement; she had been somewhat suspicious of her mother's post with the English nobleman, but these callous words confirmed her worst suspicions. Her mother was under his strict and inexorable domination, or certainly she would never have abetted him in resorting to such highhanded measures.
In her bent-over pose, Wilma's long coppery-red pageboy curls tumbled down towards the floor, and her slim long fingers clawed and twisted as they frantically strove to break the binding clutch of the buckled leather straps. But the stool was heavy and solid, the straps tenacious, and all she accomplished was to twist and wriggle her pantie-sheathed behind in a way that only excited Sir John Ellison's already furious lust.
He did not mean to enjoy her virginities, however, not on this occasion; voluptuary that he was, he much preferred the slow and gradual method of humbling a spirited beauty like Wilma Stanley until she would be ready to grovel and to implore being fucked instead of submitting to the lengthy and diversified punishment program he had in store for her. He therefore looked at her mother and repeated, "I'm waiting, Florence. Give her a good sound spanking, and make sure she feels it!"
"No, Mother! Oh my God, you can't be going to do that to me in front of him? Oh no, please, I'll never forgive you, I swear I won't! I'll run away from home!" Wilma cried hysterically.
Florence Stanley felt an instant compassion for her daughter, but the alternative outweighed any show of that tender quality. Because she knew full well that if she refused to chastise her own daughter in Sir John's presence, he would unhesitatingly condemn her to the same humiliating and martyrizing treatment in front of Wilma, a prospect which would be absolutely annihilating, furthermore, to all her self-respect and pride.
Accordingly, she took her place on the girl's left, posed the flat of her left hand on the small of the girl's supple, squirming back, and lifted her right hand, and then brought it down with an energetic smack on the upper right cheek of Wilma's bottom.
"Ohhh! Stop it, Mother! Don't do it to, for God's sake, don't shame me like this in front of a man! Oh, I hate you, I hate you, no real mother would treat a girl this way, not like this!" Wilma cried.
Frantically she threw herself against the straps, but the one over her waist did not yield an inch, and her hips and thighs quaked and strained and shuddered with the exertion. A second spank now fell on the left buttock, towards the base. It rang out crisply, and Wilma uttered a stifled little cry of discomfort, glancing back at her mother, her eyes filmed with glistening tears.
"How can you tell how effective a spanking is that way, Florence?" Sir John Ellison interposed as he leaned forward from his seat on the ottoman to watch the exciting choreography of Wilma's voluptuous, provocatively firm and jutting bottom. "Take her panties down."
"Oh no! NOOOO, Oh for God's sake, don't do that to me, Mother, not that, not that! Oh, spank me when we get home, in the name of mercy, but not in front of him! Not naked, not in front of a man, Mother!" Wilma screamed, fairly beside herself.
Sir John Ellison directed a baleful look at the golden-haired divorcee, who uttered a soft groan of helpless despair and at last tremblingly inserted her fingers under the waistband of the scanty, clinging nylon sheath. Wilma uttered a wild wordless scream at this, arching and twisting; then tried to flatten herself over the stool to prevent the descent of her final veil of modesty. But Sir John Ellison's steely eyes fixed levelly and unwaveringly on the golden-haired matron, and her thighs began to tremble with apprehension. She knew very well that she herself would take Wilma's place if she did not immediately comply with this man's tyrannical wishes. So, with a deep sobbing breath, she grasped the tops of the girl's panties and dragged them down to the tops of Wilma's struggling, writhing, flexing thighs.
A piercing shriek of supreme mortification tore from the victim. Desperately, Wilma contracted the muscles of her behind to diminish the all too vulnerable naked target. The resilience of those smooth, satiny bottomovals, the exquisitely ludicrous view which was now accorded to the eyes of the English nobleman, that of the thick crisp, dark red pussycurls framing the delicate pink lips of that virgin cunt, and the secretive, shadowy groove which led to her virgin anus, now provided the most intoxicating and stimulating regalia to the sadistic Sir John Ellison.
On the girl's pale ivory flesh, her mother's initial two spanks were imprinted in vivid pink outline, marring that immaculate naked flesh with the lascivious hue of corporal punishment.
"Now, proceed, Florence, and don't spare the girl. If I don't think she's been sufficiently punished, I shall not only supplement her ration, but you yourself will feel the weight of my hand, and I think you know from past experience how uncomfortable that will be for you," he said sarcastically.
Now it was Florence Stanley's turn to utter a strangled little sob of shame, for now there was no possible equivocation in her daughter's mind as to just how domineering an emprise Sir John Ellison had taken over her.
The feminine psyche is complex and it is also masochistic to the extreme under certain circumstances. Now that Florence Stanley herself had been mortified beyond redemption by this inscrutable and tyrannical despot, she transferred her spleen and injured pride to the innocent victim who was her own daughter; she was furious with Wilma for having led up to this scene which endangered her own person. So, pressing down hard with her left palm on the small of the girl's back, she began to spank Wilma with the full weight of her arm. The slaps rang out sonorously, obscenely, while Wilma lifted her head, her eyes widening with pain, her mouth gaping in constant agonized cries and petitions: "Ahhrrr! Oh don't, oh my God, don't do that to me, Mother! I don't-aiii! Oh please, you're hurting me-Oh, not in front of him, don't let me be naked this way in front of him-Owww, oh please, you're hurting so! Please stop-please!"
Panting, sobbing, her face flushed, tears running down her cheeks, Florence Stanley pursued this punitive task with an energy born out of her own terror of this implacable master. She was not, of course, particularly adept or expert in such discipline; nonetheless, her palm cracked angrily and without respite all over the now naming, squirming, wriggling bottom of the unfortunate and helpless young victim. And soon the stinging pain of those reiterated, rapidly bestowed slaps began to overcome even the martyrdom of Wilma's ego and pride and modesty, till she began to cry out stridently: "Eeeeahhrrr! Oh please stop it, you're hurting me dreadfully! Ouch-oww, Oh Mother, please, no more, let me go, let me go now!"
But Sir John Ellison had fixed his eyes on Florence Stanley, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly to indicate that in his opinion the spanking was not yet adequate. Thus directed, the golden-haired divorcee paused to regain her breath, while poor Wilma writhed and squirmed as she sought to break free of her restraining straps, her face contorted and flushed and wet with tears of suffering. The angrily reddened oval cheeks of her bottom executed what is known to connoisseurs of fustigation as the "Dance of the whip"; long nervous spasms rippled up and down the young redhead's calves and thighs, while her buttocks quaked and yawned, then spasmodically huddled as if to diminish all the ludicrous vistas which their immodest and distended nudity afforded the English sadist.
"Make her tell, Florence," he curtly ordered. He sat on the edge of the ottoman, leaning forward so as to miss not a detail of the enchanting scene before him. It was directly behind the footstool over which poor Wilma was so humiliatingly draped and exposed, with her mother at the left. His thick-knuckled fingers were clasped, tensing as a sign of his carnal excitement.
Hearing this heartless sentence, the red-haired victim tried again to supplicate her mother for mercy: "Ohh-oh, M-Mother, please, no more ... I hurt so ... oh please let me off, let me put my clothes back on, if you only knew how dreadful it is to be like this in front of a man ... have mercy on me, Mother, I didn't do anything wrong, honestly I didn't!"
"This sudden modesty in front of a man is quite at variance with the lewd behavior your daughter exhibited the other afternoon," Sir John Ellison remarked with an ironic chuckle.
"But, Sir John," even dominated though she was by this voluptuary, the golden-haired divorcee could not help interceding for her agonized and mortified daughter, "I know she's never done anything improper with a boy or a man, not ever, Sir John! And at her age, after all, I was married and had conceived her already. Can you not spare her this one time?"
"Readily," he agreed with a mocking smile, "but in that case, you will take her place over that stool and I will have her spank you instead."
Wilma uttered a startled gasp at this outrageous proposal, echoed by her terrified mother, who blushed violently at the mere thought of being thus shamed. With a groan, she turned back to that flaming bottom which she had so rudely chastised; again bearing down with her left palm on the small of Wilma's squirming back, she slowly raised her right hand and then applied it vigorously across the top of Wilma's right hip with a sharp crisp slap.
"Ohhh! Oh, please, not anymore, Mother!" Wilma wailed.
But Sir John again glanced meaningfully at his subjugated mistress, and the golden-haired divorcee shuddered at the malevolence of that look. Again her hand rose and fell decisively, flattening the jouncy upper summit of her daughter's left bottom-cheek and drawing a new, piteous cry of anguish from the weeping girl.
"I want you to tell the truth, the entire truth, Wilma," she panted as she applied still another slap, and then another, alternating on the angrily reddened oval globes of that voluptuous virgin posterior. "I want to know the name of your friend, who she is, whether you have met her and whether you have learned shameful and wicked things from her, do you understand? I'll spank you till you tell, Wilma!"
And with this, she resumed the spanking, driven on by her own fears and shame, even though she could not escape the agonized awareness of the destruction she was wreaking on Wilma's fierce young pride and ego.
Tormented by the infernal buring of her naked bottom, the red-haired victim frenziedly jerked at the straps buckled round her wrists, turned back her tear-stained, contorted face to entreat pardon, arched, then flattened herself convulsively each time her mother's hand crashed down against her smarting naked flesh. Her buttocks jerked and spasmed uncontrollably now, and under the atrocious burning pangs that visited her tender virgin flesh, the lips of her pussy seemed to yawn invitingly as if welcoming the caress of a finger ... or tongue ... or the rigid structure of a prick in rut. It spoke well for Sir John Ellison's self-control that he could stare upon this libidinous loveliness without yielding to the impulse to answer so propinquitous an invitation.
Nevertheless, his prick threatened to burst through his fly, and the savage ache of his swollen testicles with their overburdened content of lava-thick gism made him grind his teeth in a dull and dogged self-mastery not unlike that of the Spartan youth who allowed his vitals to be eaten out by a fox which he had concealed inside his tunic and without uttering a cry that would betray that secret.
Florence Stanley's hand smarted and was red and swollen, but when she now stopped, breathless, her magnificent bosom rising and falling violently, and looked back again at her tyrannical lover, he again shook his head. "Make her speak," he repeated in a harsh, metallic voice.
Wilma overhearing this decree which prolonged her overwhelming torment, uttered a strident cry: "Oh no, oh my God, Mother, please no more, please! I can't stand it, you're hurting me so awfully, Mother! Have mercy, oh have mercy on me, I'm so unhappy!"
"Do you wish me to replace you, Florence?" Sir John sardonically inquired.
"Oh no, Sir John! I-I'll make her talk, you'll see! Now then, you wicked, sneaky girl, you're going to tell me everything, do you understand?
If I have to beat the skin off your impudent bottom, I'll do it till you talk! There-and there-and there, do you feel that? I'm going to spank you till I hear you start to tell the truth, young lady! There, and that too!" the golden-haired divorcee gasped as she punctuated her words with energetic smacks all over Wilma's jerking, twisting, angrily inflamed naked behind. Each of these vigorous assaults on a terrain already so dolorously sensitized drew a sobbing cry from the unfortunate bent-over red-haired victim.
The soft delicate pink lips of her virgin cunt seemed now to twitch and to yawn even more lasciviously, for the prolonged spanking had vitiated nearly all of poor Wilma's self-control. Nor did she, for that matter, longer think of the mortifying indecency of her posture before a strange man, so beleaguered was she by the scorching, bruising agony in her tautly upreared bare bottom.
Once again Florence Stanley paused, and with her forearm wiped away the beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. "Are you deliberately being obstinate, you impertinent vixen?" she pantingly demanded. "Do you want Sir John to whip you himself? I swear that if you don't start to talk, I'll ask him to punish you. How would like that, a big grown up girl of eighteen spanked on her naked backside by the very man who was going to find her a situation? Have you no pride left, no sense of propriety, young lady?"
This quite illogical and specious rhetoric made Sir John Ellison's lips curve in a mocking little smile, for he understood that his mistress was under the empire of her own apprehension of the consequences which would ensue if she failed to attain her objective. He also knew, voluptuary that he was, that the crushing blow to Wilma's psyche by having her brought here and humiliatingly spanked like a child in front of him represented in itself a tremendous step forward in his intended conquest of this beautiful young virgin. For it had been his intention from the very outset to establish not only a mastery over Florence Stanley, but also over her delectable, hitherto untouched offspring, whose exquisite contours and sensitivity and youth enormously excited him.
Yet, suffering though she was, and the enforced and prolonged bent-over posture to which the straps compelled her now adding its own aching and cramping torment to her young martyr's ordeal, Wilma Stanley still frantically clung to her one last resolve: not to betray her darling Arlette, not even if it meant her very life under the torture-to betray her petite amie. She was sobbing hysterically, her body attacked by sporadic and violent tremors, but she did not speak.
"Spank her on the thighs, too, Florence," Sir John Ellison now observed. "This is a most sensitive region and perhaps it will break down her stubbornness. If your hand is tiring, however, I offer my services."
Florence Stanley cast him a frightened look, then shook her head. "Oh no, Sir John, " she babbled, "I'll make her talk, never fear! She's just trying to show off, that's all, the obstinate little baggage! Oh, you wicked, heartless girl, to put your mother through such a distressing scene in her employer's home!" And with this, driven by her mounting terror of the man who sat on the edge of the ottoman and balefully glowered at her, Florence Stanley resumed the spanking.
This time her right hand smacked noisily against Wilma's upper right thigh, and then the left. Startled by the change of venue in her punishment, Wilma uttered a piercing cry: "Eeeoww! Ohh, Mother, Mother, not anymore! I'm suffering so, oh please have mercy, please!"
"No mercy till you talk, you obstinate, headstrong girl!" Florence Stanley panted, applying another pair of slaps on first the right thigh, then the left. "You're going to tell everything, do you hear me? Everything! I'm going to spank you till your wicked bottom is bleeding, unless you talk!" And once again her hand made sonorous impact with the lovely, gracefully rounded ivory thighs, each in turn, and their flawless satiny skin was tinged with a vivid pink to indicate their sensitivity.
Now Wilma's contortions over the heavy footstool seemed to be more desultory than ever, her hips lunged this way and that, she tried to clench her straining thighs, she lifted her head, her eyes drowned with tears, her mouth gaping in hysterical cries and sobs, and her magnificent young titties swelled voluminously as she fought for breath. Once again her mother paused, then delivered a pair of furious slaps to each of the ripe jutting bottomsummits, where the flesh was darkest and most tender from the previous chastisement. Wilma uttered a piercing shriek: "Aiiiiii!! Ohh, stop, stop, I can't bear anymore, I can't, I can't! Have pity on me, Mother, I'm suffering so, I'm suffering so!"
"Then speak, you stubborn thing," Florence Stanley gasped, and she repeated the dose, her right palm meeting each of the inflamed and swollen bottomsummits in turn.
"All right, owww! Oh stop it, I'll tell, I'll tell!" Wilma wailed. She had reached the point of capitulation; in spite of her desperate resolve, the flaming heat of her naked bottom and thighs had become an infernal torture, and it seemed to her that all her frantic squirmings over the footstool only augmented the hellish incendiary blaze lodged in her naked flesh.
CHAPTER TEN
"Oh, thank God!" Florence Stanley murmured to herself, as tears ran down her cheeks. In aftermath now, she repented of her brutality towards her only child. But this returned compassion was swiftly detoured by Sir John Ellison's abrupt rise from the ottoman as, hands clasped behind his back, he approached the footstool, his eyes feasting on the furiously reddened jutting naked behind of the young sufferer. Wilma was weeping hysterically now, her hips and thighs and bottom restlessly shifting and squirming in a futile effort to disperse the blazing fires in her naked flesh.
"I am waiting for you to tell your mother everything, as you promised, Wilma," he now declared. The weeping redhead shuddered violently at the sound of his voice, and slowly raised her head. Her lips worked convulsively, her delicate nostrils flared and shrank, and her eyes blinked frantically to clear away the blinding, scalding tears.
"Perhaps," he dryly observed to the trembling golden-haired divorcee, "She is merely trying to gain a little time. And as she doesn't appear to be ready to tell us what we want to know, and you seem exhausted from carrying out your maternal duties, I had best replace you. Be assured, my deal Wilma, that my hand is harder and tires far less easily than your mother's."
Wilma Stanley uttered a wild, frantic scream of despair: "Ohhh nooo!! ! Oh no, S-S-Sir J-John, no more, I'll tell, I'll tell! Oh in the name of decency, please let me have my panties back on, and I'll tell, I promise I'll tell you everything!"
The frail white nylon panties had by now slithered down to her ankles, owing to her incessant contortions and wrigglings. Sir John Ellison's eyes blazed with a fierce lust as they lingeringly contemplated the lewdly outthrust dark-reddened bottom and the shapely thighs whose upper columns were already vividly imprinted with the bright crimson splotches left by her mother's palm. "I will make no bargains with you, Wilma," he asserted. "Your panties will not be restored to you until either you have told the entire truth or received the rest of your punishment. It would be, after all, useless to cover your impudent backside if I should have to resume spanking you, as I certainly shall if you don't begin to talk at once!"
Shuddering, closing her eyes, drawing a long sobbing breath, Wilma Stanley at last pitifully surrendered, forsaking even her last despairing resolve to shield her beloved Lesbian partner. "I-I didn't mean to, Mother," she began, plaintively addressing herself to the one person for whom she could still, in spite of her martyrdom, feel some affection. "I-I'm so lonely. You-you never do anything with me, or go out even to a movie with me. I needed a friend so badly, Mother."
"Get on with it,' Sir John Ellison curtly ordered. "So long as your panties are down, Wilma, your bottom is still prepared for the continuation of your correction."
"Oh, Mother, don't let him spank me, I should die of shame!" Wilma wept. "I-I met her when I came out of school one day. We talked and had tea and-and she was so sympathetic. I couldn't help needing a friend, Mother."
Florence Stanley bit her lips and closed her eyes, realizing only too well that this piteous charge was more than justified. For in her servile devotion to this tyrannical English nobleman, she had sacrificed everything ... including Wilma's modesty and pride. What she did not and could not know was that Wilma would be obliged to sacrifice a great deal more!
"Get on with it, girl," Sir John Ellison hoarsely commanded.
"Ohh!" Wilma tearfully exclaimed, once again being made aware, now that the repeated pangs of her spanking had at least diminished, of the shameful exposure she unwillingly was making of herself bent over the punishment stool and strapped down to it. So, in the frantic hope that at least by hurrying her revelation, her panties might be restored to her and she might be freed from this ignominious posture, she tearfully stammered, "We-we saw each other several times after that. I was very fond of her, and she was so kind to me. And we wrote letters to each other. And-and that's all, Mother, truly it is!"
"Not quite," Sir John again interposed. "You haven't as yet told us her name, nor have you admitted your naughtiness. I am convinced that this onanistic practice of yours must have been inspired by your companion, and I am also equally sure that you and she committed certain indiscretions. Before your punishment can be considered concluded, therefore, you are going to tell your mother and me everything, is that clear?"
And suddenly and without warning. Sir John Ellison lifted his right hand and brought it down with a ferocious smack on the tenderest and plumpest curve of Wilma's naked ripe bottom-cheek. With a wild scream the girl lunged forward and twisted and squirmed frantically, for that blow had seemingly revived all the fires of hell in her tender and martyrized flesh: "Eeeowww!! ! Oh don't, oh please don't spank me anymore, Sir John, I'm going to tell, I'm going to tell everything, if you'll only stop, I hurt so, I can't stand it any longer!"
"You have already sorely tried my patience, Wilma," he coldly retorted, "quickly now, unless you want me to use a martinet on your insolent bottom!"
And, to quicken her reply, he dealt the unfortunate girl another brutal smack with his open hand against the lower summit of her left buttock, again making her lunge forward over the stool with a strident scream of torment: "Ooouuuu!! ! For God's sake, stop, stop, I'm going to tell, I will, oh please no more, oh please! Oh Mother, make him stop, for God's sake, I'm going to tell!"
He stepped back, and his prick was in violent erection now, nakedly and undisguisedly proclaiming the sadistic rut to which he had been roused. Because now that he had actually felt the magnificent Callipygian charms of his mistress's beautiful young daughter, Sir John Ellison had vowed that she should be subjugated to the fullest extent until, like Florence Stanley, she was ready to become a lust-slave. And the thought of pitting mother against daughter and daughter against mother to vie for his severe and ritualistic attentions was a prospect indeed to be savored as he would a vintage wine or a rich Havana cigar.
"Oh, Wilma, for my sake, don't delay any longer, tell him everything," her mother pleaded in a trembling, choking voice, her hands clasped as in prayer.
Slowly Wilma raised her head, shuddering violently the cheeks of her behind flexing and tightening, only to yawn libidinously to expose even the secretive shadowly passageway which led to her dainty virginal anal rosette. And this vision, just above the Ubidinous, gaping and twitching pink petals of her maiden cunthole, very nearly made Sir John forego his resolve not to possess her until the chosen time had come.
"M-Mother, her-her name is Arlette V-Villers, and-and-she works for a theatrical c-costume f-firm, that-that's all I know about her, truly it is, Mother," the unfortunate redhead sobbingly avowed.
"And you visited her apartment, I daresay?" Sir John ironically pursued the questioning.
"Y-yes," Wilma admitted in a dying voice, again shuddering with the despair of knowing her betrayal of her secret friend.
"As I thought. And in her apartment, did you and she indulge in certain naughty little game? By which I mean kissing and fondling and going to bed together, and pretending to enact the role of normal lovers. I want a truthful answer, Wilma, or your bottom shall have twenty-five strokes of a three-thonged leather martinet, he threatened.
"Y-y-yes, again the answer came in a faintly audible voice, broken with sobs and groans.
"Describe these practices. Do not hesitate now, my girl, or it will be worse for you! he severely insisted.
Conquered by pain and the dread of still more to come, the unfortunate young girl confessed everything. Tearfully, her body shaking with sobs, she told how Arlette had undressed her and how she had let her petite amie do this and then ply her with kisses and caresses until finally, merged upon the bed, they had enjoyed the secretive ecstasies of tribadism. Sir John's eyes glistened with a cruel glow during this recital, and he stared fixedly at the magnificent bottom which, swollen though it was, retained for him the most cantharidic effect. Florence Stanley had put her hands over her face and was weeping quietly.
The sadistic English nobleman now turned to his golden-haired mistress: "It appears Florence, that your protestations of having supervised your daughter's activities are mendacious to extreme. Without your knowing it, this wayward girl has found herself a Lesbian lover, and has indulged in clandestine correspondence which, I am persuaded, must be of an equally scabrous nature. It is obvious to me that you are not quite the vigilant mother you have made me believe you are."
Again the beautiful divorcee trembled at the menace in his voice and at the harsh judgment in his words. "But, Sir John," she sobbed, "She's always been a good girl. I've done my best, but without a husband-you know my circumstances, Sir John. Surely you must understand that it has been difficult. And until now she's given me no hint of being anything but the most obedient of daughters."
"You are hardly a sound judge of character or human nature, I am afraid, Florence," he said with a gentle condescension. "But it is plain that if I am to assume the guardianship of this misled girl, I shall have to superimpose my own kind of discipline upon her as upon you. You will take her home now and tomorrow at this same time in the afternoon you will bring her back this time with those letters. All of them, Florence."
"Y-yes, Sir John. But-but-I can't do that, not all of them!"
"And why not?"
"Because, as I told you, she tore up one of them when I came into her room the other afternoon,"
"Very well. Granted that one of them will be lacking, I expect you to get the rest. Is that plainly understood?"
"Y-yes, Sir John."
"Good. And, to aid you in the work of discovery, I shall lend you this little martinet. If she requires persuasion, you will apply it on her bottom which I think is sufficiently sensitive by now to make such a chastisement be more effective." With this, he walked over to a desk at one corner of the little ante-chamber, opened the bottom drawer and took out the instrument of which he had spoken. It had a short, black polished wooden handle, about eight inches long, to which were attached three supple brown leather thongs each about twenty inches in length, an eighth of an inch wide and as thick. The tips of these lashes tapered into vicious little points, like the head of an arrow. Wilma, who had turned her contorted, tear-drowned face back during this dialogue, perceived the instrument and uttered a choking cry of terror. Sir John Ellison chuckled: "It is an impressive instrument, as you can tell from Wilma's reaction to it. Make good use of it if need be. But in any case, I shall expect you here at the same time tomorrow afternoon with the letters. And now, so that Wilma may be impressed with the seriousness of her situation, we shall leave her to meditate where she is for a while, while you accompany me to a private chamber for a serious discussion concerning the future not only of your daughter but your own."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Florence Stanley turned red in the face, glanced piteously at the bent-over girl on the footstool, and then raised imploring eyes to her tyrannical lover. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed, and he did not need to speak to dominate her entirely once again. To such an extent had he mastered her that even the small voice of maternal conscience which was beginning to nag at her for having abandoned her own daughter to this shameful ordeal before him was stilled. "Yes, at once, Sir John," she dutifully quavered.
They walked out of the antechamber together, he preceding her. As she followed him, the whimpering little sobs of the unfortunate redhead who remained thus in her ignominious and obscenely displayed posture over the punishment apparatus drifted to her, but she steeled herself not to hear them or, if she did, not to pay heed to them.
He led her to his bedchamber, and then, once she had closed the door and timidly faced him, said, "Strip naked now and be quick about it."
"Oh yes, Sir John-"
"What's this?" he glowed. "Don't you know that I've ordered you when we are alone together to call me 'master' henceforth? Decidedly, I've been too lax with you, Florence. And before I make love to you, I'm going to punish you for that. Now get your clothes off quickly. Everything except your stockings and garter belt, nothing else."
Her trembling fingers hastened to obey. Her bosom rose and fell, and her face was stained not only with the blush of shame but with that of desire. Her pussy throbbed with yearning, for, unbeknownst to herself, the infliction of the spanking on her own daughter had titillated her latent sensuality, which Sir John Ellison had so ingeniously developed under his regimen. When she was naked, her voluptuous and opulent body quivering and palpitating, she bowed her head with her arms at her side, in the attitude of a slave. It pleased him to see her thus, and he now ordered, "I see that you have learned something, after all. I shan't punish you too harshly this time. On the other hand, neither will I reward you as I know you'd like to be rewarded. Tomorrow afternoon, however, if you bring the letters and obtain a full confessional from Wilma, I may then grant you what I know you long for. Now then," he added as he seated himself on a low footstool, "Crawl between my knees, open my fly and take out my cock and suck it. I am going to spank you while you do that."
"Ohh!" her gasp indicated a great disappointment, which made him smile ironically. He knew very well that she was longing to be fucked and that the scene which had just concluded had inflamed her passions almost as much as it had inflamed his own.
"What's this? Do you hesitate over a command your master gives you?" he growled again.
Florence Stanley immediately dropped onto her knees, her big luscious round titties jiggling in the most lascivious way, and docilely crawled between his legs, reached up her trembling hand and drew down the zipper of his trousers fly, inserted her soft little fingers and drew out his stiff and throbbing prick.
"Come a little closer to me, and stick up your big bottom. And don't move out of position, or I'll use a martinet or a birch instead," he warned.
Florence Stanley circled his hips with her beautifully rounded carnation-satiny arms, closed her eyes and her soft full tremulous lips closed over the meatus of Sir John Ellison's virile cock. He suppressed a groan of delight as he leaned slightly forward, and, the fingers of his left hand clutching her golden hair, he raised his right hand and began to spank her plump, up-standingly rounded naked bottom with sonorous slaps which visited each cheek in turn. From time to time, he issued directives: "Don't move away, or you'll regret it! Crawl in closer to me, and don't let go of my cock! That's better-stick it up a little more, though-yes, that's it. Now stay that way! There-there-there-the next time you bring Wilma here to see me, I expect her to be much more docile, do you understand me? There and there-it's all I can do to keep from using a birch on that fat backside of yours, Florence. Now use the tip of your tongue over my cock ... good ... suck on it too, nice rapid little sucks ... I warn you, I shall go off in your mouth and you're going to swallow every drop ... there ... your big bottom really needs something more serious than my hand, but there isn't time. Suck harder now, take more of my prick into your mouth, Florence ... that's better, much better-pass your tongue all around the sides of my shaft-aahhh-good-there, and there, and there! I wonder why your husband didn't utilize this method with you long ago, today you might be a more adept and cooperative lover ... ahh, don't stop now, and stop plunging about so much or I'll use a birch on you when I finish-get ready, Florence, I'm going to burst into your mouth, now suck with all your might, and slush your tongue over the tip of my cock-ohh, ahh-there it is-aaahhhhh!! ! "
His hand rose and fell in a veritable avalanche of crisp stinging slaps all over her wriggling upturned naked bottom, as, letting his head fall back, he released all the pent-up bubbling burden of his heavily laden balls, drenching her mouth and palate with the hot viscous jet. Sobbing and groaning from the furious pain which exacerbated her tender naked behind, clutching him desperately with her arms so as not to lose position or release his prick-which act had once cost her twenty-five stripes with the martinet on a previous occasion-Florence Stanley gagged and retched but managed to swallow down her lover's torrential spunk.
After this, he compelled her to lick his organ and balls clean, before he permitted her to dress and to return to the antechamber where poor Wilma was still waiting. Nor did he forget to remind her in a stern voice that he would be expecting her and her daughter the following afternoon with the packet of incriminating letters which Wilma had written to Arlette Villiers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wilma Stanley huddled in her corner in the back seat of the taxi which was conveying her and her mother to their flat. Her face was red and her eyes swollen, for Sir John Ellison hadn't permitted her to use his bathroom after he had finished his private discussion with her mother. Of course the lovely red-haired virgin had no way of guessing that this "discussion" had had nothing at all whatsoever to do with business, but that in fact it had been a further display of the English nobleman's sadistic domination over her beautiful golden-haired mother. But she could not dare to look at Florence Stanley now, remembering in shamed and crushed after-reaction that terrible and shocking ordeal of having been bent down across a stool and tied to it like an animal, then soundly spanked by her own mother in front of that cruel, hateful man. And worse of all, he himself had actually felt her naked seat and given her some of the hardest wallops she had ever felt against it. He had seen her bare behind, upreared and shamelessly exposed, and he certainly must have seen her p-pussy too. She tried to huddle herself into a little ball in he back of the cab, and wished she could turn invisible and stay that way.
But Florence Stanley did not add to Wilma's woes of reminiscence at this moment. She herself was sitting rather uncomfortably on the other side of the seat because Sir John's hand had decorated her voluptuous, plump round posterior with a fiery pattern whose warmth was all too irksome as she sat on the hard leather upholstery of the vehicle. And worst of all, he hadn't even fucked her. Because the terrible thing was, as she now had to admit to herself, that while she had been spanking Wilma's naked behind, she had had the sexiest, most feverish urge to have Sir John thrust his big hard cruel prick deep into her cunt and give her what she needed. She was aghast at her own mixed emotions. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. She had always treated Wilma with almost an equality, she believed, even when she was vexed with the girl for being so unruly and sulky and untidy about her things. But this!
So she was staring unseeingly out of the window now, biting her lips, distressed not only over what had taken place and the ignominious fall from grace which poor Wilma had incurred before Sir John on this very first introduction which she had hoped was going to be so propitious for her daughter, but because of her enervation. It was a doubly agonizing enervation, initially torturing because instead of at least giving her a quick fuck even if he had had to punish her, he had compelled her to French him and to swallow every drop regardless of what it had cost her pride. And of course she had known that to beg him to appease her the way she wanted would only make him the more furious, since he was in an irate mood already. But in her mind there lingered the picture of her daughter's half-naked body, tied rightly over that stool, the creamy oval cheeks dancing and squirming and reddening under her stinging hand. The sight of those dainty pink petals of Wilma's virgin quim, framed by the dark red curls of love hair, gaping and twitching under that spanking as if, indeed, Wilma herself were becoming erotically aroused by punishment. She knew that she herself was now excited when that cold, heartless man thrashed her so shamefully, made her feel like a child, or worst of all, a slave. Her own pussy was wet from yearning, and so once again, inevitably, she transferred all her rancor at this distressing disappointment to her daughter, who she felt was responsible for her frustrations and at the same time the overpowering and unsatisfied desire which burned her loins just as surely as Sir John's hand still burned her squirming round opulent bottom against the seat of the cab.
She had thrust the martinet which he had given her into her long purse, the one she always carried along whenever she had an appointment with him. It had two handles and could be draped over the shoulder if need be, and fortunately it was large enough to hide that sinister implement, once the thongs were folded. Now, glancing covertly at her daughter, and discovering that Wilma was looking away, she furtively opened her purse and touched the polished leather thongs. Then she shivered and closed her eyes, as if imagining that they were falling against her own naked, cringing flesh, wielded by that stern and domineering hand which had curbed her and channeled her into a humility she would never have dreamed could take possession of her.
If only the two of them were independent and didn't need financial help from someone like Sir John, she thought! But there it was, the hard economics of it, and she had no other friends or contacts in London; her husband would never do anything else for her, and she had no relatives to turn to. No, for better or worse, she had to cast the dice of her fate on Sir John's table and let him read them as he would.
They had arrived at last at the flat, and she quickly paid and tipped the driver, then held out her hand for Wilma's. But the red-haired girl, still morose and dwelling within her own little inhibited world of self-pity over this unspeakable martyrdom, refused it and, wincing and gasping as her movements restored all the flaming torment to her voluptuous young bottom, got out of the cab herself and headed for the door of the building ahead of her mother.
However, she had to pause while Florence delved in her purse for the key. And the golden-haired divorcee stammered in a low voice, "Darling, please forgive your mother. You know I had to. Let's try to forget it. Just give me the letters, and then take a nice shower and a little nap before dinner. I'll have your favorite dessert for you, and maybe this evening we'll go to the flicks. Would you like that?"
Wilma gave her a look of undying hatred and despair, and then began to sniffle as she dabbed at her swollen eyes with her handkerchief.
Florence Stanley sighed, then unlocked the door. Once inside the flat, she again tried to make up with Wilma: "Honey, if I hadn't spanked you, he would have done it, you know that. I-"
"Please don't speak to me at all, Mother. I want to die! I won't be able to look anybody in the face again, not ever. He saw me naked, Mother. And you let him. And you told him all that so that I'd get punished that awful, horrible way. I hate you! I wish I had a job so that I could live away from home and never see you again!" Wilma burst out passionately.
Tears sprang to Florence Stanley's eyes, but at the same time that fatal and illogical shifting of the true guilt made her turn on Wilma, in a sort of defense mechanism, understandable when one realizes how completely Sir John Ellison had transfigured the psyche of the golden-haired divorcee. "Now be careful, Wilma! I know you've had a very trying time, and I'm dreadfully sorry for it, and I've said as much. But you're not to talk to me so disrespectfully, do you understand? Sir John Ellison is going to help us both. I need my job there, you know that the money is important for our survival. Try to forget it. If you behave yourself, there's no telling what he can do for you. He's rich and influential, and-"
"Do you have to work for that awful brute, Mother?" Wilma asked in a shaking, hoarse voice, at last staring at the divorcee. "Surely there must be other jobs in London. And to think that he beats you too."
"He-he doesn't!" Florence quickly stammered. But Wilma shook her head: "Oh yes he does, Mother. From the way he talked, I got a pretty good idea. And you let him, don't you? How can you cheapen yourself so just for the sake of money?"
"Now look here, my girl," Florence Stanley indignantly exclaimed, wounded all the more because Wilma's accusation was unerringly on target, "I'd like to see you cope with the problems I've had ever since your father left us. I married when I was too young, and I was forced into it. I never learned very much of anything to prepare me for earning my living, so you must appreciate how hard it is when a woman is in her thirties and by herself and trying to find a situation. I was lucky to have Sir John take an interest in me. And that's just his way, you understand."
"Does he make love to you, too, Mother?" Wilma's question came as a thunderbolt to the enervated divorcee.
"How dare you! Now that's enough out of you, Miss! Let's go to your room directly, and you'll hand over those letters. You know what Sir John said. Come along, Wilma!"
Wilma bit her lips. Now also the aftermath of realization was full upon her: she knew that she had betrayed her darling Arlette. And she knew that pain had made her succumb even against her most desperate resolve to be courageous and to hide the secret of that tender affection which was the only kind she had ever had from anyone, even her own mother.
But Florence Stanley did not give her daughter time to meditate on the drastic turn of events which was changing both of their lives at this very moment. Angered by what she believed was insubordination, she grasped Wilma's elbow and exclaimed again, "Didn't you listen to me, young lady? I think Sir John was right after all when he said that you needed discipline. And that I had forgotten my duty as a mother in not giving it to you more frequently. Now you come along with me this instant. We're going to find those letters."
Wilma jerked her elbow away, and with a sobbing gasp, exclaimed, "I'm perfectly capable of going to my own room, Mother! You don't have to manhandle me. Don't you think I've had enough done to me today already?"
And Florence Stanley fell silent, realizing once again the tragic justice in those heartrending words.
So, mutely, she followed Wilma to the latter's room. Now that the moment had come, Wilma stood irresolute for a moment, and then went to where she had hidden the box of letters, emerged and placed it on the bed. "They are all there except the one I tore up," she said dully.
"Let me see them." Florence Stanley moved forward to the bed, opened the box, and took out a thick sheaf of letters, gathered together with a heavy rubber band. She picked one at random, took it out of the envelope, and began to read it. Her eyes widened, and then a furious blush suffused her cheeks. She glanced up, her voice shaking with indignation: "You little slut! You filthy little beast! Not content with behaving like a tramp, you have to write down all the nasty th-things you did with that creature you took up with!"
Arlette had given back Wilma all her letters, at their previous meeting, tenderly suggesting that since she had memorized them all by heart and did not wish to incriminate her dear friend, surely Wilma would want to keep them and to cherish them in hiding. And so Wilma had brought them all home and hidden them away, resorting to reading them late at night when she was by herself and in bed, closing her eyes and living again those burning memories so dear to those who espouse the cause of Lesbos.
"How can you speak like that to me, Mother?"
Wilma's voice was choked with new tears now. "I'm not any of those things. I'm just lonely, that's all. Can't you understand that? And Arlette's a wonderful woman, like my own sister."
"You dare to say such a thing to me! You try to reproach me for not having had more children, do you? Why, you ignorant little brat, I didn't even want to have you, if the truth be known. But your father practically raped me. And then later he showed me how to take precautions, but if I'd known that I'd be left in the lurch and have to worry about such filthy things that you're doing behind my back, I swear I wish you'd never been born!" Florence Stanley said in a trembling voice.
Wilma stared at her uncomprehendingly a moment, and then burst into hysterical sobs, covering her face with her hands. Once again Florence Stanley was tormented by the knowledge that she was fully in the wrong to shift all of the blame onto her red-haired daughter. But once again, also, the throbbing, agonizing and unappeased yearnings in her loins led her to this heartless judgment.
She returned to the letter, reading it aloud now in a disgusted, shocked tone: "Oh my darling, my Arlette, even when I write these words, I feel how inadequate they are to tell you of my love. It's only when our bodies are together, when your sweet breasts are against mine and I can feel your heart beat, and have your arms wind around me and press me tightly to you, only when I can feel my eager little spot pressing against yours and learning what love is like, that I feel myself at last released from my prison cage. How I long for the kisses of your mouth and the touches of your tongue all over my flesh, my beloved Arlette, who has taught me everything. How I would die to be your sweetheart and your lover for all the rest of my life. Your willing and grateful Wilma." She stared contemptuously at her sobbing daughter, and her lips curled with scorn and contempt: "You cheap little slut! Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if you'd been going with a boy, because that would be natural and normal. But this! Letting some unknown woman make love to you, a pervert who would turn you against your own mother! Oh, Sir John was really right, you've been getting away with murder all these years and I haven't laid a hand on you. But all that's going to change, young lady, just you watch!"
As she worked herself into a fury, Florence Stanley suddenly opened her purse and drew out the short-handled three-thonged martinet. And, brandishing it in the air, she cried out, "Take off your dress and your petticoat this instant, you immoral little vixen, you. I'm going to show you what I think of these letters. Do what I tell you, Wilma. Otherwise, when I take you to Sir John tomorrow afternoon, I'll tell him that you were disobedient and insubordinate again."
Wilma stared with mouth agape at the sinister instrument clutched in her mother's right hand. Her eyes were supremely dilated, her magnificent young titties rose and fell agitatedly. "Ohh-n-no-not anymore, not after what you did already to me in front of him, Mother! For God's sake, you can't be going to whip me again-please, please, Mother, won't you be a little merciful?"
"No! If I have to rip the clothes off you, you wicked girl, I'm going to teach you never again to pervert yourself with a stranger! I'm going to watch over you more closely from now on. you'll see. Now, are you going to obey me or not?"
And, at the peak of her almost hysterical fury, Florence Stanley stepped forward and slashed the three thongs of the martinet across Wilma's quivering shoulders. With a cry of pain, the girl threw up one arm to fend off further blows, but her mother now sent the leather bands whistling around Wilma's tender side. With a scream of pain, the lovely young redhead clutched the wounded place and doubled over. Instantly her mother was on her, seizing her by an earlobe between left thumb and forefinger, and directed: "Over to the bed, at once! You wicked, indecent slut! If I have to thrash all this nonsense out of you even if it costs you your skin, Wilma, I'll do just that!"
Wilma cried out in pain as her mother's fingers pinched her earlobe, but the martinet punctuated her mother's words as well, biting over her back and her hips till she stumbled forward, crying out in pain and mortification. Arrived at the bed, Florence Stanley commanded, "Lift up your dress and slip and bend over the edge of the bed, you shameless little slut!"
Weeping bitterly, the young girl obeyed. As she draped herself over the bed, her loins pressing against the edge, her hands hoisted up the dress and slip, once again exposing the frail white nylon panties and the garter belt. The marks of that vigorous handspanking which had so recently been administered could be seen at once, darkened and swollen, against the almost transparent sheath of the panties.
"Hold on to your clothes with both hands, and don't let go!" Florence Stanley warned. And when Wilma had obeyed, she posed her left hand over the girl's gathered wrists, and raising the martinet, slashed the three leather bands squarely across the ripest curves of her daughter's uparched bottom.
A long piercing wail ensued, and Wilma began to kick her stockinged legs as she turned her tearstained face back to her mother to implore mercy: "Eeeowww, oh please, don't whip me with that, it cuts, it tears, my bottom's so sore already, oh don't whip me Mother!"
But her mother was now like an avenging fury, and the martinet rose and fell half a dozen times. Florence Stanley was no expert flagellatress; she struck too rapidly, and she did not make use of the flicking tips of the little whip. Nonetheless, striking vigorously even though awkwardly, she flogged Wilma's already martyrized young bottom, and the desperate shrieks and hysterical cries and convulsive sobs which followed that flurry of lashes ought to have moved her to pity and self-recrimination. But they did not. All she could think of was the burning, lust lines of that letter, all she could think of was that sheaf of so many letters which must be all as obscenely revelatory of her daughter's immodest character. All she could think of was the gnawing hunger in her own loins from not having been fucked by her lord and master and by the irritating discomfort of her own well-spanked bottom. She lowered the martinet only to raise it again and direct another furious avalanche of lashes all over the plunging, twisting, jerking and rearing backside, deaf to Wilma's shrieks and heartfelt entreaties, until at last her arm tired and she flung the martinet away.
Wilma lay, abandoned on the bed, her shoes kicked off, writhing like a mortally wounded snake crushed under a spurning heel. Her face bathed in tears, her eyes haggard with suffering, her young titties pantingly compressed against the bed, she agonized in her desperate knowledge that not even her own mother would take pity on her suffering and on the knowledge that she had betrayed the only friend she had ever had.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once again the dolorous scene was repeated of Wilma huddled to one side of the back seat of the taxi, with her mother at the other end sitting righteously and stemly in vigilant judgment over her errant red-haired daughter.
For it was the following afternoon, and the time was nearing for the appointment with Sir John Ellison. Florence Stanley clutched in her gloved hands the incriminating packet of letters, including those which Wilma herself had written as well as the ones sent to her by her petite ami.
Wilma sat, it is true, with some difficulty, for the furious handspanking which her mother had bestowed upon her only yesterday afternoon had been supplemented by an energetic thrashing with the martinet. However, the golden-haired divorcee had left that implement back at the flat, little thinking that this omission would be seized upon by her stern and tyrannical employer-lover-master. But then in view of the astounding revelations destined for both beauties on this fateful afternoon, it was not at all surprising that Wilma's mother made that one error. She had made, if the truth be known, a great many more long before this afternoon, and their cumulative effect was now imminently at hand...
Sir John's manservant Louis, dignified and silent, with hardly a smile on his ascetic lips, opened the door to the apprehensive divorcee and her sullen, unhappy daughter, ushered them into the salon and informed them that his master would be with them presently. Whereupon he donned his hat and coat and left the house. Indeed, if silent Louis could have been interrogated to an intensive extent of his feelings toward Sir John Ellison, he would have been loud in his praises of the English nobleman. For naturally Sir John had never once allowed this very proper and somewhat stuffy valet to glean the least hint of his passionate propensities for sadistic and erotic conquests. Moreover, Louis himself was about to visit a very charming widow in her early forties, still handsome and capable of energetic affection in the bed of love. What his master intended to do with the two charming visitors whom he had just admitted was not of the slightest concern to him.
But Sir John Ellison did not immediately enter the salon, and Florence Stanley began to become enervated from the suspense. Her gloved hands twisted about the damning packet of letters, and Wilma uttered a deep sigh, glancing at them and knowing with a sinking heart that all these rhapsodic and intimate phrases, torn from her very flesh as from her soul, were soon to be examined by the stern eye of the man who had had her own mother spank her naked bottom before him and then had added the supreme mortification by applying his own hand to her chaste and virgin posterior.
"What could be keeping him?" Florence Stanley mused aloud as she looked around nervously. Finally, in her exasperation, she decided to seat herself on the leather-padded couch opposite his favorite chair. She made a nervous gesture to Wilma to do the same, but the young girl, crushed and tortured by her shameful defeat and her complete loss of pride, ignored the gesture. For these surroundings only served to recall to her the atrocious and unspeakable moment when she had been forcibly bent over a stool and bound to it, her bottom denuded and then chastised like a naughty child in front of a mature man whose sternness and domineering ways had completely intimidated her and made her also suspect that her own mother had been a similar victim on many previous occasions ... a supposition which, as we well know, was unerringly correct.
The minutes dragged on, and the little Swiss clock atop the mantelpiece chimed at last the half-hour past the appointed time Sir John Ellison himself had set for this interview. And then suddenly he appeared on the threshold of the salon. And at the sight of him, Florence Stanley uttered a startled cry, which she could not quite suppress even by putting her hand to her mouth.
He was not in his impeccable attire, but rather clad in a silken dressing gown which was widely belted, with embroidered and monogrammed silk pajamas underneath, and wearing his slippers. The indecorous costume made poor Florence fear the very worst. She turned a vivid red, bit her lips, and glanced fearfully over to Wilma as she quavered, "Good-good afternoon, Sir John."
"We shall see if it is or not," he curtly replied. "You have brought the letters as I asked?"
"Here they are, Sir John." Florence rose from the couch and approached him. He again seated himself in his chair, like a lord of the manor of feudal times, about to open court and to hear the petitions of his serfs and the complaints laid upon them by his bailiffs.
He took the letters from her without a word, untied the little cord she had thoughtfully bound around them to hold them securely, and selected one at random, drew it out of the envelope and began to read it. Wilma uttered a soft groan as she recognized the unmistakable notepaper which was her own. He did not speak, his eyes fixed stonily upon the page, and he turned it over and went on reading to the very end. Only then did he look up at Florence Stanley, who had gone back to the couch and seated herself on the edge, leaning forward anxiously, her hands clasped, her eyes large, her lips twitching with a mounting apprehension. This long delay in the interview and then his stony silence had utterly terrified the handsome young matron.
"It is as I thought," he at last announced in a cold inflexible voice, "You have utterly failed in your duties as a mother Florence. This sort of thing should have been nipped in the bud. Instead, it took my own intervention to bring it to a crux. And if I hadn't caught you in a falsification, perhaps we both should never have guessed the truth. But the truth is that your daughter is not the modest, unassuming paragon of virtue which she professes to be, any more than you are the ideal prototype of a mother who has gained the complete confidence of her offspring. I am forced to conclude, my dear Florence, that it is high time I become the formal if not the legal guardian of this audacious young girl's person. And since," this with an ironic little smile, "I have no wish to separate a mother from her daughter, you shall both be under my supervision. However, I will amend this disposition in favor of another person who is better qualified than I to deal with a girl of Wilma's age. You, Florence, are already quite familiar with my methods and they are quite adequate for you. With Wilma, I fear, they might be a bit stringent at the outset. But my secretary will be an excellent chaperone for your daughter."
With this, he turned toward the door of the salon which led to a narrow hallway connecting with the other rooms of the house, and called, "Miss Duclos, will you kindly step in here for a moment, please."
"At once, Sir John!" came a throaty contralto voice. And then Wilma Stanley slowly raised her head and recoiled, both hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes bulging with an indescribable horror and despair.
For the young woman who had come in answer to Sir John Ellison's summons and whom he had described as his secretary-which she was indeed, besides being his mistress-was none other than Wilma's petite amie, Arlette Duclos, whom Wilma had known as Arlette Villiers!
"You're charming this afternoon, ma mie," Sir John Ellison smiled affectionately at the svelte brunette who wore a black silk dress whose hems reached only to the lower curves of her supple thighs, which were sheathed in smoke-colored nylon hose. "I think you know Wilma already."
"Ar-Arlette-but I don't understand-youyou-" Wilma stammered hoarsely.
Arlette Duclos-to give her her rightful name, although Villiers was the name of a distant cousin from the south of France-regarded her coldly, her face impassive. "You will be given every opportunity to understand, Wilma. Tell me, Sir John, has she been whipped yet?"
Wilma's jaw dropped as she turned to stare at the inexorable man in the armchair, then back at the young woman whom she had believed to be her dearest and only friend.
"Yes, I think so. Yesterday afternoon Florence spanked her in my presence, and I completed the chastisement here. I then lent Florence my martinet and ordered her to find the letters. My guess is that she used it-isn't that so, Florence?"
""Florence Stanley did not quite understand all that was taking place, except to realize that her daughter was in obvious shock at the sight of Sir John's secretary; she herself, to be sure, was petrified at the announcement that this young woman held the title of secretary which she believed she herself solely held. So she stammered, "Y-yes, Sir John, when I found the letters and I read some of them, I was so aghast at Wilma's sinfulness that I lost my head and-and whipped her."
"Then I think it is safe to say, my dear," Sir John addressed the lovely brunette, "that this red-haired minx is already sufficiently initiated into the notion of discipline for you to take immediate charge of her. I wish her to be under a most rigorous regimen. You will take her into the punishment room, oblige her to lift up her outer garments and take down her own panties, and exhibit her bottom to you. You will put her in a position of penitence, and after I have had a private discussion with her mother, I myself shall come to decide just how varied and authoritative this regimen needs to be."
"What are you going to do with her, what are you going to do with my poor little girl, Sir John?" Florence Stanley gasped, again rising from the couch and taking a step towards her tyrannical lord and master.
"I'm going to make an alteration in her character which should have been done by you long ago, Florence. You are not competent to judge her or to correct her faults. But Arlette is. I have the utmost confidence in this young woman.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Arlette Villiers-or perhaps, to give her, her true name, Arlette Duclos-came forward now and grasped the stupefied young redhead by an elbow. "Come along quietly Miss," she coldly ordered, "as otherwise Sir John has given me the authority to punish you very seriously."
Poor Wilma hesitated only an instant, glancing pitifully at her mother who was as thunderstruck as she, because Florence Stanley realized with a flash of maternal intuition (which alas came far too late!) that this recognition by her daughter of the handsome svelte brunette assigned to be her daughter's trainer obviously portended something far more secretive than she had dreamed. Then the red-haired girl bowed her head and meekly followed her petite amie out of the salon.
Wilma believed that once alone with her darling Arlette, she could restore their former intimate status of confiding friends and perhaps at the same time learn the full and menacing hold which this strange and implacable man exercised over her mother. As she followed Arlette down the hall, she feverishly whispered, "I'm so happy to see you, Arlette! I don't understand this all, but I've so much to tell you! Oh, if you only knew what has happened to me the past few days-I'm longing to tell you, because you can help me so very much, and maybe Mother too!" But
Arlette Duclos did not vouchsafe a single word until they had arrived at the end of a right-angling corridor. Here she stopped, released Wilma's elbow, and unlocked the door, then flung it open and pointed: "Inside, Miss!" she ordered in a metallically harsh voice which poor Wilma did not at all recognize as the honeyed and seductive tones of the young woman who had taught her the mystic joys of Bititis.
Wilma advanced, and then recoiled with a cry of consternation. It was a punishment chamber. It had no windows, and the walls were entirely draped in black velvet, giving at once a somber and terrifying aspect. But still more terrible was the sight of the several apparatuses installed in this chamber for the coercion and subjugation of victims ... a sharp ridged wooden sawhorse at the opposite end of the room, with buckling straps; a steel triangle in the middle of the room with buckling straps at the peak and at the base of the legs; several dangling overhead pulley ropes, and a trapeze bar from which dangled a pair of silver handcuffs, whose short strong chains of about six inches in length were riveted into the bar. In the right-hand corner of the room directly across from the door, there was a set of parallel bars, and on the gymnasium mat a set of dumbbells, intended for exercise ... but of a peculiarly painful and humiliating nature indeed!
Finally, there was a footstool, very much like the one over which poor Wilma had been bent two afternoons ago to receive her mother's manual chastisement with a supplement from Sir John himself. Most terrifying of all to the frantic, tear-blurred eyes of the victim was the sight of a whippy, white short cane made of ash, with a tapering tip and a knobbed handle which was taped for the wielder's hand, as well as a short squat thickly bristled black wooden hairbrush and a wide flat ruler.
Arlette Duclos closed the door and then turned the key in the lock further terrifying her young companion. "Oh, Arlette, at last I can tell you-I'm so unhappy-if you only knew-" Wilma sobbingly began, for all that had happened in so short a time had crowded in upon her impressionable mind and had reduced her to the plight of anguished tears and terrible uncertainty.
To her astonishment, the tall svelte brunette stared at her as coldly as if she had never before seen her, and, advancing to her, gave her a vicious slap across the cheek, followed by another on the other cheek which rocked Wilma's head to and fro. "Let me make myself clear at the very start, Miss," she said in the same harsh metallic tone that she had used to command the unfortunate, trusting young girl to accompany her, "From this moment on, you are going to speak when you are spoken to and not before. If you find that you must speak, you will request permission by kneeling down, bowing your head, and kissing my left foot three times. Failure to do this will cost you a good caning of at least five strokes for the first forgetful offense, and a minimum of ten for each repetition. Do I make myself understood?"
"Arlette-oh, Lord, this is all a dreadful mistake-please let me explain-" Wilma again attempted to reach the suddenly and inexplicably enigmatic brunette.
"Decidedly, you are not only stubborn but stupid as well. Now first you are going to do what you heard Sir John order me to have you do. That is, you will lift up your petticoat and your skirt, you will hold them well above your waist, and then you will let down your panties and bend well over with your hands onyour knees so that I may inspect your impertinent bottom. Do it at once. After that, we will discuss your little stupidity just now of daring to annoy me after I had already told you about getting permission to speak. At once, Wilma. I am going to count to five. If your panties aren't down by then, you shall have four times that many strokes from that cane you see on the stool. One ... two..."
With a cry of terror, poor Wilma, down whose flushed cheeks tears had begun to pour, hoisted up skirt and petticoat as high as they would go, then feverishly fumbled with the waistband of her nylon panties and jerked them down to her knees and, sobbing as if her heart would break, grasped her knees with her trembling fingers and bowed her head, projecting out that magnificent, provocative, ovalcheeked behind.
Arlette calmly approached the sobbing young girl, who would have been overjoyed to strip entirely naked for her beloved friend under different circumstances but who now suddenly found even this comparatively partial revelation of her charms an atrocious mortification.
"Hmm," the svelte brunette at last declared in a cold, inflexible voice, "it's easy to see that you're going to be a very vexatious case. You have been punished recently, haven't you?"
"Y-y-yes, ohh, Arlette, have pity on me, have-"
She got no farther. Arlette ground her teeth, her face congealing with vindictive spite, as she reached over to the footstool, seized the squat wooden hairbrush and applied two upward-sweeping smacks with the bristled side of the brush against the jutting naked behind.
"Owweee!! Ahhrrr!! " Wilma cried out shrilly, as she grabbed for her burning bottom and plaintively soothed the places where the bristles had bitten home. Scores of tiny angry red dots now decorated the satiny flesh at the base of her naked bottom, which still retained a few faint though yet visible streaks left by the thongs of the martinet which her mother had inflicted upon her.
"Take your hands away at once! And you have let your skirt and petticoat fall down almost to your bottom," Arlette Duclos scolded. "Roll the garments up to your armpits-that's better. Now grasp your knees, spread your legs a little more, and bend well over. I want that bottom of yours as tight as you can get it, do you understand me?"
And before the poor befuddled and agonized girl could acquiesce, Arlette harshly added, "One thing more-from now on, whenever you address me, it is to be as 'Mistress.' You will say 'Yes, Mistress,' or 'No, Mistress.' You shall have two cuts of the cane every time you forget that title. Now, is that understood also?"
"Y-y-yess, M-M-Mistress," Wilma Stanley quavered in a dying voice. Arlette folded her arms across her bosom and watched with a glint of satisfaction in her narrowed eyes as the lovely young redhead spread her legs apart, bent over, grasping her knees, thus obscenely exposing not only the jutting and distended cheeks of her bottom but also the pink sweet fig of her virgin cunthole.
"Don't move now while I inspect your backside, Wilma," Arlette decreed. Palming the shuddering young girl's lower back with her left palm, she calmly passed her right hand over the huddling, quivering, creamy cheeks, whose impeccable hue was lasciviously mottled by the still remaining traces of that last painful and mortifying handspanking and martinetting. Wilma could not help flinching, for the hand that grazed her proffered naked oval buttocks was not the same hand which had so amorously and deliciously caressed her. This was the hand of an inexorable, cold dominatress who was appraising and demeaning her. Perhaps too now with the flash of womanly intuition, Wilma began to comprehend the degradation to which her own mother had sunk under the aegis of Sir John Ellison.
"You have a firm, solid backside, Miss, ideal for thrashing. And as you can see in this room, we have all the provisions here for satisfying ourselves when that big behind of yours requires disciplining. You understand me?"
"Y-yes, M-Mistress," Wilma murmured in a voice so faint as almost not to be heard.
"Speak up so that I can hear you, girl," Arlette hissed. She applied her right thumb and forefinger to the crease between those flinching naked oval bottom-cheeks, and satanically applied a quick little pinch which drew a squeal of pain from the tortured young girl, who immediately straightened upright and clasped her hands back to the wounded area.
"Again you are disobedient! Did I tell you to leave that position? Answer me!"
"N-no, M-Mistress," Wilma sobbed, "but I couldn't help it, truly I couldn't. Oh, Arlette, why are you so cruel to me? What have I done? Why were my letters-"
"That will do! You will be told all these things when it suits me to tell you, Miss. Meanwhile, I was about to put you through an inspection at Sir John's orders. However, by leaving position and by addressing me by my first name which is forbidden, you have just earned a little extra dose for yourself. Let me see. Over the footstool will project your backside very well for the cane. You shall have six cuts."
"Ohh, Lord, oh have mercy on me, Mistress! Please don't cane me! I'm so ashamed and unhappy, won't you be merciful? My letters-and this man-and then you-what does it all mean, oh please be kind to me and tell me before I go mad!"
Even a marble statue would have shed tears of compassion at the heartrendingly poignant tones of distress in the young redhead's trembling, tear-choked voice, and the anguished beauty of her tearstained, contorted face, but Arlette Duclos was of sterner stuff. "Over the stool, Miss!" she repeated calmly, "and if I have to order you once again, it will be twelve instead of six!"
The threat was sufficient to cow the frightened young red-haired captive, desperately tortured though she was by her dear friend's sudden inexplicable behavior towards her. Shuddering with humiliation as her left hand passed over her naked seat, as she heard those insulting and cruel words which threatened her with new fustigations, Wilma Stanley despondently realized that she must comply with all these orders even if she did not understand them.
Accordingly, at Arlette's order, she bent over the whipping stool, and was then told to grip the upturned skirt and petticoat with both hands, with which order she again complied. But the torturing awkwardness of this posture and the danger of losing her balance made her burst into hysterical sobs.
"You will learn in due course, Miss," Arlette said as she now took up the whippy ash cane and flourished in the air several times to make it whistle with its ominous song of pain, "that Sir John Ellison does not want his household full of sniveling babies. You have been much too spoiled and for too long, Wilma, just like your mother. I have been entrusted with turning you into a humble and obedient ward. For Sir John has plans for you, and their progress will depend on your own accomplishments, you and I. Now then, I'm going to give you six good cuts, and you will say "Thank you, Mistress,' after each one that you count aloud. Do you understand me? For example, 'One, thank you, Mistress.' and so on. Are you ready?"
"Can-can I ask a question, Ar-I-I mean, Mistress?" the unfortunate young beauty sobbed.
Then she sucked in her breath with terror and cringed over the stool, grinding her shivering belly tightly against the rounded top. Arlette had just laid the thin flexible cane across the middle of her naked bottomglobes, intimating to her where the first cut was to fall.
"Be quick about it, then!" Arlette remarked, keeping the cane pressed over the palpitating, shrinking flesh.
"Won't you tell me-oh please, please, if you knew what suffering I've been through!-Won't you please tell me why you don't like me anymore and why you're punishing me?"
"After you have had your caning, yes. Now then, are you ready for it?" came the inflexible voice.
"Bowing her head, closing her eyes, Wilma sobbingly and faintly murmured, "Yes."
Then she uttered a wild shriek: "Arrrhh-hooouuu!! ! ! " and straightened up and clapped both hands to her burning bottom. Arlette had just dealt her a stinging stroke right across the middle of her bottomglobes, leaving a bright weal over the already faintly discolored naked skin.
"That," Arlette hissed, "was for failing to address me with respect when you answered my question. You must always and without exception call me 'Mistress' whenever you address me. And who told you to leave position? Get that skirt and that petticoat back up and hold on to them. We shall start all over again. And for that, instead of six, you shall have eight."
"Oh please, M-Mistress, not so many, I implore you! My-my-b-b-bottom hurts so terribly already-oh, I shall never be able to stand so many!"
"You will be amazed how much your bottom will be able to stand," Arlette ironically retorted. "And if you do not take these eight cuts submissively, I shall have you tied down on that sharp-ridged sawhorse and give you the birch to the blood. Now back over that stool immediately and don't forget to remain there and to count and to call me Mistress."
Her eyes blinded with tears, Wilma bent down over the stool again, grasping her up-fucked garments with a feverish energy, but she could not control the cringing tensions of her naked behind, nor the spasms that ran along her beautifully sculptured thighs and calves.
The caning began. Pitiless and harsh, with intervals of about forty seconds between cuts. Wilma ground her teeth and was able to announce the numerical progression of the whipping through the first four blows, but at the fifth again she sprang up with a shriek, and danced from one foot to the other while her hands frantically rubbed her striped and burning posterior.
"It is getting late and I have no time to waste on your tantrums, Miss," Arlette said angrily. "Take off all your clothes at once. I want you naked as the day you were born, Miss! I'm going to count ten slowly. In your own best interest, you had best be naked by the time I reach the last number. One ... two ... three ... "
Poor Wilma Stanley, hysterical, tears running down her cheeks, fumbled at her clothes and by great good fortune managed at last to cower, naked and voluptuously exciting in that nudity, before her former camarade d'amour and now her stern taskmistress, praying for death. It would be impossible to describe the desolation of soul which now besieged the unfortunate young redhead.
"Come along at once," Arlette commanded, swishing the white ash cane viciously in the air, and, grasping the pathetically weeping young girl's wrists, she dragged the unfortunate Wilma towards the sawhorse.
"Ohh-oh, oh, my Lord, oh don't make me lie on that, oh please, dear M-Mistress Arlette, have mercy on your poor unhappy Wilma!" the young girl sobbingly implored.
"I do have pity on you, you stupid whining creature," Arlette said scornfully. "I can assure you of this, Miss. If I were to turn you over to Sir John instead, what I am about to give you would be as child's play compared with his ideas for the punishment a grown young woman like you deserves for such carrying on. Now get over that sawhorse this moment before I lose my temper and tell him that I am going to wash my hands of you entirely!"
With a terrified cry, Wilma fairly flung herself astride the cruel apparatus, only to arch herself up, her face congealed in a look of unspeakable suffering. The sharp wooden ridge of the saw-horse had bitten into her tender virgin cunt, against the valley of her titties, and at once constituted an excruciating ordeal.
"What's this?" Arlette pretended to be infuriated with the gesture, which she wished Wilma to believe she had interpreted as one of rebellion: "You refuse an order. Just you wait, Wilma, I shall bring Sir John back with me directly! I'll do anything you wish, I swear I will, only don't call him, don't call him!" the weeping girl entreated.
And before Arlette could reply to this, as desperate proof of her submission, the red-haired naked virgin draped herself over the pitiless saw-horse.
Arlette Duclos said nothing. She laid down the cane, squatted down and proceeded to strap Wilma's wrists and ankles to the legs of the apparatus. For a moment, she considered buckling thH wide strap over the girl's waist, but decided against it. She wished to see the spectacular play of Wilma's bottom and thighs under the biting kisses of the cane.
That they had already bitten deeply was attested to by the livid thin striate which bridged both jouncy satiny bottom-ovals. That once magnificently pale creamy bottom with its exquisite rosy flecks which indicated a pigmentation of vivid and sensitive temperament, was now pitiably marred-yet in the eyes of the sadistic and sensual brunette, Wilma's bottom took on an erotically exciting revelation. When she had completed her pinioning of her victim, she retrieved the cane and announced, "Now you need not bother to count or to call me Mistress, except if you address yourself to me to express your appreciation of the little punishment I am going to give you so that you will from the very start off your training learn the need for complete docility and absolute submission to the slightest of my orders. I am going to whip your bottom, Wilma, until I think you have had enough. Only by showing this humility in the form of pleas which demonstrate your eager willingness to carry out my commands can you hope for leniency. Attention, now, I am going to begin."
With this, placing herself at the girl's left, she lifted the cane and brought it down diagonally over the upper right bottomglobe of the unfortunate naked young sufferer. Wilma's head rose, her eyes glazed and agonized, her nostrils flaring, as her mouth gaped in a shrill shriek of indescribable torment: "Eeeyarrrhhheeeowwww!! ! I CAN'T BEAR IT, OH I CAN'T BEAR IT, MISTRESS, HAVE PITY, MISTRESS!"
"You call out too quickly before it has even started," Arlette jeered as she pressed the cane against the base of the huddling buttocks. The sharp ridge had begun to do its hellish work against the tenderest nook of Wilma's soft naked body, and the weeping girl uneasily arched and squirmed, trying frantically to loft her cunt from the atrocious frictioning pressure of that triangulated, narrow wooden ridge. Arlette watched her closely, and when the girl's muscles had slightly relaxed, she lifted up the cane and delivered the cut solidly over the place she had selected.
"EEEE AAAIIII!! ! ! " Wilma's naked body jerked convulsively, her loins arched up, then weaved from side to side, till she fell back with a new doleful cry of agony to taste the vicious embrace of the ridge against her cunthole.
Arlette was perspiring with her passion; her eyes glittering slits of sadism, her mouth a red gash of lust, her bosom rising and falling violently, she continued to press the swishy cane across the naked behind of the weeping and pleading victim, keeping the latter in suspense for cruel long moments, and then suddenly and without warning directing the stinging Spattt pliant ash against martyrized naked soft young flesh.
She applied a dozen such cuts in all before she at last stopped. It was high time. Here and there, where several weals had intersected, tiny rubies of blood oozed from the broken skin. But, ingeniously Arlette had managed to apply the swishy cane in such a way that the entire bottom had had its fair share.
Wilma jerked like a puppet on the sawhorse, arching, twisting, squirming, until it seemed that by some salacious masochism, she yearned to find relief from the infernal stinging of the cane by masturbating her cunt against the sharp wooden ridge of the apparatus to which she was strapped.
Her voice was hoarse from shrieking, and her words incoherent by now. She was nearly fainting, as her head hung to one side, long hoarse gasps exuding from her gaping mouth.
Arlette quickly unstrapped the tortured naked girl, and then, entwining the fingers of her left hand in Wilma's long pageboy curls, jerked up that tortured, tear-bathed face: "Are you ready to be submissive now, to obey me in everything I ask?"
"Ohhh ... y-y-yes ... M-M-Mistress ... oh please-please don't wh-wh-whip me any ... anymore ... I am suffering so ... oh have mercy now, M-M-Mistress."
"I will help you up. I have untied your wrists and ankles, so be quick about it." With a tug of Wilma's hair, Arlette made her victim totteringly rise from the infernal sawhorse with a wailing cry of dolorous pain. "Now you will go down on your knees, put your left palm against the back of your neck, straighten your shoulders and thrust out your breasts as you await my next command," she instructed.
The slightest movement of her body caused the fiery, and now darkening weals across her bottom to contract and to throb with a new ferocity. Subjugated, beaten and shamed, traduced and betrayed in the only intimate and tender friendship she had ever known, the weeping redhead tremblingly complied, grimacing and sobbing as the effort cost her bottom new waves of burning torment.
"Thank me for the good whipping I have just given your impudent bottom, Miss," Arlette now commanded. "Use your own words, but don't forget my title. Make me feel that you are worth saving, because if you don't I shall report to Sir John that you are incorrigible. And then you'll find out what it means to cross him, Miss. Punishment drawers with hot mustard or freshly cut green nettles, which you'll be obliged to wear all afternoon long after you've had a good thrashing with the birch or the heavy leather martinet." Having pronounced these ominous words, she bent down towards the sobbing and trembling naked girl who knelt upright, her left hand clamped against the back of her neck. Wilma's titties rose and fell with violent turbulence, and her thighs swayed, for the fiery torture in her naked seat had greatly weakened her resistance. But perhaps even more of a bitter shock to her entire nervous system was the realization of the perfidy of this beautiful brunette who had been her tender friend, who had taught her the sweet joys of Lesbos.
"It is Sir John's order to me that I learn exactly how ardent a nature you have, Wilma. You will therefore masturbate yourself with your other hand. Begin at once. I shall give you five minutes to produce your climax. And I shall stand behind you with this little hickory switch-" she had taken up from a footstool without Wilma's seeing her, a short, thin, flexible and newly peeled hickory withe-"just to remind you of what will happen if you don't finish in the allotted time. You will receive a dozen cuts of this little switch on the place you are tickling with your finger, my girl. Now begin. I am looking at my wristwatch, and you have exactly five minutes."
"Oh, Mistress, Mistress, why are you torturing me so cruelly, what have I done to you, why don't you love me anymore?" The unfortunate girl burst into lamentations.
Fliccc the little hickory withe whistled through the air and bit against the redhead's left tittie, just missing the pouting dark coral bud of her nipples.
"Ooooouuuuu!! ! NOT THERE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IN HEAVEN, NOT THERE ON MY POOR BREASTS, OH MERCY, MERCY!! ! " Wilma screamed. With her free hand, she clutched her panting wounded tittie, on whose nacreous flesh a bright crimson welt instantly rose.
"Use your hand to carry out the order, or I shall tie you up by your hair and your thumbs and whip your breasts to the blood," Arlette hissed.
And then she added, "You've already lost a full minute by your nonsense. Remember what will happen if you don't have a climax by the time I tell you that the time is up."
And thus it was that shamed, demoralized, beaten and betrayed, the naked young red-haired daughter of Florence Stanley, her face scarlet with humiliation and the deepest of shame, streaked with tears, her bosom rising and falling with sobs she was powerless to control, applied her right forefinger to the twitching pink lips of her virgin cunt and began to frig herself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In his bedroom, Sir John Ellison was completely naked except for his slippers. At his command, the sobbing golden-haired divorcee had crawled into the room behind him, and then removed his pajamas and bathrobe and begun to lick his slippered feet while he stood staring down at her, twisting between his hands a flexible riding crop made of black leather with a taperingly pointed tip.
"I an going to solve your economic problem once and for all, Florence," he at last declared in a stern and cold voice. "It is evident to me that you are particularly helpless even as to yourself, and that you would thrive rather more as a slave than as a person earning her own living. That being so, I cannot leave to you the further tutelage of a beautiful and headstrong young girl who has already shown herself to be so wickedly salacious and lustful. This is what I have decided. I have a good friend from Jamaica, Ben Tulley. He is of excellent stock, and quite wealthy. He owns his own plantation and villa along a secluded beach near Kingston. He wrote me two-months ago that he was seeking a wife and would be visiting me here in London. I have just had a cable from him which tells me that he will be here next Monday. By then, your daughter will be trained to please him in all ways." He paused at these last three words and underlined them with an ironic emphasis, staring down at the magnificent upturned naked bottom of the lusciously mature divorcee. Her pink and white skin twitched with apprehension, for she dreaded the burning kisses of that implement he held between his hands. Thus far he had never used so cruel an instrument of chastisement, and she had come to love even her pain at his hands. But all too terribly she now knew that she had fallen into the terrible pit which he had dug so cunningly ... and that both she and her daughter would henceforth be the lowliest of slaves, creatures of pleasure for him and for this man whose name he had just pronounced, and that her own lusts and penchants would henceforth be ignored.
What agonized her most was knowing that she had delivered her own daughter into his hands.
He went on, giving her time to savor that realization, for that too was part of his cunningly sadistic campaign against this beautiful and desirable golden-haired masochist whose weakness was that she catered to her senses and not her common sense; "Arlette has verified that your daughter is a virgin. That is no credit to you however. I am convinced that if you had continued this wayward and irresponsible upbringing of yours, she would have given herself to anyone who would have shown her the slightest attention. Well, we shall show her specific attention that will shape and mold her into a docile, obedient, and loving young wife to a man whose wealth and commercial position are enviable indeed. It will be an excellent match for you, and it will remove all cares from now on, so that you will live only to please me and my friends."
"Master, please tell me, please be kind-who is this Arlette?"
"She is my secretary and my beloved mistress. I may as well tell you all, for there is no reason to conceal anything now. You recall that I had for some weeks at the outset of our relationship been eager to meet your daughter. But you demurred, perhaps instinctively feeling that I might desire her. So I sent Arlette to seduce her. and as you see, Arlette has carried off the project most praiseworthily."
"Then it was Arlette-this same one-who was her lover in those shameful-those wicked and naughty games that I accused Wilma of playing-"
"The very same. Your daughter, unless I am greatly mistaken, is even more passionate than you. At least that is what Arlette told me. But of course, that was only with another female. And Ben Tully is the very opposite, you may believe me. His virility is even greater than mine, though I suppose the fact that he is some twelve years younger has something to do with it. But I will give you a warning in your own interest and in your daughter's, Florence-he is even more exigent than I am. And he has a peculiar, shall I say, almost mania for one particular form of lovemaking. Wilma is going to be instructed in this before the wedding. I hope to have it take place within two weeks. Yes it is a short courtship, but as Saint Paul said once, 'It is better to marry than to burn.' And once married, your passionate daughter's lusts will have a proper and moral and legal outlet,' 'he concluded ironically.
"Oh God, what have I done?"
"You have enchanted me over several boring weeks, Florence. You have helped me render a service to Ben Tulley, to whom I have been indebted for some years and can now pay back in full. So I'm grateful to you in a sense, though you are still regrettably lacking in discipline and the full knowledge of humble obedience. I am going to reward you a little this afternoon, but also punish you. Which would you prefer first, to be fucked or to be whipped?"
Bowed as she was before him, her mouth against his slipper, her arms wrapped around his legs, her naked cringing voluptuously rounded bottom upturned defensively, she could not help uttering a groan of anguish at this sardonic and obscene question.
"If you don't answer quickly I shall deprive you of your reward," he mocked her, "and your whipping shall be doubly severe."
"Then wh-whip me first, M-Master," Florence Stanley hoarsely panted, lifting her face to stare up at him with the adulation which a beaten dog might give a master for whom it still retains blind devotion.
"Very well, Florence," he resumed, his voice thickening with anticipatory rut. "I shall whip you first. How many lashes of this riding crop does your bottom require before your cunt will be hot enough to service my cock?"
With this brutal and coarse question, Sir John Ellison had definitely ended their former relationship and begun this new and permanent status which was to degrade her to the lowliness of a serf, a bondservant, a trull who should have no favors for herself but exist solely to serve the most inhibited and selfish passions of a tyrannical lord.
Groaningly, Florence Stanley stammered, "Have mercy, dear Sir John, have mercy on an unhappy mother ... yes, I'm your slave, Master ... but will you not for the sake of the past, for the way I have obeyed you and loved you, show me just a little kindness?"
"That would be even more cruel than to show you too much, my dear," he said mockingly. "You are now my property, my chattel, my thing, my bed-bitch and bodyslave. To show you a little kindness, as you so quaintly put it, would be to make you live in hope that one day I might say to you, 'Here, my beloved, I have been testing you and you have passed the test and you shall once again be my own true love.' I am not the romanticist for that, my foolish Florence, my stupid Florence." His voice changed to one of inflexible authority: "If within ten seconds you do not tell me how many lashes you wish me to give your naked bottom, I shall double the number I am thinking of already."
"Oh no-let it be f-fifteen, then, Master!" she cried in her fright.
"So be it. Now let us see how you shall earn your reward further. To begin with, you may start by licking my balls. As I whip you, you are to count each lash and to thank me for it. And when you have had them, you will thank me once again by kissing each of my feet, removing my slippers first, of course, and then crawling behind me, opening the cheeks of my bottom and kissing my arsehole. Then perhaps I shall deign to fuck you and to alleviate the burning lusts in that whorish cunt of yours, my dear. Begin!"
Groaning again in despondent shame, but caught up in that treacherous and annihilating whirlpool of masochistic passion which had brought her initially to this path, the beautiful golden-haired divorcee tightened her grip around his bare legs, put her tongue out hesitantly to one of his hairy, thickly laden testicles, and began to lick the raspy, granulated skin. Twisting the fingers of his left hand in her golden hair to hold her to that ignominious and obscene pose of servitude, Sir John Ellison brandished the riding crop high in the air, hovered it, and then directed it down, exactly bisecting her left bottomglobe from upwards down. The tapering, pointed tip of the riding crop slashed against the base of her behind and her upper thigh. Florence Stanley uttered a choking cry, wriggled violently so that her bottom shook and jiggled, and called out in a strident voice, "Ohhh-one, Master, th-thankyou, Master!"
"You are quite welcome, bitch. Continue!"
Tears blinding her vision, Florence Stanley continued the ignominious service. Her tongue furled over his hairy balls, while he ground his teeth to hold back the furious load of gism which they contained, concentrating on her upreared, widely distended round pink and white bottom-cheeks, which he whipped with expert ferocity, knowing precisely how much suffering she could endure. Three times the pain was such that she forgot to count and the phrase of thanks which he had imposed upon her, and so she received these three additional strokes.
When it was over, she kissed his feet as bidden, and then crawled behind him, weeping bitterly, her bottom blazing with violently scarlet stripes which would soon turn livid on her soft pink and white flesh, and her trembling ringers yawned open his buttocks as she protruded her tongue, closing her eyes tightly in her nausea, and began to lick his ass-hole.
He had achieved his purpose and his triumph. With a hoarse bellow of lust, he flung away the riding crop, turned, seized her by the hair and dragged her towards a pile of thick satin cushions on the floor at the foot of the bed. Flinging her down on these, he mounted over her, and his sinewy fingers dug into her tortured, striped naked buttocks until she shrieked in pain. With a single gouging lunge, he thrust himself within her to the hilt.
Florence Stanley forgot her shame, the agony of the thrashing, the ignominious obscenity of the ritual she had had to perform on this sophisticated nobleman; yes, she forgot even the price she had had to pay for this consummation of her secret passion: her own flesh and blood, delivered up to Sir John and his conspiratorial accomplice Arlette Duclos. With a shout of agonized delight, she locked her arms and legs around him, and bucked and swerved and twisted, yearning for his impalement, babbling words of abject, bitch-like devotion and delight.
"OHHHAAAHHH!! ! YES. YES, MASTER, FUCK ME HARD, OH GIVE IT TO ME GOOD! IT'S SO WONDERFUL, OH YOUR FINGERS ARE HURTING MY BARE BOTTOM, FUCK ME, DON'T MAKE ME THINK OF THE PAIN! GIVE IT TO ME IN MY CUNT, MY CUNT NEEDS IT SO, MY BE-
LOVED MASTER, I'M YOUR SLAVE, I'M YOUR NAKED EAGER SLAVE, OH YES! WHIP ME, BEAT ME, CRUSH ME, BUT FUCK ME, OH, OH, I'M GOING TO COME, AAHHHAAIIII.'I!! ! "
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Needless to say, agonized by the caning which Arlette had just inflicted on her already over-sensitized naked bottom and utterly crushed by finding that her beloved friend had become her imperatrix, found herself unable to achieve climax within the allotted time by the expedient of rubbing her finger against her soft quivering virgin cunt. She burst into helpless tears when Arlette inexorably reminded that the time was up, and bowed her head and covered her face with her hands and sobbed piteously.
"Stop that whining at once unless you want something to cry about, Miss! Stand up. That's right. Now clasp your hands behind your back, stiffen your shoulders and arch out your breasts. Very good. Next, spread your legs as far apart as you can without tottering because if you leave position, you shall receive three cuts on each of your thighs very high up and near your sinful little slit," Arlette commanded.
When Wilma had assumed this ignoble and shameful pose, the beautiful brunette domina-tress inspected the weeping young redhead. She had taken up a freshly peeled hickory switch, similar to the one already used with such telling effect on the victimized young beauty, and she now whisked it playfully about Wilma's naked calves and knees, till the poor girl's muscles writhed and jerked uncontrollably. She perceived that there was a suspicious moisture, viscous and glistening, on the rims of Wilma's soft maiden cunthole, and that the dainty button of the girl's clitoris was noticeably stiffened.
"You will remain here exactly like this while I go for Sir John," she directed the horrified naked girl.
"Oh my God, you aren't going to bring him in here with me like this, are you, Arlette? Oh have pity on me, in the memory of the love we had for each other, I implore you!" Wilma Stanley wailed as she fell to her knees and clasped her hands in the most fervent supplication.
Arlette's answer was a vicious slap across the girl's face; and then, once again plunging her left fingers into the tumbled pageboy curls, she yanked the silky strands hither and yon till Wilma screamed for mercy, while she added four or five more slaps, berating the girl: "I didn't give you leave to change position, you know! There, maybe it will help you to understand what I say! And you have forgotten to call me Mistress again, haven't you? What was between us is a thing of the past. It was done to get you under Sir John's guardianship, if you must know. There! Will you stop that crying or do you want me to report to him that a sound thrashing and then all night in a cell wearing a pair of panties in which specially cut nettles had been put should be inflicted on you? I hope not for your sake. All right, on your knees, spread your legs, and put your hands under your breasts and cup them out. Yes, Miss, he has every right to come in here and inspect you. He is now your guardian. Your mother has agreed to this, and you are still under her jurisdiction as a minor."
And with this the svelte brunette left the punishment room, leaving Wilma in what state we may well imagine...
Arlette, needless to say, knew very well that her lover was occupied with Wilma's mother, so she went to her own room at the back of the house, changed into a silk negligee and sandals, and enjoyed a cigarette and a glass of port. Sir John had, in advance of the scenes we have just witnessed, indicated to her that he would ring a special intercom bell connecting with her room to advise her when he would be ready to see her. As soon as that summons came, she knocked at the door of the room in which the golden-haired divorcee had just abandoned herself, conquered by her own induced sensuality, having just fatally abandoned to the hardly tender mercies of Sir John the fate of lovely Wilma.
Arlette knocked, was admitted, and Florence groaned as she found herself obliged to await Arlette's entry in the most ignominiously possible pose: kneeling on her palms, stark naked, head bowed low in submission. Worst of all, she had been bidden to ask Arlette to inspect her bottom as to whether Arlette believed the flogging she had just received from Sir John had been adequate. Sadistically, Arlette found fault because there were not enough stripes, and so the English nobleman calmly remarked, "In that case, after you have helped me with Wilma's training you'll return here and Florence will ask you to give her a good sound dozen with that switch you have in your hand, won't you, Florence?"
Florence Stanley began to shudder and to bite her lips, but in a low moan she proved how deeply and completely she had been subjugated by stammering, "Y-yes, M-master."
Sir John put on his bathrobe but not his pajamas and his slippers, and at once accompanied his svelte brunette mistress-secretary to the punishment room in which poor Wilma was still kneeling with her legs spread widely apart and with her own hands offering out the shuddering gourds of her naked titties.
Nevertheless, she could not suppress a cry of supreme shame when this man who had so abused her and despotically ordered her about in the presence of her own mother, who, she now knew, was under the same yoke of bondage to him as she herself; and once again her virginal instincts came to the fore. She clapped both hands over her cunt, and burst into hysterical sobs.
"What's this?" the English nobleman angrily demanded, turning to Arlette. "Has she been punished at all?"
"Oh yes, Sir John. I used the cane, and I've let her feel the little hickory switch on those fine saucy breasts of hers. And I've told her in quite some detail that there will be a training session between now and the time your good friend Ben Tully becomes your houseguest."
"But you haven't told her the essential facts, Arlette dear. Now listen to me, Wilma, and pay strict attention. From what Arlette has just told me, you are an exceptionally nervous, passionate and rather inverted girl. This tendency towards passion is not at all reprehensible if it can be channeled to the satisfaction of a master, a lover, or a husband. In your case it will be the last-named. Next week your fianc� will visit here and become acquainted with you. A week later, I shall arrange the nuptials. Once married, your husband's will always come first and it is only out of his own kindness of heart that he will deign at all to show you any consideration. It will be up to you to merit it by constant servility and obedience to his orders, just as to Arlette's orders and to mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes-S-S-Sir-John," Wilma tearfully stammered.
He walked up to her and struck her across the face. "Didn't Arlette tell you that a Master or a Mistress is to be addressed by such a title at all times when you are bound to reply to a question?"
"Y-yes, M-Master," Wilma groaned in a dying voice.
Again Sir John Ellison turned to Arlette Duclos. "Did you make her play with herself?"
"Certainly, Sir John. But she found it embarrassing to come to climax in my presence. I think that possibly her fright and shame, considering that she was not expecting so swift a transition from freedom into slavery, was responsible. In this one instance, only, I would advise leniency."
"I defer to your wishes, but as to the rest, it will depend on Wilma's complete obedience to my orders now. Look up at me, girl. Very well. Ben Tully is a good friend, wealthy and virile as my girl could hope for. He has done me many services, and once practically saved my life when ! fell into quicksand near his property in Jamaica. Because of this indebtedness, I am going to agree as your guardian, that he shall become 'our husband. However, Ben, has one or two lit-le quirks which you would do well to learn.
While he is an excellent and very passionate fornicator, he particularly adores buggering a girl, and especially a virgin. I have read your letters, and of course Arlette has told me all about them. She had probably also told you that this had all been arranged in advance that you and your mother might be properly taken in hand and trained to be useful, since it's obvious that by yourselves, you would fall upon unfortunate circumstances. You'll be provided for the rest of your life, and if you behave yourself and obey properly, there is no reason to suppose that your marriage will not be a happy one. You have anything to say?"
"O-Oh, M-Master, I don't want-I don't want to get married-please, please let me go!"
"This girl is certainly not so intelligent as you presume her to be, Arlette. But I will try again. Wilma, I want you to stand up, turn your back to me, then bend over as far as you can but keeping your legs straight all the time, put your hands to your buttocks and open them up. I want to inspect that other little hole with which nature provided you for the service of a man."
"Oh no-don't ask such a horrible thing of me-I can't do it-not in front of you-Oh, Arlette, save me from him-have mercy on me-"
"The devil with this obstinate little bitch," Sir John Ellison growled, his eyes narrowed slips of sadistic fury. "Help me tie her with that pulley-rope!"
In a trice, the sobbing, struggling naked girl found herself with her wrists bound behind her back, and dragged up torturingly so that she was forced to bend forward to ease the strain on the unnaturally tractioned arms. This pose not only let her titties jut out voluptuously, but it also uparched her naked and welded bottom for Sir John's inspection. He took Arlette's hickory switch and swiftly delivered a savage cut across the base of both bottom-cheeks: "OUUUUUEEEEOWWWW!! ! " A strident prolonged scream tore from the young girl's throat as she danced from foot to foot, frenziedly trying to ease the atrocious traction on her wrists.
He moved around her now to face her. Lowering the switch, he suddenly leaped it up into her furry cunt. Another convulsive, lunging and weaving spasm, seized the unfortunate young martyr, while a hoarse scream, wordless and vibrating with unspeakable distress, emerged from her gaping mouth: "OHHH OH OH OH, FOR DEAR GOD'S SAKE, NOT THERE, NOT BETWEEN MY LEGS, OH HAVE MERCY, OH HAVE MERCY!! ! "
"I am going to give you six good flicks well up between your naked legs, Wilma," Sir John pursued his voice hoarse with mounting rut. "After that, we shall see if you are ready to obey. If not the treatment can be repeated. But this time with a martinet whose thongs end in pointed biting little tips that will sting very harshly in so tender a region. Prepare yourself, Wilma!"
Lowering the switch, he swung it up right against her cunt, and the naked girl shrieked and tried to fling herself back, but the dreadful cost of wrenching her arms and shoulders almost to the point of dislocation: "EEERRAARRRHH-HHH! OH, NOT THERE, OH NOT THERE ON MY SPOT, OH HAVE PITY ON ME, HAVE PITY, I'M GOING TO DIE!! ! ! "
"If you continue to deafen our ears this way, it won't be a great loss," Sir John cynically remarked as he lowered the switch and sent it dancing up for the second time between her jerking thighs. In spite of her trying to clench them and prevent the withe from attaining the tenderest spot of all, Wilma swerved to one side and still could not escape his deadly accurate aim. The moist spatt as the switch bit into that moist and pink-petalled pussy was followed by an even more frenzied scream of pain: "OH STOP, I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, JUST DON'T HIT ME THERE AGAIN, OH GOD, OH GOD, I CAN'T STAND SUCH SUFFERING MAMA, OH MAMA, SAVE ME!"
"If I let you off the rest of the flicks, do you think you will obey me?" he demanded lifting the switch, and pressing it lightly against her squirming cunt.
"Oh yes, oh yes, I'll do anything you want, just don't whip me there again, oh please, M-Master!" the young girl wailed.
And thus she too had been indefinitely conquered by the whip, by skillfully calculated brutality and harshness, after having first been lulled into a false serenity in thinking she had found a friend in Arlette Duclos. Arlette had purposely at Sir John's order, after the latter had learned of the girl's identity through his masochistic sweetheart Florence Stanley, sent out to teach her all the Lesbian rituals so that this beautiful red-haired virgin's ardors might be wakened to their fullest ... and thus fruitfully enchant her knowing Master and his Jamaican friend.
"Untie her," he told Arlette, "but remember, Wilma, at the first sign of hesitation, you shall go back on the sawhorse, and you shall be strapped around the waist so that tender spot of yours as you call it, will be rubbed raw by the sharp wood. You are warned, my girl."
Arlette untied the girl's tender, chiseled wrists, and then, pinching Wilma's earlobe, hissed, "You had better obey and try to make Sir John forgive you, or tonight, when I come to put you to bed, I'll make you wear nettles between your legs all night long, Miss, with your hands tied behind you so that you can't take them off!"
Wilma had no further hope now. Sobbing as if her heart would break, and indeed it already had!-she offered no resistance when Sir John bade her once more to bend way down, use her hands to open up her buttocks and expose her virgin ass-hole.
But when he put his forefinger lightly against the shrinking, pouting lips of that tender maiden orifice, Wilma uttered a scream of indignation and shame for it was difficult to overcome a lifetime, however young, to be sure-of modesty in a man's presence even at the cost of what she had already suffered.
"Try that again, you little bitch," he hissed, "And you'll stay on the sawhorse all night long after I've given you thirty strokes with a five-thonged martinet. Now bend down again, and heaven help you if you jerk away when you feel my finger!"
To make sure that the captive would comply, Arlette dropped down to her knees, seized the tumbling pageboy curls in both hands and tautened them, whispering, "Just you try to move now, Wilma, you'll be ever so sorry!"
"And be sure to keep your hands on your bottom and spread those cheeks well apart while I'm inspecting you," Sir John added.
Once again his forefinger tentatively poked into the puckering little fissure of Wilma's dainty pink bung. This time, cowed by the terrible threats, the unfortunate young girl was able to endure this humiliating palpation, such as one might have given a slave on the auction block in Mobile before the days of the Civil War. Cruelly he forced his finger slowly in, till it was up to the hilt, and Wilma was wriggling and squirming and sobbing and groaning in pain, for her virgin ass-hole was extremely tight.
"Excellent!" he chuckled as he at last drew his finger out with a sudden retreat that made Wilma's bottom jerk convulsively. "Ben will find this little bitch an ideal wife. Very well, Wilma, you have behaved tolerably well, considering this is only your first day of training. You shall have a full week under Arlette's supervision. I do not wish to hear a single unfavorable report about you, do you understand me?"
"Y-yes-M-Master," Wilma pitifully groaned as she remained in that obscene pose, her hands still yawning apart her welted and trembling bottom-cheeks.
"You will give her every sort of preparatory training, and cram it into her in the short time we have left before Ben's visit," he now addressed Arlette. "You'll make her walk in high heels with a book on her head and her arms at her side. You'll switch her calves and thighs and knee hollows if she drops it. You'll make her do squats and pushups, then the splits, she will work out on the trapeze bar and the parallel bars, so as to render her supple for her honeymoon with Ben
Tully. You will teach her how to wear attractive clothes, but you will also make her parade in bondage garments, as tightly cinched as she can stand. And do not fail to whip her or slap her every time she falters."
Having finished, he turned back to the whimpering bent-over girl: "You may kneel down, now, kiss my feet. Then you may kiss my hand and thank me for having been so generous as to find you a husband."
And Wilma Stanley, broken, a pitiful puppet now, all hope forever fled, obeyed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the end of the week Wilma Stanley would have been unrecognizable to any of her secretarial schoolmates who had remembered her as vivacious though sometimes sulky, carefree young girl and beauty. Her eyes were hollowed and swollen with tears. Her lips were constantly trembling, and she cringed each time the door of her room opened and Arlette entered in the training costume of a one-piece black nylon body sheath which salaciously exposed rather than concealed the brunette's enticing charms ... charms which had been shared with poor Wilma not so long ago, and which the young redhead had revered and worshipped in her false belief that Arlette Villiers was truly her dear and beloved friend.
Not a morning, afternoon or evening session of her training went by without some application of the whip or, at the very least a humiliating lecture and at least a dozen slaps on her face. She learned to clasp the back of her neck, kneel down and eat her meals out of a bowl, as a dog might lap them up. She did not forget to use the salutary term of respect to either Arlette or Sir John whenever they spoke to her. She learned to wear exaggeratedly high heeled pumps, walking with tiny mincing steps, while holding her arms out in cross and balancing a heavy book atop her head.
It was on the eighth day of her "rehabilitation" as Sir John mockingly called it, that his friend Ben Tully arrived, having been delayed nearly half a day at customs.
Wilma had been locked in her room, and Arlette made her put on for the occasion of meeting her intended husband a very special and provocative costume. It comprised a short-sleeved blouse of gold sequins sewn onto very thin and sheer cloth, a ridiculously short skirt of black satin which descended only to the tops of her thighs, high-heeled pumps, a blue ribbon bow in her hair, and nothing else. She was absolutely naked under blouse and skirt, and in the event that she had to bend over or turn suddenly, not only her bottom but also her virgin cunt could readily be seen.
Arlette came into the girl's room for a last minute inspection. "You're going to meet Ben Tully in a few minutes," she sternly advised the crestfallen and subdued captive. "You will stand outside in the little antechamber just outside the salon. When I whistle for you, you'll crawl in on all fours, go to Sir John's feet and kiss them humbly, and then kneel up with your hands clasped at the back of your neck. It is thus you will be presented to your future husband. Deviate by so much as one little movement from that program, my girl, and you will hardly be in a romantic mood for your wedding night."
"My-my wedding night, M-Mistress?" Wilma falteringly echoed, her eyes enormous with consternation.
"Yes. Sir John has decided to hasten your nuptials. It will be for tonight. His good friend, the Vicar of Marsbury, will officiate this evening.
Then there will be a wedding supper, and you will be the guest of honor."
So saying she led Wilma out of the room and to the antechamber.
But the humiliation was to be even greater than Wilma could dream: Florence Stanley equally was to be presented to Sir John's dear friend. Black ribbons were tied to her golden hair, and she wore only a filmy black nylon shortie nightgown and high heeled pumps. The hem of the nightgown just hid her plump dark-golden-furred cunthole. She was to serve as Ben Tully's footstool or seat, according to his preference and she had so been instructed by Sir John himself.
She knelt on her palms in the center of the salon, as Arlette wearing an elegant cocktail frock, went to open the door at the sound of the bell.
Ben Tully entered, and Florence Stanley, who knew very well that this man was to be her daughter's husband, could not hold back a cry of utter horror.
For Ben Tully was a massive Jamaican Negro. He was at least six feet three inches in height, and he gave the impression of being bulky and heavy, because he was bigboned, with huge hands, a large head, and massive shoulders. He was coal-black, but his hair was specially creamed and waved, to eliminate the kinky look which is odious to the Negro and particularly in Ben Tully's case, because he was enormously wealthy. He had made a fortune in London by being the head of a white-slave ring which operated out of Soho and five years ago and gone to Jamaica at the recommendation of a very famous diplomat who had often enjoyed Ben's girls at certain secret flats in the White Chapel in Soho districts. There he had managed to acquire some land, to raise tobacco and cotton, and he had had the good fortune of winning a national lottery which had further increased his enormous wealth.
Ben Tully was a sadist, but he was mainly a sodomite. Wilma Stanley was to discover that it was not so much her virgin cunt he longed for, as to sink his massive bulging prick into the dainty furtive hole between her buttocks.
Ben Tully looked down at the kneeling golden-haired woman who had just cried out in her consternation to discover his racial lineage and sardonically inquired of his friend Sir John Ellison, "I wasn't aware that my visit would cause so much surprise, my good friend."
"I must apologize for the stupidity of this bitch, Ben. This is Florence Stanley, and she has been my slave for several months, though I admit that her training has only lately become vigorous to the point that you and I understand slavery should be."
"There is plenty of time to train her sharply. She's well-made, this one. Get up, bitch." Ben Tully chuckled with a gesture of his forefinger.
Her face scarlet with humiliation, Florence Stanley agreed. He walked around her studying her, put a hand out to squeeze one of her buttocks, then faced her again and cupped one of her titties appraisingly. "Very good. And she's the mother, eh?"
"Quite so. Florence, welcome our guest by bending down, opening his zipper, taking out his prick and kissing it lovingly. Then you will serve him as a seat," Sir John Ellison commanded.
Tears of anguish and shame flowed down Florence Stanley's face as she executed this obscene order. Under her faltering kiss, the dormant prick of the Jamaican Negro swelled rapidly and her eyes bulged with horror at the thought that this savage spear would soon poniard her daughter's tender crevices. For by a refinement of cruelty, Sir John had not told her of Ben Tully's penchants. She now arranged herself on all fours and bowed her head down, while Ben Tully calmly seated himself on her back. His weight was great, and it took all her muscular exertion to keep from teetering under it, but she managed. The alternative would have been as Sir John had already told her, twenty stripes of a special narrow bull pizzle between the cheeks of her behind, and ton over her cunt.
Arlette turned, after she had been presented to Ben Tully who gallantly kissed her hand, and whistled like a man. Wilma Stanley entered, and did as she had been bidden. When it was her turn to salute the distinguished visitor, her eyes widened with stupefaction. Then she comprehended; this was the man with whom she was to be mated.
"Oh no, oh dear God no, not him!" she panted.
"Why, you-" Sir John began, but Ben Tully held up a hand and stopped him laughingly: "Never mind, John. Make your wedding gift to me even a little more generous, let me punish her in my own way. After all, knowing how severe you are, and how many hours our wedding night is still to be, I think that by the time we are man and wife, dear little Wilma will be more docile."
Two hours later, Sir John's good friend George Hamring, Vicar of Marsbury, rang the doorbell of the house and was admitted. He was a tall esthetic looking man, almost fifty, a bachelor and a libertine. He had very nearly been defrocked, but influence in high quarters had prevented this scandal. His ecclesiastical powers however, had been shorn from him, so that he might officiate only at an occasional civil ceremony-and this was all that Sir John Ellison needed, since the Vicar could pronounce the fateful words that would render Wilma Stanley the wife of the Jamaican Negro.
And so, at four that afternoon, lovely Wilma in that shockingly outre costume, stood passively beside the huge Jamaican, head bowed, trembling violently, as the Vicar pronounced the ceremonial words that gave Wilma to Ben Tully for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death did them part....
A champagne supper was served to the distinguished guests. However, Florence and her daughter had to serve and Arlette supervised, until she was satisfied that the two helpless women would not commit any blunders to mar the festivity of the occasion. And she took her place at the table in the dining room, where the finest silverware and linens were on display, and ate and drank ravenously.
When the meal was done, Wilma was permitted to kneel beside her husband, for such he now was. He reached down and stroked her head as he might a dog, winking at her. "Getting hot pants, Wilma baby?" he muttered coarsely.
Her face flamed, and she lowered her eyes and bit her lips.
"You're not quite sure yet, eh? So much the better. I like your spirit, because it will be the harder for me to break, and that's a challenge. You're going to be a very good wife when I finish with you, I can promise you that, Wilma," he told her.
More dead than alive, the unfortunate red-haired beauty followed Ben Tully down the corridor which led to a special room which Sir John had had his valet Louis prepare the afternoon before.
It was a narrow room, windowless, and it had only two objects in it: a huge bed and, in the center of the room, a table, rectangular and sturdy, with feet set into the floor.
Ben Tully and Arlette accompanied Wilma into this room, but Sir John went quickly into an adjoining room, with Florence Stanley crawling on all fours behind him, seated himself on an ottoman, and slid away a panel which displayed a section of one-way glass through which he could see all that would take place. The special acoustics of the public-address system would furnish all the sounds to accompany those scene.
And now the moment had come for Wilma to lose her virginity. Fearfully she entered the room with Arlette, and then drew back when she discovered its furnishings. "Don't be afraid, little pigeon," Arlette mockingly told her using the same endearment which she had employed during those first few ecstatic weeks of treacherous intimacy to lure this ingenuous yet voluptuously exciting girl into the toils of captivity, "it's quite proper now. You are man and wife now, and Ben isn't one of those old-fashioned husbands, thank goodness, who expects his dear little wife to be a prude. You may give yourself up with as much passion as you like to his lovemaking," and then, in a sarcastic tone, "and I advise you to do it as much as you can if you don't want your bottom to be covered with burning stripes!"
Tears began to run down Wilma's cheeks, as she glanced fearfully at her massive, black husband. He wore white linen slacks and coat, and now, as her jaw dropped, he calmly removed this suit ... and was stark naked under it.
His prick was formidable. A little more than eight inches in full erection, quite thick, with a broad meatus and a narrow groove separating it from the shaft, the dire size of the instrument would be a redoubtable ordeal for even a female accustomed to some degree of regular fucking, but for tender virginal Wilma who had known the inverted caresses which perfidious Arlette had taught her, Ben Tully's prick would be a savage weapon of torture!
"Go down on your knees and kiss his cock and tell him that you want him to have you, Wilma," Arlette commanded. She still wore her cocktail frock and high heeled pumps, and looked very chic indeed. But her eyes were glittering with a cruel lust, for she and Ben had already arranged this little scene in advance, and her own ludicrous passions were to be fully appeased as well as the Jamaican Negro's.
Wilma hesitated, but when Arlette took a step towards her, she sank down on her knees and shudderingly kissed that huge black organ. She had already had numerous whippings during the previous week of her training to test her for just such a moment as this; for Sir John had made her several times crawl to him on all fours and opening the fly of his trousers, draw out his cock and kiss it, then even take it lightly between her lips. She had been broken by the whip, and she dreaded it. Even so, the thought of miscegenation almost made her ill, and she prayed to die. That mercy, alas, would not be granted to her.
Florence was weeping in the other room, as she watched her daughter being prepared for this odious sacrifice. Sir John fondled her titties, pinching the nipples wickedly form time to time, amusing himself with studying his reactions at the sight of her daughter's "wedding night".
Wilma went down on her knees, paid homage to her husband's prick, and then faintly begged him to take her.
"You won't have to ask twice, you lovely red-haired bitch," Ben Tully panted. "Get your things off and bend over that table, unless you want your hind-end striped raw with a special quirt I brought from Jamaica. If you're not a good little wife to me, girl, I'll put you to work out in the fields, and let the foreman use a cowhide on that lovely tail of yours. Now strip!"
Wilma was naked, sobbing as if her heart would break. She was given no respite to gather courage; with an imprecation Arlette seized her by the wrist and dragged her forward over the table, so that her bottom was upturned.
The naked Jamaican squatted down, seized each of her ankles in turn, and tied them with cords to the legs of the table. Arlette now drew the girl's hands out in front of her and then mounted on the table and knelt down facing the agonized Wilma. "Use your hands now, you bitch, to pull my skirt up and to keep it up. If you let it fall, you'll really be whipped," she ordered.
And when Wilma tearfully obeyed, she discovered that Arlette was naked under her skirt and once again she saw that furry thatch of black pussyfur which she had once adored and homaged with her lips and tongue, little dreaming that one day Arlette would bring her to this horrible servitude.
Suddenly she uttered a scream and looked back. Ben Tully had lifted his heavy right hand and brought it down crashingly against her naked bottom.
"Oh God, Oh God, Mistress, why is he spanking me, haven't I done everything he wanted me to?" she implored her erstwhile friend.
"Be quiet now, you little fool! He's preparing your bottom for your wedding night, that's all. It will warm you and make that tender little bung of yours fairly itch for his big black prick," Arlette whispered, "Now you are going to lick and suck my pussy. Here, I'll make it easier for you, I'll lift up my own skirt. There. Now you can grasp me by the thighs and hold on tight and go to work. You're to make me come, or when he's finished with you, I'll give you four times as many lashes on your naughty bottom instead. Get to work!"
Her face scarlet, bathed in tears, Wilma closed her eyes and abandoned herself. She drank the dregs of her shame, and there was no tenderness or love, only fearful compliance, and the way she mouthed and gamahuached Arlette's voluptuous cunt. Meanwhile, from time to time Ben Tully raised his hand and brought it down on her bounding, reddening bottom cheeks, till soon Wilma was crying pitifully and imploring mercy in the humblest terms for fear of having her punishment seriously increased.
After about twenty-five hard smacks which left her bottom a violent crimson and torturingly inflamed, he paused a moment. Then, putting his hands on those shrinking globes, he yawned them open and thrust the tip of his massive prick against the shrinking orifice of Wilma's virgin ass hole.
Engrossed in her dutiful task of fucking Arlette, Wilma at first was not aware of what was about to happen. But when she felt the hot stabbing prod of his prickhead pressing meaningfully against her narrow little anal aperture, she uttered a shriek and tried to prevent the catastrophe.
"NO-O-O-O!! ! OH MY GOD, NOT IN THERE, IT WON'T GO IN, OH, YOU'LL TEAR ME TO PIECES!! ! OH MISTRESS, MISTRESS, SAVE ME! I'LL DO ANYTHING HE WANTS, BUT OH MY GOD NOT THAT! AWWW-OH PLEASE TAKE IT OUT OF ME, OH YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME, AIIII!! ! EEYEOOOOUUUU AAHHR!! ! ! "
A prolonged inhuman shriek which deafened both her executioners tore from her gaping mouth as her head flung back. Arlette had seized Wilma's wrists and twisted them angrily as she scolded the unhappy girl: "Will you shut up? He has to get in there first, because you're a virgin.
Later on you'll really get to like it. Stop screaming like that! I declare, you're going to come to my bedroom when Ben has finished with you, do you understand? And I'm going to whip your armpits and the soles of your feet and the insides of your thighs with a little flat ruler. And then I'm going to put on a dildo and give you a good fucking and take your other maidenhood. Ben says I may. There, there is no need to scream anymore, it's almost halfway in!"
And so it was. Her teeth bared like an animal in its death throes, trying to break her wrists free of Arlette's hold, her head turning restlessly from side to side, uttering shriek upon shriek, Wilma felt her rectum fairly split apart by the gouging, inexorably advancing weapon of Ben Tully's turgid prick.
And thus it was that the sensitive red-haired daughter of Florence of Stanley became a carnal captive, just as her mother already was. They would be parted for the time being, both women had been told. Ben Tully would take his new bride to his plantation in Jamaica, for three months. There, she would work in the fields, and she would hear her own husband, Negro though he might be, calmly tell his foreman, "If you feel like fucking her, Joe, you've got my permission. Just make sure you cowhide her ass good if she doesn't do her work. It seems to get her hot, and that's the way I want her."
Florence would remain with Sir John Ellison, and would also be forced to Lesbian games with Arlette Duclos. And after this three months of honeymoon, Wilma and her husband would return to this infernal house where she had learned to become a carnal captive, this time for her Negro husband to offer her as a slave to his friend, Sir John. And in return, Ben Tully would "borrow" Florence and take her back to Jamaica as his "substitute slave".
